Steve Ahearne 25 November 2009
The rain has been utterly depressing recently.
I've spent untold hours hiding away from November rain and a number of other Axl Rose compositions. In an attempt to fill my free time on these wet winter evenings I have fallen victim to an all consuming, burning lust.
An addiction no less.
Football Manager 2010 started out as just an occasional vice born from a bid to save some readies by staying in of a night.
“It's just a football manager game I said”, “It will be OK in small doses; once, twice a week”.
Before the realisation hit home that I was hooked; I was … well … hooked.
Obviously.
Sadly my tale is one so familiar to others who have tread this bleak and lonely path before. We are the husks of humanity, ghosts of men. Cursed to hide indoors and develop nocturnal habits.
We half listen to the idiot box (tuned in to BBC News 24 or maybe Sky Sports News) repeating the same story you half listened to half an hour ago.
I must confess that my own particular low point came a few weeks ago at the height of the insidious Computer game's hold over me.
A first season promotion for my team was followed by a season of Premiership survival, the next saw improvement as my managerial stock started to rise. A fifth placed finish with my unfashionable little team the following season led to job offers. I went abroad (in the game world not the real world, which I assure you was happily spinning by outside) and made it to the Champions League final.
I was so exited I got a little carried away and put on my best suit - you know, to look tidy for such an important match.
What kind of prat did I look?, dressed to the nines for an artificially simulated clash between two sets of opposing computer graphics.
My press conference in the bath room mirror was a non-event so cheesy that all further details will remain locked firmly in a crate marked 'Top Secret' like at the end of Indiana Jones: Raiders of the lost ark.
Talking of looking a bit of a prat; I have recently happened upon many tales of Gordon Brown's latest cock-ups. The poor fellow can't seem to do anything right at the moment. He misspells a name and he's lambasted, he opens his mouth and people tell him to shut it. When he shuts it we want him to say something instead.
From the reeking compost that is Brown's dying Labour government grows Britain's one true – magnolia (sorry, I meant saviour, honestly).
David Cameron has positively blossomed in popularity as a result of Gordon Brown's utter inability to make anybody like him. It must hurt too given how easy even Tony Blair made it all look in the early Nineties.
The recent Queen's speech party political broadcasts have made for tremendous viewing given the lack of laugh-out-loud-funny comedy programmes at the moment.
Labour's effort was akin to a GSCE history programme on Channel 4. All upright classical strains interwoven with images of great Socialist achievements.
The voice over spoke with perhaps deserved pride at the legacy of such Labour greats as: Aneurin Bevan and his NHS, Keir Hardie and his unifying of the trade unions into a political party. Clement Attlee and his dismantling of the Empire.
All great and super.
Except that the broadcast failed to actually mention anything substantial about the current government's achievements. Oops.
By comparison the Tory broadcast was, in my eyes, a work of genius. Cameron knows he is such a sure bet to voted in at the next election, that his broadcast contained absolutely nothing positive. And it didn't matter.
Cameron offered us a few really tough years of financial hardship, before promising a few more years of fiscal frailty for dessert.
Brown has made Cameron look such an attractive prospect that Cameron is literally offering us a dog mess salad and we're wolfing it down with big mouthfuls of 'harsh-financial-truth'.
The next few years are going to be so bad that the Tories don't even have to pretend to have any policies to sell us (I'm sure they actually do).
Just give us the guy in the button-downed shirt, riding the rail, giving it to us straight. Warts-and-all. We can take it!
Go Dave, you're not Gord and that's enough for us! The sooner the major parties realise that modern politics is following an American trend to sell personalities rather than agenda's; the sooner we will get to election specials like: 'I'm a politician, get me out of here', 'Big Labour' and 'Strictly come voting'.
Maybe even a survival based show where the prospective PM has to survive in the wilds doing SAS training (Paddy Ashdown would win hands down!), living off next to nothing like low earning families, worming their way out of sticky situations, and backstabbing (literally) each other for points.
Followed by a duel at twenty paces. Lets call it 'Election Smackdown 2010: The rivals.'
I can dream...
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
The great train robbery
'The great train robbery'
Today (in my eyes at least) Southern Rail have managed to surpass bankers (I was tempted to 'accidentally' misspell that one), speed cameras, MP's and yes, even traffic wardens, as the most evil money grabbing shower currently plying their trade and whoring their wares about this fine country.
