I've wondered what happens to comedy writers who fail to make an impact on TV because they're so awful at what they do. I reckon they try their hand at writing "funny" adverts. Sadly a lot of adverts these days end up being "funny", which is more than I can personally take. Too many adverts now involve a daft soap opera set up or whimsical characters that agitate you with their annoying voices or musical numbers.
The most egregious example of this advert "humour" would be the Go-Compare adverts. A lot has already been said about these, and whenever a list of the most annoying UK adverts in recent times is compiled, it invariably tops that list. Someone must have thought some guy singing opera about car insurance with a stupid moustache on was absolutely hilarious. Similarly, that CGI meerkat with a russian accent also tries to invoke some kind of humour. "Hahahah it's funny, cause he's Russian, even though meerkats aren't from Russia! It's also funny cause comparethemeerkat.com sounds really like comparethemarket.com, simples!" The other one I hate is that Ocean Finance one, where the guy is bald and dumb, and that's funny apparently. If the Simpsons are struggling to make that concept funny anymore, then what in the hell chance does Ocean Finance have of doing it.
The real problem I have with them is that they start to get caught up in their own hype. They take the original advert with its questionable but not yet outright insufferable attempt at humour, and then turn it up to eleven. Let's go back to Go-Compare. The first advert involved some boring City types having lunch while discussing insurance, before Luciano Pavarotten comes blazing in singing about the virtues of using Go-Compare. He reappeared in a suburban estate for the next advert doing pretty much the same thing. But it wasn't long before he was appearing in Egypt, space, silent movies, desert islands, the 18th Century and now in Cinderella land, all the while the theme tune was becoming even more offensively bad. "Hey guys, I bet we can make this character even more funny if we stick him in implausible situations and update the song with Egyptiany verses!" "Yeah Chuck that sounds awesome man lets do it!" I have no idea why I made those executives sound American. Americans don't piss arse about as much as us in their adverts I don't think.
The Meerkats are the worst for getting into their own hype. That bastard now has a back story stretching back to the Crimean War, and there's a whole town of russian meerkats now. Honestly, I don't get what the point of doing the adverts that way is. I forget they're even about insurance anymore, because of the riveting tales about how the town is dying over this simple name confusion, or how his great grandfather Vitaly didn't fight for meerkats to be confused with markets or some shit like that. They now even have stuffed toys and expensive ornaments made in the likeness of these creatures. I would know, I hate to sell them when I was working the summer before last. Thankfully, we realised that people were well and truly sick of them by 2011, so they did not reappear by the time I hade returned to work.
I only just noticed while writing this that it's always insurance or finance adverts that are guilty of these embarrassing attempts at being exciting or humorous. My guess is that because they're not selling a material product like an mp3 player to grab our attention with they have to resort to putting on some kind of ridiculous pantomime to get their point across. The adverts these days make the old confused.com adverts look informative and direct. I'm sure these adverts could be try to be catchy by using some decent music and simple visuals, but the hacks in the writer's chair still reckon humour is the ultimate form of expression. Which it would perhaps be if they were any fucking good at it.
Thursday 29 December 2011
Tuesday 27 December 2011
2012 and beyond
2011 is very nearly over, and I can't tell you how pleased I am. 2011 has been my annus horribilis, and feel free to mispronounce annus as anus, because it sums up much of the year in question. Don't get me wrong, there were some good times, such as working on GrayBurn's Whisky and Walking and our yet to be released sketch show, my holiday to Islay and taking up golf. But this was also the year of nearly quitting university, multiple driving test failures, crappy relationships, worsening hypochondriasis and getting overwhelmed by the prospect of a future of depressing mediocrity and failure after university. And this was the year that I swore to make the best of my life in my new year's resolution. I never thought I'd say it but I miss 2010.
As such, my resolution for 2012 is to immediately assume it's going to be insufferably bad, a quagmire in which I'd rather just drown than bother to wade all the way through to the end. That way, any positive development, no matter how tenuous, will be embraced wholeheartedly. I'm sure that will work out well enough. Although, there's all that end-of-the-world bullcrap to think about. If the apocalypse is really due in 2012, I'll not need to worry about my new resolution at all.
Well, part of me actually likes the notion of a post-apocalyptic nightmare world as shown in the likes of Mad Max and countless other films from the 1980s and beyond. Right now the only prospect facing me and a lot of my friends is a banal existence as either a wage slave, or on the dole. There just aren't enough jobs anymore, and the degree, once a sure a guarantee of a well paid job, won't save thousands of us from long term unemployment or doing a low paid job which utilises none of the skills our university courses have supposedly tought us. But in a post-apocalyptic nightmare world, such dull concerns are rendered moot, and we'll all go back to what we were supposed to do from the beginning: fight to survive.
Imagine a dark, dusty landscape ravaged by war and natural disasters. Towns and cities have been transformed into fortresses, where money has been replaced by simple bartering and trade for important resources. Sometimes, those resources are just taken by force by those strong enough to do so. People no longer hoard material goods or waste time writing stupid blogs on the internet or boring each other on facebook, because mass communication met its end with most other things back in 2012. There is no longer law to protect peoples rights; they protect their rights by arms. There are no nations and ideologies, just individuals out to survive. A horrible, yet primal and simple existence.
Imagine a lone hero, sitting on a motorbike, riding down long lonely roads. He's armed to the teeth with whatever guns and blades he has picked up in his countless battles, battles over the one commodity everyone is desperate for: oil. He doesn't dream about the future, his mind is firmly in the here and now. Short term survival is all that keeps him going since he has nothing else to fight for. And he's good at it. His reputation for badassery is well known in these parts, and he is often sought by those too weak to defend themselves in order to fight their battles for them. His price is their oil, so that he may keep travelling the long roads to better places.
Oh, did I mention that was supposed to be me, if you can believe I'd actually end up as cool as that post-2012. My apologies to you though. I was going to try and make a point about how, to a certain extent, there is something more meaningful in a primal struggle to survive than a banal existence in 21st century society, but I ended up shoehorning in my own ideas for a post-apocalyptic science fiction story into the narrative. If you liked that somewhat carbon copied idea though, give me some money and I'll make it into a motion picture. That really would make my 2012 something worth talking about.
As such, my resolution for 2012 is to immediately assume it's going to be insufferably bad, a quagmire in which I'd rather just drown than bother to wade all the way through to the end. That way, any positive development, no matter how tenuous, will be embraced wholeheartedly. I'm sure that will work out well enough. Although, there's all that end-of-the-world bullcrap to think about. If the apocalypse is really due in 2012, I'll not need to worry about my new resolution at all.
Well, part of me actually likes the notion of a post-apocalyptic nightmare world as shown in the likes of Mad Max and countless other films from the 1980s and beyond. Right now the only prospect facing me and a lot of my friends is a banal existence as either a wage slave, or on the dole. There just aren't enough jobs anymore, and the degree, once a sure a guarantee of a well paid job, won't save thousands of us from long term unemployment or doing a low paid job which utilises none of the skills our university courses have supposedly tought us. But in a post-apocalyptic nightmare world, such dull concerns are rendered moot, and we'll all go back to what we were supposed to do from the beginning: fight to survive.
Imagine a dark, dusty landscape ravaged by war and natural disasters. Towns and cities have been transformed into fortresses, where money has been replaced by simple bartering and trade for important resources. Sometimes, those resources are just taken by force by those strong enough to do so. People no longer hoard material goods or waste time writing stupid blogs on the internet or boring each other on facebook, because mass communication met its end with most other things back in 2012. There is no longer law to protect peoples rights; they protect their rights by arms. There are no nations and ideologies, just individuals out to survive. A horrible, yet primal and simple existence.
Imagine a lone hero, sitting on a motorbike, riding down long lonely roads. He's armed to the teeth with whatever guns and blades he has picked up in his countless battles, battles over the one commodity everyone is desperate for: oil. He doesn't dream about the future, his mind is firmly in the here and now. Short term survival is all that keeps him going since he has nothing else to fight for. And he's good at it. His reputation for badassery is well known in these parts, and he is often sought by those too weak to defend themselves in order to fight their battles for them. His price is their oil, so that he may keep travelling the long roads to better places.
Oh, did I mention that was supposed to be me, if you can believe I'd actually end up as cool as that post-2012. My apologies to you though. I was going to try and make a point about how, to a certain extent, there is something more meaningful in a primal struggle to survive than a banal existence in 21st century society, but I ended up shoehorning in my own ideas for a post-apocalyptic science fiction story into the narrative. If you liked that somewhat carbon copied idea though, give me some money and I'll make it into a motion picture. That really would make my 2012 something worth talking about.
