The World of Smith…
Travel, media, life etcThe long and the short of it…
I’m not a big fan of hotel rooms where you have to open the bathroom door to wipe your arse. Or where you had to hunch to sit upright on the toilet.Welcome then, to the Kensington Rooms. In Kensington, surprisingly.
A nice enough hotel, located within a few minute’s trundle of Gloucester Road tube station, deep in the heart of foreign tourists. Contemporary design, perfect location, rooms the size of your chin.There’s no doubt shorter people than I would have managed to fit in a shower no wider than my shoulder blades, but tall people get a raw deal, time and time again.
As an example, let’s consider airlines that charge for seats with additional legroom. Bastards. Absolute, fucking bastards.
Aircraft manufacturers fit airline seating with passengers of average height in mind. Airlines acknowledge this yet seemingly ignore the unspoken consequences of this decision, namely that anybody significantly above average height can’t fit comfortably into the seats.
The average height for men is 5′ 10″. I’m 6′ 4″. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist, even a really average one who only got a D- in rocket science class to realise I’m going to have a very uncomfortable flight. Yet airlines have several seats, sometimes a couple of dozen which can accommodate taller people. Who gets them? Anyone prepared to pay for them. Usually people who fit quite adequately into a normal seat, people who don’t need the additional room for a comfortable flight. Nothing makes my piss boil more than seeing a shortarse sat there.
Why don’t I pay the additional fee? Well why the blinking fuck should I? In the case of Virgin Atlantic, it’s £50 each way for additional legroom, which on an economy flight to New York means paying as much as half again. Why should I have to pay to be comfortable anyway?
The first airline to reserve these seats for people over 6′ tall and allocate them on a first-come first-served basis will get my business on every flight. At least more people will be able to fly in comfort, and not have their knees crushed by the mindless prick infront who reclines their seat without giving a fancy fuck for anyonce sitting behind.
Tall people of the world unite. Your time has come, brothers. And sisters, too. Big Amazonian woman. Phwoar.
God speaks to me through my television
I was watching the season premiere of CSI the other night. The proper CSI, not the technicoloured editfuckery that is CSI Miami, or the one with cod-eyed Sinise. The genuine article. Grissom. Vegas. Bad joo joo.
I was waiting for Sara Sidle to die in yet another preposterous ruse dreamt up by the Miniature Killer (how did she lower the car on Sidle? Hello? McFly?) when I realised I wanted a sandwich. This is a bad thing to want so close to bedtime, because the resulting indigestion would mean a restless night and dreams about owls.
I know exactly what the filling will be, too. Mature cheddar, a sprinkling of finely chopped red onion, black pepper and a virgin dollop of Hellman’s light mayonnaise from the unopened jar on the top shelf of the fridge.
I didn’t know what to do for the best. I needed guidance. And that’s when the advert for Hellman’s Light mayonnaise appeared on the screen. Look, there’s a sandwich in various stages of completion, rounded off by the afore-mentioned spoonful of creamy gorgeousness.
I took it as a sign from the Lord himself. God was telling me to have a sandwich. I promptly ambled off to the kitchen to make one. There could be no other explanation.
Thank goodness he decided to intervene during the ad break. If God had demanded I follow his will during CSI, I’d be murdering folk in some seriously fucked up ways right about now.
The sandwich was excellent, by the way. Only spoilt by a lack of pepper, which I’d ran out of the day before and neglected to replace.
The Night The Sky Fell In
I have square eyes. Actually more of a 16:10 ratio.
I’ve spent the whole night in front of two screens. One has been full of maps and guides and Google calendar, as I plan my writing itinerary for New York.
The other one is the tv. It’s had ITV on all night. Kylie’s special is just about to start. And I’ve just shed a tear for Andy, freshly eliminated talentless show The X-Factor.
I cried at The X-Factor.
Oh please God, take me now.
You’re all bastards…
…probably.
More so if you run a business. Then it’s an absolute certainty.
You only have to do one thing well if you’re in business. Just one. Look after your customers. That’s it. Nothing else. Get this one thing right, and success is almost certainly yours. You’ll be able to shit on a plate and pay somebody to lick it clean.
It shouldn’t be difficult. It’s not, to be honest. Yet it evades so many in this world. My world. In the past 24 hours, my life has been blighted by such companies and individuals.
