When Will We Learn To Laugh?

This country seems to have some kind of obsession with taking comedy out of context. For the world's comedy central, there is a worryingly high amount of pointless outrage over comedians' quips milling around our streets and sending angry emails.

Jeremy Clarkson, last night, was interviewed on The One Show, and made some supposedly outlandish comments about the striking public sector workers who stopped much of the country's usual proceedings in their plea for improved pensions.

It is being reported that 'thousands have complained to the BBC following Clarkson's comments', presumably most of them have made issue with the Top Gear front man after watching this video:

If any of them were to be attentive enough to see the full conversation, they'd see that Clarkson made this extreme judgement as a parody of the BBC's even-handed approach to all things political. He begun this questioning by saying the striking was "fantastic, absolutely fantastic". The joke was not about the strikers, merely about the approach of the BBC, how is this being overlooked by civilised society?

The positive comment was equally subversive and devious, yet this one fails to make headlines as the hysterical media pumps up the pseudo-story and force Clarkson into a corner in which he apologises for his 'scandalous' comments.

This whole palaver happened in 2008 with Russell Brand and Jonathan Ross:

These phone calls were genuinely hilarious and most of the complaints regarding this incident were from people who'd made assumptions without listening to the audio.

I just wish comedians will continue to have the balls to make these judgements and air them to the public. As comedy is such an inherent part of British culture, it continually baffles me that people are so unwilling laugh at themselves.

We're an ignorant, paranoid nation of tea-drinkers and cricket-lovers, and I can only hope we don't get stuck on our high horse and fail to see the funny side of our peculiar little oddities.

The Loose Ends of Causal Correlation

Humanity has an uncanny ability to neatly tie up loose ends of our knowledge with huge flights of fancy. This is a frustrating phenomenon that logical thinkers are continually trying to destabilise by diluting with education and reasoning, yet we remain stuck in a rut in which science has taken a back seat for far too long as myths and fiction rule society’s thinking.

Our brains are keen to stick to linear lines of logic – A happening before B, and therefore A being a cause – yet, for many people, this order of occurrence is enough proof that the former either provoked or wholly resulted in B. This intuitive way of thinking is causes us to accept that 2 precedes 3, 4 follows 3, and 1 begins the whole process – what is seemingly a sensible thing to believe in theory, but the real world cannot be pigeon holed so easily.

Events interrelate and seemingly important happenings can have no relation to overall results, and equally overlooked factors can have drastic effects in the long run. Yet the natural inclination to assign cause and effect is an over powering one, and it forces us into hasty decisions. We have all made hideously premature judgements that we have later regretted or let skew future decisions through our unfounded assumptions.

I recently had one of these occurrences made clear to me by a friend; Dom (see beloew) drew my attention to the threat of a double dip recession facing the UK economy. One could easily assume that, as the government ought to have good control of our economy, this is wholly their doing, but one must approach these things with a level head. As one young Tim Hoyland did, wading in to give some reasonable perspective. I then followed up with some kind of weak and disappointingly unfunny attempt at satire that merely showed my ineptitude. I’ll not be expecting a phone call from Ian Hislop for a regular article in Private Eye.

Nevertheless, this shows exactly how we are programmed to accept a given series of events, provided we have a facilitator and a result. We can be worryingly callous with the middle bit.

These causal relationships are formed and embedded into our minds by anyone seeking to direct our thinking. I just finished A History of the World in Ten and a Half Chapters (well worth a read if you’re looking) which discusses the uncertainty of historical storytelling, a point that is seemingly evident here. A healthy dose of perspective in approaching any issue is a sensible route to take, I feel.

Whilst allowing ourselves a reasonable level of scepticism, this does mean we unsettle the earth beneath our feet; by raising suspicions about the building blocks of society, we raise questions about our own identity. Whether you chose to rebel against it or conform wholly to the norms of society, this predetermined entity needs to have a strong base for you to either stand on or push against.

As these suspicions grow, we are forced into only looking to the present for reassurance of what is real, the past and future steeped in doubt (at least until time travel is possible, so I’ll keep my eyes on result from CERN) and we are left with only the material present to reassure ourselves of what has not been skewed by middle men.

Approach everyday stories given to us can show how easily we can be led. Something, I’m sure, is put some constantly to the evils of the media, as they try to corrupt our minds and create a world of greed-driven morons, totally inept of thinking without the aid of a TV or Google. What is often forgotten, though, is that people enjoy playing into the hands of the media, we love to be told a story: we yearn for someone to spin a yarn to us, to play with our emotions and to fool us. The media is there to entertain us, and if it begins to change us, we have the control and inclination to stop consuming, we are not mindless drones.

Examples of this direction of emotions are everywhere, but I turn to the documentary series Frozen Planet that has captivated the country every Wednesday for the past few weeks.