Tuesday 22 November 2011
A fool and his money are soon parted
Does anyone remember this blog? Why it's Shades of Gray, the famous blog which started out quite funny, then got shit, then was almost completely forgotten about. Well I'm back for another attempt at turning this failed abortion into something resembling a good read. I was inspired to do so when my friend Simon asked me if I ever planned to do another entry, leaving me wondering why after a point I stopped trying with Shades of Gray. To put a long story short, the ideas were no longer forthcoming and so I abandoned it. However there has been occasional interest to see this blog come back, so it has, at least for one more entry.
..........
What would you do with a lottery win? I don't mean one of those ridiculous Euromillions wins of up to and over £100 million, I mean one of those ordinary, worthless Wednesday lottery wins of around £2 million. If it were me I'd take the boring route and bank it. I'd buy a reasonably sized yet modest house in a picturesque location, a classy car, and the rest would get banked. How very dull you may think. However, this is about the wisest thing you could do. The interest payments alone would keep you living in comfortable circumstances, although perhaps not lavish splendour. If you're content with that, which I would be, then great. That's you sorted for the rest of your life. No work, enough money to go on holiday a few times a year, unlimited time to devote to your hobbies or creative ambitions (well not unlimited time, since money won't prevent your inevitable death), enough money to keep your family doing well, and the list goes on. Furthermore, should anything go wrong, something that requires a lot of money to rectify, you have a huge reserve of cash in the bank with which you can avert disaster.
The big mistake too many lottery winners make is not realising that their money, while vast, is not inexhaustable. I was of course joking when I called £2 million pounds worthless earlier, as I do have a lot of respect for money. However, it is nonetheless true that £2 million is not the same amount of money it once was. The house I said I'd buy earlier would still likely set me back over £100,000, and could get closer to five times that amount depending on various factors. As such, that's a quarter of this Wednesday's jackpot. Add a car into that and a few treats for yourself and your loved ones, and what you're left with starts to resemble a rump of its former self. So bank that rump if you want to guarantee financial security.
Of course many people don't give a moment's thought when they recieve this money. Instead they buy a huge mansion, a house on the French Riviera, half a dozen top of the line sports cars, and some even try and get their greedy hands on a boat or a private jet. There's nothing wrong with those if you can afford them, but generally speaking a smaller lottery win will not adequately cover all those costs. These people may think they've managed it in terms of upfront costs, but it's the hidden costs which snooker them. What are they going to do when their £2 million has all gone, but the utility bills for their large mansion in Cheshire still need paid? Or what about fuel for all their cars? What happens when the roof starts severely leaking in their badly undermaintained highland retreat? Presumably they've jacked in their jobs at this point, leaving them with absolutely no income whatsoever. These are very often the pitfalls which end up reducing these lottery winners to a worse position financially than they were before they bought a ticket.
They say that a fool and his money are soon parted, and this is the unfortunate truth for many past lottery winners, often trying to make ends meet in the same shitty jobs they had before, only with the additional burden of bankruptcy on their shoulders, a situation that should have been entirely averted by their winnings. So my advice is to bank it after a few modest purchases, and enjoy your life however you see fit. Make your money work for you, or you'll soon be back to working for money.
..........
What would you do with a lottery win? I don't mean one of those ridiculous Euromillions wins of up to and over £100 million, I mean one of those ordinary, worthless Wednesday lottery wins of around £2 million. If it were me I'd take the boring route and bank it. I'd buy a reasonably sized yet modest house in a picturesque location, a classy car, and the rest would get banked. How very dull you may think. However, this is about the wisest thing you could do. The interest payments alone would keep you living in comfortable circumstances, although perhaps not lavish splendour. If you're content with that, which I would be, then great. That's you sorted for the rest of your life. No work, enough money to go on holiday a few times a year, unlimited time to devote to your hobbies or creative ambitions (well not unlimited time, since money won't prevent your inevitable death), enough money to keep your family doing well, and the list goes on. Furthermore, should anything go wrong, something that requires a lot of money to rectify, you have a huge reserve of cash in the bank with which you can avert disaster.
The big mistake too many lottery winners make is not realising that their money, while vast, is not inexhaustable. I was of course joking when I called £2 million pounds worthless earlier, as I do have a lot of respect for money. However, it is nonetheless true that £2 million is not the same amount of money it once was. The house I said I'd buy earlier would still likely set me back over £100,000, and could get closer to five times that amount depending on various factors. As such, that's a quarter of this Wednesday's jackpot. Add a car into that and a few treats for yourself and your loved ones, and what you're left with starts to resemble a rump of its former self. So bank that rump if you want to guarantee financial security.
Of course many people don't give a moment's thought when they recieve this money. Instead they buy a huge mansion, a house on the French Riviera, half a dozen top of the line sports cars, and some even try and get their greedy hands on a boat or a private jet. There's nothing wrong with those if you can afford them, but generally speaking a smaller lottery win will not adequately cover all those costs. These people may think they've managed it in terms of upfront costs, but it's the hidden costs which snooker them. What are they going to do when their £2 million has all gone, but the utility bills for their large mansion in Cheshire still need paid? Or what about fuel for all their cars? What happens when the roof starts severely leaking in their badly undermaintained highland retreat? Presumably they've jacked in their jobs at this point, leaving them with absolutely no income whatsoever. These are very often the pitfalls which end up reducing these lottery winners to a worse position financially than they were before they bought a ticket.
They say that a fool and his money are soon parted, and this is the unfortunate truth for many past lottery winners, often trying to make ends meet in the same shitty jobs they had before, only with the additional burden of bankruptcy on their shoulders, a situation that should have been entirely averted by their winnings. So my advice is to bank it after a few modest purchases, and enjoy your life however you see fit. Make your money work for you, or you'll soon be back to working for money.
Thursday 30 June 2011
Under renovation
There's going to be a significant shift in style and focus with my blog from now on. I don't know how many people read it, but I know at least a few who do who may be disappointed to hear this. However, the old posts will always be there to take a look at and enjoy.
When I talk about this shift in style, what I mean is that instead of it being a traditional rant about some trivial crap each time, instead I'm going to write about whatever I want in whatever mood I want to write about it in. It's basically going to be a regular blog reflecting on my thoughts or siginificant moments in my life. If you're wondering why I'm easing off my idiosyncratic ranting style, it's simply because I can't sustain it for much longer. When I first started writing this, I wanted to have an angle to make myself stand out, and I did this through ranting. But it tires after a while, and in this case I'm the one that's tired perhaps before other people are. My output has been lessening over the last few months simply because I can't think of anything to rant about in such detail as before. If you want proof of my difficulty in sustaining this blog as it is, check out the atrocity that was my last entry.
I'm always going to moan about something though, and it will be a staple of my blog entries to come, just not as the sole purpose of it. If I can put in a few funny lines in each entry I'll be happy, but of course you'll be the judge of that. Hopefully people will still be interested in what I have to say, but if you only read it just to see me overreact and be an idiot in general, that's dead in the water now.
To kick start this off, I'll briefly discuss a holiday I had at the beginning of the month to the whisky paradise of Islay. Islay, for those of you who don't know, is the southernmost of the Inner Hebrides (Western Isles of Scotland). Its major claim to fame is that it has eight working distilleries on it, some of which produce what are considered the finest single malts in the world. On my short three or four days there I visited Ardbeg, Bowmore, Bruichladdich, Kilchoman, Lagavulin and Laphroaig. Caol Ila and Bunnahabhain were presumably closed or didn't have visitor centres, either way we didn't visit them on the tour.
Islay itself is a nice but not amazingly interesting island, bar a few celtic crosses and the seat of the Lord of the Isles at Finlaggan. However the weather was great most of the time and the distillery tours were always interesting. Lagavulin was the best though. We had a warehouse tasting session there, and I was lucky enough to try new make spirit, ten years old, fourteen years old, eighteen years old, double matured and a rare cask strength expression, all straight from the barrel. I even got to siphon the eighteen years old Laguvalin right from the barrel, to be poured for the rest of the visitors.
I'd love to say more about my Islay trip but I'm going on a bit with this entry. All I'll say is any whisky lover should book an Islay tour; you won't regret it. Next time, I'll say a few words about a sketch show I've been in involved in.
When I talk about this shift in style, what I mean is that instead of it being a traditional rant about some trivial crap each time, instead I'm going to write about whatever I want in whatever mood I want to write about it in. It's basically going to be a regular blog reflecting on my thoughts or siginificant moments in my life. If you're wondering why I'm easing off my idiosyncratic ranting style, it's simply because I can't sustain it for much longer. When I first started writing this, I wanted to have an angle to make myself stand out, and I did this through ranting. But it tires after a while, and in this case I'm the one that's tired perhaps before other people are. My output has been lessening over the last few months simply because I can't think of anything to rant about in such detail as before. If you want proof of my difficulty in sustaining this blog as it is, check out the atrocity that was my last entry.
