To hell in a milk float

Racism.

Tricky subject for me, racism, because out of the millions of people of any one racial group, I seem to know only one or two of 'em. For example, I know about two East-Asians, two Orientals, two or three Blacks and no Eskimos. It's annoying having such a small minority of minority acquaintances beause it leaves you feeling like an American-made movie, with a few token minority group actors to enable 'em to show it in Europe, which isn't true partly because I'm not a racist and partly because I rarely get a fat, loud bloke in a flatcap telling me what to do through a loud-hailer from a wooden chair marked "Director".

Anyways, what I wanted to ask was "what is racism?". I mean, even the British Nazi Nationalist Party don't consider themselves racist - they simply redefine racism to remove most of the human race from the definition. I'll tell you what racism is: racism, like treason, is merely a matter of dates.

No, I haven't flipped my lid. I'm simply so fabulously intelligent that nobody has realised I'm right yet! There's nothing wrong with slagging off the Ancient Romans, is there? They were an ethnic minority. And nobody cares if you want to crack dirty jokes about the Aztecs, do they?

(-What d'you call a pair of tribal midgets singing in a cage on the back of a wagon?
 -An Inca stereo!)

But when you spraypaint slogans like "WE DON'T WANT YOUR FILTHY INFERIOR KIND IN OUR COUNTRY!" on the side of the Welsh Embassy, it suddenly becomes racism. But in a trillion-billion years, when the world is run by highly evolved creatures that are all descended from the caretakers of French nuclear power stations, it won't matter what race, colour or nationality you insult, because precisely no-one will care.

So, you can rip the proverbial piss out of the Ancient Romans from now 'till 2008 if that's what you enjoy doing (and I like to think it is. Seriously. Wouldn't it be great to form a "We're sick of the Ancient Romans" society, and tour the British Isles beating up schoolteachers and torching museums?), but you say one word against the Dutch and you're a racist. Which is particularly annoying for us as other Europeean nations can say whatever the hell they like about us owing to the sacred international principle of Nobody Likes The British(TM). To be honest, though, we've only got ourselves to blame. If we'd done a little less in the way of global oppression back in the old Top Hat and Smallpox days, it would mean so much less hassle getting everybody to love us nowadays! Look, world - we're sorry! We've given you Cornish Pasties, Jamie Oliver and the Carry On films! What more can we possibly do to make up for it?

Back to racism. ("Back to Racism"? Sounds a bit like a klu klux clan training film, that, but nevermind!)

In fact, there's a good point. The klu klux clan. They're guilty of three grevious offenses, as far as I can see:

1) The conscienceless torture and murder of numerous innocent black people.
2) The misrepresentation of both themselves and their target to a large population of stupid and ignorant Deep South yokels.
3) A deliberate and purposeful insistence on spelling "clan" with a "K".

That felt good! Both the opportunity of striking out at a group who can't retaliate, seeing as they can barely read, let alone handle a list containing three items, and listing! I haven't drawn up a three-point list for quite a while now, and that really hit the spot like you wouldn't believe!

That's about it, really, for racism. I suppose if I were a sociologist or something I could write an entry yet more miserably long than this one is, but I ain't, so I can't. For which you can all be grateful to whatever god, gods, rock stars or celebrity chefs you happen to worship.

Vindy, you can't "accidentally" delete your blog! What you mean is "I've realised just how much of my private life I'm giving away to the general public absoloutely free, and in a moment of sanity I've deleted my blog!" Don't worry, it happens to us all! If you need to broadcast your life for the entire world to see, apply to appear on Big Brother!

Matt, I take it you're the world expert on own-shit-poking, with a mantelpiece full of turd-shaped trophies and a snooker cue which is inexplicably stained brown at on end?

Laura, most people I know say something along the lines of "German wine? You uncultured barbarian, you!", but you go "German wine? Nah - gin's better"! What's wrong with you? Were you bottle-fed from empty pint-glasses as a child or something!? Vodka's tasteless, Lambrini is the equivalent of a massive sign carried above your head for the entire evening which reads "I'm drinking this because it's cheap, and I don't care how mild it is because I plan to drink loads of it! And besides, for some reaseon I think white wine makes me look good!" and cider is for people who haven't discovered bitter!

