As a preface to what is to come I feel I should add that over all October had been a good month. Some very nice things happened, and as fellow blogger Happy Frog and I, noted: it is easier to list the bad things (paraphrasing there). However there some things that try as one might, I cannot let them wash over me.
First off: recruitment consultants.
They exist for the sole purpose of finding others work be it permanent, contract or temporary/freelance. They do not do it out of the goodness of their hearts, they get paid for their efforts. Say, for arguments sake they charge the end client £30 per hour for an individual's services, they take FROM £5 an hour of that for themselves. Multiply that by the number of freelancers on their books and it is sure to be a tidy sum.
Now I don't begrudge them earning a living, especially as their contacts enable me to earn one too. The bit I have a problem with is their attitude when it comes to returning calls and emails.
A bit of back story is required here: I work freelance - not through choice, I was made redundant last August and since then I have been mostly gainfully employed save the odd hiatus. I am also looking for a permanent position should the right one present itself. It is this bit of the recruitment agencies 'behaviour' that I have particular issue with. In the first instance, if an agency suggests and puts a candidate forward for a role, I feel they are entitled to feedback just as if they had attended an interview. Yet more and more, I find myself chasing these people for an answer and in effect doing their job for them.
On one occasion I attended an interview at which the client admitted they had cast the net wide as they were not sure what kind of person they needed. Fast forward 2 months and after numerous emails to the agency, I contacted the client direct to ask what the outcome was (I could guess I hadn't been successful given the time that had elapsed, but I wanted an answer) I was told that none of the initial batch of interviewees had been what they were looking for and she would have thought that after all this time I would have taken it to be a no. How rude!
In another case, I regularly contacted the agency to be repeatedly told that the client had not contacted them in ages, and then they tell me that the position has been filled. Sometimes I wonder what if anything these people do all day. It certainly isn't what one would expect them to do. Had they bothered to contact the client rather than waiting for them to get in touch maybe I wouldn't be writing this.
Stop having 'meetings' and leave facebook alone and do your job. I there are expectations on both sides. I am expected to be on time polite etc (nothing surprising there) also as I get paid by the hour, I am expected to keep busy. Permanant staff can goof off when work is slow. If it slows too much I get sent home (without pay I might add). This has happened on a couple of occasions when work has dried up or not come in. Full timers get to play on the internet, but I get to go home. On a few occasions this has even led to bookings being cut short or cancelled. Now I know that sometimes that can't be helped, but surely if you book someone for a week then after 2 days the work has dried up then someone needs to think about how they manage their resources. You might say that they were being kind in how they dispensed with my services as I was not what they wanted. Why then would they extend an initial 2 day booking to over a month? I think I have found the answer and that is that people are (mostly) human and the grim reality is that some are not good at their jobs and some hate theirs.
I have to be careful here not to segue into another rant entirely, but this problem is one that affects all customer facing roles. How many times have you been into a shop to be faced with a surly assistant? If you don't want to deal with the public get another job.
Right then, that's installment one, at an end. I could go on, but I'll save that for the next one... who will be caught in my cross-hairs next?
Saturday, 6 November 2010
Shitlist – preface
When i get mad
And i get pissed
I grab my pen
And i write out a list
Of all the people
That won't be missed
You've made my shitlist
For all the ones
Who bum me out
For all the ones
Who fill my head with doubt
For all the squares who get me pissed
You've made my shitlist
When i get mad
And i get pissed
I grab my pen
And write out a list
Of all you assholes
Who won't be missed
You've made my shitlist
Now, I think that has set the scene... sometimes you just need to vent your spleen...
As one blogger told me: "It's good to remember the positive and it is often so much easier to focus on the negative".
However, sometime a bit of ranting and railing can be cathartic, and hopefully amusing and informative at the same time...
Living in London and enduring the daily commute means that this list will have a never ending supply of candidates...
Oh and being ejected from a blog for apparently being: ignorant, inaccurate, witless, bickering and patriarchy promoting doesn't even register a blip on my radar - especially as I am right in that instance. No more details - no free adverts here - not unless I decide to give them. I don't have any fixed rules for this site and as Groucho Marx once said: I don't care to belong to a club that accepts people like me as members.
Make of that lot what you will and prepare for the onslaught.
And i get pissed
I grab my pen
And i write out a list
Of all the people
That won't be missed
You've made my shitlist
For all the ones
Who bum me out
For all the ones
Who fill my head with doubt
For all the squares who get me pissed
You've made my shitlist
When i get mad
And i get pissed
I grab my pen
And write out a list
Of all you assholes
Who won't be missed
You've made my shitlist
Now, I think that has set the scene... sometimes you just need to vent your spleen...
As one blogger told me: "It's good to remember the positive and it is often so much easier to focus on the negative".
However, sometime a bit of ranting and railing can be cathartic, and hopefully amusing and informative at the same time...
Living in London and enduring the daily commute means that this list will have a never ending supply of candidates...
Oh and being ejected from a blog for apparently being: ignorant, inaccurate, witless, bickering and patriarchy promoting doesn't even register a blip on my radar - especially as I am right in that instance. No more details - no free adverts here - not unless I decide to give them. I don't have any fixed rules for this site and as Groucho Marx once said: I don't care to belong to a club that accepts people like me as members.
Make of that lot what you will and prepare for the onslaught.
Wednesday, 29 September 2010
Skip to the end...
What I initially said in my opening salvo within these pages about twitter was and still is partly true...
OK so I succumbed... but partly for work reasons... some agencies are on there and by following them you can keep up to date with jobs... a lot quicker and easier it must be said, than facebook if you are out and about reliant on a mobile device.
If a celebrity says something then it carries more weight than if it were the utterance of a mere mortal. Take for instance the events of yesterday (Sept 28th) - something that will have passed most people by... A somewhat well known actor and writer Simon Pegg tweeted (as I believe it is called) about his dislike for the new trend of 3D cinema - I won't go into what he said and why (you can go look that up for yourself if so inclined) however the bit that got me worried was that his comments became news on another site - who more or less copied and pasted what he had written and thus a story was born. Ultimately such dross is not going to stop the world spinning or end all the troubles across the globe, but should make people stop and think a little - once you have cast your thoughts upon the web, they are no longer yours. They are public property and can and will be used against you.
