Well, I was supposed to blog about the Royal Wedding yoinks ago, but I was also supposed to keep blogging over Easter. I failed to accomplish either of these things. Also top of my failure list is the lack of clear political agenda, or mention of more interesting topics, more academic research or talking about poor marginalized activists who were harrassed and banned from London. Shocker! As if every time something like this happens they'd forgotten that the police truly hated them and were somewhat surprised to discover they weren't given a free shot at disrupting the most important media event in recent history. It galls me. How can you possibly be a political activist and keep being constantly surprised at the way you are treated? An Anarchist Goldfish would have a longer memory and a better perspective. Anyway, without further ado, here we go.
You saw it. Even if you tried to avoid it, or didn't turn on any electrical appliance for a full day, you heard about it. The Royal Wedding, where two rich people come together in the puppet church they created to exchange a vow that they may or may not keep, and to bring happiness to the realm. Did you see her dress? Her hair? So perfect. And when they kissed, I almost died from exuberance. She floated on a nimbus of perfection, her feet not touching the ground because she was so unbelievably crystal and pure.
Yes, even people like me, who tried to avoid the Royal Wedding ended up getting plastered with it like a runty kid in a Sports Hall cream-pie dodgeball game. It was everywhere. It was in my eyes. The goggles, they do nothing.
I was not in favour.
I wish to dispense remarkably quickly with the sickening notion that two rich twats smooching on a balcony can suddenly make everything better. You know what, it can't. Wake up tomorrow and it'll still be a horrendous world, so why bother watching other people be happy? Rich and privileged people, who can afford to eat food more expensive than your house. People who won't ever even know what it's like to be you.
And in a particular I-feel-strongly-about-this-so-you're-going-to-have-to-forgive-me way, Royalists are idiots.
Yes. But you knew that. You saw the parade of buffoons who camped overnight on a street so that they could watch a car go past? Painted faces and union jacks, little buns and everyone screaming God Save the Queen? Sickening. Absolutely sickening. We're supposed to human beings, for gods sake. They were like animals. Animals, I tell you.
So why can't I just let people get on with it, and let the Royal couple be happy? Why am I such a stick in the mud? Oh Stevie, you old crazy, why do you have to be so anti-happiness. Can't everyone just have a bit of fun, wave a flag and smile?
No, basically, they can't. Shape up, you delinquents. I refuse, flatly, on principle and out of self respect, to fall down in abject worship of two people who have led exceptionally wealthy and charmed lives. I would not hesitate to question the notion that some people believe William's shit cures cancer, or that the sun actually shines from Kate Middleton's arse.
This is not a proud moment, nor is it a bit of fun. If the television did streaming news on every channel that, sometime today, I was due to cook a ready-meal in my underwear before scratching my balls, people would actually kick off. In fact, they would probably find out where I was and gouge me to death with a barbecue fork than let it run for longer than a few minutes.
So why is everything, everywhere, about them all day? The media attention was frenzied and invasive to the point of almost being ghoulish, where you're forced to wonder vaguely if they've started drawing up plans for a Kate Middleton obituary in case the constant exposure drives the new princess to suicide. They'd love that. And so would you lot, secretly. A massive ourpouring of grief. Elton John tributes. Mile long funeral processions and everyone who never met her wondering how they can possibly continue to live without her.
There wasn't even any room for conscientious objectors to opt out. Why should we care about what they're doing? What, do we still have a Monarchy? Are they still better than us? So much better than us, that we need to do all this?
I think I screamed a howl of pure frustration at some point.
It was beyond a celebration, it was a carnival. A carnival of self degradation and of failure. Failure for us, as a species, to get past even the simplest outdated notions of tribal privilege. You might as well enjoy your wedding, you fawning sycophantic clowns. You did pay for it, after all.
Saturday 30 April 2011
Saturday 16 April 2011
On the Last Train Home
Hell is not other people. Hell is Northern Rail.
I know some people harbour romantic notions about the age of rail, and how awesome trains are, and how much they're like a neglected puppy, kicked and abused until all you're left with is an aggressive hate-fueled animal full of spite and urine. I suppose that isn't too far from the truth.
