Lethargic Invective

The Rat Race

2014-11-13T13:33:00.002+00:00

It's 18:24 on the 12^th November 2014 and I’m at London Euston.

I’m standing as near to directly underneath the platform display boards as possible, whilst still being able to crane my neck upwards to spot the exact nanosecond the “-” in “Platform -” changes to a number. Experience tells me the number will be somewhere between 8 and 11 and I am positioned appropriately, perfectly even as the bronze statue of Matthew Flinders is touching my right shoulder, shielding me from the throbbing masses.

Thanks to an earlier signal failure at Leighton Buzzard, the 18:29 to Northampton is in serious danger of being late. As a result, the concourse closely resembles what I can only imagine an anti-anti-capitalist rally would look like and with every passing second, more bodies add to the throng.

Six inches to my right. Grey suit. White shirt. Blue tie. My Nemesis for today.

I know what he’s thinking - he’s thinking what I’m thinking. Or is he thinking that he knows what I’m thinking? So in reality, I’m thinking that he’s thinking that I’m thinking that I know what he’s thinking and now my head hurts.

Either way, we both have the same goal – door 4, front facing, double seat – and now it is very much on.

Around us gather thousands of monochromatic, frowning faces. Tightly packed, shoulders touching as though the 100% wool to 100% wool physical contact of their expertly tailored Saville row suits provides an emotional bond that somehow makes up for missing little Jimmy's first words.

"Where dada?"

Almost 49 years to the day since Gottleib’s famous anti-Vietnam war march on Washington DC (where, if my history serves me correctly, he was upstaged by a rousing, albeit largely unheard, oration from a Mr F. Gump). This mass of humanity stands here, commanded instead by the shiny bronze figure of, my new neighbour, Matty Flinders.

It's not a coincidence that Mr Flinders finds himself in this esteemed position of power. Having been heralded as the explorer who founded and named Australia, it is only right that such a great man be responsible for many others' expeditions to lands as far flung as Cheddington or even the fabled Long Buckby.

But wait, nameless traveller? Is that? Is that Jennyyou can hear and see? Rushing through the masses towards you. Promising to relieve some of the frustration caused by Jenkins from the "Digital & Technology" team (IT is such a passé title for a department these days) and his claims that the recessionary resource squeeze on his department has moved his bandwidth status to “DEFCON 2”, putting at risk the pre-stage gate 1 scoping exercise pivotal to the imminent execution of your most important, most bonus defining KPI?

“JEEENNNNNIIIIEEEEEEEEEE!?!?”

No. Not Jenny. Butterworth. Maxwell Butterworth.

Maxwell Butterworth, Senior Vice President of JP Morgan's Forex derivatives trading division is a man who laughs in the face of convention. With his Ginola-esque wavy hair, light blue suit, salmon shirt and royal blue stripy (yes, stripy, for the love of God) tie would leave it totally forgivable for one to mistake his gaudy, non-conformist appearance for an ageing, fictional, female hippy.

But that doesn’t explain the voice. A deep, sultry female voice that somehow combines the silky smoothness of Galaxy chocolate with just a hint of gravel. You can feel the sexual tension in the air, particularly evident from the brokers and their thick pin-stripes as they begin beating their chests like a martini-infused Matthew McConaughey. It’s unsurprising, really, as this is the only semblance of female contact these alpha-males have had since Trixxxy provided the lunchtime entertainment for them and their most important Middle Eastern clients.

But there’s something more in that voice. Something monotone, digital even.

“The Train Now Arriving at Plat…”

Time slows to a crawl. 2,000 eyes dart up to the departure board in perfect unison and read the all-important number.

Thirteen.

Blue tie and I instantly know that our dreams of optimal seating are over. Our eyes almost meet, in a taboo shattering display of madness. Almost, but we’re not that naïve and quickly refocus on the task in hand.

The herd of charcoal wildebeest explode into life, throwing more elbows than Fashanu in a Wimbledon kit as the pinstripes bellow the “Awooga!” war cry synonymous with the days when the aforementioned Fash had more of the speed, strength and heart to be a winner.

The surge is irresistible, ploughing through the filthy casuals in the queue for Upper Crust with unstoppable force on our way to the delayed London 18:29 Midland Service to Northampton now arriving on platform 13.

Then I spot him. A slightly taller Clint Howard doppelganger, blessed with the serious expression and horn-rimmed glasses that give him a much more academic and studious aura than his Hollywood counterpart. Clearly, he’s a slow disembarker from the neighbouring inbound train service, I spy him as he reaches the top of the ramp that leads down to the promised land of platform 13.

This man does not live in a world where physical and athletic prowess have been responsible for his survival to this point. I am willing to bet that his sleeveless green cardigan and blue checked shirt, coupled with baggy brown corduroy trousers is in no way hiding the body of a Greek Adonis underneath. I’m very was worried, panicked in fact at how this is going to turn out for him.

He stops. Frozen in place like the statue of the great Matty Flinders, just squishier. My pulse quickens and I quickly correct my course, anticipating the opportunity to securing a better seat on the train as many of those in front of me clatter into and subsequently trip over the unfortunate man’s lifeless corpse.

However, Instead of a bloodcurdling scream, cower of terror or even the passive-aggressive “excuse me” that would have formed my strategy were roles reversed, the strangest thing happened.

Instead, the man relaxes and stands up tall. He smiles. Actually cracks a smile, letting the crowds part around him. In this testosterone fuelled life-or-death environment of fight or flight this dude is Chilled. As. F*ck.

Looking back now, it was almost as though he was encased in a beam of light from the heavens – standing out through a colourful contrast of dirty green sweater vest against the charcoal suits backdrop. Almost immediately my shoulders relaxed, my pace slowed and I felt the unfamiliar feeling of the corners of mouth twitching upwards. This fraction of a second of simple humanity had shattered the bubble I had encased myself in. It and changed the way I saw the world at that moment, away from a place where the only thing that mattered was how to get home as quickly and angrily as possible.

Could this have been one of those pivotal moments in life? The ones that inspire you to start dreaming again, start writing again or change your whole outlook on the world?

At the time, I didn’t think that moment could have been any more poignant, but I was quickly proved wrong.

Out of his brown cords came his left hand. In his left hand was some kind of foil package. A 19g bag of Wotsits, the “multi-pack pack, not for resale” text clearly illustrating that this pack was no an impulse purchase but transported lovingly from home for just such an occasion.

Did this pioneer of social rebellion settle for your standard Wotsits? Would this man, one of the last true renegades of our times, conform to the “Cheesy Flavour” stereotype of the Wotsit paradigm?

Heck no. But you already knew that didn’t you?

The maroon accents of the pack quickly told me what I’m sure you’ve already worked out. This man dines only on Prawn Cocktail flavoured Wotsits. He scoffs at “Cheesy Flavour” and, in my mind, I am certain sure that his full confectionary repertoire consists only of BBQ Hula Hoops and Worcester Sauce Walkers – even Pickled Onion Monster Munch is too run of the mill for this man.

As I watched a second snack popped nonchalantly between his teeth, it dawned on me that this was more than just a fundamental shift in my outlook on life. It was more than a stark reminder that my view of the world had been muddied by the sheep around me.

This man was, and now is my hero. He gave the middle finger to the man and then commanded him to “swivel” via the medium of a well-placed fishy snack.

I'm calling from you baaank...

2012-12-20T21:05:00.002+00:00

Just to be clear - the plight of genuine Syrian refugees is pretty unpleasant. I did check that this was a known scam through the magic of Google before responding...

A few days ago, I received an email from a lady called Safia from Syria. It sounded legit so I decided to reply. Below is the email conversation to date (I have changed her email address for security purposes).

Date: Mon, 17 Dec 2012 15:52:46
From: safia40127@gmail.com
Subject: <no subject>

I'm am safia hassan from syria,I have a business proposal that will benefit
both of us please get back to me on my private email safia40127@gmail.com for
further details. Safia

I decided to reply. 100% sarcasm free.

Date: Mon, 17 Dec 2012 17:24:49
From: <myemail>@hotmail.com
Subject: Re:

Dear Safia,

As a long time viewer of BBC's Dragons Den and graduate in management studies from the University of Life I am always interested in business proposals, especially given the thrust of today's world towards global commerce between stable political nations.

I have heard Syria is beautiful at this time of year and would love to visit one day.

You have also caught me at an excellent time in my life - I have recently received wonderful news.

I have won first prize in the annual Ghanaian lottery and once my administration fee of £500 has cleared I shall be the beneficiary of more than $10m dollars.

As a sound and cautious investor, I would love to use a portion of this money to invest in new multinational ventures - provided they are good propositions of course!

All I ask is that you tell me of the idea and provide some identification so I can confirm you are who you say you are. A signed photograph would be ideal, preferably with a local landmark in the background.

One other thing. In her majesty's Great Britain, we pride ourselves in our formal communication. As such, I would ask that all future communications begin with "Dear Bobmeister2k" and end with "Yours faithfully / sincerely / truly / obediently etc." as otherwise I may deem your emails to be impolite.

I look forward to hearing more of your proposal.

Yours subserviently,

<myname>

She left me hanging for a couple of days, I feared I would never hear from her again, but then the magic new email sound...

Date: Mon, 19 Dec 2012 09:51:24
From: safia40127@gmail.com
Subject: Re:

Assalamualaikum my dear friend i pray my message meet you and your family in good heath as you join me to pray of the peace of the Syrian people,Like i told you before i am a Mother of two children and i am from Syria i am Islam i dot want to disclose my family name for now because of security reasons and for the safety of me and my children but you will understand and know more about me in my nest email if i receive good response from you after you read this message,please i need your trust and help because of the situation going on in Syria this is why i need some one to help me and my children into a better future in a truthful and holy way and to be my partner in this subject,i got your email address from Google check for emails the reason why i am contacting you is that i need your assistants and partnership and by so doing you will be high reworded i need who can help me receive my family funds that i want to transfer out of where is been deposited to a safer place and to receive it on my behalf because of the situation in Syria and what has happen to me i want to leave Syria to a safer place Syria is no longer safe for me and my family after all that has happened to us this funds it is not a stolen items or for the government of Syria the funds belongs to this family do not think of any evil or have any doubt over this issue i mean what i am saying and is true if you are willing to be my partner i will be able to give more informations to help you and i assure you of your safety because no one knows about this Funds except my late husband and i promise to reword you as you willing to partner with me.this all i can tell you for now and i hope you understand and work with me in a right and trustful way.if my message is clear to you i want you to send me some informations about you for further conversation. (1)your full name (2)your nationality (3)a mobile number i can call you on.i shall call you to discus more about this issue with you on phone if i receive good response from you,

thank you.

Apologies for the wall of text - I felt I should leave formatting unchanged. I responded quickly, I could hardly contain myself.

Date: Mon, 19 Dec 2012 15:41:29
From: <myemail>@hotmail.com
Subject: Re:

Greetings Safia,

Thank you for your email. Whilst…

Your failure to send a photograph of a local landmark as requested

Your failure to begin your latest correspondence with “Dear Bobmeister2k” as requested

Your failure to end your latest correspondence with “Yours faithfully / sincerely / truly / obediently etc.” as requested

Your assertion that you told me previously of your two children when this is clearly not the case

Your unwillingness to tell me your family name even though your email comes up as from “Safia Hassan”

…could suggest (to a more cynically minded person) that this email is a non-personalised, pre-prepared email sent out to anyone who replies to your first email, I am a man of faith and believe your heart to be true. Especially, given your assurances that your funds are “not stolen item” and that I should “not think of any evil or have any doubt over this issue i mean what i am saying and is true”.

In fact, the “automated” feel of this email instead suggests to me that there may be other suitors that you are in discussions with that think they have chance of getting their grubby mitts on my “reword”. Much like something that would significantly benefit the grammatical correctness of your email, I will be the one who is “reworded”. I will prove to you that I should be the one to take care of your fortune.

Firstly, however, let me congratulate you on the longest single sentence I have ever read. Your complete disdain for the full stop and liberal spattering of unnecessary capital letters and commas shows an artistic flair that I can truly relate to and really helps me to sympathise with your cause.

Now, let me explain to you why I should be the one help you in your quest for a safe haven for your fortune…

I have recently won the $11.3m jackpot on the Ghanaian lottery. Once the £500 “admin fee” cheque I have written to the Ghanaian Lottery Commission (GLC) clears I will receive these funds. Because of my unimaginable wealth, I will be a very trustworthy custodian of your monies and not tempted to add them to my sizeable personal fortune

I have two full collections of the Natwest pig piggy banks. This collection includes 2 x Sir Nathaniel Westminster, 2 x Lady Hillary Westminster, 2 x Maxwell Westminster, 2 x Annabel Westminster and 2 x Woody Westminster. As you can see, this is a full double collection. Why is this important you ask? Firstly, it shows a commitment to a banking institution throughout the 1980s and personal liquidity and solvency across this period. Secondly, these ceramic creatures would be perfect for housing your monies, keeping them distinct from my fortuitous fortune

I have 93.3% a positive feedback seller rating on my eBay account and am well on my way to my “Blue Star”. The only reason this is not 100% is because “bluemagoo473” claimed that the 47 crayon Crayola set I sold him was insufficiently sharpened before posting. Well, that idiot should have read the small print. It was clearly in the small print. I hope he burns.

