There’s something about the act of smoking that speaks to me of moral corruption. Perhaps it’s because I have always wanted to, but never dared. The teachers from school and parents, the institutions of guardianship, instilling their values so thoroughly, their voices loud with an unquestionable truth. Smoking is bad.
Perhaps this is why smokers appear so dangerous to me. If they’re willing to do that to themselves, where do they draw the line for others? All I’m saying is that second hand smoke is just a taster of what they’re capable of. These people habitually carry around the tools to start fires.
For them, smoking is freeing. It’s a gateway into a life of anti-authority. They’re aware of the overwhelming evidence which condemns them to a shorter lifespan. They read the block capital portents of misery and infanticide on every packet, and ignore them, becoming stronger with each tiny act of rebellion.
In truth, I’m jealous; I’m weak enough to actually feel threatened by a slow and tar ridden death. But perhaps this is what appeals to them. They are controlling their own death, deciding their fate. Leaving the door unlocked for that assassin, so they can greet him in their armchair, and rasp their goodbye. People have been dying from cigarette related illnesses for years. There’s a certain comfort in that, in the predictability of the symptoms, which can be traced and measured, related anecdotally to other smokers, charted against each other, graphing their own timeline, whilst sharing a hacking and face-purpling laughter.
It would seem the government has mistaken humanity's health concerns. Smokers share cigarette packet labels, these banners of mortality with a private revelry, buying cigarettes not by brand, but instead by effect: “Can I get the ‘Causes harm to unborn babies,’ please?” If we can’t appeal to a smoker’s health, then perhaps we can appeal to their wallet, displaying instead the price in wide bold letters, £5.45, and what this equates to in their life, such as an hours’ wage, or a Coldplay album.
If we take this further, each packet would come with a calculator to determine what else they could have bought compared to what they spend in a year. The results wouldn’t show the meaningless numbers, but instead precious items in a glorious and high definition display. I’m not thinking so much rubies, but Xboxs, cashmere garments and conservatories. Or for developing countries, twenty camels.
From what I can understand though, the real reason many people start smoking is because it looks cool, and there’s very little evidence to undermine this claim, because it does. All musicians and actors smoke. Fact. Or at least the cool ones do. There’s something very mysterious about a figure with a cigarette. They’re introspective, probably because their hands are occupied, they have no choice but to confront their thoughts. When I think of smokers, I think of an unshaven man sipping whiskey at a bar, staring into the middle distance. Unapproachable, untouchable. Or a writer pouring over a manuscript, squinting through his haze of smoke. These are images cast from film, but the reality is much less cinematic. We have to be aware that cigarettes are like berets, people who own them tend to have smelly breath.
And wear stripy blue and white shirts. And speak French. What I’m saying is that there are side effects. But then again, we live in a world of skinny jeans and high-heeled shoes, piercings and tattoos. In youth we constantly sacrifice comfort for image, looking ahead only far enough to realise the immediate impact, and screaming to our future selves, “Fuck you future self!” And our future selves, who stopped caring about the way they look the day they wore slippers to Tesco, who feel only embarrassed by the Chinese character tats that were once emblazoned on a chest taut with muscle, but now sag unreadable, beneath three layers of wool. They think about their young unruly selves, how they were such a different person, only connected by memories, and they moan back to the past in phlegmy rattling breaths, “Damn you past self, damn you…”
Showing posts with label Other observations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Other observations. Show all posts
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
Friday, 24 July 2009
House Hypochondria
House M.D is a hospital drama about solving medical mysteries. The ailments are almost always fatal and the patients are almost always saved from the jaws of death, or about 38 minutes into the 40 minute episodes. If we were to breakdown an episode, most of it concerns the specialist and expert crew of House’s (that’s Hugh Laurie) lackeys brainstorming potential suspects (it’s usually a tumour), whilst prescribing the wrong treatment three or four times, nudging their patients ever closer to death, as the time ticks loudly away.
It sounds like a good show, I know – that’s why I watch it. The intro to each episode starts with a new set of characters who seem healthy enough, or show only the mildest of clues that they may be ill – a cough, a twinge, a bleeding anus. So each episode is a guessing game of whose seriously ill. You see teenager reach for his prescription medicine, and you begin to think, this guy ain’t looking so good. But it’s usually a red herring, because his mum is now clutching her chest as she takes a sharp intake of breath. The onset of a cardiac arrest? No, it’s turns out to just be heartburn because who’s really got our attention now is the boy with cream coming out of his ears as he goes into a seizure. The point here is that, everyone seems healthy enough, and the person who hits the deck is never who you think it is. How is that these people, who exhibit little or no symptoms, are suddenly attacked by the most violent and often humiliating of viruses?
