Friday, 27 April 2012

27/04/12 - TV, etc

Sky recently updated their iPhone app to make it a bit more shit. It used to be the case that you could look things up in their TV listings from wherever you were, press the little red ‘record’ button, and your Sky+ box at home would tape it for you (well, not ‘tape’ – you know what I mean), ready for when you got back. This is still largely how it works, except that for some reason you now can’t record things that are on currently or within the next hour or so. This eliminates the most useful thing the app did, i.e. springing into action in those situations when you’re, say, in the pub and remember that EastEnders has just started, or you’re stuck on a bus and realise you won’t quite be home in time to see that documentary about Group B rallying on BBC4. You used to be able to do it, and now you can’t. [edit: They’ve now updated the app again, so you can once more record shows that are starting soon. You still can’t record something that’s already started, though…] Why have Sky done this? Well, in the course of my irritated clickings through the listings to see why the bloody thing won’t work any more, I learnt about a lot of new TV shows that I was previously unaware of. This must be their intention, to get people clicking around. Otherwise it just makes no sense.
And, in the style of JuicyPips circa 2007-ish, here’s a list of said new programmes (and a number of updates to existing programmes), all waiting in the near future for you to give them a damn good gazing with your shiny eyes. Just be sure to set your recorders well in advance if you’re going to be out…

The Antiquing Roadshow
BBC1’s stale stalwart receives a fresh reworking for the YouTube generation; stuffy old duffers are still very much the focus of the show, bringing along their crumbly tat for valuation, but they’ll now be unexpectedly subject to a Jackass-style antiquing; that is, being pelted in the face with a massive bag of flour without warning. This injects a welcome slapstick element into a programme that (as the BBC must surely concede at some point) hasn’t been watched by anybody under the age of seventy for quite some time.

The Price is Right
Having got chatting with Nick Griffin in her local branch of Netto, the infinitely suggestible Katie Price is steered to the extreme right for your viewing pleasure. Cameras follow as she drives around Barking in her pink Bentley, berating anyone who ‘looks a bit foreign’ for ‘coming over here and stealing our women’, working through a checklist of bilious idiocy that the BNP have convinced her to recite. Extra entertainment value comes from her denouncing her own children as ‘not British’, giving up her vast, tacky home for the party, and talking to a DVD distribution company about the creation of a new exercise video entitled Goose-stepping With Jordan.

The Voice: Remixed
The Voice has five key problems - one is the contestants, two, three, four and five are the witless judges. Jessie J has a nauseating habit of shutting her eyes and mouthing the words to EVERY FUCKING SONG, William – I refuse to write it with all the glottal stops, pretentious berk - is one of the world’s most punchable men, Tom Jones looks increasingly like a plank of Fanta-stained mahogany and is equally as animated, and no-one’s quite sure why that bloke from The Script (I have no idea what his name is, it doesn’t matter) is there at all. So here’s the twist: rather than singing to four people’s backs, the first and only contestant simply walks onto the stage and pushes a large red button. This switches the judges’ rotating chairs onto their highest settings, spinning them around at astonishing speed until their organs turn to pâté and their brains, such as they are, dribble from their ears.
This process can then be repeated for any contestant of the previous format who committed one or all of the cardinal caterwauling-on-TV sins: singing with their eyes shut, holding their hand in the air and moving it up and down as they wobble their voice around (really, who started that off?), tapping their fingers up and down on the microphone, bending double as they sing. Seriously, just perform with some dignity, you affected twats. Otherwise you’re getting the spinny chair.

Fifteen Pints of Lager and a Punch in the Face
The inexplicably long-running “comedy” (axed in 2011 after a frankly incredible ten-year run) receives the update it deserves: all of the main characters are made to swill vast buckets of Stella Artois, then are taken out to the car park, stripped to the waist and forced to pound the hell out of one another’s smug faces. Viewing figures are expected to be much higher than the original show ever enjoyed.

One Man and His Dong
There’s no clever premise here. It’s just a naked dude.

The Fast and the Furious

Swift perambulator Usain Bolt, who will do anything for cash (see the new Virgin ads, for example), approaches members of the public selected by the crew as likely to be crap at sport – the elderly, tramps, people with obvious limps, small children and so forth – and challenges them to a race. Targets are happy to participate as they assume that there will be some kind of twist. He beats them easily. He challenges them to a rematch. They assume that the twist is now coming. He beats them again. And again, and again. Targets become increasingly frustrated and angry, at which point Bolt shouts ‘You’re shit at running!’, and legs it. Pointlessly cruel, but somehow hilarious.

