The Margins of Irony

No More Mr Nice Guy

2006-04-24T03:53:00.001-07:00

Reader, I have of late (wherefore I know not) lost my nice guy image. Well, I say of late - it has been a gradual process throughout my twenties.

I used to be considered a fairly nice chap, but in reality I was just misunderstood. There's always been a rage against everything bubbling away under the surface, but when I was younger, I cared enough to hide it. Now I'm not arsed.

But who is the truly nice guy? Is it the pusillanimous milquetoast who hasn't the nerve to hold an opinion? Or is it he who cares enough be angry about the wrong in the world? (Thrill at that two-fisted rhetoric!)

Of course, the answer is the latter. If I'm angry at the way Waterstones massage the intellectual egos of their customers by encouraging them to think that reading a book makes them a cut above the proles, it's because I care about literature. If I'm furious about bland TV, it's because I care passionately about the medium. If I'm blacking out with rage at the pretentiousness of bottom-feeding indie bands, it's becuase I give a shit about music. I care enough to be furious.

On the other hand, it may well just be that I'm bitter. It could be said that life has, in customer service speak, failed to manage my expectations. What exactly do I expect from people? Many people are happy to let their intellectual needs be catered for by the Richard & Judy Book Club - who am I to criticise or deride?

It's a fair point. I wouldn't blast these people to their face. I haven't the right nor the temerity. However, you're in my gaff now. My blog, my rules. Herein you get to peer into the raging storm behind my eyes. The rules of polite social conduct don't apply.

Or maybe I'm just being sarcastic. Maybe I'm being ironic. Who can tell? What do YOU think? Comment below.

The Aesthetics of Loserdom

2006-04-20T13:29:00.000-07:00

Reader, something terrible has happened to you. You've just given your life savings to a passing tarmac-ing gang who promptly disappeared. You've signed up for a timeshare in Belarus for six squidillion pounds a year. The local hospital has accidentally removed your arsehole and won't be able to put it right for seven years. You've been swindled by a ten year old scratter pretending to be the gas man. You live in East Hull.

Whatever it is, the local TV news crew is on its way round. They've spotted a perfect method to rile up their viewers and you're going to be the star. Only thing is, when they get there, you'll most likely be over the worst part of your upset. After all, it was almost two months ago, and they took six weeks to reply to your letter. They need to show that you're still in pain every waking minute of the day, still left slack-jawed and dumbfounded by your inexhaustible misfortune. They need to make you look tragic. How can they make you look like a victim for the camera?

Well, in the TV news and current affairs style book, there's one easy way: They're going to have you make a cup of tea. As a concerned reporter tells your pathetic tale of woe, we're going to watch footage of you filling the kettle from the tap. As he explains your decent and trusting nature, you're going to shuffle back to the worktop with kettle and put it on. As he goes over your war service and/or voluntary work, we'll cut to the kettle coming to the boil and turning itself off. As he takes us through the jarring tragedy of whatever befell you, you'll fill your lonely mug. As he tells us about your sleepless nights and panic attacks, you'll slowly and methodically stir your tea. Then you'll shuffle off to your lonely armchair, and set down your tea, and maybe look over a photo of yourself before you were such a fucking loser.

Sorry if I sound harsh, but that's what you'll be if a director ever asks to film you making tea. When you were threatening your wrongdoer that you'd get the press involved, what you didn't realise that it would cost you your self-respect. For in the imagination-free world of TV news, there's no easier way to codify a loser than to show them making tea. If your spouse is making the tea with you, then you'll look like the most pathetic specimens on telly that week. In TV land, you'll have been forgotten in about the same amount of time it takes for the kettle to boil. But your neighbours will have much longer memories...

Don't worry though - it could be worse. If a director ever asks to film you feeding ducks, then you may as well be dead.

Why Read?

2006-04-19T12:54:00.000-07:00

* Please note from the get-go that this posting is likely to contain intellectual snobbery and sexism of a grade that may well make you vomit up all your clockwork. Readers of a sensitive disposition would do better to fuck off now. *

Last week, I went for an interview at Borders Books. Yeah, that's right - the bookshop. (As you'll note from the footnote at the end of the last post, I got sacked a couple of weeks ago, but I'll explore that particular piece of outrage-fodder when I'm feeling more sweary.) During the interview, the fella asked me various questions (as interviewers are often wont), but in amongst the usual bullshit about teamwork and time management, he asked a question that unleashed - to our mutual surprise - a moiling pot of rage that caused me to have to change my sitting position excitedly to contain it. He asked me what I thought of Waterstones.

Now let me interject at this point that I used to have a friend that worked at Waterstones a few years ago, and from time to time I'd go and meet her in the pub with her workmates. My rage against Waterstones isn't in any way related to the fact that they were the most pretentious and affected shop assistants in the country, nor was it related to the fact that I had to sit through hours and hours of them trying to remain civil with each other whilst arguing desperately about which of them was cleverest (when we all knew it was me, as I was the only one earning more than minimum wage). No, the pot of rage whose lid the interviewer had so carelessly kicked off was a relatively fresh one.