In some ways this is a good thing. News is no longer forced down the throats of the consumer. They can seek out what they want in a form of their choosing and, in cases like this, bypass the 'manipulations' of the mass media. There will always be those that believe what they are told without questioning and that is their prerogative. I'm just glad I'm not one of them.
That's it, rant over.
Move along, nothing to see here
OK so I succumbed... but partly for work reasons... some agencies are on there and by following them you can keep up to date with jobs... a lot quicker and easier it must be said, than facebook if you are out and about reliant on a mobile device.
If a celebrity says something then it carries more weight than if it were the utterance of a mere mortal. Take for instance the events of yesterday (Sept 28th) - something that will have passed most people by... A somewhat well known actor and writer Simon Pegg tweeted (as I believe it is called) about his dislike for the new trend of 3D cinema - I won't go into what he said and why (you can go look that up for yourself if so inclined) however the bit that got me worried was that his comments became news on another site - who more or less copied and pasted what he had written and thus a story was born. Ultimately such dross is not going to stop the world spinning or end all the troubles across the globe, but should make people stop and think a little - once you have cast your thoughts upon the web, they are no longer yours. They are public property and can and will be used against you.
In some ways this is a good thing. News is no longer forced down the throats of the consumer. They can seek out what they want in a form of their choosing and, in cases like this, bypass the 'manipulations' of the mass media. There will always be those that believe what they are told without questioning and that is their prerogative. I'm just glad I'm not one of them.
That's it, rant over.
Move along, nothing to see here
Friday, 17 September 2010
Self expression
First off, a message to my vast army of followers. So, you are looking forward to my next post. The expectation of others is a heavy burden to bear. I mean, what if I fail to deliver and the result is disappointment (for a child to be told by a parent that they are disappointed in them cuts more deeply than all the anger in the world. Disappointment hurts) isn't it lucky that I don't care - I write this for me - for the act of writing to improve my ability to string sentences together in a mostly coherent fashion and to form some kind of narrative. Also, as at the present time my list of followers is precisely 1, it's not like I have the masses to consider, but according to the site statistics, which I think I have just about managed to decipher, there are a few more strung across the globe that have chanced upon my ramblings - please make yourself known. I won't think any the less of you.
Right then, on to the business in hand. For starters that title could probably do with some explaining. It's not about me, rather the eternally pessimistic wordsmith Will Self. OK so it's nothing more than a bad pun, but an improvement on my first thought: "I want to be Will Self". Let's get this straight from the get-go, I don't want to be him, as in to live his life and all that entails, although I would be the first to admit that it might be interesting, entertaining even, in a "Being John Malkovich" kind of way. Maybe I should have retitled this piece, I envy Will Self's writing ability, but that, let's face it is a crap title and self explanatory (pun intended - and there's more on the way) enough as not to warrant all this waffle to justify and clarify it. And besides there are more plays on his name - maybe Self Improvement would be more apt? What about Self Help? I'd better move on before I think of any more.
One evening a few weeks ago, on my way home from work, I was reading a free paper (one of many discarded by previous incumbents of that tube carriage) and having digested the article that had piqued my curiosity (namely Michael Gambon's return to the London stage following a mystery illness) I hunted around for something of sufficient length for the remainder of my journey. It was Self's visage staring forlornly up at me (he may have been smiling, but he always manages to have about him a forlorn air) that caught my eye. Any how, he has another book out, and being a writer, it's kind of what you expect of him. Now, here is a good time to point out that I had but some short while ago exited a branch of Waterstones, the possessor or the latest Terry Pratchett novel (having devoured everything he has written, apart from perhaps the odd shopping list or diary entry it seems, I have to buy them in hardback now as I can't wait till they arrive in paperback, and despite them being a pain to read on the train or bus, they do look nice on my bookshelves), so I wasn't looking for anything else to read, but Self has such a way with words (again not too high an expectation given his chosen profession) that I couldn't resist a peek at this review. I still have no idea what the book is about, nor the others of his I have read in the past but the way he, as the reviewer puts it "switch[es] from exploring the obscurest parts of the OED to wondering about "the sigmoidal flexure" of Tom Cruise's manhood" makes it hard to tear ones self away.
It was not until later in the evening when taking the dog for a walk that I wished I was endowed with his literary prowess. Only a few hundred yards from home we (the dog and I) chanced upon a fox. Not the scabby urban fox that seems to plague readers of the Daily Mail. This was a sleek and definitely most fox-like of foxes, who was not fazed by us, not even the straining, bouncing bundle of 8 month old Staff puppy, who was very pleased to see the fox and wanted to play. Fox was not so sure. Emboldened I am sure by the fact that the dog was on a lead it ventured closer. After a standoff that seemed to go on forever, but which in reality was merely a couple of seconds, I turned and headed for home, mad mutt in tow. A little further on, something, I know not what, prompted me to pause and turn round. There, sure enough about 20 paces behind, was the fox. As I turned to look it sat down and began to look nonchalantly around as if feigning innocence. On we walked. Again a little later the same routine was played out. This fox weren't no quitter, he followed at a respectful distance right up until a youngish couple coming the other way saw him. She screamed, he shouted and foxy bolted. Shame, would have liked a fox. It was then I got to thinking about how much better than I, Will Self would have described the encounter (remember that far back?) What archaic and mothballed vocabulary would he have pressed into service alongside erudite musings and profanites capable of making a squaddie blush? but then I turned the corner and was home again, I put the kettle on, and a few minutes later, tea in hand, went to sit down and picked up my most recent purchase, opened it and began to read. All thoughts of Will Self vanished as I returned happily to the Discworld once more.