This show seems to be suggesting that this is how life-threatening illnesses make themselves apparent. Striking without warning and with maximum damage or a mysteriously bleeding anus (that one’s happened a few times, actually). This must be the worst show to watch for hypochondriacs, as it encourages the view that even common symptoms are indicative of something far more foreboding. I myself have fallen prey to this alarmist response to anything unusual in my body’s function. Every twitch of the eye, creak of the neck, every skipped heartbeat and bleeding anus becomes transformed into a death sentence, masquerading under the names lupus, Wilson’s disease and lymphoma (my medical knowledge has skyrocketed since tuning in). It’s become difficult to function since worrying about every hurty knee and itchy nipple (so far just temporary).
What’s scarier still is just how fast the patient’s health declines, and how it pushes the genius House to his mental limits until someone makes an off the cuff remark about another case that just happens to link to his, like, “the woman’s having twins,” or perhaps someone’s anecdote triggers a moment of realisation, shown through a big close up of House. With a face that says, ‘My god, it’s been there all along. It’s been staring us in the face this whole time, how could I have been so stupid? Wilson!’
Of course, most of the ailments are easily treatable, so that the episodes can end happily, but the bigger problem facing the team of specialists is the correct diagnosis. Throughout each episode they exhaust so many options, performing expensive tests one after the other. You get the sense that normal doctors are idiots, and if weren’t for this detective department that is unique to that hospital, all these patients would die, the reasons only becoming clear on autopsy.
So where can we turn? If you’re British, you’re lucky enough to have the NHS. What’s great about the NHS is its self-diagnosing facilities on its website. Now an informed database of symptoms and their corresponding illnesses can be accessed by those who looking for comfort in their time of worry. It uses a traffic light system to let you know how scared you should be. Green is ‘visit your GP.’ This is the least scared you should be, and yet you still need to see a doctor. There are apparently no symptoms where the website simply tells you to ‘Not bother, there’s nothing to worry about.’ I would at least expect a ‘Put an icepack on it you idiot.’ Surely a program with such a wealth of knowledge could afford to be more specific in such minor cases of health issues, such as ‘apply Deep Heat to area of pain’ or ‘make vertical incision along trachea.’
What should be next in this traffic light system is amber (it’s orange, really), but the NHS feels that anything more urgent than a skin rash is a serious threat, and so you are presented with a red page that screams at you to dial 999 and ask for an ambulance. And if the whole red page thing didn’t quite shout danger enough, they’ve also provided an exclamation point in an orange triangle.
The combination of shows like House M.D and the NHS’s hysterical advice page is enough to send hypochondriacs into a frenzy. I can understand the sensationalism of entertainment, but the NHS is basically asking for timewasters and really annoying ‘self-diagnosers.’
Now, if you’ll excuse me, my nipples are raised again, which either means I’m cold, or dying. The emergency services have been informed.
It sounds like a good show, I know – that’s why I watch it. The intro to each episode starts with a new set of characters who seem healthy enough, or show only the mildest of clues that they may be ill – a cough, a twinge, a bleeding anus. So each episode is a guessing game of whose seriously ill. You see teenager reach for his prescription medicine, and you begin to think, this guy ain’t looking so good. But it’s usually a red herring, because his mum is now clutching her chest as she takes a sharp intake of breath. The onset of a cardiac arrest? No, it’s turns out to just be heartburn because who’s really got our attention now is the boy with cream coming out of his ears as he goes into a seizure. The point here is that, everyone seems healthy enough, and the person who hits the deck is never who you think it is. How is that these people, who exhibit little or no symptoms, are suddenly attacked by the most violent and often humiliating of viruses?
This show seems to be suggesting that this is how life-threatening illnesses make themselves apparent. Striking without warning and with maximum damage or a mysteriously bleeding anus (that one’s happened a few times, actually). This must be the worst show to watch for hypochondriacs, as it encourages the view that even common symptoms are indicative of something far more foreboding. I myself have fallen prey to this alarmist response to anything unusual in my body’s function. Every twitch of the eye, creak of the neck, every skipped heartbeat and bleeding anus becomes transformed into a death sentence, masquerading under the names lupus, Wilson’s disease and lymphoma (my medical knowledge has skyrocketed since tuning in). It’s become difficult to function since worrying about every hurty knee and itchy nipple (so far just temporary).
