The Intellectual Hooligan

The Tom Parnell Google Wars

2010-02-16T13:14:00.005Z

Oh no you don't.

Yes, Tom Parnell, Intellectual Hooligan. The Real Tom Parnell. That's me.

(And, with an almighty and resounding pffft, the shrunken and flabby remainder of my online anonymity flaps around the room before collapsing, shriveled, to the ground like a burst balloon.)

... And the Tom Parnell Google Wars begin.

You see, a name like mine (Tom Parnell – got that?) is just about uncommon enough to be googlable. For those John Smiths and Jane Joneses amongst you, this is an unfamiliar sensation: you (and everyone else) realises that googling your name is not likely to return results that pertain to you.

At the other end of the spectrum, you Xavier Mountjoys and Barnabus Bantamwrestlers will rest sure in the knowledge that Google is yours and yours alone. No interlopers, pretenders or usurpers.

But spare a thought for the Tom Parnells.

(Or, in fact, specifically for this Tom Parnell.)

Tom Parnell is the kind of name you might expect to slot into Google and be met with a jackpot of relevant results. You might not be on your guard against faux-amis amongst the Tom Parnells that fill your screen.

ESPECIALLY if one of those Tom Parnells happened to be about the right age, in the right country, working in about the right industry and featured in about the right kind of newspaper.

In that situation, surely, you'd think: 'This is the Tom Parnell I'm lookin' for.'

Which is a pity. Because here is Google's number 7 result for the search 'tom parnell':

Blind date: Ursala Roy meets Tom Parnell
Ursula Roy, 28, outreach officer meets Tom Parnell, 28, web editor.
www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2009/jul/.../blind-date-relationships

As if that weren't bad enough, click through and read the whole degrading article, why don't you? No photograph to disabuse the reader and (calamity indeed) a humiliating mismatch in 'ratings' very much to Tom Parnell's disadvantage.

So not only is this bastard bringing shame upon the Tom Parnell name by indulging in public, newspaper-publicised blind-dating; he's also GODDAMN RUBBISH AT IT.

Damn him!

As if it weren't bad enough that Thomas Parnell was a depressingly mediocre 17th-18th century poet. (Any poem that includes the phrase 'pants in your heart' is surely fit for a kicking.)

In conclusion and summary:

Tom Parnells of the world, would you please buck up your ideas? If you're going to do something, at least do it well. And preferably, even if you do, KEEP IT OFF GOOGLE.

How You Can Help

How would you feel (damn it) if people were potentially mistaking you for a scruffy, spark-free Guardian blind dater and 'insane babbler' every time they googled you? SPARE A THOUGHT.

You really can help me on this one. All you have to do? If you have a website or blog – however small, however infrequently frequented, link to this post. Link to it with link text 'tom parnell'.

Tell Google who's the Real Tom Parnell. For me.

Please.

Juicy flies on the Web (2)

2010-01-21T12:56:00.003Z

Occasionally (very, very occasionally), the Intellectual Hooligan finds good things on the Ninternet.

(Because most of the time, let's be clear about this, the Ninternet is boring as hell.)

And when the Intellectual Hooligan finds good things, the Intellectual Hooligan shares those good things. So, without ado, here are some recently-uncovered gems, unified by a theme of thematic disunity.

Human typography. This is a fantastic idea, rather beautifully executed. One of those 'from self-imposed limitations comes brilliant ingenuity' instances. Very clever indeed. (Thanks @ThinkingType)
That's Why I Chose Yale. Absolutely inspired: I cannot praise this sufficiently highly. Deserving of viral epidemic status. One (smallish) facet of my own job is the shooting and editing of promotional video for my College, and I know exactly how hard it is to avoid a slight cheesiness. So this is the perfect solution to such a problem: embrace the cheese. Necessity is transmuted to virtue. A*
How to categorise human beings. This is the kind of thing that fascinates me: an elaborate 'swatchbook for humanity'. (Thanks @Trison)

Near-death embarrassment (a belated Christmas present)

2010-01-15T13:14:00.013Z

Go on, open it...

O my readers. O my sweet, sweet readers.

... How I have neglected you! If you were wondering (oh tell me you were wondering!) what I've been up to, why not peruse this slideshow, chronicling my recent frosty trip to Belfast.

But onward to the main feature.

THIS BIT COMING UP IS THE MAIN FEATURE

(Although obviously you'd have realised that in any case, as a result of the searing rhetorical pitch to which I have built. Yes, you know, a searing pitch. If you think that's a mixed metaphor, you obviously haven't played rugby on hot coals.)

Now, I've written before about crushing embarrassment. You might've thought that was self-revelation enough. But, since I didn't give you a Christmas present, I thought I'd belatedly treat you to another horrifically wretched anecdote from the Intellectual Hooligan's past.

This one is a crippler, I promise you.

In order fully to appreciate the Wagnerian intensity of my humiliation at the blunder which I will proceed to describe, it is necessary that you exercise your powers of empathy.

That you put yourself into the position of a 12-year-old boy.

He's an introverted little mite, not one given to rambunctious attention-seeking. He sits in the second-to-back row in his classroom; studiously, conscientiously he works.

Seldom does the mini-hooligan raise his hand to answer a question in class. Seldom does his piping voice, merely beginning to quiver with the onset of adolescence, rise above the hubbub of the classroom.

This innocent young child, o reader – he is your protagonist.

'Who can write down the names of three states in America?'

Such was the gauntlet thrown down by our Form Tutor, Miss D—. Every week, y'see, we'd have a single 30-minute 'Form Period', during which we'd dwell upon social, pastoral or otherwise extracurricular topics. Class debates, quizzes, that kind of malarkey.

So we all set to work, scribbling down our three states.

'Okay – so mark your own answers. Call out your states, and I'll tell you if they're right or wrong.'

Predictably enough, lots of people were able to propose American states:

'Washington!' came the cry. 'California!' 'Texas!' 'Maine!' 'Florida!' ...

And so it went on. Mini-hooligan had notched up a total of two ticks so far. But one state remained on his list. One state that nobody had yet called out – birthplace though it be of no fewer than eight US presidents.