The moral of this tale dear reader, if there is one (both moral and reader in this case) is that we feel that we ought to buy the high brow novel and improve ourselves, but end up with the familiar pulp fiction that we feel safe and at home with. I may yearn after the writings of Mr Self, but it was Sir Terry's book that I bought. That is not to say that Pratchett is in any way trashy, but that I know if I were to buy the other book, it would sit on the shelf for ages and when I did get round to reading it I would not enjoy it as much as the other. I read primarily for pleasure (after years in education reading all manner of stuff because I had to rather than wanted to) and while I do like to seek out new authors that will take me on journeys or literary discovery, it's like saying that you can only go on holiday to places you haven't been to before. That's plain daft.
This kind of thing or rather the reverse happens a lot. What I mean by that is that from time to time there is a book that sits atop the bestsellers list or is recommended by the well know literary scholars Madley and Finnegan, that the populous in their masses tear from the shelves of booksellers and supermarkets alike. Only to end up untouched and dusty at a car boot sale a few months later alongside numerous celebrity autobiographies.
The DaVinci code being another case in point. Without wishing to take anything away from its obvious merits, a sizeable number of its readership came to it from the cinema adaptation. Now, as a die hard Bond fan, I found at an early age that the novel and the film were two entirely different creatures. In some ways this affords you the opportunity to have your cake and eat it (ignore the mention of cake and press on) although there have been a few of the books that I would love to have been filmed as they appeared on the page, but thankfully there are several that are close enough in my opinion, if not to the text, but to the spirit of Fleming's original to placate me. On the other hand, we have Stephen King's the Shining, another favourite of mine, as is Kubric's film. Again, both very different, yet both excellent. The iconic scene where Jack Nicholson splinters the door with an axe is everything it needed to be, whereas the book has John Torrence smashing the door with a polo mallet. The description of each blow leapt off the page and has stayed with me, but it is not right for cinema (I did once catch a more recent made-for-TV adaptation which reinstated the mallet - gimme the axe any day). An author can take pages to describe something which appears on screen for mere seconds, yet there have not been many good written car chases, the only one that springs to mind is from Ian Flemming's Moonraker.
The eternal adolescent within me, has not let me forget that if I were to dislike the aforementioned Will, and embark on a rant full of scorn and disapproval, it may well have been viewed as Self abuse or perhaps I would be full of Self loathing.
If there is anyone out there reading this, I welcome your comments, feel free to criticise just so long as it is constructive.
I'm not sure where I was going with this piece, but I have ended up here. There was no purpose or agenda other than a number of thoughts were firing across my synapses and I committed them for posterity for what it is worth. I'm not sure that all of them are even fully formed or reach any kind of conclusion, but so be it.
I am now all out of ideas for the time being... I'm going back to doing what I do best - pictures... this writing malarky is not as easy as some make it look and its a long time since I last did this to any degree. Maybe one day I will write something that is fully thought out and considered, that has a beginning a middle and an end – possibly even in that order, that does not digress or wander and doesn't use ten words where one will do. Maybe, but somehow I think that day is quite a way off.
Right then, on to the business in hand. For starters that title could probably do with some explaining. It's not about me, rather the eternally pessimistic wordsmith Will Self. OK so it's nothing more than a bad pun, but an improvement on my first thought: "I want to be Will Self". Let's get this straight from the get-go, I don't want to be him, as in to live his life and all that entails, although I would be the first to admit that it might be interesting, entertaining even, in a "Being John Malkovich" kind of way. Maybe I should have retitled this piece, I envy Will Self's writing ability, but that, let's face it is a crap title and self explanatory (pun intended - and there's more on the way) enough as not to warrant all this waffle to justify and clarify it. And besides there are more plays on his name - maybe Self Improvement would be more apt? What about Self Help? I'd better move on before I think of any more.
One evening a few weeks ago, on my way home from work, I was reading a free paper (one of many discarded by previous incumbents of that tube carriage) and having digested the article that had piqued my curiosity (namely Michael Gambon's return to the London stage following a mystery illness) I hunted around for something of sufficient length for the remainder of my journey. It was Self's visage staring forlornly up at me (he may have been smiling, but he always manages to have about him a forlorn air) that caught my eye. Any how, he has another book out, and being a writer, it's kind of what you expect of him. Now, here is a good time to point out that I had but some short while ago exited a branch of Waterstones, the possessor or the latest Terry Pratchett novel (having devoured everything he has written, apart from perhaps the odd shopping list or diary entry it seems, I have to buy them in hardback now as I can't wait till they arrive in paperback, and despite them being a pain to read on the train or bus, they do look nice on my bookshelves), so I wasn't looking for anything else to read, but Self has such a way with words (again not too high an expectation given his chosen profession) that I couldn't resist a peek at this review. I still have no idea what the book is about, nor the others of his I have read in the past but the way he, as the reviewer puts it "switch[es] from exploring the obscurest parts of the OED to wondering about "the sigmoidal flexure" of Tom Cruise's manhood" makes it hard to tear ones self away.
It was not until later in the evening when taking the dog for a walk that I wished I was endowed with his literary prowess. Only a few hundred yards from home we (the dog and I) chanced upon a fox. Not the scabby urban fox that seems to plague readers of the Daily Mail. This was a sleek and definitely most fox-like of foxes, who was not fazed by us, not even the straining, bouncing bundle of 8 month old Staff puppy, who was very pleased to see the fox and wanted to play. Fox was not so sure. Emboldened I am sure by the fact that the dog was on a lead it ventured closer. After a standoff that seemed to go on forever, but which in reality was merely a couple of seconds, I turned and headed for home, mad mutt in tow. A little further on, something, I know not what, prompted me to pause and turn round. There, sure enough about 20 paces behind, was the fox. As I turned to look it sat down and began to look nonchalantly around as if feigning innocence. On we walked. Again a little later the same routine was played out. This fox weren't no quitter, he followed at a respectful distance right up until a youngish couple coming the other way saw him. She screamed, he shouted and foxy bolted. Shame, would have liked a fox. It was then I got to thinking about how much better than I, Will Self would have described the encounter (remember that far back?) What archaic and mothballed vocabulary would he have pressed into service alongside erudite musings and profanites capable of making a squaddie blush? but then I turned the corner and was home again, I put the kettle on, and a few minutes later, tea in hand, went to sit down and picked up my most recent purchase, opened it and began to read. All thoughts of Will Self vanished as I returned happily to the Discworld once more.