I'm always going to moan about something though, and it will be a staple of my blog entries to come, just not as the sole purpose of it. If I can put in a few funny lines in each entry I'll be happy, but of course you'll be the judge of that. Hopefully people will still be interested in what I have to say, but if you only read it just to see me overreact and be an idiot in general, that's dead in the water now.
To kick start this off, I'll briefly discuss a holiday I had at the beginning of the month to the whisky paradise of Islay. Islay, for those of you who don't know, is the southernmost of the Inner Hebrides (Western Isles of Scotland). Its major claim to fame is that it has eight working distilleries on it, some of which produce what are considered the finest single malts in the world. On my short three or four days there I visited Ardbeg, Bowmore, Bruichladdich, Kilchoman, Lagavulin and Laphroaig. Caol Ila and Bunnahabhain were presumably closed or didn't have visitor centres, either way we didn't visit them on the tour.
Islay itself is a nice but not amazingly interesting island, bar a few celtic crosses and the seat of the Lord of the Isles at Finlaggan. However the weather was great most of the time and the distillery tours were always interesting. Lagavulin was the best though. We had a warehouse tasting session there, and I was lucky enough to try new make spirit, ten years old, fourteen years old, eighteen years old, double matured and a rare cask strength expression, all straight from the barrel. I even got to siphon the eighteen years old Laguvalin right from the barrel, to be poured for the rest of the visitors.
I'd love to say more about my Islay trip but I'm going on a bit with this entry. All I'll say is any whisky lover should book an Islay tour; you won't regret it. Next time, I'll say a few words about a sketch show I've been in involved in.
Friday 10 June 2011
Chaotic place names
As you may have noticed it's been ages since I posted anything here. The reason is that I'm completely out of ideas. Ideas which are suitable for this blog as it has come to be. Unfortunately this is a young blog and a certain amount is expected from it before I can relax and write whatever I want without feeling the need to be funny all the time. That time I feel has not yet come and so I'll continue to pidgeonhole myself into being a vaguely angry person commenting on mundane issues.
And so I'll have a whinge about place names that annoy me to varying degrees. This is only because I have absolutely nothing else to say. I told people I wouldn't bother with this but I'm desperate.
The town Dumbarton in the west of Scotland was the administrative centre for the old county of Dunbartonshire, which later became East and West Dunbartonshire. What's the problem with that? Well, it seems fine until you notice that it's DuMbarton and DuNbartonshire. Why? I don't know, but in my very mild obsession for order it seems wrong that the shire is spelt with an N and the town with an M. It just seems like a mistake. I don't know why they've done this to me.
I also hate that Northampton is the centre of Northamptonshire, but Southampton isn't the centre of Southamptonshire. No, that place doesn't exist; instead it's just Hampshire. Nobody else cares about things like this but it annoys me because its uneven, or asymmetrical, or whatever the precise term for this is. They should rename Hampshire Southamptonshire. If Northamptonshire didn't exist as a county, I probably wouldn't be bothered.
Renfrewshire and East Renfrewshire is a pair I hate as well. Why the hell can't it be East and West Renfrewshire. The precedent for that has been set by East and West Dunbartonshire (grr), and similarly North and South Lanarkshire, and East, Mid and West Lothian. Orderly groupings as you have seen. Renfrewshire and then East Renfrewshire just annoys me, much like Virginia and West Virginia, although they are states with an extensive history and not arbitrary local council divisions that can be changed at a whim, and thus they are forgiven. Also forgiven are the Ayrshires, which have all but a West Ayshire, since that would have to be in the Irish Sea somewhere.
Another one which I find annoying but no one else will are the northern English counties. There's Cumbria, formerly known as Cumberland, and Northumberland. The thing that winds me up is that fact that when the divisions changed they renamed Cumberland Cumbria, thus removing the order established by having two 'umberland counties. They should change it back to Cumberland, or rename Northumberland Northumbria, like the old kingdom was called.
North Africa and South Africa is a bad case of chaotic place naming. South Africa is a country, in southern Africa which is a geographic region. Thus southern Africa's counterpart should be northern Africa. Instead people refer to northern Africa usually as North Africa. It's just wrong. If anything should be North Africa it should be the name of some non-existent country in northern Africa to keep the balance right. To further complicate issues, the America's are always known as North and South, which should be wrong because of South Africa. I'd be tempted to say that the name of South Africa is causing all the problems here, but since my flatmate is South African and no doubt reading this, I'll refrain from suggesting the country come up with something more original as a name.
Half of these are fairly justified, and others are completely frivolous. To add one last one, an appallingly ridiculous one, I'll talk about East Anglia. Apart from the fact I'd like a West Anglia, I wish Suffolk would have a town called Surwich. This is because Norfolk has a town called Norwich. The north and south balance would be perfect. Instead we get crappy Ipswich.
I am truly sorry for the quality of this output and if it hasn't killed my blog forever, it will always be remembered as a dark moment born of a complete lack of inspiration.
Until next time, if there is one.
And so I'll have a whinge about place names that annoy me to varying degrees. This is only because I have absolutely nothing else to say. I told people I wouldn't bother with this but I'm desperate.
The town Dumbarton in the west of Scotland was the administrative centre for the old county of Dunbartonshire, which later became East and West Dunbartonshire. What's the problem with that? Well, it seems fine until you notice that it's DuMbarton and DuNbartonshire. Why? I don't know, but in my very mild obsession for order it seems wrong that the shire is spelt with an N and the town with an M. It just seems like a mistake. I don't know why they've done this to me.
I also hate that Northampton is the centre of Northamptonshire, but Southampton isn't the centre of Southamptonshire. No, that place doesn't exist; instead it's just Hampshire. Nobody else cares about things like this but it annoys me because its uneven, or asymmetrical, or whatever the precise term for this is. They should rename Hampshire Southamptonshire. If Northamptonshire didn't exist as a county, I probably wouldn't be bothered.
Renfrewshire and East Renfrewshire is a pair I hate as well. Why the hell can't it be East and West Renfrewshire. The precedent for that has been set by East and West Dunbartonshire (grr), and similarly North and South Lanarkshire, and East, Mid and West Lothian. Orderly groupings as you have seen. Renfrewshire and then East Renfrewshire just annoys me, much like Virginia and West Virginia, although they are states with an extensive history and not arbitrary local council divisions that can be changed at a whim, and thus they are forgiven. Also forgiven are the Ayrshires, which have all but a West Ayshire, since that would have to be in the Irish Sea somewhere.
Another one which I find annoying but no one else will are the northern English counties. There's Cumbria, formerly known as Cumberland, and Northumberland. The thing that winds me up is that fact that when the divisions changed they renamed Cumberland Cumbria, thus removing the order established by having two 'umberland counties. They should change it back to Cumberland, or rename Northumberland Northumbria, like the old kingdom was called.
North Africa and South Africa is a bad case of chaotic place naming. South Africa is a country, in southern Africa which is a geographic region. Thus southern Africa's counterpart should be northern Africa. Instead people refer to northern Africa usually as North Africa. It's just wrong. If anything should be North Africa it should be the name of some non-existent country in northern Africa to keep the balance right. To further complicate issues, the America's are always known as North and South, which should be wrong because of South Africa. I'd be tempted to say that the name of South Africa is causing all the problems here, but since my flatmate is South African and no doubt reading this, I'll refrain from suggesting the country come up with something more original as a name.
Half of these are fairly justified, and others are completely frivolous. To add one last one, an appallingly ridiculous one, I'll talk about East Anglia. Apart from the fact I'd like a West Anglia, I wish Suffolk would have a town called Surwich. This is because Norfolk has a town called Norwich. The north and south balance would be perfect. Instead we get crappy Ipswich.
I am truly sorry for the quality of this output and if it hasn't killed my blog forever, it will always be remembered as a dark moment born of a complete lack of inspiration.
Until next time, if there is one.
Wednesday 13 April 2011
The lost art of art
Nearly a week ago now me and James went on a long walk around Edinburgh, taking in some sights I never knew even existed. Such is the nature of Edinburgh; you can uncover something new every time you go for a walk. On this occasion it was a really nice portion of the Water of Leith walkway that headed in the direction of Murrayfield stadium. It would have gone on for miles out of Edinburgh if we followed it to the end so we ducked out fairly early. We ended up next to the Gallery of Modern Art and rather than do the sensible thing we foolishly went in just to see what it was all about.
The first thing of note we saw in this place was a three storey wall painted white with black self adhesive letters spelling out random peoples names. The columns didn't match up, as if it were a work in progress or something. Riveting stuff as you can imagine. I can just see people looking at this trying to find the deeper meaning. After all something so devoid of any point is obviously trying to convey something profound. "Gee it must be trying to show a loss of indivuality by implying we are all just names in a huge directory." I don't know if my fake analysis was any good but I imagine analysing in this manner is the only way to pretend modern art isn't on the whole a load of crap.