Rosie, true, but only because you're such a ridiculously complex person you defy all possiblility of my understanding you. And I'm absoloutely certain you do it deliberately!

Purpley, you've flipped! One, don't I have to propose before you can reject me? And Two, the only "Dan"s we have in common are Gingery and Chaos Fairy! Now, I don't know if you've noticed, but Gingery's your brother!

Some things are special because they're common to everyone, like music, art and a bitter hatred of German wines. Others are special because they're known only to a select few, like the identity of Jack the Ripper, the Motorhead cover of the Sex Pistol's God Save The Queen and just what colour Chris Evans' pubic hair is.

But separate from both is value. Things that aren't necessarily special can be valuable. Examples of these include Aston Martins, heroin and massive piles of money in underground vaults. The thing I want to talk about isn't special, isn't valuable, but is somehow still an international phenomenon. And it makes me want to go out and make holes in wildlife.

Harry Potter.


~ Jesus Christ! What a ridiculous intro! Jack the Ripper and Aston Martins and the Sex Pistols and whatever! I'll try to be more relevant from now on! ~

Anyways, Harry Potter. I know they say J.K. Rowling is the greatest writer doing the greatest work since Jesus wrote the Magna Carter to stop Napoleon dodging his tax return, but what do they know about literature? I happen to know for a fact that my sister personally accounts for about half the annual book sales single-handed.

I'm certain there can't be as many Harry Potter fans out there as they say. For one thing, the little shit is fictional! I can understand admiring Nelson Mandela, Ray Mears or Jesus, and let's face it, they were all fairly decent blokes, but not only is Harry Potter not real, he's also a tosser who is apparently a hero to all the other wizards and a national sports recordbreaker, but only manages to save the world on an annual basis! Come on, even Inspector Gadget used to do it once a week!

So, his books are rubbish, his fanbase is as fictional as he is and he could have been outclassed by Pinky and the Brain. So why does everybody in the Developed World know his name? Because, dear reader, he is a sex icon. I know precisely what you're thinking. All the males are going "Really? What's his track record, then?" and all the females are going "Just like a man to say that. Why do you all seem to think that popularity is directly liked to sexual performance? Why can't you just accept that nice people aren't necessarily nice solely because they're getting their end away? Why can't you blah blah blah blah blah...." but before you enter the discussion like the Americans entered Vietnam, look at the assorted facts I place before you like a selection of cheeses at a fancy party. Like a selection of cheeses at a fancy party, turn your back on them for one second and they'll be gone. Which leaves you in the position of having to hang around the empty table waiting for someoner to replace them, trying to look as though standing next to an empty piece of wood by yourself is a very trendy thing to do. But I think we passed the point where my analogy breaks down a fair while a go, so let's backtrack a bit:

Harry Potter is a sex icon. Well, there's the significant fact that I've never seen girl who wouldn't if she got the chance. Even presented with the most attractive, interesting sexy women ever found in magasines that have "50 astounding ways to spice up your sex life/failing marriage/spouse's attempted suicide" or "101 signs that your boyfriend is planning an arson attack on your gran" in a little pink box on the cover, about one in a dozen men will still somehow inexplicably find something wrong with her, just to make some sort of gender-based statement. But with Harry Potter, nope. They all love him.

Also, Harry Potter isn't getting any. Suprising, for a sports star and national hero with magic powers, isn't it? The evidence points to a torrid, behind-the-scenes sex life that would make a continental footballer jealous. And speaking as the world's oldest virgin (check me out in the Guinness Book Of Records under "People Who Might As Well Give Up And Become Pope At This Stage"), it's making the rest of the gender feel slightly annoyed. Besides, we're the ones supposed to be in shady chatrooms talking about young children! We're the ones who should be obsessing over some useless trivial fad that just won't go away! We're the ones who should spend more time each day in a daydream than we do in the bathroom! But squealing girlie Harry Potter fans have taken these things away from us, and made them equal-opportunities vices, like hard drugs and not eating brown bread. Pretty soon leaving the toilet seat up and beer bellies will be all we have left!

 Right, so Harry Potter is a sex icon, is stealing male stereotypes out from between our testicles, is taking the place of genuine great men like the Dalai Lama and Stalin, and doesn't even redeem himself by saving the world once in a while.