The moral of this tale dear reader, if there is one (both moral and reader in this case) is that we feel that we ought to buy the high brow novel and improve ourselves, but end up with the familiar pulp fiction that we feel safe and at home with. I may yearn after the writings of Mr Self, but it was Sir Terry's book that I bought. That is not to say that Pratchett is in any way trashy, but that I know if I were to buy the other book, it would sit on the shelf for ages and when I did get round to reading it I would not enjoy it as much as the other. I read primarily for pleasure (after years in education reading all manner of stuff because I had to rather than wanted to) and while I do like to seek out new authors that will take me on journeys or literary discovery, it's like saying that you can only go on holiday to places you haven't been to before. That's plain daft.
This kind of thing or rather the reverse happens a lot. What I mean by that is that from time to time there is a book that sits atop the bestsellers list or is recommended by the well know literary scholars Madley and Finnegan, that the populous in their masses tear from the shelves of booksellers and supermarkets alike. Only to end up untouched and dusty at a car boot sale a few months later alongside numerous celebrity autobiographies.
The DaVinci code being another case in point. Without wishing to take anything away from its obvious merits, a sizeable number of its readership came to it from the cinema adaptation. Now, as a die hard Bond fan, I found at an early age that the novel and the film were two entirely different creatures. In some ways this affords you the opportunity to have your cake and eat it (ignore the mention of cake and press on) although there have been a few of the books that I would love to have been filmed as they appeared on the page, but thankfully there are several that are close enough in my opinion, if not to the text, but to the spirit of Fleming's original to placate me. On the other hand, we have Stephen King's the Shining, another favourite of mine, as is Kubric's film. Again, both very different, yet both excellent. The iconic scene where Jack Nicholson splinters the door with an axe is everything it needed to be, whereas the book has John Torrence smashing the door with a polo mallet. The description of each blow leapt off the page and has stayed with me, but it is not right for cinema (I did once catch a more recent made-for-TV adaptation which reinstated the mallet - gimme the axe any day). An author can take pages to describe something which appears on screen for mere seconds, yet there have not been many good written car chases, the only one that springs to mind is from Ian Flemming's Moonraker.
The eternal adolescent within me, has not let me forget that if I were to dislike the aforementioned Will, and embark on a rant full of scorn and disapproval, it may well have been viewed as Self abuse or perhaps I would be full of Self loathing.
If there is anyone out there reading this, I welcome your comments, feel free to criticise just so long as it is constructive.
I'm not sure where I was going with this piece, but I have ended up here. There was no purpose or agenda other than a number of thoughts were firing across my synapses and I committed them for posterity for what it is worth. I'm not sure that all of them are even fully formed or reach any kind of conclusion, but so be it.
I am now all out of ideas for the time being... I'm going back to doing what I do best - pictures... this writing malarky is not as easy as some make it look and its a long time since I last did this to any degree. Maybe one day I will write something that is fully thought out and considered, that has a beginning a middle and an end – possibly even in that order, that does not digress or wander and doesn't use ten words where one will do. Maybe, but somehow I think that day is quite a way off.
Thursday, 16 September 2010
On the subject of reunions
The blog of Happy Frog and I, Tales From The Lilypad has a nicely written and evocative piece about reunions. I'm not sure I can improve upon that, but that isn't the point, I merely have some additional thoughts I wish to share.
I should begin this by stating for the record that I have been to a school reunion or two. Not the organised 'American' style affair (as a fan of the film Grosse Point Blank, I value my self esteem far too much for that). There has been one such reunion to my knowledge, with tickets and the like, and it may have even taken place at the school itself, if my memory serves me correctly. No, the kind I attended was the kind held in a pub, much like the occasion of which Happy Frog and I speak about (and if you haven't read that, click here and you will be enlightened).
As if you needed telling, reunions are not always good things. Those that have done well for themselves tend to be full of it and some people at my secondary school were, and sad to say, still are terribly materialistic, as if what matters most is how much money you earn, what car you drive, where you live, the clothes you wear. Oh don't get me wrong, I was probably much like that when younger, but life's lessons have taught me that true worth lies elsewhere.
And this is not about to become a bitter tirade about all that is wrong with the world (if I started out on that one, I might never stop) but, having been made redundant and not having an obscenely paid job in the city with guaranteed bonuses several times my salary, I now freelance and while I don't do badly, if I don't work, I don't get paid. No expenses, no bonuses and no freebies over here. Is it wrong not to want to have to listen to someone that you don't really know anymore go on about how brilliant their life is? Oh don't get me wrong, my life has more ups than downs, but I don't brag about it. Of course I'd like more money, who wouldn't?, but that is not solely what drives me. I don't need to hear the woes of someone who has had to upgrade to 1st class so as to avoid a hefty excess baggage fee and then bemoans the fact that they have probably exceeded their 128 kg baggage allowance. Excuse me if my heart doesn't bleed for you, as your smile beams out at me from your Facebook profile, barely visible above all the bags and parcels from London and New York's finest stores and most exclusive boutiques all held in a perfectly manicured hand, topped off by a relatively subtle (if such a description can indeed apply to what follows) Rolex watch. Oh don't get me wrong, I am not jealous of the lady's timepiece, I have a very nice chunk of Swiss craftsmanship weighing down my left hand, but it does not look all that, I believe the term the youth of today favour is 'bling', and unless you are either into watches or James Bond, then it won't be anything of note.
How has this gone from the perils and pitfalls of reunions to my views on watches? The point I was trying to make was that while I like nice things and some of them come with a hefty price tag, I have them because I like them, not for some perceived status or what others may think of them or me for having them. If having an expensive watch or a certain kind of phone is what matters to you and that you feel it says something about you, it probably does, but what that something is is decided by others. You may be of the opinion that it portrays you as confident and successful, whereas another pair of eyes may see the same accoutrements as signs of arrogance and superficiality.