So what was my problem then? Well, I told him there was something about Waterstones that rubbed me up the wrong way. Only as I elaborated did I begin to realise what it was. I suggested that I found the atmosphere in Waterstones one of Sunday-Telegraph stuffiness, what with the thick red carpet and piped classical music. But this on its own wouldn't bother me especially. I went further. I explained that such an atmosphere seemed to be created to support the notion that reading a book made you part of some sort of elite. I suggested that Waterstones liked to make their customers feel elevated above the plebs just because they were buying a fucking book (which isn't exactly an uncommon marketing strategy), and I found the whole pretence unnecessarily jarring and exclusivist. I felt the need then to finish by opining that Borders, of course, was much more relaxed and inclusive.

A collective sigh of relief went up when I concluded and my face uncontorted. The interviewer and his note-taker may or may not have been aware of the abyss of anger they'd just skirted, but luckily they were spared having me pull them down into it. If I hadn't been so collected, I would have taken them down into the chasm into which we are now about to nosedive.

So what's my problem with people patting themselves on the back for reading? Surely the more people read, the better? Well, you'd think. On the surface this is true. However, scrape away the platitudes and truisms and you'll realise that this is wrong. Dead wrong. Because these days, most books are just ringtones with pages.

Example - the ingredients for a Richard & Judy Bookclub book of the month are as follows: Take a mundane object or profession, add it to an exotic place name, give the author a foreign-sounding name = 1 million plus sales. The following may or may not be genuine books - see if you can tell:

The Bellows-Mender of Tehran by Thebill Isgriti
A Box-Kite Above Belgrade by Lika Pudenda
The Trinidadian Cinema Projectionist's Assistant by Aureola da Silva
The Dog-Botherer of Tibilisi by Tenanz Supa
The Librarian of Pretoria by Castle Greyskull

Did you spot the genuine one? (Answers next time.) And who's reading these criminal wastes of ink? I'll tell you who: women. The pointless flow of words and punctuation amounts to a few hours of nothing but pink noise; a three-hundred-odd page journey into perfume-scented, faux-mystic soap opera. If there's any male other than Richard Madeley that reads this shit, then I shall cut my cock off in disgust.

Men, incidentally, are catered for with 'humour' titles. You know the sort of thing: Doing Some Painfully-Contrived Task Whilst Being Significantly Less Funny Than Cancer by Tony 'Bastard' Hawks, or Is It Just Me Or Is This Book Not Funny In Any Way?, etc., etc.. These are generally books that are funny in the same sort of way that radio comedy is funny (i.e. not at all), but are just as smug and self-satisfied.

But Waterstones like to make their customers think that by buying these disservices to trees, they are undertaking some huge intellectual journey that will enrich their soul and deepen their hearts. Yeah, right. And I just downloaded the Crazy Frog reading TS Eliot. Waterstones can kiss my arse. They can take their classical music and their nose-in-the-air demeanour and their stupid posh customers and their wanky magazine and their staff reviews and their recommendations of the week and fuck right off. Do yourself a favour - next time you buy a book, get it from Amazon. At least the person who fetches it from the giant, dark warehouse is going to have his feet firmly on the ground.

* I think this might be my most offensive posting to date. What do you think? Perhaps you think I haven't gone far enough. Post your comments below.

Time To Get Ill

2006-03-27T11:44:00.000-08:00

Oh, hello! How you doing? Sorry I've not posted owt for a while, but I've been really busy. Also, I couldn't be arsed. Nevertheless, I'm here now so you might as well drop the attitude, stop scowling and make yourself comfortable. Okay? Okay.

Reader, I've been ill. No, don't panic - nothing serious, just a two-week cold, a sinus infection, a sore throat and the occasional night-terrors. I'm on the mend now, you'll be glad to hear, but there was a brief spell at the beginning of last week where I suspected I was a goner. I fought back though, and I'm not far off doctors giving me the all-clear. The moaning minnies in the terminal wards could learn a lot from me, I tell thee.

So as you'll see, I've taken my illness with characteristic verve. It'll take more than a cold to take the cut out of my jib! However, one thing I am not prepared to take lying down is that God singled me out for illness in the first place. WHO DOES HE THINK HE IS?!

I can't pretend to lead the life of a saint, but I'm kind to animals, I don't spit on the homeless and if there were more disabled people involved in my life, I'd be sure to treat them peachy, so who the holy fuck does God think he is striking me down with illness and affliction?! If he thinks he's doing a Job on me, he can forget about it - I'm not about to bend over and take it like that fanny in the Old Testament did. If God wants a fight, he can blimming well have one.

So come on, God! What are you waiting for? I'm right here. Follow me in to the toilets if you like - I'll take you anytime, anywhere. Whenver you're ready, beardy.

(Note - in between writing this and remembering to select the 'publish' option, I've been sacked from my job. Full update coming soon, but rest assured that I was in the right. Sort of.)

Putting On The Moves Without Making A Spectacle

2006-02-23T09:23:00.000-08:00

Reader, the week before last I went to the opticians for a contact lens fitting. The optician was an attractive young girl, and being an optician was professional, hygienic and clean. We got on in a very friendly and forthright way. Pleasantries became chit-chat, chit-chat became light joshing, and then she stared deep into my eyes and asked me to look up to the ceiling.

