The Hell of Work: The Toy Shop

I once worked night-shift in a toy-shop in the weeks leading up to Christmas. 7pm to 7am. My job was to help unbox the day’s deliveries and re-stock the shelves. I suppose you could say that my hard graft was indirectly responsible for putting happy smiles onto the faces of thousands of local children. Aw! Sounds pretty magical, right? You’re probably imagining me and my twilight workforce moving in blissful synchronous, singing a jolly song as we form a human chain, passing parcels of dolls and dinosaurs along it, hoisting them up onto the shelves and high-fiving as we go, the whole happy endeavour overseen by a kindly old man sat behind an antique desk who’s busy scrutinising each and every toy for imperfections so that little Jeannie and little Harry won’t be disappointed come Christmas morn.

You’d be imagining it all wrong, though. Because working in a toy-shop at Christmas time is about as magical as being tied up and force-fed corned beef by a maniacal clown in an underground car-park.

It’s about as merry as weaponised AIDS being crop-dusted over you while you’re sunbathing, and only half as joyful as taking a cricket bat to the stomach, and then being stabbed in the face with pencils by fifty angry dwarfs as soon as you double-over, and then hit with the cricket bat again as soon as you straighten up, and on and on and on, until the dwarfs grow weary of their little game and decide to set fire to you instead.

And then being shat on by a pigeon.

Instead of imagining mirth and magic, try imagining a group of tired, miserable men – many of them with substance abuse problems and severe personality disorders (and that was just me) – desperately trying to reach the end of their shift without succumbing to the desire to leap head-first from the top-shelf of the board-game aisle down onto the cold floor below whereupon they’d swiftly be entombed by falling Cluedo boxes.

Imagine a group of guys muttering to themselves like lobotomised Lurches up and down the cold, deserted aisles as thousands of eerie plastic smiles beam out at them – only managing to preserve a faint sliver of sanity by occasionally stopping to boot a musical dog in the face just to hear it scream.

Of course, these days I’m a soppy, genetically-invested father of two, and would probably really enjoy a yuletide stint at the toy shop… although my colleagues most definitely wouldn’t: “You know who would love THIS toy, right? My kids! And do you know who would love THIS toy over here? THAT’S RIGHT, MY KIDS!”

You’ve probably intuited from the pronouns I’ve used thus far that everyone on the night-shift was male. These days my boss wouldn’t have hesitated to re-boot the shift with an all-female cast, but back then, in the late twenty-tens, it was XY all the way, baby. We may have had a woefully gender-imbalanced workforce, but at least we were ever-so-slightly ethnically diverse. There was one black Nigerian man among the crew, which certainly helped break the facial monotony of our miserable Caucasian countenances.

On my first shift I realised with horror that my fellow whiteys were referring to this man as ‘Teeth’, a nickname I surmised he’d been given on account of that offensive supposition that a black person can blend into total darkness and only have their position betrayed by their blindingly white smile.

The guys weren’t just referring to him as Teeth; they were calling him it to his face.

Hey Teeth!” they’d say.

Gimme a hand shifting some of these boxes, eh, Teeth?”

Whit time is it, Teeth?”

I knew what time it was: horrible racism time!

‘Teeth’ himself didn’t seem phased by the racist moniker he’d had forced upon him by his co-workers. He never once reacted. He just accepted it, as if they were calling him nothing less innocuous than ‘mate’ or ‘pal’.

I went home at the end of that shift the next morning and agonised over what I’d borne silent witness to. By doing nothing, wasn’t I a racist, too? Or at the very least a shameless coward. I tried to come up with alternative explanations. Most of these guys had been working together for weeks. Maybe they’d bonded at the coal face and developed a friendly, no-holds-barred way of dealing with each other. Maybe context was king, and I’d misunderstood the dynamic. After all, I’ve said some hellish and horrendous things to my friends over the years, and had it back in spades. What if it was all just banter?

But what if it wasn’t? Or what if the white guys assumed they were trading harmless banter, but were really hurting this guy and he didn’t feel empowered enough to speak up?

The second shift began. I wondered what I should do. Call the guys out? Report them? I knew one thing for certain: I couldn’t just stand by and watch a man being marginalised and demeaned. Not this time. Not again. I had to do something. But first, I had to show the guy he had an ally; that not everyone on the night-shift was an unbridled monster.

We talked for a while as we sliced open boxes together: about life, love, childhood. I liked him. He seemed a nice guy, which only served to make me feel more guilty about my cowardice the night before, even though his agreeableness as a person was irrelevant to the injustice at hand. Even an asshole deserved my support.

I stretched out a hand for him to shake. ‘My name’s Jamie. I’m not going to call you ‘Teeth’ like all of the other guys around here, I don’t think that’s very nice at all, and I just want you to know I’m not on board with it. What’s your real name?