My bank, for example. They’re cunts. I ordered a credit card from them three weeks ago. It hasn’t arrived. I did try telling them this after a week and a half, but apparently I have to wait up to ten days for it to arrive after dispatch. I suggested any piece of first class mail that hasn’t arrived after four or five days, isn’t arriving at all. I was also told last week I’d have a replacement card couriered to me.
Today I was informed that whoever told me this was an idiot and the bank would do no such thing. They’d also not able to send a card to me in time for my trip abroad next week, which was the whole point of ordering it in the first place.
Thank you Natwest.
My builder. He’s a cunt too. I gave him a lengthy list of work that needed completing, to the tune of two grand. Instead, he completed none of of the jobs I asked for, and lots of other work that didn’t need doing but he still wants paying for nonetheless.
Thank you Mark.
My domain registration service. They’re all cunts. Every last one of them. I asked for a domain name to be transferred from an old account to a new account. I supplied them with all the information they required to do so. The result? They sit on their arses and wank like chimps – I’m only guessing at the detail here – allowing my domain registration to lapse and some thieving cuntish bastard to steal it for their own use.
Thank you Easyspace.
Yes, the British resolve dictates we put up with mediocrity and shitty service without making too much fuss, but not today. If you do run a business and I happen to be one of your customers, you have a choice. Either do it properly or I’ll find you, and I’ll kill you. Twice.
Definitions
wanker
–noun, chiefly British and Australian slang: vulgar
1. a contemptible person; jerk
2. a male masturbator
3. a person (foreign, usually German) who visits a Spanish theme park on a boiling hot day, well aware that some of the rides and indeed most of the fun to be derived from the experience is getting soaked to the bone on log flumes and laughing along with the rest of the family, but insists nevertheless on handing over another five euros for a shitty plastic mackintosh which results solely in the subject looking like a prize cunt.
By far, the World’s greatest newspaper…
I’ve resurrected a year old project of mine with a new blog.
The Daily Daily – by far the World’s greatest newspaper – can now by found here, or at http://www.dailydaily.co.uk.
Over time, I’ll transfer the archive material over from the MySpace site so it all sits in one place. Or I might go to the pub instead.
Let me know what you think.
“Paul is lamenting the collapse of society.”
Since the smoking ban, life’s been good, for me at least. I understand it’s not been as much fun for smokers.
All day benders in particular are a joy. Now I can fall through my bed at four in the morning, my clothes smoke-free and reaking of nothing other than BO, Captain Stella, first mate Jim Beam, slimy ribbons of lard-curdled kebab and lashings and lashings of garlic sauce.
Yeah, going to the pub is officially great again. In fact, short of somebody wiring my jaw open and projectile vomiting across the table into my face, I can’t think of one single social habit that could possibly spoil my evenings anymore.
Except. That’s right. Facebook.
You’re having a few jars and telling another great rock and roll story that will elevate you to King of the pub for a few precious moments, and nobody is giving a damn because they’re updating their status on Mobile Facebook.
“Steve is at the pub.”
“Alex is thinking about things.”
“Mark is wondering if he has clean socks for tomorrow.”
“Paul is drinking beer.”
Oh fuck, I’m doing it now. And not just a little, either. All. The. Bastard. Time.
Quarter to two in the morning, a quick check to see who went to bed last and whether anybody wants to be my friend. In the car. The bath. On the toilet. Quite a lot of my time on the toilet is spent checking Facebook. No need to subscribe to Total Film now.
And why?
The status updates we share with one another. They’re all bobbins. Small talk has been reduced even further in size. Now we have quantum chat; conversation so trivial it can only exist at an atomic level, through electrons and photons; the internet.
I hate what I’ve become, and nobody cares. Stick a needle full of drugs into your eyeball with your class watching and suddenly you need help. But spend a third of your life on the bog telling friends there’s a chickon casserole in the oven, and they turn a blind eye.
There’s a social cancer out there, and it’s spreading. Like cancer.
But I’ve got a plan.
We bring back smoking in public places immediately. And we make it compulsory in pubs. Everyone will have something to keep their hands busy – so no more Mobile Facebook – and the world will be a whole lot friendlier again.
Even if it does smell like an arse.
The matter in hand
My name’s Paul, and I have a problem.
You see, I’ve fallen out of love with myself. I’ve forgotten how to be tender in a one-on-one situation.
I can’t believe I’ve let it come to this. How low and miserable and tired do you have to be, to not want to wank?