What’s scarier still is just how fast the patient’s health declines, and how it pushes the genius House to his mental limits until someone makes an off the cuff remark about another case that just happens to link to his, like, “the woman’s having twins,” or perhaps someone’s anecdote triggers a moment of realisation, shown through a big close up of House. With a face that says, ‘My god, it’s been there all along. It’s been staring us in the face this whole time, how could I have been so stupid? Wilson!’
Of course, most of the ailments are easily treatable, so that the episodes can end happily, but the bigger problem facing the team of specialists is the correct diagnosis. Throughout each episode they exhaust so many options, performing expensive tests one after the other. You get the sense that normal doctors are idiots, and if weren’t for this detective department that is unique to that hospital, all these patients would die, the reasons only becoming clear on autopsy.
So where can we turn? If you’re British, you’re lucky enough to have the NHS. What’s great about the NHS is its self-diagnosing facilities on its website. Now an informed database of symptoms and their corresponding illnesses can be accessed by those who looking for comfort in their time of worry. It uses a traffic light system to let you know how scared you should be. Green is ‘visit your GP.’ This is the least scared you should be, and yet you still need to see a doctor. There are apparently no symptoms where the website simply tells you to ‘Not bother, there’s nothing to worry about.’ I would at least expect a ‘Put an icepack on it you idiot.’ Surely a program with such a wealth of knowledge could afford to be more specific in such minor cases of health issues, such as ‘apply Deep Heat to area of pain’ or ‘make vertical incision along trachea.’
What should be next in this traffic light system is amber (it’s orange, really), but the NHS feels that anything more urgent than a skin rash is a serious threat, and so you are presented with a red page that screams at you to dial 999 and ask for an ambulance. And if the whole red page thing didn’t quite shout danger enough, they’ve also provided an exclamation point in an orange triangle.
The combination of shows like House M.D and the NHS’s hysterical advice page is enough to send hypochondriacs into a frenzy. I can understand the sensationalism of entertainment, but the NHS is basically asking for timewasters and really annoying ‘self-diagnosers.’
Now, if you’ll excuse me, my nipples are raised again, which either means I’m cold, or dying. The emergency services have been informed.
Saturday, 30 May 2009
Mr. Crane
Last night I cricked my neck in response to an attacking crane fly; you could say I was craning my neck. It was more like a twist though, but it would be fitting to refer to it as craning. Perhaps that is how it got its name. However, it also commonly goes by the name Daddy Long Legs. Now, I think we all understand the Long Legs part, but Daddy? How could this possibly have come about?
Was an orphan scholar woken in the night by a flickering at his oil lamp, and on seeing a creature unfamiliar to him, which on closer inspection was surely a common fly but a fly granted the power of spaghetti legs, he called out uncertainly to it, “Father?”
It seems somewhat diminutive to refer to the daddy long legs as a fly. I’ve always considered it a winged spider, which is perhaps why I always regard it as more of a threat. I don’t like spiders as it is, so the idea of giving a creepy crawly aviation is monstrous.
The naming can give a creature more power. Think of the dragonfly for example. How proud must it be to have ‘dragon’ in its name? They are probably the most boastful of flies, but their arrogance is ill founded. They are not nearly as impressive as their name suggests. I remember people talking about them as a child. I imagined them as great beasts the size of human torsos. How bitterly disappointed I was on meeting the reality; a pin stripe with wings. They exhibited no dragon like abilities. I wouldn’t even call them dragon-esque, even for the insect world.
It didn’t actually work out that well for the daddy long legs, in order for it to defy gravity, there was a great deal of slim-lining involved. Yes, it decided to keep its spider legs, but it had to compromise if it wanted to be light enough to fly. Consequently its legs are detachable. They’re about as strong as spider web, and can be popped off with ease. Not only are they one of the most ugly of creatures, because they only live a day, they never learn to fly with any grace; and what could be graceful with those legs, spread uncertainly in all directions? They’re like a plane that’s left its wheels out for the whole journey – if those wheels were giant gay roller blades.
Much like moths, it is the unpredictability with which they fly that scares me most. There is an urgency in their movement which suggests chaos. Whereas the grounded spider prowls, sometimes creeping; it is like an omen. Even this is preferable to the devil may care daddy long legs.
I believe the daddy long legs knows my fear. I believe they are drawn to my face, which is as attractive to them as a 40-watt bulb. They seem determined on exploring my head’s orifices.
