Heroes and villains
Stealing other people’s ideas is neither big nor clever. Didn’t anybody ever teach you that? If do so in an assessed essay, you can get into quite a lot of trouble for plagiarism. If you do it in real life, you can even get sued for copyright infringement.
So why do Sin Bin think that they can steal my idea and use as a theme?
A trivial pursuit
You know those funny little silver balls that go on top of cakes? They’re called dragées. The weird stringy bits in between a banana and its skin? They’re phloem bundles. Pretty cool, huh?! The proper name for the ”?!” I used just then is an interrobang. God, I love that word.
I was reading an article the other day with names for all of these funny things we normally call ‘thingummies’ and ‘whatjamacallits’ and, I have to say, I thought it was pretty ace.
Is it just me...
...or does an eye for eye not actually make the whole world blind after all?
Gandhi was wrong. There you go. Probably the best spiritual and political leader of India in the world ever was wrong. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.
It doesn’t. Let’s get that straight. If you poke someone’s eye out with a pointy stick, they might poke you back. That makes one eye down each. I get that. But then you poke their other eye out and WHAM. That’s it. Fight over. You just have to dodge a bit. Maybe move back a couple of steps. Run in a circle pretending you’re a plane. They’ll never get your other eye. They can’t see you.
It’s all over the front page
Britain is in the midst of a moral meltdown. The monolithic BBC is trampling unchecked over our basic British values and dignity, while our uncaring social workers stand by and watch impassively as photogenic children are tortured to death.
At least, that’s the impression I’ve got. Let’s start with that immoral institution that threatens to undermine the very fabric of our society: the Beeb.
Style's out of fashion
Ah, November, how I’ve missed you. Leaves crackling underfoot; frosty nights spent playing Mario Kart by candlelight; hedgehogs roasting on an open bonfire…
I have missed less, however, the familiar onrush of essays. The mad scrambles to the library for one of the three copies of that vital book. The desperate reservations and accompanying fury when someone decides to just keep the book for a bit longer and pay the fine (there really should be some sort of compensation for the victim for that; a 25p fine is nothing compared to the anguish I suffer).
Media's moral guardian?
I’m going to come right out and say it – I actually quite like the News of the World. I fully accept that in having admitted this, I have relinquished all claims to journalistic integrity, but there you go. We all have our crosses to bear. I love the tacky headlines, the gaudy pictures, the sexual outrage. What I love most of all is the fundamental hypocrisy of it all.
Is it just me? It can’t be. I fail to see how anybody can fail to be amused by a kiss-and-tell exposé told out in a slightly scandalised fashion, framed by photos of the less-than-discreet participants in their sexiest undergarments. Oh, and let’s not forget those essential vital statistics of the lovely ladies, either. Frankly, it’s bloody fantastic – as cheap thrills go, it’s up there in the bargain bin.
Is it just me...
...or is everyone who they are these days?
Reality TV (we have to stop calling it that), has a new set of catchphrases. Repeated endlessly by banal, preening idiots, they’re the mantras of choice used as primitive responses to feeling threatened, or artificial shows of support for the person they decried as ‘such a bitch’ only moments before.
I am who I am. You are who you are. These statements may appear eye-shatteringly obvious, but they have been elevated to the level of the profound by sheer repetition and, significantly, a refusal to consider that perhaps ‘being yourself’ is not always the best strategy.
It’s all over the front page
It’s occurred to me that this column has become a bit of a bashing of right-wing newspapers. The Express, The Mail and The Telegraph have all felt the wrath of my words (er, yeah) in recent weeks. I may not agree with their opinions, but it’s mostly coincidence that they’ve been mentioned most often here. To balance things up, I feel I should at least have a little go at The Guardian and The Independent.
So, The Guardian and The Independent. Yeah. They’re pretty poncey. Only teachers read them. Liberal Teachers who only eat free-range tofu. Yeah.
Supernatural disbelief
I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to think I’m psychic. This might seem bold, even arrogant (unless you agree with me, in which case get in touch), but the other night I had a dream. The soundtrack to this dream was Babies. What’s that, you say, Pulp’s kitchen sink masterpiece Babies Why yes, I reply, the very same. I then woke up with the aforementioned classic giddily careering around my head.
That’s hardly surprising – I’d been dreaming about it. But when I left the house, I put my MP3 player on shuffle. The first song came on. It was ‘Babies’.
Heroes and Villains
I’m always slightly sceptical about any hyped-up new TV series. If everyone’s talking about it, it’s bound to be a disappointment. Desperate Housewives, Lost, Heroes – all of these have passed me by, their absence leaving no discernable void within my happy little world.
Dead Set, though – that one’s a different kettle of fish altogether. Or even a different plague of zombies, if you’ll indulge me on that one.
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