 But it's all okay, isn't it, because he's written such appealing, educational, entertaining books? Na-ah. I've read one of 'em, and I'd be prepared to swear in a court of law that a lifetime in the North Korean army would be more appealing, the little warnings on fag packets are more educational and poking your own shit with a stick is more entertaining.

 It's not that I'm going out of my way to find stupid objections to it, neither. Some people (mainly from the United States) are against Harry Potter because, get this, "It teaches little children witchcraft"! Christ! Nobody can practice withcraft, not even the flaming witches! Y'know why? Because it's all fiction! I can accept objecting to Harry Potter on genuine grounds, like "He's attractive", but on the grounds that "He's making our kids summon the devil"? The only good thing about the books is that they annoy these morons.

The bad thing is that they annoy everyone else, too.

Ant, embarrased? Just ask her the time, fool! Where's your initiative? You're not a pessimist, are you? I would've thought that in your case it'd be "the glass is half empty, so who's getting the next round, eh?"

Biscuit, hey, you want researched information, go buy the Guardian. You want badly written, inaccurate, halfwitted babble, come - take a seat! In pointing out my typo you've committed the literary equivalent of ABH - I feel the same way about punctuation that most people feel about sex! The misfortune occurred because I changed the sentence structure partway through typing it out.

DJ, I get all the crossing-related thrills I need by standing at the edge of the road rather than on the pavement! Wild, eh! Personally, though, I think they should remove buttons from crossings altogether, partly because of all the trouble they cause and partly to help tidy the gene pool up a bit.

Chaos Fairy, that's because in Richmond it's often quicker to wait for a natural gap in the traffic than it is to wait for the heavily-biased-in-favour-of-traffic-lights to change! Don't be so judgemental!

Rosie, I'm still employed! See, that's the difference between us - I'd do anything for money, wheras you'd do anything for

Laura, I'm one of those extra-button-pressers! We're not stupid - we just don't trust bus drivers! I was talking to one once, and apparently they have a little transmitter which can change traffic lights to green at a distance! They're manipulators of nature!

Purpley, just how should I reply to "Trust me, I'm nuts?"

Me, I'm not a truster. I can confidently doubt pretty much anything. I doubted we'd win the Olypmics bid, for example, and that Arsenal would win the cup. I regularly and frequently see little old ladies crossing the road when there are massive geriatric-crushing lorries carrying anvils coming around the corner and think "I doubt she'll make it". I think similar thoughts on seeing racing pigeons flying across a gun club's outdoor pistol range and think the same thing, but in this case, I think everyone does. Strangely enough, the few things I've believed in include the Millenium Dome, the Beagle Space Project and the Soviet Union.

But then why, those of you who know me must ask, am I so childishly easy to lie to? Small kids especially, find me amazingly easy to outwit. It's because there is a basic, bog-standard level of trust that I seem to posess. And it's peoople without that basic trustingness that I hate.

I'm not just talking about policemen, insurance people and bartenders, although all of them, without exception, are sworn against trusting me. What really gets me is the people who turn up at a zebra crossing where a dozen odd people are waiting, and make their first contribution to the gathering the act of pushing the little button that's supposed to make all the cars stop. Christ, you fool - leave it alone! Show some trust in our ability to press the button that every human being has shown the ability to press since nineteen-fifty, you faithless self-worshipping moron!

And what's worse is that when people turn up to the crossing they stand, naturally, at the edge of the road. The next people who turn up then have to stand behind them. And the next lot behind them, etcetera. Which means that mister or missus I-alone-can-make-this-traffic-cease (and it's usually a missus, for whatever reason!) has to force their way through everybody to press the button everybody has pressed anyway, which can result in a sort of scrum in which everyone tries not to fall into the road at the same time as everyone else tries not to occupy the same space that whoever's next to them is occupying. Usually, the idiot who caused it manages to push the button, and then, in some sort of imitation of politeness, tries to return to the back of the crowd! Look what happened when you tried to get there! Don't go through everyone again! You know what'll happen!

And what usually does happen at this point is that that's when the lights turn red, and everyone could cross, if it wasn't for this dick who'd shoved them into a feat of balance that makes the Leaning Tower of Piza look like a Little Chef. And so you waste half of the tiny window of time you get to cross in before the two boy-racers revving up and chicken-stepping forward next to each other at the lights are legally allowed to kill you.