And so it was that Mini-hooligan – despite his quiet nature – raised his young voice to make his own contribution to the communal test-marking process; to cry out the name of this (thus-far unnamed) state:

'Virginia!'

Oh.

Oh, Virginia!

If only that had been the word that had come sailing out – ringing through the suddenly quiet classroom air like the chime of finest crystal. If only it had been those exact syllables that had caused the students sitting in the rows in front to swivel in their chairs and turn their slow, unbelieving necks in my direction. If only it had been the name 'Virginia' that had caused my teacher's jaw to drop in perplexed dismay.

But it was not the name 'Virginia'.

Instead, o reader, it was a word superficially quite similar but – in crucial respects such as meaning – radically different. It, too, began with a 'v' and ended in an 'a'. Many of the intervening letters were also in common. BUT NOT ALL OF THEM.

The result: the normally softly-spoken, 12-year old Intellectual Hooligan proposed (not, I might add, tentatively, but rather with a certain air of triumphant confidence) the name of the 51st state of the USA:

'Vagina!'

They say that time slows down when one teeters on the brink of death. And they are not lying. Because during the seconds that followed my devastating exclamation I became piercingly attuned to continental drift.

The faces of my classmates – some grinning, some disgusted, all astonished – stood frozen in front of me.

And – most horrendous of all – the face of my goddamn teacher, her eyes wide with incredulity, lips twisted into a hideous, horrified snarl of dismay. The most sickening, terrifying thing I have ever seen.

This, friends, was my very own Vagina Monologue. And I present it to you in a spirit almost of atonement, of absolution.

Pass on my sorry tale, o reader. Pass it on! (Seriously, do. There's a bunch of links at the bottom of this page that allow you to do this very easily.) For it is only by the sharing of this heavy burden that I (like Coleridge's Ancient Mariner) may grasp – however vainly, desperately, hopelessly – at release, at relief —

— At atonement.

Texture Restaurant, London / The Renaissance of Cauliflower

2009-11-16T13:34:00.003Z

So – what's your opinion of cauliflower?

How many marks would you give it out of 10?

How does it rate in a showdown with, for instance, broccoli?

In the league table of vegetables, is it a Cambridge or a Bolton?

The Intellectual Hooligan would never presume (you may well imagine) to anticipate your own feelings on the matter. For his own part, though, he must confess never to having considered the cauliflower to sit atop any kind of pedestal. Cauliflower, in the eyes of the unreformed Hooligan, was probably in the bottom quartile of vegetable accompaniments – unless it was pulling off a stunningly unexpected coup in the context of cauliflower cheese.

For me, y'see, cauliflower was definitely sub-broccoli. Too often soggily school-dinnerish and bland – its sickeningly yielding, translucent-albino flesh oozing cabbagey juices; its flavour as desaturated as its appearance.

But I come to you, o reader, in the wake of a damascene conversion.

Ye! I have seen the light; I have tasted ambrosia. And I preach unto you a new gospel: that of the Ur-Cauliflower.

The cause of this extraordinary volte-face? The agent of this revelation?

Texture restaurant in Mayfair, London.

Now, Texture is a pretty top joint. But what'd you expect of a gastronome such as myself? I found myself there (as a gift, mark ye!) on the anniversary of my birth, consuming the contents of the restaurant's 'tasting menu' – a sensory odyssey of eight courses (or thereabouts … What? You want me to count as well as write?).

Now, you might be wondering how on earth a man (even one as inordinately podgy as myself) manages to chow his way through eight courses. It does, you're right, sound somewhat excessive. But each course, y'see, is very little. No big wodges of protein here; no steaming hillocks of vegetable; no polyfiller carbohydrate.

Instead, you're getting a few brilliant morsels. Every mouthful is an event. This is blink-and-you'll-miss-it cuisine.

So DON'T BLINK, YOU 'ORRIBLE LITTLE WORM.

Now, I don't for a moment propose to go through the meal course by course. That would be immeasurably tedious, wouldn't it? I hate restaurant reviewers who go on about the bloody food.

(No, but seriously: reviews that harp on about food are boring. Stolid, unappetising, unilluminating.)

But you want to know about the cauliflower, right?

It came in liquid form, within a vessel only somewhat larger than a thimble. And it was FUCKING AMAZING. Creamy but light and totally free of unctuousness, masterfully textured with tiny nutty fragments, and ... man ... the essence of all that is right about cauliflower. The Kobe Beef of the cauliflower world. This cauliflower had been grown in the composted remains of the Hanging Gardens of frigging Babylon. Massaged daily by nubile vegetable fetishists. Pruned and trimmed by award-winning topiarists. It was a bonsai cauliflower.

What else? Well, there was the tenderest, seeping eyelet of pedigree pigeon, offset (marvellously, imaginatively) by bacon popcorn (all the smoky intensity of the former; the light dryness and crunch of the latter). Precious crystals of rhubarb, served in a cauldron of liquid nitrogen. Paper-thin cod's skin, fried to a crisp ...

So. Texture Restaurant. If you're looking for mindless nosh or mountains of carbohydrate, best to avoid. Eating here is an aesthetic experience, and one that (like a visit to the Tate) demands concentration. It will make you think, make you savour. It will bewilder you with a catherine wheel of flavours and textures.

And it will revivify at least one common garden vegetable.

Penelope Trunk's Brazen Careerist stumbles

2009-11-03T23:18:00.008Z

Okay. I've written before about Penelope Trunk (above), who writes an intelligent and interesting careers blog.

Relatively recently, the site of which she is founder and figurehead – Brazen Careerist –metamorphosed into a social networking site, a 'career management tool for next generation professionals'.

(So Penelope's popular, linkbaity blog – which mixes careers, sex, 9/11, sex, networking, sex and sociology (spiced up with a soupcon of sex) – has, in one respect, acted as a protracted 'warm-up' and advance marketing tool for Brazen Careerist's social networking dimension. And a very successful and engaging one. Even the bits that aren't about sex.)