A few moments later we were done, and I was outside blinking and all a-flutter. Unless I develop a nasty eye infection (fingers crossed), I'll probably never see her again. But thing is, I should really rather have liked to have 'done' her.

Now, in the land of TV and film, I would have suggested we go on a date, met up, had dinner, had sex, and with lots of hilarious dialogue. But in the real world, if I'd have suggested so much as walking past her in the street, the atmosphere would have turned distinctly sour. This is because, in the real world, you can't just get chatting with virtual strangers of the opposite sex and make such suggestions unless you're a complete wanker.

Why do we have these walls between us? Why this complicated dance of social mores and rules? How on earth would one put the moves on one's optician? It's a real shame. Just think of all the hygienic sex we're missing.

Reflections on Rock (part 2)

2006-01-25T06:19:00.000-08:00

Reader, last Friday I went to see The Rakes and I met Les out of Carter USM. Already documented below is my respect for the man, if not his music. Also documented is the fearsomeness of his female company, on which I shall now elaborate.

Reader, she was dressed in a big jumper with dreadlocks in her hair, Doctor Marten boots, and (no doubt) stripey leggings. A flouncy skirt, a handful of piercings - I'm sure you're getting the (dykey) picture. Les had skipped off to empty his stately bladder, and being the well-bred young gadabout that I am, I moved on my conversation to his lass. I don't recall what question I opened with, but it was met with an abrupt (nay, rude) rejoinder and a demand for me to go and smoke elsewhere. Reader, I was floored.

I don't expect rapture from everyone I meet, but I'm afraid I have a mandate on good manners. If she didn't like smoke, then a polite request would have sufficed. If she didn't like me, then some subtle social tactic would have given me the nod to move along. But to treat me with such offhand petulance offended me and insulted me - and it really took me back.

You see, back when in the days when Les was successful, this was how indie girls used to be. They were stroppy, angry, bolshy, and dykey. They wore damp and dirty old clothes and had ugly, unwashed hair. They were often overweight and they didn't wear any make up. They listened to The Levellers, they drank cider and black and they didn't like anyone telling them what to do. They expressed their femininity by exercising their right to be unattractive. They were emancipated from the controlling shackles of the male myth of beauty, and showed it by all dressing in the same vile army surplus uniform.

They had an agenda. They were angry. They had vague but strongly-held beliefs. And by crikey, they were annoying. Indulgent, self-righteous, and outraged, they challenged our assumptions about their status as females by menas of a strange sort of social aversion therapy. Their core beliefs were not easy to ascertain, because this particular breed of female was not capable of arguing without shouting down the less righteous. To them, there was no greater crime than being caught in possession of an unreconstructed belief, and the merest accusation could undermine even the most well thought-out argument. Reason held no sway against the threat of being labelled a 'racist', or a 'sexist', or a 'homophobe', or (gasp!) a 'townie'.

In those days, the battle of the sexes was a bit like Scottish seperatism: one side is conducting a secret cultural war against an aggressive oppressor; the other isn't really bothered either way. Forget reasoned notions of how gender difference is a subtle play of myriad differences between to social-defined poles of identity - all men were cunts, and they were going to fucking pay. As I'm sure you remember, it was unbelievably tiresome.

And yet I was taken crashingly back to such impolite times by Les's angry companion, and it showed me how far we've come. Girls today can go to the gym without being called traitors. They dress better, they smell better and some of them even have better conversational skills.

But not all were willing to change, as we have seen. What happened to history's refugees when the supply of Levellers records and clompy boots dried up? Most were shipped to bypass protest sites around the country, were they can be found to this day, living in caravans, claiming benefits and agitating against the local parish council. Others escaped to academia, where they still draw frightened stares from the fresh-faced first year students. And one or two of the luckiest bagged themselves a genuine indie rock star as a guaranteed protection against the inevitable march of fashion, and as waining but comforting kudos for the dark and lonely years ahead.

Let the lesson for today be this: Never become shackled to a fashion or a harridan.

Now go in peace.

Reflections on Rock (part 1)

2006-01-24T08:47:00.000-08:00

Reader, last Friday I went to see the Rakes at the Windmill in Brixton.

Now, I've not really got any strong feelings either way about the Rakes. Don't like 'em, don't hate 'em. To be honest, whilst they were performing, I was too busy getting up to mischief. Heard of a band called The Others? No, frankly neither had I until Friday, but whilst the Rakes were performing their own particular brand of take-it-or-leave-it guitar music, I got chatting to a member of The Others. He is either the person on the left or the person on the right below:

See, one of them is Johnny out The Others, the other is Robert Smith out The Cure, but it's quite a task to work out which is which, so similar are their appearances. You'd think with such an uncanny resemblance between the two, there'd be some element of design on the part of the younger. However, when I approached Johnny to congratulate him on his uncanny simulation of old Bob, he didn't want to know. He flat denied any similarity. In fact, he put on such a performance that you'd think I'd told him he resembled one of The Levellers.

