a is for awesome, b is for badass - b

Bears

They’re just good. Ontologically.

Bears are truly badass, and could kill you with one bite of your head, or by sitting on you if it’s a panda. Yet we give them to children to cuddle, because they’re also ridiculously adorable as well as fearsome and terrible.

They are complex creatures. Mainly solitary. Also, they shit in the woods – badass.

They live in caves, probably. Like people used to when they were cave-people. Maybe not the same caves, because they are solitary (when they’re not mating with other bears, or raising their offspring) and cave-people would have been ever wary of having their heads bitten off.

But ever since we both lived in caves, we have shared a powerful bond. Having worked in a cave, I know what this is like. Those feelings run deep. And the human race has long respected bears as great warriors, and stealers of picnic baskets – ever fearless and heroic.

Many of my own heroes have been bears. This started in early childhood. There was Winnie the Pooh, of course, the erudite, honey-eating philosopher. He was right, it is so much friendlier with two, and you never can tell with bees. For a long time I thought Paddington Station was named after the bear, and I even had a bear of my own – Beary, due to my great proclivity for awarding toys primarily descriptive names.

So bears were an important part of my childhood, one that I carried around with me daily. They also stuck with me through literature – the previously mentioned Pooh and Paddington, then Iorek Byrnison and Aloysius. They even featured (along with their superior dancing) in my cosmonaut phase, where I was overly interested in space, Russia, and Communism.

It’s not just me, bears are everywhere! They have a whole economic concept named after them. It’s not everyone’s favourite economic climate, but the bull market isn’t so great when world finances don’t look all that different from a china shop.  There’s even two of them in the sky. The sky. That’s extra points, because space is really cool, too.

I turned to Wikipedia again, as I do every time I get even the slightest bit interested in something. It described bears as having a “heavy build and awkward gait”. But you know, how many salmon have you caught recently, Wikipedia? It redeemed itself by revealing that bears’ closest relatives actually turn out to be pinnipeds, such as seals and walruses. Musteloids aren’t that far off, either. And you know what they are… weasels.  

All in all, they’re just great. Let’s hear it for the bears! (oh my)

attack of the killer tomatoes

I am a domestic goddess. Unfortunately I am Shiva, the destroyer.

I was all set to write about something awesome and badass beginning with b, but instead I feel compelled to address a burning issue.

It may well be erroneous to call it a burning issue, only time will tell.

We were all told as children that oil and water don’t mix. Thus, when deep-frying goes horribly wrong, lobbing a bucket of water at the situation won’t help. Also, water and electricity. You’ll notice how water is a difficult bastard, and doesn’t seem to mix well at all. Especially not bathfulls of the stuff with toasters or whatever.

Have you ever wondered what gas doesn’t mix with? You wouldn’t think that it’d be much, seeing as it’s gas and that’s one of the main properties of a gas. But if you had to guess, what would it be? Just one thing you wouldn’t think gas would go so well with…

Turns out it’s tomatoes.

How did I find this out? Empirically.

Let me explain, I wasn’t optimistic about the combination before the experiment, but the results have pretty much proven the hypothesis. And also let me clarify the nature of the experiment. It was the kind of experiment where you leave a load of unwashed equipment in the laboratory sink, and return to find it covered in penicillin. Except you haven’t discovered a life-saving antibiotic, you’ve just dumped a tin of tomatoes into the hob, and probably down the pipe and may well blow up the building if you try to use the stove.

I can inform you, however, that the building did not blow up when I tried to turn the hob on. Being an empiricist is dangerous and thrilling sometimes, because there really is only one way to find out. But there wasn’t any firey death from lighting the stove, perhaps due to the fact that it didn’t light.

Maybe it won’t ever.

I have tried a good few times now, for as much time as I can stand without seriously worrying about gas poisoning. Except I’m pretty sure natural gas isn’t poisonous – it just makes things explode when ignited.

Well this gas won’t ignite, and I have a headache from evidently psychosomatic gas poisoning. Plus there’s a load of tomatoes in my hob, which isn’t really large enough to go poking around in with a sponge.

After acting as a true empiricist I can conclude that a sponge and my hand won’t both fit in the hob. My hand doesn’t fit in by itself, either. The sponge can go in solo, but then you have to dig around in there with a knife to release it. Sorry, sponge, I’ll never leave you alone in the dark again. Turning off the light when I go to bed doesn’t count, by the way, because you sleep then, and you can hang out with the kettle and the taps.

So, kids – don’t mix gas and tomatoes. Bad shit happens.

I blame empiricism.

Especially David Hume.

Smug git.

a is for awesome, b is for badass - a

Ahoy!

Ahoy may just be the greatest word ever in the history of words, and greatness.

Firstly, it’s nautical. And boats are damn cool. There is nothing quite like simply messing about in boats. Primarily because you get to say “Ahoy!” to everyone you meet.

So it’s the most awesome greeting ever, but it’s also a farewell – like how “ciao” is both “hello” and “goodbye”. It gets points for that. Awesome points.

But here’s where it really knocks ciao out of the water – and not just because of its superior sailing ability – it’s also a warning. How many words are that versatile? Try it with hello and see how you fare. It’ll probably be a lot like the time I tried to use hello in a non-greeting context.

