You have treated me kind.
I have appreciated your health service,
enjoyed adventures on your buses, tubes,
watched my little cousins be schooled
and felt that your leader cares.
I hope The Big Society works out for you.
Send a postcard when you find out what it is!
…if post offices still exist, your roads don’t crumble
and you actually find out what it is.
See you in five years.
As I’m typing, the BBC’s half way through running the Conservative’s latest party political broadcast creatively entitled ‘Queen’s Speech Response’. David Cameron’s sitting on a train much blurred out, though you can’t help but focus on the annoyingly inauthentic ‘passenger’ (unimaginative press agent) behind him, reading a notepad and checking her phone like an extra straight out of The Thick Of It.
When the fuzzy background gets too much and your dismay returns to his rosy cheeks bordered face, you’ll be forgiven for thinking you’ve accidently switched over to ITV and are watching one of those thirty seconds too long confused.com adverts with the pretend customers talking down their “web cams” about how great the new website is. (They’ve been running for over a year. When does new become old? And since when would anyone have the time or inclination to record an ode to a bloody website?).
That’s because the Tory leader and the ‘Cameron Direct’ road show his package is glossing on about, has to be the most contrived piece of television I’ve seen since a fight in a playground acted out by stage school overflow on Waterloo Road. EG, One of the kids is a pot smoking runaway who’s sold his pit-bull to another kid from the estate in exchange for permission to get his underage girlfriend pregnant. Only, she doesn’t get pregnant but catches herpes that the head teacher then has to hold a school assembly about before rolling credits book end a ‘We’re so young. We’ve got so much to learn’ sickly sweet truce between the two boys.
But I digress, for there aren’t any council estate types in the audience of a ‘Cameron Direct’ town hall happening. A sea of grey haired or bald, middle to elderly aged upper class white people is a truer description, for in all of the 101 ‘I’m not even aware the camera is on me and am solely smiling because of the comfort this man offers’ snap shots, there’s not one person that resembles anything of the typical person in my neighbourhood. You know, someone with their own teeth and hair.
To be as fair as his social circle’s diversity for a minute though, the broadcast does follow the BBC News and precedes The One Show and it’s daily fix of American granny favourites that are thinking ‘What am I doing here?’ as much as the audience are wondering when Emmerdale will be over so they can watch it back on the Sky Plus recording underway, because they got in five minutes late from a game of bowls on the ‘whites only’ green.
“I’ve got my strengths and I’ve got my weaknesses. I make big decisions and I’m not afraid of breaking new ground. I’m actually shy by nature rather than extrovert, someone who feels that your actions should speak for themselves, but that’s not the way politics works these days. I’ve been honest about it. I really dislike the trivialisation of politics.”
1) He walked, strung sentences together, laughed, joked and directed like the sane, talented and warm individual that tabloids have spent the past twenty years drawing a polar opposite picture of.
2) Dancers half his age struggled to keep up with the choreography at times and not through lack of trying, simply couldn’t match the impeccable precision and timing of the man’s moves to the music.
3) His live vocal was incredibly raw and soulful, particularly during the rehearsal of ‘I Just Can’t Stop Loving You’ which left crew speechless or equally hysterical.
4) The extent of his imagination in constantly pushing for bigger and more amazing content (which apparently caused the insomnia and eventually fatal medication used to fight it).
5) Audiences of This Is It were due to experience state of the art CGI, lighting, costume and set developed by designers and engineers the world over, purely for the show that only a man of his stature could dream of or create.
6) The snippets of new versions of videos for Smooth Criminal, They Don’t Care About Us and Earth Song outclassed much of the music video world’s efforts dating back to when the originals aired.
7) Segments of music from the under promoted but wonderful Invincible album were incorporated into sequences and held their own amongst older classics.
8) The enjoyment in his face throughout the classic Jackson Five dance routines and medley.
9) The eloquence of his genuine concern towards climate change.
10) The humble way in which he kept alliterating love and the goal of entertaining and providing audiences with escapism as being the driving force of it all (pretty stunning considering the attacks he endured).
Every office has a Dolly Smith. You may be a few days into your new job and not be asked to execute brain achingly trivial tasks but believe me, every office has a Dolly Smith.
Just when you think you’re free from being subjected to ‘How do I play this .Doc format movie?’ or ‘I need to upload this web page in landscape’ or ‘Can you show me how to make the printer do a V Lookup?’ requests, she’ll be there.