Family Fortunes
ITV have realised that Vernon Kay is not the man for the job – he’s slightly too likeable for the Family Fortunes format. Furthermore, the show has become overly advanced. Purity is the key. You don’t need fancy LED screens and swooping lights – you need dot matrix and a presenter who, if he hadn’t landed the gig, would be compèring on a cruise ship. Forget Bob Monkhouse or Max Bygraves – ITV are bringing back Les Dennis to flirt pathetically with the contestants and say ‘if it’s up there, I’ll give you the money meself’ over and over and over and over and over and over and over. When game shows are good because they’re shit, it’s stupid to change them.

Brian’s Got Talons
Brian May loses the ability to play guitar after an ill-conceived surgical procedure to install hawk-like fingertips to his wrinkly old man hands. Little more than a weak pun. Well, not really a pun at all. Best avoided.

The One Show
Channel Five’s magnum opus. Extensive market research reveals that the average Five viewer finds it tricky to keep up with schedules and differentiate between broadcasts (breathing in and out without assistance is a challenge, frankly), so the planners have condensed their triumvirate of programme areas – sport, porn, Hollyoaks – into one single show. The One Show is broadcast around the clock, merging the key themes to create a peculiar mash-up in which Tony (is he still in Hollyoaks? Probably…) has sex on a tennis court, or gets rogered with a cricket bat or something. To be honest, the content is unimportant; as long as the momentum is maintained by plenty of bright colours and flashing lights, the viewing several will keep slapping their fins together.  

The Apprentice
There’s a great twist coming up in this series. In the boardroom, Alan Sugar’s going to fire every single one of the contestants on the grounds that they’re ‘all fucking shit’. Other reasons he’ll cite will include: arguing animatedly with one another in front of a man they’re hoping to get a job from, constantly misusing the word ‘myself’ (as in ‘that was myself, Lord Sugar’, ‘nobody knows this industry better than myself’, ‘the team consisted of him, her and myself’ etc), lying about their credentials - on the basis that if they were so amazing in their chosen fields, they wouldn’t be begging for a no-name job in an Amstrad back office – and always smelling of sweat. Granted, this is because he calls them to work fifteen minutes before their transport arrives, thus ensuring that they have no time to shower, so it’s his fault – but it’s a super way to belittle them before firing them.
Any contestant who’s guilty of relentlessly over-using the phrase ‘I’m sorry, but…’ when arguing with colleagues won’t just be fired, but will also be branded with the Amstrad logo on their nauseating little buttocks. So that’ll be all of them, then.

Actually, you could just read a book or something.

Historical Misconceptions


Your website is nothing without a decent 'page not found' error message. Click here for more.

News anchors: unskilled

'You Park Like a Cunt'

The clue's in the name - You Park Like a Cunt is a blog about people who park like cunts. Click here and see.

Practical jokes

lol, etc.

The Impossible Quiz

Is it actually impossible? Click below and have a go...


...two charitable organisations that have nothing to do with one another, but who both have wonderful new ads out this week. Behold:

Tenacious fluff

Russian roofers

Breaking into buildings, climbing up to the roof and  monkeying about. These people just don't want to live, do they? Click here.

Black and White People Furniture

Incredible. Just incredible.

Dad of the week

Friday, 20 April 2012

20/04/12 - JuicyPips Guide to Retail Joy

Most people have worked in a supermarket at some point in their lives. To this day I feel a certain fondness for Sainsbury’s – so much more warm and welcoming than the harsh, clinical whiteness of Tesco or the crushing ennui of Morrisons – having spent so much of my life working there. My first job at the age of sixteen was at the Whitstable branch of Sainsbury’s, working on the tills for ten hours a week: 17:30-20:30 Tuesdays and Thursdays, 12:30-16:30 Saturdays. These hours were carefully planned so as not to coincide with either drinking time or hangover time, and the wages funded the beer nicely. By the age of seventeen I was taking on more hours as there was petrol to think about - it was a cushy gig, offering regular hours to pay for the various fluids I needed to buy. I gave it all up at the age of eighteen when I went to university; they did have a scheme where you could switch to the branch local to your uni and return to your home store in the holidays, but I predicted (correctly, as it turned out) that I wouldn’t be able to fit a job into the busy student schedule of sleeping and drinking. But I returned to Saino’s in the uni holidays - which were three months long and involved lots of boozing on the beach, which wouldn’t pay for itself – working in the bakery and various other departments. I knew that store like the back of my hand.
So, is it boring working in a supermarket? No. No it isn’t, because there are all kinds of ways to make it fun. Here’s the JuicyPips guide to retail joy…