But the people who're responsible for the whole thing (and look absoloutely delighted when the light turns red, as if they're button-pressing skills somehow saved the day) only started coming out again quite recently. I don't know if they hibernate, or what, but they're here now, and must be stopped before they become a plague. So, if you see someone like this, please please please do the world a favour and shove them into the road. Thanks.

Bec, you forgot to take the pith aht ov hith voith! I thought you'd be the first person to think of that!

Laura, it wasn't so much groovy as ridiculous, but I still miss it! It was groovy in a Nathan Barley sort of way, and that's the best that could be said about it! But my handbag is small! It's just about large enough to carry a fat squirrel! I should have consulted you beforehand!

Rosie, it's not a laughing matter! How heartles can you get! And you quite work experience? Vive la revoloution! You show 'em, sister!

DJ, you've clearly thought about this alot more than I have! Well, I'm glad all possibilities have been explored so thoroughly!

Ant D, give me time - I'm on the ground, but I'm not down for the count! Even as we speak it's growing back! But what really gets to me is that a mate of mine had indie hair too, and he had it cut for school about three weeks ago, meaning his'll grow back before mine will!

~UPDATE! Rosie is blogging again! Pop over and abuse her!~

Well, another day another education-board initiative. And so I'm doing work experience once again. This time at the mayor's office. (Because I am, after all, just a pawn in the game of national politics!)

Seeing as the council already have people doing everything that could concievably need to be done, there isn't an awful lot for me to do except things which don't need to be done, like chasing butterflies and file-management. But that's half the problem. See, doing nothing when there's nothing to do is sheer torture! The fun comes only in doing nothing when they actually want something done. But they never do! The only way I can effectively task-evade is picking the phones up and ignoring the person on the other end. Give me nice, manageable school any day!

But now for some me-time. Two major things to report, firstly: they made me cut my hair! It's still longer than average, of course, but I still feel like Colina! But the haircut! Emotionally, it was like a vasectomy done by the people who brought the world haggis. But physically, God! Now there was a slight difference between this haircut and bayonet practice at the Blind Institute, but that's as far as I'll go. The bloke with the sharp things did things to the back of my neck that would have earned him a medal if he'd done it to Germans fifty years ago. And to add insult to injury, I now look like a moron! Well, more like a moron, anyway. I'm not going to waste time and effort describing how stupid I look, but you can take my word for it - you don't want to see me for at least two months!

And on to "secondly". Now, I've made a fair few questionable purchases in my time. That's public knowledge. From a plateful of sushi, which my kidney (or whatever it is that deals with the sudden intrusion of six ounces of raw fish) still claims hazard pay against, to my beloved electric-blue fishing hat, to my microwave (long story, but it was just so alluring! I think I'm probably one of the only two-microwave families in Britain!), there are items out there that I'd probably have been better off not buying. It's not a question of crossing the line. I've been doing that for years. But now I've gone from crossing the line to zipping over it in a Bentley, planting a Union Jack on the other side and pruning the surrounding vegetation.

I've bought a handbag. Well, not quite a handbag - the male version of the same thing. But you wouldn't think it to look at the thing. It's not even the trendy, executive I-need-it-to-keep-my-filofax-and-my-Yakult-drink-in model. It's the blue plastic version with the chunky metal zip. It'd look better on the sort of people who wear arctic boots and smoke Superkings. I don't know why I bought it. I have absoloutely nothing whatsoever to put in it, and plan to never ever wear it ever anywhere no-how.

And these are dangerous times to be carrying bags around in, especially if you look as dodgy as I do, but people don't actually worry that I may be a terrorist - they all just assume I'm gay. I pass people in the street, and I can imagine their conversations altering as I go past:

- "Mummy, is that a terrorist?"

- "No, darling, just a poof."

- "What's a poof, mummy?"

- "Ask my ex-husband, honey"

I really should do a screenplay shouldn't I!

Shan, wrong! No photo whatsoever on the page! I'm getting the messaage "no index.html found! Start creating your website now!" and so on!

Bec, I'm not listening! Jamie Oliver is my hero! Don't knock him!