‘Latif,’ he said.

~~~

Have you ever wished for the ground to open up and swallow you whole? I quickly realised that the only racial abuse Latif had been exposed to in the workplace… had come from me. I’d bent over backwards to avoid being labelled a racist, and in the process inadvertently back-flipped onto a big fat crash-mat of racism. I was the closest thing the toy-shop had to its very own resident Klansman.

I sloped off down the aisle, and gazed up longingly at a stack of Cluedos that was teetering on the edge of the top shelf. Thinking that was maybe a bit of an extreme reaction, I decided instead to track down a musical dog and kick it in the face.

Ho ho ho.

READ MORE HELL:

The Hell of Work: The Airport

The Hell of Work: The Call Centre

Avengers: Infinity War – Spoiler-filled Review

When a patch-eyed Samuel L Jackson snuck his way into Iron Man’s end credits to introduce Tony Stark to the Avengers Initiative, we had little idea, a decade or so later, we’d be slap-bang in the middle of a Marvel renaissance: nineteen movies and ten TV series – and counting.

Avengers Infinity War is the culmination of everything the Marvel Cinematic Universe has been building towards over its first ten years: the creation of the biggest, loudest, brightest, most jam-packed-with-superheroes superhero movie ever made.

Mission accomplished.

Infinity War is good, or at least it’s a good way to spend a few fun, forgettable hours smiling goofily, chuckling heartily, gasping loudly and revelling in the multi-million-pound whizz-bang-a-boom spectacle of it all. It’s a movie of what-ifs and thrilling fan service, the chance to watch your favourite kooks and crooks come together to trade punches and wise-cracks amid savage battles, dying stars and falling planets.

As a Scotsman raised on big budget American movies featuring fights in exotic locations like LA and New York, it was a genuine joy for me to see Edinburgh up on the big screen, and witness a kung-fu ass-kicking unfolding in Waverley train station. PS: thanks for the deep-fried kebab gag, you bastards. It took about twenty years for the English to stop banging on about deep-fried Mars Bars. You’ve just re-set the clock…

The sheer wealth of characters in Infinity War is both a blessing and a curse: a curse because there isn’t time to provide any one character – save for Thanos – with anything but the most cursory of character development; a blessing because being able to flick between characters – or groups of characters – every ten or fifteen minutes allows the movie to feel much shorter than its titanic run-time. Kudos to Drax, who made me guffaw like a loon each time he opened his mouth.

Every good superhero story needs a good villain – something not every Marvel movie has managed to get right – but in Thanos the MCU has found arguably its greatest baddie. Physically, Thanos is imposing and powerful, even before he starts loading up his gauntlet with gemstones. Indeed, in the opening minutes of Infinity War he gives the Hulk such a decisive battering that Bruce Banner spends the remainder of the movie suffering from Hulk-related performance anxiety. The phrase ‘We have a Hulk’ is usually a pre-victory rallying cry. Infinity War establishes from the outset that even the mighty Hulk is but a greenfly buzzing around Thanos’ head. The only thing that can defeat Thanos is teamwork, something that doesn’t always come naturally to the assemblage of lone wolves who find themselves united in opposition to the big purple space-fister.

As well as being the MCU’s mightiest and best villain, Thanos is also its most rounded and sympathetic. He’s much more complex than your usual twisted genius or big angry entity who just wants to destroy everything for the sake of ticking the right boxes on the ‘So You Think You’re Evil?’ checklist.

Thanos is plagued by guilt over the demise of his once-mighty people, who Easter Island-ed themselves out of existence through complacency, decadence and overpopulation. Despite his ego and cold narcissism he appears to be capable of feeling shame, fear, pain and even – just maybe – love.

Although Thanos seeks ultimate power over time, space, reality and the universe, he only wants to wield it insofar as it aids him in his mission to arbitrarily half the total inhabitants of the universe, thereby breaking the curse that killed his own people, and giving the gift of survival to every species in existence. In his own calmly-crazy, genocidal mind he thinks he’s the good guy, which only serves to make him more dangerous.

Psychological shading not-with-standing, this is still a popcorn movie, so even during Thanos’ most affecting, introspective moments you’re forced to fill in the emotional gaps yourself by bringing your own experience of those feelings and dynamics to bear. The love Thanos professes for Gamora (feelings that will undoubtedly spill over into and propel the sequel) and the weight of his sacrifice, feel rather too thinly-sketched, contrived and convenient to have much of a genuine emotional impact. Plus, in a franchise where resurrection is more common than the cold, what weight can any death really have?

This issue with low-stakes – common to all MCU properties – also diminishes the impact of the ending. While it’s certainly bold and refreshing to see the villain win for a change, this is only part one of the story, and anyone who genuinely believes that the heroes who frittered out of existence like so much burnt toast in the wind at the end of Infinity War won’t be ‘reassembled’ in the second installment must have missed the last eighteen movies, or else have never encountered a cliffhanger before. Save your tears, people (although if Tom Holland made you shed them, fair enough; his farewell was heartwrenchingly conveyed). It’s all going to be okay. You might not get Vision back, but I’m sure you’ll be able to soldier on.

The ending would have been immeasurably bolder had Infinity War been the MCU’s final movie: if Thanos had been allowed his victory, and left at peace to watch an eternity of bittersweet sunsets, like a Professor Soran who’d made it to the Nexus, or an ultra-conservative group who’d managed to pull off the conspiracy behind Channel 4’s Utopia.

Or bolder still if this hadn’t been the final movie, but the consequences couldn’t be undone, and every subsequent movie in the series became like a superhero version of The Leftovers, dealing with grief and heartache and loss, forcing a generation of children to contemplate the injustice and futility at the core of existence. But this is Disney – and existential angst doesn’t sell very well.

As it stands, it’s possible to see the ending as a sort-of meta-commentary on the MCU itself. Perhaps we, the audience – the consumers – are Thanos, and each of the previous eighteen movie instalments are a different infinity stone for our gauntlet. Now that our gauntlet is full, we’ve succeeded in winking out half of the world’s superheroes. We’re bloody sick of them. Do we even want them to come back?

Here’s to part two, and to a multitude of explosions, jokes and fist-fights.

I’ll be there.

The Anatomy of an Argument

It was almost the trip that never was.

“Why does it smell so strongly of oil in this car?” she asked, scrunching up her face.

“I just topped up the levels.”

“But it stinks.”

“I must’ve spilled a little on the engine when I was pouring it in.”

Her eyebrows arched skywards. “A whole bottle?”

I shook my head. “You think it smells that bad?”

“I’m worried we’re going to blow up half-way along the motorway.”

I mulled it over; sighed. The missus has an uncanny knack for being right, and I felt it unwise to bet against her this time, especially considering that the entire family was potentially at stake. The kids were in the back, amusing themselves with daft little noises and the rare view of blue skies and sunshine outside of their windows. I pulled into a bus stop a few hundred metres from the motorway’s slip road (I wish I was American sometimes: on-ramp sounds so much better). Got out. Popped the hood (much more satisfying than opening a bonnet, y’all). Stared. Froze.

My mouth hung open.

If it wouldn’t have necessitated such a fiddly, finger-risking series of manoeuvres I would’ve done a movie-style double-take: closed the lid with a frightened look in my eyes, and then threw it open again to see if the horror was still there, or if it had all been a mirage. I kept staring. Stared some more. This was really happening. How on earth was I going to talk my way out of this one?

I decided I wasn’t even going to try.

“Come here,” I said, peeking my head around the side of the lid and beckoning to my partner.

The passenger-side door clunked open. I stood with my hands clasped behind my back like a drill sergeant, belying the unease that was bubbling in my belly.

She peered into the innards of the car.

“What am I looking at here?”

I pointed. She froze too.

“You fucking idiot,” she said.

Thank luck (sic) I hadn’t hit the motorway without checking under the hood first. Things might’ve been very much worse, not just in terms of our collective safety, but in terms of the half-life of the I-Told-You-Sos and Sees?? that would be thrown my way for probably the rest of my natural life. As it stood, my ears were being peppered by a machine-gun volley of snarls and snaps.

“That’s our day out ruined,” she said. “Ruined. By you.”

“It isn’t ruined,” I asserted, with very little evidence with which to back up my assertion.

I was starting to feel ever-so-slightly persecuted.

“I’m feeling ever-so-slightly persecuted,” I told her.

She snorted.

“Can you imagine if I had done this? You’d never let me hear the end of it. You’d go on and on and on and on about it.”

She had a point. It’s true that I’m something of a prickly character at home, especially when misfortune falls or I feel under pressure; probably due to the cauldron of anxiety filled with adrenalin that simmers away inside my blood-stream just waiting to be brought to the boil by the hot flame of stress. If we’re ever running late to leave the house for a day out – in much less serious or potentially ruinous situations than the one in which we found ourselves in the car that day – I’ve been known to spend an inordinately long time flapping, stomping, seething, fuming and swearing; ejecting torrents of bile-slathered hyperbole from my mouth like so much demon vomit. I was no stranger to the blame game. But still…

“Nice application of situational ethics, there,” I told her, “You should hold fast to your own core values, and not alter them based on whatever mood you happen to be in at the time.”

“Fuck off,” she said, or maybe she didn’t, but it would’ve been funny if she had, right? Just imagine she said it.

“You know what the difference is?” I asked with a hint of smugness. “I’m owning it. This is my fault, and I’m sorry. I. Am. Sorry. That’s an easy word to say, isn’t it?”

In my mind, I visualised a basketball slamming into the net for a three-pointer, because even my sporting analogies are American.

She shook her head. I started to speak again, and she shushed me. Tried again, shush. Again, shush. Aga…SHUSH.

“I don’t want to hear you talk,” she said, holding up a hand.

Being shushed has the same effect on me as being called a chicken has on Marty McFly. It makes me want to talk all the more, to rail, to explain, to justify, but once the shush train starts picking up speed it never shows any signs of slowing or stopping. It just keeps on shushing until one of us explodes. Eventually my partner herself sounds like a steam train gathering speed – SHUSHshushshushshush, SHUSHshushshushshushshush, SHUSHshushshushshushshush – and I’m sitting next to her providing the DOO-DOOOOOOOOOs, complete with steam coming out of my ears.

TICKETS, PLEASE! ALL ABOARD THE ARGUMENT TRAIN, Y’ALL!

“Daddy,” said my eldest, “Why are we going back home?”

“Shush,” I told him.

“It better be where you think it is,” my partner said after a long, frosty silence.

As we were leaving the house at the beginning of our journey we’d heard an almighty popping sound coming from the front of the car. I assumed I’d driven over a plastic bottle or something, but there was no longer any doubt as to exactly what that sound had signified.

When I’d pulled over into that bus-stop and looked inside the engine, I’d seen it straight away. Or, rather, I hadn’t seen it. There was nothing to see. Where the oil cap should’ve been was a hole. A dark, gaping hole, framed by an orgiastic oil splatter where the molten hot liquid had sprayed out, like someone had told the engine a funny joke just as it had just taken a drink.

“I don’t know exactly where we were when we heard that noise,” I said.

“Great!”

“You were in the car, too! Don’t you remember?”

“You’re driving! Why can’t you remember?”

“Because I didn’t think it was relevant. It’s relevant now, but it wasn’t relevant then. I don’t map every weird noise I hear incase it later turns out to be helpful. I’m not bloody Rain Man.”

She folded her arms. “Well, the day’s probably ruined…”

At least the status of the likelihood of the day being ruined had been upgraded to ‘probably’. Probably was quickly upgraded to ‘not’. There it was, the oil cap, like a disc of black diamond on the side of the road. I stopped the car, and we went out to retrieve it. I popped the hood again, propping it open with the wee metal thing.

“You idiot,” she said again, laughing this time.

I grinned. “How did I manage that?”

“You don’t know when to stop twisting. You never think you’ve twisted things enough, so you keep twisting them until you break them.”

She was right. I once ruined a little stool for our eldest’s first drum-kit (“And the last,” I can hear my partner saying in my mind) because I screwed it together to tightly that the wood warped and broke, and we had to throw it out, but not before I’d launched it across the room in a fit of childish rage. And I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve received an angry text from my partner, because she’s had to cut open a bottle of juice because I’ve shut the lid too tight.

The oil cap needs to be turned twice to lock it into place. Just twice. One, two. A bit of muscle memory must’ve encouraged me turn it thrice and more, till it had gone full circle from secure to just sitting loosely over the hole. Clumsiness paved the way. Combustion, pressure, gravity and hot oil did the rest.

I closed the lid and we got back into the car, both still smiling.

“I’m an idiot,” I said.

“You are an idiot,” she agreed. “But you’re my idiot.”

“Everyone ready for an adventure?” I asked.

The pressure had been vented. With a cheer and a song, we headed back to the on-ramp.

“What’s that smell?” I asked.

“Fuck off,” she said.

It was the best of times, it was… Coatbridge?

It was our first time.

‘Maybe Coatbridge isn’t as bad as people say?’ I chirped to my partner, as I drove our family through the urban murk of the town. Her eyes remained fixed on the view outside the passenger-side window. I’d seen that same blend of guilt, horror and wonder on her face when we’d driven past serious road accidents.

‘I mean, we’re from Grangemouth,’ I said, continuing to plead Coatbridge’s case. ‘And even it’s got nice parts, right?’

Even Frankenstein’s monster’s got nice parts, I suppose. I’ve learned that it’s best not to be too harsh on other people’s towns when your own town could be twinned with post-apocalyptic Springfield; or is practically ‘The Wire’ with an all-white cast. As the old saying goes: people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. As my variation on that phrase goes: people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones and then use one of the fallen shards of glass to open a vein and spray ‘I’m something of a hypocrite’ in blood all over the floor.

I tried to give Coatbridge a fair crack of the whip, I really did, but pesky reality kept knocking the rose-tinted specs off my face, and after a while I stopped trying to put them back on, so I just slipped on a pair of black-as-death-tinted specs instead.

The deeper and deeper we drove into the town, the progressively less beatific the surroundings, until eventually we became convinced that we were trapped inside a Ken Loach film set in the late 1970s. As surely as the grass makes up the African plains, the landscape of central Coatbridge is a patterned hotch-potch of impregnable steel shutters; towering, dust-drecked high rises and walls swirled with hastily scrawled tribal markings. Every street we turned down was littered with little people with limps listlessly smoking their way back whence they came, or onwards, whence they were going.

Sorry if my whencing was a bit off there. Was my whencing on point? One so rarely gets the chance to whence these days, and when one does one can never be sure if one’s whencing has behoofed anyone except oneself, or made one appear – and I make no apologies for the strong language I’m about to use here – a crinkum-crankum. Or, heaven forfend, a fandangle! Hey, if you’re going to whence anywhere – or indeed do anything that seems like it might be better suited to the nineteenth century or earlier – then it might as well be in Coatbridge, a town that’s famous both for having a Time Capsule (its Ice Age-themed swimming and leisure centre), and actually being one.

Coatbridge isn’t a Blue Peter-style time capsule, filled with fluffy, fun and life-affirming things that children of the future will be fascinated to re-discover: Coatbridge is a time capsule containing only shit things. Upsetting things. Deeply traumatising things. Things that have been left there as a warning to future generations never to let this shit happen again.

The invisible, town-sized time capsule covering Coatbridge has a cracked outer case, one that exposes the town’s surface to the rust of modernity, but keeps its sedentary core protected and intact. This produces a strange effect. At any given point in the town’s geography it’s somehow simultaneously 1876, 1915 and 1982, like you’re inside a malfunctioning, open-top TARDIS. It’s the kind of town where you might stumble across a junkie wearing a shell-suit and a miner’s helmet angrily challenging you to a duel on horseback.

At the risk of labouring the point, Coatbridge puts the Ark into archaic; the punk into steampunk; and the ‘fuck’ into ‘fuck, I think we might’ve found a place that’s worse than Alloa’.

‘I think we might’ve found a place that’s worse than Alloa,’ I said to my partner, my eyes wide with fear and fascination. ‘If ever there was a place too broke to make a bridge out of anything other than coats, this is that place.’

My partner felt my forehead. ‘Worse than Alloa?’ she said, with a worried look on her face.

You’re right,’ I said. ‘Nowhere’s worse than Alloa.’

It was a weekday morning, so the swimming pool at the Time Capsule was closed until the mid-afternoon. We didn’t realise this until after we’d pulled into the car-park with our two restless children. ‘What are we going to do in Coatbridge for four hours?’ my partner asked, but imagine she’d asked it all in block capitals. I thought about it. Our options pretty much boiled down to one: sit there in the car park and stay really, really still, like they did when the T-Rex attacked in Jurassic Park.

I spied a Chinese takeaway at the top end of the street, on the side wall of which somebody had spray-painted ‘PIRA’ (the ‘P’ standing for ‘Provisional’, the IRA standing for, well, IRA). Say what you like about Coatbridge: you can’t say it isn’t multicultural.

After a few moments of panicking, we asked our pal Google for help. She suggested Summerlee, the Museum of Scottish Industrial Life (Google is definitely a woman, given that she’s always watching you, and she knows everything), which was only a short drive along the road from us. So off we went, travelling back through time on purpose for a change.

Now, on paper I’m a huge fan of museums. They hold obvious historical and educational value. They help to record, preserve, maintain and advance culture through a shared process of remembering, sifting, shifting, expanding and evolving. Museums hold a mirror up to us; one that doesn’t always reflect a pretty picture. Sometimes the story a museum tells is one of tyranny, theft, enslavement, genocide and cultural appropriation. After all, he who controls the past controls the cultural narrative, and thus holds the key to the future. That also explains why groups like ISIS are so hell-bent on the systematic destruction of museums and historical sites – not everyone who wants to challenge or re-write the narrative does so from a place of virtue.

But even if we don’t always like what we see, museums force us to look, and look hard out at the world, into our shared pasts, and deep into our selves. As the old maxim goes: he who does not understand history is doomed to repeat it. I get all that. I do. Museums are important. They’re worthy. They’re vital.

But Christ they’re fucking boring.

I try. I do, I really try. I want to love them. I walk around museums with an intense expression on my face, nodding solemnly at the plaques as I try to give even the smallest of fucks about a special kind of steel hinge that was first manufactured in Paisley in 1928. Or get excited that some dead rich guy managed to score himself a collection of old pots from Peru.