Working on the checkouts
This is arguably the best way to make time go quickly when you’re working in Sainsbury’s; as long as the shop’s busy, you’re always active. When I first started on the tills I was quite chatty with people – old ladies love it when you ID them for booze, little kids are equally entertained by being asked to pay for their parents’ shopping. But it quickly became apparent that the general public find it a bit creepy when a checkout attendant tries to engage them in conversation. They just want to buy groceries from you, they don’t want to be friends with you. You are a means to an end. So I made my fun in messing with the customers, pushing the limits of checkout behaviour so that they were slightly irritated but not quite enough to actually have anything tangible to complain about. It’s annoying when the till person rushes all your shopping through as quickly as they can so that you don’t have time to pack it, isn’t it? But what if they rush ten items through at high speed – beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep – and then have a rest so that you can easily catch up, is that annoying? You’re not sure. It niggles, but you’re not totally able to say why.
It’s understandable, if you’re buying a selection of unusual fruit and veg, for the checkout guy to hold up something obscure – ugli fruit, say, or rutabaga – and ask what it is. But it’s much more fun for said operative, who is well versed in the names of odd produce, to whizz such curiosities through without comment before holding up something mundane (celery, cucumber, a lemon) and, looking puzzled, say ‘sorry, can you tell me what this is?’
The key to successful checkout operation is to be a bit of a dick about it, you see.
The best bit is when you have to do a cash run, which involves taking all of the notes out of the till, screwing them into a plastic capsule and firing them through a vacuum tube to the cash office upstairs. This only takes thirty seconds, but can be fleshed out to a full five minutes while the people in your queue try to figure out exactly what you’re up to. It looks scientific and space-y, and makes a super-loud farting noise if you bung a couple of carrier bags down the tube too. Again, you’re just being a dick.

…is what I always really wanted to be doing when I was on checkouts. They’re the same department, and since most checkout people are girls, you’d find as a boy that you’d be sent out to the car park fairly frequently. I’m a simple soul with an unquenchable thirst for car-spotting, so I can happily wander around a busy car park for hours and not get bored. So I did. Frequently. Come rain or shine, there’s always entertainment to be had in rounding trollies up in a car park.
The public are fundamentally quite stupid when it comes to trolley etiquette, either leaving them all over the car park or, if they do have the grace to take them to a trolley bay, trying to plug a big trolley into a little one or repeatedly battering a disabled trolley with a child-carrier until one of them gives. But there’s no point getting wound up about it, that’s just people. None of that really mattered, it was all just background noise to the main activity of the shift: trying to build ever-longer trains of trollies without losing control of the lot and firing them in all directions. We were supplied with canvas belts with hooks at each end with which to tether around fifteen-ish trollies, but you could hook the belts together to create unfeasibly long trains, the risk of chaos increasing with each addition. Trust me, you feel tremendously manly if you can steer a train of trollies five car-lengths long across the full length of a car park. And you feel like a right berk if you lose it halfway and foul up the traffic flow with your freewheeling escapees.
The only downside was the parka they made me wear if it was raining. It had never been washed, and smelled like a tramp’s gusset. (I imagine.)

The bakery
This is by far the best department to work in. OK, it’s a pisser having to come in to work for a 4am start, but it does mean that you can despatch your full eight-hour day by lunchtime and then go and hang out on the beach. Also, it smells of freshly-baked bread (obvs), which is one of the top-five greatest smells known to man, alongside frying bacon, freshly-mowed grass, wet pavements in summer, and two-stroke.
You get to operate all sorts of interesting machinery in there too. Have you seen the size of a supermarket bread oven? They’re frickin’ huge. The slicing machine is a bit of fun – you’ll always have a queue of people asking you to slice their loaves – and if you start to get a bit sleepy, you can have a go on the sealing machine used for packing buns, rolls and the like into cellophane. The melting plastic gives off a real pop.
Oh, and there are vast error margins factored into the bakery’s output, so you can munch on cookies throughout the shift and take a bag of doughnuts home with you. Maybe a couple of French sticks too.
Oh yeah, doughnuts! The jamming machine is ace. Have you ever tried one? It’s basically a huge hopper full of jam with two nozzles sticking out of the bottom; you take a doughnut in each hand, shove the nozzles into them, then push the big button with your elbow to squirt a dollop of jam in. (That’s why doughnuts always look like they have an anus – it’s where the jam nozzle jabbed them.) There’s a control panel on the machine with numbered keys so that you can select the appropriate quantity of jam to squirt – no.1 for mini doughnuts, no.2 for regular ones and so on. On my first day, my evil friend Chris who’d been working in the bakery for a while showed me how to use the jamming machine. He demonstrated the functionality of it, set it to no.99, then let me have a go. I was completely helpless as the jam poured down my arms, seeming like it would never stop. The little tinker.