Laura, true - I'll remember that if ever I'm feeling suicidal: "Well, I've lost my home, my job, my car, my partner and my left leg, but hey - at least I wasn't a fat ginger baby!"

Oh, you hope that, do you? Vindictive, arentcha?

Shan, i can't resist - "consign: to decieve a written notice"! Tee hee! I should write for the dictionary people, me!

DJ, soul? Everyone knows that mortal man loses his soul the moment he goes and eats something from McDonalds!

Vindy, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry! Satisfied? But seriously - if you ever eat anything cooked by me you take your life into your hands! Hurry-up with this world conquest, though - I'd absoloutely love to see a cake-based society! I still think it's inferior to a society in which everyone has to model themselves on a character from The Magic Roundabout, but it's worth a try!

Well, I'm not going to churn out some sort of tirade against terrorism because frankly I don't see the point. People turn to terrorism because they feel there's no other way they can get their point across, but whether because it's so obscene that nobody will listen or because it's so alien nobody wants to hear I'm willing to leave to the bigots on both sides to argue about. But terrorism, like spraying Lynx on a wet dog, doesn't change anything. How, politically, has the London Transport bombing (let's face it - people, including the British government, have been comitting unforgivable atrocities since the year dot, but what other terrorist incident is likely to bring on an epidemic of moronic moral standpoints like this one?) changed anything? It hasn't changed a sodding thing. It's just an extensive campaign of pointless murder.

 Oh dear - I seem to have started this entry by lying, haven't I? Nevermind. If every other Londoner feels the need to make a complex moral judgement based on precisely no philisophical background whatsoever, I think I can make out quite a good case for doing the same.

 Right, on to other things. No, actually. Not onto other things. Say what you like about me, I just haven't the heart to sit here and chat about nothing in particular after all that. I've said my penny's worth, and I think I'll leave it at that for now. Of course, all I've done is state the bleeding obvious, but it's made me feel slightly better and at least I've been quite brief about it.

Photographs. Barring the inspiration for a brilliant Def Leppard song, what are they any good for? No need to think about it - I'll tell you. Absoloutely nothing, that's what.

Tidying up yesterday I came across a jiffy bag full of photos of myself at various stages throughout my life, including such popular favourites as Age One - Naked In The Bath, Age Two - Naked In The Bath, Age Three - Naked In The Bath and Age Four - Hitting The Photographer With A Drilling Hammer. Now as human beings go, I'm a pretty open chappie. I don't have many secrets, and those that I do have everyone seems to know about anyway. But open or no open, if there's one thing I can't stand it's people seeing me at some young point in my life doing something so incomprehensibly stupid you wouldn't even expect to see it on Big Brother. But, possibly becaused I was cursed by a gypsy cameraman at birth, every photo taken of me shows me in the most compromising position possible. If the police ever decided to put me under surveillance, they'd somehow end up at the conclusion that 95% of my day is spent just wandering around scratching my arse, masturbating and blowing bubbles in my drink with a straw.

And now my dad has posession of these photos. Not because I'd be thick enough to actively relinquish material so absoloutely, completely and utterly embarassing, you understand, but only because most members of my immediate family have more sophisticated intelligence-gathering techniques at their disposal than MI5. Months before Tony Bliar had any inkling of the Iraqi situation, my dad's friend's mother's cousin in Norway said that her grandad's childhood friend's stockbroker living in Baghdad said he knew there would be trouble because his tea leaves had taken the shape of a cruise missile and his dog was ill.

But anyways, I'd probably happier with Gary Glitter in posession of my childhood photos than my family. But then, Gary Glitter probably wouldn't feel the need to go touring the country hunting down members of the family so distantly related from us that they're almost human and showing them photo albums and filling them with stale Jaffa Cakes.

My dad hasn't quite gone so far, obviously, but it only means all the more torture when people next come round. In much the same way as all American family photo albums contain the family armaments collection, and all German families' photo albums consist of fondly displayed photos of the teenagers' sexual excesses, so my family's photo albums consist almost entirely of photos of me proudly showing off my genitals, or vomiting in the bath. (The ones of me when I was a small child are pretty bad, too!)