She’ll be there with her contrived ‘If I talk like this your pity will give me what I need’ voice. You might even witness the long pauses of silence whilst damp hair is twiddled with around useless fingers and chewed up pencil tips.
You’ll stubborn it out for a bit whilst she floats over your shoulder as you try to climb into one of those grey squares on your screen but you’ll never win and she’ll always get what she wants.
You are not safe and you are not free, however far and wide you go to escape. Because every office has a Dolly Smith.
Whether a Kenyan slum, Icelandic mountain or Californian airport, tell someone you’re English and it’s not long before they proudly tell you they support Liverpool FC. Their roll call of players is lost on me. Luckily Beatles Mania has had every shop and busker playing the Fab 4 these past three weeks in San Francisco. It’s like they’re a brand new band taking the world by storm for the first time – particularly impressive considering that 50% of the lineup’s dead.
After the typical ‘Who’s your favourite?’ conversation, things have generally gravitated towards a non Brit’s confusion as to why we love Oasis so much. It’s been tough to justify and the best I’ve done is to rank them second in the history of UK bands to Paul and John’s squad. It’s not a comfortable thing to say, for I adore Radiohead and many others too. By the looks of these stranger’s faces, it’s quite tough to hear also.
I quickly change topic slightly and turn the tables by asking why Coldplay and U2 are so popular out here. With that, bus journeys, flights or dinners conveniently beckon and conversations cease. Rock N Roll and attempts at it can sometimes create unexplainable oddities. I’ve yet to deliver a solid enough justification of Noel and Liam’s following, not one explanation of Chris Martin and Bono has ever been attempted and I doubt either case will be closed soon.
As is with the nature of hostels, I woke before seven in the morning at the shakes of my bunk bed because the guy up above seemed sure not to get dressed like the rest of the world with feet on the floor. Thump went my skull against the head rest as he spent what seemed like pointless minutes, sliding into one trouser leg after another. Just when I thought he was through – out came his jumper from a huge backpack which he presumably spooned all night. By the time he was done he’d woken the other two guys in the room as well.
I laid projecting exhausted yawns as if to kindly say ‘Please shut the fuck up’, the sounds of backpackers, lockers, tooth brushes, zips and sandals storming my mind awake. I reluctantly stretched to my toes, threw last night’s clothes over my shoulders and headed for the free breakfast down the hall, taking a leak along the way in a corridor toilet. I’d already been disrupted once by the room share. I certainly wasn’t getting in line for a ‘private’ bathroom to make small talk with the very folk who interrupted my intent. Nor was I going to place myself subjected to the peculiarities of a stranger’s toothbrush and sink routine. Just how many rinses and spits are necessary?
Over toast in the communal kitchen I spoke, or rather, I was spoken to, by a fifty year old lady who gave me a download of her views at every crunch of my bread – barely crispy due to the impatient huffs and puffs of people behind me in the toaster line. Hostels she moaned, used to be free. This one was too regulated. Everything in life is too complicated, she swims three hours up river from her home in the woods each day, VH1 play trash and if Kanye West and Beyonce are going to prance around as they do, they should at least install some high fashion. That girl Pink though, hits her spot.
With a final bite of my snack I politely smiled and left her to continue ranting aloud, reaffirming my observation that most, if not all hippies, be it the phonies or the real deals, have more chips on their shoulders and gripes with the world than they’ve grown dreadlocks, worn bangles or lit joints.
Suddenly the conformity in the sea of average joe hostel goers made more sense. Sure, the lumps of flesh headphoned into their laptops and wired up to head sets and microphones resembled something of a contradiction to the very purpose of a vacation away, their clothes almost matching from one node to another and nothing more controversial than a ‘Where are you from?’ and ‘How long are you here for?’ being exchanged, but they seemed content with their lives having not chosen the tree huggers route of looking first for a negative in any situation and looking or sounding like, well, an unhappy mess. Then again, should impact be the point, who makes the most?