I own a small container shipping business with premises on the Port of Tyne (near Newcastle). Not only can I funnel your money through the accounts of my business upon receipt in order to “clean” it, but I have also historically used one of my shipping vessels to ferry people from their motherlands to find refuge in my fair country. In fact, if we conclude this business quickly enough I may be able to offer you and your family passage on my next inbound vessel – you may even get to meet Mr. Nigel from the GLC!

I have no doubt that having read the above you will conclude that I am the best partner for your venture. As a show of faith I have included my contact details below:

(1)    Full Name: James Wilson Vincent Saville
(2)    Nationality: British
(3)    Telephone number: +44208 7438000

I look forward to hearing from you. Please note that the phone number I have given you is my work line and they can sometimes be a bit cautious in putting you through to my desk. If you have trouble, please email me.

As I requested before – please send me a photo of you, ideally next to a local landmark.

Yours concomitantly,

<myname>

Please note that the phone number is not mine - it's the switchboard at BBC television centre. Worry ye not, the very next day she was back in touch!

Date: Mon, 20 Dec 2012 11:39:30
From: safia40127@gmail.com
Subject: Good wishs from your friend Safia

Assalamualakum dear <myname>

Thank you very much for you response to my email as you have choosing to help this family believe me you will never regret it.doh my letters are very long please take time to read it,i am sorry to send you this message is not to bother you but please i am in need of your help and partnership i am the wife of late Ayman Rahaj saad who was killed by the Bashar al-Assad military they shot my husband right in front of me in our house in Homs because he deflected from the Bashar al-Assad Government after much killing on protesters they killed my husband and claim he was a rebel My husband was never a rebel he was a hard working man a good father of two children he was only asking for the justice of the people before his death he was working with the Syrian Government.the reason why i contact you is to seek your assistant in this issue i have funds deposited with a safe keeping company in two boxes it was labeled as family valuable antiques/treasure because we dot want to disclosed what we have in the boxes to the company as cash we only told them is our family belongings so they can help us move it to Saudi Arabia where we have plan to move to before the death of my husband.this plans came up when we saw the way the crisis was going we have already made plan to live the country to Saudi Arabia before my husband was murdered.At the night they killed my husband, me and my two kids run out of the house from the back door into the street of homs where a lot of killing take place that night thanks to the Red-Cross worker who found us and take us to a refugee Camp in Syria/Turkey border where we have been living for almost 1year and 6 months now.Please I need you to help me because the safe keeping company where we deposited our boxes has stop operation in Syria because of the international sanctions on Syria by the international community the company have write to notify me to come and receive my boxes with them because the company has finally closed down their office in Syria and they have move out of Syria.due to my situation i am in a refugee camp i can not travel any where to receive my boxes from them because they left Syria and i can not ask them to send the boxes to me here in a refugee camp it will not be safe of me to receive the boxes here because there is no where i can keep the boxes here with me in a refugee camp where i have thousands people around me this is why i need you urgent help to stand and help me act on my behalf to receive the boxes for me.i have the document of deposit with me that show i and my family are the right owner of the deposit so you need not to worry about any problems or risk in helping me.

Insha allah this funds belong to me and my husband is not for the Government of Syria or for any one i guaranty you of your safety I am willing to give you %25 of the total funds of 9.2millons Dollars if you are willing to help me secure the funds into your country where i can be able to plan a new future for me and my family and invest our money in a good investment i will let you own 20 percent shear in any business we invest in i shall sign all required documents needed for you to contact the security company and act on my behalf as my family member.As soon as we receive our refugee status from the united nations me and my two kids will move to live in your country because Syria is no longer safe for us any more Please i seek your honesty and trust to help me i dot know you but i believe this is happening for a good reason i also send you a copy of me and my children Refugee id card and i also want you to send me your ID card or passport copy and tell me few things about you so i can be sure of who i am dealing with because i am still very careful on who i talk to because those who kill my husband are still after my life because they know i have the document and information's they kill my husband for so i am been very careful giving out information to who i am not sure of i will wait to receive you information before i can be totally free to deal with you ,thank you so much once again for your care and consign about this family and i want to remind you this issue is not one of those scam message you receive you from those evil people looking to cheat other people you can go to the security company your self and solve the issue there if you are willing to help me and you must not forget to send me your id card it is very important i want to be sure of who i am dealing with.thanks
Yours faithfully
safia

The superbly crafted refugee cards were a beautiful touch. The jaunty angle applied to the pictures to make it look as though they were scanned rather than made in MS paint was a particularly nice touch...

Date: Mon, 20 Dec 2012 20:12:10
From: <myemail>@hotmail.com
Subject: Re: Good wishs from your friend Safia

Dear Safia,

Firstly, your thank you for attempting the correct greeting and ending in your last email. Whilst your intent was noble, the execution was somewhat lacking. Typically “yours faithfully” is only used when addressing a letter to someone who’s name you do not know. By now you know me well, like family in fact, so you should have ended your email with “yours sincerely”.

Nevertheless, it is wonderful to hear from you again! I hope you are well and that your extended stay in Turkey has done little to dampen your spirit.

I love Turkey, it is a wonderful country with fine cuisine and even better weather!

I say fine cuisine, but one has to be careful with sweeping generalisations. I once visited a kebab emporium called “Abrakebabra” in Tipperary in Ireland (not sure how I confused Ireland with Turkey at the time, but that’s another story) and left with a €5 less than I came in with, a full belly and a tapeworm whom I named “Alvin”. Alvin sadly passed away just a few months ago – so I can empathise fully with the loss of your husband.

Anyway, that’s by the by. As you can see from my attached passport photo, I have been to Turkey not once, not twice, but thrice in recent years. I trust that this photograph will suffice in terms of proof of my identity (that is my thumb in the photograph).

I must confess that my only real problem during my numerous visits to Turkey in the past has been the unreliability of internet connection in even the swankiest of hotels. I am glad that your current residence at the refugee camp has excellent internet facilities as well as a means to scan the clearly legitimate ID cards of you and your family.

Now down to business. As an avid watcher of Dragon’s Den, I know that big Theo would turn in his (as yet unfilled) grave if I were to accept your first offer. So I am going to make you a counter offer.

I would like to ask for:

A 30% handling fee – that is 5% more than your initial offer and;

51% of any business that we invest in (rather then the 20% currently offered) – I am always cognisant that I must own a controlling stake in any business venture I enter into. This is not negotiable.

So, you now have the proof of my identity that you asked for and I have made my terms clear. If these are acceptable to you I would be delighted to continue with this arrangement and would love to know what the next steps are.

I am also very happy to hear that you are not one of those evil people looking to cheat other people – this does a lot to put my mind at rest.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours faithfully,

<myname>

And that is where the story takes a break for now - hopefully there will be a part 2...

A Letter to Tony Woodley...

2012-11-29T20:49:00.000+00:00

Today I encountered three things that annoyed me to do with public transport.

First, someone kicked me out my seat on the train because they had reserved it. I sat in the empty seat immediately across the aisle.

Secondly, someone decided that the best time to find their Oyster card was as they stood in front of the barrier. It was at the bottom of their handbag.

Finally, and this broke the camel's back. I had to walk home from the tube because there was a bus strike. Below is a genuine email I just sent to Tony Woodley, Executive Office of Unite. Let's see if he replies...

Dear Tony,

I write to you in a state of coldness, I hope you excuse any spelling mistakes that result from my shivers. Sadly, today I had to walk for almost 15 minutes as a result of a lack of buses. More importantly, I was forced to utilise London's underground. As a man of relatively short stature and a severe case of gralmitophobia this was clearly a cause of great distress.

I must say I am not fully up to date on the reasons for today's industrial action but can only assume that it boils down to something along the lines of "We. Want. More. Money" (similar to the great Canadian strike of April 2008 regarding the allocation of America's "Internet Money" - source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Canada_on_Strike).

Notwithstanding my lack of research into the subject, I can conclude that the action is contrary to the best interests of this great nation. You see, the best case scenario from your perspective is that a pay increase is granted to your members. This has two results:

Firstly, this creates an artificial imbalance in the labour market - with labour demand artificially suppressed below equilibrium levels by a shift in the labour supply curve. The end result? Further pressure on overall employment levels or increased unemployment amongst those who are not part of your "club".

Secondly, and more importantly, any pay increase will have zero bearing on real incomes as any wage increase feeds almost immediately into inflationary pressure and prices increase offset any rise in nominal incomes. Sadly, this is not demand pull inflation consistent with the oh so needed real economic stimulus (i.e. driven by resource scarcity resulting from increased demand) but cost push inflation, which is completely divorced from any true economic recovery.

This inflationary spiral will quickly land upon the desk of Merv, who will be rapidly required to send a telegram to big Dave to inform him of the sorry state of affairs - inflation above target with no concurrent real growth. This would only lead to a rapid hoik of the base rate being hungrily translated into mortgage rates by the banks you so often (and often rightly) demonise.

Then what do you have? A fragile economy, people clinging on to liquidity through cheap mortgages and outstanding credit which suddenly rocket as a result of inflation. Mortgage and credit card defaults soar and you are left with a huge portion of society left bankrupt and unable to afford even public transport. As demand for bus journeys fall, Arriva is forced to cut back on staffing numbers, and your members are left being paid significantly less. Zero in fact.

I said there were two points. Actually there are three. My neighbour Steve deals in fixed rate derivatives. He is more leveraged than a private equity backed MBO. He has a small Chateau in Bordeaux, A Peruvian monastery, 2 Ferraris and a chalet in Val D'Isere. His current cashflow would be unable to afford a 5% base rate so he would likely have to let out the flat next door. People who rent are typically noisy and unpleasant and I would rather avoid this if at all possible.

Thank you for you understanding and I look forward to a reconsidered view of industrial action in future. You will be pleased to know that this furious typing has warmed my hands up significantly.

Kind regards,

Lethargic Invective (Obviously I actually signed by real name)

Goodbye Cruel World

2012-06-21T09:47:00.002+01:00

It is with great sadness with which I bid farewell to this cruel cruel world.

Goodbye to all the cruel irony.

Cruel irony that pairs the sweet nectar of an aged single malt with the agony of the morning after.

Cruel irony that pairs the aroma of a summer meadow with red eyes and a 6 month sniffle.

Cruel irony that pairs the sublime taste of oysters with uncontrollable vomiting when visiting a school friend you haven't seen in years who suggests a "local special" oyster lunch.

Cruel irony that pairs the appeal and amusement of the whole concept of irony with stupid people unable to comprehend or correctly use this concept, whilst still insisting on calling it irony.

Cruel irony that places a black fly into your Chardonnay.

Anyway, enough about Irony. The biggest irony of all is that I don't want to end it all, yet have brought the end upon myself.

I've spent a good chunk of the last 28.5 years investing in life. I've invested in education. Invested long hours into the lower rungs of the career ladder. Invested in a house. Invested in relationships and now it's payback time.

Thankfully, the investments have started paying off - I got a pretty good job thanks to education¹; work less hours for more money than I used to thanks to investing time in corporate politics and (to a lesser extent) working hard²; pay bugger all on a mortgage due to my timely purchase and prudent remortgaging³; and should shortly be reaping all the cooky-cleany-lunchmakey-sexy rewards that come with marriage thanks to 11.5 years of relationship investment⁴.

Quite frankly, now I should be cashing out these investments and living the high life - jetting off on Safari to Kenya, or to a private villa in Zanzibar, staying in Ice Hotels, jumping off high objects and lighting cigars with £20 notes - all of this before I am forced to succumb to the obligation to do my bit to reverse the dumbing down of society and pass these "grade A" genes onto the next generation.

Instead, four men, men I considered friends. Best friends. Family. Are conspiring to take this from me. You see, this is no suicide note. Far from it - I am quite fond of life these days. This is a cry for help, an accusation, a note from beyond the grave to highlight the murderous actions of these so called "Best" men.

Tomorrow I embark on my stag weekend. I know nothing, except to be at Heathrow for 7.15am and to fear for my life.

So if this is the end, I regret nothing...

...except for selecting four best men instead of one. That was pretty stupid.

¹ and a lot of luck
² and a lot of luck
³ and a lot of luck
⁴ and a lot of blackmail material

On the origin of the species

2012-06-15T16:18:00.001+01:00

Tell me. Seriously. Who doesn’t like daffodils? They're awesome

Daffodils bring back happy Summer memories from my childhood. Memories of a round-faced little me (complete with Dame Edna style giant round spectacles) romping through the grounds of a manor house (that had been transformed into my Dad’s place of work) with my angelic blonde brother in tow.

We selected only the finest Daffodils – not yet opened but always with a fully bloomed, healthy set of peers so to give them the best chance of growing up to be the same (that’s right, even six year old me had an inherent grasp of probability and genetics).

Throughout the Summer our house was emblazoned with yellow. It was great.

However, in a travesty that would never be allowed in the modern molly-coddled society, my negligent parents never instructed me nor my brother to, at all costs, avoid eating the daffodils.

They never told me that daffodils were poisonous. They never told me of the risks of abdominal pain, nausea, diarrhoea or (worst of all) loss of appetite that could come from eating daffodils.

I am truly blessed to still be here today given all of the opportunities to eat daffodils that have confronted me over the years.

Or am I?