This new Brazen Careerist social network is scrapping against Linkedin on the established, slightly older and more traditional right-hand flank, and Facebook on the less targeted, more indiscriminate left. Quite a pair of combatants. But there may well be a niche. Well observed.

I've created a profile on Brazen Careerist (following Penelope Trunk's superb clarion call thereto), but haven't really done much else. To be honest, I'm not madly into that stuff. I have difficulty enough responding to emails.

Anyhow, that's the background.

Today, though, I received an email from Ryan Paugh, right-hand man of Penelope and CEO of Brazen Careerist. Not a message to my Brazen Careerist inbox (or whatever); an actual email, to my personal account.

Here's the text of the email. You probably don't need to read it all – the first couple of paragraphs and the PS should be ample:

Hey Guys!

I'm reaching out to you today because I wanted to share something our friend Ramit Sethi is offering for members of Brazen Careerist. You may know Ramit -- he writes about personal finance and entrepreneurship at iwillteachyoutoberich.com, became a 26-year-old New York Times bestseller earlier this year when he published "I Will Teach You To Be Rich," and has appeared in the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, ABC News, etc. He's the only guy who's ever given me advice that I actually used for my OWN money.

He is THE personal-finance guy for young professionals, and he's offering an online Personal Finance Boot Camp that will help you automate your finances in 6 weeks. He'll be teaching...

Specific tactics to optimize your credit cards
Negotiate with banks (negotiation scripts included)
Set up high-interest accounts
Start investing in sensible investments
AUTOMATE your money so you can focus on the things you really care about.
Not just stuff from his book - he'll be doing weekly webcasts and inviting special guest speakers to cover entrepreneurship topics like marketing, pricing, branding, and more.

I know what you're thinking: "Why do I need to pay money for this? I could get all of this for free online."

Yeah, that's true. You can read How-To's until your eyes bleed. But taking action is whole different ballgame. (1) If you pay you're going to actually DO it, and (2) when you join the I Will Teach You To Be Rich Boot Camp you're making an investment to automate your own finances. I'm a fan because he never lectures people about spending money on lattes, but instead shows how we can spend EXTRAVAGANTLY on the things we love, if we cut costs mercilessly on the things we don't.

When Ramit came to us with his Boot Camp idea I knew it would be a success because (1) the man knows what he's talking about, and (2) he emphasized how the program was all about motivating each other to succeed. The point is not to just READ, but to take ACTION.

You guys know we don't think twice about spending money to go out, or see movies, or buy shoes or whatever. So I really encourage you to invest in yourself for 6 weeks and take action on your finances.

Registration closes in 72 hours, so sign up now to automate your money in 6 weeks and start 2010 off fresh.

Here's the link: http://www.iwillteachyoutoberich.com/bootcamp

Cheers!

- Ryan Paugh, Director of Community

PS: In full disclosure Brazen Careerist has an affiliate deal with the I Will Teach You To Be Rich Boot Camp and will receive a portion of profit for every person we get to sign up. With that said, Ramit Sethi is the best of the best and you're going to get what you paid for!

... Mistake.

Brazen, you're a young social networking site, trying to carve out a difficult niche. Spamming affiliate sales messages to your early members only months after your launch is a VERY BAD IDEA.

Now, allow me to be clear: I'm not upset. I'm not offended or enraged. (I have better things to be offended and enraged by, honestly.) And I'm in no way implying that this iwillteachyoutoberich.com is a con or anything (even with a URL like that).

But when was the last time the CEO of Facebook sent something like this to my inbox? Or Linkedin?

This makes Brazen Careerist look cheapass and desperate for a quick buck. It looks insecure and unprofessional. It administers a whacking great blow to the careful brand-building of Penelope's blogging (which is so effectively personal).

And I reiterate: it doesn't matter if this Ramit Sethi is the best there is. The fact remains, you're spamming me with unsolicited sales messages. That's not a good signal. If you want to play with the big sites, Brazen, stop doing that shit.

Because the brand is a real fragile thing. Be gentle with it. O be gentle.

Grant Burge Benchmark Shiraz - dark fruit and shoe polish triumph

2009-11-01T21:09:00.006Z

Any members of the Wine Society reading this blog o' mine? Statistically improbable, I guess.

Be that as it may, I'm nevertheless going to take a moment to recommend Grant Burge's 'Benchmark' Shiraz (2008, South Australia), which was one of the (numerous) bottles I received in my latest duo of cases from said Society.

Considering the fact that it's a smidge under £6, this is a damn good wine. Shove your snout into the glass and inhale a bracingly intense blend of blackcurrant and shoe polish (FUCKING LOVELY SHOE POLISH) … then grab a gobful of liquorice, coffee and dark fruits, before tailing off gradually (oh so delightfully gradually) to raspberry and lavender.

I reckon I'll be snapping up a fair few of these critters.

Ahh ... writing about wine. This used to be my frigging ambition, d'you realise? Right up until the stone-hearted bastards at Majestic Wine rejected my graduate trainee application on the (scandalously misguided) grounds that I am 'not a natural salesman'.

BAH!

In defiance of Majestic, then, you may expect more of this kind of tosh. Indeed, this week's Intellectual Hooligan may have something of a gourmet theme, I fancy ...

Why Pope Benedict XVI is like Steve Jobs

2009-10-21T18:14:00.007+01:00

Is it heretical to compare Pope Benedict XVI to Steve Jobs?

If I may, I'll leave you theologians to ponder that and dive right on into the pirana-infested waters of religio-technological commentary.

The current affairs bit

Yesterday, it seems, the Pope issued a decree to the effect that Anglicans wishing to join the Catholic Church will henceforth be provided with a 'legal framework' to assist their defection – whilst 'preserving distinctive elements of their Anglican identity, such as liturgy.' (quoted from The Times)

(What a blow for Dr Rowan Williams, the Archbish of Cant. Springing this announcement on him was like dropping a breeze-block on a gently snoozing barn owl.)

Pre-breeze-block

Anyhow. Onward to my thesis: Pope Benedict XVI has been taking a leaf out of Steve Jobs' book.