This morning I went to one of those digital marketing shows at Earl’s Court. After having a barcode hung around my neck, swiped as though I was a unit of cattle, I walked in and almost heaved at the sight of hundreds of people selling technology products and services, things you can’t actually hold or see, things that don’t really exist. The crowds of people drank coffee, stood outside smoking, sat listening to that same seminar about behavioural targeting by that same multinational superpower on those same dirty mauve chairs as the previous year. Clipboards clapped, pens popped, glasses clinked and smiles snapped. It was raining outside on the walk to the station, littered with leaflets about the ‘next big thing’ and those ‘next big things’ which were still the future two years previous. But for all the rain drops and stations outbound from the cosmetics of a glorified farm pen, with built in troughs full of croissants and buckets of latté, I still feel soiled.
X Factor – everything wrong with the music industry but the most perfect television show on earth, even if Beyonce ‘If I Was A Boy’ Knowles got introduced to the stage as a ‘hero’ by the reason Hollywood is suffering an eye drop drought right now.
Alexandra love, there’s an ‘If’ to that song title, so ‘heroin’ (albeit with an extra E) is the word you was looking for, or perhaps had taken whilst secluded from the cameras in the biblical cloud of lights, fire and smoke, going by the relentless Xtra Factor hysterics that followed. Okay, perhaps a little harsh. Who am I to say she’s mainlining already and not in fact the reincarnation of Christ? The stage is a 21st century church of sorts after all.
And either way, the voice is bloody good and the girl’s got balls, unlike the JLS lads, whoever last year’s winner is and Leona ‘Is anybody home?’ Lewis. That’s not to completely get on all fours for the new reality TV queen, as Boyzone, Westlife and a distraught Owen (spelt Eagzouvin) back stage probably had to for Louis Walsh.
The Beyonce duet worked but will haunt Alexandra ‘pronounce my surname the posh way’ Burke (I mean, Bhuuck) every record launch, as the public go googling and remember not her triumphing over Diana ‘Alien Hands’ Vickers and the likes, but the outclassing by a diva who can make a nation’s jaw drop in disbelief with a mere glorified yawn over Alex, who’s already being oh so Suzanne from Hearsay and denying it’s her in the sex tapes to the Sunday papers.
Last night I realize my bank account’s about to dip into overdraft, so I go online to do some twiddling. God forbid my direct debits for magazine subscriptions or the gym fail! I knew the credit crunch (yawn) would eventually grab me, and the yearly cash in of my coppers tin to a different bank’s savings account would come to my rescue. Enter pin – check. Memorable pet’s name – check. Good ol’ Sally the goldfish, I miss you babe!
Then comes fury. Not only do I have to cross my high rise bedroom to dig out a ridiculous online banking device they’ve sent me, but it doesn’t work when I enter my card. Rewind 15 years to the times where people line up for eons whilst dippy cashiers fiddle with paper behind stained, plastic screens.
‘Can I help you?’ asks the lady. I was a mug to assume she could. On explaining my late night banking woes, lazy device thingy and urgent need to transfer funds, she hit me right in between the eyes with as fine a bullet point from the manual of bureaucracy as they come. ‘Certainly, that’s a £20 transfer fee please.’ Just how much did she think my piggy bank, the oldest of friends, had held in his belly?
Apparently it’s free to wiz money around the intergalactic superhighway but not in human form, in a building that’s sort of meant to deal with such tasks.
Not to give in before the face of inconvenience, I recall the invention of holes in walls and make a withdrawal from my savings card. One nil to logical thinking! Grasping my emergency notes, I cross the road and line up to deposit in the near fatally overdrawn bank account’s branch. Five cashiers, one line and a single person in front of me. Things surely couldn’t be any simpler. ‘So long technology. You’ve lost!’ I mumble.
Then, three cashiers close their windows, one spends the next forty minutes trying to communicate with someone that only speaks Danish and the lady in front of me loses her cheque book (wow – they still exist?) in her foot long bag. Out comes her family photo album, about three containers of medication, the world’s largest collection of intertwined key rings molded into words like ‘Mum’ and ‘Love’, then off she goes. I finally step up to the counter, hand over the cash, secure the fate of my beloved bills and take comfort in the smell of a Greggs Bakery next door.
‘Hmm, well at least I’ll be eating two for £1.09 pasties for breakfast. There’s good in every situation to be had’ I philosophize, preparing my change for the quick pre-office pit stop. Then, not that it wasn’t clear by now, comes confirmation that it’s just one of those days. The queue for cherry tarts and donuts is to the rim of the shops entrance, a kid is licking her dropped block of fudge cake off the tiles and I’m now an additional half hour late to work. No, I do not want a bag or receipt.