Taking short breaks
You’re legally obliged to take breaks if you work a shift of longer than four hours. That’s why most youngsters have three- or four-hour shifts, so nobody’s being paid to sit about. (It was a while ago, but I think it was along the lines of a fifteen-minute break every four hours, and half an hour for lunch in an eight-hour shift. Or something like that.)
Supermarket staff rooms are fucking tedious though, so you really might as well be working. The one in Whitstable, if memory serves, contained a broken pool table, a cantankerous kettle, and a fully-sealed smoking room (which, er, probably isn’t there any more!), and usually had five or six people in there looking really depressed. Where’s the fun in that? All it does is sap your energy levels, so you might as well just power on through your shift. It’s not like supermarkets are boring places – there’s always somebody who’s dropped a bottle of red wine or pasta sauce or something equally disastrous, or some kind of vegetable-based emergency in the stock room. If you’re really lucky there might be a bit of shoplifting going on, which means that somebody on the customer services desk will make a call on the Tannoy (I forget the code, it was something like ‘all available staff, code green’) and all the male staff who weren’t behind tills or counters had to run to the exits in case it all kicked off. Ooh, the adrenaline.

Swapping departments willy-nilly
If all else fails, do this. There’s a clear line-management structure, but at the same time nobody really has any idea of what anyone else is supposed to be doing. I mean, if the head of produce has me turn up offering to help out, he doesn’t know that the manager hasn’t asked me to do so, does he? And the same applies to the head of whatever I was doing before that I got tired of – refilling the pick ‘n’ mix or whatever. And it’s important to try all of the departments, just so you know what you like.
You know what’s awesome? The deli counter. There’s a smorgasbord of dangerous equipment to play with there, slicing machines and so forth. And like the bakery, they have generous loss margins, so you can nibble on a Penang bite or tikka samosa as you work. The only real irritant is the customers. People are arseholes at the deli counter, making you measure out improbably precise quantities of cheese, or cut and recut Parma ham for them because they’re never happy with the thickness. Half the time they say ‘Oh, forget it,’ and walk off, leaving you with a load of unsellable off-cuts that then have to go in the bin. (In theory. You put it all in pots and take it home, obviously. Starving kids in Africa would cry dust at your wasted Milano salami.)
If you’re not in the mood for customers – and you seldom are, the public are twats – then there’s lots of fun to be had out the back of the store. In a subsequent job at a Christmas card warehouse, I obtained a forklift licence and got quite nifty at shifting pallets around and stuff; I’d have enjoyed doing that at Sainsbury’s as there was much potential for mischief – their racking was really tall. But in my supermarket days I was keen to unload the delivery lorries with a pallet truck if the weather was good, because it was basically just being paid to be outside in the sunshine. Which is nice.
The inside-y bits at the back of a supermarket are interesting too: the fruit & veg cold-store smells really strongly of peppers, the walk-in milk fridge has swirling mists of icy vapour that make it look like a nineties boy-band video, the bakery freezer doesn’t have a door-handle on the inside (terrifying, that – hopefully that’s not common practice in all supermarkets), the beers, wines & spirits cage is really pungent due to the constant droppages and spillages… there’s much to explore. In fact, next time you’re in a supermarket, just walk through the doors out to the back of the shop and have a poke around. As long as you look like you’re meant to be there, no-one will question it. I guarantee you’ll see at least one of the following: an elderly man with a beard talking to some much younger guys about football, a kid of about sixteen sitting on a pallet of biscuits and reading a magazine, two middle-aged women complaining about the maintenance of the bacon slicer/bread slicer/other piece of dangerous equipment, a variety of people in trainers hoping that this uniform violation will exempt them from being sent to the shop floor, and a huge rack full of discounted food. This last one is the best bit of all. You know that exciting feeling when you get to the supermarket and the discount section is just being replenished, allowing you to get a steak for a quid or a huge block of bargain cheese? That’s nothing. In amongst the stock racking out back is a section where employees of various departments discount things for one another – someone on the fish counter might package up a load of salmon fillets at 20p a go, somebody in BWS might ‘accidentally’ split a crate of Stella and price the individual cans at 10p a pop, a bored bakery employee may make an extra load of cookies and bag them all up for pennies. This happens in every supermarket in the country, it’s all ruled by the pricing gun. That’s why established employees are generally rather portly.