This is a major difference between the spider and the crane fly. The spider takes refuge in darkness, like a ninja. Stalking pray, its presence hidden. By comparison the crane fly is the football hooligan of the insect world. It demands your attention, seeking the brightest light it can find and bashing its skull against it, “Fucking c’mon!” It craves intensity. Perhaps because it only lives for a day, its only goal is to live its last day like its last, spreading havoc, herding humans over cliffs like a wayward sheepdog.
After fifteen minutes of ineffectual batting with my Guitar Hero controller – the crane fly was having none of it – I resorted to the old trap-in-a-glass-and-slide-paper-under technique. Predictably, it lost a few legs in the process. How pathetic you truly are, I began to think. I brought him over to my open window and ejected him into the night sky, almost throwing the glass in the process. I checked the glass several times afterward to make sure he wasn’t still desperately clinging to the base, ready to take his revenge on my face. I shut my window, and haven’t opened it since.
Was an orphan scholar woken in the night by a flickering at his oil lamp, and on seeing a creature unfamiliar to him, which on closer inspection was surely a common fly but a fly granted the power of spaghetti legs, he called out uncertainly to it, “Father?”
It seems somewhat diminutive to refer to the daddy long legs as a fly. I’ve always considered it a winged spider, which is perhaps why I always regard it as more of a threat. I don’t like spiders as it is, so the idea of giving a creepy crawly aviation is monstrous.
The naming can give a creature more power. Think of the dragonfly for example. How proud must it be to have ‘dragon’ in its name? They are probably the most boastful of flies, but their arrogance is ill founded. They are not nearly as impressive as their name suggests. I remember people talking about them as a child. I imagined them as great beasts the size of human torsos. How bitterly disappointed I was on meeting the reality; a pin stripe with wings. They exhibited no dragon like abilities. I wouldn’t even call them dragon-esque, even for the insect world.
It didn’t actually work out that well for the daddy long legs, in order for it to defy gravity, there was a great deal of slim-lining involved. Yes, it decided to keep its spider legs, but it had to compromise if it wanted to be light enough to fly. Consequently its legs are detachable. They’re about as strong as spider web, and can be popped off with ease. Not only are they one of the most ugly of creatures, because they only live a day, they never learn to fly with any grace; and what could be graceful with those legs, spread uncertainly in all directions? They’re like a plane that’s left its wheels out for the whole journey – if those wheels were giant gay roller blades.
Much like moths, it is the unpredictability with which they fly that scares me most. There is an urgency in their movement which suggests chaos. Whereas the grounded spider prowls, sometimes creeping; it is like an omen. Even this is preferable to the devil may care daddy long legs.
I believe the daddy long legs knows my fear. I believe they are drawn to my face, which is as attractive to them as a 40-watt bulb. They seem determined on exploring my head’s orifices.
This is a major difference between the spider and the crane fly. The spider takes refuge in darkness, like a ninja. Stalking pray, its presence hidden. By comparison the crane fly is the football hooligan of the insect world. It demands your attention, seeking the brightest light it can find and bashing its skull against it, “Fucking c’mon!” It craves intensity. Perhaps because it only lives for a day, its only goal is to live its last day like its last, spreading havoc, herding humans over cliffs like a wayward sheepdog.
After fifteen minutes of ineffectual batting with my Guitar Hero controller – the crane fly was having none of it – I resorted to the old trap-in-a-glass-and-slide-paper-under technique. Predictably, it lost a few legs in the process. How pathetic you truly are, I began to think. I brought him over to my open window and ejected him into the night sky, almost throwing the glass in the process. I checked the glass several times afterward to make sure he wasn’t still desperately clinging to the base, ready to take his revenge on my face. I shut my window, and haven’t opened it since.
Sunday, 24 May 2009
Toilet Seat Up: Match Point
There’s been something on my mind that needs to be settled. I’m sure you’re all familiar with a bathroom rule that’s been set by our lesser halves that continues to go unchallenged. Fear not men, I have come to champion our cause, no longer shall we replace the toilet seat once we have finished our business.
First, let’s look at the logic that our female counterparts have touted as to why the toilet seat should be left down. There is none. Let’s just be clear about this. What possible reason could there be other than their own preference?
I’m actually in the habit of leaving the seat down, but only with the lid down as well. This is because it looks neater and you can place things on it, such as towels or children. It also prevents the two million germs that are ejected from a flushing toilet from flying at my toothbrush. But it’s mostly the neatness thing.
Girls never seem to complain when they see the lid down, perhaps because they do not suspect that a boy is responsible, or perhaps a downed lid brings a natural harmony to the bathroom that puts them at ease. They see no object to lifting the lid, but when it comes to putting a toilet seat down you better believe they’re going to be pissed, or in some anomalous examples, terrified.