Just as I have my own tastes and likes and dislikes that are often at odds with what is deemed 'fashionable', I also have my own standards for success and failure, right and wrong etc. I therefore don't really want to give up an evening to be judged by people who I once knew more than half a lifetime away. If people haven't remained in touch then all they have is memories, and I certainly know I am not the person I was almost 20 years ago. I have had friends tell me that they are dreading a reunion because so and so will be there and they didn't get on at school. For all either of them know they might get on like a house on fire now. I have found from experience, that I have little or nothing to do with many I was closest to while at school and that is not through deliberate choice, more just a drifting apart as the years pass. Yet I have been for a drink only a couple of weeks ago with an old classmate that I barely spoke to whilst within those hallowed halls. I'm not saying we are now the best of friends or anything of the sort. We are still very different people. He was in the army, went to war and has in all probability killed for Queen and country. He now drives a tube train and runs marathons and climbs mountains in his spare time. I am the polar opposite and partake in more cerebral pastimes, yet we enjoy one another's company and find the same things funny and can sit like two grumpy old men putting the world to rights over a pint or several. I have recently got back in touch with another old school friend who it transpires lives not far from me, has a young son, is divorced and twice in the past decade has beaten cancer.
I'm not saying everyone is hedonistic and shallow, but that that is how it can seem either at reunion gatherings or on social networking sites. It is understandable that people should wish to project the best possible image of themselves. Just as when attending these events one dresses for the occasion rather than wearing what falls to hand. You want people to see you at your best. It calls to mind the words of a friend of my grandmother "I'd rather be envied than pitied"
We all have different standards, so who are we to judge others. I may not agree with the rules by which you live your life, but so long as it does not start to affect me then it is no concern of mine. Of course, human nature being what it is, comparisons will be made, one's own life, achievements, experiences and values being the yardstick.
Back to the reunion... Much as I'd like to be Martin Blank, all mystery and looking cool in black, the truth is I and no doubt many others would be cast as Paul Spericki (Jeremy Piven) "I was just trying to get a little validation for my life. I guess I came up a bit SHORT!". However I look to another cinematic outsider as something of a role model. That of Pump Up The Volume's Happy Harry Hard-on, pirate shock jock. In reality I am Mark Hunter, who despite being a geeky loner by day, is played by Christian Slater who is not what one might call a geek (at least not to his face). I am under no illusions that I am closer to his on screen persona than Slater himself, it is 'Harry's' anonymous honesty that this blog allows me to adopt. Don't fear dear reader, I am not about to unleash a stream of profanity and vulgarity (well maybe now and again), nor am I in any hurry to fall foul of the authorities for illegally broadcasting. I might rile a few people (oh I should be so lucky that anyone might even be reading this), but then any and everyone is free to exercise the only form of censorship that I endorse, that of self censorship i.e. If you don't like it, change the channel, turn the page, click the mouse or jog on.
I know I strayed from the path of reunions yet again, but hey, this is my blog and therefore my rules.
Down to business. I got my wild cherry diet Pepsi and I got my Black Jack gum here and I got that feeling, mmm yeah that familiar feeling that something rank is going down out there.
I should begin this by stating for the record that I have been to a school reunion or two. Not the organised 'American' style affair (as a fan of the film Grosse Point Blank, I value my self esteem far too much for that). There has been one such reunion to my knowledge, with tickets and the like, and it may have even taken place at the school itself, if my memory serves me correctly. No, the kind I attended was the kind held in a pub, much like the occasion of which Happy Frog and I speak about (and if you haven't read that, click here and you will be enlightened).
As if you needed telling, reunions are not always good things. Those that have done well for themselves tend to be full of it and some people at my secondary school were, and sad to say, still are terribly materialistic, as if what matters most is how much money you earn, what car you drive, where you live, the clothes you wear. Oh don't get me wrong, I was probably much like that when younger, but life's lessons have taught me that true worth lies elsewhere.
And this is not about to become a bitter tirade about all that is wrong with the world (if I started out on that one, I might never stop) but, having been made redundant and not having an obscenely paid job in the city with guaranteed bonuses several times my salary, I now freelance and while I don't do badly, if I don't work, I don't get paid. No expenses, no bonuses and no freebies over here. Is it wrong not to want to have to listen to someone that you don't really know anymore go on about how brilliant their life is? Oh don't get me wrong, my life has more ups than downs, but I don't brag about it. Of course I'd like more money, who wouldn't?, but that is not solely what drives me. I don't need to hear the woes of someone who has had to upgrade to 1st class so as to avoid a hefty excess baggage fee and then bemoans the fact that they have probably exceeded their 128 kg baggage allowance. Excuse me if my heart doesn't bleed for you, as your smile beams out at me from your Facebook profile, barely visible above all the bags and parcels from London and New York's finest stores and most exclusive boutiques all held in a perfectly manicured hand, topped off by a relatively subtle (if such a description can indeed apply to what follows) Rolex watch. Oh don't get me wrong, I am not jealous of the lady's timepiece, I have a very nice chunk of Swiss craftsmanship weighing down my left hand, but it does not look all that, I believe the term the youth of today favour is 'bling', and unless you are either into watches or James Bond, then it won't be anything of note.
How has this gone from the perils and pitfalls of reunions to my views on watches? The point I was trying to make was that while I like nice things and some of them come with a hefty price tag, I have them because I like them, not for some perceived status or what others may think of them or me for having them. If having an expensive watch or a certain kind of phone is what matters to you and that you feel it says something about you, it probably does, but what that something is is decided by others. You may be of the opinion that it portrays you as confident and successful, whereas another pair of eyes may see the same accoutrements as signs of arrogance and superficiality.