Alternatively, Is it actually the case that because I was endowed with (debatably) more than a full gnat’s goblet of common sense and an IQ that miraculously stretched out of the single digits that I decided that eating flowers, pretty flowers that are there to look at and smell, was a bad idea?

Given the plethora of Daffodil Poisoning advice websites and recent news stories such as this¹ you’d think this trend warranted one of those apocalyptic-disease-pandemic Hollywood films (or at least a series of 24). Supermarkets genuinely had to attach multi-lingual “do not eat” labels to daffodils in order to contain this deadly phenomenon.

Whatever happened to natural selection? Why do issues like the daffodil one and signs like these even have to exist?

Throughout the ages (unless you believe in a literal interpretation of the bible, or scientology etc.) natural selection has promoted survival of the fittest. If it’s been good enough for the past few billion years, why are we trying to resist it now?

There’s quite often a theme in object of my invective. Stupidity, incompetence and ineptitude figure pretty damn regularly and this is the reason that the “death of natural selection²” scares the bejesus out of me.

Here, I am going to artfully sidestep all arguments involving social class, religion, politics, the education (and in particular higher education) and stick to the cold hard statistics³

Quite simply. Intelligence is genetic. Statistically, the number of progeny is inversely proportional to intellect (i.e. stupid people have more children). Thus, the average intelligence of the population is being diluted.

Peoples is done getting stupider.

It’s for this reason that whenever one of my friends or colleagues (assuming they are intelligent of course) announces impending child-based emburdenment I am not just happy for them but also happy for me.

To these fine folk I say “Go forth saviours of tomorrow and reproduce!”

“Let it be known to your young - and their young that follow - that they are of a dying breed and it is their duty pass on genes that society has forgotten!”

¹OK. OK. I get that this was mainly caused by cultural differences with the local Chinese population, Daffodils being placed near produce in stores and Daffodils looking like a Chinese cooking herb but give me some artistic license here please?!?

²Technically “the death of natural selection” is completely the wrong way to look at it. Natural selection involves the survival of those who adapt best to the environment that they are in. What has actually happened is that our societal environment has developed in such a way that it has eradicated certain selection pressures that would otherwise exist. Namely, there are fewer and fewer selection benefits of intelligence.

³As provided by the music video for Korn’s “Evolution” and the (terrible) 2006 movie “Idiocracy”. An Indisputable pair of statistical sources if ever I saw them.

Mudding and Scumbags

2012-05-17T17:56:00.000+01:00

Scumbag Steve and Good Guy Greg - Tough Mudder Style

Get me with my "memes". Totally down with the kids, that's me.

I suppose this is kind of the sequel to "Running and Sine Waves" from back in October. I wrote about how I'm happy to live through short sharp bursts of effort, interspaced with periods of indulgent lethargy to recharge. I also spoke of the wonders of lycra running trousers, but that's beside the point.

Last Saturday was absolutely one of the bursts - me and three mates took on (and kicked the backside of) the innaugral Tough Mudder UK held in Kettering. Sadly, this time, the man-giant to lycra ratio was far from optimal...

Over the years I've learnt that a large proportion of people are, for want of a better term, assholes¹. This applies in particular to large groups of blokes and particularly in particular to large groups of blokes attempting to show off in front of their peers and / or act like "the big man".

As I awoke on Saturday morning at 7.45am (Yes, that's SEVEN FORTY FIVE AM. On a SATURDAY) I began my physical and mental preparations for the 12 mile, obstacle filled death run that lay ahead of me. Physical preparation was 2 bananas, bottle of lucozade and a lot of stretching. Then came the mental side:

"Just remember. People are assholes. Assholes make you angry. Angry people get injured or hit things. Neither of those are good outcomes. Practice zen like calm. Ignore the assholes"

I repeated this to myself. Over and over and over again. Then. And only then. Was I ready.

After I arrived and signed in, I was certainly not disappointed by the Mudder population. There were more team T-Shirts than a Ryanair flight to Magaluf. The equivalent of the "Wigan Wife-Beating Club", "Thames Valley University Bukkake Society" and "Liverpool FC Supporters Club" (the worst of the lot) were everywhere I looked; equalled in number by the shirtless, bodypainted or "more tattoo than man" brigades.

But the potent combination of my steely mental preparation, the group warm-up and the amusing middle aged man in the start pen (intent on pushing his own - terrible yet brilliant - brand of americanised "hoo-rah" motivational rubbish) combined in a perfect storm of ridiculosity that cause my brain chemistry to flip.

The assholes didn't annoy me, they were quite simply hilarious. More than that, they were my team mates, my comrades and we were all after the same goal.

Then, the countdown began and before I knew it I was swept along in a sea of testostorised beefcake (with just a sprinkling of lady spartan) towards the first obstacle...

Tough Mudder 2012 - UK

Incidentally (although clearly not thinking about this at the time) the Tough Mudder inventors have come up with a ridiculously good business model. Take 10,000 people paying somewhere betwen £70 and £100 to take part (all paid 6 months before the event - not a bad working capital cycle). Add to that another couple of thousand spectators at £10 or £20 a pop. Throw in parking at £5 a car and a couple of lucratvie sponsorship deals and bam - you get some rich Mudders Funders.

Anways, back to the running. From the very first sprint, a number of my co-combatants lived fully up to expectations. Play fighting, swearing, pushing and barging past me - I even heard two guys discussing the most subtle way of ditching their slightly larger compatriot so they could finish in a faster time (this is not the aim of Tough Mudder).

This lack of team spirit was absolutely tipified by the actions of many on the biggest (12ft high) Berlin Walls. A true Scumbag Steve moment. These walls need teamwork to get over - if you're only 5' 10'' like me anyway. You need one or two men to boost you up and someone on top of the wall to grab your arm and help you to the top. Once you're up, grab the next guy (always grab the next guy!) and away you go. The number of people flipping over the top without even a cursory "thanks mate" was ridiculous.

Not our race - same walls

But then, on the second of these walls, something incredible happened. One Steve transformed right in front of my eyes into a Greg...

The second person of a two man team found that his "team-mate" had already flipped over the top and sprinted off. He tried desparately to run and jump up the wall - again and again. The look of genuine shock on his face when we got to the wall and offered him a leg up was astounding - as if he had never even considered this was a possibility.

He reached the top of the wall, every fibre of his being aching to be on his chavvy little way, but he stopped. He reached down and helped the first of our team up. This was the second greatest moment of the day.

I said before that "a number of my co-combatants lived fully up to expectations". This was true, but the number that did was completely overshadowed by those that didn't. The Timmy Mallet lookalike's chants in the start pen genuinely seemed to be taken to heart by at least 80% of the people on the course - "leave no mudder behind".

I was pulled out of rivers, pushed up mud-filled plastic tubes, applauded when running past groups of people waiting for their more portly compadres to catch up and high-fived for my technique down the slip 'n' slide. This made the whole experience more "fun" than "tough" (though don't let the organisers hear you saying that...).

Just as the wall tipified the bad, the giant half-pipe - a 16ft, slippery slope after 11.9 of the 12 miles had been completed - tipified the camaraderie and teamwork involved.

The Halfpipe

You stand at the bottom of this thing - watching people run up, slip and promptly faceplant into the plastic and slide limply back down - and think it looks impossible. It does.

You take a deep breath (you've just got out of freezing cold water following "walking the plank"), brace yourself, then sprint, sprint a bit harder, keep sprinting and hold out your arms (don't jump for gods sake). Then, if you're lucky (Really lucky as I was) The Rock's more athletic stunt double will catch you and haul you up to the top of the halfpipe.

It was then it dawned on me. It's not the people trying and failing to run up the halfpipe that makes this a spectacle. It's the tens of people lying on the top, having just run 12 miles and completed 20 obstacles, that stick around grabbing other people and flinging them up to join them that make this the best obstacle of the lot. There were shed loads of Good Guy Greg's up there.

And so came the best moment of the day. After about 10 minutes, the two of our team who had got lucky managed to catch and haul up the third. There was just one teammate left. Just him and his completely gripless trainers. To be honest, after 15 minutes I was starting to think he wasn't going to make it, but he gave it one more go. I'll never know how, but this time he ran a little bit harder. We caught him, dragged him up and the feeling was immense.

But that wasn't it. We looked at each other and it was clear we were all thinking the same thing - "just one more". Thankfully the next guy must've weighed around 8 stone. We almost threw him over the back of the halfpipe. Job done.

Just a swift jog through a forest of 10,000 volt (apparently) live wires and we were done. Knackered, freezing cold and feeling a little bit guilty. Guilty because I'd assumed everyone would be like the 20% that actually were Steves. They weren't. I know full well without at least a couple of Gregs (other than my teammates) the whole thing wouldv'e been a whole lot tougher, and a whole lot less fun.

¹I in no way exclude me and my friends from this generalisation of people being assholes, in some circumstances I certainly fall into categorisation.

One Track Day

2012-05-13T16:00:00.001+01:00

One track days

It always starts the same way. A song hits the iPhone, probably heard it 1,000 times before. This time, it’s different. Somehow it’s just that little bit more awesome. It’s possibly the single best song you’ve ever heard. Well, that day at least.

The song finishes – 3 little presses on the headphone remote and it starts up again. It’s just as good as before. Better in fact. Three little presses. Screw – this, “repeat one”…

Before you know it, it’s a One Track Day.

As a man with the attention span of a 2 month old puppy (and a tendency to make more mess), it shocks me that I can listen to the same song over and over again for a day, or even days at a time. Whether its numbing the tedium of an excel spreadsheet (Gimp! Gimp! Gimp to the beat!), blocking out the rest of the world on the bus or getting me through that last mile of a Sunday run – sometimes one song is all you need.

So, in a departure from my usual lazy ranting, I’m going to use this post to keep a record of these One Track Days – when and why did they happen and why are the songs just that damn good?

The plan is to update this post over time as more of these days happen – stay tuned for updates.

lostprophets – Last Summer

lostprophets - Last Summer (Live at Reading Festival 2007)

I was actually there for this, bang in the middle of the pit - it was awesome

"Top marks for the sitty down jumpy up thing"

Uni was over, I’d just moved into a flat with a particularly lucky lady (who’s still hanging around). I bought my first contract phone (a Samsung D800 – a brick. Later I lost this phone, ironically, at a lostprophets concert).

My D800 was the first mp3 device I owned – with a whopping 80mb of inbuilt memory – enough for one whole album. That album was the lostprophets’ second album, Start Something.

It was a sunny October morning back in 2005 and I was in the first month of my first graduate job. Striding along Regent’s Canal towards the Angel tube station on my way to another 14 hour session of making rich people richer, Last Summer came on.

Yes, it’s a good song, but it’s not even in my top 3 ‘prophets songs. That morning it just sounded a little bit different. The opening guitar tones hit me like a punch in the stomach that set off two competing impulses. First, pangs of longing for that week at uni after my final exams a few months earlier. Then, a burst of un-jaded enthusiasm and energy along with the desire to attack the day to come, and all the spreadsheets it would bring.

Repeat was hit, and this was my first One Track Day.

Brand New – Sowing Season

Brand New - Sowing Season

A good buddy (who incidentally I have not seen for far too long, must fix that) has the most ridiculous knowledge of music. I was getting sick to death with my narrow music collection at the time so I asked the young lad for a few albums that I should listen to. He came back with what can only be described as an incredible collection.

Futures by Jimmy Eat World. A brilliant album, Work is still a favourite today – but it never quite made it as a One Track Day.

Never Take Friendship Personal by Anberlin. Currently one of, if not the band I listen to most – but more on these guys later.

From Here to Infirmary by Alkaline Trio. The only one I never got into – just too punky for my taste.

Decemberunderground by AFI. Totally not my kind of music. Totally loved it – doesn’t really get a look in these days.

And finally, The Devil and God are Raging Inside Me by Brand New…

This was the first of the albums he suggested that I got round to listening to. Track 1, Sowing Season – started off slowly, very slowly – I thought of Radiohead (it sounds nothing like Radiohead) and I wanted loud dammit. You’ve failed me! Oh cruel world! Buddy, what have you done? What is this rubbis…

Then it kicked in.

Then it got played over and over again.

That album has some incredible songs – You Won’t Know, Not the Sun, The Archers’ Bows Have Broken and, best of all, Jesus (which still gets played lots today).

In 2007 I saw them in the tent at Reading. The second most disappointing band I have ever seen live (after the Chilis at that same festival – they may as well not have turned up). The singer broke into a self-indulgent monologue about how we should love each other, recounting a story that sounded awfully like Joey’s “when I was hiking through the foothills of Mount Tibidabo” pick up line before giving a half-arsed rendition of a couple of songs. Ah well, at least the recorded stuff is good…

InMe – Soldier

InMe - Soldier (Live at the Islington Garage - December 2010)

Had to include this even though not best recording - I was there!

Inme - Soldier

If there was an award for the most “One Band Days” of any artist – InMe would take it without a shadow of a doubt. I don’t usually have favourite anythings, but this is my favourite band.

There was no special event, no special memory here – it was just the first time I played through the Daydream Anonymous album. I generally dislike every new song or album when I first hear it (not in a “I prefer the old stuff” / “the book is better than the film” pretentious kind of way mind you – songs just tend grow on me). Not this song. No growing required.

After the distinctive mechanical whir, Soldier started playing and it didn’t stop for about 3 days straight. It’s one of those songs you just know before you’ve ever heard it – perfectly written with more energy than a colony of Duracell bunnies in mating season and more heart than 106.2.