I have spent a great deal of time speculating on this matter (some would say, too much time), and I’ve come to the conclusion that there are only two possible reasons to explain this reaction.
1) Women have underdeveloped triceps, making it difficult to move things toward them in a downward motion.
2) They regard their toilet habits as a sacrosanct ceremony, which must be properly prepared for. They take great offence when a man does not respect their rituals and will either lash out verbally or use the sink in protest.
From a health and safety standpoint, it is in fact more considerate to leave the seat up. Allow me to explain: We now live in an age of (debatable) gender equality, where female bankers are not considered witches and house husbands are not poofs…well.
But it wasn’t always like this. In a time when a woman’s only boss was her husband, a time I like to refer to as The Golden Years, women actually evolved a stronger back so as better to carry offspring and linen baskets. This now means bending over imposes less of a strain on the small of their back. And as women tend be shorter, they’re already closer to the toilet seat, thereby decreasing the angle of the bend and the risk of slipping a disc.
This is a classic example of evolution doing its best to bring out the stronger traits of each gender. You may be interested to know that since The Enlightenment men’s necks have actually gotten thicker so as better to support their scholarly brains, imitating a pedestal, if you will.
As it happens, I’m gifted with an unusually long neck, which holds my head aloft most others I deign to speak with, lending me a regal air, and allows me to look down my nose at almost anyone.
The second point in my case is what should be fair.
If we want to talk about ‘fair’, let me tell you what is definitely unfair. If the woman expects the seat to be down and ready at all times, it would mean the man expends infinitely more energy in seat related lifting and closing. This is more than 100%, because 100% more than nothing still doesn’t mean anything.
Surely it is fairer if both sexes leave the toilet how they please? However, even in this instance, it would still favour whichever there are more of. For instance, in my house of five, I live with three other girls and a guy. So the chances that I enter after a girl is more than 3/5 (as I’m unlikely to use the toilet twice in a row). But even on a more even ground, the house still favours girls, because about 1/10 of a guys toilet functions will require the seat.
It looks like there is no winning this one, at least not with any arguments of fairness. Even so, women don’t learn through reasonable debate, much like monkeys, they learn from practical example. If I were to try and explain my theory, I could expect a stock phrase response such as “Fuck off” or “What?” But if I piss on the seat every time it is down, then they learn through the repetition of my actions. This may be the only act of domestic vandalism that I can feasibly get away with, so I try to take as much guiltless pleasure as possible. I like to imagine it is her favourite pincushion, and douse that motherfucker.
I’ve found this has had mixed results, from the lady in question terminating all contact and relations, to her learning to pee standing up, which is about as novel and miraculous as a cat that opens doors.
You want to talk to me about toilet seats? You lose.
* * *
Khyan is pleased that Microsoft suggested he make ‘mother fucker’ a single word.
First, let’s look at the logic that our female counterparts have touted as to why the toilet seat should be left down. There is none. Let’s just be clear about this. What possible reason could there be other than their own preference?
I’m actually in the habit of leaving the seat down, but only with the lid down as well. This is because it looks neater and you can place things on it, such as towels or children. It also prevents the two million germs that are ejected from a flushing toilet from flying at my toothbrush. But it’s mostly the neatness thing.
Girls never seem to complain when they see the lid down, perhaps because they do not suspect that a boy is responsible, or perhaps a downed lid brings a natural harmony to the bathroom that puts them at ease. They see no object to lifting the lid, but when it comes to putting a toilet seat down you better believe they’re going to be pissed, or in some anomalous examples, terrified.
I have spent a great deal of time speculating on this matter (some would say, too much time), and I’ve come to the conclusion that there are only two possible reasons to explain this reaction.
1) Women have underdeveloped triceps, making it difficult to move things toward them in a downward motion.
2) They regard their toilet habits as a sacrosanct ceremony, which must be properly prepared for. They take great offence when a man does not respect their rituals and will either lash out verbally or use the sink in protest.
From a health and safety standpoint, it is in fact more considerate to leave the seat up. Allow me to explain: We now live in an age of (debatable) gender equality, where female bankers are not considered witches and house husbands are not poofs…well.
But it wasn’t always like this. In a time when a woman’s only boss was her husband, a time I like to refer to as The Golden Years, women actually evolved a stronger back so as better to carry offspring and linen baskets. This now means bending over imposes less of a strain on the small of their back. And as women tend be shorter, they’re already closer to the toilet seat, thereby decreasing the angle of the bend and the risk of slipping a disc.