I hate travelling by train. Modern 21st century rail use is just like travelling in a car only you're squashed into the back seat between two meatheads. The window is open, so you're really cold and you just can't reach it to close it. Someone else is playing music obnoxiously loud and it's the kind of ear-splitting din that makes dogs howl. The men on your left and right are having a conversation where most of the English language has been left out, altered, or replaced with swearing. Someone has taken a leak on your seat. The car then proceeds to break down every five minutes, stop for no reason, or issue rambling statements in mumble-language so you don't really know what's going on.
When you arrive at your destination, two cops with machine-guns are watching you darkly. There are discarded coffee cups and newspapers all over the floor. The carpark smells of tramp, and before you can leave you have to navigate sets of elaborate barriers that wouldn't look out of place on a farm. You have to pay to use the toilet and any unattended bag could harbour certain death.
Is this how people choose to travel? It's enough to have Thomas the Tank-Engine rolling in his grave, if he handn't been smelted down into I-pods or sold for scrapping in Bangladesh.
Trains are expensive. Most, with a few exceptions, are cramped, smelly, unclean and slow. That's only when they choose to turn up, which they don't always. They are often filled with the kind of people I'd usually avoid. Most evenings one can be sure to find a bunch of macho blokes, drinking Stella and being racist. That might be unfair, I don't know if they're being racist, because I can't understand what they're saying. I wrote some stuff down and put it into Google Translate, but unfortunately it only came back with the harsh, gutteral noises associated with Goblins.
Simply put, trains are hell.
My interaction with trains started from a young age, and as with most things, my memory usually characterized by all of the horrendous things that happened. I was kidnapped by a train once. It pulled into Dewsbury and I tried to get off, a young boy of 13. Only the doors were jammed, presumably because there were so many people aboard it was like being buried alive in a mass grave. I waved frantically at the conductor, and he waved back nochelantly. He pressed the button a few times, and when the door didn't open, he just shrugged and my journey continued until I was freed in Leeds.
My most recent train related nightmare was just a few days ago. Where possible, it is acceptable to fare dodge. I do this in memory of the hundreds of pounds I've spent on rail tickets only to be kettled into a piss dungeon instead of getting a seat. Oft times, on short journies, I attempt to reinburse myself for all the emotional abuse I suffered as a child at the hands of Northern Rail. So I was fare dodging, and some people are going to say I deserved this. I got on a train in Todmorden and travelled towards Halifax. I was originally going to get off at Sowerby Bridge, but I was crashing with my girlfriend so I thought I'd just stay on.
The best way to fare dodge, apart from turning invisible, threatening someone with a knife, or locking yourself in a toilet, is to pretend to be asleep or reading a newspaper with your headphones in. This not only creates the impression you've been there awhile, but also that you shouldn't be disturbed. So you'll imagine my surprise as I'm reading the Metro, blasting out Mudvayne to the point where I'm sure my ears are bleeding, and the countryside takes a turn for the unknown.
Long story short, the train didn't go where I assumed it would. I left Sowerby Bridge station, still on the train, and ended up in some godless hamlet somewhere in the backfield of nowhere with abused ears. I missed the announcement because I was listening to loud music. I spent half an hour in the pub next to the station having my sexuality examined by strange old men before finally getting the right train home.
There is a lesson here. I'm not sure what it is.
Anyway, in conclusion, the best advice I can offer is don't travel by train. Although buses suffer from the same problem. You could try something like Megabus, but my previous interaction with companies like them and National Express is that their drivers are simply hate-fuelled sociopaths, and that there is something vaugely upsetting about being driven down a deserted motorway late at night by a pair of men who are so morbid. Not least because if they did turn psychotic, they could just kill you and bury you in a nearby field.
The other alternative is car, but as we know, that is both expensive and liable to cause the very earth itself to erode into nothing. So you might as well not bother. Just stay in. It's easier.
I know some people harbour romantic notions about the age of rail, and how awesome trains are, and how much they're like a neglected puppy, kicked and abused until all you're left with is an aggressive hate-fueled animal full of spite and urine. I suppose that isn't too far from the truth.
I hate travelling by train. Modern 21st century rail use is just like travelling in a car only you're squashed into the back seat between two meatheads. The window is open, so you're really cold and you just can't reach it to close it. Someone else is playing music obnoxiously loud and it's the kind of ear-splitting din that makes dogs howl. The men on your left and right are having a conversation where most of the English language has been left out, altered, or replaced with swearing. Someone has taken a leak on your seat. The car then proceeds to break down every five minutes, stop for no reason, or issue rambling statements in mumble-language so you don't really know what's going on.