A good bout of special hand love – whether you’re a boy or a girl – is a successful, if sadly temporary cure for general dissatisfaction with the day job, spiraling debt, receding hairline, cellulite, chirpy twatish suits who seem to have a much better quality of life than you that girls find bewilderingly appealing despite them being chirpy twatish suits, and so on.
Yes, feeding the horses, jacking the beanstalk, checking for squirrels, stroking the poker – there’s no better distraction when your life is turning to shit. Just like real sex really, but without those troublesome irritations, like having to cuddle afterwards. Or talking to them ever again.
And it’s difficult to get wrong. My friend Martin was recently telling me about a topic he’d covered on his radio show; what’s better – bad sex or no sex? His decidedly unscientific survey proved inconclusive, although I’m sure the dilemma can be appreciated by all.
Not so when there’s only one in the bed. Or on the sofa. Or the bus. Or providing the incontinent pensioner with a cold sponge bath.
And I’ve always considered myself to be great at it. Ever since that fateful evening in Autumn 1986 when the thought of Mrs Brunning’s enormous breasts popped into my head and propped up my pyjama bottoms like a big top, I’ve practiced my delicate technique near daily. If as a teenager I’d put the same intense dedication into piano recitals, and not knocking one out into a series of used socks, perhaps I’d have achieved something in life other than my 50 metres breaststroke.
Mrs Brunning there again. She’s never far from my thoughts.
But recently I’ve hit upon an unexpected poor run of form. I just can’t be arsed. Once a week. Tops. It’s not as if there’s any pressure on me to perform. In that sense, my left hand is the perfect girlfriend. I’ve got it on tap, so to speak.
So what’s gone wrong? I’m at a loss to explain. A long, parched drought of furious, filthy sex should have pushed demand through the roof and into the vicinity of Saturn. Pent-up frustration with my work and career should mean handfuls of joy aplenty. The arrival, finally, of hot shiny weather and women wearing underwear in the street should mean a plentiful supply of imagery for the spank bank.
Not a twitch. Not a sniff.
So I’d like to apologise in advance. If we meet up sometime soon, and I don’t seem like myself, if I’m rude or surly or uptight, I’m not being a wanker.
That’s the problem.
Adolf behaving badly
I Sky plussed a documentary on Hitler last night.
Sky plussed?
Sky-plused?
Sky+’ed?
Sky+d?
I recorded a documentary on Hitler last night. I’m not a crazed devourer of documentary channels as a rule, and happened upon the programme by accident. It was the title that demanded I press the record button. It had everything; intrigue, mystery, adventure, danger. And Nazis.
ADOLF HITLER AND THE SPEAR OF DESTINY
It sounded like an Indiana Jones sequel, so I had to have it. The story goes that the item in question pierced the chest of Christ as he died on the cross. His split blood was caught in the Holy Grail. Possibly. It might not have happened exactly like that, partly because I’ve learnt my bible references through cinema, and partly because the whole immaculate conception and son of God thing casts doubt on it happening at all, to be honest.
So there I was. I zoomed through the commercials at 30x to the opening credits, went too far, missed the start, rewound, fast forwarded and pressed play.
ADOLF HITLER AND THE SPEAR OF DESTINY
Fantastic. Here it was. I’d cracked open a bottle of Pinot Grigio, popped open a jar of stuffed olives. I was poised. Ready to be informed, educated and en-
NARRATED BY NEIL MORRISSEY
That’s Neil Morrissey from Men Behaving Badly. And those Homebase ads. Oh, and Bob the Builder. Presumably Antony Hopkins and Joss Ackland were busy that day.
I stopped the playback short of his first sentence been delivered, and deleted the programme without haste. History would have to wait until a more heavyweight thespian had an opening in their schedule.
Tomorrow night:
GENOCIDE IN DARFUR
NARRATED BY GRAHAM NORTON
Don’t believe your eyes
April 3, 2008 at 11:48 am · Filed under comment, travel
A small but perfectly formed example of how the media can twist a story to its own ends.
Take this story published by the BBC today.
What does the copy and accompanying image suggest to you? To me it says Heathrow Terminal 5 is still fucked, but it’ll be ok by Saturday. Hurray.
Then compare it to this photo taken by James Cridland. It was taken two days ago.
James himself admits on Flickr it’s part of the terminal where perhaps you wouldn’t expect to find the biggest problems, but the point remains: using an image like this would have given the BBC story a very different spin, but would you be as interested in reading it?
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