So there you go. Next time you’re in Sainsbury’s, you’ll know what they’re up to.

Caine's Arcade

If this doesn't make you do a little cry then you're a horrible, horrible bastard.

Grab a buddy, it's time to get sticky

Flux Machine

Due to Blogger's apparent inability to host gifs, the images below are static. But click here and you'll see them (and many others) as spectacularly Pythonesque scenes!

Tippex - Hunter & Bear 2012

The effort that's gone into filming all of the different sketches is hugely impressive. Hours of fun!

Old people on Facebook

A collection of befuddled old duffers writing random shit on the walls of restaurants on Facebook. Clicky.

Acoustic fingerstyle

This kid is cooler than you will ever be.

Push to add drama

You've almost certainly seen this, it's had squillions of views. But if not, check this out, it rocks:

Lavatory Self-Portraits in the Flemish Style

Such a brilliant idea. Nina Katchadourian's art project involves improvising a costume from things found on aeroplanes, then photographing herself in the plane toilet with a cameraphone. To date she has over 2,500 images...
Click here.

The Parisian Pinball Park

Rewarding the incompetent. Not sure I approve of that.

Sweet Brown


...inevitably became this...

...and many more besides. Bless you, internet.

In your face, Google

You may well have seen Google's slightly cheesy Project Glass video. If not, here it is:

It's included here not because I particularly love it, but because I really love this beautifully observed retort:

Yeah, take that Google.

Bill Plympton's couch gag

The latest guest couch gag for The Simpsons is by Bill Plympton. It's rather lovely.

Thursday, 5 April 2012

05/04/12 - Turning Thirty

The week after next I’m going to be thirty. That’s scary, isn’t it?

Well, no, of course it isn’t. I’ll still be roughly the same age as I am now, which is appropriate for the amount of time I’ve been alive overall. But it’s commonly accepted that entering your fourth decade is something to freak out about; a symbolic and real tipping point where you finally turn your back on the wild days of youth, tune your stereo permanently to Radio 4 and buy some corduroy slacks. Which is all nonsense, really.

I’ve been watching with interest as a variety of friends reach what is universally referred to as ‘the big three-oh’, and the evident levels of distress this causes them. Some of them won’t stop banging on about it, much to the irritation of everyone they know who’s already over thirty and rather resent the implication that a chronological milestone they’ve long since passed is, in the eyes of relative youth, a marker of decrepitude and decay.

You’re only as old as you feel, really. It’s a cliché but it’s true. I still wear the same clothes as I did when I was a student (in some cases literally), being lucky to have fallen into a job where they don’t seem to give a hoot about me turning up in a hoodie every day. When I look in the mirror I see basically the same person as ten years ago, albeit with a few more laughter lines (or are they grumble crevices?) around the eyes; I giggle internally as I have grown-up conversations with colleagues about work stuff, because I really have no idea what I’m talking about. I still watch as much of The Simpsons and Red Dwarf as I did when I was fifteen; i.e. a lot. I still listen to the same bands as I have done for the past few decades. My evenings, as has been the case for as long as I can remember, consist of watching telly, drinking beer, eating crisps and playing Gran Turismo. [*edit* I wrote this before my daughter was born; my evenings are rather different now, actually.] My absurd lifestyle makes me want to travel back in time, take the teenage me by the shoulders and say ‘seriously, don’t worry, it’s all true: when you’re an adult, you can do whatever the hell you want.’

In January 2009 I wrote a slightly cringeworthy JuicyPips about how lucky we all are to be alive and how we should all do something significant with our lives. Here’s an extract:
Important point number one: you’re bloody lucky to be here.
This is, somewhat unfortunately, a point that you generally only hear emanating from the lips of either an angered schoolteacher or an unwashed hippie with a name like Mulch or Zygote who makes their own tunics from hessian, but it is an important one.
Your dad met your mum at exactly the right time. Every decision they made led, directly or otherwise, to your creation. They got it on at just the right moment. When your pater unleashed his mighty hordes of sticky swimmers, you found yourself racing against 50 million competitors… and you won. That’s a magnificent achievement, well done! Your egg-seeking skills are superb. Your folks looked after you, together or otherwise, to a sufficient standard to ensure that you became a reasonably healthy and well-nourished specimen, able to function as a useful, active, objective and unique member of society. You haven’t been killed by the myriad diseases, lunatics and natural accidents that stalk the land like some mighty tripod of perennial worry. You’re able to get up in the morning to a life of comparative plenty, with all the fresh water you can drink, a strong healthcare network, a fair and equal justice system… it goes on. Just count your blessings once in a while, that’s all.