It was 11:40 (it always is) and I tried to use hello as an exclamation of surprise. I was climbing a ladder to put a poster in a window. The window had a wide ledge which kept the pane itself out of my reach. The window ledge was sturdy, and would have no problem supporting my frame. Except it wasn’t. The large concrete tile was a lot looser than I was counting on and began to wobble disconcertingly.

Ooh, ‘ello.

I felt this expressed the grave, yet potentially comedic nature of my plight. But the only response it engendered was a confused “hey?” from the adjoining room. This was no use to me at all when the tile became even looser and wobbled so much I lost my footing and plummeted gracelessly to the ground.

Oof.

That was the noise I made upon impact with the floor. The concrete tile that followed me, using me to break its fall, knocked a sort of final grunt out of me, as I lay entwined with the inadequate ladder in a complicated embrace that was hard to explain to the work experience kids.

The point (what little there is of one) is that hello was an unsatisfactory outcry. Ahoy would have saved me, alerting the mystery stranger in the next room to my imminent floor-pounding danger. And it would have made him sound like a superhero when he burst in through the door to greet me with a booming voice.

Alexander Graham Bell actually suggested ahoy for the telephone greeting. Think about how awesome every phonecall would be. Even at work. Ahoy! I don’t think I’d bother with the rest of the conversation, because what’s going to top that? Then some loser called Thomas Edison came up with hello and that got popular. You may take offense to me calling Edison a loser, seeing as he did invent over a thousand things. Well, I say he should have spent his time inventing a couple more, and kept his nose out of telephone etiquette.

But there is hope. In Czech and Slovak  “Ahoj” is still in use as an informal greeting, making them pretty much the most badass living languages. Wikipedia states that ahoy is still “the only acceptable greeting on water”. Or anywhere, I’d like to add. Are you with me?

Suggested usage:

• Ahoy there shipmate!
• Ahoy! That ledge is woefully inadequate!
• Ahoy! Let me save you from your ladder entanglement. Did I mention I am exceptionally handsome and strong?

And finally, let us part with a cheerfully awesome

Ahoy!

tales from the subway: vol. ii

The subway is a little like a Kindle commercial, but with less professional lighting. Also, rats.  

It’s quite a lot like a Kindle commercial set in a post-apocalyptic dystopia. This isn’t a bad idea, when you think about it. Instead of smug Kindle-owning bastards sitting in parks and on beaches in brilliant sunshine, feeling superior to people with other reading devices because of the glaring lack of glare, there’d be smug Kindle-owning survivors of the Armageddon huddling under the one remaining strip-light, feeling superior to people who lost their lives in the great and terrible earthquake and resulting fires.

It would actually be an improvement on the current campaign, because no-one would be able to scream indignantly at the TV “You know what’s glare-free? This fucking paperback, you bastards – Oh fuck, my tea! I have spilt it in my indignation, and I am in agony! But yet, my paperback lives on, damp and steadfast! Try and survive that, Kindle – try and survive one day of my congenital clumsiness and spurious bursts of incandescent rage better than this soggy wad of paper and then you can charge me $139 to look at you…” because once the impenetrable dust clouds have blocked out all sunlight, we’ll probably have to burn books for fuel.

Of course, under such circumstances we have to question how we’d power the Kindle, seeing as we’re down to burning our literary heritage for warmth and light. We might also want to consider how useful its Wi-Fi capabilities would be. Seeing as my current broadband connection fails to deal with the fact that it’s 3pm and a Thursday without completely malfunctioning, I have to be skeptical about its ability to weather a nuclear winter or stand up to a new ice age. They wouldn’t put that on the advert though, as it would be unwise to show the product in a negative light. If I was pitching my post-apocalyptic scene, I would advise them not to feature anyone bemoaning the lack of electricity following the flood, or the loss of the 3G networks.*

I would also limit my own wild conjecture upon the viability of our entire economic system, as after the inferno has subsided, the human race will probably fall back into a system of bartering, current currency becoming obsolete, and $139 will become “2 tins of peaches and a blanket”. At this point, advertising may well cease to be effective, which would not favour my chances of getting hired, especially considering my lack of wood-gathering experience, and the gaping zombie-combat-shaped hole in my CV, which would doubtless be necessary skills in the post-Armageddon jobs market.

Anyway, the point is that the subway is a lot like a post-apocalyptic society – because it’s bleak, and dirty, and full of dispossessed, shuffling lunatics screaming about the end of the world. So if Kindle wanted to set their next commercial in a city ravaged by nuclear holocaust, they wouldn’t have to look very far for inspiration. They have some excellent source material in the world of the subway – the unsettling aroma, the despair, the cheery announcements about rape – not to mention that everyone has a Kindle.

It turns out that that was the original point. Everyone has a Kindle, and they spend their time on the subway reading their mystery text and having a right old time of it. Except me. I don’t have a Kindle. I don’t have an actual book, either, because it’s drying out on the radiator for a bit.  

Until it is back in fighting shape I have to read other things on the subway, like the writing on people’s t shirts and the page of the newspaper that is opposite me. I really like to read on the subway. Especially the posters. Especially the ones from MTA, because they are some of the worst ever created.

In a recent effort to communicate more effectively with commuters, and raise its standing in the eyes of the general public from a vision of a post-apocalyptic wasteland to an actual transport network, MTA has cobbled together one of the worst poster campaigns ever to grace the subway’s rodenticide-drenched walls. These are some of my favourites:

 "improvements don't just happen"

For some reason, MTA has chosen to present themselves as a put-upon and underappreciated parent. They wanted something that said “Thais house doesn’t clean itself, you know. I do have a life outside of cleaning up after you. A simple “thank you” every now and again wouldn’t hurt, either, you know?” without actually saying it. And they found it, and added welding. 