This is a classic example of evolution doing its best to bring out the stronger traits of each gender. You may be interested to know that since The Enlightenment men’s necks have actually gotten thicker so as better to support their scholarly brains, imitating a pedestal, if you will.
As it happens, I’m gifted with an unusually long neck, which holds my head aloft most others I deign to speak with, lending me a regal air, and allows me to look down my nose at almost anyone.
The second point in my case is what should be fair.
If we want to talk about ‘fair’, let me tell you what is definitely unfair. If the woman expects the seat to be down and ready at all times, it would mean the man expends infinitely more energy in seat related lifting and closing. This is more than 100%, because 100% more than nothing still doesn’t mean anything.
Surely it is fairer if both sexes leave the toilet how they please? However, even in this instance, it would still favour whichever there are more of. For instance, in my house of five, I live with three other girls and a guy. So the chances that I enter after a girl is more than 3/5 (as I’m unlikely to use the toilet twice in a row). But even on a more even ground, the house still favours girls, because about 1/10 of a guys toilet functions will require the seat.
It looks like there is no winning this one, at least not with any arguments of fairness. Even so, women don’t learn through reasonable debate, much like monkeys, they learn from practical example. If I were to try and explain my theory, I could expect a stock phrase response such as “Fuck off” or “What?” But if I piss on the seat every time it is down, then they learn through the repetition of my actions. This may be the only act of domestic vandalism that I can feasibly get away with, so I try to take as much guiltless pleasure as possible. I like to imagine it is her favourite pincushion, and douse that motherfucker.
I’ve found this has had mixed results, from the lady in question terminating all contact and relations, to her learning to pee standing up, which is about as novel and miraculous as a cat that opens doors.
You want to talk to me about toilet seats? You lose.
* * *
Khyan is pleased that Microsoft suggested he make ‘mother fucker’ a single word.
Friday, 27 March 2009
Super?
If you’re anything like me, then you’ve noticed the pump at the petrol station that boasts ‘Super Unleaded’ and thought, what’s so super? Is it a regular unleaded by day, but by night….? Surely it’s either unleaded or not, in what possible way does ‘super’ fit into the equation? “Well it’s more unleaded, isn’t it?” If that’s the case, then where will it end? Why not create a range of products, going from Pretty Unleaded to Really Unleaded to More Than The First Two Unleaded. Surely this could continue until they finally arrived with Definitely Unleaded.
When I try to find out the actual benefits received from paying 10p more a litre, I mostly get vague answers like, “It’s nicer to your car…treats it better…cleaner.” I suppose it’s the motor equivalent of toilet paper. All the different toilet papers do exactly the same thing, but there’s a huge range in price and quality. On the upper end of the spectrum, you get ‘quilted’ sheets, presumably to make your bum feel like it’s going to bed. Indeed, the experience of wiping your arse can become so luxurious that you’ll be taking four shits a day just to feel like your anus is being kissed by money. And of course if you’ve got cash to burn, and want to truly feel decadent in your post-defecation process, why not just use a satin handkerchief or pashmina scarf. Perhaps you are driven by a need to express a socio-political statement, so use a gold bar or some traveller’s cheques.
As students, our house tends to opt for the cheapest excuse for bog-roll available. It’s not usually pretty; I once had to resort to using the label from a baked bean can. I speak from experience when I say don’t use anything laminated. For the smallest amount of money, the range tends to offer something that is either atom thin or sand paper. When going for the former category, you need to buy in vast quantities, as you’ll be using a roll at a time to avoid staining your hand.
It’s always good to be green, but I draw the line at recycled toilet paper. First of all, I’m naturally suspicious of processes I don’t understand, and the act of transforming a desk chair into Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code is as mysterious as alchemy. I’d feel more at ease if they just called it ‘Magic’ and that we had normal bins and Magic bins. I’m uncertain as to what extent recycling can be used. Can you turn a teddy bear into a machine gun? I want to know what this toilet paper was before. Perhaps it was a children’s pushbike, the wing of an aeroplane, or a carrot.
What worries me most of all, is that things are recycled from the same ‘family’. So recycled toilet paper, was toilet paper once before. How many generations of sphincters had these humble sheets hugged? And how quickly does the recycling process take? Does the sewage system filter straight into a recycling plant, that works overnight to have those same sheets dry-cleaned for next day delivery, so the very same sheets could be getting familiar with you once again come Tuesday?