Important point number two: you only get to do this once.
There’s nothing worse than misunderstanding the work-to-live/live-to-work divide. Don’t get me wrong, it’s extremely admirable to be passionate about your job and to put your back into it – from street-sweeper to Prime Minister, there’s great dignity in being good at what you do. However, we haven’t spent half a million years evolving from primordial slime so that you can spend your Sunday afternoons coming up with witty slogans to sell baked beans to students. Get out once in a while, enjoy yourself. There’s so much to see. You could spend every minute of every day looking at a different part of the world and you’d still barely scratch the surface. Always wanted to visit Easter Island? Go there, then. Don’t visit enough museums? Make it a new hobby. Want to travel around Asia? Give up your job, sell your possessions and jump on a plane. Fancy getting into horse racing? Get a loan and buy a horse. What’s stopping you?
Imagine time as a straight line. Fit everything that’s ever happened in the history of the universe and that will ever happen onto that line. Now look at yourself within all that activity. Insignificant, eh? Your time on earth is but a brief sneeze in the grand scheme of things. Stop being so damned miserable and have some fun. After you die, no-one will want to talk about the tedious arse who spent all their time by their computer in the dark and loved to give checkout girls a hard time for scanning their shopping too slowly. Happiness will enrich you. Don’t waste your life. Those fifty million sperm might be waiting for you at the end and they’ll be pissed off if you screwed it all up.

I’m pretty sure I wrote another one at some point about how important it is to do things that you’ll be remembered for, although I can’t find it now. Anyway, I was wrong. I mean yes, it’s admirable to reach for the stars (apologies if that puts an S Club 7 song into your head, but you can’t blame me for your own rhythmic recall reflex, it probably just means that you really like S Club 7), but it’s ridiculous to assume that everybody should aim for achieving great works that will resonate through the ages. We’re all unique and very damn lucky to be here, that’s an indisputable fact. But so is every one of the other seven billion people on the planet. If everyone did something that was generally considered noteworthy, school history lessons would be a bloody nightmare. The encyclopaedia industry would collapse. I think the key thing to remember is that, while it would be nice to do something as important as inventing television or curing cholera, it’s probably best for all of us if we just try to keep our noses clean and be nice to each other.
I’ll make my mark by doing my own thing, thank you very much. My ‘noteworthy achievement’ can be being happy, not killing anyone and generally doing what I want without being too much of a bastard about it.

Here’s what this is really about: my 30-years-old marker coincides with the having-a-baby marker – it’s a double-apexed tipping point which might make me grow up. I’m taking care of all of the milestones in one fell swoop. Efficient, see? This way I can make the seamless transition into grown-uphood and finally become respectable; I’ll sell my video games, buy a sensible car, invest in a few button-down collar shirts and buy my groceries from Waitrose. I’ll watch Newsnight, eat my five-a-day, abandon social networking as ‘frivolous’, play squash in a pair of Hi-Tecs, take an interest in horticulture, refer to the radio as ‘the wireless’, start making my own preserves and reserve just one specific night of the month for takeaways. I’ll cycle to work, go caravanning and start buying a Sunday paper.

Will I bollocks. I’ll just be a big kid with a baby.


A new movie from Seth MacFarlane? This can only be good.

The art of St Maarten

Some incredible photos of the incomparably scary St Maarten airport; y'know, the one whose runway backs onto the beach. Click here.

YouTube's April Fool

April 1st always throws up a mixed bag of brand activity - some inspired, some cringeworthy. YouTube's effort, below, was excellent; not so much an April Fool, more just a brilliantly executed dig in the ribs.

'I'm too old for this shit...'

Hezbollah’s Terror Tech Museum

War breeds tourism - that's a fact. Click here to see Wired's look inside Hezbollah's rather frightening 'resistance tourist landmark'.

Lee & Herring vs. TOTP

Top of the Pops as it should be: presented by Lee & Herring, and with all the annoying sounds cut out.

Rolling Words

I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later. Snoop Dogg's Rolling Words is a smokable book. Click here.

Bottom Alphabet

Simple. Brilliant.

Every single episode of Itchy & Scratchy