Incubus – Dig

Incubus - Dig

Next month I am finally going to see Incubus live. I will be truly gutted if they don’t play this song.

This one I remember clearly. I was listening to Light Grenades whilst walking home from Highbury & Islington tube after a day that was in dire need of the rage spoon (sadly, it hadn’t yet been invented). I was properly peeeeesed awf with someone at work – I don’t remember why - but it was still light outside so I can only assume it was for something that was about to happen over the next few days rather than something that had happened that day (otherwise I’d have been in the office until much later…).

All of a sudden, I snapped out of my rage and heard the line:

“We all have someone who digs at us – at least we dig each other”

Rage vanished, and a smile came back as my head was filled the incredible soundfield I only get from that song. I can’t really explain what I mean by “soundfield” other than it feels more like the music is in my head coming out into my ears rather than being pumped in by my headphones.

Silversun Pickups – Growing Old Is Getting Old

Silversun Pickups - Growing Old Is Getting Old

More than just the name of my “30 before 30” blog (shameless plug¹), this song is inextricably linked to one of the best 6 month periods of my life – 2009’s trip around the world.

Silversun Pickups are Another band recommended by my musical guru friend and are typified by one of the most unique voices – “The Girly Man” as so beautifully named by my fiancée (although sadly not spoken in a mock McBain accent). This is the only one track day so far shared by anyone else.

Back in November 2009, we’d hired a convertible in Port Douglas (Oz) to drive up to the rainforest at Cape Tribulation. OK, it was a crappy blue Vauxhall Astra convertible, but that’s not the point. We crashed out in a wooden hut hostel room and stuck Swoon on the travel speaker. The smooth baseline starts off as almost soothing but, without changing, builds and builds until the guitar lands and the snare joins in. I’d never describe a song as “intense” but that’s the word that comes to mind.

Dave McPherson – Before I Even Had You

Dave McPherson - Before I Even Had You (Live)

Friday January 7^th, 2011. Questions were asked. Answers were given (in the affirmative) and now there’s some kind of important day coming up on the 18^th August this year.

The other involved party and I rarely agree on music. Very rarely. She like the pop, I like the metal. Well not “real” metal, more 80s rock and / or borderline emo rubbish.

However, a young Essex lad by the name of Dave McPherson changed all that. By day as the lead singer / guitarist of InMe he unleashes punishing yet melodic riffs towards unsuspecting cochleae, but by night he will folk you senseless with his acoustic guitar.

The man has a ridiculous voice – he can seamless switch from wailing like a banshee to softly hitting the highs, all without annunciating a single letter “t” in the true Essex fashion. It’s one of those voices that recordings don’t do justice and has to be heard live.

It’s for exactly that reason we asked him to play at our wedding (and for some unknown reason he said yes!). I am still fully expecting it not to happen due to a scheduling conflict but it would be simply awesome.

Shortly after booking I did a youtube scan – looking for covers he’s done before and some of his own stuff that he could sing on the day. Pre the release of The Hardship Diaries, Before I Even Had You could only be found online (or on a ‘live in concert’ CD). I stumbled across it and stayed stumbled. No point me trying to describe it, just listen!

Roxette – The Look

Roxette - The Look

Back in March of this year my work team did a 30 mile tandem bike ride for Sport Relief. This was clearly a ridiculous idea from the start. Unless, of course, we had tunes. So armed with my cub-scout square lashing skills, a shoelace and an Altec Lansing pocket speaker I fashioned the finest helmet-blaster the world had ever seen.

The only thing that could possibly go on such a playlist would be selected classics from Now That’s What I Call Music (numbers 1 through 80 inclusive). It was there I rediscovered The Look.

It wasn’t until the Friday after the cycle that The Look got it’s day. Out the door of the office at 5pm sharp, the sun was beaming down and I had a night of London’s finest comedy to look forward. But first – Cocktails! (The Chilli Martini at Sophie’s Steakhouse in Covent Garden is one of the finest inventions of our time).

Sadly, nobody – not even my “half day” school teacher fiancée – could meet me before 6.30pm that evening so I had some time to kill. Sat with the tourists in a Covent Garden Starbucks I started my Roxette binge. I bounced round the streets with a stupid grin on my face near-dancing round the irritating street performers, pickpockets and Maxwell’s flyer distributors.

After about the 10^th play of the song, I started to have a long intellectual thought debate with myself – one that I am still to resolve…

At precisely 3:10 (just after “and I go la la la la la”) I am unsure if there should be one more beat before we “na na na na na”. I will take it upon myself to one day edit the extra pause into the song. Then I’ll know. I’ll know for sure.

Coheed and Cambria – Pearl of the Stars

Coheed and Cambria - Pearl of the Stars

A few weeks back, I figured I ought to make a start on my wedding speech. The task of pitching a speech somewhere that makes the bride’s friends both laugh and cry (“do both” – not “both friends”, she does have more than two friends), reeling out a list of thankyous, and pre-empting the incoming character assassination from the best men (the downside of choosing four) and then delivering it to 100 people is daunting to say the least.

I stuck on some tunes for a bit of inspiration. Bad idea. My ipod is mainly filled with angry music – Coheed and Cambria are (is?) no exception. Tracks like Apollo I: The Writing Writer with romantic lyrics such as…

“So cry on bitch, why aren’t you laughing now?”

…don’t exactly put one in the correct mindset to write a sonnet.

Then Pearl of the Stars came on, by the same band. His voice is, again, completely unique. The song is simple and beautiful – no other way to describe it. I stopped trying to write the speech and just stuck it on repeat – all afternoon, all the way home on the bus, then I demanded that the lovely lady listened to it on my AV system. Twice.

I did in fact consider stealing a lyric for the speech…

“I’d give you everything – if only I’d have known you’d take it. But you don’t. Cause you’re you. That’s why I’ll always love you”

…but only for a second. Cause not even I am that cheesy and besides, stealing song lyrics is lazy lazy lazy.

Anberlin – Dismantle.Repair.

Anberlin - Dismantle.Repair

I told you they’d be back! Anberlin have actually had a couple of One Track Days to their name. The first was Adelaide – it’s happy, simple pop-rock tune that woke me up on the bus and proceeded to get me through a morning of detailed P&L modelling (aaah, Project Ellsbury).

But that’s not the song in the heading now is it? That’s a whole different story…

Last weekend was the 5^th annual May Bank holiday lad’s extravaganza. Barcelona was this years’ victim. In a break from tradition, night 3, the Sunday night, was hit almost as hard as the other two. I awoke Monday morning to head to the airport, my internal organs pickling in Absolute ChamBulls² and having had less sleep in three nights than empty bottles produced in one.

I collapse onto my oh-so-comfy easyjet seat (yes, sarcasm) and adopt “the position” – headphones in, hood up, wire tucked down collar and into my iPhone in my pocket as I flagrantly ignore requests to “turn off all electrical devices”.

I want some chilled music – so Anberlin is the obvious choice. On it goes and off I doze…

Shortly after takeoff Dismantle.Repair. starts up – the first soft chord progression oscillates from left to right ear and I dropped a bit deeper in my seat, on the verge of slumber. Then the bridge kicks in (“things are going to change now, for the better”) – I’m well aware I’m awake, but still relaxed as the chorus is nowhere to be seen. Instead, the next verse rolls calmly through, with just a hint more urgency in the drums until “the orchestra plays on”. Then the bridge is back. Damn you bridge, I’m trying to sleep here (“things are going to cha-aaaaa-aaange”). I know what’s coming next.

The chorus lands and instantly I’m wide awake – “Hands like secrets are the hardest thing to keep from you” (what a line). Dancing around in my seat - I can neither confirm nor deny if there was air drumming. I cursed the song for stealing the four minutes of z’s I was planning.

It was OK though, as soon as the song finished I fell fast asleep. Woke up on touchdown (as usual).

The One Track Day with Dismantle.Repair. was in fact two days later – on my return to work. It was one of those days where everything went wrong. With not enough relaxing done on my arrival home I was landed back at work onto a fan-full of excrement. Deadlines piled up on deadlines whilst my head was working at no more than 50% power.

The song played non-stop between 9am when I sat down and 7pm when I finally left the office and kept me going through the day. It got played all the way home as well…

Enter Shikari – Gap in The Fence

Enter Shikari - Gap In The Fence

I’ve always wondered if anyone else gets the same sensation as me. It’s this…

You’ve been feeling ill for a few days then all of a sudden that day comes when you’re feeling only a little bit worse than normal. The adrenaline rush I get that morning from the fact I’m no longer feeling quite as bad makes me more hyperactive and smiley than I am on my best days.

I’ve learnt that Enter Shikari can push this even further – make the high even higher. I’ve used loads of their songs to do this (I sound like a junkie...) – Hectic has worked, as has Wall (the lyrics to this song are stupid, yet genius) heck even the self-titled track Enter Shikari has been used on occasion. Today though, I chose Gap in the Fence.

I have to say, the fact a bunch of lads from St Albans of all places (home of the wealthy yummy mummies who have snagged themselves some London City folk) spend most their time writing self-indulgent rants complaining about the injustices of today’s capitalist society, the lack of class equality and the constrained monotony of today’s society amuses me no end. Thankfully, they write some cracking tunes to go with it.

Gap in the Fence is absolutely one of these. It is an absolute Epic (no not as in “lolcats iz epic winz”, epic as in epic, big, the real meaning of the word). The first 2 minutes and 1 seconds are the closest a song sung by a man with his voice could ever get to beautiful. The lyrics – centred around from breaking from routine and doing something different (with a spattering of “we want equality”) – hit home today given the inception of my 30 by 30 list the day before¹!

The build from 2:02 to 2:31 into the dance samples is one of their finest and the song would be great even if it stopped there. It doesn’t. The last crescendo from 3:26 when the guitars growl back in is nothing but unadulterated epic win.

¹Shameless plug - go and visit http://growingoldisgettingold.blogspot.com

²A potent yet tasty combination of Absolute Vodka, Champagne and Red Bull – hence the name

My Sincerest Apologies

2012-05-07T16:01:00.001+01:00

"I have, however, made it my mission to never overestimate my own importance.

Herein lies my dilemma. Pretention, self-indulgence, pomposity - blogging absolutely ticks every one of these boxes" (26th May 2011)

The above quote is from my first blog post - "disclaimer" which I wrote just less than a year ago.

Today, I'm feeling a bit fragile after the traditional May bank holiday weekend so I decided to have a read through my old entries.

All I have to say is that I am sorry - I've become everything I hate - an obnoxious and pretentious know-it-all using stupid flowery language and bringing in obscure references to economics and 90s TV shows that serve no purpose other than to make me sound like a complete tool.

...and that's before I even go on to the content of what I've written about! Topics such as drinking, dieting, failed house moves, more dieting and AV equipment could hardly be more dull and the 'opinions' I've shared on topics such as charity collectors, capitalism and ex-colleagues make me sound like my hobbies should include moonlight strolls and kitten strangling.

Then I realised that I'd actually achieved what I set out to do - remind me of some of the things that are just ridiculous in this world and point them out in a way that makes it quite clear to me how wrong they can be. Of course I don't actually have anything against charity workers, East London Trendies or the (often very hard working and competent) conveyancing solicitors. For me, it's rarely about what I'm actually typing about, more just a reminder of the bizarre thoughts that cross my mind from time to time.

As I said almost a year ago - this blog is by me, for me and I reckon it does that job fairly well. I've actually quite enjoyed flicking back over the events of the last year today. I'll never forget how good it felt to finish the half marathon in a half decent time - but it was also good to have a quick re-read of the doubts I had in my head back in September. Similarly, looking back and seeing how genuinely angry I was about the house move at the time, but now thinking about how much better life is given that the move DIDN'T happen puts a nice perspective on things. Finally, I still think FYB.com will make me millions. Mark my words.

So I'm going to keep doing it - flowery language, crappy metaphors and all - because it's something that amuses me, because it reminds me of what I was thinking at that moment in time, because it gives me something to do in the office on a Friday when I really don't feel like doing any real work and because it's led to some great arguments with my bestest buddies (I'm still waiting for your "book better than film reposte", you know who you are and you've raised expectations sky high. No pressure).

I'm pretty sure that I'm not (quite) as much as an a-hole as this site makes me sound and I hope that at least some of friends would agree.

Well, this certainly wasn't what I was planning when I opened up the laptop - flip flopping all over the place and almost doing a mini "year in review". In fact, I wanted to write about Barca, but I think I'll wait to do that until I've had a chance to recover...

So instead, let me summarise the post:

I'd like to say "Sorry for being a dick" and "Sorry for my mediocre (at best) chat" but I'm not going to. 'Cause I'm not sorry. Not in the slightest. The last year has been an excellent one and it's good fun to look back on things, and then get back to looking forward to what comes next...

Cheesetastic eh?

Screen Rage

2012-04-27T14:14:00.002+01:00

Anyone who knows me will tell you I’m somewhat of a technology geek. Look behind the shiny black gloss of my minimalistic audio-visual units and you will see enough wires to hog tie a sumo wrestler and a quantity of multi-plug adapters that would throw a fire warden into the depths of a nervous breakdown.