A polar bear is as easily shown to be a killer, a ball of pure muscle designed to rip apart seals and other small animals in order to sustain its high octane life of hunting. Just as easily, though, this animal can be shown to be a gentle bear, its white coat luring us to stroke it and its long snout and almost canine features makes it lovable to the dog-lovers amongst us.

When either side of this coin is shown we willingly forget the other, not because David Attenborough has hoodwinked us as a part of his dastardly plan, but because we understand that the world is an infinitely complex place and we cannot reasonably expect to fathom it all at once.

Equally, we are complicated beings – our emotions are a finely tuned set of chemicals and pulses, which are manipulated with ease by anyone who knows how to tell a story. It is our prerogative, as owners and users of these emotions to feel them, to experience the full range of things we can, and similarly, we also wish to see all the things that can spark these emotions – keen to partake in the confusing world, and taking ourselves away from the motionless dullards some people seem to think media-consumers are.

It is imperative that we experience things, that we delve into the unknown and see where things start, understand how they develop and revel in their results. We are not primitive beings as part of a complex web of life; we are hosts of one of the most complex entities in the known universe – the human brain. A tool that is moulded by complex societies, formed by complex developments of social and biological evolution, caused by incredibly intricate yet bafflingly simply physics and chemistry .

It is these systems of science and creation – the wonderful concepts so carefully created and monitored for accuracy – that can explain the most inexplicable occurrences around us. The fanciful spiritualists and religionists can keep their scriptures, their tarot cards and their flights of fancy, I will happily bask in glory of logic and reason and allow myself.

I can see why people might want to leave out the middle stage of logic and just skip from cause to effect, but it is so much more rewarding and enchanting to discover the rhyme and reason behind all the world’s processes. The intricacies of the universe will continue to baffle humanity forever, but what will never go away is that longing to not be baffled, stage 2 and 3 may never be discovered, but looking for them is cause enough for celebration.

The Lies of The Sun

My feelings for the unfathomably popular publication – The Sun – are fairly obvious; the continuous spiel of irrelevant and uninteresting nonsense continues to be read by the pig-ignorant and is thoughtlessly lapped up as the mutant limb of the Murdoch empire grapples with their independent thought and thrusts speculative flights of fancy into the realms of ‘truth’.

I’ve had mild grumblings regarding this celeb-obsessed rag before, but this morning I awoke to the news that a good friend of mine had a ‘night of lust’ with X Factor’s resident librarian, Frankie Cocozza.

This ‘story’ is yet another example of an exaggerated and fictitious tale, conceived almost wholly within the minds of two dullards, concerned only with making the front page and becoming Rupert Murdoch’s latest lap dog. Andy Crick and Caroline Grant are typical examples of these Sun journalists; pedalling lies about a topic that has no relevance to the real world and has greater ramifications for no-one but the slandered.

The cowardly language used by these tabloids – ‘romp’, ‘night of lust’ – tickle around the edge of meaning and toy with the line of the law. The public all know their intentions, yet the arbitrary law allows this foul innuendo to prevail and the ill-talented writers like Crick and Grant are given free rein to fantasize about the habits of pseudo-celebrities, hell bent on simply being famous.

The system of remaining legally ambiguous enough for publishing emphasizes the fact (yes, I am able to deal in those) that the article they’ve written isn’t worth the ink it’s printed with. If there was a story worth printing, there would be facts available to report on and something to actually tell the country. As it is, explicit nudges are made towards a fabricated event and the ever-willing hoards of the ill-informed make the leaps of judgement necessary.

Thanks to the wonders of the internet, these readers make sweeping judgements within moments and share them instantly;

It must really be quite humbling to have someone calling themselves ‘cats-dogs-hamsters’ putting you to rights, and also I imagine it would make you change your life around immediately. Some hideously stupid Sun-reader deciding that you have no shame or morals is certainly something that would make me sit up and listen.

The problem is that the judgements spread, this story will be taking up by other more reputable papers (although still rather questionable as they are reporting on the X Factor) and the stereotype has the potential to stick.

To make the matter worse, Crick and Grant haven’t even spoken to the two girls linked to the fictional ‘romp’. Quotes have been put together to give the story credibility and presented as if they were actually collected from the horses’ mouths. The dabbling with the law surely comes into problems when manufactured quotations are given as hard facts, yet the gold plated lawyers Murdoch has spawned would easily deflect any attempts at justice by any ‘little people’.

It really does astound me that people continue to read and believe the endless tirade of fiction that comes out of that god-awful newspaper. I implore you to boycott this terrible publication and refuse to believe any lies that come from its bowels.


This post, I feel, now needs adapting slightly since the publication of a follow-up story in which said friend admitted various deeds with the X Factor charmer.