A Tale Of Two OSes

First, some background, in which I establish my credentials. I used to be a PC man, y'see. One who was given suck (you might say, were you drawn inexorably towards unnecessarily gratuitous figurative language) at the twin teats of MS DOS and Windows 2.0.

Solitaire and Minesweeper were my toddler playthings and, later, the MS Word paperclip was, to me, a kind of benevolent (yet embarrassingly senile) uncle. Oh the awkward silence around the Christmas table, when Daddy would propose a toast, only for Uncle Clip to jolt to his feet and exclaim: 'It looks like you're trying to write a letter!' Another Christmas ruined.

But I digress.

The Windows XP search dog was my first pet. I sent him off to find some MP3s a couple of years ago, and (sadly) he still hasn't come back. I think he might've been run over, crossing the road while reading that book of his. BUT I BET HE'S STILL SMILIN', BLESS 'IM.

RIP

So you may well believe that the notion of defecting to the Apple Mac – when first it was suggested to me – left in my mouth a taste more or less akin to the cud of vile incurable sores on innocent tongues.

But now I realise: Apple = Catholic; PC = Protestant.

Apple has always run a closed system. You want to buy Apple's music? You buy Apple's music player. You want to spruce up your desk with a shiny iMac? You'll be running Apple's operating system on it, then.

Now – PCs, by contrast (like Protestantism) are the DIYers' haven. The Frankenstein-friendly laboratory in which Anything Goes – so long as (to pursue the metaphor until it drops to its knees, panting and groaning for mercy, on the hard concrete floor) you're prepared to face the possibility that you'll create a vengeful entity whom you will ultimately battle to the death amidst the frozen Arctic wastes.

Catholicism is definitely in the Apple camp on this one. Because it's pretty much an all-or-nothing kind of deal. You Do It Our Way. Less of this 'personal relationship with God' stuff. Founded on the principle (surely correct) that most people don't actually want to engage with the workings of stuff, they just want it to work and look damn impressive.

... which it does. Because Catholicism – like Apple – has got the style, has got the rockstar glamour. The Mass in fucking Latin. The big, swinging incense things. The fabulously ornate iconography.

Protestants? Well, um, they do a mean pew.

Bootcamp for Prods

Now – back to me, and my technological volte-face: my defection to the ranks of Apple.

I can tell you exactly what was the turning point – the hairline crack in my resolutely anti-Macintosh facade. It was when I heard about Bootcamp.

Bootcamp, in case you don't know, is the facility (available on all Apple computers) whereby you may choose to start up your computer in Windows mode as an alternative to the Mac operating system.

… And, once you're in Windows mode, it's just as if you were on a PC. So you can do all those crazy things that PC kids do. Fire up Clock. Get in some Spider Solitaire action. Defrag your hard drive. YES, MY BABY. YES, MY SWEET, SWEET BABY.

Supplying Bootcamp – first as a free Beta, then automatically bundled with every Mac sold –was a Steve Jobsian work of genius.

It was the reassuring 'Your satisfaction or your money back in full' postscript coming at the end of the seductive sales letter. Because Bootcamp gave me the idea that I could somehow switch without switching.

… and that, my friends, that is what Pope Benedict XVI has just done.

He's invented Bootcamp for Prods.

Genius.

Curry (from the Chinese) and other Ulster Faves

2009-10-20T13:05:00.008+01:00

Regional TV, the Intellectual Hooligan loves you. May your light never fail.

Have a watch of this video, which was supplied to me by a notoriously well-connected sometime-mover, sometime-shaker of the Belfast media circuit. It is Ultimate Ulster's nailbiting rundown of Ulster's top 10 meals.

Don't fret if you think it starts off slow: the pace soon picks up.

Any list of top 10 dishes that features 'Chicken' as an item on its own is surely worth a watch. (As if we didn't all know towards what nefarious ends the noble chicken may find itself used.)

If you're impatient for the comic highlight, however, I recommend you skip to 14.20 or so – number 3:

'A dish that crosses international boundaries with a cultural clash that you find irresistible.'

Irresistible indeed.

Stick around, won't you, for the Chinese Curry advocate who subsequently appears at around 15:40 (after some unfortunate Chinese chef has submitted to the indignity of describing the creation of 'Chinese Curry' as if it were some proud, ancient tradition).

'I voted for curry because it's a bit of an event in our house on a Friday evening. Most nights my wife will cook something, but on a Friday night it's a takeaway, and Chinese curry is for us.'

Right. I bet your wife is gratified to provide the culinary backdrop for so eagerly anticipated an event. She plays her John-the-Baptist-esque 'I am not the Christ, but that I am sent before him' role with humble reverence, preparing the ground for that which follows.

By the time you reach number 2 or so, you'll probably be half dead with the suspense of it all. What's going to be number 1? To what dish (what dish that could triumph over such renowned feats of gastronomy as 'Chicken'?) will be awarded that most prized of accolades: Ulster's favourite dish?

I'm not going to spoil that surprise for you. But I recommend that you jump in at 18.40 or thereabouts for a masterful example of the tension-building reprise, TOTP-style.

David Cameron; Peter Mandelson: your verdict?

2009-10-10T20:39:00.006+01:00

I was talking to my dear friend Rebecca (yes, portrait artist Rebecca; fellow Cogwheel Dog Rebecca. Rebecca the adopter) today, and our Skype conversation turned to – of all things – politics.

I gave voice, y'see, to a sense of frustration with the Left. My sense of frustration was (as it happens) specific rather than generic – but that's immaterial. Whatever I said caused Rebecca to type the following message in response:

'You don't like David Cameron do you?'

It was a question that took me utterly by surprise. Because – as I said to Rebecca – it was a little like asking: 'You don't like algae, do you?'

In other words: a game-changer of a question. A question that, in and of itself, throws open the doorway (or uncovers the rabbithole) to a troubling Alice in Wonderland-esque realm of possibilities hitherto unconceived.

Like remarking to a distinguished old sea bass: 'So – you've never wondered about spending a few weeks' holiday on dry land, then? A shame: I think you'd really appreciate the Pyramids.'