Actually, though, Summerlee is different. While I’m generally never one for the minutiae (of life, not just of museums), there’s some really great stuff there, not just inside the main exhibition hall but all across the 22-acre site, from recreations of old shop facades and miners’ cottages to hulking great chunks of antiquated mining equipment to a working tram to boats to steam engines to interactive displays for the kids – including a recreation of a gigantic iron works’ furnace complete with audio and visual effects. The folks in charge aren’t daft, though. They know that if daddy’s prone to boredom, you can triple that for the kids, so there are toy trains and Duplo blocks everywhere. Actually, I think the kids liked the trains and Duplo blocks the best, the little philistines.

Maybe I’m not anti-minutiae. I think I’m possibly just more interested in people than I am in things (though I concede that’s a pretty daft statement, given that the story of one is usually incomplete without the other). I spent a lot of time that day staring at ashen-faced, cap-wearing men in old black-and-white photos from the days when Coatbridge was still an active mining town.

Camera technology was in its infancy then and photography had scant few practitioners. Developing a photograph was a time-intensive and expensive process, so nobody was fucking around in front of the camera doing duck pouts or taking selfies. They stood like statues, staring straight ahead, like they were locking eyes with their firing squad, or caught in the paralysing gaze of a demon who was about to extract their souls and sell them to the highest bidder.

This photo was taken in Cumnock, not Coatbridge, but you get the idea.

We look at old photographs as if we’re looking at cardboard cut-outs or lab specimens: men from a forgotten world; men from an alien world. I like to imagine the moments after the light from the flash-bulb has faded from their vision; imagine them shuffling awkwardly, telling bawdy jokes, spitting, shouting, joshing each other. I imagine how fun and unencumbered their lives must have been, but also how brutish and brutal. I bring these men to life, make them real, but then it makes me said, because I have to let them die again. Old photos are tombs we’ll all climb inside eventually.

Looking at these pictures makes me feel angry too. Places like Coatbridge used to keep this country running by keeping the fires burning. Generations of men – not just in Coatbridge, but all across the country – toiled under the ground day after day in hazardous and hellish conditions so that the rest of society could enjoy heat and light and power, and all of the myriad things we as a species would come to take for granted. These men gave their health, their families, and in many cases their lives. Their families, their town, should’ve seen the fruits of their labours. To see the rundown state of many parts of Coatbridge today is an almost unforgivable insult; it’s like the government and the power companies sucked the town dry and then callously cast its carcass into the dirt. No wonder there are so many wee people limping and smoking their way through wrecked and ruined streets, or in the shadow of grim Soviet-style high rises.

The older you get, the less comforting nostalgia becomes; the more everything reminds you of death. Sometimes when I hear songs I’d remember my sister listening to in the other room when I was a kid, I start to cry. Because it’s gone, it’s all gone, and none of us ever thought it would go, that we’d lose it, even though older people did nothing but constantly warn us about it. As a species we can go to Machu Picchu, the South Pole, or the Moon, but the one place we can never go – and the only place we all sometimes yearn to go – is back. You can never go back.

Thanks, Coatbridge. You’ve made me clinically depressed.

At the top end of the Summerlee site are four refurbished miners’ cottages, each made to resemble a different era: the 80s, the 60s, the 40s and the late 1900s. The 1940s cottage even has an air-raid shelter in the back garden. Nice touch.

This area of Summerlee was my favourite – but also the most bittersweet – part of the experience. When I stepped into the living room and kitchen of the 1980s house it was like stepping back through time into my own childhood, into the homes of my parents and grandparents. The attention to detail was exquisite. I had to ask my partner and kids to be quiet so I could soak up the feelings. I felt like I was standing not inside a room, but at a graveside.

The silence was only broken when Denise Ferry burst into the living room singing ‘My Boy Lollipop’.

The 1980s cottage – Summerlee

After passing a wonderful few hours at Summerlee we went to the Time Capsule. It was as fun as I remember it being when I was a kid. Seeing the little ones laughing and smiling and having a great time always helps me make peace with my mortality. I remind myself that the world isn’t built with me in mind anymore, or at the very least the days of my relevance swiftly are coming to an end. I shouldn’t be sad for myself, but happy for them, happy for the happy things they’ve yet to experience that they’ll hopefully grow old enough to be able to look back on with great, great sadness. Now thats a Scottish sentence for you.

Driving out of Coatbridge we fringed Drumpellier Park, threaded in and out of well-kempt estates and peaceful side-streets. But our trip’s true ending – the real fade-to-black, cut-to-credits scene – was our post-swimming meal at Burger 7.

We ate here in 2017. Burger 7 didn’t ask me to write this. I just really loved the place.

Burger 7, despite being nestled in less than auspicious surroundings, is quite possibly the best café/restaurant I’ve ever eaten at. That’s not hyperbole. I mean it. Maybe I felt that way because the day’s heady mix of fun, philosophy and soul-searching had finally made me appreciate life’s minutiae. Maybe it was just because they did an awesome vegetarian hotdog. Whatever the reason, we all loved it. It was homely. Welcoming. We were made to feel like we were the only customers in the world at the last restaurant in the universe.

Inside, Burger 7 looks like the diner that Tony Soprano visits with his family in the final scene of The Sopranos, but it feels like Artie Buco’s restaurant, Vesuvio, that Tony visits with his family during the big storm in the closing minutes of The Sopranos’ first-season. Whenever I think of Burger 7 now, I always think about the speech that Tony gives his family, as they huddle contentedly in the cande-light at the very end of that episode:

“I’d like to propose a toast. To my family. Some day soon, you’re going to have families of your own, and if you’re lucky, you’ll remember the little moments, like this… that were good.”

Thanks, Coatbridge.

You’re alright.

My Boy Lollipop: A Cautionary Tale

Ideas for stories jump into my head every day. The vast majority of them never come to anything. I scrawl them on scraps of paper that inevitably end up scrumpled at the bottom of the bin; or trap them inside word-processing documents (a series of short, disjointed semi-sentences that won’t even make sense to me when I come to review them a few days down the line, much less a few months). Most end up buried – fading and crumbling – in the graveyard of my memory.

I’ve carried the brief outline I’m about to share with you – one of many of thousands of proto-stories that will probably never come to fruition – inside my mind for years. I think it’s lingered there because the themes and emotions thrown up by the story still resonate with me, but also because the message – or plea – at the heart of the story only becomes more relevant as the years pass by.

I wonder if this is the first time that somebody has ever critically evaluated one of their own stories that doesn’t actually exist because they could never be arsed writing it in the first place.

Anyway, without any further ado, here’s the essence of my never-was-story:

When Will I be famous?

A man auditions for The X Factor, or some fictionalised variant of the show. He can’t sing, but he can certainly entertain you, if laughing at the afflicted is your idea of a good time, which historically it has been – and still is – for the vast majority of people who watch televised talent shows.

He’s auditioning at a time in TV talent-show history when a contestant’s first meeting with the judges took place in a small room without an audience, and not in a packed theatre as happens now. Besides the camera crew, the only people in the room with the contestant are three judges, a panel which comprises a woman and two men.

The contestant starts to sing, a haunting ballad (haunted entirely by him). There’s something both earnest and disturbed about the way he moves his body in time to the music, and the force with which he pours his passion into the song. The look of rapture on his face suggests he believes himself to be in possession of the voice of an angel, when in reality the timbre of his voice is a closer fit with a hoarse old dog howling at the moon.

The two male judges almost fall from their seats laughing. The camera crew is laughing, too. The female judge struggles to banish her own laughter from her lips and thoughts, and finally manages to maintain an air of respect and kindness. While the most famous of the judges – the story’s Simon Cowell proxy – waves his hands for the performance to cease, and issues an emphatic ‘no’, the female judge says ‘yes’, an act that is motivated either by misplaced compassion or a desire to irritate not-Simon. The other male judge says no, and the contestant is rejected. He locks eyes with the female judge and smiles through the tears that are forming in his eyes.

He becomes a celebrity in his town and its surrounding areas, and is booked to appear in pubs, clubs and gig venues. Local and regional newspapers interview him, or run small pieces on him. He’s so swept up by the attention and his new pseudo-celebrity status that he doesn’t realise he’s being transformed more and more into a bizarre novelty, a laughing stock: a lightning rod for the town’s anger and cruelty, and a scapegoat for its shame. He isn’t savvy, or smart, or articulate. He’s powerless to divert the course of his fame; he doesn’t want to let go of it, even when it starts to hurt.

At the end of the story he stands on a small stage in-front of a crowd of drunken revellers in some smoky city pub, grasping the microphone uncertainly in his hand, a hand that’s now shaking. He now realises that he – and his song – mean nothing to these people. This time when he sings there’s no passion or conviction in his voice. He can hear the laughter spitting from their lips, see the disdain and arrogance shining in their eyes. He tries to push on to the end of the song, but the tears well up in his eyes with such great weight he feels like his head might capsize. His voice quivers, falters and dies. Worse than their laughter, they’re now ignoring him. He’s alone up there on the stage, frightened and confused.

He sees, in his mind’s eye, the soft, apologetic smile on the lips of the sympathetic judge. He goes back further, back to his childhood. He remembers cowering under his covers as a young boy, scared and helpless, listening to his father beating his mother with his belt in the other room. He remembers the screams. The cracking and the yelling. Then the front door slamming. Then his mother would shuffle into his bedroom, eyes heavy and hollow, and slide under the covers next to him, forgetting herself, forgetting her own pain and fear. All she wanted to do was make him feel better. Happy. Safe. She soaks up his tears and strokes his head until he closes his eyes and falls asleep in her arms, all the while singing a lullaby.

The same lullaby he’d one day sing on stage.

He takes a gun from his jacket, puts it to his head, and squeezes the trigger.

The irony is, he now gets the fame – and more than that, the acceptance – that he craved. People are kind about him. They cry for him.

And then they forget him again.

I can’t help but think about that story-that-never-was every time I think about Denise Ferry from Coatbridge, the woman who rose to notoriety on the back of an on-line video – since gone viral – of her singing ‘My Boy Lollipop’ at her mother’s graveside burial. She’s now making appearances in nightclubs and pubs across Scotland singing that same song, once a tribute to her mother, now a loud drunken chant down the local disco. Watch a video of any of her recent ‘performances’. Look at the smile that keeps creeping on to her face. She thinks she’s made it. She thinks people love her. She doesn’t understand that she’s in the process of being chewed up and spat out.

I laughed when I first watched the video of Denise singing at her mother’s funeral. It was so unlike any funeral I’ve ever seen or been to: bleak and bizarre and strange and funny and sad and gallus, all at once, and somehow also uniquely Coatbridgian. All of the ingredients that make up the video, from Denise’s over-sized suit and her giant aviator shades; to the cowed and weary man silently smoking behind her; to the choice of song itself, combine to create one of the weirdest and most discordant viral home movies I’ve ever watched. It’s like Rab C Nesbitt meets Twin Peaks.

I’m not laughing now. While it’s undoubtedly ghoulish to use your own mother’s funeral as a launch-pad for ‘fame’, it’s downright deplorable to exploit a deeply damaged woman’s desire to be noticed in order to fatten your pockets. Giving people what they want isn’t always the right thing to do. Because…

Well.

Because people are cunts.

Never Mind the Chocolates, Here’s the Resurr-wrecked Apostle

“Guess who’s back… back again…” The Real Slim JC


Well, that was Easter. The time of year when parents stockpile eighteen tonnes of chocolate for their children, even though at any other time of the year they wouldn’t let them so much as sniff a Taz bar from fifty feet away, but, don’t worry, it’s alright, “because it’s Easter”.

Yes, it’s a well-known fact that Jesus has the magical power to stave off diabetes. That and he’s really good at juggling. Any priest will tell you that Jesus elected to die screaming in agony in the desert so that for four consecutive days in every year we could stuff our children full of chocolate without fear of judgement or consequence: Maltesers on toast for breakfast, followed by Creme Eggs Benedict for lunch, and a Double Decker steak for dinner. Amen. Thank you, Jesus.

You’re probably wondering who this ‘Jesus’ guy is. You know, him. You do. You do know him. He’s the dude with the beard? He wears the sandals, bit hippyish? Has a heavy foot fetish. You know who I’m talking about, you do. Rose from the dead? Son of God? A Capricorn?

It’s pretty easy to forget Easter’s connection to Jesus, what with all the rabbits, boiled eggs and chocolate. In any case, most of us here in the UK are Christians by osmosis, and only when it suits us – we’re happy to wear a funny hat, munch an egg or accept a nicely wrapped gift or twelve, but that’s about it. Just the good stuff. Don’t ask us to get down on our knees and start muttering to an invisible man. That’s what alcohol is for.

If we do think about Jesus at this time of year it’s usually because his name pops up in a million shit jokes on our Facebook feeds, jokes that have been resurrected from last year, and the year before, and the year before that. Thanks Timehop. Next year, I hope we can roll the groans away (Jesus, that was awful) (Jesus: ‘Yes, it was’.)

Really, though, who needs jokes when the reality is funny enough? For instance, this Easter would have seen thousands of fundamentalist Christian pro-lifers splitting their time between glorifying a man’s violent execution, and grabbing a bunch of dead chicken babies and smashing them down a hill. The American ones would probably have let their five-year-olds blast the eggs to smithereens with assault rifles. Yay life!

I get that eggs are included in the Easter itinerary because they symbolise the transformative nature of life, or remind us of the rolling away of the stone. But what about the rabbit? Why the fuck is he involved? Was Jesus a recovering alcoholic, and the rabbit was his invisible best pal? It doesn’t make any sense. Celebrating Easter through the narrow focus of the Easter Bunny is like Muslims fasting during the holy month of Ramadan at the behest of a talking shark, who commands parents to hide marshmallow shark-teeth around their gardens which the kids then gather up in old divers’ helmets.


Easter, of course, isn’t just about oval things, resurrections and rabbits. It’s also the time of year when politicians exploit the seasonal theme of rebirth and redemption to spout pious bullshit that’s perpendicular to their actual policies, a blood-soaked arrowhead pointing away from objective reality at a right-wing angle. I suppose this makes them little different to the Christian church itself, which has rarely found itself preaching on the right side of history (but occasionally the far-right side).

The whole thing depresses me. Far be it from me to poo-poo a globe-encompassing engine of faith and the cogs which service it, but go get your face-wipes: here comes the poo-poo.

The devout will tell you that man possesses an innate drive to seek out the divine; a call to worship that’s programmed into his very soul. That’s why we build churches and mosques: so we can spend our lives chanting and bowing and praying; to make sure that God can hear us, feel us, and love us, wherever we are and whatever we do. But you need only look at the mechanical masses at the Nuremberg rallies (or at Trump’s rallies), or crowds during a football match, or the swell of people at a rock concert, to realise that whatever happens when groups of people get together under a shared banner of identity, or try to arrange themselves into tiers, doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with God. We’re animals, after all. Brave, beautiful, bold, bountifully clever animals, but animals none-the-less. And that’s enough. More than enough. That makes us awesome. Because we’re greater than the sum of our parts. And we don’t need to invent a God to tell us that.

Jesus wasn’t the only saintly figure on my mind last week. I recently picked up a second-hand CD entitled ‘Legends’ from a local charity shop. One of the tracks was a live recording of a song called ‘You’re My Best Friend’ by US country singer Don Williams, a singer whose music I’ve always loved.

From listening to the song, and from googling the man and his works, it’s clear that his more ardent fans not only adored him, but drew comfort and inspiration from him. They looked up to him like he was a prophet: the embodiment of all that they strived or wished for. If his concerts tended to sound like services, then many of his songs bear a striking resemblance – in tone, pace and structure – to hymns. ‘You’re My Best Friend’ is a great example of this.

It’s worth reproducing the lyrics of the song below so that you can see for yourself just how easily the song – originally written for Don Williams by Wayland Holyfield, and inspired by Holyfield’s wife – could be tweaked to place the emphasis on God.

 

You’re My Best Friend

You placed gold on my finger

You brought me love like I’ve never known

You gave life to our children

And to me a reason to go on

 

You’re my bread when I’m hungry

You’re my shelter from troubled winds

You’re my anchor in life’s ocean

But most of all you’re my best friend

 

When I need hope and inspiration

You’re always strong when I’m tired and weak

I could search this whole world over

You’d still be everything that I need

 

You’re my bread when I’m hungry

You’re my shelter from troubled winds

You’re my anchor in life’s ocean

But most of all you’re my best friend

 

On my CD, towards the end of the song Don Williams invites the crowd to join in. The cumulative effect of those thousands and thousands of voices echoing into the air around him is beautiful, haunting and reverential in a way that real hymns seldom are. It made goosepimples prickle over my skin, and sent a smile across my face.

Hymns are abstract. They force people to hinge their love and adoration onto something that isn’t really there. When Don Williams sings, he sings about the love we carry for our wives, husbands, sons, daughters, fathers and mothers. When a crowd accompanies him, his songs then become hymns to humans: a shrine to the most important qualities within us, and a celebration of what truly makes us who we are.

If anyone’s going to rise again, please let it be Don Williams.

The Shining: A Porn Parody

What’s your favourite bit in Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining? It’s a tough one, I know: such an iconic movie; such vivid imagery. If pressed, I’d say my favourite scene is definitely the one where Danny – who you’ll remember is an adult dwarf – gets piss all over his eyes. Absolutely classic scene, that.

Don’t you remember? He peddles his plastic trike up and down the grey corridors of what looks like an insurance office after everyone’s gone home for the night, turns a corner and sees two women blocking the corridor in-front of him. They’re standing side-by-side dressed in matching brown-dungarees-and-short-skirt combos, like a pair of sexy Oor Wullies after a sex-change.

