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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
–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.
I’ve resurrected a year old project of mine with a new blog.
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.