The Notion of Liking David Cameron

The notion of Liking David Cameron, you see, is not in the universe I inhabit. It's like the notion of breathing ivory or criticising water. (Yeh. Bloody water. Always so goddamn fluid, aren't you?)

It's not that I hate the man, either, I might add. I wish him nothing but … um … nothing, I guess.

So, anyhow. I wondered what the fine readers of the Intellectual Hooligan think of Mr Cameron.

It's a nuanced political issue, I realise. So I decided that the best way to canvas would be via a multiple choice poll.

Vote, my pretties! Vote! Let's show MORI how it's done.

Your opinion of David 'Dave' Cameron is ... ?(survey software)

Oh, and while we're at it: Peter Mandelson

Old Petey comes in for a fair bit of popular hatred, it seems to me. I've never really understood why. I don't mind the chap. And, anyway, how can you hate someone who likes dogs so much?

But, once again – over to you, Hooliganettes. Deliver, if you please, your verdict on Mandy:

I'd also like to point out that online polls are very easily abused, and multiple voting is quite possible. So I'd like to make a request: please abuse the above polls as much as you like. Bring on the multiple voting. Game the system ...

… and make it look as though I have LOADS of subscribers.

(C'mon. I agonise about this stuff.)

Freshers' Week advice: beware The Nice

2009-10-01T19:14:00.006+01:00

At about this time of year, the Intellectual Hooligan's heart goes out to all those naive youngsters embarking upon their first term of university. Those poor freshers.

For the Intellectual Hooligan remembers all too clearly his own Freshers' Week. It was absolutely shit.

I'm not sure what's with the nationwide conspiracy to pretend that this isn't the case. Or perhaps it's just that people other than me all enjoy stomach-churning rollercoaster oscillations between gruellingly awkward silences, hideously banal exchanges, hateful 'ice-breaking' exercises and cheap alcohol.

So, yes. Freshers' Week is shit for many reasons. But it's also dangerous.

You're in a new environment. An unfamiliar, intimidating environment. One in which everyone is doing his or her best to appeal nonchalant and cool (oh, what a change from school, eh?)

So the danger is this.

You meet some people who are not acting nonchalant and cool. They're smiley and happy and welcoming.

'Oh, how nice!' cries your Fresher brain, 'Aren't these people lovely?'

Yes, they are indeed lovely. They invite you to sit with them at dinner. They ask you questions and listen attentively to your answers. Heck, maybe they are just a little bit intense. But they all seem so NICE.

'Hey!' exclaims one of them. 'A few of us were thinking of heading along to a gig this evening! You want to come along?' (Yes. These are nice people who talk with unnecessary exclamation marks. Gee. THEY'RE SO NICE!)

So, nodding your fresh little head in eager acquiescence, you accept the invitation.

Spool forward: we're at the venue. People are queueing. You have a vague sense that something's not quite right. Hard to put your finger on it. Then you realise: they're all queuing VERY NICELY. All smiling. Not much posing, not many fag-clouds. Everyone's SMILING. It's Freshers' Week; they're in a queue. But they're SMILILNG.

Heck, these people are just SO NICE.

So you and your nice group join the back of the nice queue. At this point, perhaps, you're beginning to think: 'Wait a minute … I don't actually think I'm all that nice, though … In fact, the more I think about it, the more I suspect I'm actually quite a bastard. Hmmm.'

But you dismiss the thought. 'Heck!' you tell yourself, 'Why am I worrying about people being nice? This is great!'

But – you're also beginning to think, 'Okay. Yes. It's great. And, sure, they're real NICE. But a couple of the people in this group I'm hanging out with are FUCKING ANNOYING. There's this 'larger than life' guy, for instance. He keeps hugging people, dancing and capering around and presumptuously characterising himself as 'The Quirky One Of The Group'. The Funny Guy.

And he's actually really not funny. He's just a prat.'

But, hey. Even so. He's a NICE prat.

Then, before you know it, you're inside the venue.

There are tables.

People are chatting. (It's actually quiet enough to chat, not shout, y'see.)

And … hmmm … there aren't actually that many people here, really, are there? Well. Er … maybe it's quite … underground? Ah! Here's the band … Two guys with – what's that? – acoustic guitars?

ROCK!

Well, they're quite tight … Not what you'd call musically innovative … Quite simple … Melodic … Hardly edgy … To be honest, not my thing. But it's inoffensive enough. Could've been a lot worse, I guess.

So, what are they singing then?

Reader, you know as well as I do: it's not always easy to make out lyrics in pop songs. Especially live. Things are blurred, consonants are smeared, sound booms and echoes and resonates.

But there's one word that really cuts through the muddiest mix.

One word that will sure as hell catch my attention when it's belting out of a PA.

One word that has the power to make my head whip around and my attention snap into focus.

That word, dear reader, is 'Jesus'.

Nooooooooooooooo …

Finally, see, it all makes sense. The niceness. The openness. The welcoming vibe. The politeness. THE FACT THAT EVERYONE IS PUTTING UP WITH THAT FUCKING ANNOYING FAT TOSSER WHO KEEPS HUGGING PEOPLE.

The horrible truth crystallises like, um, a horrible crystal:

I AM AT A CHRISTIAN UNION BAND NIGHT.

(And, yes, this Really Happened.)

So, Freshers: beware. It sucks, but it's a grim reality: if someone is nice to you during Freshers' Week – scram.

The Korner Kitchen in Bromsgrove: anti-panini nirvana

2009-09-29T13:15:00.004+01:00

My dear hooligans in arms, thank you for bearing with me during the hiatus since my last post. As you'll see shortly, I have not been idle.

No, indeed. Rather, I have been eating egg and sausage sandwiches. Just for you.

(Okay. Maybe an insy bit for me. But still almost exclusively for you.)

How in blazes (you may well demand) did I get my hands on an egg and sausage sandwich?

(I should perhaps point out, lest you be taken aback by their femininity, that those aren't actually my hands on the photo.)

… But, yes: how in blazes? After all (you may reason), I'm an Oxford blogger, ain't I? And what is Oxford if not the antithesis of egg and sausage sandwiches of the type depicted above? Oxford, panini capital of the world.