"now with more info"

This one is delicious in its ineptitude. The stumbling overuse of full stops and the word “info”, the image of a not-shockingly-informative table that may or may not hold vast depths of interactive features that we can't grasp through a drawing on a poster, and the claim that this is a massive improvement from the shit that was there before. You certainly scored with this one, MTA – keep up the good work!

A really great feature of this poster campaign is that instead of randomly distributing their terrible poster failures evenly across the subway’s depressing underground network, they choose to fill entire carriages with them. Finding yourself in such a carriage is like striking subway gold. It’s like a marathon of comedy greats, and there’s no waiting involved (unlike for the train you’ve just squeezed yourself into) as they’re all there in one room. Who needs a Kindle now? There’s hilarity written on the actual walls, just waiting to entertain and enrage you at a moment's notice.

"we don't know what the internet is"

I don’t know which crazy cat decided to use this particular lingo to appear happening and with-it and totally groovy, man, but “whiz kid” is an epic stab at what the kids are saying these days. The subtle allusions to “the web” really highlight the essence of this message, namely “We don’t know what the fuck these things are, and we’re pretty annoyed that someone is making them, but apparently we can’t stop them because the info we’re so proud of is in the public domain, so we’re going to try and save face by clawing back the little control we can by telling you what to google.”

If you’re anything like me you’ll find this pretty damn entertaining, not least because “ny transit apps” doesn’t really sound like the best thing to google to find subway apps – I’d probably go for “subway app” or something. If you’re a lot like me you might spend your subway journey thinking of all the possible search terms you would use before resorting dejectedly to “ny transit apps**” If you actually are me, you will want to combine humourous rants with rigorous fact-checking, and will actually try out these searches and compare the results you get, thus proving how useless “ny transit apps” really is as a suggestion. Because research is cool.  

"you bet"

The real joy of this one is its versatility – its ability to enrage, regardless of location, is something to be admired and hopefully never imitated. Whilst on the subway it taunts you with the possibility that, had you taken the bus, you would not be trapped underground at a standstill with the ever-present threat of rape looming menacingly, but hurtling along to your desired destination at breakneck speed.

If however, you find yourself trapped above ground in a bus, in a standstill in heavy traffic, and the scene out of the window has not changed for 10 minutes, you might end up staring at this poster. And that’s when it comes into its own. “Buses are “simply better. And faster”” you find yourself thinking, “if only I was on a bus hurtling along to my destination at breakneck speed, instead of trapped underground at a… hang on a second, I am on a bus! And it’s not going faster than anything. Not even the old lady that I thought was standing motionless for the past 10 minutes, but it transpires is actually walking at the snailpace dictated by the weight of her shopping.”

Breaking from your reverie concerning the ancient lady you will wonder “But they can go faster? And they’re just not doing? They’re doing this just to fuck with me? Aaaarrrggghhhhh!” And there you have it. 0 to confusion to old lady distraction to rage in under 60 seconds. Genius.

"nice to know"

Not wanting to abandon their core message that subway service is taken for granted, the MTA here turns to passive aggression. With the air of a neglected spouse slamming a plate on the table loudly exclaiming to the air “isn’t it nice to have someone cook for you everyday?” In the case of the angry spouse, I would advise the alarmed, and possibly food-splattered, spouse to reevaluate the fact that they never do anything round the house, and maybe make a fuss of the hardworking spouse once in a while. But when it comes to the MTA whinging on about providing a barely adequate service that I pay it for, then I have to draw the line.

I also have to take issue with your choice of words, MTA. Because, no. It’s not “nice” to know when my train will arrive. It’s necessary. It’s the absolute baseline of acceptable service. And the fact that you’ve only managed to roll this most mediocre of additions out across a handful of stations is not something to celebrate. So, no, you don’t get my gratitude for being slightly less shit at telling me just how late my train is, if I’m at one of the few lucky locations to be receiving this almost satisfactory feature. You certainly don’t get to make me feel bad about having the odd complain about being trapped underground with no information about how long this will continue. Rioting would not be a particularly outlandish response to such conditions, and all I’m doing is failing to reward you with regular praise. Deal with it. 

"just look up"

This one is just trying to do a bit too much – just take a look at that frankly unnecessary punctuation – twice. It is also a bit undecided as whether it wants to appear in a state of shame or revel in glory. Let’s pretend we aren’t wondering about whether there are new improvements every day, or if they’re just the same ones that are seen everyday, and move on to the heart of the matter. So which is it, MTA? Are you admitting that you’ve only just cottoned on to the poster as a method of conveying information? Gutenberg invented the printing press in 1440, and you’re just showing up to the party now? Or is the other, scarier possibility? Do you genuinely believe that it’s not just new to you, but to all of us? Do you think you invented the poster?

"shit is on fire"

A stitch in time, saves nine… who said that? Oh yeah, everybody ever. This one is just so objectionable, it hurts. Right in the face – the worst place for posters to hurt you with their objectionable messages. My feelings towards this one are so dramatic as to be best expressed through a short scene:

Commuter: Excuse me, there seems to be a problem with the ticket machine

MTA Employee: What kind of problem?