Help ma boaby!

The ladies invite Danny to play with them ‘forever and ever’, which he resists with all of the strength of his unforgivably awful acting skills. As Danny gazes at them, he starts to receive intermittent, violently jarring visions of them squatting above the floor, pulling their panties aside and pissing all over it. Come piss with us, Danny. Come piss with us forever.

Just as Danny’s reeling from this waking piss-nightmare, the ladies tower over him menacingly, ready to unleash the full might of hell upon his innocent little bonce. We share Danny’s shock as an inexplicably horizontal jet of piss smashes him in the eyes. He spends the remainder of the scene pulling ridiculous faces and rubbing piss all over his face and eyes like it was shower gel. In the next scene, the wee dwarf and another guy bang those two dungaree-wearing pissy-chicks on a couch.

I guess Kubrick was trying to subvert the horror genre by aping the structure of a pornographic movie; maybe even using that form to pass judgement on cinema itself. I mean, the guy’s a genius. The cum shots at the end were a master stroke. I mean… just an absolute genius, the… the em… wait a minute…

It’s easy to Overlook this guy.

It was porn, wasn’t it? DAMN YOU, PORN PARODIANS ! DAMN YOU TO BLOODY HELL! YOU’VE TRICKED ME AGAIN! I KNEW THERE WASN’T THIS MUCH JIZZ AND PISS IN THE THEATRICAL VERSION! You’d think I would’ve learned my lesson after Forrest Hump. And The Goo-Knees. Not to mention the Marvel superhero blockbuster ‘Whore: Shagnacock’ (My favourite line: ‘Hulk SMASH… YOUR BACK DOORS IN!’)

Who watches this parody stuff? Seriously. Who makes it? And why? A whole industry-within-an-industry has sprouted up from the worlds of porn and mainstream cinema to produce these fapping spoofs by the megaton. What next? Porn-nado?

Everything is ripe for the porn parody treatment, even titles you would never have imagined in a million years would be viable candidates for conversion. There’s a Curb Your Enthusiasm porn parody (check out the trailer – one of the dudes in it absolutely nails Funkhauser – be careful how you unpick that sentence), a Rick and Morty porn parody, even a Scooby-bloody-Doo porn parody (which is mercifully dog-less).

Who are the end-users here? I can’t speak for my legions of fellow wankers, but whenever I’m drawn to the world of online smut it’s to scratch an itch. I want to return myself to my baseline humanity by ejecting all of the pent-up, pant-ripping, seat-sniffing horn that can build up in a man’s gut, ostensibly by throttling myself stupid for ten dirty minutes, and hoping that an Indian cyber-crime specialist isn’t recording my hideous facial contortions for the purposes of future blackmail.

When I watch porn (and I’m ready to be entirely, completely, disarmingly, refreshingly honest here: I’ve never watched it – what even is porn, anyway?) I don’t want to marvel at the production team’s ingenuity. I don’t want to think about the quality of the script. I don’t want a scare, a smirk, or a laugh. I just want to commit seminal genocide. I want to fist-pump myself so savagely and remorselessly that I guarantee myself a place in Hell as Satan’s right-hand-man. But, please: no rimming, pissing, shitting, or foot-licking. I’m from Falkirk. Not Alloa.

I think we know fine well what’s going on here.

The Shining parody succeeded in making me laugh – Christ, how I laughed – but it failed spectacularly as a piece of pornography. Who are these people who are watching The Shining and thinking to themselves, ‘This movie’s okay, but I sure wish I had more legitimate grounds for masturbating right now.’ And what parodian porn director in his right mind is thinking to himself: ‘A terrified boy on a toy bike and two dead little girls? I could turn that into something sexy.’

Most porn parodies are a colossal waste of time. They shouldn’t do any more of them. Well, maybe one more. Game of Thrones would be an obvious choice, given that the original TV show is pretty close to being porn anyway. There’s probably one already, but if there isn’t, may I suggest as some possible titles: Game of Bones (the most obvious candidate); Lesbian Triple Pack – Winter, Summer AND Autumn are coming; and You Know Boffing, Jon Snow.

If you feel like you absolutely must waste your time creating a porn parody of a movie like The Shining then you’d better commit to it with the sort of zeal normally reserved for cult leaders and suicide bombers. You’d better go all-in, balls-out, absolutely bat-shit bloody mental with that sucker from beginning to end; lock yourself in a deserted Colorado hotel for three months in the dead of winter with only twelve crates of whiskey, a thousand spank-mags and a squad of sexy ghosts for company. You’d better be ready to out-Kubrick Kubrick. You’d better make an Oscar-winning movie that just happens to have some shagging in it.

As it stands the parody of The Shining misses an unforgivably large number of opportunities. It has a character saying ‘Heeeeeeeeeeerrrre’s Johnny’, but he isn’t holding up an actual johnny when he says it. They could have had Danny, say, running around shouting, ‘Red Bum! Red Bum!’ Or even ‘Red Cum, red cum’ if they were that way inclined. And what about Danny’s possessed finger? They could have had him talking to women in that funny ghost voice of his as he tickled their cervixes with his freaky-deaky digit. Remember Nicholson in the movie, after he’s frozen to death in the hedge maze? Imagine the bukkake scene you could make out of that! And don’t get me started on Scatman Crothers.

And what about…

ALL JERK AND NO LAY MAKES JACK A FULL BOY

ALL JERK AND NO LAY MAKES JACK A FULL BOY

ALL JERK AND NO LAY MAKES JACK A FULL BOY

ALL JERK AND NO LAY MAKES JACK A FULL BOY

ALL JERK AND NO LAY MAKES JACK A FULL BOY

ALL JERK AND NO LAY MAKES JACK A FULL BOY

ALL JERK AND NO LAY MAKES JACK A FULL BOY

Fuck it. I’m off to make a porn parody of Schindler’s List.

The Hell of Work: The Call Centre

If you’ve never worked in a call centre, then you’ve probably never stared at a monitor and thought to yourself, ‘Hey, I wonder if I could fit my head in there?’ and then drifted off into a pleasant daydream in which your bleeding, frazzled corpse is carried out of the call-hall to freedom on a mortuary gurney, shards of glass fringing your scalp with the last tiara you’ll ever wear.

I worked in a call-centre for six months in my early twenties. It was short and brutal, much like a stint in borstal, but without the exercise, and with even more drugs. It’s a totalitarian state built inside a nightmare; a One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest where the Chief has already been lobotomised by the time you arrive (he’s blowing bubbles, but he aint chewing gum). It’s a place that’s haunting, hopeless and sterile, yet also fierce, fascistic and frenetic; like somebody shoved a third-world factory inside a hospital and then started a war inside it. Time is money, and if you aren’t taking calls, you’re a liability. That headset’s got to stay clamped to your skull no matter what, even if terrorists smash into the call-hall and threaten to shoot anyone who even vaguely resembles Madonna. Every piss break precipitates an interrogation, and if you’ve got the runs and have to dash to the toilet more than once in any given six-hour period, don’t be surprised to find that senior management have empanelled a jury in your absence.

I was the guy you called to register your new mobile phone’s sim card, an indispensable lynch-pin and cornerstone of the company, and in no way just a lump of cannon-fodder. If a customer agreed to give their personal data to the evil corporation to which my marginally less evil company was sub-contracted, then they’d receive five pounds free call credit in return. Sounds like a good deal, until you factor in the endless torrents of bullshit marketing literature they’re about to receive every day until death, plus the £20,000 they’re going to lose when their personal details are inevitably sold on the black market.

In the previous paragraph I said, ‘I was the guy you phoned’. For the sake of accuracy I should have said: ‘I was one of literally scores of faceless, corporate drones you phoned’. I was a human robot; a tide-over until they could work out a way to make the role obsolete and save a few quid, which of course they did, because they always do, but in this case thank fuck they did, to save future generations from the artery-slicing hopelessness of this particular ‘D-Day meets Groundhog Day’ of the soul. Thanks, internet!


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It wasn’t just us drones on the call-floor who were warped and curdled by our environment. There was a world-weary female cleaner who used to greet us each and every morning with a cheery and heart-felt ‘Goan take a FUCK tay yersels!’, middle finger held aloft, before bounding off down the corridor like an angry St Bernard. She had the same perm as a 1980’s wrestler, little neck to speak of and big, bulging Popeye arms. She made the ladies of Prisoner Cell Block H look like Miss World contestants, and probably could have choked a whole biker gang to death with her bare hands. No wonder she was angry, though. For the whole six months I worked at the call-centre a toley terrorist was at large (if you don’t hail from Scotland, a ‘toley’ is just another word for a ‘jobby’). No gents’ bathroom in the building was safe from a battering by his bothersome botty by-product.

If the cleaner was angry, then this guy was fucking livid, and was venting his fury and hatred in the most hideous – but perhaps the most apt – way imaginable: by writing on the walls with his own shit. Fax that to HR. Sometimes he favoured the simple approach, eschewing the artistry by just shitting in the bin. We often wondered about the logistics of the act. Did he squat over the bin like some acrobatic cat, or did he manually lift his poo from elsewhere? And if he manually lifted it, did he at least observe health and safety protocols by bending his knees and not his back? To the best of my knowledge, the bin-shitter was never caught. And no, it wasn’t me. I have an alibi. I was jizzing in my manager’s coffee at the time.

I think I understand why the phantom shitter did it, though. What drove him. Twelve hours of reciting the same script, of repeating the same questions, of hearing the same endless rat-a-tat-tat of the keys, of enduring the same Soviet-era approach to employee surveillance, day after day after day after day, is enough to make anyone start behaving like a chimpanzee having a full mental breakdown.

So that was my day. The mantra. “What’s your name? What’s your address? What’s your home telephone number? What’s your date of birth? What’s your email address?”

As the boredom set into my skull like concrete, I chipped away at it with mischief. I started getting creative with the questions. This was my very own word-based version of shit-in-a-bin.

“Who’s your favourite member of the A-Team?”

“What’s your favourite colour of butterfly?”

“What are you wearing right now?”

And they’d answer, I swear they would. It’s incredible. As long as you maintain an even, professional tone and encase the daft questions inside more conventional questions, and don’t ask too many daft questions overall, most people will feel compelled to rack their brains for the correct answer, or at the very least try to give the sort of answer they think you’re expecting. Some people laughed and joked back, which was great, but most people adopted an earnest – almost imperious – tone, and answered as if they were tackling the million pound question on a gameshow.

“What’s your favourite jungle cat?”

“Em… now I know this one… em… Just give me a second… (Grins proudly) Lion?”

When you’re in a locked-down, oppressive environment like the call centre, you need a comrade-in-arms as a ballast for your sanity, even if you have to draw a face on a paper cup and spend all day talking to it, sharing your problems with it, gently stroking its plastic face – even taking it out to a club with you and then spending the early hours of the next morning making urgent, dirty, drunken love to it, which I absolutely, categorically state that I did not do, despite what my lying ex-girlfriends might tell you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thankfully, though, my comrade in this case was a real, flesh-and-blood person (or at least I hope he was, or I’ve got bigger problems than I first imagined). I’d been in the same year at school with this guy – let’s call him Scott, mainly because that’s his name – and fate had conspired to unite us in yet another stifling, authoritarian institution.

We tried many tactics to keep us from cracking. We cut speech bubbles out of blank sheets of paper, filled the bubbles with incredibly childish and offensive chunks of dialogue, and then placed them onto pictures of people in newspapers and magazines in an attempt to make the other person laugh out loud while they were on a call. When we were in a less sophisticated mood, we’d just draw dicks on everything. We were usually in a less sophisticated mood.

We also played the word game, where you had to donate a word, or list of words, to the other person that they then had to somehow smuggle into a conversation with their next customer, no matter how incongruous or offensive the word. Jobby, testicular, orgy, shit. They all made appearances (many other words were vetoed, as I’m sure you can imagine). But we quickly grew weary. We needed to up the stakes, so we stopped trying to smuggle words in, and started forcing people adopt them as their security passwords instead. We usually told them that the password had been automatically generated by the system and was unchangeable, so go get a pen. “OK, are you ready? I’ll spell it for you. It’s B-A-W-B-A-G.”

So very immature, but so very, very satisfying.

My favourite time-squandering prank, though, was the millionth customer wind-up. It began as a day just like any other, with lots of boredom and dick-drawing. I answered the phone with my usual, achingly-polite mantra. On the line was a pleasant-sounding woman with a thick Yorkshire accent, who asked if she could register her sim card. So far so excruciatingly familiar.

‘Congratulations!’ I said, a few million mega-volts of happiness ripping through my words, ‘You’re customer one million, and you’ve just won free phone calls for life!’

First silence, then an urgent, jammering stammer, redolent of Zippy receiving a particularly vigorous blowjob. ‘Oh…I, uh… ah, ah, ah, oh that’s great, love, that’s great.’ She lowered the phone to share the news with whoever was in her vicinity. She sounded tinny and distant, but blatantly shell-shocked. ‘I’ve won free phone calls for life,’ I heard her say, to high-pitched chirps of excitement, and then ‘Hello?’ as she came back to me at full volume.

‘Oh my God, I am so, so sorry,’ I said, my words weighted with so much regret I could almost taste the Oscar. ‘I don’t know what to say, I feel terrible, I’ve made a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake. I was looking at the wrong panel on my screen.’

Wait for it.

‘You’re only customer nine-hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-nine. I’m so sorry.’

Silence.

‘I’m so sorry. You haven’t won those phone calls.’

There was another long, long, loooong silence. ‘It’s not your fault, love,’ said the woman who was now the most despondent human being in the western hemisphere. She sounded broken. Depressed. Just like me.

Yass! I’d never felt happier.


If you’ve got any memories/stories of working in a call-centre, please share them below so we can all feel better about our miserable fucking lives.

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FUNNY MOMENTS AT WORK: THE AIRPORT

The Hell of Work: The Airport

I used to work as a baggage agent at the airport, meaning I was the person whose life you threatened if your suitcase stayed behind at your airport of origin, or ended up going to Kabul by accident. I was the scapegoat, the fall guy, because whatever had happened to your piece of shit bag was never, ever my fault – although your childish or psychotic response to the reality of having to spend three days without a hairdryer or favourite golf club often made me wish that it had been.

On one occasion, an Argentinian man who looked like an angry Postman Pat took exception to me ordering him to stop shouting at one of my colleagues, who was a tiny 60-year-old woman. He threatened to splat my brains against the wall, and called me an ugly bastard, which was a bit rich coming from a man who looked like a pube-headed puppet with a cat for a best pal. He seemed to calm down once a big Scottish copper with a machine-gun came over to speak to him, as people generally tend to do. Ah, machine guns: life’s great levellers. Nos vemos más tarde, Cartero Pat! I promise we won’t ‘accidentally’ send your bag to Kabul, tu feo bastardo!

I wasn’t hostile or cynical by default, although any job that puts you in prolonged contact with the general public tends to bring that out in you. I did feel genuinely sorry for a great many people who lost their possessions and/or souls in the great lottery of air-travel: among them, the band that was in town for a gig who had been separated from their entire collection of instruments whilst travelling on the airline that actually sponsored them; families with young kids arriving sans child seats; a guy whose actual fucking WHEELCHAIR hadn’t made it on to the plane. How do you even begin to excuse that? “Good luck, mate. Here’s some tokens for a free sandwich.”

I had no real power, responsibility or influence. I was just a guy who sat behind a desk waiting for all of you whinging, moaning bastards to be on your merry, bagless ways so I could slope off for a cigarette or six, or head through to the back office to put my feet up and read the paper. I used to work with a guy who made a habit of falling asleep in the FRONT, public-facing office, who was once actually roused from sleep by a group of passengers. Bold as brass, the fucker just opened his eyes and gave a dismissive and slightly irritated, ‘Yes?’ They ended up apologising to him, which is a level of greatness most people will never see in their lifetime.

When I wasn’t smoking or skiving, I’d while away the minutes rifling through the piles of unidentified bags in our store-room under the auspices of helping to trace the owner, but really just to hunt for funny or unusual stuff to help mitigate the monotony. Unfortunately, it’s a sad truth that most bags, like most people, are utterly boring: some jumpers there, a stick of roll-on deodorant here, an indentikit airport paperback there. But a small percentage of bags made all that rummaging around through strangers’ possessions (with its associated risk of AIDS-y-finger-pricks and the inadvertent grabbing of handfuls of unspeakably wet underwear) worthwhile.

Wonderful bags. Sensational bags. Bags that could’ve belonged to serial-killers-in-training. Bags that definitely belonged to seasoned perverts taking their kinks global.

I once found a bag that held such an embarrassingly large cache of dildos that they must’ve belonged to an international assassin who specialised in death by vagina. One bag was filled to the brim with whips, chains, clamps and tassels, almost certainly destined for a Tory party conference somewhere. I can’t convey to you with any degree of precision just how much niche wanking material I discovered over the years. Actually, there probably hasn’t been anything yet printed or filmed that the male of the species hasn’t been able to transform into niche wanking material, no doubt even microwave instruction manuals (“I’ll make you fucking ping alright, you dirty rectangular bitch.”), but you know what I mean. I once found a spanking magazine. An actual magazine about spanking, you understand, as in spanking ladies’ bottoms with paddles and assorted flat objects. It contained articles about the best materials to use, the science behind the best thwacks, vintage photographs, short stories, the lot. We managed to track down the owner of that bag, a local guy, and when he came in to collect his stuff he looked exactly as you’d expect a man with a collection of spanking magazines to look: absolutely normal.

Because the job requires you to juggle stress, boredom and death threats, when an opportunity for japes or laughter comes along you grab it with both hands, and choke the bloody life out of it. You come up with elaborate jokes and pranks to keep you from succumbing to the urge to rage-quit. Like the jape below, of which I’m still very proud.

Thanks, Schrödinger

Sometimes luggage is rejected at the aircraft, or doesn’t even make it that far, getting lost in the labyrinth of chutes and belts that weave spaghetti-like around the airport. When that happens, the luggage is sent back along a conveyor belt to the arrivals hall, where someone like me would pick it up, and send it to Kabul.

One day, a lone cat-box – the little plastic mini-jail that we all have so much fun cramming our cats into before a visit to the vet – appeared on one of our belts. We were initially horrified, imagining that a live (or hopefully still live) kitten was inside. It was empty. But the box’s appearance gave me a great idea.