Well, it just so happened that I found myself, not so very long ago, in the township of my youth: a moderately desolate kind of a place – too large to have retained much charm; too small to have accumulated much buzz – called Bromsgrove.

(Yes, Bromsgrove.)

Now, finding myself in the (unforgiving) position as Bromsgrove tour-guide elect, it was my duty to acquaint my companion, whose charming mitts feature above, with the sights of the town.

Except that Bromsgrove doesn't really do sights.

What it does do, though – with a modicum of aplomb – is tastes. Courtesy of the Best Thing About Bromsgrove: a small emporium named (with elegantly poised tackiness) Korner Kitchen.

If you're ever in Bromsgrove (stop laughing, will you?), check out the KK. It is seven flavours of superior. It is exceptional. It produces the finest, hottest sandwiches you will ever stuff, yolk-smearingly, into your ravenous gob – the pappy white bread cleaving to your palette; the morning sausage burning your tongue.

This is the Ur Sandwich. The anti-panino.

And it's yours for only £1.80.

Only in Bromsgrove.

Barry Delaney Wears Dress to Funeral; Journalists Collapse in Paroxysms

2009-09-21T21:53:00.006+01:00

So. Judging by the story's viral contagiousness, you may well already have read about Barry Delaney (above). He commemorated the death of his friend Kevin Elliott (killed in action in Afghanistan) by attending his funeral dressed in a fluorescent yellow dress and pink stockings -- in accordance with a pact he had made to do so, should Elliott be killed.

In other words: journo-wet-dream.

For what could be more delightful to a lazy-penned hack than a story that combined so many heady ingredients?:

topicality (mounting Helmland province deaths, growing public antipathy and all)
transvestism (a potent google-magnet of a topic, if ever there was one … want proof? Consider the following graph, in which the popularity of transvestite searches is measured against the ever-reliable yardstick of those for doughty 19th century British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli)

tragedy (chasing the Princess Diana dragon)

… and, most important of all:

trash

Yes, trash. By which I mean those vast segments of British society that any decent broadsheet regards with towering, bile-swollen condescension, trembling hatred and hyperventilating incomprehension.

The commoners.

To see what I mean, read Mark Townsend's nauseating coverage of what is (I'll freely admit) a bizarre story. Or make do with a few extracts:

It was just after 10am last Wednesday when Delaney squeezed into a tight lime-green mini-dress and donned a pair of 99p pink knee-high socks. Then, assiduously avoiding the mirror, the 25-year-old poured a neat vodka – his, and Elliot's, favourite drink.

– 'Assiduously' … and that faux-literary dash after vodka. Leave off the false afflatus, please.

His reminisces last Wednesday were interrupted by the blare of a car horn from the forecourt 120ft below. It was Jonathan Wells in his Vauxhall Vectra, ready to take Delaney to his best friend's funeral. Wells made no mention of Delaney's odd attire during the two-mile drive to St Mary's Church in Dundee's centre.

– Was it really necessary to name the car?

The pact was Elliott's idea: a year ago, while the friends were watching Delaney's widescreen television together, he began hypothesising about his funeral.

– and, now, the reference to his 'widescreen television' … as if this were somehow a noteworthy detail.

They had been friends since 2005, when they were introduced by Elliott's 22-year-old sister, Kirsty, and hit it off immediately. They had bonded in the drinking dens of Dundee – their favourite haunt was Fat Sam's. They were inseparable except for Elliott's long tours in combat zones.

– 'Their favourite haunt was Fat Sam's'? What? Seriously: what?

What the fuck kind of a tone is this article meant to be written in? The whole thing oozes cliche in a way that is alternately (sometimes simultaneously) inept and sardonic. It seems to be an attempt to straddle cloyingly maudlin sentimentality and spiteful tongue-in-cheek mockery.

It is simultaneously one of the most bizarre pieces of writing I have come across in the Guardian and one of the most repellant.

... don't you think?

Life recorders: a childhood dream realised

2009-09-07T20:57:00.004+01:00

Techcrunch is running a story in which it speculates that 'life recorders' may become ubiquitous.

These are devices that record and store (via photographs, GPS data and suchlike) every moment of one's life.

Every shade of amazing, in other words, at once.

When I was a wee boy (you remember hearing about me as a wee boy, don't you?), I actually used to imagine that, when one died, 'heaven' consisted of a big computer console (this is back in the days of Kings' Quest, natch) that offered once massive instant replay of one's whole life. One could view it as a map, on which one's lifelong travels were highlighted; one could replay key scenes from various camera angles.

THIS LIFE RECORDER DEVICE IS ANSWER TO MY CHILDHOOD DREAMS.

Privacy? Shmivacy. I WANT ONE.

(Without the Microsoft logo, though, please.)

Cogwheel Dogs. Yes.

2009-09-07T18:58:00.003+01:00

In a brief interlude from important matters such as Special K masochism, Dr Hugh Brady and the inexcusable, barely comprehensible mediocrity of the panini, I bring you an announcement.

The band in which I play, Cogwheel Dogs, has released an EP today, called Greenhorn. I've gone into this at more length on my rambling music blog Heavy Soil: here's the dramatic announcement I just wrote over there.

Mindful of the intellectual elitism of my audience here at Intellectual Hooligan, though, I'll confine myself simply to offering y'all a link to download the new EP for free. Yes, that's right: free. Like oxygen. And the caterpillar that was nestling amongst the florets of your broccoli.

And here's a link to the Cogwheel Dogs website which I'm going to call grungy folk blues for the hell/SEO of it.

Pretty pretty Oxford photos

2009-09-01T20:38:00.004+01:00

The Hooligan went a-snapping, yesterday. His mission? To seek out Oxford's hidden beauty spots, off the tourist track.

I started off with The Red Lion. Check out that radical wide-angleness. I applaud the choice of red: not your common-or-garden primary hue.

Then Oxford's fine Euro Bar – accommodation for the discerning traveller:

But my greatest discovery was the wonderful multistorey car park behind the Westgate Centre shopping complex (if complex be quite the word).