The next thing of note we saw was a portable bar complete with toilets stuck on the sides. To be honest I don't see the point other than it maybe being fun to own a bar you can just attach to the back of your car and drive around with. Actually I'd rather just go to a real pub. We also saw a giant onion slicer. Apparently the "artist" was from Palestine and wanted to show suppression and control through it. What I saw was something that would have been fun to stick something in and slice it, which I could have done if there wasn't CCTV in the room.
One of the notable lowlights of this experience was the film room. These two short films consisted of footage of the Glasgow Uni library, and of some town in Mexico. And that was it. At this point I wasn't even interested in pretending to analyse them. The lirbary film was supposedly based on a nightmare the "artist" had set in that very library. Sounds fun doesn't it but all it was was her filming people studying and going up elevators and out the door. What a dull nightmare. Although maybe she hates studying just as much as I do. My empathy does not extend to calling it art though.
We then saw the most ridiculous thing we had seen yet. In one of the rooms, there was hanging from the ceiling four sheets of cellophane, sellotaped together and badly painted in the bottom tenth of the the whole thing. I can't even remember what the description was apart from where it said about the use of "vibrant colour." It was washed out pink with a few haphazard splats of blue, yellow and red. Me and James's brains haven't ever really recovered from the radioactive stupidity in that room. A child at primary school wouldn't get away with this quality of work past P3. I could stitch this up in twenty minutes. I can't believe for one second this "artist" has represented Scotland in something. But as the "critics" would have you think, this is the whole point. You are supposed to be evoked in this way. We are supposed to ask why she took such an approach.
Last thing we saw before we agreed it was time to get the hell out, was an inflatable caterpillar kiddies garden toy hanging from the ceiling. Yes, because true art is going to Toys R Us, buying something already completely finished, and adding your own siginificant contribution by putting it in a room. It really was time to go.
The "critics" will say I'm missing the point with modern art. To me, art is where a talented painter or sculptor uses their talent to recreate an image such as a portrait or a scene from history or mythology, and all that is required is for us to say "that's a nice painting. That's good isn't it?" Modern art is the only one where you really have to find a profound interpretation to compensate for nothing at all. Thinking and analysing is great and all but these "artists" want you to do it because it means they don't have to expend effort on a piece or spend years cultivating a talent.
I'm going to do my own modern art piece to mock modern art in general, and see if they accept it in this gallery. I'm going to buy a few buckets of green toy soldiers, you know the ones, and glue them all together into the shape of one big soldier. Then I'll come up with some daft story about how together these soldiers are stronger as one, and drop it off at the gallery.
Why do I have the distinct feeling they'll see my "art" for exactly what it is and tell me to piss off, while continuing to hang that cellophane up?
The first thing of note we saw in this place was a three storey wall painted white with black self adhesive letters spelling out random peoples names. The columns didn't match up, as if it were a work in progress or something. Riveting stuff as you can imagine. I can just see people looking at this trying to find the deeper meaning. After all something so devoid of any point is obviously trying to convey something profound. "Gee it must be trying to show a loss of indivuality by implying we are all just names in a huge directory." I don't know if my fake analysis was any good but I imagine analysing in this manner is the only way to pretend modern art isn't on the whole a load of crap.
The next thing of note we saw was a portable bar complete with toilets stuck on the sides. To be honest I don't see the point other than it maybe being fun to own a bar you can just attach to the back of your car and drive around with. Actually I'd rather just go to a real pub. We also saw a giant onion slicer. Apparently the "artist" was from Palestine and wanted to show suppression and control through it. What I saw was something that would have been fun to stick something in and slice it, which I could have done if there wasn't CCTV in the room.
One of the notable lowlights of this experience was the film room. These two short films consisted of footage of the Glasgow Uni library, and of some town in Mexico. And that was it. At this point I wasn't even interested in pretending to analyse them. The lirbary film was supposedly based on a nightmare the "artist" had set in that very library. Sounds fun doesn't it but all it was was her filming people studying and going up elevators and out the door. What a dull nightmare. Although maybe she hates studying just as much as I do. My empathy does not extend to calling it art though.
We then saw the most ridiculous thing we had seen yet. In one of the rooms, there was hanging from the ceiling four sheets of cellophane, sellotaped together and badly painted in the bottom tenth of the the whole thing. I can't even remember what the description was apart from where it said about the use of "vibrant colour." It was washed out pink with a few haphazard splats of blue, yellow and red. Me and James's brains haven't ever really recovered from the radioactive stupidity in that room. A child at primary school wouldn't get away with this quality of work past P3. I could stitch this up in twenty minutes. I can't believe for one second this "artist" has represented Scotland in something. But as the "critics" would have you think, this is the whole point. You are supposed to be evoked in this way. We are supposed to ask why she took such an approach.
Last thing we saw before we agreed it was time to get the hell out, was an inflatable caterpillar kiddies garden toy hanging from the ceiling. Yes, because true art is going to Toys R Us, buying something already completely finished, and adding your own siginificant contribution by putting it in a room. It really was time to go.
The "critics" will say I'm missing the point with modern art. To me, art is where a talented painter or sculptor uses their talent to recreate an image such as a portrait or a scene from history or mythology, and all that is required is for us to say "that's a nice painting. That's good isn't it?" Modern art is the only one where you really have to find a profound interpretation to compensate for nothing at all. Thinking and analysing is great and all but these "artists" want you to do it because it means they don't have to expend effort on a piece or spend years cultivating a talent.
I'm going to do my own modern art piece to mock modern art in general, and see if they accept it in this gallery. I'm going to buy a few buckets of green toy soldiers, you know the ones, and glue them all together into the shape of one big soldier. Then I'll come up with some daft story about how together these soldiers are stronger as one, and drop it off at the gallery.
Why do I have the distinct feeling they'll see my "art" for exactly what it is and tell me to piss off, while continuing to hang that cellophane up?
Tuesday 22 March 2011
151
The title of this blog may seem confusing, but I've been listening to a song by a band called Arab Strap, called One Four Seven One, so numbers are in my head just now. Anyway the number in question refers to the original number of Pokemon. Yes, that's right, I'm writing about Pokemon. As I sit here with multiple essays to finish and not one of them going at all well, my mind has drifted from this futile exercise to obscure things, one of which has been Pokemon.
I loved Pokemon as a kid. I was the right age when it became known in Britain, and before long I owned a copy of Pokemon Blue on my Gameboy Colour and was hooked on the anime series, though strangely not the trading cards. I dunno, I never saw the point of buying a bunch of paper to swap with other people to get more valuable bits of paper. Bear in mind that in order to get those cards in the first place you traded in the only paper that has any real value at the shop counter. I'd rather have a few Queen Elizabeths and Robert the Bruces on my person than some worthless Charmanders.
Anyway it was radical at the time, going out on a quest catching animals and using them to fight your friends and enemies in an attempt to be the very best. I never complained or scrutinised anything, I just embraced it in all its fun and silliness. Pokemon, as if you didn't remember, was a worldwide phenomenon and I'm glad it's been part of my story.
However, in my recent looking back on it, I've noticed how silly and impractical the concept is. First of all the protaganist, whether that be the video game character or Ash from the TV series, is ten years of age. Aye, imagine if you were mum or dad and your ten year old kid said he wanted to scour the length and breadth of the country by himself throwing balls at shit instead of going to school and getting a basic education, would you permit that? "Aye on you go son, sounds like a great idea. Wear the same clothes day in day out, sleep in forests or in weird peoples houses, provoke wild animals into fighting you while you throw your pet at it and hope it doesn't die. How about go and do your fucking homework!"
The little critters never died either. They just pathetically passed out when the fight got too emotionally taxing for them. In real life, cock fighting is barbaric and bloody, and cockerels don't even have any powers. No way has this never gone too far. There has to be at least one battle where a pokemon took it a little too far, especially when half the time there's fire and electricity involved. But no, they just faint and wait for you to take them to the nurse, the same nurse in fact who always happens to be in the same town you are just in time for you to get your pokemon healed. Perhaps Nurse Joy is actually a bunch of octuplets or so, but funny how this appears to be the same story with Officer Jenny. Does the land in which Pokemon is set have a lot of octuplet families serving in the exact same job as each other, or is there only one nurse and one police officer in the entire country? Both seem ridiculous.