See, Johnny out The Others is a twat. Not just a twat - if there were a competition to find the most utterly ridiculous cunt in London, Jonny could quite fairly fancy his chances. Instead of responding to my gentle joshing with polite good humour, Jonny reacted with adolescent petulance the likes of which I've not seen since secondary school. He was a character study in affected teenage oddness and laboured weirdness, utterly preposterous and cringeworthy in every way. If he'd been fourteen, I would have been willing to let it go, but in the circumstances, I pursued his objections to my observation for a good ten minutes. Eventually he flounced off in a patchouly strop.

Twenty minutes earlier, I'd met Les out of dreary 90's social indie combo Carter USM. Although I wasn't a fan of his music, I said hello and he was utterly charming in response. He was every inch the elder statesman, and only too happy to chat. (His girlfriend, on the other hand, was fearsome, but more on that in part 2). There is certainly a lesson for Jonny to learn from our Les. But then there's a lesson for all of us to learn...

Despite the fact that I've never heard of The Others, I'm told they have a strong following. Just look at some of the quotes - "Britains most worshipped new band"; "transcending the rules to create something extraordinary"; "music that inspires you and can change your life". Pretty strong stuff, eh? Thing is, I've not heard the band, but I'm willing to gamble at least three of my limbs that they produce anodyne, gutless, derivative shite. If I'm wrong, may my credibility desert me. I'm puttting it on the line here - I honestly don't need to listen to this band to write off their music without a second thought.

How can I be so sure? Well I've met the cunt for one. But The Others are simply another in a long line of bands specialising in anodyne, gutless, derivative shite for audiences that demand nothing less. Just who are we letting get ahead here?! What do these people stand for? Why are we giving them our money?! What have they got to say for themselves?!

And more pointedly, what does it say about us? How can we sleep at night knowing that cunts like Jonny are enjoying moderate success? We really should be ashamed of ourselves.

Advertorial Paucity? It Must Be January.

2006-01-11T03:57:00.000-08:00

January - such a grim and grey month of post-Christmas frugality. We have only ourselves to blame, I suppose. We go out and spend wildly, drink wildly and eat immoderately at the behest of the vile gods of the high street, and then spend January regretting it and eating beans on toast.

And don't the advertisers - the ulcerated cherubim of the aforementioned gods - just fucking know it? And what do they do to regulate and feed our misery? They make all adverts shit.

Let's take as an example two posters that I pass on my way to work. (An aside here: Whilst I'm on my way to work, or in fact even before darkness falls and I can permissably drink again, I can become consumed with hatred by own shadow, but don't be concenred that this reasonable misanthropy has clouded my judgement). The first is for Halifax Credit Cards (and again, don't let my previous disfunctional relationship with the Halifax concern you), the second (I think) for Telewest Broadband.

Firstly, the Halifax. 'Your Happy New Year Card!' shouts a glittering banner in a Broadway style, whilst a cunt-ugly lady with a side parting holds up a credit card. '15.9%' shouts the poster. 'Transfer your balances!' it probably says elsewhere, along with the usual financial small print confessing that if they were honest, the Halifax basically see you as corpse they'd quite like to rape. It sounds like standard fare, so what's my problem then, eh? I'll tell you. It's her.

I'm sure you're aware that for the past too many years, the Halifax have exacerbated the indignity of being a member of their staff by making the plainer-looking ones appear in their adverts. There's Howard - he's black, but he wears glasses, so he's 'nice-black'. And then there was some dumpy blond girl who was made to dance around in a way that didn't compliment her figure. (I imagine they were going for the 'buxom' look, but what they got was like watching a dugong being rolled down a hill). In the current poster, we have Mary, who, when it comes to looking ordinary, takes the stale digestive.

I'm sure in real life, she's not especially unattractive. However, 'not especially' isn't good enough for the Halifax. So they've moved her side parting to just above her ear, swapped her hairspray for Crisp'n'Dry, and photographed her from an angle that must have been provided by a supercomputer specially designed to calculate unflatteringness. Combine this with the 'je ne sais quoi' repulsiveness of the Halifax uniform and we have an image that is as sexless and dispiriting as an old people's home.

Poster number two: A simplified drawing of a woman escaping from the prison inside her computer monitor by sawing through the bars with a hacksaw. 'Freeeeedom', the banner proclaims. Problem? The stylization of the illustration. It's SHIT. It looks like it's aiming to be retro and kitsch, and thus appeal to those women who have broadband but are concerned about download limits ('She's ABC1, 25-45, gym membership, small car, cat, works in management - basically, she's a do-er. She's in charge of her life, but she's not invulnerable.' 'Yah, sounds great. Kinda Bridget Jones with a networking card. Take it to the client and touch base this p.m.'). Thing is, it's FUCKING SHIT. It looks like it's been drawn by someone who spent the past 20 years in a coma, but has recently been shaken roughly awake, sat down in front of Adobe Illustrator and told to get on with it. It's just so wrong in every way. It's not clever. It's not funny. It's not cute. It's not anything.

And this is what we get for overspending at Christmas. Styleless, functional, 'B&Q' advertising. No arresting imagery, no stirring creativity, no promise of a better life, no luxury, no drama, no nothing. Just two weeks ago Moet & Chandon were advertising at bus stops; now we get debt consolidation and dull design. These corporations - they really know how to do it so it hurts, don't they?