When you arrive at your destination, two cops with machine-guns are watching you darkly. There are discarded coffee cups and newspapers all over the floor. The carpark smells of tramp, and before you can leave you have to navigate sets of elaborate barriers that wouldn't look out of place on a farm. You have to pay to use the toilet and any unattended bag could harbour certain death.
Is this how people choose to travel? It's enough to have Thomas the Tank-Engine rolling in his grave, if he handn't been smelted down into I-pods or sold for scrapping in Bangladesh.
 |
| "Thomas we hardly knew ye." |
Simply put, trains are hell.
My interaction with trains started from a young age, and as with most things, my memory usually characterized by all of the horrendous things that happened. I was kidnapped by a train once. It pulled into Dewsbury and I tried to get off, a young boy of 13. Only the doors were jammed, presumably because there were so many people aboard it was like being buried alive in a mass grave. I waved frantically at the conductor, and he waved back nochelantly. He pressed the button a few times, and when the door didn't open, he just shrugged and my journey continued until I was freed in Leeds.
My most recent train related nightmare was just a few days ago. Where possible, it is acceptable to fare dodge. I do this in memory of the hundreds of pounds I've spent on rail tickets only to be kettled into a piss dungeon instead of getting a seat. Oft times, on short journies, I attempt to reinburse myself for all the emotional abuse I suffered as a child at the hands of Northern Rail. So I was fare dodging, and some people are going to say I deserved this. I got on a train in Todmorden and travelled towards Halifax. I was originally going to get off at Sowerby Bridge, but I was crashing with my girlfriend so I thought I'd just stay on.
The best way to fare dodge, apart from turning invisible, threatening someone with a knife, or locking yourself in a toilet, is to pretend to be asleep or reading a newspaper with your headphones in. This not only creates the impression you've been there awhile, but also that you shouldn't be disturbed. So you'll imagine my surprise as I'm reading the Metro, blasting out Mudvayne to the point where I'm sure my ears are bleeding, and the countryside takes a turn for the unknown.
Long story short, the train didn't go where I assumed it would. I left Sowerby Bridge station, still on the train, and ended up in some godless hamlet somewhere in the backfield of nowhere with abused ears. I missed the announcement because I was listening to loud music. I spent half an hour in the pub next to the station having my sexuality examined by strange old men before finally getting the right train home.
There is a lesson here. I'm not sure what it is.
Anyway, in conclusion, the best advice I can offer is don't travel by train. Although buses suffer from the same problem. You could try something like Megabus, but my previous interaction with companies like them and National Express is that their drivers are simply hate-fuelled sociopaths, and that there is something vaugely upsetting about being driven down a deserted motorway late at night by a pair of men who are so morbid. Not least because if they did turn psychotic, they could just kill you and bury you in a nearby field.
The other alternative is car, but as we know, that is both expensive and liable to cause the very earth itself to erode into nothing. So you might as well not bother. Just stay in. It's easier.
Thursday 14 April 2011
Cosmetic Fascism
Whoever wrote that beauty was only skin deep had not been treated to the nightmare of cosmetic adverts. Male and female. It's not so much the constant selling of these things - an evil you have to take for granted, I suppose - but the manner in which they are sold. Turn on a television at any time of the day and you'll be inundated with horrendously fake people attempting to make themselves so hetronormatively attractive that there is usually some disasterous side effects of their mad experiments.
Down on the street, this translates into an orange woman covered in so much fake tan she looks like an escaped umpa lumpa. To further complicate the pursuit of perfection, her actual face is hidden under a viel of concealer, eyeshadow, lip gloss, fake lashes and plucked eyebrows. So much so, it has begun to look uncannily like Tutankhamun's death mask. The end result giving you the somewhat terrifying impression of a Pompeii victim come back to life.
Men aren't any better. Most male adverts revolve around the premise that overly muscled men with faces chistled out of raw sex appeal drag knives down their faces to get rid of excess hair. While wearing a vest. Once they've finished shaving, a woman walks in and rubs their breasty pectoral muscles while nuzzling into their neck like an emotionally conflicted horse. The man turns to the camera, grins, and then probably goes off to down pints and wrestle aligators whilst on fire. So much so, that the Old Spice adverts have cashed in on purely being a satrical paradoy of most men's shower gel commercials, with women flocking to them like psychotic animals from a Hitchcock film.