On the first way round, how soon do you think they know what trees will be used for what? They probably label them: Timber, firewood, Ikea, Harry Potter, toilet paper. It must be incredibly humiliating for these trees, with all their friends going to Sweden to live the good life, whilst knowing that their only purpose is to be stained by human refuse and rot in a septic tank. I wonder if they bow their trunks in shame, unable to ever look another tree in the bark again. :(
When I try to find out the actual benefits received from paying 10p more a litre, I mostly get vague answers like, “It’s nicer to your car…treats it better…cleaner.” I suppose it’s the motor equivalent of toilet paper. All the different toilet papers do exactly the same thing, but there’s a huge range in price and quality. On the upper end of the spectrum, you get ‘quilted’ sheets, presumably to make your bum feel like it’s going to bed. Indeed, the experience of wiping your arse can become so luxurious that you’ll be taking four shits a day just to feel like your anus is being kissed by money. And of course if you’ve got cash to burn, and want to truly feel decadent in your post-defecation process, why not just use a satin handkerchief or pashmina scarf. Perhaps you are driven by a need to express a socio-political statement, so use a gold bar or some traveller’s cheques.
As students, our house tends to opt for the cheapest excuse for bog-roll available. It’s not usually pretty; I once had to resort to using the label from a baked bean can. I speak from experience when I say don’t use anything laminated. For the smallest amount of money, the range tends to offer something that is either atom thin or sand paper. When going for the former category, you need to buy in vast quantities, as you’ll be using a roll at a time to avoid staining your hand.
It’s always good to be green, but I draw the line at recycled toilet paper. First of all, I’m naturally suspicious of processes I don’t understand, and the act of transforming a desk chair into Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code is as mysterious as alchemy. I’d feel more at ease if they just called it ‘Magic’ and that we had normal bins and Magic bins. I’m uncertain as to what extent recycling can be used. Can you turn a teddy bear into a machine gun? I want to know what this toilet paper was before. Perhaps it was a children’s pushbike, the wing of an aeroplane, or a carrot.
What worries me most of all, is that things are recycled from the same ‘family’. So recycled toilet paper, was toilet paper once before. How many generations of sphincters had these humble sheets hugged? And how quickly does the recycling process take? Does the sewage system filter straight into a recycling plant, that works overnight to have those same sheets dry-cleaned for next day delivery, so the very same sheets could be getting familiar with you once again come Tuesday?
On the first way round, how soon do you think they know what trees will be used for what? They probably label them: Timber, firewood, Ikea, Harry Potter, toilet paper. It must be incredibly humiliating for these trees, with all their friends going to Sweden to live the good life, whilst knowing that their only purpose is to be stained by human refuse and rot in a septic tank. I wonder if they bow their trunks in shame, unable to ever look another tree in the bark again. :(
Wednesday, 11 February 2009
Don't Depress Me
Did anyone else see the BAFTA’s? Mickey Rourke won best actor for his role in The Wrestler. I think the same thing was on a lot of people’s minds. What the fuck happened to his face? In case you
weren’t aware, Mickey was once a very handsome young man. Looking his best in the likes of Diner (1982) and Rumble Fish (1983).However, a boxing career and subsequent reconstructive plastic surgery left him as the ugly bucket he is today.
It is a mighty shame, but it’s not just being repeatedly punched in the face that will save you money on future Halloween masks. Time can be a cruel bitch. The most frightening example I’ve found is the once beautiful Claudia Cardinale from Once Upon a Time in the West (1968).
See now the old hag. An impostor, a ravaged relic.
This is what 50 years can do to someone. Render them unrecognisable. Only a fragment of their former selves. This notion scares me. No matter how we try to fight it, the matter is out of our hands. Our features soften and become rounder. The skin rubberising, becoming Play-Doh in our grandchildren’s hands.There’s a horrific circularity to it. As babies we all looked the same, and as old people we shall again. Is there anything more depressing than when an old biddy takes great pleasure in surprising you that she was once a beauty? That when old couples look at each other and smile, they’re trying their hardest to remember what they used to look like, and try to forget that they are now different people who have nothing in common.
I suppose the best they can do is laugh at themselves. Find humour in the slapstick nature of life unique to the aged. Like when Doris sets down a brew on the dinner table, only for her swinging breast to swoop down and knock it into the lap of her beloved. Albert doesn’t mind though, grateful that his wet lap isn’t tinged with the humiliation he’s become accustomed to. The shoulder shrug and ‘I’ve only gone and done it again!’ joke was getting old anyway.