The above stairway has an odour that might be described as homely. Were one a sewer rat. But it looks amazing. I want to go back there at night time (because I reckon it'd be a really cool and fun place to hang out in the dark) and see what shadows are thrown.

Here's a view from the top, down into a bizarre courtyard:

And as well as affording plenty of nice angles and jommetry, there are some damn fine textures, too:

So, Oxonians: check out the Westgate carpark while you still can. (And boy do I expect the tourist hordes to descend upon it like locusts, now that it's been mentioned on this blog.) It won't be around for long, y'see: demolition is around the corner.

And I'll warrant that the gleaming new multiplectacular structure that takes its place will be way less interesting.

Here's a slideshow of all 'em fotows:

(See, I did slip in an Oxfordy shot, just for you sticklers.)

Special K Challenge Travesty

2009-08-28T18:19:00.001+01:00

So. After yesterday's epic fail (sorry, Christine, I can't help it) – what have we learnt?

Let's begin with the positive.

We have learnt, I fancy, that near-boundless respect is owed to dieters. Because anyone who can withstand that kind of punishment must be made of stern stuff indeed.

But we have also learnt (it seems to me) that Kellogg's Special K Challenge is an absolute, chronic charade. My body didn't need any kind of rational argument to accept this; it knew it instinctively.

You know those stories about a man and his dog walking at night? They're caught in a blizzard, lost, desperately in need of shelter. And they are striking out to try and get to the nearest town.

All of a sudden, the dog starts to bark and refuses to go any further. No matter how the man may tug and curse and kick, the stubborn mutt digs in its little toes and will not budge. With all his strength, the man is unable to shift it.

Suddenly, the blizzard lifts, and the man finds himself feet away from the edge of a precipice.

You know the story.

Well, that's what my body was doing to me when I tried to eat Special K for lunch. It was protesting with every ounce of its strength, doggedly (see what I did there?) attempting to halt its foolish master.

THE HUMAN BODY IS NOT MADE FOR THIS.

Because, yes, I'm pretty sure that two weeks of that treatment would lose you some weight. But I'm sure that two weeks of eating only eggs would do that. Because you'd quite quickly become so incredibly sick of eggs that you couldn't bear to eat them.

(In this hypothesis, I admit, I exclude the evidence of a former housemate of mine, who appeared to subsist almost entirely on fried eggs. But, hell, you know what I mean.)

That people be held in the thrall of this nonsense – that the Special K Challenge be considered even remotely legitimate – is a travesty, and a tragedy.

Now. I'm off to a Lebanese restaurant. Ta-ra.

This Is What Failure Looks Like

2009-08-27T16:30:00.002+01:00

Sweet, sweet failure.

Self-expression

2009-08-27T13:41:00.004+01:00

I have written a poem to express my current volatile emotional state. It goes like this:

Oh! Oh
Oh!
Sweet nut
of Dough!

(Tempt me not, Satan...)

I cannot believe ...

2009-08-27T13:27:00.003+01:00

... the fact that nobody – not a single soul – has seen fit to post me a comment so far today.

I'M DYING OUT HERE FOR YOUR ENTERTAINMENT, DAMN IT.

The least you blighters could do would be to offer me some morale-boosting encouragement. Or heckle me from the e-sidelines, if you'd rather.

(Yes, the psychological side of Special K dietary trauma is beginning to kick in, now.)

Special K Masochism continues

2009-08-27T13:05:00.005+01:00

Earlier posts in the series:

1. Anticipation; 2. Explanation; 3. Preparation; 4. Hesitation; 5. Gustation/Dustation; 6. Trepidation

The Worst Picnic Imaginable.

(Enid Blyton was wrong. Food does NOT always taste better out of doors.)

There is a word that is used by the good people of Belfast (and perhaps further afield – I know not). A fine, expressive word.

That word is gankin'

And gankin' is exactly how I would describe the aroma that hit me when, for the second time today, I unfurled the inner packet of my Special K. It was a woeful smell. A smell that presaged, if not doom, then at very least sensory discomfort of a moderately high order.

It was the most depressing thing I have smelt in a long time. When you read this, bear in mind that I sometimes have to go into the boarding house bedrooms of male sixth form students.

And my sense of smell – the warning sense – had not failed me. Because what followed was undoubtedly the worst lunch I have ever had.

You know how I wrote, earlier today, that the taste of Special K wasn't that bad, really?

I TAKE THAT BACK.

Now, thanks to Kellogg's, I have experienced a new kind of sensation of bodily ambiguity. And it is this: simultaneously feeling ravenously hungry and repulsed at the thought of eating another mouthful.

And, post-'lunch', I have the same sensation in my stomach as I used to get before playing a cello solo in the school music competition when I was about 10. It's not a nice sensation, in case you were wondering.

GANKIN'.

Almost time for luncheon

2009-08-27T12:20:00.003+01:00

Normally, I look forward to my lunch.

(Don't cry for me, dear reader, don't cry.)

I'll tell you something about this Special K challenge: it's embarrassing. You see, I like to think that I'm to a certain degree renowned (in a small, modest fashion) for my opulent tastes. In a former job, for instance, a colleague walked in whilst I was preparing my lunch and remarked, 'What's that? A cheese platter? You are so Oxford ...'

I don't think that's going to be the verdict of anyone who happens to walk in on me eating my lunchtime bowl of Special friggin' K. 'Classic' or not.

(Information for free: it's not actually all that special, in the eyes of the masses.)

Ah well. Such are the sacrifices we must make for slimness.

Special K Dust Bowl

2009-08-27T10:44:00.003+01:00

These folks just opened a new packet too, by the look of it

So ... Hands shaking in excited anticipation of summer slimness, I open my box of Special K. The inner packet seems already to be open. That's what I call customer service. Reassuring.

Unfortunately, the packet seems to contain approximately as much dust as Oklahoma. Jeez! It's like I just punched a hoover bag.

No matter. Into the bowl it goes. A good, hearty portion of Classic K, seasoned with K-dust. Mm mm fricking mm.