In fact, there are very few male centric adverts that don't see one super attractive bloke spraying himself with bodyspray, or standing under a foaming shower, or styling his hair while women stampede towards him ala 28 Days Later. I'm at a loss as to where this mythical cavern full of lustful nymphs is. The best I can manange is to strike up casual conversation with a lone female on the bus without her being physically sick all over me. I'd really like to see a break from hetro ads. How about a Lynx advert where he's swamped by oiled strongmen? Yeah. How do you like them apples?
Around this point, you're probably thinking where the fascism comes in. I lied. There is no fascism. Take it seriously, it's a big word. But there is a certain encouragement to actually be a pro-active bellend during your transformation into the superhuman. Take the L'Oreal adverts. 'Because you're worth it." Worth what? Worth using L'Oreal products? Is that how we measure people's value, in hair products? Is that a treat? You know, like, put your feet up, you've earned it. Use L'Oreal, because you deserve L'Oreal. L'Oreal is too good for normal people, but you, you're worth it.
Then you get Cat Deeley flashing you a smile that makes her look like a proto-Landshark, telling you that if you want 'real colour'* in your hair, 'Be demanding'. Be demanding, be demanding. See that hair? Don't take any abuse from it. Demand the best. Be a dickhead. To your own hair.
There are more adverts, I'm certain of it, that create the impression that being a narcassitic pig is a good thing. The previously mentioned Lynx adverts induce a special kind of nausea, where mute women literally drop from the sky, crushing cars and tearing up paving slabs in an effort to be closer to some guy who is wearing this particularly alluring scent. A before and after Max Factor ad, shot in the style of a documentary, shows a normal woman transforming into a being with a face so pure, hair and eyes so perfect by todays standards that she actually looks like a twenty-fourth century time-travelling sex robot.
This is apparently a good thing.
The problem is, it's very hard to actually be normal, provided we can agree on what 'normal' or natural might entail. There is even a style to non-conformity or resistance, whereby a modicum of effort is paradoxically required to look effortlessly natural, or to make a point about rejecting societal constraints. Even tougher is the challenge to pull it off without looking like Edward Scissorhands after a heavy Stag weekend. And there doesn't seem to be a clear way out of it. Subconsciously conditioned as we are, even the most open minded lefty will secretly struggle to not judge someone who's ventured outside with the appearance of a grotesquely twisted and unkempt woodsman.
So if you want a vision of the future, imagine thousands of little bottles, squeezey tubes, shavers and styling gear, stamping on a human face - forever.
*An interesting paradox when advertising hair-dye
Down on the street, this translates into an orange woman covered in so much fake tan she looks like an escaped umpa lumpa. To further complicate the pursuit of perfection, her actual face is hidden under a viel of concealer, eyeshadow, lip gloss, fake lashes and plucked eyebrows. So much so, it has begun to look uncannily like Tutankhamun's death mask. The end result giving you the somewhat terrifying impression of a Pompeii victim come back to life.
 |
| "Hey baby. Can I buy you a drink?" |
In fact, there are very few male centric adverts that don't see one super attractive bloke spraying himself with bodyspray, or standing under a foaming shower, or styling his hair while women stampede towards him ala 28 Days Later. I'm at a loss as to where this mythical cavern full of lustful nymphs is. The best I can manange is to strike up casual conversation with a lone female on the bus without her being physically sick all over me. I'd really like to see a break from hetro ads. How about a Lynx advert where he's swamped by oiled strongmen? Yeah. How do you like them apples?
Around this point, you're probably thinking where the fascism comes in. I lied. There is no fascism. Take it seriously, it's a big word. But there is a certain encouragement to actually be a pro-active bellend during your transformation into the superhuman. Take the L'Oreal adverts. 'Because you're worth it." Worth what? Worth using L'Oreal products? Is that how we measure people's value, in hair products? Is that a treat? You know, like, put your feet up, you've earned it. Use L'Oreal, because you deserve L'Oreal. L'Oreal is too good for normal people, but you, you're worth it.