Please indulge me the crowing of a few grievances judiciously presented to me during what should have been a pleasant day excursion to Richmond (a lovely town it is too by the way).
The great bubble of excitement garnered prior to my departure was quickly and brutally burst when I discovered that the already cramped carriages were full. Thus I had paid for little more than a 'stand' as opposed to a 'seat' on the train.
This may not sound quite so unusual but, alas, there were a great many seats available apart from the auspiciously and strategically placed bags which had either shod all semblance of inertia and managed to buy themselves a ticket; or were being used as a totemistic fabric-lined gesture akin to a bi-digital salute.
In short their owners were saying “Sod off, sit somewhere else, anywhere else, just not next to me”.
Friendly eh?
After fighting my way through the narrow gangways of loose limbs, suitcases and bag straps and just when all hope of some reasonable degree of comfort seemed lost, a beautiful vision hove into view with all the allure of a shiny ball to a particularly wired pooch.
Empty seats! Sans baggage or laptops. I felt richer than King Croesus and the god of small things wrapped neatly into one.
Hip, hip and indeed hooray.
My hopes were dashed when I espied the '1st Class' sticker plastered on the window. Well, the seats were empty and the designated '1st Class' area was but a paragraph in the page of carriage four. It wasn't even it's own page (or carriage to dispense with the book metaphor).
“This must be some stickering error made by some spotty, zit ridden, over-zealous apprentice train conductor” thought I.
And with good reason to boot, as the '1st Class' area was anything but '1st Class'.
As I have mentioned it was a mere bit of a carriage, rather than a whole designated carriage as one expects to find on rail transport, nestled in with '2nd Class' or 'Rubbish Class' seating/standing (there was no sticker telling me how it should be labelled, so I have taken on the job personally in case we all end up covered in stickers and Clearasil).
The seats in '1st Class' were exactly the same as 'Rubbish Class'. The same lack of leg room for anyone over 4' tall, the same squeaky pull down table hanging off the seat in front, the same graffiti extolling the virtues of 'NWA', the same stained upholstery, the same amonia-riddled smell clogging the air.
There was literally no difference according to my panoramic survey with the seats five feet away in 'Rubbish Class' (though maybe under microscopic examination one may chance upon a better quality of crumb nestled betwixt seat and arm rest).
I must confess to feeling a twinge of guilt however for imposing upon this palatial beacon of salubrity having not paid through the nose for it, but needs must.
My hopes of a pleasant journey were further dashed by the arrival of two 'Authorised Inspectors', one of whom bore more than a passing resemblance to Roald Dahls' spinster headmistress 'Trunchbull' of 'Matilda' fame.
Far from bothering the greedy peoples who opted to treat their bag/laptop/suitcase as one would a paying customer, they gleefully stormed into '1st Class' and demanded tickets. Upon production of my 'Rubbish Class' ticket I was unceremoniously fined a £20 on the spot penalty fine.
The sheer rudeness and lack of any sort of humanity told me that any appeals for mercy would fall upon ears colder than those of 'The Terminator' himself.
Added to the fact that my initial ticket cost near £20 (the one that bought me only the right to stand and be damned grateful for the privilege you'll remember) this brief foray on public transport cost me £40 for really only a short journey.
Could a brief warning coupled with a “move it or lose it” sentiment not replace this punctilious adherence to a draconian code of conduct?
Does customer service mean anything any more? Humility? Good-naturedness?
Sure I should have been incredibly grateful for my opportunity to make way for some suited buffoon's bag, but I was a paying customer and don't appreciate being treated like a rogue, vagabond or robber.
Besides, anyone actually paying '1st Class' prices must feel that they have been robbed themselves given the apparent lack of any discernible class therein.
Bad show Southern Rail, bad show.
Maybe the proceeds of my fine and those of many others gained throughout the year no doubt, could be put towards making '1st Class' seating look less like the last Turkey in the shop and more like the sumptuously dressed dinner implied in the name...
...or maybe it would be money well spent providing enough seating for those of us not chaperoning a V.I.B. (very important bag – more important than common decency, clearly).