Sadly, the dream of my dedicated cinema room – a projector powered monstrosity complete with iPhone controlled roller blinds, reverb dampening panelling, reflection reducing wall-coverings and speakers so loud they blow women’s clothes off – was put on hold by a recent lack of moving house (yep, still bitter). Instead, I upgraded my old 42’’ Panasonic Plasma to a 55’’ Samsung D8000 LED. Technically it’s just an LCD display with LED edge lighting – but the marketing machine wants idiot customers to believe it’s a new and improved technology. In fact, it’s not. Colour uniformity is not as strong as my plasma and there is some “banding” on the screen but the contrast and blacks are outstanding. More importantly, it’s really thin and pretty and the only way the missus would let 55’’ of televisiony goodness dominate our living room!

But enough of the geekery. The point I was trying to get to is that I love anything that involves screens. From gaming to sport to Neighbours (the reason Sky+ was invented) to films, I am happiest when my feet are raised and my eyes and ears are filled with audio-visual goodness.

The only problem that this causes me is that I simply now cannot cope with even attempting to go to the cinema. It’s just an infinitely more pleasurable experience in the comfort of my own home.

Deluded cinema chain CEOs and marketing directors claim that despite monumental improvements in the quality of the home cinema equipment and content available to all at an ever depreciating cost, people will keep coming back to the cinema for that “big screen experience”.

Really? What exactly do you mean by “big screen experience”? Perhaps you mean paying vastly inflated ticket prices (dreamed up by your overly zealous private equity investors in an attempt to milk their recently acquired cash-cow) whilst supporting a failing industry that not even the studios care about by buying post-mix Pepsi and god awful popcorn with a gross margin of well upwards of 90%? Or perhaps you mean the “experience” of listening to the local yoof compete to see who can swear the loudest on their mobile in a bastardised attempt at English consistent with their sub-80 IQ endowment?

I realise that the above is just one end of spectrum but the other end is just an infuriating, perhaps even worse. Encircled by a “so different yet so identical” troupe of skinny jean & thick rim glasses wearing rahs with hair exhibiting more volume than even the winner of the previously mentioned swearing contest I can’t help but visualise a Tarantino-esque massacre starring the majority of my neighbouring Shoreditch cinemagoers¹

However, my biggest gripe with the rest of the film watching population has nothing, in fact, to do with the cinema. Instead, one simple sentence can serve to fill me with such rage that the hijinks of the multiplex yoof and the artistic integrity of my East London brethren pale into insignificance. A sentence so powerful that when uttered within earshot leads me to break free from the shackles of my lethargy and desire not to be an opinionated cockbag and rant (often at length) in the direction of its deliverer.

“It’s not as good as the book”

My muscles tense, my teeth grind and my face goes a shade closer to aubergine – and that’s just my reaction to typing those words.

In my opinion very few phrases, actions, concepts or ideologies serve to portray such a damning combination of pretention, flawed logic and an inability to discern opinion (let alone valid opinion) from fact.

To quote my fab fiancée (albeit slightly out of context) “it’s not what you said, it’s the way that you said it”. More specifically it’s why you said it.

So if you ever find yourself about to utter the unthinkable, stop and ask yourself “why am I saying this?”.

For reasons I will come on to:

“because the film is better than the book”

is not a valid reason. Ever. In 100% of cases.

In fact, you are not even really thinking that at all. What you are actually thinking is:

“I believe that society considers books to be a more intelligent pursuit than watching a film and by asking this question I am letting everybody know that I read and am therefore better than them”

If this is in fact what you are thinking, then congratulations, the high-beams of my rage are shining right in your beady little lifeless eyes. In my experience, approximately 99% of you have been thinking this exact thing when delivering the evil phrase in my presence.

A couple of days ago, I experienced the 1% - No, not the 1% we would all love to be a part of, not the 1% the more liberal tax dodgers amongst us decide to protest about rather than working harder with the aim of joining the 1% - the 1% of book advocates devoid of sinister motives (or at least relegating these motives to a secondary “fringe benefit”).

I watched Moneyball. Moneyball is an absolutely brilliant film where a fascinating story (especially to an ex-economist baseball fan like myself) is complemented by superb dialogue and a great performance from Brad Pitt (who despite every fibre in me wanting to dislike through jealousy, I think is brilliant). As soon as the end credits began to roll, I relayed my enjoyment to Twitter, Facebook and via text message to some select recipients. It was by the return of text message that it happened:

“It is awesome, but the book is a lot better (less Brad Pitt and his family moments)”

The next day when I saw the culprit, I sternly asked him to explain his actions. He explained (quite well in fact) that he was purely interested in the story – the details of the historical events that formed the basis of the film and the statistics and maths behind the concept of exploiting market opportunities in baseball to win without an enormous bank roll². The book provided more of these details. Was the book better at providing the information he needed to fulfil his intellectual curiosity? Absolutely. Was the book better than the film? Heck no.

I have been making a mental note of all the people who have told me “it’s not as good as the book” and I am quite tempted to let them know how wrong they are in as unnecessarily public and ass-holish a manner as possible.

Picture the scene, friends cook dinner for two or three other couples. They spend hours preparing everything from scratch, seek out expert advice on the best wine accompaniment and painstakingly prepare the requisite iPod playlist.

The food is fantastic, the conversation witty and erudite, the atmosphere refined yet relaxed – an excellent evening. The hostess asks:

“How was the food?”

“Not as good as a moonlight stroll along a deserted beach”, I reply.

Instantly I become and asshole. More importantly I am completely wrong.

Here lies my point. These two things are completely non-comparable so saying one is better than the other is just stupid. It’s like asking whether Lionel Messi, Matt Kemp, Kobe Bryant, Tiger Woods or Phil Taylor is the best sportsman. Actually, that’s a bad example because in my opinion (notice the correct use of an opinion rather than assertion here) Woods and Taylor take part in hobbies not sports, but the point remains.

When I watch a film, I switch my brain off. I let the sights and sounds communicate the director’s interpretation of a story, usually confined to a 2 hour window. When I (rarely, I must admit) read a book, the onus is on me to paint the pictures in my head from the words on the page, for tens of hours over a number of days. There’s nothing similar about the two activities save that they both involve a story. Saying one is better than other is stupid, it does not make any sense.

So, if you’ve bothered to read this epic, I just ask one thing of you. By all means tell me the book is more detailed, tell me you prefer the pictures you form in your head to what’s on screen, tell me you dislike the fact that the film misses out some plot points. Just don’t tell me the book is better, because you’re wrong.

¹Ironically, it is exactly this Hollywood style action sequence that would be met by the derision of my Shoreditch compatriots

²He did then go on to try and explain how well read he was on the subject by telling me about how the theory has since been discredited, so the “look how great I am for reading books” agenda was still in the background

First World Problems - Part 3

2011-11-25T13:43:00.001+00:00

Hey you! Yeah you! The jiggly bit around my waist. That’s right. You.

F*CK YOU BELLY!

Avid readers (i.e. me) of this fine repository of literary genius may remember a previous posting - First Word Problems (part 2) - from back in May of this year.

This post concluded by throwing down the gauntlet - I must shed almost and stone and hit 12 stone 7 before the wedding.

In the months that followed I developed a cunning strategy to achieving this goal - binge dieting and binge exercising.

The concept is a simple one - like a Eurozone economy, it's all about the double dip. The strategy has 3 steps:

Step 1 (dip) - Lose weight by bingeing. Get wedding suits fitted.
Step 2 - Stop bingeing. Get fat again. Have a merry Christmas.
Step 3 (double dip) - Repeat step one. Get married

So far today I have eaten an excellent Chilango Burrito, 3 cookies and half a bag of Haribo. Why? Because today I weighed in at 12 stone and 5.6 pounds - I've lost a stone in just over 2 months.

For the first time in a very long time, the stupid BMI measure tells me I am no longer overweight. Victory is mine.

The best part was, the 69 days this took wasn't even that tough. Training for the run helped, lots of weights helped and now swimming is helping. The diet - a 'slow carb' diet championed by Tim Ferris in the book '4 Hour Body' - was pretty easy:

No carbs unless they are beans or lentils
Shed loads of protein
Only drink red wine (I added single malt whisky to this because it is goooood)
Binge day once a week

So you get to eat meat, meat and more meat 6 days a week and gorge on pizza, cheese and haribo on a Saturday. That's not a diet my friend, that's a privilege.

Wow, I just read back what I've written so far. Sounds like a weight watchers advertorial. Apologies. I'm not going to change it though - want to keep this as a reminder for me!

Now Step 1 is done, I don't think I want to do Step 2 anymore - question now becomes whether I want to stay where I am or try and get totally tonk and chase one of my lifetime goals I mentioned earlier...

What a completely dull and off topic post. Sorry. How can I get back on track?

Ummmm, I'm lazy and angry- rarrr. Done.

F*ck You Buddy!

2011-11-25T11:28:00.001+00:00

Hey you! Yeah you! The fat guy from the office gym. That’s right. You.

F*CK YOU BUDDY!

In what world is it acceptable to dry yourself using the hand dryer in the changing rooms, meat and two veg angrily flapping around as if someone was testing their aerodynamics in a wind tunnel. In fact, I’ll tell you how aerodynamic they are – IT DOESN’T F*CKING MATTER WHEN THEY ARE THAT SMALL.

If you’re really that proud of your boatrace, take a f*cking photo and keep it in your wallet rather than subject me to that scarring sight when I’m already about to chunder following a particularly intense work out (BEEEEEEFCAAAAAKE).

And one other thing. EVERY DAMN TIME YOU DO IT, you do not have to loudly justify that you only do it because you don’t want to get your f*cking towel wet. Jesusteabagginchrist you are a ridiculous excuse for a human and all I have to say is F*CK YOU BUDDY.

* * * * * * * * * * *

So there I was sat in an excellent bar in the sublime city of Philadelphia with my beautiful fiancée (suck up comment following previous post’s admission of lycra fetish. Check.) reading the local paper. Scanning through the personal ads (American personal ads are comedy gold by the way) I came on to something even better – the rants section.

Whilst hugely “American” in content and literary style (rants included gems such as, “Why you so fat? I see you waddling yo fat ass down the centre of the sidewalk. How’s a fella meant to get paaast when you so fat?”) the column was incredibly entertaining.

It was at that point a lightbulb flashed on in my head – FYB.com – F*ck You Buddy.

FYB.com will be my Facebook, and I its Zuckerberg. Together - fuelled by advertising, brand endorsements and a range of official FYB merchandise - I will make one meeeeelion dollars. Perhaps even one hundred beeelion dollars and never have to work again allowing me to more actively pursue my lifelong ambitions of doing the man-o-man pec dance and becoming a 1337 member of Str8 Rippin

"So how does it work" I hear you cry? Simple, you have 160 words (a la my rant about the shower guy – this is totally true and very disgusting and also exactly 160 words) to vent. This vent must be directed at a specific individual – if they can recognise themselves from your rant, even better. The location, time and date must be specified. Other users "like" or "dislike" your rant, allowing for a “rants of the day / week etc.” to be formed. One day I hope to add some kind of "right of reply" functionality if you can somehow prove that the rant is aimed at you. I have no idea how that would work.

Together, we create a community of the angriest people in London, the UK, even the world and head steadfastly towards global domination by the invective tribe with me as its handsome and charismatic (yet lethargic) leader. It’s a flawless plan.

However, by now you will have spotted the main problem with this plan. Much like a Justin Bieber autobiography - I am writing about this venture, spilling all my secrets and sharing the lightbulb moment with all 3 of the readers of this blog (me at work, me at home and me on my mobile) before I have actually done anything. Whoops.

Thing is, I can’t make websites (with the exception of my effort with the Wokingham Town U16s website some 11 years ago – it was hosted by Freeserve, was a member of a "football webring" and had pictures and frames and everything) and I am quite lazy and awfully busy.

Anyone want to make this for me? You can be my Winklevoss twins…

Running and Sine Waves

2011-10-03T10:32:00.002+01:00

Last Sunday afternoon came with an all too familiar feeling. Throbbing headache, aching all over, inability to move, severe drowsiness, massive euphoria, sense of achievement…

Hold on, those last two don’t sound anything like a hangover.

Last Sunday was different, if only for the getting up at 6.30am part. This is not normal. The only times I have ever seen 6.30am on a Sunday were when travelling to an airport or when in a very different time zone.

Last Sunday was the culmination of months of blood, sweat and tunes – The Nike+ London Half marathon. With over 200 miles, 30 hours and 25,000 calories logged since April, Sunday saw the final push – 13.1 miles.

Throughout my training, a good day would see me take about 9mins 15secs to run a mile; a bad day would see the times edge closer to 10. I had set out on my training aiming for a 2 hour half marathon (almost bang on 9 mins per mile).

Sadly a 2 week binge sampling the culinary wares of our heavy-set transatlantic neighbours (For the record, Philly Cheesesteak does exactly as it says on the tin and tastes even better than you imagine) was slap bang in the middle of my ramp up to race fitness. This trip kindly bestowed upon me about half a stone of gut and undid any kind of cardiac conditioning I had achieved over the previous months.

I scaled back my goal to 2 hours 10mins (but to be honest, if I’d gone over 2 hours 5 I would have been disappointed) and made my way to the O2 in my fetching purple T-shirt.

A couple of hours later I removed my sunglasses from my sweaty face, lifted my sweaty arm and took a look at my sweaty wrist. 1 hour, 45 minutes. Jesus. Teabagging. Christ.