On with the full cream milk ... and we're away.

First impression ... Bloody hell! That's pretty damn sweet for a 'diet' cereal. There must be massive amounts of artificial sweetener in here. Gag.

That said, it's not too bad, really. A nice malty kick.

Unfortunately, by the time I'm halfway through my (dust)bowl, the lower strata have been sitting in that creamy, creamy milk for too long. The result? SLIME. It's like eating the spawn of a troupe of Horlicks-dependent frogs.

Glub glub glub.

Still, I'm hungry. And my alternatives are limited (nonexistent). So down the hatch it goes. Slithering down the Hooligan gullet. After all, this is the only thing I've got to fuel me until lunchtime.

And, oh man, am I looking forward to lunchtime...

A small setback

2009-08-27T09:43:00.001+01:00

Hmm. Checking my body mass index, it appears that my result (18) indicates that I am 'underweight' (a BMI of 25 is required for the Special K diet, we are told; to attempt it with less, we surmise, is potentially hazardous.)

To this I say: PAH!

You won't catch the Intellectual Hooligan wimping out of his Special K diet on account of some trifling BMI nonsense.

On which note:

I believe it's BREAKFAST TIME ...

Purchasing the Manna of the Slim

2009-08-26T23:09:00.006+01:00

[This post is part 3 of an ongoing (and, naturally, quite riveting) series. Here are parts 1 and 2.]

So. Having resolved to get slimmer for summer, my next task was to purchase the wherewithal so to do. A task I set about with childlike glee, you may believe.

My first port of call? The Co-operative Supermarket, Summertown, Oxford.

Argh! God! They weren't lying about the 10 tasty varieties. It's enough to make a budding slimmer begin to panic. Cripes!

But wait! Maybe this gentleman will be able to advise me. He looks like a kindred spirit:

... actually, no, on second thoughts: he seems to be halfway through shoplifting a box of Coco Pops. LOOK AWAY QUICKLY.

To my left, meanwhile, a pleasant couple seemed to be having the kind of cheery Oxonian conversation it seems e'er my lot to overhear. I think I decided I'd better make my choice quickly when wifey started calling hubby a 'twat'. Didn't want to be playing the gooseberry, after all.

So, hurried, flustered and, discombobulated by the array of options (sorry, varieties), I confess that I took the easy way out and plumped (I choose my verb, you may believe, with care) for the normal, plain variety (I prefer to think of it as 'Classic') – and made my way checkoutwards.

So, picture me, minutes later, as I stride (decorous – if portly – gentleman in business attire), a box of Special K casually tucked under one arm, a pint of milk (full-cream, naturally) dangling with confident nonchalance from one pudgy finger. As metrosexual as you like. The folk of Summertown stopped to see me pass. I noticed a few chaps unable quite to conceal their expressions of grudging admiration, I fancy.

And quite right, too.

For now –– THE HOOLIGAN IS PREPARED.

The Special K Diet -- answer to all my wildest prayers

2009-08-26T13:47:00.007+01:00

(And you better believe it: the Intellectual Hooligan prays wild.)

'Hot damn! I wish I could get Slimmer for Summer!'

Such has been the nature of the Intellectual Hooligan's interior monologue for some time now. As anyone that knows me will doubtless attest, I desperately need to flush some flab, prune some podge, blow some blubber.

I could scarcely believe my luck, therefore, when I learnt that – with the help of kind-hearted FMCG firm Kellogg's – I could do just that.

Kellogg's could help me get the toned, beach-ready bod I've been dreaming of. All I have to do is sign up to ...

...The Special K Challenge

OH MAN I AM SO EXCITED (FTW!)

(What's FTW? Christine knows.)

So here's the deal. The Intellectual Hooligan can get himself bikinitastic in no time. He must simply observe the following dietary regime (taken from the Kellogg's website):

For 2 weeks, start the day with a delicious bowl of Special K for breakfast (choose from 10 tasty varieties!), and then enjoy a second bowl either for lunch OR your evening meal. For added variety you can top your cereal with fruit or low fat yoghurt. Don’t forget to make sure that your 3rd meal is nutritionally well balanced.

'10 tasty varieties!'? LAWKS! This just gets better. Do they do prawn cocktail?

But what about snacks? No problem! They're still allowed (FTW!) – although Kellogg's (ever-watchful, avuncular, with only dieters' best interests at heart) does sound the following note of caution:

We recommend you replace your indulgent snacks with up to 2 Special K snacks. You can also enjoy as much fruit and vegetables as you want and make sure you drink plenty of water and diluted fruit juices.

(Hmmm. Do they have Special K doughnuts?)

Anyway, we'll cross that bridge, dear readers, we'll cross that bridge.

Because, right now, I'm just astonished at the saintly altruism of Kellogg's in so selflessly crusading on behalf of the nation's health. Bless them.

Mm mm mmmm. Meal 2 looks pretty, pretty good.

Planning My Special K Diet – FTW!!!!

So it comes down to this: I have to get my (outrageously lardy) arse down to Tesco's right away to snap m'self up a box of that Spesh-K magic. Because, sure as night follows day, it's only Special K that has the power to reduce my considerable bulk.

Just imagine, for instance, if I were to pervert their Slimmer for Summer Diet Plan by replacing two meals per day with a different bowl of cereal (say, Co-op's own bran flakes). That would be no good at all. Those pounds would stubbornly refuse to shift.

I mean IT'S NOT AS IF JUST EATING ANY CEREAL FOR 66% OF MY MEALS WOULD MAKE ME LOSE WEIGHT.

Oh no indeed. It has to be Kellogg's Special K.

Otherwise they'd say so, wouldn't they?

And there's no-one I trust more than multinational fast-moving consumer goods firms.

Dietary Hooliganism

So. Coming soon to a screen near you (quite possibly the same one you're staring at right now – unless you're some waster in an internet cafe or something (get with it, if so: internet cafes are so 90s it kills me) – THE INTELLECTUAL HOOLIGAN GETS SLIMMER FOR SUMMER.

Boy, I'm looking forward to those svelte summer months ahead ...