Are we still attracted to people our own generation when we get to that age, or do we only look longingly at those in their prime? Does either party even enjoy sex with one another anymore? I imagine the more intimate acts are spoilt by overgrown pubic hairs, and fatflaps covering crevices that haven’t seen soap for 25 years.
Does Doris stop teabagging when she tastes the tang of toilet water?
Wednesday, 21 January 2009
Ooh - Aah!
For a small city, Bath has an inordinate amount of homeless people. Coming from Southampton, a larger city, this surprised me. I was used to the occasional sightings, usually in the form of a furtive hand protruding from a sleeping bag. There was something bashful about them; they were all so ashamed that you were aware of them, and so apologetic in their whispered pleas, “big issue…big issue.”
If the Southampton bum is the silent voyeur, then the Bath bum is the clown, demanding your attention. They have a way of making their presence known; you’ll be walking through the Sainsbury’s car park when through the hedge you hear them roar like pirates, “Argh!” and then amble into view, leaning heavily on each other. In no other city have I seen homeless friends before, bound together by circumstance, or some common interest to be loud and drunk.
There’s a sort of locked-in-time quality to Bath’s bums. I think it’s their West Country accents. It reminds me of the food stall owners you hear in medieval films, “Get your apples!” Except they’re probably not saying ‘apples’, they’re saying ‘Shit!’ and they’re not so much selling them, as they are throwing them.
Bath Bums are also the most jolly of bums; their reckless smiles seem to mock the taxpayers, the family unit, the uniformed hoi polloi. They seem to be energised by their sense of freedom, their devil may care way of life. There’s something Zen about their directionless existence; the lack of ties to a place and family, their forced liberation from materialism.
That being said, I have noticed certain homeless hotspots. Places where they accumulate and gather. I don’t know how they decide on these places. One in particular is a series of benches which overlook a grotty stream peppered with sewage. The place offers no shelter and could best be described as ugly and depressing. Do they feel some sort of affinity with this area? Do they see something of themselves in those dirty depths? What do they think when they see their murky reflections, besides, “I could do with brushing my teeth”?
What is it that keeps drawing them back to this place? Does it have mystical and sacrosanct qualities? If they dip a bird bath into it, and retrieve the soiled water, does it act as a sort of Mirror of Galadriel, a Mirror of Gazza, from which visions are played, and once they return to consciousness, words of an elusive meaning burn brightly in their mind, “Special Brew – £5.99 –Tesco”?
I often wonder when watching them, staring into those depths, do they feel some sort of kinship with the water? I imagine they think, if all water ends up in the sea, and all old people end up in Bournemouth, where do we homeless end up?
If the Southampton bum is the silent voyeur, then the Bath bum is the clown, demanding your attention. They have a way of making their presence known; you’ll be walking through the Sainsbury’s car park when through the hedge you hear them roar like pirates, “Argh!” and then amble into view, leaning heavily on each other. In no other city have I seen homeless friends before, bound together by circumstance, or some common interest to be loud and drunk.
There’s a sort of locked-in-time quality to Bath’s bums. I think it’s their West Country accents. It reminds me of the food stall owners you hear in medieval films, “Get your apples!” Except they’re probably not saying ‘apples’, they’re saying ‘Shit!’ and they’re not so much selling them, as they are throwing them.
Bath Bums are also the most jolly of bums; their reckless smiles seem to mock the taxpayers, the family unit, the uniformed hoi polloi. They seem to be energised by their sense of freedom, their devil may care way of life. There’s something Zen about their directionless existence; the lack of ties to a place and family, their forced liberation from materialism.
That being said, I have noticed certain homeless hotspots. Places where they accumulate and gather. I don’t know how they decide on these places. One in particular is a series of benches which overlook a grotty stream peppered with sewage. The place offers no shelter and could best be described as ugly and depressing. Do they feel some sort of affinity with this area? Do they see something of themselves in those dirty depths? What do they think when they see their murky reflections, besides, “I could do with brushing my teeth”?
What is it that keeps drawing them back to this place? Does it have mystical and sacrosanct qualities? If they dip a bird bath into it, and retrieve the soiled water, does it act as a sort of Mirror of Galadriel, a Mirror of Gazza, from which visions are played, and once they return to consciousness, words of an elusive meaning burn brightly in their mind, “Special Brew – £5.99 –Tesco”?
I often wonder when watching them, staring into those depths, do they feel some sort of kinship with the water? I imagine they think, if all water ends up in the sea, and all old people end up in Bournemouth, where do we homeless end up?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