At that time I had a mobile phone that thanks to some loose clips and connections could only stay operational through a very delicate balancing act between the battery and the handset. One bump – even an especially large quiver – could make the two pieces of the phone part company, instantly switching it off. I decided to make my phone’s most irritating characteristic work in my favour, by utilising it in the commission of the particularly cruel jape that was still taking shape inside my absolute dick of a mind.

First, I used the phone’s sound-recording function to make a 90-second clip of me miaowing. Next, I made sure the animal-loving woman who worked for a rival airline in the office next to mine was definitely at her desk. Then, I made sure my phone’s volume was turned up to max, pressed ‘play’ on the sound file, gently placed the phone inside the cat-box, and walked next door with a concerned look on my face.

“Can you believe that they’ve put this through on the belt with a cat inside it?”

The woman rose from her seat, horror moulding her mouth into an ‘O’. “Oh, the poor wee thing. We need to get it out of there.”

Before she could get out from behind her desk, I executed a perfectly-timed stumble and trip, throwing the cat-box up and out of my arms and into the nearby wall, whereupon the phone’s battery disconnected from the handset, and the miaowing instantly ceased.

Dear reader, I let that poor woman contemplate my imaginary cat’s snapped neck for an unforgivably long time before revealing the truth. And I loved every bloody second of it.

She tried to send me to Kabul.

“Daddy, Where Do Babies Come From?”

My eldest son, Jack, 3-and-a-half, has been exploring the concepts of pregnancy and parenthood, acting out a series of scenarios with the aid of toys and teddies.

A few weeks ago he was carrying around the head of a Cyberman – a big, bulky, wearable, adult-sized head – introducing it as his baby, asking us to kiss it goodnight, even strapping it into his little brother’s buggy and shooshing us incase we woke it up. Adorable, yet also pretty surreal.

He then became attached to a rather more cuddly and anthropomorphic baby-substitute, an orange, squish-faced mini Tellytubby his little brother Christopher got for Christmas. He named him Shah. Cheers for the potential fatwa, son. At least you never named him… nevermind.

Sometimes Jack carried Shah around, cuddling him, cradling, passing him to us for short bursts of time before jealously grabbing him back again, like he was the proud and overzealous parent of a newborn. Sometimes he stuffed Shah up his jumper, and pretended to be an expectant parent. Last week he told us that the baby would come out of his tummy in ten weeks’ time, before plucking it out of this jumper seconds later with the ease of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, which we all felt was rather a slap in the face for those poor women forced to spend endless, agonising hours sweating and screaming in the delivery room, and then have to get their fannies and arses stitched back together.

I think we should have made this a teachable moment, and let him watch a particularly gruesome live birth on YouTube – right after we’d schooled the ignoramus on Iranian history and politics, of course.

In any case, a teachable moment presented itself a few days later. I had just finished reading him his bed-time stories, when he grabbed his bed-time teddy bear (Shah had been deposed at this point) and pushed it up his pyjama top.

“Dad did WHAT to you?”

“I’ve got a baby in my tummy again, Daddy.”

I smiled. “It’s good to pretend like this. It helps you learn things, and find out how things feel, and find out how other people feel about things.”

That being said, I made it clear that in the real world the only guys capable of giving birth are seahorses and Arnold Schwarzenegger. I went on to give him a bit more info.

“And mummies don’t carry the babies inside their actual tummy, where the food goes. There’s a special part that’s just for growing babies.”

Jack nodded vigorously. “And then they poo the babies out.”

“Not….” I began, talking more slowly and carefully as I began to realise where the conversation was almost certainly heading, “…really. They don’t… mummies don’t… poo babies out of their bum.”

I turned to look at his face. It was deathly still, though a little furrow was forming on his brow. I knew it was coming.

“So where do the babies come from, Daddy?”

Code red! Code red!

This was a pivotal moment. I knew that whatever I said next could have a profound effect on Jack’s personal and psycho-sexual development. Euphemism or truth-emism?

Do I tell him that babies come from the magical kingdom of Fluffington? That they’re emailed from heaven and printed on a 3D printer embedded in mummy’s crotch?

Or do I throw him a truth-bomb, break out charts and diagrams, and make him do join-the-dots pictures of vulvas and uteruses? Show him photos of big gaping fannies in such glaring, high-density close-up that it’s like staring into the jaws of the Predator? Do I talk him through what was happening that time he walked into the kitchen and found his mum bent over the counter in her dressing gown, and I told him she had a sore back and I was just massaging it better?

Ultimately, much like when Jack himself was conceived, I decided to have a quick, no-frills stab at it.

“Well, you know how we boys have willies? Me, you, baby Chris, all men.”

“Grandpa too, he has a willy.”

“That’s right, grandpa, too.”

“And papa. And uncle Aiden. They have willies.”

“That’s right.”

“And my other papa.”

“Yep.”

“And…”

I cut it short, so we didnt’t have to spend the whole night listing the names of anyone who’d ever possessed a penis.

“This is some hard shit to hear. Spark me one up, pops.”

“Well, ladies don’t have that.”

“What do they have?”

Good question. They have… they have a…

“Well, they have a… a vvvvvv…. a vvvvva….vvvva….vv…vvvvvaa….”

Why was this word so hard to say? I couldn’t seem to get my tongue around it (‘Stop your snickering up the back of the class there!’). I was beginning to sound like a man with a faulty chainsaw.

“Vagina!” I said with sudden force. “It’s called a vagina.”

“Fajina?”

“Vagina.”

“Vagina….” And then, inevitably, he said: “Vagina, vagina, vagina, vagina.”

At that moment, as if summoned by the magic of the word itself, a voice boomed from the hallway outside: “He’ll be running around his nursery shouting that all day tomorrow now!”

“There’s nothing wrong with vaginas!” I shouted back at his mum, conscious that the word vagina was beginning to lose all meaning through repetition.  I turned back to Jack. “See, it’s called a vagina, but it’s sort of …a hole, that ladies have. Boys have willies, girls have holes. That’s how the baby gets out.”

He nodded, seemingly satisfied. I quickly changed the subject before the questions became any more technical…

A few days ago I came home from work to find Jack holding Shah again.

“Hi Shah,” I said.

“It’s not Shah. It’s Lou-lou.”

“Oh. What happened to Shah?”

Jack shrugged. “He died in a fire.”

I dare say it won’t be long before we’re having the death talk.

Vaginas have got a lot to answer for.

Conclusive Proof that the Earth is Flat

Everything we ever believed about the world, the universe and our place within it has now changed inalterably. We stand on the brink of a new age of understanding, knowledge and enlightenment that makes our first enlightenment look like an en-shite-enment. It’s hard to believe that only a few short weeks ago most of us monkeyish dunces were still labouring under the frankly absurd notion that the world was round. Round? Really? Our home is the same shape as a tomato, is it? Or a kumquat? The same shape as Gary Lineker’s left testicle? Christ, we were stupid.

2D or not 2D, that was the question… but it isn’t the question anymore, so just stop asking, OK? The truth is out: the earth is flat. Most of the best things in life are flat anyway: snooker tables, hedgehogs, Theresa May’s enduring emotional state. So see you around, round! Get out of here, sphere! Fuck off… em, parabolas?

This giant leap for mankind is all thanks to the dogged determination of a crack team of late-night talk-radio presenters who unilaterally decided to come off their meds; a nightclub dancer who once snorted coke off of Peter Andre’s back in the 90s, and millions of misinformed people who spend the duration of every shit casually yet angrily flicking through niche interest groups on Facebook.

These brave souls, our intrepid Flat Earthers – or just ‘absolute bloody geniuses’ as they’ll now be known – didn’t need fancy books, an education or a grounding in one of the major sciences to work out the true shape of the earth. They didn’t need ‘facts’, ‘evidence’, ‘corroboration’, or any other forms of Jewish conspiracy. They just had to open their eyes and look aflat. They pointed at the horizon and said, ‘That’s flat’. Then they pointed at the sole of their left shoe, and said, ‘THAT’s flat, too’. Thanks for lying to us all of these years, Stephen Hawking. You knew the truth the minute you realised your wheelchair wasn’t whooshing around the world at 6000 mph every time you took the hand-brake off. But at least you got some books out of it and an appearance on The Simpsons, you treacherous cunt.

He’ll be the first against the wall.

Think about it, morons. If the earth really was round, and spinning really quickly like the reptilian death-barons at ‘NASA’ say it is, then every time a little boy kicked a football it would end up in France – unless he was a French boy in France, in which case we wouldn’t care what he did anyway. If you lived on this unfeasible, magically-round earth and wanted to go on holiday to Australia, you wouldn’t need to fly. You’d simply get on a plane as normal, but instead of it taking off, a bunch of guys in roller-skates would lift the plane six feet off the ground, and then simply wait for the earth to spin round to Australia – like they were inside some planet-sized slot machine – before gently lowering you to the tarmac. Look out for that kangaroo, mate! Kangaroos, of course, if they timed it just right, would be able to jump from Australia to Scotland, so long as they took care to avoid all of those little boys’ footballs flying towards France.

It doesn’t really matter if you don’t understand the science that underpins the truth of the earth’s flatness, because you’ve no choice but to accept it. Clinging to a belief in a round earth is now a form of social suicide, and preaching belief in planetary roundness is now illegal, and punishable by death. Death by steam-roller, since you’re asking. That’ll fucking teach you.

The pioneering flat-earthers should be happy. They should be rejoicing. But they’re not: they’re angry. They’re angry that the global conspiracy took so long to smash; angry that their revolution took so long to happen. And they’re absolutely livid at having to use sphere-centric words like ‘global’ and ‘revolution’ to explain and contexualise their anger. So now, because I don’t want to go to jail for the next 500 years, I’d better start this paragraph again.

The pioneering flat-earthers should be happy. They should be rejoicing. But they’re not: they’re angry. They’re angry that the really long way across conspiracy took so long to smash; angry that their long journey across a flat surface that eventually doubled back on itself took so long to happen.

The movement’s most vocal supporters have been quick to heap scorn on those who worked to keep us in the dark for most of human history. “We were lied to, man, all these years we were lied to,” says former Big Brother contestant Dizzy G. McMastaBlasta, who now juggles his time between rapping and sciencing. “For years now, NASA has gotten up and down to the moon using a ladder, yeah? The rockets were fake, they was all CSI. Space, real space, is like a platform game, innit. Like Super Mario, but there aint no space turtles and shit, yeah? Actually I dunno, does space have turtles? Don’t quote me on the turtles thing, bro.”

Dizzy G. McMastaBlasta wrote a song about the round-earth conspiracy, which he recorded and released under his stage name ‘James Donaldson the Rapper’. It went straight to number 1, and will soon be adopted as the UK’s new national anthem. The song’s called ‘Big Flat Bitch‘.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s flat, it’s so flat, baby, yeah yeah. Don’t you be thinking it aint flat, it flat, baby, ooooh, you know it. It’s flat. Is it flat? Yes. Yes it is. Aint no doubt. Oooo, girl, da earth be flat. Maybe you didn’t hear me, girl, I said it’s flat, so flat, so flat it hurts, baby, oooooooooo flat, oooooooooo so so flat. I’m reasonably satisfied that the pattern of repetition in this song has left absolutely no doubt in your mind as to the flatness of the earth, girl.”

Judge Judge Judgeton (he’s a judge called Judge who comes from a long line of Judges) has released a list of people who are now effectively barred from serving in public office or from having a public platform of any kind. “East 17. Been around the world and there’s no place like home? No you haven’t, and yes there is, you disgusting liars. They’ll do life if I catch them. Ben Fogle. He’ll do 10 – 15 years. Nothing to do with the flat earth thing, just can’t stand the cunt. Who’s that wee guy who looks a bit like Simon Anstell and bangs on about astro-physics while wearing a succession of hideous jumpers? He’s off to the gulag, too. Zippy, Bungle. They’re dead. Dora the Explorer? Hung, drawn and quartered, the shameless fucker.”

A heavy sense of relief has rocketed throughout the world. Conditions even seem ripe for pushing the boundaries of discovery yet further. Rex Coltingham of the Democratic Americans for the Furtherance of Truth In the Eastern States (DAFTIES) is hosting a conference in Rhode Island next week in which he will set forth a new scientific agenda for the US. “Flat earth’s the first hurdle. We’re over it now. Next we talk comedy acronyms. That shit aint funny no more. It’s time they stopped. Then we move on to gravity. What is gravity? How does it really work? I’ll tell you how it works. The ghosts of tiny aliens, that’ how. And that’s a FACT. We’ve gotta be nicer to these guys. Wherever we go, they’re holding on to us, pulling down on our legs so we don’t float away. Asleep in bed? Twelve of these guys are on your chest. You go for a piss? They’re holding your cock so you don’t piss in your mouth. Without them, we’d all float off into space. That’s bad, because you can’t breathe in space, right? Wrong buddy. Your lungs work fine in space. It’s the space turtles that’ll get you, those hangry bitches.”

Good day, folks. And please remember. The future’s bright: the future’s a rectangle.

Men’s Guide to Pooing Away From Home

If a man’s home is his castle, then it follows that his toilet is his throne. It’s hard to leave the kingdom, to try out other toilets in places you don’t trust, or among people who may mean you harm. But sometimes, out there in the big bad world, a King’s gotta do, what a King’s gotta do: a King’s gotta poo.

Here’s a quick and handy guide to some of the bathrooms you might find yourself having to poo in over the course of your life, with an honest appraisal of the risks and dangers, and the obstacles you might have to overcome.

It all starts in primary school…

Dropping the kids off at School

Like a cat forced to use a litter tray inside a kennel of angry Jack Russells, the boy who poos at school is quite correct to feel scared. Nothing in this world excites the same level of primal violence in a group of primary school boys than one of their number going for a shit. Something about the spiritual nakedness and vulnerability of that act triggers their blood-lust, and the mere suggestion of it happening somewhere in their vicinity sends them howling off round the school like chimps on a hunt. They sniff the air. They beat their chests. A Mexican wave of excitement clatters through the playground. Roll up, roll up, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, come see the amazing… shitting… boy! It feels like VE Day. The kids erect stalls, arrange a tombola, they sing, they dance, and before you know it Doris Day’s up on top of a bin belting out ‘The White Shits of Rover’. It’s literally the best thing that’s ever happened to the school, with the possible exception of that day a dog got into the playground.

“Quick! Davey’s doing a shhiiiiiiiiiiiiiitttttttt!”

This certainly isn’t the best thing that’s ever happened to the boy foolish enough to answer nature’s call away from the safety and sanctity of his family bathroom. The hunters lock in on his location, and swoop in to the main building; they track, surround and mount his flimsy cubicle, laying siege to it with shrieks and roars as the frightened little shitter inside begs for them to stop, and perhaps even tries to subdue them with the toilet brush. It’s like the Wicker Man with noise instead of fire. This boy’s crime? First degree turd-er. He’s paying for the collective bodily shame of the whole class.

He’ll never shit at school again, and if he’s ever tempted he’ll have his new, life-long nickname to dissuade him: he’ll never be known by any other name than ‘Jobby Boy’ until he’s at least 17.

For some reason you could take a piss at school without attracting much heat or ridicule; unless, of course, you made the mistake of going for a piss in the cubicle. Oh dear. If you did that could expect to be handed the hereditary title of ‘gay for life’, and hounded for the rest of your days. Gay was a more prevalent insult back then, you see, because Central Scotland in the early-to-mid 1980s wasn’t the, ah… enlightened… cosmopolitan…em, paradise… it is today? Hysterical parents everywhere wanted to protect their boys from the would-be gays in their midst, and knew of no better way to do it than to steer them towards the more wholesome things in life, like tits in their dad’s newspaper, drinking until you pass out, and Jimmy Savile.

Such was the impeccable logic of Scottish schoolboys in the 1980s that the boy they’d hold up as the gayest was the one who not only got himself as far away as possible from all other penises while in the bathroom, but actually sealed himself inside a giant penis-proof box. ‘Hey!’ a boy would shout as he pounded on the cubicle door from outside, ‘I can hear you pissing in there! If you don’t want to be called gay, you’ll bloody well come out of that cubicle and show me your cock… and then you’ll have a fucking good look at my cock, by God!’

Chod on the Road

(PS: FYI if you’re not Scottish: ‘Chod’ means ‘jobby’)

(PPS: ‘Jobby’ means ‘shite’)

Let’s do some quick maths. In your average public lavatory consisting of three cubicles, approximately three-out-of-every-three seats in those cubicles will be covered in drips, crescents, loops and lakes of the very yellowest of piss. The piss will often be accompanied by a bold, bristly sprinkling of pubes and arse-hairs. Mmmmm. Delicious. Would sir care for some herpes with his defecation? And the bowl beneath your arse will usually be beskidded with the kind of splatter patterns only Dexter could decipher. Or it’ll have a jobby bobbing in it, like a brown olive in the world’s most disgusting cocktail.

If you do happen to stumble upon an immaculately clean seat, you’re more wary of it than you would be a piss-stained one. The other two are filthy, says a suspicious little voice inside your head. So why is this one gleaming? What foul secrets hide behind the invisible barrier around this bog that can only be exposed with the aid of a UV lamp and plenty of luminol? Your brain imagines the worst. Did a tramp piss everywhere and then have his trusty dog lick up the evidence? Or vice versa? Did an old man wipe down the seat with one of his socks after his largest hemorrhoid burst open like a firework during a particularly gnarly shit?

Public shitting is the most dangerous activity this side of running along the banks of the Nile baiting crocodiles with your blood-basted bollocks. Most people would rather crap in a bush, take a ten-mile taxi-ride home, hold it in until they’re half crippled, or simply shit themselves, than risk sitting on a public toilet-seat. Only those with nothing left to lose would ever contemplate letting their bare thighs thunk down onto a public pan. The sanest option, if pushed, is for a man to hover above the water like a Lancaster Bomber, dropping payloads from up high, and taking the shitty splash-back like a man.

Possibly the worst breed of public toilet is the one you’ll find inside a nightclub toilet. The lavvies in your average nightclub play host to more cum, cocaine and fecal matter than an evangelical preacher’s cock. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the locks on the cubicle doors are usually bust, so you have to shit like you’re playing Twister – one foot held out, both hands ready – in case some drunk asshole barges into your space when you’ve got a mitt-full of shitty toilet-paper.

The Toilet on a Train

Enough said.

Plop, Plop. Who’s There?

Provided you can find a pube-and-piss-free throne to perch your ass upon, nothing beats a good shit at work. The toilets are a lot more sanitary owing to a regular cleaning schedule, and the finite, measurable number of bum-cheeks on site that could potentially occupy them. Plus, there’s no phone in there. No emails. No bosses. No command structure. No pressure. For five or so blessed, blissful minutes of your hectic day, there’s nothing but you and the poo.