Well I say fuck 'em. Let's make January the month of cheap excess! Let's get pissed for cheap all weekend! Special Brew before we go out, cheap bar, more Spesh when we get home. Then more beer for breakfast! Coke? Not this month, but I'll have a chug of speed if you've got some. Pack of fags? No, rollies, son.

I'm claiming January back for the kids. No more paucity, no more contrition for excessive consumption - we're off to the pub, and we're staying there ALL WEEKEND.

Blandness at Breakfast

2005-12-20T11:57:00.000-08:00

This morning, Paul McCartney's wife Heather was interviewed on BBC Breakfast. I was only half awake, but it appeared she was trying to get more members of the public to carry a donor card by using George Best as an example of what such an act can acheive. (She also appeared to have a pound or so of chicken skin hanging from under each arm, and if I didn't know better, I'd say she was skagged up, but that's by the by.)

The interview was grotesque. Between them, the tediously inoffensive Sian Williams and the effortlessly nondescript Dermot Murnaghan managed to navigate their way through the five minute piece without demanding the obvious question of how the suffering fuck George Best, even in the wildest flush of post-funeral sycophancy, could possibly seen as a positive advert for carrying a donor card, but that's not to say that in breakfast nooks around the nation, millions of viewers weren't spitting their Weetabix out in disbelief and angrily making the same enquiry of their TV sets. They would also probably be demanding to know why Hop-Along's tits appear to start at her elbows, and why she was allowed on the telly to promote a cause she had seemingly only a passing interest in. (In case you're wondering, it took only two minutes thirty seconds for her to mention her missing leg - a record, I think.)

Yes, the interview was grotesque, but as breakfast entertainment, it was fantastic. I'm not used to having my jaw loosened by the telly before 9am, but today the BBC did me proud. It was not only the treat of having a repulsively self-involved and pointless 'celebrity' big up a repulsively conceived campaign in such a bizarre way, but also the stark contrast to the standard breakfast fare. Usually, the BBC serves up items that are blander than the Anglican church, such as the ten-minute piece last week on paper aeroplanes, or a fascinating and not-at-all excruciating OB from Hampton Court or some similar day-out destination for the heavily-medicated. But today, seeing a one-legged methadone user plead the case for donor cards by citing the example of the worst transplant candidate since history began lifted my heart and raised my bile in equal measure. What a way to start to the day!

Thing is, though, even when the BBC's being bland at breakfast (99.99% of the time), it is nevertheless more stimulating than what the other channels offer. GMTV is like having breakfast with call centre queers and overweight housewives as they discuss this week's issue of Chat. Sky advertises its early morning programming with the monument to tedium and vanquished dreams that is Eamon Holmes promising that whatever news he has to give us, he shall do it 'with a smile'. If that doesn't deep down make you want to shit into your hands and rub it into your face, then you really should question what use your continued existence could possibly serve.

Channel 4: Will & Grace (one unfunny joke, served 4,900 different ways, to varying magnitudes of whooping audience hysteria). BBC2: Lazytown (it's for children, but bland children). What is the telly trying to do to us?!

I'm not asking for pornography, or even the televised torture of the beardy old cunt off Hollyoaks. All I want is something vaguely interesting to watch whilst I put away my breakfast. I want interesting news items, not in-depth investigations into conkers. I want laughter and vitriol, not valiumed grins and platitudes. And I want Mishal Hussain to present it. Nekkid.

And one more thing - if Vanessa FUCKING Feltz appears during the BBC London news to announce today's topic for her radio phone-in, I swear I shall hunt her down, slit her throat, and see that Essex eats well off the result. However, I'll not dwell on the matter just now, for she is to feature in a future entry (to be entitled 'Vanessa Feltz is Alive - Why?').

The Funniest Joke I Ever Made

2005-12-16T02:55:00.000-08:00

I was lying in bed on a few Saturday mornings ago, ruminating and cogitating like one does. Then somehow I thought of a joke. It made me laugh. I rang various people to tell them it.

It went:

I understand 50 Cent's latest song is about Weetabix. It's called 'Eat Six or Die Trying'.

Please now take a few moments to recover.

Obituary: My fucking phone

2005-12-12T09:34:00.000-08:00

My Nokia 8310 mobile phone passed away on the 11h December 2005 after a short illness. It was well known in the world of Stevie Bee for its compact size, ability to send text messages, and for switching itself off whenever it was placed in a pocket.

Its career in communications began in 2001 when it left the Nokia factory in Finland (or possibly a sweatshop in the Philipines - I can't be arsed to look into it), along with thousands of its contemporaries, whereupon it lay in a warehouse somewhere in the UK until it was palmed off onto an unsuspecting Orange customer who was two years overdue an upgrade.

Amongst its striking features were a backlight, various ringtones and a ridiculous snowboarding game that was about as easy to comprehend as the appeal of Sudoku. After being unlocked in 2003, the phone saw active duty in Australia and then India, where it spent one night underwater when a hotel room flooded.