Then you get Cat Deeley flashing you a smile that makes her look like a proto-Landshark, telling you that if you want 'real colour'* in your hair, 'Be demanding'. Be demanding, be demanding. See that hair? Don't take any abuse from it. Demand the best. Be a dickhead. To your own hair.
There are more adverts, I'm certain of it, that create the impression that being a narcassitic pig is a good thing. The previously mentioned Lynx adverts induce a special kind of nausea, where mute women literally drop from the sky, crushing cars and tearing up paving slabs in an effort to be closer to some guy who is wearing this particularly alluring scent. A before and after Max Factor ad, shot in the style of a documentary, shows a normal woman transforming into a being with a face so pure, hair and eyes so perfect by todays standards that she actually looks like a twenty-fourth century time-travelling sex robot.
This is apparently a good thing.
The problem is, it's very hard to actually be normal, provided we can agree on what 'normal' or natural might entail. There is even a style to non-conformity or resistance, whereby a modicum of effort is paradoxically required to look effortlessly natural, or to make a point about rejecting societal constraints. Even tougher is the challenge to pull it off without looking like Edward Scissorhands after a heavy Stag weekend. And there doesn't seem to be a clear way out of it. Subconsciously conditioned as we are, even the most open minded lefty will secretly struggle to not judge someone who's ventured outside with the appearance of a grotesquely twisted and unkempt woodsman.
So if you want a vision of the future, imagine thousands of little bottles, squeezey tubes, shavers and styling gear, stamping on a human face - forever.
*An interesting paradox when advertising hair-dye
Saturday 9 April 2011
Drawing a Line
Internet dating.
I realize this is somewhat of a sensitive topic. I know a few internet-daters who swear by it. Personally, I think it has great merit. My chances of meeting that special someone would be greatly increased if they A) couldn't see my palid flesh and sunken undead face, or hear my gravelly, Yorkshire accented mispronouncations. This gives time for my personality to draw them in. It's not a great personality, being a little fixated on cynacism, bitterness and consuming despair, but it's probably my best trait. Hopefully, this will cushion any revulsion that might occur the first time we actually meet.
Before internet dating, the shy, niche, or otherwise confused lover would have to fall back on a variety of tricks. Some give up, becoming hideous gargoyles that write hate-fueled, spiteful internet blogs as the rage-spittle flies from their cracked lips. Others have advertised in Lonely Hearts columns in local papers, which is something I play to mercilessly elaborate on in future. Some employ self-help books to boost confidence and correct undesireable behaviour they may have been doing. One young man once handed me a business card, explaining:
"I made these to give to women. That way, they get to know my name, a short discription, and my phone number. Once I give them to people, the ball is in their court. Much easier than speaking, and cushions the rejection."
But internet dating has come along, a creeping pheonomina over spread by new mediums of communication over the last ten years somewhat like Islamic fundamentalism only a lot nicer. The promise of allieviating the crushing lonliness of daily life for even five minutes has prompted dozens, if not hundreds, of dating and friendship sites such as OKCupid, Friends Reunited, and Match Affinity which enjoy millions of users.
I realize this is somewhat of a sensitive topic. I know a few internet-daters who swear by it. Personally, I think it has great merit. My chances of meeting that special someone would be greatly increased if they A) couldn't see my palid flesh and sunken undead face, or hear my gravelly, Yorkshire accented mispronouncations. This gives time for my personality to draw them in. It's not a great personality, being a little fixated on cynacism, bitterness and consuming despair, but it's probably my best trait. Hopefully, this will cushion any revulsion that might occur the first time we actually meet.
Before internet dating, the shy, niche, or otherwise confused lover would have to fall back on a variety of tricks. Some give up, becoming hideous gargoyles that write hate-fueled, spiteful internet blogs as the rage-spittle flies from their cracked lips. Others have advertised in Lonely Hearts columns in local papers, which is something I play to mercilessly elaborate on in future. Some employ self-help books to boost confidence and correct undesireable behaviour they may have been doing. One young man once handed me a business card, explaining:
"I made these to give to women. That way, they get to know my name, a short discription, and my phone number. Once I give them to people, the ball is in their court. Much easier than speaking, and cushions the rejection."
 |
| Please, just give me a chance! |
But internet dating has come along, a creeping pheonomina over spread by new mediums of communication over the last ten years somewhat like Islamic fundamentalism only a lot nicer. The promise of allieviating the crushing lonliness of daily life for even five minutes has prompted dozens, if not hundreds, of dating and friendship sites such as OKCupid, Friends Reunited, and Match Affinity which enjoy millions of users.