And people do come round! The purpose of family visits, just like the purpose of arms talks, has different benefits for each involved party. The home side get the chance to unload all the stale cakes and biscuits they've been stockpiling, and the away side get the chance to see the home side in ridiculous positions at different points in their childhood.

Wheras the Foreign Office in all it's glory only gets to see photos of disassembled IRA munitions, and even then it still has to eat it's stale Custard Creams itself. Amateurs.






Vindy, you would consign me to hell? Bit harsh, isn't it? I mean - you've probably never shopped at Sainsbury's, but I hardly wish to torture and kill you at all!

Rosie, Rosie and Rosie, this is just a guess, but has anyone ever told you you are ever so slightly mad? Thought so.

 Ant, scrabble? Where's your patriotism? Monopoly all the way, man!

Bec, we have the highest? Wahey! Eng-er-land, Eng-er-land, Eng-er-land!

DJ, I climed Helvellyn. They wouldn't let us up Scafell! Helvellyn's pretty much the same, so they tell me, barring a small height difference and a pub at the bottom. I plan to go up Scafell sometime, anyway, just to make some sort of a statement against the forces of tectonic plate movement.

 Shan, you're back! How'd it go? And where's my photo, eh? And what's with bandying the name of the second greatest band in the world?

Actually, Batman does't return. As the adverts are saying, Batman begins. I return. I've spent the last million odd years in the Lake District, doing such studious geographical things as sitting around, standing around and lying around. And trying to catch sheep, naturally.

But what has happened in my absence? I notice this nice little new update of the Blogspirit text editor, but that's not the important thing. The important thing is that I fondly imagined you all to be incapable of handling my - thankfully temporary - absence. I'd hoped that after a few days of a lack of posting you'd all sneak quietly off to some nice quiet bridge overlooking some nice raging torrent, tie a stale meat pie to your ankle, leave a note on the edge that reads "Please do not feed the fishes: I am", and taken a crash course in base jumping, crash being the operative word.

But no. I have a cursory skim through your blogs, and what do I find? You're all still alive, well and happy. I'm disappointed in you.

But on to more cheerful things. Nay, on to astounding, world-shattering things. Of course, given the size of Britain's population it's always been on the cards, but the odds of these three people in the country being in the same room at the same time are phenomenally low. I don't know how this text editor, however recently updated, can possibly convey the emotion I feel as I say this, but: There are two young Brummie lasses who are Sainsbury's fans!

I'll leave you to digest this astounding information.

...

Wow.

Right, now. Anything else? Oh yes - I've been up a mountain. The second highest in England. I don't know why they chose the second highest. I mean who wakes up one day and thinks "Y'know what I'd really love to do? What I'm really ambitious to try and achieve here before I snuff it? I'd like to stand on the summit of the second highest mountian in England" Quite how I intend to work this information into any form that may be of any possible use or interest to any of you I have no idea, but there it is - up I toddled. I only wish I'd had the foresight to bring a little flag with me.

So I climed this mountain. You'd think that it'd be a fantastic place to spend your time, up a mountain, but in reality there isn't actually an awful lot to do once you get there. If you've a large enough rucksack you can bring your girlfriend along and join the mile high club, but A) I'm a lonley, lonley singleton, and B) The blasted mountain is only about half a mile high. So in order to join the club I'd have to A) Pull, and B) Climb the Pyrenees. I don't know which is the bigger challenge! But seriously, what is there to do up a mountain? You can't look at the view, because you're standing in a cloud. You can't yodel, because you have a very British sense of public decency, you can't throw things off because they could kill people underneath. So what are your options? Well, after you've got a few laughs by phoning for a pizza, you can either commit suicide or drink tea from a thermos flask.

That's abut it, really. Thankyou for your patience!

Ant, photo's been taken - all I'm waiting for is a certain someone to finish jollying it up in Barcelona and get on with putting it online for me.

Rosie, You do realise a court summons doesn't constitute "Chatting up", dontcha?

DJ, that makes you either a mental patient or a Continental chef.

Vindy, "not poodle boy"? If that's the way you want to play it, I'd like to point out that your name is what Germans say during a storm.

Bec, yeah - Steve Irwin.

Vindy, don't! Please! I've been eating canteen food for a week. The mere thought of a nice fat greasy hamburger is torture!