Just as I have my own tastes and likes and dislikes that are often at odds with what is deemed 'fashionable', I also have my own standards for success and failure, right and wrong etc. I therefore don't really want to give up an evening to be judged by people who I once knew more than half a lifetime away. If people haven't remained in touch then all they have is memories, and I certainly know I am not the person I was almost 20 years ago. I have had friends tell me that they are dreading a reunion because so and so will be there and they didn't get on at school. For all either of them know they might get on like a house on fire now. I have found from experience, that I have little or nothing to do with many I was closest to while at school and that is not through deliberate choice, more just a drifting apart as the years pass. Yet I have been for a drink only a couple of weeks ago with an old classmate that I barely spoke to whilst within those hallowed halls. I'm not saying we are now the best of friends or anything of the sort. We are still very different people. He was in the army, went to war and has in all probability killed for Queen and country. He now drives a tube train and runs marathons and climbs mountains in his spare time. I am the polar opposite and partake in more cerebral pastimes, yet we enjoy one another's company and find the same things funny and can sit like two grumpy old men putting the world to rights over a pint or several. I have recently got back in touch with another old school friend who it transpires lives not far from me, has a young son, is divorced and twice in the past decade has beaten cancer.
I'm not saying everyone is hedonistic and shallow, but that that is how it can seem either at reunion gatherings or on social networking sites. It is understandable that people should wish to project the best possible image of themselves. Just as when attending these events one dresses for the occasion rather than wearing what falls to hand. You want people to see you at your best. It calls to mind the words of a friend of my grandmother "I'd rather be envied than pitied"
We all have different standards, so who are we to judge others. I may not agree with the rules by which you live your life, but so long as it does not start to affect me then it is no concern of mine. Of course, human nature being what it is, comparisons will be made, one's own life, achievements, experiences and values being the yardstick.
Back to the reunion... Much as I'd like to be Martin Blank, all mystery and looking cool in black, the truth is I and no doubt many others would be cast as Paul Spericki (Jeremy Piven) "I was just trying to get a little validation for my life. I guess I came up a bit SHORT!". However I look to another cinematic outsider as something of a role model. That of Pump Up The Volume's Happy Harry Hard-on, pirate shock jock. In reality I am Mark Hunter, who despite being a geeky loner by day, is played by Christian Slater who is not what one might call a geek (at least not to his face). I am under no illusions that I am closer to his on screen persona than Slater himself, it is 'Harry's' anonymous honesty that this blog allows me to adopt. Don't fear dear reader, I am not about to unleash a stream of profanity and vulgarity (well maybe now and again), nor am I in any hurry to fall foul of the authorities for illegally broadcasting. I might rile a few people (oh I should be so lucky that anyone might even be reading this), but then any and everyone is free to exercise the only form of censorship that I endorse, that of self censorship i.e. If you don't like it, change the channel, turn the page, click the mouse or jog on.
I know I strayed from the path of reunions yet again, but hey, this is my blog and therefore my rules.
Down to business. I got my wild cherry diet Pepsi and I got my Black Jack gum here and I got that feeling, mmm yeah that familiar feeling that something rank is going down out there.
Saturday, 28 August 2010
Memories of Metal
(this was going to be just a comment in reply to a post by "Happy Frog and I" but I fear it will be even longer than usual once I hit my stride so I'll make it a post in its own right)
First a quick thank you to the brains behind Happy Frog and I for the plug. Also I loved your most recent post, that on Heavy Metal. Very evocative. In many ways those memories could have been mine. Save for the bit about jewelry and fake tattoos and being rescued although I know similar things happened to several friends.
I remember being in just such a group at school, there were as I recall several factions, most notably the 'metals' and the 'indies'. Aside from that were no doubt goths and devotees of other musical genres and then there were the 'popular' people who were probably guided musically by radio 1 and TOTP.
It was the Indies and the Metals in particular that fought over the common room stereo and once won, would guard their prize fiercely. We thought we were unique and different, but my guess is the same thing was going on up and down the country and no doubt in other lands where Metal was king - however unlike the Germans we had little or no time for the Scorpions. In fact the guess has proved to be just so as Happy frog and I so eloquently attest
I recall that an encyclopedic knowledge of bands, their members and their origins was almost obligatory...This was at a time when Jason Newsted had just filled the gap in Metallica left by the late great Cliff Burton and opinion was very much still divided on the matter.
Somewhere from back in the dark and dusty recesses of my memory comes the image of a center spread from Metal Hammer Magazine, which although I cannot remember its title, was a Heavy Metal 'family tree' beginning with likes of Sabbath and Zeppelin and showing the lineage - bands influenced by and directly descended from. It was at the time more important than the A-levels, AS levels, or GCSE retakes that my comrades and I should have been devoting our time to. To this day I still remember more of the time spent in the common room than the class room. Whether this is a good thing or not is something I cannot possibly comment on, although I do occasionally wear a Metallica or Led Zep t-shirt to work (one of the blessings of being in a creative profession I guess)
I can recall, still, with a wry smile when Appetite For Destruction came out the headmaster mistakenly banned the playing of The Stone Roses, thus deepening the rift between the metals and the indies.
Now I enjoy a wide range of musical genres (just the other day I listened to only De La Soul and found it really rather enjoyable, whereas the day before had been an AC/DC day), it seems funny to think how closed my mind was back then to anything that strayed from the "true path of metal"™ (not easy to make the 'horns' while typing!) I still love guitar based rock music and the bands of my youth have been etched indelibly onto my soul and most certainly my ear drums. While I am open minded to most things, until there is reason to be otherwise, there are times when only metal will do - It is hard to explain but occasionally I just HAVE to listen to the likes of Anthrax, Motörhead, Metallica, Iron Maiden or Soundgarden. Thankfully the genre is wide and diverse and I can switch to something such as Therapy? as a bit of a break. Let's not get into a heated debate about what is and what isn't metal... I mean nowadays Def Leppard isn't what you would call extreme - let's just say I like what I like and I am always right.
The lyrics of Suicidal Tendencies "You Can't Bring Me Down" sum up that period in my life and to a degree have stayed true to this day:
First off-let's take it from the start
Straight out-can't change what's in my heart
No one-can tear my beliefs apart
Just cause you don't understand what's going on don't mean it don't make no sense
And just cause you don't like it, don't mean it ain't no good
I learned last week that none other than the great Lemmy had signed up as part of a promotion for a well known beer brand to record a slowed down version of The Ace Of Spades. At first I was aghast, but soon began to think: "Hmm, might be worth a listen".