So explains the Euphoria and sense of achievement on an otherwise agonising Sunday afternoon.

After the good old H2O / ibuprofen cocktail cured my headache I tried to rationalise why I had destroyed my target and all my training runs. My run tracker app showed me the half marathon was not only my fastest (and only) ½ marathon, but also my quickest 10k, 5k and 1 mile. I came up with a few explanations:

(1) Carbs – I will probably be writing about this another time but I am currently following a “slow carb” diet and have been running with minimal carb intake during my training. A few days before the race I started nailing more pasta than an Italian porn remake of American Pie and during the race I sunk more blue liquid (Powerade) than I used to during a night a Park End (VK Blue).

However, I was only off carbs for the last couple of weeks of my training, so this doesn’t explain (all of) it.

(2) I run like I drive – Anyone who has ever been in a car will me will understand my driving mantra. Irrespective of quality of car (big up the L reg Fiesta), accelerate, move into fast lane, arrive at destination. I do not feel like I am making progress unless I am overtaking something. Turns out I run like I drive – weaving crazily between sweaty bodies like a queue jumper in McDonalds.

(3) Lycra – I’m just going to come out and admit this. I have always been a fan of lycra (when combined with the appropriate female form). I would just like to take this opportunity to thank the inventor of lycra running leggings. Combine this penchant with my ADHD attention span and the “run like I drive” observation above and you have the optimal running strategy:

(1) Find appropriate combination of lyrca and bottom approximately 100m ahead

(2) Overtake other racers until “slipstreaming” chosen target

(3) Get bored

(4) Return to step 1 and repeat for 13.1 miles

Sadly, none of this explains how I had the energy to run faster and further than I have before. However, one thing does:

(5) Competitive Pressure – I am inherently lazy. You know that. I know that. Minimum effort, maximum result has always been my mantra. I am also pretty competitive, but only in short bursts and only when it does not contradict my 80:20 beliefs.

I stepped into the pen (the “1 hour 40 to 2 hour” pen as I had put “2 hours” on my target time), skulked to the back and then looked around:

“Fatty. Fatty. Old dude. Fatty. Guy dressed as giant foam tap. Fatty. If you can do sub 2 hours, so can I”

About 40 mins in – when I usually have a little walk:

“Knackered. Just a little walk”

“No. Only fatties walking. Keep going”

“Oooooh – Angel’s With Snipers by InMe, what a tune!”

“What was I just thinking about? Lycra ahead!”

And so on until the end.

So, like I said – “Eurphoria, sense of achievement” followed. Unfortunately this had all vanished by Monday and had been replaced by invective, for once pointed directly at my own lethargy…

If I am capable of running that quickly, why hadn’t I trained at that pace and then run even quicker on the day?

More importantly, in general, is my laziness actually holding me back from achieving a lot more?

I thought about this across other areas of life and found myself dwelling on a few nagging doubts and questions:

If I look back at my career choice after university, maybe I should have more actively scoured the milk round rather than taking a job offered to me after my internship, ending up in a bank, hedge fund or PE and taking home the mega-bucks. Why did I take the easy option?

If I look back at the work I do in the two weeks running up to a deadline, both the quantity and quality of this work puts the pre-ceding months of low incentive churning to shame. How much could I achieve if I did this all the time?

If I look back at my house move, if I had chased earlier and more tenaciously then maybe I could have fixed it before it went wrong. Why didn’t I chase this harder?

But you know what, all in all I wouldn’t change a thing.

As much as I thrive on pressure, deadlines and a challenge; I love kicking back, relaxing and reflecting just as much. All batteries eventually need recharging - whether they have been drained by years of keeping a wristwatch ticking or by a couple of seconds of tazering a younger brother (and you and I both know which is more fun).

A slightly eccentric friend once described life as a sine wave. I agree, and for me it’s all about the amplitude. Frequent (ish) bursts of effort (interspaced with the requisite Xbox days) directed at as wide a variety of things as possible (holidays, ranting, banter, drinking, working, dancing, driving, running and wedding) are the way forward and if I miss out on a few things during the recharge days, so be it. After all, it’s these recharge troughs that put quite how awesome the peaks are into perspective.

From now on, I will not worry about what passes me by or what I could have achieved when I’m recharging. I’ve come to the conclusion that all the fun is in the sequence of short, sharp, sprints. It’s just strange that it took running a half-marathon to realise this…

Tard Rage - Part 2

2011-08-23T09:55:00.002+01:00

To date, my posts here have typically addressed the burning, yet very trivial aspects of everyday life. Things that, whilst irritating, provide the lows that help contextualise all that is awesome about bothering to get out of bed¹.

1 month and 10 days after the collapse of my house move, I feel like I am now able to rationally and philosophically look at what happened and recount the cataclysmic confluence of endless ineptitude that has characterised my experience of supposedly “professional” individuals so far in 2011.

It all started with Davina McCall. One cold December Friday I had managed to secure “reserve” tickets for the Million Pound Drop live on TV from the Applause Store. Having trekked all the way to the delightful area of Bromley-by-Bow we ended up as the first people on the wrong side of the “sorry we’re full” line. Cold, wet and dejected, we made our way home to watch it on TV instead. My lovely girlfriend (yep, so long ago it was pre-fianceé days) started browsing housing websites and we found a big new development out in North West London.

We visited the development the next day – no show home, just blueprints at that stage. It looked perfect: open plan kitchen and living room, space for my dream of a dedicated “cinema room” on the ground floor, garden, garage, enough bedrooms for the children that I don’t expect or plan to have for a long while yet and to finish it all off they would take our flat in part exchange. We waited until after Christmas when the show home had been built – but we knew from that Saturday that we’d go for it. In January we reserved with the developers (incompetent party #1), instructed the solicitors they pressured us to use (incompetent party #2) and the process began. Initially the solicitors struggled to get in contact with our freeholder (incompetent party #3) but eventually contact was made.

All seemed to be progressing well – we designed our kitchen, bathrooms (4 bathrooms for 2 people, in hindsight, was probably superfluous) garden and all important power, TV, telephone and Sky sockets – paying the requisite deposits as we went. We read the replies to the developer’s enquiries from the freeholder’s solicitor (member of party #3) and were slightly shocked at how rude, unprofessional, slapdash and poorly written these were. Even more shocking was the fact this poor excuse for a document carried a £250 fee that we were expected to pay. A letter from the developer (unsurprisingly) followed shortly expressing concerns with the incompleteness of the answers and we assumed that all parties would act practically and quickly to get around what seemed a simple hiccup in the process. At no point were we given reason to think otherwise.

Our assumption was given further weight when we were given contracts to sign (although these were never ‘exchanged’) and were informed by the developers that the moving date would be confirmed within the week. This was the start of July, a full half year after the process began.

The day we were due to find out our completion date we got a call from the sales team – “we have a serious problem with your freeholder”. Like a fat Scottish chancellor’s reaction to an exponentially expanding budget deficit coupled with politically fuelled expansive fiscal policy during a pre-recessionary boom period, the inept parties had chosen to ignore the “hiccup” until it became an almighty “f-up”. We would not be completing until this issue (highlighted a number of months before and left unattended) had been resolved.

“Fear not though”, we were told by the valiant Three Tard-keteers, this can be easily rectified if the developer (#1) tells the solicitors (#2) to tell the freeholder (#3) what is required and simple actions are taken to resolve the situation. In a thoroughly unsurprising moment – when their powers were combined all that materialised was Captain Jack-Shit².

Despite my attempts to call, shout at, push and pull to remove the inertia, not enough progress was being made so the “big boss” of the developer jumps in. This is a man so revered and feared by the sales team that his first name was taboo. He was referred to simply as “Mr. [REDACTED]”.

Annoyingly, this initially stopped me guessing his email address but that was nothing Google couldn’t fix. In fact his name was Tim. Little Timmy (as you will see from the molto forte crescendo of my final rant) remains the main object of my diatribe due to epitomising a spectacular expertise across the entire scope of the “Trifecta of Tard-dom^TM”.

Little Timmy waded in and pulled the plug – the move was over. We were devastated.

Now that time has allowed me to traverse the stages of denial, self-pity, rage and acceptance, I find myself experiencing a couple of feelings I was not expecting – relief and embarrassment.

Embarrassment in that my inability to purchase a 4-bedroom family home at the grand old age of 27 was one of the more notable setbacks I have experienced since getting an “A” in my French GCSE. This hardly qualifies me to sup bourbon whilst delivering a heartfelt blues performance to a bar full of unemployed divorcees. What am I whining about? I’ve got it (and always had it) pretty damn good.

The relief comes from the fact that I have since realised I am not quite ready for middle-aged life in suburbia, nor the penny pinching frugality that would come with the Godzilla of mortgages that I narrowly avoided, nor the potential for the sub-standard soundproofing of modern terraced houses to leave me exposed to the nightly mating rituals of hideously overweight neighbours.

Notwithstanding the silver lining and my over privileged melodrama, having had chance to undertake a deeper analysis of the series of events that led to the collapse, the professional disdain for competence displayed by the trio of parties³in a trifecta of ways is undeniable and still gets my goat whenever I think about it.

I know, I know, you’re thinking:

“OK, I get the ‘trio’ – freeholder, lawyers, developer – but now you’re going on about a ‘trifecta’ – what the deuce do you mean by that?”

Funny you should say that – let me introduce to you the “Trifecta of Tard-dom^TM”:

Actually, before you do – this is already my longest post. It is no doubt tedious and self-indulgent and I’m not even getting started yet. If you would like to take a break, now would be a good time – here is a picture of a cute puppy to entertain you during this break.

Now on with the trifecta…

Practical Incompetence – The ability to get eternally submerged by process, theory, a lack of intellect or general lethargy and effectively avoid any remote possibility of getting something valuable done. Please Google “Government”, “Corporate Risk Management” or “Arsene Wenger’s transfer policy” for relevant examples

Emotional Incompetence – The uncanny ability to misread the emotional state of people and either deliver discourse or undertake work in a way that is in direct conflict with the basic social etiquette understood through instinct by all except the most gifted of sociopaths. Examples can be found through searching for “Reacting to the mass exodus of client facing staff from a Strategy Consultancy by ignoring all concerns raised⁴and delivering a charisma-absent speech about the 10 year vision for the team” or “Piers Morgan”

Logical Incompetence – As someone who is both employed and naturally inclined to look at every situation through a logical lens (much to the irritation and, no doubt, tedium of others), this one really pilfers my porcupine⁵. Defined here as simply “the inability to think through the logical consequences of an action or sequence of events”, examples can again be found through searching for "Oregon's Exploding Whale" or "The Chewbacca Defense".

If Practical incompetence were a perfume it would be “Eau de freeholder”; if it were a meal it would be “Beef and freeholder stroganoff”; if it were a football team, well, you get the picture. Very few people have the capability to covertly buy the freehold to a block of 3 flats with a ground floor commercial unit, acquire planning permission to turn the commercial unit into a restaurant without informing the residents, violate planning permission on as many occasions as humanly possible during the construction of the restaurant and then subsequently run the restaurant into the ground. Twice. Within six months.

Our freeholder managed this (possibly the only thing he has ever bothered to manage). What’s more, at the same time this individual managed not only to remain incommunicado but also managed to fulfil none of his responsibilities outlined in the lease. Upon attempting to move it took this gentleman three months to suggest that his ready appointed solicitor perhaps get in contact with my lawyers. Whilst the unprofessional conduct of his appointed solicitor certainly carried an air of practical incompetence, he definitely majored in emotional incompetence so before I talk about him anymore, I will devote a few words to my beloved solicitors.

To me, nothing says…

“Daddy wanted me to get a real job but the fact I possess all the drive and mental agility of a Big Brother evictee meant that the intellect, moral compass, professional standards and capacity for empathetic human interaction required for a career with Injury Lawyers 4U was too much of a stretch for my genetic endowment”

…quite like becoming a conveyancing solicitor.

Even so, when you’re job requires the management of a process, often to a tight and changing deadline, you would expect some level of competence from people that are supposedly acting on your behalf. In a time pressured environment, identifying bottlenecks and acting to release them should come as second nature to even the lowliest and least capable of project managers.

When the absence of sufficient information from a freeholder is bluntly identified as a potential sticking point in a process, surely a daily email or phone call politely reminding the freeholder of their legal obligations to facilitate this process would be appropriate? 3 weeks of burying ones head in the sand, on the other hand, is hardly “acting in my interests”. The fact that the developer’s legal team also did no chasing is testament to a Practical incompetence inherent in the profession in general rather than solely bestowed upon my legal team. Further, the clients of conveyancers (i.e. me) are unlikely to provide regular repeat business (whereas the developers that enforce their use are). Couple this with the fact that their fees are largely contingent on time spent rather than success and you have a collection of professionals with absolutely no incentive to be anything other than useless.

Whilst the practical incompetence of conveyancers may be a simple fact of life, here I have a prime example of legal support that is effortlessly able to combine this practical incompetence with a healthy dose of Emotional incompetence.

People have egos. People stuck in the unloved depths of a legal department of a corporate behemoth subject to endless conveyancing and seen as the treacle that stops sales going ahead are likely to have low self esteem and thus be protective of their egos (hello developer legal team!). Similarly, people who have recently bankrupted their own law firm, resulting in the suspension of their license to practice law and subsequently having to take an un-named role at a no-name solicitor firm whilst trying to re-establish contact with the most naïve of their former clients that would at least consider using a barge pole to make personal contact are also likely to have low self esteem and thus be protective of their ego (hello Freeholder’s solicitor!).