Commuter: It exploded.

MTA Employee: Supervisor!

MTA Employee (of slightly higher rank): What is all this shouting?

Commuter: The ticket machine exploded everywhere. Also, it burnt my MetroCard and I want a refund/replacement.

MTA Employee (of slightly higher rank): I’ll add it to the list – we’re due for a refit next September.

MTA Employee: But… but… but… Shit is on fire!

MTA Employee (of slightly higher rank): You haven’t been here long, obviously.

I can only assume that this vignette was used for training purposes until just recently, when the MTA decided that when shit is on fire, it’s best to put it out before they come to repaint the pillars in 2 years time. Even if you’re due to have new turnstiles installed next week, if shit is on fire, best put it out and fix the electrical problems before too much death occurs. All in all, a bold move from MTA, although one has to wonder if the “100 stations” which have had their fires extinguished in a timely manner, might just be the same 100 that have the all new display boards that tell you when your train might arrive. If so, there is a disturbing class system of stations emerging. Soon the stations with no shit on fire and a vague sort of idea when stuff happens will be looking down on the ones that are still a firey tunnel of confusion.

But there’s one place we’ll still be equal – in the MTA-poster-festooned carriage. There we can all shake our heads patronisingly at the now less-faceless monolith that is the MTA, and its self-declared virgin foray into informative posters. We shouldn’t laugh – it’s your first try. And even if they’re not really going to paint you as any less incompetent, at least they’ve been an entertaining read. 

 

* I would also limit the amount of footage of me yelling abuse about the product at a TV screen, dripping in hot, hot liquid.

** Don’t use a plural – it’s not cool, “app” is much better.

things to do before cleaning

bird in the hand

Have you ever seen a bird fly into a window? And again? And again and again, over and over until there is a discernable smudge on the glass?

It’s a pitiful sight, I can tell you. “Stop!” you would cry, as I did, and then realise that even before it had done sizeable damage to its cranial capacity, it was still a bird, and thus would have had great difficulty understanding my plea.

At moments like this, a person is either paralysed by fear or spurred into action. I think you know I wouldn’t be telling this story if it wasn’t one of epic heroism. Yes, on this occasion I was the latter. There was a bird that needed to be stopped from pounding itself relentlessly into the double-glazing, before it started seeing little cartoon versions of itself circling its head.

It went sort of like this:

 And then I took it outside to let it fly forth into freedom. But the poor thing was so disoriented from the constant bashing of its tiny skull, and then its rescue by a (self-taught) ninja, that it could not instantly adjust to its new surroundings.

So we wandered awhile, my new familiar and I. He perched on my hand as we walked through fields and trees, by the lake… On we walked, him never seeking to flee.

The best thing I ever did and no-one saw how epic it was.

the bright side

In the game of life you earn points by completing simple everyday activities, and when you have a sizeable number, the universe awards you the title of Functioning Adult Human, and then all sorts of wonderful things happen.

It’s really a good deal, because the points aren’t hard to achieve. You just go about your everyday business, showing up for work on time, and eating three balanced meals a day, and then suddenly you become recognised as a Functioning Adult Human, just for doing all the stuff you do anyway – unless of course, you can’t accomplish even the most straightforward tasks without falling awkwardly or setting the printer on fire – then even the mundanely mediocre trophies are hidden behind an unscalable wall of incompetence.

This tale tastes of the sorry sting of actual life experience, and I’m not one to disappoint in that department. On the morning in question I had failed to wake up in time to accomplish all the things I wanted to do before leaving for work. Things like washing myself, and putting on clothes that make sense.

I then selected an umbrella with a similar aptitude for protecting me from the elements as my own hair, to arrive dazed and damp but without keys. And I wasn’t alone.

I was locked out, with an Optimist. She lived up to it and suggested going for coffee to make the best of the situation. I was all for it, until I discovered that I had failed to put my wallet in my bag in the rush to leave the house. But sometimes even utter incompetence pays off, as I had forgotten to put my debit card back in my wallet, and it was sitting at the bottom of my bag, promising hot liquid.

One bucket of coffee please.

And as we dripped dry, The Optimist and I, they brought our coffees over, and a moment deserving of an illustration occurred.

 Life points?

“No,” but ever The Optimist, she continued “but some kind of points – you might not be any use for anything, but you are fabulous!”

And that is how awesome points were invented.

All the best inventions happen because of rain. Actually, apart from awesome points, I can only think of Velcro. But they’re pretty exceptional inventions.

You earn awesome points the same way you do life points, except instead of accomplishing everyday tasks that prove you can survive unaided, you have to be awesome to get them.

The Optimist was right. She said it would be sunny the day after the one with all the rain, and it was. And she said that despite my apparent ineptitude, I was really fabulous all along. Because some people might forget their keys and drop their mobile phones in cups of tea, they might leave the oven on for dangerous stretches of time and injure themselves in ways that are to embarrassing to even garner sympathy… wait, what was my point?

Ah, yes! They might be overburdened with oafishness, but they redeem themselves by catching a bird in mid flight, or saving old people from certain death by escalator. These things don’t bring the title of Functioning Adult Human. In fact, spending all your time acting like a ninja prevents you from tackling the washing up, and making dynamic spreadsheets. Luckily, the truly awesome eschew* titles, for we have something much better – the knowledge that we’re a fucking superhero or something.