It could all have been so very different. My parents were the of the generation that were the original teenagers. Born in the war years, they never ceased to tire of telling me that they had been there and done it all before and better. They did indeed blaze the trail for us. They had the new rock n roll, it was a pioneering time without a doubt, but as with every generation of adolescents before or since, we weren't going to listen to our parents - what could they possibly know of being young... they were... old.
My aunt and uncle were just that bit younger and while mum and dad grew up on a diet of Elvis, Buddy Holly and Eddie Cochran, they had the Beatles and the Stones, Janis and Jimmi, the Doors and the Who. (They also gave me my comedy roots - my dads contribution being The Goons, Hancock and The Navy Lark to name but a few, whereas my uncle worshiped at the church of Monty Python, but that is another story for another day)
With such a start musically I could hardly go wrong, my uncle was a big fan of Led Zeppelin and Deep Purple, a bug he passed to me. But just as I was beginning to appreciate music independently of their influences my dad seemed out of nowhere and for no apparent reason to develop a liking for Country and Western (take heart Happy Frog, you are not alone, I share your pain and torment). At the time and for a long while after I was horrified and ashamed. I later understood the logic behind it - early rock n roll and country music has much in common, and without turning this into a dissertation on musical history, let's just say I understood it, but wasn't happy about it. As age has weathered and mellowed me (surely not!?!) I have even embraced certain aspects of this genre. Johnny Cash and Willy Nelson being just two exponents who's output I respect and enjoy.
Shortly before my father's death we struck a kind of musical truce. I accepted that some Country was OK, but under no circumstances was folk music to be played within my earshot (would he thank me or call me a hypocrite for playing Cat Stevens at his funeral I wonder?). To this day and because of my Dad, one of my favourite songs is 'Always On My Mind' by Willie Nelson and I can't listen to it without shedding copious tears. Elvis' version just doesn't do it for me somehow.
I now listen to lots of different types of music, but as with "I" of the Happy Frog collaboration, Heavy Metal in its various guises from NWOBHM to thrash to grunge and most points in between, was my first serious musical relationship. I have had flings with sundry other genres and formed lasting relationships yet more still, but I will always love my precious Metal.
Thursday, 26 August 2010
Umbrella etiquette
I dread it raining.
Not for the rain in itself, which can be nice after a clammy humid day, especially in and around a heaving metropolis. It comes as a welcome relief. Not so much fun I grant you when it is coming down in stair-rods and you are soaked through to the very core.
No, the dread of which I write is brought about by umbrellas and more specifically the people (mis)using them.
I believe it is just another manifestation of the general lack of awareness and consideration for others.
I shall elucidate. As I walked along a fairly busy thoroughfare in London which I shall call the Kings Road, because that's where it was, and as it was raining, I had my umbrella up like so many others keen to remain as dry as possible.
The problem comes when you encounter another person with an umbrella headed straight towards you.
If we were motorists approaching one another along a single track one would pull into a space to let the other pass.
When I encounter a fellow umbrellaist coming the other way, I tend to either tilt mine away from them and if they are a considerate person they will do likewise and we pass without incident or further ado.
When that is not possible or practical I raise my umbrella to a sufficient height so as to allow the other person's to pass under without collision. On occasion the on-comer beats me to the maneuver and I, nodding my thanks lower mine as I pass below.
What irks me no end are those inconsiderate persons that not only fail to observe the rules of polite umbrellaship, but keep their umbrellas so low as to endanger other pedestrians thanks to them being held at eye level.
Then there are the times when umbrellas should be furled... for instance when standing beneath a bus shelter. Today I encountered someone who by my reckoning had reached a zenith of stupidity/ignorance.
Not only was the woman who is about to be subjected to my scorn and ridicule standing under a bus shelter with her umbrella fully deployed, but she was also wearing a large yellow cagoule (of the kind favoured by tourists, hikers and riders of theme park water rides) with the hood up!!!
As I approached her, I realised that due to the proximity of the shelter roof I could not raise my brolly, not could I tilt it thanks to the wall close by. So I lowered it and partially collapsed it and proceeded through the downpour, only to have to veer suddenly to one side as the offending woman turned to look at one of the maps on the wall of the shelter, tipping back her umbrella and thrusting the rim right at my face. Why was I given such a reproachful glare when I issued a harsh "Excuse Me!!" ? The woman was so totally engrossed in her own world as to be practically unaware of her surroundings. If only people paid a little more attention when out and about then such incidents of umbrella rage need not occur.
Don't even get me started on golf umbrellas. Unless you are a golfist and have your bats on the pitch for a match when it starts raining then you have no legitimate reason for carrying said item.
Now, do I feel better for having unburdened myself into the vastness of cyberspace – partially and I suspect it will be short lived as I proceed through life with trepidation ever cautious of the next thing that will take the sine off my day.
On a lighter note – still on the subject of umbrellas – I have a splendid one. It is black, full sized, automatic and most notably has a handle resembling the hilt of a samurai sword. It is flamboyant yet practical and is responsible for a plethora of reactions and responses ranging from alarmed stares and double takes through to smiles and laughter and more enquiries as to where I got it than I can count..
It is this that makes up for not only the shitty weather we are having to endure while someone remembers what they did with summer, but also those who persist in using their umbrellas without due care and attention.
Not for the rain in itself, which can be nice after a clammy humid day, especially in and around a heaving metropolis. It comes as a welcome relief. Not so much fun I grant you when it is coming down in stair-rods and you are soaked through to the very core.
No, the dread of which I write is brought about by umbrellas and more specifically the people (mis)using them.
I believe it is just another manifestation of the general lack of awareness and consideration for others.
I shall elucidate. As I walked along a fairly busy thoroughfare in London which I shall call the Kings Road, because that's where it was, and as it was raining, I had my umbrella up like so many others keen to remain as dry as possible.
The problem comes when you encounter another person with an umbrella headed straight towards you.
If we were motorists approaching one another along a single track one would pull into a space to let the other pass.