So what do I have against these sites? Nothing, per se. I wouldn't go on one myself, but it works for some people, including my cousin who found a nice American whom he later divorced. The problem comes with a few of the adverts you see on TV. You know, the Match.com ones, where two herto supermodels meet on a sunny day in a retro-vintage music shop and sing to each other about films. Aside from that not exactly being the point of internet dating - accidentally meeting someone in a shop, it's irritating because... ...well... because it is.
"I like old movies..." "Like the Godfather..." "Three..." "Nah, that's well shit." "But that's just me..."
About this time, you're probably wondering where the screaming rant comes in. Be patient, because it's building up like a ragegasm right now. The worst offender, by far, is Uniform Dating. So bad, infact, is Uniform Dating, it's blocked by the Council content filters for unsuitable content. Which is a bit far, really because it is less the advert that it is at fault, but more the premise.
The premise of Uniform Dating is:
"Do you work in uniform, or just fancy people who do? Go go to Uniform Dating.com ect ect."
Not only is the idea of blatantly advertising people's deeper sexual fantasies on TV a little creepy, you can't expect people you meet on there to be of completely sound mind. On the one hand, you've got people who joined up purely because they enjoy the idea of being spanked by a nurse or something. Fine, whatever, but do you really expect to meet a nurse who is willing to meet up with someone who is basically like "lul, I want to sex nurzes." Do you actually expect them to turn up in uniform to their dates? It just seems the entire point of Uniform Dating is not only better kept on the internet, but can probably be worked into just about any other dating site.
Further to this point, real-life uniform wears are not that sexy. Sure, the fantasy is of a super smoking hawt nurse in a skimpy white dress. The reality is probably a woman in her mid-40's in unrevealing blue scrubs. She's the wrong side of plump, chain-smokes and has a thousand yard stare from treating too many inebriated teenagers at 3AM.
Further to this point, real-life uniform wears are not that sexy. Sure, the fantasy is of a super smoking hawt nurse in a skimpy white dress. The reality is probably a woman in her mid-40's in unrevealing blue scrubs. She's the wrong side of plump, chain-smokes and has a thousand yard stare from treating too many inebriated teenagers at 3AM.
Now, I realize I'm probably starting to sound a little bit like a 1950's right winger, paranoid about short skirts and 'rock and roll'. Not really, I don't care. But I really, really, don't like adverts. The problem Uniform Dating has now is that it has created a niche dating site, albeit trying to broaden their appeal. It's time to draw the line on this sort of TV. People can do whatever they want in their own homes, but I'm not exactly down with eating my tea while a advert like, say, bemybitch.com comes on. Picture it.
"Do you like hardcore BDSM, or just fancy those who enjoy having candle wax poured over their nipples? At Be My Bitch dot com, you can find thousands of submissive servants who love licking dog feaces off your spiked heels."
Perhaps it'll go broader, but when will it stop? Midget Clown Glass Insertion? Machina Love? Animal Farm? What dark possibilities lie within the frenzied money-making minds of our evil capitalist overseers. Something must be done, before television consists entirely of Insurance and Dating adverts, or even an unholy union of the two - offering protection against sexually transmitted diseases while encouraging you to visit websites of dubious appeal.
Ladies and Gentlemen - Internet Dating.
Is this the dystopia you want to live in?
Tuesday 5 April 2011
Breaking News: Writers found guilty of being morbid
Just a quick browse over Internet news sources is enough to make anyone think twice before bringing a baby into the world. A quick browse of MSN reveals the top headlines:
BBC News isn't much better. In addition to the above, it makes room for mentioning the ongoing conflicts in Lybia and the Ivory Coast, paedophila, and the copper who killed Ian Tomlinson is giving evidence. It is almost too much to take in. News, almost by very definition, is inherantly filled with upsetting things.
Would you be suprised if a grim faced reporter told you tomorrow that the moon had melted, that romance had been stabbed in a street mugging, and every flower in the world had been infected by a virus that made them all wither and die? Cue scenes of council workers, their faces a mask of anguish, digging mass flowery graves on roundabouts and embankments up and down the country. A man in an yellow bib, his face set but his lip quivering, would tell us that he'd worked for the council for twenty years and never seen anything like it. It wouldn't be bad for long, though, because the day after we'd all lose our ability to see colours.