Like all heroes, we must remain anonymous and uncelebrated. Some of our closest friends may live alongside us for years without realizing just how awesome we are. There’s always a price to pay for greatness, but being awesome, we shoulder that burden and live with it – not gracefully, we’re not that coordinated… but awesomely.

*it’s not just “eschew” that earns points – also try “sanguine”, “loquacious” and “maladroit”

9 to 5 survival guide - part one

way to make a living

danger ahead

Today I invented a life-changing device that will bring great happiness to all of mankind. In my mind. But as soon as I work out how to make it into an invention that exists in the real world, then all our problems are over.

I got the idea from sat nav, in the sense that my superamazing invention is sat nav.

Quiet, you – sat nav is a great invention. The only flaw in my chosen route to fame and fortune is the fact that I got the idea from someone already inventing it. But my idea goes a step further…

Life sat nav.

What original sat nav has done for the directionally challenged, life sat nav will do for those of us who are a bit lost in a more general, metaphysical sense. When we are pondering how to achieve ultimate happiness it will remind us to wash our clothes and to get cash out.

It will be invaluable socially, transforming the unmitigated disaster most interpersonal exchanges become when left to human judgment, into fulfilling encounters, full of joy and mutual gratification.

Because all we really need is the right information to hand – then we could make sensible decisions, instead of flailing about in the dark. Some people have a great little voice at the back of their mind that helps them out – their intuition, and some people’s are better than others. I say screw intuition, I want an actual little voice that tells me what to do.

I want to hear the comforting sounds of a reliable guide when a situation occurs. When I am working or procrastinating away at my desk I’d like a heads up if a possibly important moment is about to confront me.

“Boss approaching to ask your opinion in 45 seconds.”

That’s time enough to stop pulling that face that happens when I concentrate. And if I need extra guidance, life sat nav will be there. If I don’t hear the question it will gently remind me the proper course of action for career success.

“Ask for clarification.”

This will prevent me, and the thousands like me, that would be more inclined to stare blankly for a seeming eternity, and then blurt out “I agree with Tony” in a panicked shriek, because despite the fact that we lack the vital ingredient of a colleague named Tony, that really was the best we could come up with.

As the technology improves it will be able to give more advanced warnings of future hazards, and how to avoid them altogether.

“Old school friend travelling west on fruit and veg aisle. Dive behind salad bar.”

Also, there will be voices. Lots of different voices to choose from – from the standard cheerily mechanical chaperons of either gender we’ve grown to love on public transport and self-scanning checkouts to celebrity favourites.

How much better would everyone’s life be if narrated in the soothing tones of David Attenborough? A lot, is the answer.

“When confronted by a fellow pedestrian approaching from the other direction, the two humans engage in an age-old dance from right to left, until they finally grow frustrated of the ritual and one stands to the side, allowing the other to pass by.”

That would really take the embarrassment out of it, well… a good 15%* of the embarrassment.

Frankly, any voice in my head would be more helpful than my default setting of blind panic. “Abandon ship!” can be a terrifying inner mantra, and some of the selections from classic sat nav would translate well. Darth Vader does, on the whole, make better life choices than me. Granted, his parenting skills are called into question when he cuts of his son’s hand in battle, but to be fair he was under a lot of pressure at work. Even having Mr. T bark “Shut up fool” at random intervals would probably cut out about a 1/5** of the crushing social faux pas I commit daily.

I have often been told that it is important to decide what you want in life, because then you can start making it happen. Well, I want an invention that tells me firmly and politely, or in a funny voice, how to deal with whatever the hell is going on right now, because I’m damned if I have a clue.

*based on unsubstantiated guesswork

**based on wild conjecture

monday for the misbegotten

snakes! bears! isopods! - a brief history of the mobile phone

Old and outdated phones are referred to as “bricks”. This comes from the days when they were actually carved from stone. Sometime in the distant past that scholars refer to as the early nineties it became fashionable to carry bricks around in your pocket or handbag. There were also boybands. Then someone decided that they could use the bricks as telecommunications devices.

In the beginning they could make phonecalls and send text messages, but most importantly there was a game where a line that looked a bit like a snake* ate little squares and increased in size until it became too large and destroyed itself. This was a metaphor for the banking culture of the time, an unheeded warning that nothing can be “too big to fail”**

Then phones got smaller, and then smaller, and they carried on shrinking until we couldn’t find them anymore and had to get new ones.

Now mobile phones are bigger again and can do things like make video calls and google what to cook if you only have a red pepper and a cranberry muffin in the fridge. I don’t have a phone like that, because I’m not allowed to have nice things. When I have nice things I leave them in cabs, and in the pockets of jeans to endure a wash and spin cycle. Sometimes I drop them down steps into puddles.

The further along the evolutionary chain the phone is, the less robust it becomes against the sort of conditions I manage to inflict upon it daily. I am thus forced to choose a phone dating back to prehistoric times. But not a dinosaur – dinosaurs are creatures that are unable to withstand a meteor colliding with the earth and the resulting clouds of dust blocking out the sun and wiping out plant-life. This is the kind of situation I could easily end up creating for an electronic device.

My phone is also not cool enough to be a dinosaur*** it’s more like an isopod. The kind of creature that just says “Fuck you, evolution! I’m awesome as I am” and then crawls back to its underwater lair. That’s pretty much my phone – it has shown no interest in developing touch-screen capabilities, and the predictive text corrects every use of “the” to “Tehran”. It has also retained a feature I had thought had been lost to the mists of time – text message templates.