Also, has anyone ever considered the enormous expense of Pokemon training? This isn't even dealt with in the series, and only briefly in the games when it comes to potion and pokeball buying. Imagine having six pets constantly on your person, and over a hundred others back at the professor's house. Imagine buying food for these six pets, who are burning the calories having to fight all the time. The franchise likes us to forget these practicalities, but no way do these creatures not have to eat. And I don't imagine Professor Oak just does it for free because he likes you. Nah, he'll expect a cheque for the hundreds of mouths he has to fed on a daily basis. I can imagine the prize money from entering that massive world championship or whatever may cover the expenses somewhat, but like all sports most people never win. Perhaps of course Pokemon gets government funding. Yeah I think I've cracked it now. Tax payer's fucking money. Its the only way these tossers can happily go about being pokemon trainers without being billionaires.
They have a strange amount of honour these creatures. If you best them in combat and successfully subdue them in a magic ball that happens to be far too small for them, they are your willing servant for life. This is in spite of losing their carefree existence in return for, from their point of view, pointless set piece fighting, as opposed to their formerly primal instinctive fighting. The series tries to get over this by making out that Ash really loves his pokemon and that's why they fight for him. If the PM said to you he loved you before sending you off to fight in some war, would you go willingly? Unlike you though, these creatures are in a great position just to kill their masters. Again, none of them ever do it. Not that their powers seem to do anything other than induce fainting.
I'm sure there's loads more criticisms I can make about Pokemon, but I can't think of them right now and I need to do some work. As harsh as I've been on it though, I will still always have fond memories of Pokemon, as it defined part of what was a happy childhood.
I loved Pokemon as a kid. I was the right age when it became known in Britain, and before long I owned a copy of Pokemon Blue on my Gameboy Colour and was hooked on the anime series, though strangely not the trading cards. I dunno, I never saw the point of buying a bunch of paper to swap with other people to get more valuable bits of paper. Bear in mind that in order to get those cards in the first place you traded in the only paper that has any real value at the shop counter. I'd rather have a few Queen Elizabeths and Robert the Bruces on my person than some worthless Charmanders.
Anyway it was radical at the time, going out on a quest catching animals and using them to fight your friends and enemies in an attempt to be the very best. I never complained or scrutinised anything, I just embraced it in all its fun and silliness. Pokemon, as if you didn't remember, was a worldwide phenomenon and I'm glad it's been part of my story.
However, in my recent looking back on it, I've noticed how silly and impractical the concept is. First of all the protaganist, whether that be the video game character or Ash from the TV series, is ten years of age. Aye, imagine if you were mum or dad and your ten year old kid said he wanted to scour the length and breadth of the country by himself throwing balls at shit instead of going to school and getting a basic education, would you permit that? "Aye on you go son, sounds like a great idea. Wear the same clothes day in day out, sleep in forests or in weird peoples houses, provoke wild animals into fighting you while you throw your pet at it and hope it doesn't die. How about go and do your fucking homework!"
The little critters never died either. They just pathetically passed out when the fight got too emotionally taxing for them. In real life, cock fighting is barbaric and bloody, and cockerels don't even have any powers. No way has this never gone too far. There has to be at least one battle where a pokemon took it a little too far, especially when half the time there's fire and electricity involved. But no, they just faint and wait for you to take them to the nurse, the same nurse in fact who always happens to be in the same town you are just in time for you to get your pokemon healed. Perhaps Nurse Joy is actually a bunch of octuplets or so, but funny how this appears to be the same story with Officer Jenny. Does the land in which Pokemon is set have a lot of octuplet families serving in the exact same job as each other, or is there only one nurse and one police officer in the entire country? Both seem ridiculous.
Also, has anyone ever considered the enormous expense of Pokemon training? This isn't even dealt with in the series, and only briefly in the games when it comes to potion and pokeball buying. Imagine having six pets constantly on your person, and over a hundred others back at the professor's house. Imagine buying food for these six pets, who are burning the calories having to fight all the time. The franchise likes us to forget these practicalities, but no way do these creatures not have to eat. And I don't imagine Professor Oak just does it for free because he likes you. Nah, he'll expect a cheque for the hundreds of mouths he has to fed on a daily basis. I can imagine the prize money from entering that massive world championship or whatever may cover the expenses somewhat, but like all sports most people never win. Perhaps of course Pokemon gets government funding. Yeah I think I've cracked it now. Tax payer's fucking money. Its the only way these tossers can happily go about being pokemon trainers without being billionaires.
They have a strange amount of honour these creatures. If you best them in combat and successfully subdue them in a magic ball that happens to be far too small for them, they are your willing servant for life. This is in spite of losing their carefree existence in return for, from their point of view, pointless set piece fighting, as opposed to their formerly primal instinctive fighting. The series tries to get over this by making out that Ash really loves his pokemon and that's why they fight for him. If the PM said to you he loved you before sending you off to fight in some war, would you go willingly? Unlike you though, these creatures are in a great position just to kill their masters. Again, none of them ever do it. Not that their powers seem to do anything other than induce fainting.
I'm sure there's loads more criticisms I can make about Pokemon, but I can't think of them right now and I need to do some work. As harsh as I've been on it though, I will still always have fond memories of Pokemon, as it defined part of what was a happy childhood.
Friday 4 March 2011
Hairstressing
Yes, as the awful pun of the title suggests, today's target is hairdressing. As some of you are aware, and others have probably now figured out, I have had a seriously drastic haircut, going from long flowing Neil Oliveresque locks to a military buzz of sorts, something I haven't had in a few years.
It isn't all bad. I enjoy the ease of styling this haircut affords me, and people have reacted surprisingly positively to it for the most part. In a matter of months it'll probably grow to the length I was originally hoping for when I decided to cut it in the first place.
Basically I went and gave an outline of what I wanted, which was rougly two and a half to three inches off my long hair, and enough to cover my forehead again. In someways the result was close, but it was too thick and the left side was wonky. So, I later went to another place to get some of these faults fixed. It wasn't going to be perfect but I thought it would improve on the look. Unfortunately, it only became worse, to the point at which I felt I couldn't go outside with it, so I decided just to cut it off using my hair clipper/beard trimmer device thingy. I now have an even inch of hair all round to start afresh with. By the end of summer it'll be the length I could have had in half an hour.
My story aside, it's now time to moan about haircuts in general. One thing I've noticed is that they don't interpret inches well. Don't give them inches because that's too complex apparently, they'll ignore that and give you what ever vague idea they have of how short they think you mean. Maybe then, you could try telling them what the shape of it is in your head without being too precise. Big mistake again. You've now given them free reign to do whatever the hell they want with it. I guarantee it will not even resemble anything you had in your head. The final option is of course to give them a picture to work with, say if you want to copy someone's style or go back to one you had before. I'm sad to say I tried this once and it still didn't turn out right.
That said, you can still hope for something quite nice. It's never going to be what you want, but you may surprised at the new style you walk away with, or it may grow on you (pun intended). However there are generally two obstacles which usually trash this notion. The first is when they give you no layers at all, and you end up with a helmet head haircut. Often they'll cut off the required length at the back and sides where its easiest, but not cut the same length off the top. The result is a heavy haircut which always fails to stay in a decent position. The second obstacle is when they do give you layers. Expect from this scenario a hacked up, sticky up, uneven, wispy travesty of a cut. When I said earlier I had two attempts at getting my hair right, you've probably figured out that the first time resulted in hair disaster number one there, and the second attempt resulted in hair disaster number two.
Thus the benefits of buzzing it and starting again become apparent. I'll grow it evenly to the right length, and ask only for the most conservative of trims to keep it at the same length. Hopefully I can then go to the same place again and again and ask for the "usual" once I get to know the barber or hairdresser.
It isn't all bad. I enjoy the ease of styling this haircut affords me, and people have reacted surprisingly positively to it for the most part. In a matter of months it'll probably grow to the length I was originally hoping for when I decided to cut it in the first place.
Basically I went and gave an outline of what I wanted, which was rougly two and a half to three inches off my long hair, and enough to cover my forehead again. In someways the result was close, but it was too thick and the left side was wonky. So, I later went to another place to get some of these faults fixed. It wasn't going to be perfect but I thought it would improve on the look. Unfortunately, it only became worse, to the point at which I felt I couldn't go outside with it, so I decided just to cut it off using my hair clipper/beard trimmer device thingy. I now have an even inch of hair all round to start afresh with. By the end of summer it'll be the length I could have had in half an hour.
My story aside, it's now time to moan about haircuts in general. One thing I've noticed is that they don't interpret inches well. Don't give them inches because that's too complex apparently, they'll ignore that and give you what ever vague idea they have of how short they think you mean. Maybe then, you could try telling them what the shape of it is in your head without being too precise. Big mistake again. You've now given them free reign to do whatever the hell they want with it. I guarantee it will not even resemble anything you had in your head. The final option is of course to give them a picture to work with, say if you want to copy someone's style or go back to one you had before. I'm sad to say I tried this once and it still didn't turn out right.