Today (in my eyes at least) Southern Rail have managed to surpass bankers (I was tempted to 'accidentally' misspell that one), speed cameras, MP's and yes, even traffic wardens, as the most evil money grabbing shower currently plying their trade and whoring their wares about this fine country.
Please indulge me the crowing of a few grievances judiciously presented to me during what should have been a pleasant day excursion to Richmond (a lovely town it is too by the way).
The great bubble of excitement garnered prior to my departure was quickly and brutally burst when I discovered that the already cramped carriages were full. Thus I had paid for little more than a 'stand' as opposed to a 'seat' on the train.
This may not sound quite so unusual but, alas, there were a great many seats available apart from the auspiciously and strategically placed bags which had either shod all semblance of inertia and managed to buy themselves a ticket; or were being used as a totemistic fabric-lined gesture akin to a bi-digital salute.
In short their owners were saying “Sod off, sit somewhere else, anywhere else, just not next to me”.
Friendly eh?
After fighting my way through the narrow gangways of loose limbs, suitcases and bag straps and just when all hope of some reasonable degree of comfort seemed lost, a beautiful vision hove into view with all the allure of a shiny ball to a particularly wired pooch.
Empty seats! Sans baggage or laptops. I felt richer than King Croesus and the god of small things wrapped neatly into one.
Hip, hip and indeed hooray.
My hopes were dashed when I espied the '1st Class' sticker plastered on the window. Well, the seats were empty and the designated '1st Class' area was but a paragraph in the page of carriage four. It wasn't even it's own page (or carriage to dispense with the book metaphor).
“This must be some stickering error made by some spotty, zit ridden, over-zealous apprentice train conductor” thought I.
And with good reason to boot, as the '1st Class' area was anything but '1st Class'.
As I have mentioned it was a mere bit of a carriage, rather than a whole designated carriage as one expects to find on rail transport, nestled in with '2nd Class' or 'Rubbish Class' seating/standing (there was no sticker telling me how it should be labelled, so I have taken on the job personally in case we all end up covered in stickers and Clearasil).
The seats in '1st Class' were exactly the same as 'Rubbish Class'. The same lack of leg room for anyone over 4' tall, the same squeaky pull down table hanging off the seat in front, the same graffiti extolling the virtues of 'NWA', the same stained upholstery, the same amonia-riddled smell clogging the air.
There was literally no difference according to my panoramic survey with the seats five feet away in 'Rubbish Class' (though maybe under microscopic examination one may chance upon a better quality of crumb nestled betwixt seat and arm rest).
I must confess to feeling a twinge of guilt however for imposing upon this palatial beacon of salubrity having not paid through the nose for it, but needs must.
My hopes of a pleasant journey were further dashed by the arrival of two 'Authorised Inspectors', one of whom bore more than a passing resemblance to Roald Dahls' spinster headmistress 'Trunchbull' of 'Matilda' fame.
Far from bothering the greedy peoples who opted to treat their bag/laptop/suitcase as one would a paying customer, they gleefully stormed into '1st Class' and demanded tickets. Upon production of my 'Rubbish Class' ticket I was unceremoniously fined a £20 on the spot penalty fine.
The sheer rudeness and lack of any sort of humanity told me that any appeals for mercy would fall upon ears colder than those of 'The Terminator' himself.
Added to the fact that my initial ticket cost near £20 (the one that bought me only the right to stand and be damned grateful for the privilege you'll remember) this brief foray on public transport cost me £40 for really only a short journey.
Could a brief warning coupled with a “move it or lose it” sentiment not replace this punctilious adherence to a draconian code of conduct?
Does customer service mean anything any more? Humility? Good-naturedness?
Sure I should have been incredibly grateful for my opportunity to make way for some suited buffoon's bag, but I was a paying customer and don't appreciate being treated like a rogue, vagabond or robber.
Besides, anyone actually paying '1st Class' prices must feel that they have been robbed themselves given the apparent lack of any discernible class therein.
Bad show Southern Rail, bad show.
Maybe the proceeds of my fine and those of many others gained throughout the year no doubt, could be put towards making '1st Class' seating look less like the last Turkey in the shop and more like the sumptuously dressed dinner implied in the name...
...or maybe it would be money well spent providing enough seating for those of us not chaperoning a V.I.B. (very important bag – more important than common decency, clearly).
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