The text message template dates back to the distant past, predating even the crazy frog ringtone. Before phones had developed querty keyboards, texting could take a while, so someone thought it would be helpful to have a few already written out. I’m not sure if anyone actually used these, but they were there.

My phone does have a querty keyboard, but has clung to its message templates as an isopod clings to its terrifying appearance. Like some sort of evolutionary hangover, the message templates loom, disconcertingly. Text message templates are a mobile phone’s appendix – we think they’re just leftovers from a bygone age, but they are also a window into the way things once were. Also, if something goes wrong with them the phone might explode or something, we just don’t know.

But perhaps more interesting, and certainly more entertaining, the templates our phone companies give us show us what they believe our worlds to be like. And what a world LG thinks I live in. With such gems as:

• Cool
• Hell yeah!
• Hell no!
• Leave me alone.
• That’s hot!
• That’s lame.
• Sweeeet
• Zzzzzzz…
• You rock!
• You suck!
• This sucks!

LG sees my life as some sort of outrageous dichotomy where things are lame or hot, where people rock or suck, and need to be told which. Short, and to the point, the LG user has no time for subtlety. We’re apparently impulsive, and dualistic thinkers. This hypothetical individual sounds a lot more decisive than me, and they seem to have a more exciting life, if I’m honest.

The Nokia user’s evolutionary baggage is less emotional, and more down to business. Their templates include:

• I'm busy right now. I'll call you later.
• I am late. I will be there at
• I'm in a meeting, call me later at
• I will be arriving at
• Meeting is cancelled.
• See you at
• See you in

All providing ample room for customisation. My suggestions are:

• I will be arriving at the dropzone at the appointed hour. Bring the cash and no-one dies.
• See you invaded Canada last night – few too many?
• Meeting is cancelled. Bears!

But now we come to the moment I announce my favourite text message template of all time. It’s a prestigious award with a cash prize to boot***** and it goes to:

I love you too

Are Nokia users so over-burdened with text declarations of love that they just don’t have the time to type those four short words? What must life be like for such gods of romance? And what must it like to date one? Could you ever be secure enough to accept their heartfelt messages, or would the question of whether they cared enough to type it out, or just selected a template, drive a mighty wedge through the tender centre of the relationship, destroying any hope of the beautiful future you both dreamed of?

Terrifying, but less so than any attempt at personalisation:

I love you too much to lie to you – I slept with your brother. 

But at least the Nokia user has a passable response to a confession of love. The LG user is left with a number of worrying options to let someone down - ranging from the devastating “Leave me alone” and “That sucks!” to the nonplussed “Zzzzzzz…” Even when the feelings are reciprocated, you’re sure to disappoint when you have only “You rock!” “Cool” or “Sweeeet” to chose between. My advice is to go with “That’s hot” and hope for the best.

Perhaps switching to a Nokia phone would bring significant improvements to my life. Maybe I would become the sort of functioning adult human who attends meetings and expresses feelings of affection confidently, rather than suddenly taking on the appearance of a woodlouse exposed to sunlight, and desperately searching for a rock to crawl under.

Or possibly, I should just accept my fate as a social isopod. Some creatures are destined to live in groups and have their soft fur groomed by their fellows, and some of us are just more suited to a solitary life in some nice damp mud, away from the screams our horrifying appearance elicits.  

*a snake is a reptile that looks a bit like a line

**editor’s note – no it wasn’t

***dinosaurs are way cool****

****also, space

*****editor’s note – no it isn’t

an absolute shower

My shower has no auto pilot. The controls need constant re-calibration. This is because it operates an alternate freezing and scalding pattern, with the temperature oscillating wildly between the two.

My shower thinks it's a fan. A fan is the only thing that should oscillate*. If my shower was a fan it would be top of the range.

If it was a plane it would crash into a mountain.

As it is, it is just a shower that is not all that great... but we all feel like that sometimes.

*except ocelots, which invented it**

** editor's note - oscillating fans were not actually invented by ocelots, it's not even spelt the same

c'est ne pas une statistique

warning: this post may destroy the universe

a pie chart of favourite bars

a bar chart of favourite pies

we appreciate your interest

In this harsh economic climate we’re frequently told that we need to get better at selling ourselves. The jobs market is highly competitive and we need to get smarter at showcasing the qualities that give us the edge over our fellow applicants.

What we don’t hear enough of, though, is how companies can improve their side of things. Because in truth, the real responsibility for change lies not with prospective employees, but with the employers. They need to get better. At rejection. 

Rejection is an important and frequent part of life, and a process that can be easily streamlined with the right approach. So let’s begin at the beginning.

The application form is a daunting start to the long journey to rejection. There are questions, and some of them are frankly ridiculous.

Why do you want this position?

I don’t. It sounds awful. I’m just not in a position to acquire basic necessities at the moment – and earning some money, hopefully through the incredibly dull and possibly humiliating way detailed in the job description, is the best plan I have at the moment.

What qualities can you bring to the role?

I can show up, for all the time that you have expressed an interest in me being there. I can refrain from spitting, screaming loudly about the oncoming apocalypse, and exposing myself in the workplace. I won’t set anything on fire. You can see from my answers that I am rather overqualified for this position, but I think that demonstrates just how committed I am to the goal of feeding myself, and not getting evicted.