That said, you can still hope for something quite nice. It's never going to be what you want, but you may surprised at the new style you walk away with, or it may grow on you (pun intended). However there are generally two obstacles which usually trash this notion. The first is when they give you no layers at all, and you end up with a helmet head haircut. Often they'll cut off the required length at the back and sides where its easiest, but not cut the same length off the top. The result is a heavy haircut which always fails to stay in a decent position. The second obstacle is when they do give you layers. Expect from this scenario a hacked up, sticky up, uneven, wispy travesty of a cut. When I said earlier I had two attempts at getting my hair right, you've probably figured out that the first time resulted in hair disaster number one there, and the second attempt resulted in hair disaster number two.
Thus the benefits of buzzing it and starting again become apparent. I'll grow it evenly to the right length, and ask only for the most conservative of trims to keep it at the same length. Hopefully I can then go to the same place again and again and ask for the "usual" once I get to know the barber or hairdresser.
Sunday 6 February 2011
I need scissors! 61!*
Packaging can often be woeful don't you think? Packaging is by far at its best when it's made of paper or cardboard, like the box a TV would come in for instance. There it's just a large carboard box with polystyrene and maybe some plastic bags to keep the TV safe and scratch free. Cereal boxes are generally easy too, although when you accidentally rip the tab in an overzealous desire to get at the cereal, it can be a pain in the ass. No, these are fine. The type of packaging I really hate is the sealed plastic packaging that is becoming increasingly more common these days.
We've all come across it for one reason or another, as it can be used to package anything from a beard trimmer to your favourite action figure or electric toothbrush. It has a nasty ridge all round the side of the box where the two halfs are sealed permanently together, with no obvious way of yanking them apart. Just try and do it; you'll fail and likely hurt your hands in the process. Then you're going to have to either get a pair of scissors or your trusty swiss army knife like me, and cut the plastic in whatever akward and dumb way takes your fancy. Again, the risk of injury slightly rises when scissors or knives are involved in slicing up this idiotic packaging.
Imagine you've bought for yourself a new playstation controller, and it comes in that packaging. In the resulting struggle cutting this box to pieces you end up either stabbing your hand with the scissors or getting cuts off of the newly exposed sharp edges of the box. Playing playstation isn't going to be very comfortable now is it?
Imagine life as an arthritic person, or as an old and infirm person. Those boxes are a mountain and a half to climb. And if you're that poor old lady on the Salvation Army appeal that has no living friends or family, it gets worse. You'll have no one to help you open that dreadful packaging, and so you'd better hope the Salvation Army does come and find you or that box is staying shut.
Aye I know what you're going to say, that these boxes allow for the security of the product inside, and I appreciate that. But isn't that what CCTV is for? Or store security guards if it's a big shop? I'm not going to pretend I know for sure, but I bet the instances of shop lifting haven't been drastically reduced because of this packaging. Half these goons will run out the door if the item is security tagged or not.
Other packaging can suck a bit as well. The mozzarella I buy from the co-op every week has a resealable packet which is really good actually. What's dumb about it is the fact that the "cut here" line is on or below the seal almost every time. I mean an occasional misprint is fine, but all the time is a fail of monumental proportions. Also, why haven't ringpulls on tin cans become universal? It's such a useful innovation and saves messing around with tin openers, and if you'd seen the last one I was using you'd understand my frustration. It cut sideways round the tin, not round the lid. Ridiculous.
Lastly, I'll moan about the kind of plastic packaging that you get for pasta and rice and things like that. I admit my complaints here are due to me being clumsy at opening them rather than them being wholly crap, but I still reckon they shouldn't tear so easily. I always struggle to rip open the seal at the top, and then out of nowhere the whole bag bursts and pasta goes everywhere. Again cutting a hole with scissors at the corner of the bag is maybe the best bet for me. I just can't be bothered with bloody goddamn scissors all the time.
*The title of today's post is an obscure reference to Metal Gear Solid 2. It'll take too long to explain the context but it beats the original title of Packaging Pandemonium!
We've all come across it for one reason or another, as it can be used to package anything from a beard trimmer to your favourite action figure or electric toothbrush. It has a nasty ridge all round the side of the box where the two halfs are sealed permanently together, with no obvious way of yanking them apart. Just try and do it; you'll fail and likely hurt your hands in the process. Then you're going to have to either get a pair of scissors or your trusty swiss army knife like me, and cut the plastic in whatever akward and dumb way takes your fancy. Again, the risk of injury slightly rises when scissors or knives are involved in slicing up this idiotic packaging.
Imagine you've bought for yourself a new playstation controller, and it comes in that packaging. In the resulting struggle cutting this box to pieces you end up either stabbing your hand with the scissors or getting cuts off of the newly exposed sharp edges of the box. Playing playstation isn't going to be very comfortable now is it?
Imagine life as an arthritic person, or as an old and infirm person. Those boxes are a mountain and a half to climb. And if you're that poor old lady on the Salvation Army appeal that has no living friends or family, it gets worse. You'll have no one to help you open that dreadful packaging, and so you'd better hope the Salvation Army does come and find you or that box is staying shut.
Aye I know what you're going to say, that these boxes allow for the security of the product inside, and I appreciate that. But isn't that what CCTV is for? Or store security guards if it's a big shop? I'm not going to pretend I know for sure, but I bet the instances of shop lifting haven't been drastically reduced because of this packaging. Half these goons will run out the door if the item is security tagged or not.
Other packaging can suck a bit as well. The mozzarella I buy from the co-op every week has a resealable packet which is really good actually. What's dumb about it is the fact that the "cut here" line is on or below the seal almost every time. I mean an occasional misprint is fine, but all the time is a fail of monumental proportions. Also, why haven't ringpulls on tin cans become universal? It's such a useful innovation and saves messing around with tin openers, and if you'd seen the last one I was using you'd understand my frustration. It cut sideways round the tin, not round the lid. Ridiculous.
Lastly, I'll moan about the kind of plastic packaging that you get for pasta and rice and things like that. I admit my complaints here are due to me being clumsy at opening them rather than them being wholly crap, but I still reckon they shouldn't tear so easily. I always struggle to rip open the seal at the top, and then out of nowhere the whole bag bursts and pasta goes everywhere. Again cutting a hole with scissors at the corner of the bag is maybe the best bet for me. I just can't be bothered with bloody goddamn scissors all the time.
*The title of today's post is an obscure reference to Metal Gear Solid 2. It'll take too long to explain the context but it beats the original title of Packaging Pandemonium!
Wednesday 2 February 2011
Underserved
Shops and places to go and eat can be a pain in the arse sometimes. On the most part I'm fine with them as are many people. However things can happen there that really wind me up, all of them completely trivial and not worth getting wound up about. But this is me we're talking about so I'll get stuck in with the ranting. Not much of a unifying theme or concept in this blog today, just an excuse to moan about individual shop related bugbears.
I was in Kentucky Fried Chicken today having some lunch. As usual, I walked past it on my way to Baguette Express and thought I'd rather treat myself to something more substantial. Usually by the time I've finished my KFC I feel slightly queasy and ask myself for the zillionth time why I bother eating there. Kentucky Fried Dog as my friend calls it, and he's probably not wrong. Well, the thing that annoys me whenever I go to KFC is the barbecue sauce, or usually the lack thereof. Why is it that I occasionally get it, yet a lot of other times I don't. Is it an extra that I should consider myself lucky to get, or is it something I should always be getting but rarely do? If there was any consistency I would know. I'm not asked, for instance, if I'd like some barbecue sauce, I just occasionally get it. It has nothing to do with ordering a large meal as opposed to a medium, because I did that last time and got absolutely no barbecue sauce. Next time I am definitely asking them what the deal is with the barbecue sauce. Ketchup is perfectly nice and all, but barbecue sauce polishes up an otherwise mediocre dining experience.
You are no doubt sick of the words barbecue sauce, so I promise I won't mention barbecue sauce again. What I will talk about now is closing times. I mentioned Baguette Express earlier. The ones in Edinburgh are a good 20p more expensive than my old local one in St Andrews. My other friend calls it the Edinburgh Tax, and he's definitely not wrong there. Anyhow, I could still reasonably expect the place to be open around about half 5, which was really quite good. However, at some point recently an executive decision was made not to do that anymore, and the other day I appeared just before 5 only to be told it was closed. I thought to myself, "Ok, maybe I made a mistake, and that it only stays open later on certain days." The next logical step then would be to look at the opening and closing times on the window, which I duly did. Lo and behold, they'd scratched off all the closing times, and neglected to stick on some new ones. How am I supposed to know when I can still come to Baguette Express if there are no opening times? I guess I'll have to personally ask a staff member, and no doubt appear like I care too much about it. What I won't do is ask that girl that's always there now, the one who clearly hates me and never hears anything I say to her.
