Wouldn’t it be great if there was a scheme similar to that which sent unused spectacles to the third world, but instead donated iPods full of Kaiser Chiefs songs? They might have nothing left to eat, but they’d never miss a beat (never miss a beat).
Archive for December, 2008
I’m becoming increasingly distracted by the transition of the number 2 service from double to single decker buses (at least outwith peak times). Why, Lothian Buses, why? In my mind it’s quite clear that the bus was given that specific numeric reference (2) because it has two decks, and because its occupants almost invariably smell of shit. Farewell, double decker number 2 buses. I’ll miss you. *sob*
While I’m ranting on about buses, no one has yet offered me a reasonable explanation as to why the number 15 is more red than the other buses. It really is at least ten Pantone levels redder. That’s really quite red.
Since I’m a gadget ponce I do like to keep up with the Joneses, and while MobileMe does fancypants push email which quite literally shoves your messages into the quivering bowels of your phone, my normal email address doesn’t. This made me sad, and I found that my relationships and life in general suffered as a result of it. I started using drugs and self-harming, and soon spiralled down to the absolute nadir of squalor and self-loathing. This is generally considered to be a bad thing.
While waiting for a bus yesterday with my kids we were passed by a group of chanting protesters behind a huge black ‘GREEK STATE VIOLENCE’ banner. I thought my offspring might be a little unimpressed having previously witnessed the beating of clowns by riot police, but as soon as they caught sight of the signs proclaiming that ‘The Greek State MURDERS CHILDREN’ in bold letters they seemed suitably terrified. They’ll be having nightmares for weeks.
God bless the French. When they’re not riding rickety old bicycles or collaborating with the Germans, they do this kind of crazy nonsense.
It never fails to amaze me how persistent some people can be, from the mewlings of an attention seeking child to the seemingly Sisyphean efforts of telephone marketing companies. Mercifully children happen to be quite small and so can be locked in cupboards or stuffed into a cavity wall, but there’s only so much you can do when faced with a pushy, sweating salesman desperately trying to peddle you some woefully substandard shit that no one wants. Unless of course you happen to have a particularly large cupboard, and a hammer.
A few years ago the Coca Cola Company noticed something strange in their quarterly reports, namely that people weren’t drinking as much sugary diabetes-inducing piss as they used to. Despite saturating the airwaves, glossies and children’s media with as much shiny glee as their astronomical budget would permit, people were somehow exercising free will and drinking something else. What was this mysterious fluid that now sated thirsts where once only a delicious, refreshing gulp of Cock Coke could? Water.
Man has been drinking water since the discovery of fire left him slightly parched. It’s delicious (in as much as it tastes of nothing, so there’s nothing to dislike), wet and great for rehydration, what with it being water. Water is brilliant. Of course the water that gets pumped into our homes through elderly Victorian pipes is supposed to be full of cancerous toxins, sickening microscopic horrors and snot, so no one in their right mind would drink it. Mercifully some bright spark was kind enough to bottle the freshest, most delightful waters of the world for us as they gurgled up to the surface of some far-flung mountain range, and of course to charge us well over the odds. Thanks Evian! THEVIAN.
Back in the towering corporate fortress of Coca Cola headquarters a fire of unspeakable malice started to burn with intense fury, fuelled by outrage that someone else should profit from the wetting of throats. It was time for payback. Using technology developed for the space programme to turn astronaut’s piss back into potable water, Coca Cola’s coven of scientists devised Dasani, a water-style drink reclaimed from reservoirs, puddles and urinals, bottled wholesale and offered to the general public as a delicious alternative to actual mineral water. The fuckers.
Dasani water, as enjoyed by a fucking enormous mouse
Unfortunately for Coca Cola it was only a matter of time before their secret leaked out. Dasani was soon withdrawn from the British market when the public discovered that they were paying to drink their own piss. Oh, and there was a bit of bromate poisoning as well, but that’s not nearly as funny as the idea of an entire nation happily gargling their own liquid effluence. Endgame.
Cut to this afternoon, as I sit in a coffee shop eating a particularly delicious sandwich and delighting in the awkward dynamics between the proprietors (he’s invested all of their money in the shop, she hates sandwiches). Having felt a little emfeebled of late I thought I’d find something to perk myself up, and found my eyes drawn to Glacéau’s range of Vitamin Waters. Mmm, just think of the energy all those yummy vitamins will bless me with! See the promise of uncanny superpowers boldly emblazoned on the label! It was only as I gulped it hungrily back that I noticed the words ‘Coca Cola‘ printed on the bottle. I froze.