But never let yourself be lulled into a false sense of security. You know as well as I do that  one creak of that bathroom door, one flurry of footsteps, and you’re locked inside that cubicle like a rat in a trap, possibly until the end of time.

When we step out of that cubicle immediately post-poo we want the bathroom to be empty. It doesn’t matter if somebody walks in as we’re washing our hands – even if our stink is hanging in the air like mustard gas, we can still chat away with whoever walks in, even reference our own ungodly stench with a smile and a shrug of the shoulders. But being seen exiting that stall? Unthinkable. The equivalent of being snapped by the paparazzi on your way out of court for an animal sex-crime.

Everybody shits. We know that; it’s one of life’s great levellers. There’s certainly no shame in defecation. We should be bolshy, proud. After a shit we should be bursting the door open from the inside like an FBI agent raiding a drug den and greeting whoever’s out there with steely resolve, or strolling through the door like we’re emerging from the smoke on an episode of Stars in Their Eyes dressed like Johnny fucking Cash. We do a shit: we don’t take shit. In reality, though, when faced with intrusion in the bathroom we hold back. We clam up. Maybe we’re still haunted by the nickname we were given in primary school…

Anyway, you know the drill. One hint of the outside door creaking open while you’re inside that cubicle, and all plopping, wiping and polishing ceases immediately. You become like Tom Cruise in the first Mission Impossible movie, held in suspended animation, frightened to breathe. ‘Just fuck off,’ you plead under your breath. But another person comes in. And another. And another. And another. It’s a convention. A stampede.

And then the unthinkable happens: ‘You going to be long in there?’ comes a voice from outside. An answer is demanded. Your identity is demanded. What can you do?

There’s only one thing you can do. You shrink to the size of a vole and swim down the U-bend to safety, dragging your jobbies behind you.

New You, New Poo

It’s great to spend the night with a girl at her place; sharing a bed and each other’s bodies, then waking up naked and sated in the half-light of the next morning. What isn’t great is waking up in that half-light absolutely bursting on a shite. If your relationship is very new then that bouncing blurble in your stomach, if allowed to evolve into a monstrous doo-doo, could sound the death knell for your union.

It’s probably a smart idea to avoid creating a mental connection in the mind of your good lady between you number one, the sexual harpsichord that’s fun to play, and you number two (literally), the man who’s devastated her living area with the gagging stench of egg in the wake of a particularly oily shit. Take it from me: best not to shit in the same post-code area, much less the same house or flat. Only a German would consider that an aphrodisiac.

When I was a student in Aberdeen I dated a girl who lived in student accommodation ten minutes down the hill from mine’s. Most nights when I stayed over I’d wake up very early the next morning a sweating, shaking, bagged-up mess, and would have to spend long, dark hours gritting my teeth to dust as I willed a jobby back up my intestinal tract like a priest conducting a violent reverse exorcism of his bowels. I couldn’t let her smell my splatter. Worse still, she shared a flat with three other girls, any one of whom could have emerged from the shadows at any given moment to inhale my heady anal perfume – Eau de Dead Dog’s Colon. I’d have to find excuses to leave her flat at half five in the morning, which isn’t an easy thing to do without coming across like some love rat who’s sneaking out early so he can get the kids he hasn’t told you about ready for school. I think I started scraping the bottom of the barrel before long:

“Where are you going at this time of the morning?”

“I’VE GOT A BIG TABLE-TENNIS MATCH LATER!”

“But you’ve never even talked about table-tennis once in all of th…”

“I’M A WORLD CHAMPION, BYE.”

I’d stagger up that hill like the world’s angriest Parkinson’s sufferer, shouting and cursing as I went, kicking bins, telling squirrels to fuck off. Then I’d arrive home and do a poo that would trigger such an exquisite feeling of relief that I’d write poems about it – in one case an award-winning three-act play that was a huge smash on Broadway.

After that first giddy year, and especially once you’ve moved in with a girl, all restraint goes down the pan. It becomes perfectly normal to catch a waft of each other’s botty parcels, to hear the plips and plops of a poo in progress, even to bloody well shit in front of each other. It’s best just to embrace this when it happens, have fun with it. My partner and I regularly play a game called ‘But Who Can Shit the Fastest?’, and have side-by-side contests, with one of us using the bath. Now THAT’S sexy.

Giving Trump the Clap: Harder Than You Think

Here’s a question for you.

Who has the toughest job in the world?

OJ Simpson’s PR team? Mine-sweeping dogs in the Congo? Scottish dentists?

Wrong.

I’ll tell you who has the toughest job in the world: the person who’s trying to decide at what points to clap during one of Trump’s speeches. Now that’s a tough call. When exactly do you do it?

When he makes a cogent point? He doesn’t. When he says something witty? He hasn’t. When he finishes a sentence? He barely starts one. Well, you’d better go off and get strategising, my friend, else that’s one pair of thoroughly unclapped hands you’re going to … have on your… hands… there.

The reason it’s tough to gauge when to clap is because Trump gives speeches like he’s: a) battling a powerful stroke, b) conducting an orchestra as he comes up on a huge dunt of speed, c) patronisingly enunciating dinner choices to a half-deaf nontegenarian relative, d) trying to break his jaw to better swallow a rat, and e) a cunt. Usually all five at once. Trying to determine when to clap is like trying to find the best time to jump through a jet engine propeller: there just isn’t one. I guess you’d have to listen out for certain keywords and phrases – like ‘wall’ and ‘bad dudes’ and ‘shit-holes’, and generally anything a little bit racist – and start clapping in the hope that Trump will cease speaking long enough to allow a dead-eyed smile of self-congratulation to seep out across his sickening toad face.

I think it might help with clap-timings if a gargantuan screen could be installed at every Trump rally, with a live interpreter in the bottom-right corner; like they have for deaf people, only tailored for a different kind of impairment (that impairment being an unshakable admiration for Donald Trump). I’m thinking the interpreter could be a figure in a white hood who keeps the crowd stimulated by smashing a tiny Mexican vihuela every eight seconds.

Jesus, Trump’s recently started applauding himself during his speeches, which admittedly makes the whole business of judging applause breaks much easier, but does seem to be taking a job away from other people. Tsk tsk. I thought you were trying to make America great, Donald.

Maybe I’m wrong to criticise the cadence and content of the guy’s speeches. I’m no linguist. Maybe he’s a genius. He might be a genius, right? Let’s examine some evidence, in the form of the Trump-propelled sentence that follows, in which Trump speculates about whether or not Obama ever called the relatives of fallen marines while in office (Spoiler alert: he did): “I don’t know if he did. I was told that he didn’t often, and a lot of presidents don’t – they write letters… President Obama, I think, probably did and maybe he didn’t. I don’t know, that’s what I’m told.”

Whatever you think of Trump, you’ve got to admit that It’s a real talent to come up with a sentence that’s also its own opposite. When Trump speaks it’s like a dog vomitting a scrabble set into a wind tunnel, as a blind man with seven missing fingers tries to catch the letters.

Narcissism features heavily in his repertoire. Indeed, most of his scattergun diatribes seem to boil down to one catchy slogan: “Tough on people who aren’t me, tough on the causes of people who aren’t me.” His answer for every question is ‘I’m the best’, even if the question isn’t really a question, and it’s just somebody nearby coughing. He’ll tell that cough he’s the best just to avoid doubt. Plus he’s the best at coughing. Believe him. Believe him.

A steadfast opposition to truth is another favourite pick from his oratorical trick-bag. He’s like Bart Simpson when he became the I-Didn’t-Do-It-Boy, except Trump really believes that he didn’t do it, or believes that he did do it and doesn’t really care that he did it, but he’ll be damned if you think that he did it. Because he didn’t. Did he? I don’t know anymore. Probably best to assume he did, even if he didn’t. All hail the Lie Lord of the Multiverse. Behold: Schrodinger’s President! Until you open the door of the Oval Office to peek inside, two wholly separate certainties exist simultaneously: that he’s a liar, and that he’s a f***ing liar. That’s underselling it somewhat. Trump doesn’t just lie: he picks up words like they’re lead pipes and bashes reality in the face with them.

Trump’s such a good snake-oil salesman that he’s managed to become the greatest Scientologist who ever lived who isn’t actually a Scientologist. I’ll bet David Miscaviage would give his eye-teeth (and they probably appear in one of Hubbard’s books) to get Trump off a cloud and into his spaceship. Trump could be the Scientologists’ Messianic Hulk; their pie-faced space Jesus of lies. I’d like to hope that if Trump ever even looked in the general direction of an E-meter that Lady Universe would almost immediately crunch herself, and every single one of us, into oblivion. Trump definitely sings from the same song sheet as Hubbard’s church when it comes to fighting dirty against facts, and knowing how best to smear and marginalise your opponents.

Trump regularly declares his critics and opponents ‘sick’, with ‘critics and opponents’ defined as anyone who dares challenge his world-view or loose relationship to facts. Really, though, imagine being condemned as ‘sick’ by the man who’s spent years making boastful allusions to pronging his own daughter, albeit in a Back to the Future-style alternate timeline. Except up-for-it instead of scared and revolted. Great Clot! Trump’s like a bolt of lightening: you never know where or when he’s going to strike next . Do you remember how scornful the Doc was when Marty told him that Ronald Reagan was president? Fuck, if he ever finds out that ‘Biff Tannen’ is now our president he’ll travel back in time to the Big Bang and take a shit on it.

Anyway, I’m finished. You can clap now.


MORE TRUMP-RELATED NONSENSE BELOW. CLICK FOR THE ARTICLES

Donald Trump: The Apocalypse’s Casus Bellend

Santa Trump’s Xmas Eve Tweets

I Have the Answers to All of Your Questions

Ask a silly question, get a silly answer.

In fact, ask a perfectly reasonable question, get a silly answer.

That’s my motto. It’s probably also the reason my ‘expert advice’ wasn’t particularly sought after over on AnswerBag.

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Jamie’s Digest (4): Cool bits from books – KILLER EDITION

Welcome to an all-crime-and-murder edition of Jamie’s digest.

Over the years I’ve read rather a lot of books on crooks, killers and their catchers; biographies of serial killers; books on policing, profiling and criminology; texts about psychopathy and abnormal psychology. I know that the presence of these sorts of interests in someone’s life, in the proper context, can be taken as a red flag, but I absolutely promise that I’m not a serial-killer-in-waiting. And I swear that I haven’t got my fingers crossed right now (the whole bunch of them are still loose and bobbing around inside the little pouch tied to my waist that I’ve always kept them in). I’m simply fascinated by the extremes of violent, murderous and ritualistic behaviour, of which the human being (most typically the male) is capable. What makes one man a killer and the other a mild-mannered bank clerk? Is there such a thing as good and evil (is there such a thing as a mild-mannered bank clerk)? Are killers mad or bad, born or made? How do you catch them? Is it dangerous to walk in their shoes, a la Will Graham? The whole sprawling subject  is exciting, horrifying, exhilarating, nauseating, absorbing, chilling, repugnant, repulsive and compulsive all at once.

Here are excerpts from some books on killing and killers I’ve read recently.

“The guy you’re looking for will have a limp, and a dog called Daniel.”

Netflix’s Mindhunter was one of the best TV shows of 2017, a fictional adaptation of real-life FBI profiler John Douglas’s first forays into researching and cataloguing the behaviour of rapists and serial killers with a view to helping police focus their investigations on the most likely suspects in live cases, or helping to convict suspects at trial. The events that unfold in the show all more-or-less happened, in some form; certainly all of the killers, rapists and assorted criminals depicted in the series all existed. Where the TV adaptation differs significantly from its source text is through the characters and histories of the main FBI-based antagonists, who are only loosely based upon their real-life counterparts, and even have different names. This affords the TV show more of an element of surprise, and a greater capacity to shock. We know what happens to Ed Kemper, Ted Bundy et al, but we now have no idea how exactly the work they do will affect the FBI profilers, or their families. Smart move.

The book is fascinating and informative. The first third or so focuses on John Douglas himself, and how he came to pursue (and essentially create!) the field of profiling. It’s illuminating, not least because the young, rebellious, academically-underachieving John Douglas doesn’t appear to fit the profile of a future profiler. He certainly did a lot of slacking and engaged in a bit of borderline criminal behaviour before he found his calling.

The rest of the book, as you would hope and expect, offers insights into profiling and behavioural analysis, and discusses many famous cases from throughout John Douglas’ career.

For instance, here’s his take on (a then very much still alive) Charles Manson:

Manson: Complete and Total Cult

“After listening to Manson, I believe that he did not plan or intend the murders of Sharon Tate and her friends; that, in fact, he lost control of the situation and his followers. The choice of the site and victims was apparently arbitrary. One of the Manson girls had been there and thought there was money around. Tex Watson, the good-looking, all-American honor student from Texas, sought to rise in the hierarchy and rival Charlie for influence and authority. Zoned out ike the others on LDS and having bought into the leader’s new tomorrow. Watson was the primary killer and led the mission to the Tate-Polanski house and encouraged the others to the ultimate depravities.

Then, when these inadequate nobodies came back and told Charlie what they had done, that helter-skelter had begun, he couldn’t very well back down and tell them they had taken him too seriously. That would have destroyed his power and authority. So he had to do them one better, as if he had intended the crime and its aftermath, leading them to the LaBianca home to do it again. But significantly, when I asked Manson why he hadn’t gone in and participated in the killings, he explained, as if we were dense, that he was on parole at the time and couldn’t risk his freedom by violating that.

So I believe from the background information and the interviews we did with Manson that while he made his followers into what he needed, they, in turn, made him into what they needed and forced him to fulfill it.

Every couple of years, Manson comes up for parole and has been turned down every time. His crimes were too politicised and too brutal for the parole board to take a chance on him. I don’t want him let out either. But if he were released at some point, knowing what I do about him, I wouldn’t expect him to be a serious violent threat like a lot of these guys [other high-profile killers] are. I think he’d go off into the desert and live out there, or else try to cash in on his celebrity for money. The biggest threat would be from the misguided losers who would gravitate to him and proclaim him their god and leader.”

And now helping to make the distinction between a killer’s MO and signature:

MO vs signature

“Modus operandi – MO – is learned behaviour. It’s what the perpetrator does to commit the crime. It is dynamic – that is, it can change. Signature, a term I coined to distinguish it from MO, is what the perpetrator has to do to fulfill himself. It is static; it does not change.

For example, you wouldn’t expect a juvenile to keep committing crimes the same way as he grows up unless he gets it perfect the first time. But if he gets away with one, he’ll learn from it and get better and better at it. That’s why we say MO is dynamic. On the other hand, if this guy is committing crimes so that, say, he can dominate or inflict pain on or provoke begging and pleading from a victim, that’s his signature. It’s something that expresses the killer’s personality. It’s something he needs to do.”

Most interesting of all is John Douglas’ thoughts on what makes a killer, and the power best deployed proactively to stop it:

All you need is…?

“In all my years of research and dealing with violent offenders, I’ve never yet come across one who came from what I would consider a good background and functional, supportive family unit. I believe that the vast majority of violent offenders are responsible for their conduct, made their choices, and should face the consequences of what they do. It’s ridiculous to say that someone doesn’t appreciate the seriousness of what he’s done because he’s only fourteen or fifteen. At eight, my son, Jed, has already known for years what’s right and what’s wrong.

But twenty-five years of observation has also told me that criminals are more ‘made’ than ‘born,’ which means that somewhere along the line, someone who provided a profound negative influence could have provided a profound positive one instead. So what I truly believe is that along with more money and police and prisons, what we most need more of is love. This is not being simplistic; it’s at the very heart of the issue.”

It’s refreshing that after decades of talking to and hunting people who slit throats, strangle women, kill kids, mutilate corpses, and dump bodies in rivers, John Douglas still believes in love.

Amazon link: Mindhunter: Inside the FBI’s Elite Serial Crime Unit by John Douglas and Mark Olshaker

I – The Creation of a Serial Killer, by Jack Olsen

This book splits its time between following the life of angry giant Keith Hunter Jesperson in the third person, and living through his life and crimes in the first person, the latter device powerful but rather disquieting, as it forces you into the mind of a killer as he kills and prepares to kill. While both gruesome and shocking, the book does try to answer the question of how Jesperson was ‘made’, but certainly isn’t interested in exonerating Jesperson or excusing his behaviour. This book’s never an easy read, but it’s very illuminating and, boy, Jack Olsen could write.

The excerpt below comes after the end of Jesperson’s killing-career, as he indulges his narcissism as he awaits his fate in prison. We’re not inside Jesperson’s thoughts here.

“His [Jesperson’s] first attempt to establish contact with a marquee murderer had taken place early in 1996, while he was still juggling legal problems in Oregon, Washington and Wyoming. He’d written a friendly letter to Danny Rolling, facing execution in Florida for the massacre of five college students. Jesperson’s letter to “the Gainesville Slasher” congratulated Rolling on finding a new girlfriend – “she sounds like a neat and great person.” The letter had a whiff of sycophancy. “Hope all will go well with you, my friend in Christ,” wrote the lifelong agnostic. “God bless you. No response is needed.”

None was received. While Keith was awaiting a reply, the fastidious Rolling was telling a third party that he found the Self-start Serial Killer Kit and Keith’s other attempts at Internet gallows humour in atrocious taste. “That kind of humour doesn’t impress me,” said the man who’d slashed four victims to death and decapitated a fifth. “There is NOTHING, absolutely nothing about KILLING that is humourous.” ”

I find it incredible that a man who’s murdered many women and chopped off heads can demonstrate such prudishness in other spheres of his life. Or maybe he hates – to use Dexter-talk – his ‘dark passenger’ and sees his incarcerated self as somehow separate from it.

Jesperson was more successful in striking up dialogue with an imprisoned cannibal, who was keen to talk death and recipes.

A letter from Nicolas Claux, the Vampire of Paris:

“I personally think that any kind of spiced sauce will spoil the naturally sweet taste of human flesh and blood – human meat is a gift from the Gods, and it is a shame to ruin its delightful taste with seasonings and spices… Bon appetit!”

Amazon link: I: The Creation of a Serial Killer by Jack Olsen

The Killing Season

The Killing Season chronicles a year in the life of real-life LA cop duo Razanskas and Winn, a grizzled veteran detective and his rookie partner. He’s a jaded, wise-cracking old white guy; she’s a driven, no-nonsense young black woman. Together they’re going to shovel shit against the tide of blood that’s flowing over the lost, sprawling, poverty-stricken, violent neighbourhoods of south central Los Angeles. I love these guys. They face so much, and work so hard, against almost insurmountable odds, in a hellish environment, and with the worst resources imaginable at their disposal.

Well, I loved these guys. I did some googling on them after finishing the book and found that on one of the first cases they worked on they’d essentially fitted up an innocent guy. Took the sheen off it all, somewhat. Still, a great book. A real eye-opener. A tragedy from start to finish. There but for the Grace of… whatever you happen to believe in, go you and I.

He was shot… where? 

“Razanskas gives Winn and another detective a few details about Masuayama and Reyes’ body dump case and mentions that the victim was shot in the ear. The detective tells him he once had a case where his victim was found lying in a carport, naked. The coroner investigator could not find an entry wound, an exit wound, blood, or any sign of trauma. At the autopsy, the fluoroscope, a type of X-ray machine, solved the mystery and revealed a .22 slug. The man, who had crossed a Jamaican drug dealer, had been shot in the anus.”

Death, loss and unspeakable tragedy feature almost constantly throughout the book, but this next excerpt stung me quite hard.

On murder and its consequences:

“Erick’s friends were stunned when they heard he was killed in a drive-by. He was not the type who would hang out on the street corners with the gangbangers. He lived with his girlfriend and two young children in Ontario, a suburb 40 miles east of Los Angeles. They did not want to raise their children in the city. He had been laid off from his job as a security guard and was spending a few days a week during the summer at his mother’s South-Central house. She has diabetes and failing eyesight and Erick had been caring for her.

When he returned to his old neighbourhood, he liked to play dominoes with his friends and water the roses in his mother’s yard. He landscaped the yeard years ago and won a gardening award from the city. His mother still has the trophy on her mantel. He took pride in the lush lawn he put in, the red, yellow, pink and violet rosebushes he tended, the thick stands of philodendron he planted to shade the yard.

He was so well liked, more than 300 people came to his funeral, including a few teachers from elementary and high school. At his wake, his 3-year-old son, Erick, Jr, who now wears his father’s gold earring, tried to climb into the coffin. He could not comprehend that his father was gone. Later that night, he picked up the telephone and tried to call his father so he could tell him to come home.

Erick’s 5-year-old daughter, Danielle, who is missing her front teeth and has pigtails, lingered by her father’s open casket. She kissed him and held his hand. Finally, she told her mother, “I want to die, so I can be with my daddy in heaven.”

Now Danielle’s mother often finds her crying in her bed, the blankets pulled over her head. When her mother pulls the covers back, Danielle tells her that she tries to muffle her cries. She does not want to upset her.

Every day, Erick, Jr., talks about his father. And every day he tells his mother, “I want to find the man who shot my daddy. I want to kill him.” “

Amazon Link: The Killing Season by Miles Corwin

Until next time: keep reading, mother-bookers.

Recommendations for some excellent books related to this edition’s theme

Lost Girls: an Unsolved American Mystery by Robert Kolker

People Who Eat Darkness: Love, Grief and a Journey into Japan’s Shadows by Richard Lloyd Parry

Blind Faith by Joe McGinniss

Son: A Psychopath and his Victims by Jack Olsen

Blind Eye: The Terrifying Story of a Doctor Who Got Away with Murder by James B. Stewart

Without Conscience: The Disturbing World of the Psychopaths Among Us by Robert D. Hare

The 5 Worst TV Shows of 2017

I watched a lot of TV shows in 2017, a fair dollop of them crap, but none so utterly, irredeemably crap as the five failures below.

PRISON BREAK

The first season of Prison Break was truly great TV: fun, funny, shocking, silly, suspenseful, tense, exciting and beautifully, insanely ridiculous. But it never should’ve lasted beyond those first 22 episodes, much less another 4 seasons, a mini-movie and a revival season.

Was there anyone in the entire world who was actually looking forward to this revival, or who expected it to be anything other than a giant bowl of sick-whisked dog shit? I can understand wanting to watch this new ‘mini-event series’ out of morbid curiosity, or because you relish the prospect of picking it to pieces as you sort of half-watch-it, half-browse-for-stuff-on-Ebay, but surely only a die-hard fanatic of the first order, or a victim of failed brain surgery, would anticipate new Prison Break with any sense of relish.

My expectations started low – we’re talking sub-basement-level flat in Hell’s deepest underground multi-storey – and still they were unmet. Prison Break is a show where anything can, and does, happen, so ultimately nothing matters.This is a show where being electrocuted to death and having your head chopped off is no barrier to a return. It just requires waiting for the right preposterous, credibility-stretching conspiracy to come along.

Don’t get me wrong: the show’s bat-shit crazy, devil-may-care, fast-moving, twisty-turny-ness was one of its greatest and most entertaining assets in the beginning, but now it just feels tired and forced and lazy and formulaic. Plus, it’s more painfully obvious than ever before that the two brothers can’t really act for shit. Lincoln spends this season lumbering around the Middle East with all the grace and charisma of a zombie oak tree, while Ed Kemper is probably more effective at emoting than Michael (and I mean Ed Kemper as he is now). The prison break is boring and short-lived; the secondary characters hollow and unconvincing; the villains one step below panto; the Yemeni setting poorly realised and possibly border-line racist; and the various twists even more maddeningly preposterous than usual.

From the moment Lincoln survived being smashed through a windshield at top speed, to T-Bag’s unemotional ’emotional’ moment with his dying son, I sat completely and utterly spellbound – by my own fingernails. I kept wondering how long it would take to scratch my own eyes out with them.

Oh, and on a closing note, writing and production team: good work on the big showdown and shoot-out at a Yemeni train station: you know, Yemen?… The country that DOESN’T HAVE ANY FUCKING TRAINS.

Read my article about Prison Break seasons 1-4 HERE that was published by Den of Geek in 2013.

POWERLESS

Powerless boasted strong production values, a talented cast (most notably Danny Pudi of Community-fame) and an absolutely on-point, almost perfect title sequence – all of which was ultimately completely useless, because whatever else Powerless had or was, it simply wasn’t funny. And ‘funny’ is a pretty essential component when you’re making a comedy series. It was cancelled after only 9 episodes of the first season had aired.

I guess there have been a lot worse shows than Powerless, but it’s a tragedy that what could’ve been a zany, fresh and inventive comedy looking at life through the lens of a bunch of regular Joes in a WayneTech subsidiary working to protect the little guy from the constant battles between superheroes and supervillains became instead a lacklustre, generic workplace comedy that struggled to conjure up more than a handful laughs (tiny, breathy ones at that) and a smattering of smiles (flat, joyless ones, too).

Still, while the 9 episodes I watched were undoubtedly shite, maybe the show could’ve grown into something special given more of a chance. Shame on you, Powerless. But shame on you, too, American network television.

RED DWARF

The twelve-year-old me who spent his days regurgitating Red Dwarf’s catch-phrases and impersonating its characters would be very angry with fat, hairy thirty-seven-year-old me for placing Red Dwarf on this list, but never mind: I’m reasonably sure I could take twelve-year-old-me in a fight.

It’s fair to say that Red Dwarf has had a wildly uneven hit-rate in recent years; from the mild disappointment of its sheeny-shiny, oh-so-cinematic seventh season, to the post-lobotomy lock-down of its lads-and-lager eighth season; from the abominable Back to Earth, to the show’s present incarnation as a darling of Dave, the show has never quite made the case for its own cancellation, but neither has it given much cause for unbridled celebration.

That’s not to say that latter-day Dwarf has lacked classic episodes – there have been some triumphantly funny episodes, even in the midst of the most middling of seasons – but that still only adds up to 6 truly great episodes out of 31. You wouldn’t be happy to get a score of 6 out of 31 in a test, unless it was a test to see how attractive Kevin Spacey found you on a scale of one to 31. Still, despite the show’s somewhat scatter-gun run since the late 90s I felt weirdly, unfathomably optimistic about season XII. I should’ve known better, or at least lowered my expectations.

While the first episode and the last two episodes of the season were pretty good (or at least ‘good enough’), the third episode – Timewave – was so embarrassingly, blood-curdlingly awful that it made me want to remove all traces of Red Dwarf from my memories with a rusty axe.

Rob Grant’s pointless and puerile attempt to reflect the current political climate by placing the crew on a ship where all criticism was outlawed was the unfunniest thing since… well, since nothing. It’s literally the unfunniest thing that’s ever been produced, and that includes genocide and Mrs Brown’s Boys. It’s the single worst episode of any show I’ve watched this year, and quite possibly the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life, and that includes granny porn.

Timewave effortlessly earns Red Dwarf its slot in the top five. It’s so bad it’ll keep Red Dwarf on this list every year for the next ten years, even if it never returns to air.

Read my honest and optimistic look-ahead to Red Dwarf series XII HERE that was published by Den of Geek in 2017.

THE WALKING DEAD

Never before has all-out warfare been so mercilessly, miserably, unforgivably dull. The Walking Dead has been shedding healthy flesh at an alarming rate since the beginning of its sixth season, and now shambles twice-yearly into our schedules a rotted husk of its former reassuringly-gory glory. While even in its younger, better days it was never in the same league as shows like The Sopranos, Mad Men, or The Wire, The Walking Dead was at least exciting and emotionally resonant, and capable of turning out some truly powerful, haunting or barn-storming episodes. Season 8, thus far, has been full of action, but devoid of feeling and substance.

Rick is an infuriatingly inconsistent protagonist at the helm of an infuriatingly inconsistent show. Well, perhaps it’s not infuriatingly inconsistent anymore, because use of the word ‘infuriating’ would signify that I still cared about the content or direction of the show. And I don’t. I really, really don’t. Negan is a crushing bore of a bad guy (mishandled and miscast); the Saviours/war narrative continues to unfold without any concessions to logic, sense, physics or geography; the (Poor Man’s Mad Max) People of the Trash Pile are too dull to be kitsch, and too fucking ridiculous to be a credible threat; and there are too many characters on the show, especially when they’re all so thinly-sketched and bent so easily to the will of the plot. Game of Thrones gets away with having eight billion characters, because it’s a very well-written show and as a consequence its characters are deep, well-rounded and interesting.

I used to care about the show, I really did, but now I wouldn’t care if Carol and Daryl formed a Romeo-and-Juliet-style death pact and shot each other through the head, at the same time as Negan sewed Rick’s severed zombie head onto the neck of Ezekiel’s dead tiger. I didn’t even care about Ezekiel’s tiger, and I’m usually a sucker for animals in on-screen peril. And I certainly didn’t care when it was revealed that Karl had been bitten. Actually, that’s not strictly true. I did care, but only because I’m pretty sure he isn’t going to die, and I really, really wanted him to. In summary, then, let the tiger die. Let them all die. Let the zombies come back to life so they can all die again, too. The Walking Dead’s a dead show walking, and I wish they’d pull the plug so I wouldn’t have to keep watching the bloody thing, masochist that I am.

Read my own blog posts about a) Negan himself HERE, and b) season 7 of The Walking Dead HERE.

And my article about the decline of the show HERE published by Den of Geek in 2017.

THE MIST

Hey, it’s the beautiful, elven-looking woman from Vikings, and Clay Davis from The Wire; you know, the one who says ‘shhheeeeeeiiiiiiiittttttttt’ all the time. And Frances Conroy, of Six Feet Under and American Horror Story fame! Oh, and it’s a Stephen King adaptation; an adaptation of an adaptation, I may add, of a film of which I’m rather fond. Mist, monsters, madness, religious mania, a good old-fashioned struggle for survival: what could possibly go wrong?

Well… everything, in fact. Everything. Not even the massive foghorning beasts that lumber from the mist in the cinematic The Mist could rival the horror of this now-mercifully-cancelled misfire (and I mean ‘horror’ in its most pejorative sense here; I’ve just realised that ‘horror’ can serve as a compliment when discussing actual works of horror. There’s no compliment here, believe me). Most of what emerges from the mist in this adaptation comes in the form of hallucinatory supernatural visions , which – a few notably bat-shit moments aside – get incredibly boring almost instantly. Whilst a great deal of the action unfolds in the local mall (the short story and the movie were set almost entirely in a mid-sized supermarket) the series loses vital focus and tension by spreading its characters out across the town. I understand that having a bunch of characters rushing to a focal point for a big, meaty finale, especially when some of those separated characters hold different pieces of an explosive secret, can be thrilling to watch, but not if the writing and the acting has never moved you to care about any of the characters.

The ‘plot’, such as it is, is redolent of those post-watershed, too-hot-for-TV episodes that British soap operas occasionally indulge in, complete with sketchy characters you can’t seem to bring yourself to give a fuck about, heaped servings of am-dram histrionics, and narrative contrivances powerful enough to make your eyes roll back in your head like jackpotted Vegas slot machines. In the end, The Mist is just a bunch of people chasing each other down smoky corridors with spades, or being pursued by duff CGI, as you check the clock every 90 seconds, wondering why you aren’t doing something more worthwhile with your free time, like cheese-grating all the skin off of your face and feeding it to your cat.

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Kids, and the poor timing of their poo-poos

Our eldest son Jack, who’s three-and-a-bit, gets a small cup of fruit juice first thing in the morning with his breakfast, and pretty much drinks water the rest of the time, give or take the odd swig of diluting juice as a treat. In Scotland, where teeth and hearts have a significantly lower life-span than their host bodies, it makes sense to encourage as many healthy habits as possible, as early as possible. While our pro-H20 stance is certainly commendable it has had the unfortunate side-effect of making juice something of a taboo, and we all know how children swarm to taboos like wasps to open cans of Cola. If we’re ever lax enough to leave our own flagons of diluting juice within his reach – and we are that lax, painfully often – he’ll stand there with his fingers twitching at his side like a gunslinger’s, before grabbing for that juice as if his life depended upon it. He might manage to glug a small cup’s worth, he might manage to glug a litre. One thing’s for sure: we’re rarely quick enough to stop him.

One morning between Christmas and New Year I took him and his little brother Christopher (who’s not long turned 1) to the historic village of Culross – a favourite family haunt of ours. In the rush to get all of us ready to go I neglected to notice a big bottle of pre-mixed Ribena sitting unattended on a table-top. Jack managed to down an indeterminate volume of juice before I clocked on and managed to snatch the bottle away from him.

Even though I bade him piss before we left the house we still had to pull over on a dual carriageway minutes into the journey so he could relieve himself. We stopped again just over the bridge in the village of Kincardine, where he had to piss against one of our car’s front wheels. I caught a bit of friendly fire splash-back on my hand, so took baby-wipes out of little Chrissy’s travel-bag, spilling some of the bag’s contents on to the floor of the car in the process. We eventually reached Culross, and I hoped that Jack’s tank was now empty. It had to be, I told myself, else his bladder’s a bloody TARDIS. The three of us larked in the play-park as the winter wind threw handfuls of invisible ice at us. I ran between two swings at opposite ends of the small park – little safety-swing for Chris, big half-moon wrecking-ball swing for Jack – pushing the kids for a few seconds each time, to warm myself up as much as to amuse the boys. I soon realised that it was too cold to linger long at the unsheltered shore, so we started walking, Jack jumping along by my side, little Christopher warmly ensconced in his wind-proof buggy as I pushed and puffed him along the street.

We normally head up the hill – up the narrow, cobbled streets with their tiny hobbit doors, to the old, cold church that overlooks the town – but today I decided, in no uncertain terms, ‘fuck that’. Let’s go sideways. Let’s buck the trend and spend the entirety of our trip today going ‘along’ instead of ‘up’. Fuck ‘up’. My bones creaked with gratitude; my heart even gave a little double-thump salute. Unbeknownst to us all, horror lay along that long, flat road. I’d been so focused on dealing with the pee-pee situation that I hadn’t even considered the possibility of emergent poo-poo. I was going to pay for my poo-bris. We were about to move to Defcon BUM.

I was glad we’d gone ‘along’, as before long we discovered a community garden we hadn’t known existed. There was a large, decorated Christmas Tree just inside the entrance gate, something that wouldn’t have lasted intact for a single evening had it been erected in my urban shithole of a town; there was a pagoda, various little potting sheds, and as the garden sloped up it sent steps up past clumps of wild flowers, herbs and mini-thickets of trees, and back down again, with benches dotted at strategic points around the loop. It’s beautiful: obviously well-used and well-maintained; a real labour of love by the locals.

And we shat in it.

I’d taken Christopher out of his buggy, and left it at the main gate (again, that buggy would’ve been on bricks and on E-Bay along with the Christmas tree if this had been Grangemouth!). Jack wanted to walk up and around, and back down the garden, again and again, again and again, and we accompanied him, Jack light and spry on his feet, me beginning to feel the strain of the inert boulder of my second-born against my biceps. We’d done about four or five loops, and I just wanted it to end, and for the journey into the unknown ‘along’ to continue. But be careful what you wish for, right?

‘Daddy, I need a poo-poo! I need a poo-poo!’ cried Jack, beginning to waddle like a cowboy penguin, a hand reaching down to cup his bum.

I scanned the area. There was nowhere for him to defecate that wouldn’t be plainly visible to the whole of creation. The public toilets were a ten-minute walk away. I had to help him, but I had Christopher in my arms, and we were far away from the buggy, too far away for me to have run back to it, strapped Christopher in and wheeled him back to Jack before the klaxxon sounded for Code Brown. Shit, shit, shit, I thought – rather appositely, I suppose.

‘Daddy!’ Jack wailed.

‘OK,’ I said, beginning to pull myself together, ‘OK, down over there, behind that shed, there are a couple of trees, can you make it?’

He added a little quick-step dance to his waddle.

‘JACK, CAN YOU MAKE IT?’

This was turning into an episode of 24. DAMN IT!

‘Yes, Daddy.’

‘You can do this, son, come on, hold it in, you’re almost there.’