The problem with the Baguette Express was that the opening times weren't clear, but to those in the know they were probably set in stone. However with my local Scotmid (read Co-op), I'm positive it shuts at midnight. Now supposing you were in my position and you wanted some toast around about 11.40pm but sadly you had no bread left. With the shop less than 5 minutes around the corner, you'd easily be able to get some bread in time. So, I imagine you've predicted the end of this story, and it goes something along the lines of me getting there by quarter to 12 and finding it all in shutters. Aye exactly. That is the single most irritating thing they can do. They close at 12, not quarter to. If it had been 5 to then I'd accept that, in fact I wouldn't even have attempted it. I really wish they couldn't get away with saying, "Oh there probably won't be another customer between now and then, let's close early." Now, I know in real terms I should have given myself half an hour at least to buy the bread, but the point is I shouldn't have to give myself that long.
I hate that shop anyway. About a third of the staff seem pleasant enough, but the rest appear so miserable. This appears to be case with not just the other two places I've mentioned in this blog, but pretty close to everywhere now. I know these jobs are shit and I should walk a mile in their shoes, but I've done shop work before and even when I feel crap I still put on a professional veneer. However instead of even pretending they enjoy their life, they'd rather soak themselves in their own bitterness and frustration until it becomes the very essence of their being. And of course the customer has to put up with it.
Maybe that last point was inordinately harsh, but I still want to make it. Maybe this whole post was ridiculous but if I can't have a whinge here, where can I? Since it's mostly friends reading this, you know it's pretty much everywhere else.
I was in Kentucky Fried Chicken today having some lunch. As usual, I walked past it on my way to Baguette Express and thought I'd rather treat myself to something more substantial. Usually by the time I've finished my KFC I feel slightly queasy and ask myself for the zillionth time why I bother eating there. Kentucky Fried Dog as my friend calls it, and he's probably not wrong. Well, the thing that annoys me whenever I go to KFC is the barbecue sauce, or usually the lack thereof. Why is it that I occasionally get it, yet a lot of other times I don't. Is it an extra that I should consider myself lucky to get, or is it something I should always be getting but rarely do? If there was any consistency I would know. I'm not asked, for instance, if I'd like some barbecue sauce, I just occasionally get it. It has nothing to do with ordering a large meal as opposed to a medium, because I did that last time and got absolutely no barbecue sauce. Next time I am definitely asking them what the deal is with the barbecue sauce. Ketchup is perfectly nice and all, but barbecue sauce polishes up an otherwise mediocre dining experience.
You are no doubt sick of the words barbecue sauce, so I promise I won't mention barbecue sauce again. What I will talk about now is closing times. I mentioned Baguette Express earlier. The ones in Edinburgh are a good 20p more expensive than my old local one in St Andrews. My other friend calls it the Edinburgh Tax, and he's definitely not wrong there. Anyhow, I could still reasonably expect the place to be open around about half 5, which was really quite good. However, at some point recently an executive decision was made not to do that anymore, and the other day I appeared just before 5 only to be told it was closed. I thought to myself, "Ok, maybe I made a mistake, and that it only stays open later on certain days." The next logical step then would be to look at the opening and closing times on the window, which I duly did. Lo and behold, they'd scratched off all the closing times, and neglected to stick on some new ones. How am I supposed to know when I can still come to Baguette Express if there are no opening times? I guess I'll have to personally ask a staff member, and no doubt appear like I care too much about it. What I won't do is ask that girl that's always there now, the one who clearly hates me and never hears anything I say to her.
The problem with the Baguette Express was that the opening times weren't clear, but to those in the know they were probably set in stone. However with my local Scotmid (read Co-op), I'm positive it shuts at midnight. Now supposing you were in my position and you wanted some toast around about 11.40pm but sadly you had no bread left. With the shop less than 5 minutes around the corner, you'd easily be able to get some bread in time. So, I imagine you've predicted the end of this story, and it goes something along the lines of me getting there by quarter to 12 and finding it all in shutters. Aye exactly. That is the single most irritating thing they can do. They close at 12, not quarter to. If it had been 5 to then I'd accept that, in fact I wouldn't even have attempted it. I really wish they couldn't get away with saying, "Oh there probably won't be another customer between now and then, let's close early." Now, I know in real terms I should have given myself half an hour at least to buy the bread, but the point is I shouldn't have to give myself that long.
I hate that shop anyway. About a third of the staff seem pleasant enough, but the rest appear so miserable. This appears to be case with not just the other two places I've mentioned in this blog, but pretty close to everywhere now. I know these jobs are shit and I should walk a mile in their shoes, but I've done shop work before and even when I feel crap I still put on a professional veneer. However instead of even pretending they enjoy their life, they'd rather soak themselves in their own bitterness and frustration until it becomes the very essence of their being. And of course the customer has to put up with it.
Maybe that last point was inordinately harsh, but I still want to make it. Maybe this whole post was ridiculous but if I can't have a whinge here, where can I? Since it's mostly friends reading this, you know it's pretty much everywhere else.
Thursday 20 January 2011
Ain't no love in the heart of the city
It's just going to be a shortish blog this time because I have this inexplicable urge to write something, yet I can thing of nothing too exciting to write it on. So I thought I'd revisit last Saturday's unfortunate visit to the Glenkinchie distillery, and my observations of local life on the journey.
Glenkinchie is the nearest distillery to Edinburgh, and Glenkinchie is famously called the Edinburgh malt. It's also one of only three lowland whiskys still in production, the other two being Bladnoch and Auchentoshan if you're interested. Me and Jon had planned on going to a distillery for a while, so going on this mutually free Saturday was a good shout. To cut a long story short, the place was shut. Nobody knew why, not even the barman at the pub in nearby Pencaitland, so naturally we were disappointed. There was an open backdoor we could have sneaked through, but whisky makers are particularly serious when it comes to trespassers due to the highly secretive nature of their product. We had to make do with the lovely malty aroma coming from that entrance.
Anyhow, what struck me as interesting was how different life seemed to feel out in the East Lothian countryside. I've never had much interest in going there; it looks gloomy and isolated even in the best of weathers, and it happened to be shite that day. However, what I found refreshing was the kind and helpful nature of the people there. We met an elderly lady on the bus who let us know which stop was ours and told the driver for us. She also advised us on where to find a taxi to finish the journey from Pencaitland to Glenkinchie as she felt it was a long way for us to walk. Furthermore, when we couldn't get a taxi and just started walking there, a car stopped over and the couple who were in it offered us a lift. It was really nice of these people to help us out, as we never asked any of them for help; they just gave it to us. Although my formerly rural life in Fife wasn't especially filled with people like this, there were the occasional standouts which lent an air of familiarity to East Lothian I haven't experienced since my move to exclusively urban surroundings.
Anyhow, I'm back in the city again. There are no doubt many helpful kind people here in Edinburgh, but you just wouldn't know it. Most people are too stressed out by their own lives to really care about others. I'm not even going to pretend that I'm a champion of generosity and caring in the heartless city. It's just the way it is in the big towns. Here we have all the corporations, banks, universities i.e. busy stressful places to be. We may be in a densely populated area, but there's too many individual things going on for people to hold eachother's attention. You have to find community exclusively amongst your friends and family. Out there in the sparsely populated countryside, most people seem to get to know each other very well.
I'm not championing community here. I never much thought about it before. However the friendly nature of the local Pencaitlanders and Glenkinchie-ers contrasted with what I'm used to, so I thought I'd bring it up. And it seems like I've rambled on long enough to have a fair sized post after all. Sorry about that, I know you wanted a quick read and I didn't give you one.
Glenkinchie is the nearest distillery to Edinburgh, and Glenkinchie is famously called the Edinburgh malt. It's also one of only three lowland whiskys still in production, the other two being Bladnoch and Auchentoshan if you're interested. Me and Jon had planned on going to a distillery for a while, so going on this mutually free Saturday was a good shout. To cut a long story short, the place was shut. Nobody knew why, not even the barman at the pub in nearby Pencaitland, so naturally we were disappointed. There was an open backdoor we could have sneaked through, but whisky makers are particularly serious when it comes to trespassers due to the highly secretive nature of their product. We had to make do with the lovely malty aroma coming from that entrance.