When I encounter a fellow umbrellaist coming the other way, I tend to either tilt mine away from them and if they are a considerate person they will do likewise and we pass without incident or further ado.
When that is not possible or practical I raise my umbrella to a sufficient height so as to allow the other person's to pass under without collision. On occasion the on-comer beats me to the maneuver and I, nodding my thanks lower mine as I pass below.
What irks me no end are those inconsiderate persons that not only fail to observe the rules of polite umbrellaship, but keep their umbrellas so low as to endanger other pedestrians thanks to them being held at eye level.
Then there are the times when umbrellas should be furled... for instance when standing beneath a bus shelter. Today I encountered someone who by my reckoning had reached a zenith of stupidity/ignorance.
Not only was the woman who is about to be subjected to my scorn and ridicule standing under a bus shelter with her umbrella fully deployed, but she was also wearing a large yellow cagoule (of the kind favoured by tourists, hikers and riders of theme park water rides) with the hood up!!!
As I approached her, I realised that due to the proximity of the shelter roof I could not raise my brolly, not could I tilt it thanks to the wall close by. So I lowered it and partially collapsed it and proceeded through the downpour, only to have to veer suddenly to one side as the offending woman turned to look at one of the maps on the wall of the shelter, tipping back her umbrella and thrusting the rim right at my face. Why was I given such a reproachful glare when I issued a harsh "Excuse Me!!" ? The woman was so totally engrossed in her own world as to be practically unaware of her surroundings. If only people paid a little more attention when out and about then such incidents of umbrella rage need not occur.
Don't even get me started on golf umbrellas. Unless you are a golfist and have your bats on the pitch for a match when it starts raining then you have no legitimate reason for carrying said item.
Now, do I feel better for having unburdened myself into the vastness of cyberspace – partially and I suspect it will be short lived as I proceed through life with trepidation ever cautious of the next thing that will take the sine off my day.
On a lighter note – still on the subject of umbrellas – I have a splendid one. It is black, full sized, automatic and most notably has a handle resembling the hilt of a samurai sword. It is flamboyant yet practical and is responsible for a plethora of reactions and responses ranging from alarmed stares and double takes through to smiles and laughter and more enquiries as to where I got it than I can count..
 |
| available from: http://kikkerland.com/ and no doubt copyright them ;) |
It is this that makes up for not only the shitty weather we are having to endure while someone remembers what they did with summer, but also those who persist in using their umbrellas without due care and attention.
Wednesday, 25 August 2010
A hypocracy I can live with
I was never going to blog...
Not for me in any way shape or form
Couldn't see the point of it.
This was of course back when Blogging was in it's infancy...
It may have something to do with the fact I didn't and still don't keep a diary – other than appointments and even then only sporadically.
What has changed I don't hear you ask?
Well as the years have crept by and blogging has become increasingly more prolific I first began to notice that increasingly more often than not when searching for something or other, at least a few of the results took me to a blog. Initially I skipped these in favour of more 'reliable' sources of information but
as we all know - or if you didn't prepare for a revelation – Wikipedia is not infallible and pretty much anyone can contribute. I therefore reasoned as have many before me that blogs are as good a place as any to find what one may
be looking for.
Then friends and acquaintances started blogging on all manner or subjects and for myriad reasons.
Facebook (to a lesser extent) and Twitter especially are as we all know, essentially mini blogs and since their rise to popularity I have come to regard blogs as the preserve of those with greater dedication - even if it is simply a dedication to reporting the minutiae of daily life.
I still maintained that' while I had acquired a long and diverse list of bookmarked blogs, the act of creating and maintaining one was not for me.
That's all very well, but that still doesn't explain what has brought about the move from a change in attitude to a decisive action.
Well for one thing there was no one thing to credit or blame for this. Change has occurred gradually and largely unnoticed even by myself.
I found myself becoming more prolific in my note making. Usually this took the form of some germ of an idea or the railing against something I considered an affront or injustice towards my sensibilities - more than anything this served to get things off my chest.
It began to dawn on me that for all intents and purposes I was keeping a blog. The only real differences being; a) it was not published and; b) it was largely illegible to anyone but me.
So what have I got to offer the world at large?
Well, that remains to be seen – this could for all anyone, myself included, knows be my one and only post. I somehow doubt it, but the only thing I can say with any certainty is that I haven't planned anything.
Not for me in any way shape or form
Couldn't see the point of it.
This was of course back when Blogging was in it's infancy...
It may have something to do with the fact I didn't and still don't keep a diary – other than appointments and even then only sporadically.
What has changed I don't hear you ask?
Well as the years have crept by and blogging has become increasingly more prolific I first began to notice that increasingly more often than not when searching for something or other, at least a few of the results took me to a blog. Initially I skipped these in favour of more 'reliable' sources of information but
as we all know - or if you didn't prepare for a revelation – Wikipedia is not infallible and pretty much anyone can contribute. I therefore reasoned as have many before me that blogs are as good a place as any to find what one may
be looking for.
Then friends and acquaintances started blogging on all manner or subjects and for myriad reasons.
Facebook (to a lesser extent) and Twitter especially are as we all know, essentially mini blogs and since their rise to popularity I have come to regard blogs as the preserve of those with greater dedication - even if it is simply a dedication to reporting the minutiae of daily life.
I still maintained that' while I had acquired a long and diverse list of bookmarked blogs, the act of creating and maintaining one was not for me.
That's all very well, but that still doesn't explain what has brought about the move from a change in attitude to a decisive action.
Well for one thing there was no one thing to credit or blame for this. Change has occurred gradually and largely unnoticed even by myself.
I found myself becoming more prolific in my note making. Usually this took the form of some germ of an idea or the railing against something I considered an affront or injustice towards my sensibilities - more than anything this served to get things off my chest.
It began to dawn on me that for all intents and purposes I was keeping a blog. The only real differences being; a) it was not published and; b) it was largely illegible to anyone but me.
So what have I got to offer the world at large?
Well, that remains to be seen – this could for all anyone, myself included, knows be my one and only post. I somehow doubt it, but the only thing I can say with any certainty is that I haven't planned anything.
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