The people who ask such questions seem to be lacking a basic understanding of the concept of employment. The situation is as follows: I have no food/nowhere to live etc. I do, however, have some time on my hands. In fact, I have it in abundance and could willingly part with a chunk of it daily. A simple system of bartering allows me to swap some of my time with the people who have all the food and places to live. One step up in sophistication brings us to our current system, which is a little more complicated. In the interest of flexibility, I can offer my time not simply in return for goods and services, but also for money – a sort of symbolic placeholder for actual things, which I can later exchange for the bare necessities of existence.

It is frustrating (if not a little insulting) to be rejected from a position you never wanted in the first place by someone who has little or no knowledge of the nature of the building blocks of economics. So just to clarify, the transaction being proposed is: I am in need of sustenance and shelter. You have tasks that you wish to have completed. You wish to exchange currency in return for labour – currency that I will use to purchase food and pay rent, and maybe go to the zoo once in a while.

This position does not require the successful applicant to negotiate with terrorists, perform neurosurgery or be the Ambassador to France. At the most, you want some of your things to be in a slightly different place than they currently are. Or maybe you just want them a little tidier. Perhaps you have some buttons for me to press. Or you wish me to be on the front line in the mediation process – accepting currency (in larger amounts than my hourly wage) in return for items you have on display. None of these activities seem particularly attractive to me. I don’t want to do them. I am, however, willing to do them in exchange for money, as outlined in the transaction we discussed before.

So by all means, continue to ask people to fulfill the tasks you need fulfilled in order to make money yourself. Continue to select only a small percentage of the people who are offering their time and ability to not collapse full on the floor whilst performing repetitive tasks. But let’s drop the pretense that anyone actually enjoys them. We enjoy not starving or freezing, and this job is just a preliminary step in the process of preventing any significant starving or freezing from occurring.

Academic institutions have their own particular approach to rejection that makes the defeat all the more soul crushing:

Why are you applying to this institution in particular?

I’m not. That’s a stupid idea. I’m not applying to anywhere “in particular” – I’m applying everywhere. I am applying to the maximum number of places they will let me. UCAS allows applicants to select 6 courses they wish to be considered for. I’m going to choose 6 because that is the limit UCAS have set. If they upped it to 30, I would apply to 30. This is the only sensible approach, anything less would be reckless in comparison.

In fact, if I was working in admissions (a job that forces an awareness of the vast number of people applying for a small number of places upon you) and I discovered that one of the applicants had applied to the course in question “in particular” then I would be disinclined to accept them, because I would have to question their grip on reality and their outright rejection of the widely accepted belief that it makes sense to have a back-up.

The rational person performs a simple calculation of compromise between the most desirable institutions and courses (determined by factoring in personal interest in the specifics of the teaching, prestige, location etc.) and the likelihood of achieving a place (generally by checking the entry requirements against one’s own capacity for academic achievement) and selects the 6 places they really want/wouldn’t mind going. Of these, most people have a favourite, and can exploit this honest enthusiasm when asked why they wish to study there. It would, however, be a downright lie to suggest that this is an all or nothing situation – while I may have a preference for one place over another, all the places I am applying to are viable options. I would, of course, be foolish to suggest to any interviewer that their particular institution was anything below my number 1 choice. All this means, is that the average UCAS applicant is forced to lie at least 16.6% of the time.

The traditional approach of desperately searching the history of the institution and the biographies of the teaching staff for an interesting and obscure fact that could plausibly be a reason I wish to be accepted by them, but also sets me apart from the competition, is insulting to everyone’s intelligence. It assumes not only that the institution offering a programme I see as a good way to spend 3 years, and it being generally regarded as “good” by the world at large, is not a satisfactory reason to wish to attend – but also that university staff, who are presumably educated to a pretty high standard, fail to grasp this simple and valid reasoning. Assuming they have been through the process themselves, and are not intellectually impaired, I can only assume that they understand and respect my reasoning and are merely forced into forcing me to comply with their ridiculous process because of larger faults in the wider system.

Actually coming out of the application process with a completed application form, rather than a prescription for anti-depressants, is thus to be applauded. It should at least be acknowledged politely. The rejection letter is a dying art, and it is time to stem the tide that is turning in a worrying direction. The usual offences are mainly email-related. My advice to anyone who chooses not to employ me, is to also refrain from adding my name to their mailing list, and never, ever write to me to solicit even a small donation. You have ruined my life – show the required amount of respectful shame and avoid even my online presence, don’t get over your embarrassment and include me in an e-blast.

Less commonplace, and somehow more infuriating because of its physical nature, is a badly done postal brush-off. A few months ago I received a rejection postcard, which, had I not already accepted another position I had applied for, may have been the inspiration for a new song by The Boomtown Rats. If you’re going to deformalise rejection, then at least put in a bit of effort. Get creative and make the whole rejection experience a little less demoralising. I suggest merchandise such as this rejection t-shirt:

You see? Pretty soon they’ll all want one, and a whole line of RejectionWear(TM) including baseball caps, mugs and key rings can be rolled out. Prominently featuring the company/institution logo, such items will soon become hot property, and we’ll soon be sporting a wide range of self-deprecating declarations.

The direct “Barclays appreciate my interest in the position” will become a perennial favourite, the upbeat “not clever enough for Cambridge” is a great memento from that first, treasured rejection of one’s professional life. The novelty value of “not even McDonalds want me” will make it a collector’s item, and the informative and worrying “I failed my CRB check” will cause a stir at any family occasion.            