Anyhow, what struck me as interesting was how different life seemed to feel out in the East Lothian countryside. I've never had much interest in going there; it looks gloomy and isolated even in the best of weathers, and it happened to be shite that day. However, what I found refreshing was the kind and helpful nature of the people there. We met an elderly lady on the bus who let us know which stop was ours and told the driver for us. She also advised us on where to find a taxi to finish the journey from Pencaitland to Glenkinchie as she felt it was a long way for us to walk. Furthermore, when we couldn't get a taxi and just started walking there, a car stopped over and the couple who were in it offered us a lift. It was really nice of these people to help us out, as we never asked any of them for help; they just gave it to us. Although my formerly rural life in Fife wasn't especially filled with people like this, there were the occasional standouts which lent an air of familiarity to East Lothian I haven't experienced since my move to exclusively urban surroundings.
Anyhow, I'm back in the city again. There are no doubt many helpful kind people here in Edinburgh, but you just wouldn't know it. Most people are too stressed out by their own lives to really care about others. I'm not even going to pretend that I'm a champion of generosity and caring in the heartless city. It's just the way it is in the big towns. Here we have all the corporations, banks, universities i.e. busy stressful places to be. We may be in a densely populated area, but there's too many individual things going on for people to hold eachother's attention. You have to find community exclusively amongst your friends and family. Out there in the sparsely populated countryside, most people seem to get to know each other very well.
I'm not championing community here. I never much thought about it before. However the friendly nature of the local Pencaitlanders and Glenkinchie-ers contrasted with what I'm used to, so I thought I'd bring it up. And it seems like I've rambled on long enough to have a fair sized post after all. Sorry about that, I know you wanted a quick read and I didn't give you one.
Sunday 16 January 2011
It's time for change
Money doesn't buy you happiness they say. Maybe they just didn't have the right change.
It seems that in a lot of cases it's never about how much money you have, but in fact how much change you have. A £10 pound note, for instance, is not as useful as a £5 note, four £1 coins, 50p, 20p, 10p, 3 5ps, 2 2ps and a 1p or some variant. This is always the case with smaller purchases and I'm fine with that. It's efficient. Larger purchases validate the use of a £20 note in the eyes of most and that's also fine. However sometimes you've just been from the cash machine and all you have is a £20 or 2 £10s or something like that, so you need to break it down. Most often you'll be fine and the shopkeeper won't bat an eyelid. However sometimes it can be a nuisance for all involved.
Every now and again you'll be asked if you have something smaller to pay with. After all, buying a can of Irn Bru with a twenty seems a bit much. But that's reality much of the time. We can't go about expecting folk to feel guilty and then start buying spare butter and some extra bread they thought they might need just because they want to justify their use of a twenty by making a more wholsome purchase. It's maybe not dreadfully common, but I've acted this stupid way in the past, and I'm sure many other people do it too.
It's all because the world seems to operate on change. I'm not going to suggest an alternative, I'm just going to moan about the current situation. The person behind the counter will ask if you have anything smaller, not so much because it takes more effort to divide a twenty in their head, but because the change in the cash register is running low and they need more. I've worked in a shop and it's always handy to be given loose change instead of having to give it away all the time, and then run to the office to stock up on ones and twos. I said I wasn't going to suggest alternatives, but despite being no expert on money, I don't see why we couldn't just get rid of 1p and 2p, and things costing £#.99 and other such stupidity. We can keep the silvers because we do need to have things with a price between whole pounds.
Buses are where change is most annoying, and they are in fact the reason I've decided to write about change at all. Whereas in the shops they prefer smaller change for small purchases, in many cases change is absolutely compulsory on the bus. Many drivers are already on the path to the dark side and seeing a £10 or a £20 makes them want to strike the passenger down with all of their hatred. Maybe I'm exaggerating a little, but they will inform in a typical grumpy Scottish voice that you "dinnae get change on this bus son", clearly raging about how having to explain this to the passenger has disrupted their watertight schedule, well the one in their head. The stagecoach buses I used to get from Fife to Dundee were lenient on notes. Fivers usually covered the cost of my journey so they were happily accepted. Tenners visibly annoyed drivers usually, as it required more effort to get the bag of pounds out and count my change. Don't bother with a twenty though; you'll be out on your arse.
It's the city buses that bring my piss to a boil. They're the ones that require change to be perfect as they "dinnae give change on this bus son". It's not to say that you can't give them whatever you happen to have as long as it's more than the fare. It's just that you won't see any of it back. Too bad if you only have a tenner. So to get that correct change, you may often have to do what I do and go to the nearest newsagents or whatever and buy anything cheap enough to get a lot of change from, like a packet of crisps for instance. I can guarantee that whatever you buy, you'll not really want it. It was just a rushed purchase because you had to. I don't imagine many people plan in advance with regards to change. "Oh I can't buy this milk today as it uses up too much of the potential change I may need for a bus." If you don't have time to go to a shop to break up that tenner before the bus gets there, consider a taxi. May work out cheaper.
I hate change, I really really do. It's not handy having so many coppers that wearing a belt is essential to keep your trousers from falling down. It's so fiddly as well. When you've just been handed a fiver and a bunch of change, and the queue all the way to the back wall is full of angry impatient people, you just don't feel like you have the time and space to put everything into your wallet properly. The result is you end up pocketing the lot, slinking off to an out of the way place and sorting out your wallet where it doesn't delay the queue any further.
My closing advice is, where possible, use a credit/debit card, and don't get buses.
It seems that in a lot of cases it's never about how much money you have, but in fact how much change you have. A £10 pound note, for instance, is not as useful as a £5 note, four £1 coins, 50p, 20p, 10p, 3 5ps, 2 2ps and a 1p or some variant. This is always the case with smaller purchases and I'm fine with that. It's efficient. Larger purchases validate the use of a £20 note in the eyes of most and that's also fine. However sometimes you've just been from the cash machine and all you have is a £20 or 2 £10s or something like that, so you need to break it down. Most often you'll be fine and the shopkeeper won't bat an eyelid. However sometimes it can be a nuisance for all involved.
Every now and again you'll be asked if you have something smaller to pay with. After all, buying a can of Irn Bru with a twenty seems a bit much. But that's reality much of the time. We can't go about expecting folk to feel guilty and then start buying spare butter and some extra bread they thought they might need just because they want to justify their use of a twenty by making a more wholsome purchase. It's maybe not dreadfully common, but I've acted this stupid way in the past, and I'm sure many other people do it too.
It's all because the world seems to operate on change. I'm not going to suggest an alternative, I'm just going to moan about the current situation. The person behind the counter will ask if you have anything smaller, not so much because it takes more effort to divide a twenty in their head, but because the change in the cash register is running low and they need more. I've worked in a shop and it's always handy to be given loose change instead of having to give it away all the time, and then run to the office to stock up on ones and twos. I said I wasn't going to suggest alternatives, but despite being no expert on money, I don't see why we couldn't just get rid of 1p and 2p, and things costing £#.99 and other such stupidity. We can keep the silvers because we do need to have things with a price between whole pounds.
Buses are where change is most annoying, and they are in fact the reason I've decided to write about change at all. Whereas in the shops they prefer smaller change for small purchases, in many cases change is absolutely compulsory on the bus. Many drivers are already on the path to the dark side and seeing a £10 or a £20 makes them want to strike the passenger down with all of their hatred. Maybe I'm exaggerating a little, but they will inform in a typical grumpy Scottish voice that you "dinnae get change on this bus son", clearly raging about how having to explain this to the passenger has disrupted their watertight schedule, well the one in their head. The stagecoach buses I used to get from Fife to Dundee were lenient on notes. Fivers usually covered the cost of my journey so they were happily accepted. Tenners visibly annoyed drivers usually, as it required more effort to get the bag of pounds out and count my change. Don't bother with a twenty though; you'll be out on your arse.
It's the city buses that bring my piss to a boil. They're the ones that require change to be perfect as they "dinnae give change on this bus son". It's not to say that you can't give them whatever you happen to have as long as it's more than the fare. It's just that you won't see any of it back. Too bad if you only have a tenner. So to get that correct change, you may often have to do what I do and go to the nearest newsagents or whatever and buy anything cheap enough to get a lot of change from, like a packet of crisps for instance. I can guarantee that whatever you buy, you'll not really want it. It was just a rushed purchase because you had to. I don't imagine many people plan in advance with regards to change. "Oh I can't buy this milk today as it uses up too much of the potential change I may need for a bus." If you don't have time to go to a shop to break up that tenner before the bus gets there, consider a taxi. May work out cheaper.
I hate change, I really really do. It's not handy having so many coppers that wearing a belt is essential to keep your trousers from falling down. It's so fiddly as well. When you've just been handed a fiver and a bunch of change, and the queue all the way to the back wall is full of angry impatient people, you just don't feel like you have the time and space to put everything into your wallet properly. The result is you end up pocketing the lot, slinking off to an out of the way place and sorting out your wallet where it doesn't delay the queue any further.
My closing advice is, where possible, use a credit/debit card, and don't get buses.
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