Based on the above I have prepared some “top tips” on how aspiring conveyancers should attempt to travel the road towards Emotional competence:

Top tip one, if you are the illiterate underling of an already incompetent “lead name” conveyancer acting for me, do not forward the unprofessional and rude replies to initial lease enquiries penned by the Freeholder’ life-frustrated solicitor to the Developer without attaching the questions that were asked.

Top tip two, when you receive a pompous letter from a posturing developer’s counsel highlighting the poor quality of responses and questioning the capability of the freeholder’s legal team, do not forward the unedited letter directly to the previously disbarred bankruptee.

Top tip three, when said bankruptee replies that the letter from the developer is “hysterical” and “unfounded”, do not forward this unedited to the frustrated corporate slave in the developer’s legal department.

If you think “oops” when you read any of these tips then you are officially Emotionally incompetent. If you think “oops” to all three, then you can be safe in the knowledge that you are not on my Christmas card list.

As I progress in my career I have the aspirations of achieving a pretty senior position within a business – ideally a CEO, happy with a place on the board of directors. Getting there will require me to jump through a load of hoops and take on a number of other jobs. These may include non-board director ships, regional roles, down and dirty operational roles or all manner of things I have not thought of.

In all my experience of senior teams in business, both in my current role and through consulting, I have generally been impressed with the logical thought processes exhibited by these people and their general professionalism and competence. Unfortunately, little Timmy was an exception to this rule and a master in the art of Logical incompetence.

As a regional director responsible for sales, you are responsible (and incentivised) to maximise both revenue and profit for your division. Prior to cancelling our move, Timmy was in an excellent position to do just that:

Because we were taking part in a part exchange with our flat, the full asking price for the house was to be paid – a rarity in current economic conditions
The part-exchange offer for our flat was slightly below market rate and during the process the ground floor commercial unit changed from an unoccupied restaurant to a bookmakers, thus increasing the property value
The house, during the build, was tailored to our specification. It was not only tailored to our tastes (which in hindsight, sadly did not include polka dot carpets or a pink kitchen) but we would have paid significant sums for the privilege, at a huge mark-up for the developer

In summary, cha-ching. Thus, if you believe there may be some uncertainty with the freehold management of the property, the rational thing to do is to seek further information or take steps to reduce this risk, or at least reduce the information asymmetry in understanding whether there is a risk of reselling the flat at all. A logical person would have taken one or more of the following options:

Seek advice from a lawyer who is legally competent in the practicalities of freehold law in London (i.e. not the paper monkeys internally)
Instruct your minions to work to rectify the situation
Work out that if the risk of a problem with resale is, say 10%, that 90% of the value you would receive from this transaction is still well above what you would receive from attempting to resell the house (after adjusting for delays, people paying less than asking price, people not paying for optional extras, you not receiving more than you paid for our flat)
Following this, think of something to make it work

Sadly, Timmy is not rational. Non-rational decisions such as Timmy’s have led to the share price of his company plummeting to 7% of the value that it was in 2007. OK, the minor economic slowdown may be in part to blame but if you look at six of Timmy’s competitors over the same period, whilst his stock options have fallen by 93%, his competitors have only been hit by 68%. It is the lack of competence of senior figures like Timmy that leads your £10,000 of accumulated stock to be worth £700 (£9,300 of value destruction) rather than nearly 5 times as much.

Obviously, both Timmy and Timmy’s boss have received strongly worded letters pointing out his and his team’s incompetency. I can only hope they read them and that their egos are sufficiently in check for some of the messages to sink in. I have come to learn from this process that incompetence is contagious – especially within large organisations – and I can only hope that self-awareness can start to cure this so that other people are not subjected to the same stresses that I have been.

Writing this has been liberating. This is partly that in venting the frustrations that have built up over the last 8 months I have limited the possibility of a “rage explosion” in the near future. Also, and maybe more importantly, it has shown me that you do not need to be superhuman or super competent to find yourself in a position of power and influence. There may be hope for me yet.

Maybe one day I will anonymously link parties 1, 2 and 3 to this blog, thus congratulating them on achieving mediocrity despite their genetic shortcomings. Maybe Timmy will read it and develop the self awareness to work on his many flaws. Maybe I will send it to them, maybe I’m just too lazy.

¹Or all that is awesome about staying in bed recovering from dancing like a maniac to a live Pendulum DJ set until 5am

² Yes, I know, that is a terrible and vague Captain Planet reference. I apologise

³Technically there are well in excess of 3 parties who displayed ineptitude (2 of my lawyers, 1 freeholder, his lawyer and somewhere between 5 and 10 employees of a the large national housing developer) but they can be grouped into 3. And GCSE English told me stuff has more impact in threes

⁴Initially – followed by a sudden u-turn sparked by the threatened resignation of the majority of the senior team…

⁵ I realised I really like the phrase “gets my goat” but I was unwilling to use the same expression twice in the same post. Incidentally the origins of this expression are largely unknown – with hypotheses ranging from “goat” being a misspelled “goad” to a direct French translation of “prendre la chevre” to the malicious practice of stealing the “pet goat” of a race horse immediately before a race (in the 1700s, goats were apparently used as companion animals to help settle race horses prior to major events)

Tard Rage - Part 1

2011-08-19T16:22:00.001+01:00

Bluntly, lots of things piss me off.

At least 90% of these things are caused by specific individuals (the remaining 10% split between frustrating tasks, my Xbox and the everyday plight of our deteriorating society¹). Of these individuals, I would estimate that at least 75% know of my dissatisfaction with their actions shortly afterwards².

I suppose that the obvious question is “why is 68% of my rage is outwardly and shamelessly invected at specific people?”. I believe, however, that through one particular timeless cinematic moment, a Jack Nicholson quote is worth 1,000 words:

“There are two kinds of angry people in this world: explosive and implosive. Explosive, which is the most common, is the type of individual you see screaming at a grocery store cashier for not taking his coupon. Implosive, the least common, is the cashier at the store who remains quiet at his job day after day until he then finally loses it and just shoots everyone in the store”

Granted, this profound insight was actually delivered to Adam Sandler (or was it Ben Stiller? I’m pretty sure they’re actually the same person) and thus the film itself was, undeniably, terrible but you understand the underlying message and this “better out than in” philosophy was something I strongly advocated throughout my formative years.

However, in evolving from an angry, opinionated teen to the fine, mature, highly successful and wise future leader that you no doubt see when you look at me today, I have learnt that the 75% expression of rage I mentioned previously – or rather the antithesis-ish 25% associated with it – is far more important than I had assumed.

It is at this stage where I would like to give a subtle, yet anonymous, nod to a special friend of mine. This fine specimen has really helped me through some tough times and taught me that the emotional capital, morale and camaraderie that can be built from respecting the 25% is the key to success, and in all serious, happiness.

Actually. Screw anonymity. However, before I shamelessly shed this friend’s disguise, it is worth providing some context around how our paths became so inextricably linked.

In my previously life I was responsible for managing a team of fresh-faced, enthusiastic strategists as we provided advice to a firm of super-sharp, super-demanding private equity investors looking to acquire a well known retailer. Deadlines were tight, stakes were high and client demands (as ever) were completely unreasonable. 6 weeks into the process and morale was waning and temperatures waxing, all exacerbated (man, I really love that word) by the Orwellian monitoring, variable temperament and additional unreasonable demands of our Senior Manager. This person’s processes of logical thought and project management mantra was (whilst generally effective) completely different to anything I had experienced before, or have since³.

My frustrations were mirrored and amplified by the rest of my team and despite dogged attempts to cheer up and motivate the team, it was clear that this was one instance where repression, grinning and bearing would have to win over kicking, screaming and raging.

It was then that I met him.

Like a Wayne Rooney hair transplant, he is almost unrecognisable now from when we first met. Sat unused aside an empty box of Wasabi’s finest sushi was Ragey – expressionless, armless, yet an instant and talismanic symbol of how we the people could prevail against adversity.

Meet Ragey - the Rage Spoon

After a facelift and appendage transplant, Ragey became an icon. The premise was a simple one - only one team member could possess Ragey (the “rage spoon”) and only this person could express anger, frustration or outright rage in the workplace. A formal, verbal request to receive the services of “Ragey” was required for a transfer of guardianship.

I half expected the repressed anger to build up and eventually overflow, but this explosion never materialised. Ragey’s happy-go-luck expression and the privileged knowledge of his existence and symbolism (initially only afforded to the project team) meant all the bottled up tension simply effervesced into nothingness. Unreasonable expectations were met and the pain of the process was (partially) forgotten shortly afterwards.

On the day I left that job, I tearfully bestowed Ragey’s keeping unto a good friend. I am glad to hear that the legacy of the 25% lives on, it certainly does with me.

I realise that I have now written quite a lot regarding the 25%. I had planned to include an example of my recent interactions with the 75%, heralding from my recent experience of the perfect storm of Tardship that resulted in the collapse of my house move. However, the lethargy has set in. So I just added “part 1” to the title instead.

¹ Approximately 66.66% of these reasons are not blatant lies

²Or appearance, odour, presence etc.

³As an example, when I suggested during our post project review that we hadn’t got the 80:20 balance (i.e. 80% of the result with 20% of the effort) quite right on the project I was informed that the SM “didn’t care if the last 20% takes 5 times as long as the first 80%, we must get 100% of the way there”. Incidentally, this moment was somewhat of a turning point in where I saw my career going. Just to be clear - this person is great fun socially and someone I would consider one of my closer friends and the previous job, we just clashed when it came to working together!

Stop! Step away from the bubble...

2011-06-13T18:20:00.000+01:00

If there is one thing that makes the working week more bearable, it’s my noise cancelling headphones.

My Ultimate Ears SuperFi 5vi’s deliver a crisp rich sound directly into my head, providing a clear mid-range and delivery of bass that you simply wouldn’t expect from in-ears. Whether its dance music when running, angry rock music, audiobooks or podcasts these are by far and away the best (and, coincidentally at £50 the most expensive) headphones my iPhone has ever been hooked up to.

To be honest, that’s not difficult as the bundled white buds from Apple are frankly terrible, my Skullcandy Full Metal Jackets died in less than a month and my 3 pairs of Sennheiser MM50ip’s each lasted only a little longer than that.

However, the quality of the sound is not the reason I love them. In fact, for the length of time that they worked for, I have loved all of my noise cancellers equally. See, it’s the noise cancelling part that really matters. It lets me shut myself off from the outside world and exist in my own little bubble.

For years, I survived with standard Apple white buds. This was until I moved desks in my first job to sit between the two office loudspeakers. As a half-arsed attempt at keeping their identities a secret, let’s call them Mrs. Chew and Mrs. Ribery.

There’s a Mrs. Chew in every office. More than happy to forcefully impart an opinion on absolutely everything and everyone. More often than not any opinion imparted would be voted against by supermajority or better. A hypochondriac with a compulsion to share every gory detail. All of this at a volume that could drown out the fire alarm drill.

And then there’s Mrs. Ribery. I am still not sure if she is technically a Miss, but at a certain age I tend to refer to all ladies as Mrs. Employed for her ridiculous language skills (fluent in more than 10 languages), this lady sure could talk. Constantly. Without breath. For Days.

To add further annoyance, Mrs. Ribery had somehow wangled her way to convincing the powers that be that a 9 month working year was a good idea. I would certainly agree that the 3 summer months were blissful, if only it weren’t for the months directly before and after this annual sabbatical. The month before, the yapping would commence but the month after was the real killer, and it got worse every year.

I have noticed that as a lady gets older, years of sunbathing can leave skin somewhat leathery, almost crispy. Imagine, if you will, that you were to coat a half inflated balloon with old, dry leather. What would the surface of this balloon look like if you were to re-inflate this balloon on an annual basis? (Following a gradual deflation over the previous year)

Trust me, you wouldn’t want to see it. However, I am not so lucky – I remain haunted to this day by two of these (freshly inflated) coated balloons dangling over my desk as their owner rabbited on about the previous 3 months.

Alone, one of these two ladies (Mrs. Ribery and Mrs. Chew, not the balloons) could be bearable. Together, not so much. Then I discovered the bubble. Armed with Last.FM, some shiny new Sennheisers and a can do attitude I erected my capsule of personal space. Amazingly, not only did I no longer hear either of them, but the sagging twins stopped a-visiting due to the clear “leave me alone” body language. Result.

Secondly, a shorter one this time. I live in London. Public transport in London is one of the most unpleasant things anyone can ever experience. However, stick on some headphones and ignore everyone else and you can pretend its not happening. OK, you may still end up being pressed nose-first into the armpit of a gorilla reminiscent of a larger, hairier cousin of Stavros flatly but at least you can be listening to Whitesnake while you’re doing it.

Finally, these 2 small balls of ear-filling goodness can be your first, last and only line of defence against the worst scum of the universe. That’s right. Chuggers.

I hate charity muggers with a passion (or “Street Fundraisers” for the PC amongst you). And here’s why:

Most charity muggers are paid on an hourly basis (although some are paid on commission). They can be paid up to, or more than £12 an hour to do their thing. Think about it. 5 days a week. 8 hours a day. 52 weeks a year. £12 an hour.