The news seems to have been a rolling downward spiral of despair for as long as I can remember. But somewhere at the back of my mind I can remember the dazzling smile of a Calander presenter as she happily told us that today a Yorkshire Terrier had been rescued from a drainpipe in Scunthorpe to scenes of jubilation from the local community. You don't get that anymore. It's all grisly murders, government cuts, war and famine and all that miserable stuff. In opposition, I propose the invention of a 24 hour rolling news network that focus' only on good things. There was a website, featured in the Metro, with a similar premise, although I'm never sure how it quite worked out.
Nakednews, as far as I'm aware, was a news website in which presenters held their audience captive by removing their clothes during broadcasts. Apart from the casual attitude towards full frontal nudity, it was apparently a rather reputable and informative news medium. We can only postulate how someone could suggestively remove their underwear while visions of the North Tower exploding in a fireball are on repeat in the background and maintain a monotone, deadpan presenter face. Perhaps they got the cheerful basics right, I'm sure it takes the edge off most of the trauma.
We need to go further. Keep the premsie, scrap the nudity.
We can call it Happy - TV, or something suitably cheery. Presenters could dress as if every day were Red Nose Day. A cheery young presenter dressed as lobster, with a smile that leaves no doubt she's tripping balls on LSD, could inform us about good things that have happened in the world recently. You know, good things. The things that used to happen to us, before it started raining razorblades and glass, and the sun imploded, and terrorists started stealing our jobs and spreading bird-flu.
- One surivies; thirty-two die in UN plane crash.
- Youth in court over schoolgirl stabbing.
- Teenager charged over shot five-year old girl.
- Canal murderer to die in jail.
- Sain police to name second victim.
BBC News isn't much better. In addition to the above, it makes room for mentioning the ongoing conflicts in Lybia and the Ivory Coast, paedophila, and the copper who killed Ian Tomlinson is giving evidence. It is almost too much to take in. News, almost by very definition, is inherantly filled with upsetting things.
Would you be suprised if a grim faced reporter told you tomorrow that the moon had melted, that romance had been stabbed in a street mugging, and every flower in the world had been infected by a virus that made them all wither and die? Cue scenes of council workers, their faces a mask of anguish, digging mass flowery graves on roundabouts and embankments up and down the country. A man in an yellow bib, his face set but his lip quivering, would tell us that he'd worked for the council for twenty years and never seen anything like it. It wouldn't be bad for long, though, because the day after we'd all lose our ability to see colours.
 |
| "Tonight: Last rainbow speared by Japanese Whaler. Confectionary causes cancer and orphans to be used as Winter Fuel Allowance. We've got the latest." |
The news seems to have been a rolling downward spiral of despair for as long as I can remember. But somewhere at the back of my mind I can remember the dazzling smile of a Calander presenter as she happily told us that today a Yorkshire Terrier had been rescued from a drainpipe in Scunthorpe to scenes of jubilation from the local community. You don't get that anymore. It's all grisly murders, government cuts, war and famine and all that miserable stuff. In opposition, I propose the invention of a 24 hour rolling news network that focus' only on good things. There was a website, featured in the Metro, with a similar premise, although I'm never sure how it quite worked out.
Nakednews, as far as I'm aware, was a news website in which presenters held their audience captive by removing their clothes during broadcasts. Apart from the casual attitude towards full frontal nudity, it was apparently a rather reputable and informative news medium. We can only postulate how someone could suggestively remove their underwear while visions of the North Tower exploding in a fireball are on repeat in the background and maintain a monotone, deadpan presenter face. Perhaps they got the cheerful basics right, I'm sure it takes the edge off most of the trauma.
We need to go further. Keep the premsie, scrap the nudity.
We can call it Happy - TV, or something suitably cheery. Presenters could dress as if every day were Red Nose Day. A cheery young presenter dressed as lobster, with a smile that leaves no doubt she's tripping balls on LSD, could inform us about good things that have happened in the world recently. You know, good things. The things that used to happen to us, before it started raining razorblades and glass, and the sun imploded, and terrorists started stealing our jobs and spreading bird-flu.
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