The funeral procession will leave for a kitchen worktop at eight o'clock this evening, where it will be hit numerous times with a hammer. Its remains will then conducted to my bedroom window, and from there they will be thrown into the Regent's Canal.

The phone is survived by a landline, three email accounts and a letterbox.

Stevie B's fucking Nokia fucking 8310
??/??/2001-11/12/2005

Let's Harass Local Businesses (slight return)

2005-12-07T01:36:00.000-08:00

Alors,

Remember I emailed Dirty Harry's Contract Cleaners to suggest that their advertising slogan should be 'do you feel mucky, punk?'. Remember? Well they emailed back to say thank you very much. How nice is that, eh?

Well, let's perpetuate this niceness. Let's keep the good feeling going. Let's ALL email them with a suggestion for their advertising slogan (just in case they should they ever choose to advertise their services).

Here are a few suggestions for you to pass on to them (just one per email, please), but feel free to choose your own:

"Dirty Harry's Contract Cleaners - we're not afraid to bend the rules to get results."
"Dirty Harry's Contract Cleaners - hauling dirt's ass into the DA's office."
"Dirty Harry's Contract Cleaners - mops with Magnum Force."
"Dirty Harry's Contract Cleaners - all we need is 24 hours, chief."
"Dirty Harry's Contract Cleaners - this goes as high as City Hall's toilets."
"Dirty Harry's Contract Cleaners - telling dirt it's 'off the case'."
"Dirty Harry's Contract Cleaners - because the pen-pushers back at the station house are scared of getting their hands dirty."
"Dirty Harry's Contract Cleaners - we're all broken up about that dirt's rights."
"Dirty Harry's Contract Cleaners - we'll shoot unarmed suspect dirt in the back."
"Dirty Harry's Contract Cleaners - the maverick cops of contract cleaning."
"Dirty Harry's Contract Cleaners - a chaotic personal life, but one hell of a contract cleaner."
"Dirty Harry's Contract Cleaners - we've swapped our badge and gun for a mop and duster."
"Dirty Harry's Contract Cleaners - damn it, chief, we don't need no partner."
"Dirty Harry's Contract Cleaners - once we cleaned up the streets; now we clean sinks."
"Dirty Harry's Contract Cleaners - the uptown cleaner with the downtown reputation."
"Dirty Harry's Contract Cleaners - we've got two days until retirement, but we're going to nail this dirt, damn it."
"Dirty Harry's Contract Cleaners - this is a .44 Dyson, the most powerful vacuum in the world."
"Dirty Harry's Contract Cleaners - when we see a dirty sink, we clean the bastard. That's our policy."
"Dirty Harry's Contract Cleaners - the question is, do you feel mucky? Well, do ya, punk?"

Choose one you like, or make up your own and send it to enquiries@dirtyharrys.co.uk. Use the following format, just for consistency:

"Dear Dirty Harry's Contract Cleaners,

Do you have an advertising slogan at present? Cos if you don't, you might like to consider this:

(insert suggestion)

Thank you and enjoy your day,

(insert your name)."

Let me know how you get on in the comments section below.

Good luck!

Sainsburys: Primal Scream Retail Therapy

2005-12-06T09:32:00.000-08:00

But for a select few hapless victims of protracted torture, nobody could reasonably counter the claim that the most irritating, painful, cuntiful place to be on God's green earth is Sainsburys, Islington on a Sunday afternoon. Circumstance weekly draws together poor design, tedious shoppers and a poor hungover me to do battle in aisles.

Don't get me wrong - I know ALL supermarkets are palaces of irksomeness, but Sainsburys Islington on a Sunday afternoon rarifies and distills the irk into something that would test the patience of three hundred Jesuses on valium. Firstly, it's the design: the aisles are wide enough for only two trolleys at a time. Not a problem, you might think - one goes one way, the other goes the other, no fuss, no muss. But when one factors in a second term - dithering, fuckwitted shoppers - then we have not a series of streamlined quick-flowing aisles but something that more closely resembles the cardiovascular system of a Glaswegian.

See, the dithering cuntwits are the lipids that clog the already strained Sainsburys veins leading to aneurysms of impatience building up around those shoppers who hadn't timetabled regular intervals stuck fast by the carrots or tinned soup. In any healthy supermarket, these occlusions are normally just the result of an old person or two who haven't yet been decent enough to die, and are quickly dealt with by the assertive shopper with an insouciant shove or jab, but Sunday in Sainsburys is about more than just the oldies. We also have the posh liberal parents with an entourage of under-disciplined children (children called things like 'Jemima' and 'Harry') who run a wide, excited orbit around their cunty parents, grabbing items from shelves whilst still being ordered to return the last thing they got their overfed, under-belted hands on; and Islington students wandering around in couples and getting excited and theatrical about frozen pizza and ice cream when really, if they were proper students (rather than mollycoddled trustafarian milksops), they would be shopping in Kwik Save and trying to work out how to make £2 last a week. When the elderly are added to the mix, what we have is the equivalent of a stroke at the same time as a heart attack.

And when you're dealing with this with a hangover, well...