I bent down to help him pull down his trousers, as Christopher dangled limply over the precipice of my shoulder. There was nothing for Jack to steady himself against, so he was forced to squat. In the haste and panic I’d spared no thought for the position of his pecker relative to his trousers; in any case, he’d surely pissed every centilitre of liquid from his body over the past forty-five minutes, so additional pee-pee was severely unlikely, right? Wrong. His bum may have been poised over a wet mound of leaves, but his wee willy was aimed straight at the back of his jogging bottoms, and there was definitely still juice in the tank.

‘SON OF A BITCH!’ I snarled in frustration, as the piss skooshed out.

‘Son of a bitch!’ came the parroted reply from the little shitting – and pissing – figure below me.

‘NOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooo!’ I yelled, my trademark grace-under-fire, calm-under-pressure portion of personality really kicking in. I opened Christopher’s travel-bag to take out some nappy sacks and baby wipes, but… oh no. They were all on the floor of the car. And there, at my feet, was my piss-covered, dirty bum-med child, squatting over a big, brown, highly visible poop. There were two paper hankies in my pocket, which I had to use to wipe the worst of the poo from Jack’s bum. With nowhere to put them, they fluttered to the ground like feathers. Horrible, shit-stained feathers. I tried to kick some leaves over them.

‘What have we done?’ I asked my boys, and perhaps even the Gods themselves. There was no answer.

We headed back to the car, taking the coastal path. I watched the dark circle on the back of Jack’s slacks as he happily bobbed along just in-front of us, a stark reminder of my woeful lack of parental preparedness. I put Jack in his car seat sans trousers and tucked a blanket over him.

In the long hours that followed I couldn’t stop thinking about how I’d caused my son to have to make a ten-minute journey covered in his own piss. The fact that he didn’t seem to give a shit (if you’ll excuse the word choice) did nothing to salve my guilt. Neither could I stop thinking about how we’d desecrated and defiled a beautiful garden. Inside my thoughts and conscience I’d cast myself as some horrible X-rated panto villain. ‘OH, YOU’VE DONE SUCH A LOVELY JOB, BUT DO YOU KNOW WHAT WOULD BE A NICE ADDITION TO YOUR PRECIOUS SANCTUARY, CHILDREN AND OLD PEOPLE OF CULROSS? A BIG HUMAN SHIT! HA HA HA HA HA! AND SOME SHITTY HANKIES MUHAHAHAHAHA!!’

The next day I was haunted. Should I drive back to the scene of the crime to dispose of the evidence? What if some sweet old lady slips in it, or bashes it with her hoe and gets some hunks of it in her mouth? What if a kid finds one of the brown-tinged hankies and tries to blow their nose with it? I couldn’t bear it. It was like The Tell-Tale Heart, but with a jobby. Edgar Allan Poo! I wanted to confess. I needed to confess. Email the community association and say: ‘I admit the deed! Look behind the shed! Here, here! It is the steaming of my son’s hideous shit!’

But I didn’t.

People of Culross, if you’re reading this, rest assured that karma got me in the end. Literally. I’ve just recovered from a sickness and diarrhoea bug.

Head hung in shame, it’ll be a long time before I return to your Garden of Peed-in (I know my son shat in it, but there’s no such thing as the Garden of Shat-in, so I hope you’ll allow me some creative license).

A Very Scottish New Year’s Day 2018 – The Loony Dook

South Queensferry – New Year’s Day 2018

The Loony Dook – or the Baptism of the Bams, if you prefer – is a charity event that’s been held in South Queensferry every New Year’s Day since 1986. From a starting point of three local nutcases, the event has grown in size, scope and stature to the point where it is now considered an official part of Edinburgh’s Hogmanay/New Year’s celebrations, and attracts many thousands of participants and spectators, from the local to the international. Up to a thousand brave souls don fancy dress – or shed as many layers of clothing as sanity and decency permit – and dive, paddle, shriek and waddle into the freezing winter waters of the Firth of Forth. The Scottish participants are the bravest: a nation of people with bad hearts plunging into sub-zero temperatures after a night of heavy drinking. It takes balls – something the male participants will no longer possess after 15 seconds in the water.

My partner and I took our two kids along to see the Loony Dook this year. It’s always a good policy to expose your offspring to as many unconventional events, places and rituals as possible, to get their burgeoning, ever-stitching brains accustomed to variety, possibility and diversity. For instance, we’d love to take them to the Stonehaven Fireball Festival; to Shetland’s Up Helly Aa; to the Cooper’s Hill Cheese-Rolling and Wake in Gloucester; to East Renfrewshire, to point out all the vile fucking reprobates who voted Tory. But the Dook is on our doorstep, and I thought a bracing trip to the sort-of-sea-side would be better than just sitting in our jammies watching movies on the couch, even if my partner didn’t necessarily agree (actually, there’s no necessarily about it – she just didn’t agree).

Loony Dook 2018

We stood along the stone pier and watched the dookers dooking. There were life-boats in the water, camera crews all around, drones and seagulls in the sky, and a succession of people dressed as hot-air-balloonists, bears and bath-tubs sploshing into the water, but still my eldest son, Jack (who is 3 and a wee bit), said: ‘This is boring. Let’s go somewhere else.’ My partner gave me a look as if to say, ‘If you wanted to see balloonists, we could’ve just stayed on the couch and watched ‘Up’, you arsehole. No matter. Jack and I had great fun skating on the film of sludgey moss and sea-weed that covered the ground at our feet. I guess it was strange and out-of-the-ordinary watching people get dried, undressed and dressed again in broad daylight on a busy high-street (“Daddy… why are all of these people naked?”) and it must’ve given him a kick to see these two chirpy alcoholics:

Not to mention people dressed as bananas. Check out the picture below this short paragrarph. It looks like two banana lovers re-uniting on the first armistice day after the Great Banana War (but don’t ever ask Daddy Banana to talk about what he did at the Battle of Fyffes).

If not for the Loony Dook South Queensferry would be a ghost town on New Year’s Day, but what shop, café or restaurant owner would be foolish enough to keep the shutters down when an unseasonable swarm of thousands of people is moving up and down the high street, especially when a high percentage of the swarm’s members are cold and wet, and in dire need of piping hot sustenance. That’s just basic supply and demand, but where The Loony Dook provides capitalism with the confidence to bolt out of the New Year starting gate with its head – and boot – held high is through the wonder of greed.

The eatery owners are more than happy to charge prices so disgustingly exorbitant that they’d make a Mafioso blush with shame. I know they’re open and working on a public holiday, and quite possibly having to pay their staff holiday rates, but they’re taking advantage of a lucrative business opportunity that wouldn’t otherwise have been afforded to them, not being forced at gunpoint to throw open their doors. Why punish the pockets of the people who’ve assembled to celebrate the twin pillars of charity and insanity? Maybe I’m just being a miserable bastard; maybe this is a sign that I’ll never be ruthless enough to run a successful business. I’ll let you decide. Guess how much one café was charging for a cup of coffee and a bacon roll?

(Drum roll) Have you guessed how much that bacon roll and coffee cost yet?

SIX POUNDS!

If I’m paying six pounds for a coffee and a bacon roll I want documented proof that I’m eating the dough-swaddled flesh of Babe, Peppa and Miss Piggy, and drinking coffee that’s been filtered through Pablo Escobar’s string-vest. If the event organisers ever decide to change tack, but still retain the shock value of the dook, they’d do well simply to lead thousands of Scots into that café to show them the menu. They’d probably need a lot more ambulance crews on stand-by.

Most terrifying of all, that’s probably just the price of a bacon roll and a coffee in South Queensferry all year round. It’s a small town with cobbled streets, bistros and a book shop. Of course a drink and a snack is six quid. I’m used to living in the Grangemouth and Falkirk area where three quid will buy you a full breakfast and an evening with a prostitute.

Anyway, how delightfully Scottish of me. I’m describing attendance at a popular fringe event where a thousand people dress in outlandish costumes and hurl themselves into the sea, and I’ve spent a significant portion of the word-count moaning about how expensive everything is.

As we were exiting the high street on our way back to the car, a half-naked husky-voiced man stood on the top tier of the walkway above us, raised his towel aloft and shouted a gravelly-voiced HAPPY NEW YEAR! If this were America, he’d have just kicked off a firework display and a ‘wooooooooooooooooooooooooo’ that lasted twelve days. Because this is Central Scotland he merely elicited the sort of half-hearted response you usually get from kids forced to say ‘Amen’ at the end of school assembly. He zoomed off down some steps, behind the church, and into a bookstore, which I presume he owned, else he was just really into reading, and wanted to get the most out of Moby Dick.

We went to the local chippie and sat on a bench overlooking the water as we ate fried-food smothered in brown sauce. We’d probably have been safer jumping head-first into the Firth.

Happy New Year.

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Fancy a whistle-stop tour round some of Scotland’s other hot-spots? Click HERE

How about checking out my 2018 resolutions HERE

Suck my resolutions, 2018!

It’s almost time to make your annual declaration of intent to modify your behaviour. Just after midnight on the 1st of January. How very arbitrary. Why not six minutes past three on the afternoon of June the 16th? Or every second Saturday on which at least eighty-five hedgehogs succumb to heart disease? The timing of our celebrations is based upon a calendar that isn’t even universally embraced by all creeds and faiths; a calendar that over the past few thousand years has been tweaked, overhauled, altered and re-branded more times than a dodgy double-glazing company trying to avoid paying its creditors.

Still, it’s rather too easy – and ultimately pointless – to get bogged down nit-picking the existential minutiae of our lives; to go down the route of ‘but grass isn’t green, because ‘green’ is just a word we invented that can never speak to the real truth of greenness, whatever that is, and, anyway, what IS truth?’. That way madness (not to mention never being invited to parties) lies.

Arbitrary or not, the intersection of the 31st of December and the 1st of January has been selected as our period of rebirth and reinvention. And we always, without exception, half-arse the shit out of it. Some of us no-arse it. Still, rebirth is a lofty ambition; no wonder the fail rate is so high. We’re so bad at it that it actually has a severely negative impact on our health. We decide in September that we’re going to give up smoking fags and eating takeaway in the New Year. So what do we do? We spend four months smoking like beagles in an illegal research lab, and treating every meal like it’s been ordered by a death-row inmate on the eve of their execution. We eat, we smoke, we eat, we smoke. Sometimes we eat and smoke at the same time, or smoke bacon and eat cigarettes. Who cares, right? We’re quitting on the 1st of January. Right?

Wrong. All you’ve succeeded in doing is shave another six months off of your already short lifespan.  And converted six healthy months into six months of black-legged, chest-scrunching agony.

In spite of that, here are my resolutions for 2018:

  • Become a tiger. This is not a metaphor. I’m going to become an actual tiger. I just need to find the money for the surgery. Then I need to learn how to play golf. Which will be difficult with four paws, but that’s part of the challenge.
  • Pose nude for page 3. Any amateur can do that in the Daily Sport. I’m going to do it in Angler’s Monthly. Catch THAT, JR Hartley.
  • Become nationally famous for the catchprase: ‘WOAH! WHO ORDERED THE SPANISH FRITTATA OVER HERE, AM I RIGHT?’
  • Reduce The Krankies by three-quarters.
  • Get Pixar to commission my sequel to ‘Up’. In ‘Under’, a grief-stricken Russel will take to the clouds for one final adventure atop Mr Frederickson’s balloon-powered coffin, with only the stuffed corpse of his talking dog and 600 paracetemol for company.
  • Steal money and then invest it ironically. I’m especially looking forward to funding a golden archway for Peta’s headquarters using McDonalds’ billions, and launching the Vatican’s new condom: ‘Pope one on, Pope it up.’
  • Become a Scientologist. And then escape from them, and get my own TV show about it. Which will be co-hosted by a quarter of a Krankie.
  • Become a celebrity medium, and then wait long years for Les Dennis and Beyonce to die so I can use my fucking brilliant jokes (‘If he’s up there, I’ll give you the money me’self’ and ‘Are y’all here for the Seyonce?’) and then retire.
  • Try to get chocolate coins accepted as Scotland’s new currency unit, to see if we Scots are the unhealthy wrecks the world thinks we are; for instance, would I use twenty coins to buy twenty pounds worth of chocolate in a shop, or would I tear the foil off those twenty coins in my pocket and eat the equivalent of £1.50 worth of chocolate because I’m a greedy, impatient fat bastard?
  • Run for parliament. And then at the last minute veer off so I don’t break my nose or get shot by armed police.
  • Not die. I’ve been pretty good at this one so far.

Happy New Year, you filthy animals.

PS: My real resolution is to surround myself with moments like the one my family and I witnessed and was lucky enough to capture (below) in a playpark in Culross earlier this year, when an elderly husband and wife took to the swings and enjoyed a few moments of fun, light and laughter. I asked their permission to take the picture. I should’ve asked their permission to hug the shit out of them, too. Not like me to end on a smile, is it? Maybe I’m about to turn over a new leaf.

They’re probably both dead now, right?

(maybe we can forget the new leaf)

Jamie’s Digest (3): Cool Bits From Books – FESTIVE EDITION

Whenever I’m reading I always like to highlight phrases and passages that strike a chord with me, either because they’re emotionally or intellectually resonant, or because they’re exceptionally relevant to something that’s happening in the world today. I’d like to continue to share some of the these excerpts with you.

Santa Claus: A Biography

What a well-researched, interesting, funny and insightful book, charting Santa’s evolution from the swamps of myth into the ubiquitous character we know and love today. He’s terrified little children the world over, helped to advertise everything from soap to guns, and if he hadn’t ‘existed’ we would never have been able to read absolutely tremendous news stories like this. I had a great time reading this book, and I’d like to share a few bits and pieces from it.

“The ideal Santa for department-store grottoes or work-shops is described as middle-aged, plump, red-faced, and possessing his own beard with an ability to charm children and pass a police background check. Such candidates are scarce and becoming more so, according to those responsible for recruiting them. Modern healthy lifestyles have apparently reduced the number of suitably obese men, and head-hunting firms are paid handsomely, and advertise far afield, to produce the proper candidates.”

Isn’t that great? A dearth of Santas owing to an overall reduction in obesity levels and generally improved health: have you any idea how hard I, as a Scotsman, laughed at that paragraph. Honestly, we should just change the name of our country to The North Pole and be done with it. It’s the jolly part we’d struggle with.

I like that, though. Scotland becoming a Jurassic Park for Santas. Anyway, elsewhere in that same chapter we learn a little more about why there appear to be so few new Santas:

“Why should there be a shortage of imitation Santas for malls and department stores? Many veteran Santas complain of a new miasma of suspicion surrounding anyone dealing professionally with small children. Shopping centres fearful of litigation have imposed new rules or, in some cases, even forbidden Santas to hold children on their laps, preferring that they merely extend a handshake to the children who are brought to stand by them. Other stores have discouraged a jolly attitude, lest it be interpreted in an inappropriate fashion, and have insisted their Saint Nicks be more business-like in their approach to kids. Santas are told to keep both hands visible at all times, wear white gloves to heighten that visibility , and have to undergo criminal background checks, and in some cases even drug testing. In the United States, they have become targets of bomb threats and irate parents and have asked for police protection; in tropical countries they have had to go on strike to protest the suits they are forced to wear.”

A few things spring to mind after reading this paragraph:

  1. Yes, it’s a shame that we live in a world where we have to doubt the intentions of those who wish to spend time with our children, but, equally, these past fifty years have taught us that an overwhelmingly large number of clowns, teachers, Santas and kids TV presenters have tried to fuck our kids.
  2. I now know why this year’s Santa at our grotto was quite thin, and came across more like a headteacher desperately trying to tamp down his stress as he stares into the precipice of another violent emotional breakdown than an avuncular chuckle-head with a sackful of hohoho. Or maybe the Santa that was originally hired went down with a heart attack, and this miserable son of a bitch had to fill in last minute.
  3. White gloves for visibility? Man, Michael Jackson’s stylist was definitely trying to signal us from the inside, like Dwight shooting arrows for Daryl. I’m also going to be keeping a very close eye on snooker referees from now on.

Amazon link: Santa Claus – A Biography by Gerry Bowler

Insidious as Fuck

I was reading a chapter of The Christmasaurus to my 3-year-old son, when my eyes skimmed a sentence or so ahead and sent back a message to my mouth to shut down mid-sentence. I’d seen some dangerous, insidious shit; a passage that seemed to come straight from a book of religious short stories. Through these same pernicious paragraphs the book also – perhaps paradoxically – threw a wink to those who would support our burgeoning mono-culture, and tipped its hat to the ‘But it’s NICE’ crowd. Sorry to go full Dawkins on y’all, but I’d rather my son was encouraged to follow the dictates of reason than bid to glug from the shit-filled chalice of superstition.

The titular magic dinosaur was fine, of course, as was Santa himself. I don’t have a problem with them. It’s a work of fantasy, after all. Also, I admire the way the author treats the main character’s disability, and was happy to have my son absorb the sentiments… but… the section below where William’s Dad tries to reignite his son’s belief in Santa  (even though, in the context of this book, Santa is supposed to be real, anyway)? Fuck, no.

“‘I believe this story is true. Therefore it is true,’ he [William’s Dad] said.

‘But… how does that work?’ questioned William, desperate to know more. ‘If I’ve never seen something, how do I know it’s real?’

‘Ah, William! You’ve got it the wrong way round!’ said Mr Trundle, smiling. ‘Believing has to come first. People who don’t believe in things will never see those things. Believing is seeing.’

But William still looked uncertain.

‘But, Dad, some kids at school don’t believe in Santa. What if I believe he’s real and someone else doesn’t? If we both believe different things, then we can’t both be right, can we?’ asked William.”

[Mr Trundle then introduces William to the ‘Glass half-full/glass half-empty’ dichotomy, and uses this as a hammer to bash the sense of reason out of him.]

“William looked at the half-empty mug of milk in front of him for a moment before realising that his dad might actually be right too. Even though he and his dad believed different things, they were both right.

‘You see, William, we both believe completely opposite things, but it doesn’t mean that either of us is wrong. This mug is both half empty AND half full at the same time,’ said Mr Trundle, as William sat there with the expression of a young boy whose mind is in the process of being completely blown. ‘People believe all sorts of wild, wacky, weird and wonderful things, but it doesn’t mean that anyone is wrong or that anyone is right. What is important isn’t what is wrong, right, real, fake, true or false. What matters is that whatever you believe makes you a happier, better person.'”

I’m beginning to think that Trundle’s a Scientologist, the disingenuous c***.

Amazon link: The Christmasaurus by Tom Fletcher

WHATEVER YOU DO: READ. AND READ LOTS. IT’S GOOD FOR YOU.