These scumbags are stealing up to £24,960 per year from the charities you want to give money to.

That’s more than a new teacher (paid from £21,588 outside of London) and a new doctor (Foundation Year 1 = £22,412). Clearly something is not quite right.

Yes. They will argue that after the charities have paid the initial commission (the Chugger Pimps are all paid on commission) the charities will make money they wouldn’t do otherwise, which they may well do. But I’m pretty sure that if you give me a week with the “marketing budget” assigned by charities to chuggers I could get you a much better and more immediate return.

Stopping my tirade for a second. You have to give credit to some of the chuggers. If they are smart enough to work out that a £25k salary for wandering around outside with no performance related criteria to be judged upon is a fairly good return for very little effort, then fair play to them.

Irritatingly, however, most of these people enter into this world as a result of a jumped up self-reverential ideology that they possess the power to deliver rectal sunshine to the rest of the world. They couldn’t possibly compromise their morals and get a “real job” - this would just feed the evil capitalist beast. Heck no, they must act like Sir Robin Hood and steal from these rich and give to the poor (after the poor have first paid them, handsomly, for their galant service).

Dining out on tales of how their “chosen path” leaves them similar in moral stature to Ghandi, they are not forced to realise that their pierced lips, dreadlocks, outrageous facial hair, sandals and constant aroma of [insert one from: marijuana, body odour, hemp or Lynx Voodoo] make them virtually unemployable in the real world. You’ll see this as a recurring theme in my writing, but again, here is an instance where we as society have stopped natural selection running its course.

So, I spent a while thinking about the optimal strategy to get rid of chuggers. I am currently split between two options.

One. Stand there and talk to the chugger for as long as is humanly possible. The whole day would be ideal. In the best case scenario, the chugger is on commission so will not make any money. At worst, the chugger’s pimp is being paid on commission so will not make any money. They will, however, still have to pay the chugger so will be losing money and eventually starve. After distracting the chugger for as long as possible, inform them with a smug grin that you will now be going to donate online. Donate online if feeling rich.

Two. Counter chug. Carry a big sign saying “don’t pay the chugger” and encourage the chugees to donate directly instead. Surely by now, most people susceptible to chugging have been chugged so all you are really doing by stopping any new customers is simply speeding up the natural process of starvation (and saving each new intake of grads and school leavers let loose in the city from funding future chugging). Donate online if feeling rich.

I think both these strategies are equally valid and can lead to the end of chugging (whilst keeping the money flowing to the charities). Sadly, I don’t have enough time (and am frankly too lazy) to put any of these strategies into practice. I just stick my headphones on, enter my bubble, and ignore them.

München Meinen Truncheon

2011-06-03T10:24:00.002+01:00

As a nation, we simply do not like ze Germans. With the war well before the time of most of us (and most of our parents) I struggle to believe that that this is the real reason why.

I have spent a fair bit of time trying to work out why and, quite aptly, the four reasons I can think of closely resemble a pair of secret policemen – SS SS

Sunbeds – clichéd reference to the blunt efficiency of the Germans. I would say more a reason for annoyance than dislike

Sport – from Football to Tennis to F1, ze German’s consistently hand our medium-rare backsides to us in sporting situations. Let’s face it, our British politeness means that we are, essentially, a nation of chokers. Ze Germans, conversely are used to winning so end up winning

Seriousness – entertainingly, there has been a full on academic study of why the Brits and the Germans have a level of mutual distrust – have a read of this:

-LINK-

For the lazy, it boils down to small-talk – whereas we use small talk to “provide a social function” – i.e. make people feel good – our German counterparts see this is an unnecessary waste of time, and in some cases, insincere small talk is seen as tantamount to lying. Imagine a life without unneeded chat. Certainly more efficient but much less entertaining.

Sarcasm – I would like to take this opportunity to thank our very own Hugh Laurie for finally bringing sarcasm across the Atlantic through the medium of medical drama. Having honed his craft in arguably the greatest example of quintessential British satire – Blackadder – Dr House finally taught the Amercian public that insults and sarcasm are in fact the highest form of wit. Sadly, the common perception is that our Germanic friends are yet to follow the same path.

Last month, I went to Munich, and I have come to understand where the distrust, resentment and oft time dislike of the Germans come from. Compared to all other European nations, the Germans are more like the British than anyone else. Reserved, fanatical about sport and fuelled primarily by lager there is more than a passing resemblance between our nations. The reason for the distrust comes from the fact that in areas we pride ourselves on (and others that we don’t), the Germans are simply better than us. Munich was one of the best European cities I have ever visited.

Let’s take a simple example – one of the best inventions I have ever seen. The Beercycle.

Strolling through a beautiful park in a beautiful city we heard a noise, singing. Not real singing, but man singing. The noise got louder and before we knew it we were overtaken by a man on a bike. However, this was not just any bike. Behind the “driver” was a beer keg. Behind this beer keg was a 12 person dining table surround by the requisite 12 people drinking from the aforementioned keg. Under the table, these folk were helping with the peddling.

-LINK-

This thing was genius.

Yesterday, back home in London, I went for a beer in the city. Imagine if you can Bishopsgate at rush hour – it’s not a pretty sight by any means. But lo and behold – not one, but two Beercycles passed us by (sandwiched between two double decker busses). But no, these were British beercycles, no keg of beer (drink cycling – how dare you even consider such a thing), no table – just a handrail to hold on to. Worst. Imitation. Ever.

1-0 Germany.

I have lived in London for almost 6 years now and I love it. However, the 2 best times of the year are between Christmas and New Year and the Easter long weekend.

At these glorious times of year, somewhere between one third and half of “Londoners” bugger off to where they were born and raised (often, me included – big up Reading). Suddenly, there are seats on the tube, there is space to walk and London has the right number of people in it.

Imagine these idyllic times of year, then imagine that every road looks like The Mall leading up to Buckingham palace. Welcome to Munich. 2-0.

OK, there are examples where stereotypical German efficiency can go too far…

On our trip, we happened to pass a large white statue outside an office. Quite cool, but thought nothing more of it.

Until this – LINK

In that very building, a German office party epitomised both German efficiency and the “functional” approach to problem solving. Again, for those too lazy to read, a number of “pros” were hired to satisfy certain urges of the salesmen of this organisation.

Just to be clear, in my opinion this is completely wrong and immoral. But my god was it well executed.

Ladies were awarded coloured wrist bands – one colour for waiting staff indicated “don’t touch”, one colour for the plebs and one special colour for the finest of all the ladies who were reserved for the board and presented as a reward to only the best salespeople (interesting alternative to stock options as a bonus plan). But wait. There’s more. Following each “use” a lady was stamped on the forearm – similarly to a Café Nero loyalty card. I can just picture the attendees of the event methodically trading off the diminishing returns of multiple “uses” against the physical attractiveness of the item in question. Sheer madness.

Finally, I would like to come back to sarcasm. The common perception that Germany and sarcasm do not mix is quite frankly not true. Some of the finest exponents of dead pan satire that I have ever met have heralded from the Rhineland. Deliberately paying tribute to the robotic stereotype, I have witnessed truly breathtaking dead pan delivery of discourse so scathing and full to the brim with acrimony that I have had to stop myself applauding in slack-jawed amazement. Not to name names, but BF, TS, DG – I salute you.

Thinking back to the depraved debauchery that occurred behind that white statue, I can rest assured – or at least imagine – that the phrase “München meinen truncheon” was used more than once. And that the ladies were stamped accordingly.

First World Problems - Part 2

2011-05-27T12:21:00.002+01:00

Written April 17^th 2011, 6pm

In the summer of 2009, my 5’ 10’’ frame was supporting around 14st 7 of chunky goodness. If you’re wondering what that means in terms of BMI, it placed me somewhere between overweight and Eric Cartman.

With a 14 hour a day sedentary desk job and a weekend schedule akin to an episode of “Booze Britain” my waistline was headed only one way. Clearly something had to change.

Being a consultant, I obviously began setting out and subsequently ruling out a set of strategic options.

(1) Healthy diet?

Nope. Like food.

(2) Exercise?

Nope. Lazy.

(3) Surgery?

Nope. Stupid.

(4) 6 months travelling around the world?

Bingo.

OK true, weight loss obviously wasn’t the only factor that helped me to decide on a 6 month global jolly with the future missus but nonetheless it was a happy side effect. Walking around looking at beautiful / interesting things, eating loads of foreign food, drinking less and, probably most importantly, sweating more than a Gaddafi body double (Zing! Bursting with topical content right here) for the best part of six months led me to return at a waif-like 12st 10.

I’m not going to lie, I quickly grew quite fond of this new bloke - less sweaty during everyday activity (damn you Piccadilly line!), happy in non-baggy clothing and with boundless energy. The sub-13st fine specimen of a man stuck around for almost the whole of 2010. Almost.

Damn. You. Christmas.

2011 started and the scales starting tipping the wrong way. 13-2, 3, 4, 5 – and that’s where they settle today. Sadly, when I looked back at my options, (3) and (4) are totally off the table due to financial constraints. Leaving me with salad and running. The target has been set – 12st 7 by the wedding, let’s see how that goes…

First World Problems - Part 1

2011-05-26T16:04:00.006+01:00

In an pre-blog effort to commit some memories to digital eternity, I began to scribble a couple of entries into my iPhone. I figured it would be worthwhile to put these in one place. Here.

Written April 15^th 2011, 8.15am

As I write this, I am sitting on the 141 to London bridge. Apparently stuff went down last night and my head is telling me all about it.

Last year, I had a small health scare after a particularly punishing stag weekend. For a man who used to pride himself on his ability to put away far more than his fair share, a painful recovery led me to drastically cut back on my alcohol intake.

Thankfully it turns out I'm fine, or not actively dying for the moment at least. Still, this has led to somewhat of a lifestyle change – healthier food, more exercise, less beer.

The problem is that boozing is fun. Or at least feels like fun at the time. Currently, my head would disagree…
As a slight distraction from the tribulations of my head, the annual European weekend looms on the horizon. Armed with matching T-shirts [although thankfully this did not actually end up transpiring] and a “foreign money is monopoly money” attitude, six of England’s finest embrace the British way and impart our culture on the wider EU through the medium of debauchery.

This year, lucky Munich got the nod. I know very little of Munich save for the prevalence of the local instrument of torture. The Stein. Obviously, lederhosen clad stein drinking for 20 hours a day is not 100% consistent with my straight edge lifestyle. It is time to make a choice: to beer (heavily) or not to beer (heavily)

This brings me neatly back to last night. I had genuinely not consumed more than 5 pints in one sitting for around 7 months, leading to uncertainty around my body’s reaction to good ol’ British binging .

Any difficult choice (such as the Munich question) should be an informed choice. Any informed choice should be based on evidence backed experiments. Last night provided 7 pints, 3 shots and a Jagerbomb’s worth of experimentation. Evidence collected includes one mother of a headache and the timeless smell of Eau de San Miguel flowing liberally from every pore of my body.

Thankfully, thus far the evidence does not include death, or in fact anything abnormal (when compared to around 50% of my time at university). Experiment 2 begins this evening…

Lethargic Invective - A Disclaimer

2011-05-26T14:06:00.000+01:00

I sit here faced with a moral dilemma. I have always, and continue to pride myself on fighting the good fight against pretention, self-indulgence and unfounded delusions of grandeur.

Having spent three years at a well known university before embarking on a career in the city I have been exposed to more than my fair share of these aforementioned pet hates. From spending my days walking past numerous “Tarquins” dressed in sub fusc as they quaff Lanson straight from the bottle I graduated into a world where everyone (ranging from these same “Tarquins” to budding “Sir-Alans”) resorts to mutual dog eating in order to receive recognition for their very own brand of pompous.

Don’t get me wrong, I am extremely fortunate to have fluked my way into and through higher education and then into a job that allowed me to survive a fairly chunky recession without adding to the unemployed statistics. I would not change a moment of my time so far and have numerous happy memories and no doubt many more which I have forgotten.

I have, however, made it my mission to never overestimate my own importance.

Herein lies my dilemma. Pretention, self-indulgence, pomposity – blogging absolutely ticks every one of these boxes and provides a side order of narcissism to boot. However, I am at an age where I know I will want to remember what I will soon forget and would like an opportunity to write in English rather than the bastardised version that is liberally spattered across PowerPoint slides.

As such, the only way I can see to both achieve this goal and evade hypocrisy is through a chunky disclaimer. This page is written by me, for me. Others are more than welcome to read it, but I don’t expect you to. If you do, I do not expect you to enjoy it nor do I expect even the slightest thing in the world to change as a result of you doing so. In fact, I apologise for wasting your time if you have read this far. But no, you don’t get those 2 minutes back.

My friends and my fianceé and would no doubt place me on a sliding scale somewhere between lazy and bone idle. In many cases I would argue that it is efficiency rather than apathy - doing the minimum needed to get a good result - but in other cases I would have to agree.

I no doubt expect the theme of lethargy to run throughout any future posts I can be bothered to make here, or at least be reflected in the infrequent nature of postings. I would also not be surprised if “decnunciatory or abusive discourse” (such as that directed at my imaginary friend Tarquin) were to appear more than once in the future.

Based on all this, “Lethargic Invective” seems like a sufficiently pretentious title for these ramblings.