I can't pretend to have the warmest spirit in North London. Or even one that gets mildly toasty at Christmas. And when I'm hungover, the forecast is for cold Arctic winds blowing in from the far frozen North of my disposition. And when I'm in Sainsburys in Islington, you better believe that it's raining as well. Frozen rain. Whatever that is.

Linger for a second too long in front of the vegetables that I'm trying to get to, and before you can dither over two carrots a second longer, I will have already graphically visualised your bloody downfall - beating you to death with your own trolley, or breaking your neck with my bare hands and tossing your broken body into the baking potatoes. Come to a dead stop at the end of an aisle to consult your shopping list unaware of the queue of people behind you, and I'll be fantasising about pushing your face through the deli counter glass before you can open your handbag. In short, I'm a timebomb of social unpleasantness. I'm an angry, nasty little twat.

That's why I shop at Sainsburys.

And do you know, secretly I love getting wound up with the fuckwits in there. It makes me feel alive. And it shows that I'm in no danger of becoming one of them. It means I'm maintaining a realist perspective. As long as I want to vomit at the piped Christmas music, I'm not at risk of becoming retarded. And as long as I snarl at students buying big steaks, I'm in no danger of becoming accepting of others. And I think it's a very healthy way to be.

And where better to explore these feelings than the bland laboratory conditions of the supermarket? It's a controlled, homogenous, strip-lit playground for psychotic desires. It's a padded cell where you can thrash out your murderousness until you wear yourself out. That's what they're for - they're where you go to find expression for your anger at the social strata either side of you. The supermarkets provide a safe outlet for this moiling rage. When was the last time you saw it kick off in Tescos? Supermarkets are social safety valves, where class differences are aggravated and soothed at the same time. Just look at Tesco Finest compared to Tesco Value - the battle is played out on the shelves before your very eyes. They're perpetuating the class system in order to continue to profit from the slavery of the workers! And you thought they just sold groceries...

By the way, remember I emailed Dirty Harry's Contract Cleaners to tell them that they should change their slogan to 'do you feel mucky, punk'? Well, they emailed back, said thanks, and told me that I'd 'made the girls in the office smile'. NOW call me anti-social...

All Americans Are Gay (Except for One, Who Was Just Me Pretending)

2005-12-05T13:40:00.000-08:00

Remember in the last post I mentioned about an email I'd once got that was intended for someone else? Well, fuck it, I might as well tell you about it now.

Once upon a time, I had a hotmail account. It used to get lots of spam, and lots of shit, and lots of stuff that I wanted that got sent straight to the junkmail folder, but one bored morning, I arrived to work to find an email addressed to a Stephen Beckett, but it was for a different Stephen Beckett than the Stephen Beckett that's me. This one lived in America somewhere. (Note - by now, a lot of you will realise that you've heard this story before. Feel free to run along. I'll catch you next time.)

The email went along the lines of: "Hey, dude. How's your summer vacation going? Me and pop haved nearly fished all the trout out of the lake, and I'm doing plenty of swimming! Well, must get going - me and pop are going to take the boat out! Catch you later, Jim."

I paraphrase slightly, but that was the jist. When the above landed in my inbox, I quickly realised our American friend had got the wrong Stephen J - I'm quick off the mark like that, see. I also quickly realised that I could have some fun. I hit reply and started typing...

"Hey, Jim.

Your old pal Stephen here. I'm having a great summer thanks, though things are a little crazy!

You see, when I got back home, I decided it was time to come out of the closet and tell people that I'm gay. Most people have been really great, my friends especially, but some people have been jerks, but I suppose that's their problem really.

Anyway, I'm glad you're having a good summer. Keep in touch,

Stephen"

I typed this reply and sent it off, not expecting to hear anything more about it. It was a shot in the dark more than anything. However, next day, I had, in amongst the usual hotmail inbox detritus, there was a shiny new reply from Jim. It went something like:

"Hi Stephen,

Wow! That's pretty crazy! Well, whatever floats your boat, man!

What did Lisa say about it though?

Jim"

I couldn't believe my luck. Pure gold. It was like randomly throwing a pint glass over your shoulder and hitting someone off Hollyoaks. I couldn't reply quick enough....

"Hi Jim,

Thanks for being understading, because I know it's hard for some people to accept. Lisa was great about it. We're just friends now (unless she can grow a dick, that is... ha ha!)

I sort of had to admit that I was gay when I got a boyfriend. He's called Brad, and he's a great guy and I know you'll like him. He reminds me a bit of you.

Anyway, speak to you soon,

Stephen
x"

I'd upped the ante, and a reply wasn't as forthcoming as had previously been. I thought I must have pushed it too far, but two days later, there it was... 1 new message:

"Hi Stephen,

Well, that's great that you're with someone. I don't mind that at all, as long as you're enjoying yourself. Does that mean Lisa's available now ha ha?

See ya,

Jim"

Get in! Here I was fundamentally altering the relationship between two American teens, and I was loving it. Well, sort of. I was starting to feel a bit guilty about it, truth be told... But not so guilty that I didn't immediately blast off the following response:

"Hi Jim,

Yes, Lisa's avaiable. I'll put in a good word for you. I'll tell her what a great guy you are, and so sweet and understanding too.