Constructive criticism is always welcome, and items tackling specific shortcomings are a cute and inventive way of letting people down. Personalising promotional materials is a great solution, with possibilities such as:

• My attempt at complimenting the interviewer was construed as sexual harassment.
• I perspire disconcertingly in high-pressure situations.
• I cannot recall or expand on the finer details of my fabricated CV.

All are hard-won trophies of surviving the terrible professional failures we all endure.

And it won’t be long before we celebrate our personal failures in the same way. Soon we’ll all be wearing t-shirts bearing the legends:

• Rebecca was just really drunk that night – it meant nothing.
• Matt is over me – I should move on, too.
• Suzy really did just ask me over to fix her laptop – she is way out of my league.

The possibilities are endless, and each one wrestles back a tiny portion of the self-respect we have lost along the way. Any fool can celebrate a triumph, but the real winners are proudest of the sickening failures they have shuffled dejectedly away from, to commiserate themselves into an alcoholic haze

decision time

tales from the subway: vol. i

Ladies and Gentlemen, a crowded subway is no excuse for unlawful sexual conduct.

Thank you for clarifying, oh subway oracle, great voice of subterranean reason – until you settled the debate, my fellow commuters and I had been unsure about the complexities of this particular social dilemma.

Really, REALLY?

Are you suggesting, oh disembodied herald of train traffic ahead, that there are a significant enough number of people using high passenger volume to explain away sexual assault?

“May I draw the court’s attention to the fact that the subway on the morning in question was standing room only? Witness statements describe conditions as “packed”, “rammed” and “a real clusterfuck” – I therefore move that the case be dismissed.”

You can just see it, can’t you? Except, no. No, you can’t. Some things just don’t need to be said. And if they do need to be expressed in the form of a pre-recorded announcement then it is indicative of deeper problems in society.

If it has indeed got to this point – the deep, dark moral midnight where fellow passengers refuse to refrain from inappropriate touching, let alone give up their seats for those less able to stand, then it is possible that a harsher tone may be required to get the message across. I suggest the cheery-yet-firm voiceover be rerecorded in a state of breathless panic by a near-frenzied announcer who screams:

“For heaven’s sake, stop raping! It’s 8:30 in the morning – you’re on your way to work. What is wrong with you people?”

I assume the accompanying “no raping” poster campaign would feature a silhouetted Benny Hill figure in characteristic babe-chasing stance, surrounded by a red circle with a line through it. And possibly celebrity endorsement of the message… but we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

Because for me, the whole notion that the sort of person who would casually commit a violent crime on public transport, would desist in this activity because of a polite reminder, seems faintly ridiculous.

Maybe this is simply my own prejudice – why do I assume that said groper would also litter with gay abandon and willfully hold open the doors, paying no heed to the gap between the train and the platform edge? Perhaps this wanton fondler just needs some gentle explanation, that however reasonable his rapey response to a full commuter train may seem, cramped conditions do not necessarily entail sexual harassment.

If this is true, we could role out the scheme to cover some of the human race’s other problems. Perhaps a “no axe murder” sign would make a sizeable dent in the crime figures, and “no ethnic cleansing” posters could calm areas of political instability. Maybe all the world’s problems can in fact be fixed with an informative sign reading:

And so on and so forth.

It’s a thought.

lazy science

daylight savings - an account

Well, that’s an hour of my life I’ll never get back… until October.

Today my to-do list looked like this:

But then I lost an hour (through no fault of my own, I’d like to add) and I had to rethink...

And this happens every year.

Every single year they take an hour from me in March and don’t return it until October. What it is that they do with it all summer is a mystery to me – which doesn’t seem entirely ethical, seeing as it was mine to begin with.

And while I am aware that I do get it back in the autumn, when it is finally returned to me it has failed to accrue any interest whatsoever. They have taken my time to put into some shady scheme and all they have managed is to cover their costs? At best, this is incompetent – I expect at least a 5 minute profit from my investment.

Perhaps I am most galled at the lack of control I have over my own time. That a whole 60 minutes is collected in the spring with complete disregard for my own needs is frustrating. Yet, conversely, if I wish to save more this option does not exist – like it’s some sort of temporal ISA, with an annual limit on the sum invested. This is another inconvenience, as there have been occasions when I have had a few hours to kill, that I would have happily put aside for a rainy day. Actually, there have been a few rainy days I would have happily have invested for use when a deadline looms. The things I could do with that time! Learn to knit, take out the recycling, finally finish reading A Tale of Two Cities. And how often have I loudly bemoaned the fact that there is never enough time to get really good at twitter?

Maybe my zeal for autonomy is misplaced – as a serial procrastinator I freely admit I may not be the best person to decide how my time is spent. But losing an hour a year for a number of months without any discernable reward seems unfair. A time pension, where spare minutes are collected for future use is an attractive idea, but we should be wary of getting ahead of ourselves on this one, as old people seem to have quite enough time on their hands already.

With all the conjecture it is easy to forget the human story in all this. And the point is that I had to get up an hour earlier than I would have had to if the clocks hadn’t leapt forward. Sometimes tragedy strikes our lives, and it is through such sadness that we learn to appreciate the little things – like that magical day in October where you get to sleep for an extra hour because the clocks go back.