The piss is back. Just as they preyed on our demand for lovely gushy water back in the days of Dasani, now the Coca Cola Company close their terrible claws around the soft, pale throat of the current ‘healthy lifestyle’ bollocks – all smoothies and vitamins and magic pegs – before herding us into the killing pen and drawing their mighty corporate bolt-gun.
It is time! Time to rise up against those who would see us drink the nectar of our own kidneys! Time to set upon this corporate colossus and tear it asunder, burning what is left and showering the remnants in the same glistening yellow micturate they would have us drink. Only then will justice be served.
Failing that you could always not drink Vitamin Water. It’s your choice, really.
Note: Working on the assumption that I am almost guaranteed to hear from Coca Cola’s lawyers, I’d like to point out that the above is my perception of events and does not necessarily reflect the Coca Cola Company, their products or their practices accurately. I do however stand by the bit about burning them. Burn those fuckers good.
Parkour is a sport. Parkour, also known as ‘free running’, is a particularly demanding and perilous sport. Parkour is a sport that involves climbing up very tall things, running along very tall things and skilfully descending from really tall things. People who participate in parkour tend to be very good at it, and one can only assume started by climbing on top of a house brick before gradually working their way through increasingly taller objects in increments of one millimetre.
Overweight thirty-something men are not traditionally very good at sports like parkour. They are not traditionally very good at any sports. This particular demographic of our society tends to look for other more sedentary pursuits, such as sitting on their arse playing Xbox 360 games.
Mirror’s Edge is a parkour game for the Xbox 360. This is the sort of game that overweight thirty-something men can buy in order to immerse themselves in an experience as close to the actual exhilirating sensation of parkour as they are ever likely to get. There is however one very big problem with this. Mirror’s Edge requires said immobile, amorphous gamer to play using two thumbsticks and an array of shoulder button/trigger combo moves. This is very difficult. This causes our protagonist to fall to her death all the bastard time. In fact, your intrepid correspondent has come closer to hurling a not-inexpensive 360 controller at solid, unyielding walls out of sheer frustration than he has in almost twenty years. IT IS INFURIATING. For every brief moment of adrenaline-pumping action as Faith leaps across rooftops making each parkour move flow seamlessly into the next, there is at least one hour of repeatedly trying to perform what appears to be a simple jump, each time finding yourself hurling vertiginously toward the concrete below until it ends with a sickening crunch and darkness.
In summary, then: CONSTANT, ENDLESS DEATH (3/10)
Road defect reporting isn’t glamorous. No matter what you dress it up as, you’re never going to fool the general public into thinking that making phone calls about potholes is glitzy. It would therefore seem reasonable that anyone charged with the responsibility of producing signage for a road defect line might stick to something fairly staid and traditional, such as
“Are there defects? Yes? Then you must call us! We are ROAD DEFECT PEOPLE.”
or
“TELL US ABOUT THE BAD ROADS.”
The grunting, mouthbreathing mass that is the general public must only be communicated to with the most basic of concepts, and instructions so simple that an ant could follow them. There are of course certain circumstances where a little extra prod is required, or perhaps the smallest of nudges in the right direction, and clearly road defect reporting is one of them due to their use of AN ENORMOUS FUCKING LION to hammer home the point.
“TELL US ABOUT A POTHOLE OR THIS FEROCIOUS CREATURE OF THE WILD WILL TEAR YOUR FAMILY’S THROATS TO RIBBONS.”
It doesn’t seem particularly necessary, does it? No matter how benevolent the intentions of this flavescent felid are I’d expect most motorists first instinct to be that of iminent peril, swerving into the embankment at speed before scurrying off to find a hawthorn to climb into for refuge. Before long the motorways of Britain would be left strewn with deserted motor vehicles as the roadside areas begin to fill with a new feral society of wild-eyed sales reps stalking the litter-strewn heath in rags. It’s not a pleasant future is it? No sir.
So, next time you’re whizzing along at 70mph, eyes transfixed on the motorway furniture sticking out of the verge, think about what you’re looking at. Think about that road defect reporting sign. Think about those cold, dead, hunter’s eyes staring at you like the puny bag of succulent meat that you are. Think about your new life spent squatting in a layby eating insects as your eyes dart to and fro, looking for signs of a lurid yellow beast moving in for the kill.
On a slightly less macabre note, I’ve done some detailed analysis of elements commonly used in the nomenclature of infrastructure maintenance animals, in a fashionable ‘bullet point’ format:
Using these three constructs as a basis, I have come up with a list of my own creations, each more wondrous than the last:
Of course, if you have any ideas for a fancy beast to help publicise the plight of our country’s ailing infrastructure, do let us know via the usual means. Or comments, if you prefer.