I can't wait for you to meet Brad. I know we'll all get on so well. Have you met anyone special over summer?

Stephen
xxx"

From this point forward, the tone of our emails changed. They became less frequent from Jim's end, and more graphic from mine. I think I was coming on a bit too strong for him. All the talk of my imaginary sex life with Brad, combined with (frankly needy) come-ons and flattery were pushing the bounds of Stephen and Jim's friendship too far. I was taking things too fast, when Jim really needed some time and space to adjust to Stephen's new lifestyle. Jim did try to tell Stephen this, but I think he felt a little alienated. Emails four to seven were just a few short lines, and were taking longer and longer to arrive.

It got to the point where I'd waited seven days, and hadn't heard from Jim. What was wrong with him? Why wouldn't he write me?! Was it something I'd said?! The wait was killing me. I'd come on too strong and he'd got scared. Now he wasn't speaking to me. What was I to do?!

Well, reader, I'm afraid that I was compelled to do the decent thing and 'fess up.

I know, I know - if I was made of stronger stuff, I'd have asked Jim for all our friend's email addresses and spread the message a little futher, but I'm only human, damn it. I wrote and told him:

"Hi Jim

Stephen here. I'm afraid I'm a different Stephen Beckett to the one you think I am. The one that you know hasn't really been enjoying man-love with Brad all summer. In fact, there isn't even a Brad. And even if there was one, he and Stephen would probably just be friends.

See, Stephen's not gay. You've not really been emailing him all summer. You've been emailing me, and I've been responding as your friend Stephen rather than the real Stephen (i.e. me, though from your point of view, the real Stephen is the one that's not me, but I'm sure you follow...). Why? For a laugh. Sorry if I've caused any confusion.

May I say that the way you've responded to your friends imaginary choice of lifestyle is admirable. Stephen needs friends like you, especially at a time like this, and you were there when it mattered. God bless you.

Enjoy the rest of your summer,

Stephen. (The real one.) (I think)."

And reader, do you know, he didn't even reply to say thank you? Shocking.

Anyway, that just about does her for now.

Laters,

Stephen
x

Let's harass local businesses.

2005-12-05T13:18:00.000-08:00

Hello,

Sorry I haven't updated this blog for nearly a month, but I am dreadfully lazy. I'll try harder in future, honest.

I've just emailed a cleaning company in London. Why? Because I thought of a stupid joke connected to their name and I thought I might share it with them. This is what I sent them:

"Hi,

I've noticed your plughole covers in various urinals in London pubs, and felt compelled to contact you.

Do you already have an advertising slogan? Cos if you don't might I suggest one? Might I suggest: 'Do you feel mucky, punk?'

Pretty good, eh? You can have that one.

Enjoy your day,

Stephen"

Now, I'd be the first to admit that that's a shit joke. But when considered in the context thus demonstrated, it becomes funny, dun't it? Well, maybe. It'll become exponentially funnier should I receive a reply, and so forth should I reply in a similar tone, and so on and so forth, for about three or four exchanges, whereupon the law of diminishing returns decress that value-for-money shall drop off unless I'm able to get them into an argument or something.

Oh, I've got something funny to tell you about this email I once got that was meant for someone else, but I'll tell you that one another time.

I shall post Dirty Harry's response as soon as I get it.

Until then, I shall leave you with this:

Today sees the start of the enquiry into the Britons killed in the tsunami. 'There's a lot of questions that the families of victims want answering,' said a BBC journalist this morning. That's fair enough, but I'm pretty sure that in 99% of cases, the answer is going to be 'a big fucking tidal wave'. Are taxpayers footing the bill for this?

S

Day One - Saddam: This Season's Must-Have Look

2005-11-15T14:22:00.000-08:00

This is the first post in a blog that I hope shall serve as a sounding board for my obnoxious opinions, my tasteless flights of fancy and whatever else I can think to put in it. I'm not really sure as yet, but what I am sure about is that I want a blog, and seeing as no moneys changing hands anywhere along the chain, I don't really see that anyone's got any right to complain. Innit. Shall we begin?
-----------------------------------------------

Check out the familiar image to the left there. It's Saddam Hussein. Well duh. But look again. Look closely... It's not THE Saddam Hussein. Not the one we coalition of the just went to war with last year (or whenever it was). It's a new Saddam. Re-assimilated, re-invigorated and re-juvenated. He's looking pretty fucking cool, in't he? Loose collar, salt-and-pepper beard, just got-out-of-bed hair - fuck, this man has gone from murderous dictator to a style icon for the over-40's. He's a Robert de Niro for the Arab world! He's cool AS!

How did that happen?! How did the most hated man in the West become so fucking cool? Forget the Kurdish indiscretions and the brutal dictatorship; if only they could, GQ would line him up for a photoshoot in this season's new smart-casualwear. And such movie-star conduct as well! Only Saddam and George Clooney could walk into a courtroom where decisions about their life and death are to be made and straight from the off tell the judge to go and fuck a handful of his own shit.

Let's hear it for Saddam: one hell of a comeback. Let's hope he doesn't Gadaffi it up and get all Liberace on us.