I still hate The Sun, though.

Late-Night Train Travel

There’s nothing quite like the solemnity of a late night train, as the doors bleep and flash their willingness to open to a baron, silent carriage that is simply waiting for the next station with heavy lids and blurry eyes.

The rumble of movement subsides and gives a brief moment of stillness in the night. A lone passenger decides to depart and sparks into life the sole event reliable enough to stir you from your delicate state of half-sleep; the invigorating snap of alertness that comes from the chill of the evening air tickling your ankles as your gently warmed microcosm is thoughtlessly bitten into by the inky blackness.

The muting of announcements and the subsidence of the hubbub of daytime travel, paired with the foetal rocking and gentle vibrations through the sombre darkness outside pushes us all into a state of drowsiness, while we desperately cling to consciousness, dreading the moment we emerge from sleep – eleven stops past home – at the end of the line with no locomotion until the early hours of tomorrow morning.

Despite my unrelenting disappointment of Sunday-service trains, the experience of dozing through the coastal countryside is a somewhat comforting one. The familiarity of the obscure station stops and the knowing feeling of what is still to come makes the journey infinitely easier to stand. Especially when I have unusual picnics to feast upon.

I also saw this on the Stephen Merchant Amazon page, any fans of the radio shows and podcasts will surely join me in a chuckle. (Bottom left, click for higher resolution)

Is It Weird to Eat a Scotch Egg on a Train?

Yet another marathon journey traversing a disappointingly small portion of the southern coast in an unreasonably long period of time was the focus of my day, but this time I’d a fairly substantial food parcel packed to distract my attentions from the hours of travel.

As I sat on my second of three trains after eloping from my second of two buses as Littlehampton, I cracked open my Northiam Dairy Live Creamy Fruit Yoghurt and began to question the appropriateness of my selection of scotch eggs, cherry tomatoes, yoghurt and creamy coleslaw that my ever-doting yet somewhat-erratic mother had thrust upon me before my quest to Dorset.

I have always felt, through primary and secondary school – as I would, day in day out, dig into my unchanging sandwich, crisps and biscuit – that a packed lunch should be wholly consumed with nothing but the natural-born implements we are blessed with. The requirement of a fork, knife or spoon elevates that particular snack to being paired with either dining at home or in a professional establishment where implements are easily accessed and cleaned away. Kiwi fruits, breakfast cereals of any kind, and liquid-based foodstuff, or yoghurt and coleslaw – as I, for some reason, had ought to remain in these safe havens.

I feel it is important to travel light, so to carry unnecessary, un-disposable tools with you seems counterintuitive. It might make for happy eating, but it most certainly does not make for sensible travel. A light, uncluttered satchel is definitely the way forward to a happy journey.

My incognito consumption also drew my attention to another issue with this form of eating; it simply feels weird. I found myself popping my head above the seats to check if anyone was around, stuffing as much as I could into my mouth before anyone had the chance to get near; so desperately keen that my peculiar meal was to go unnoticed by my fellow passengers that the entire experience was ruin for me.

The peach. That’s just occurred to me. Bloody peaches.

The only safe place to enjoy the sweet flesh of a good, juicy, ripe peach is leaning over a sink, ready to rinse your hands and head after your delicious treat. And it has to be kept at that – a treat. One cannot make this a regular habit, for risking familiarity with this system and becoming tempted to test it on other foods with a high rating on the mess-spectrum.

It is of the utmost importance that we resist this urge to roll this technique out past the delicate, fleshy fruits. Lest we risk jeopardising the future of developed society as restaurants employ the use of bidets instead of tables – the tap ever-ready to spray your soiled features with a cleansing and refreshing dowsing of tap water they’d happily pass off as bottled and charged £2 for.

Despite the impending doom western society faces thanks to my hypothetical situation, I was still travelling with my hodgepodge picnic.

Scotch eggs are such a strange thing to even conceive. The fungal texture of the egg paired with its sulphurous odour is enough to put off some of the most world-weary eaters, yet the Scotch decided to add to the peculiarity by wrapping it in a thick layer of mysterious sausage meat, breadcrumbs and deep frying.

People of the East and tribal jungle-dwellers eat insects and have strange delicacies, but few go so far as this odd concoction in textures, flavours and the mixture of ingredients – spanning from a failed poultry ovum to arbitrary cuts of pig.

And yet, I found myself sinking my teeth into the monstrously eclectic mix on a Southern Railway train from Littlehampton to Southampton, coming to the conclusion that – despite its distinctly compact and clean consumption – it was very much not suitable for this place. This particular food must be eaten at home, this such wonder should not even be sampled at a restaurant.

A Scotch egg ought to be an inherently private indulgence and I, for one, shall never again taste the eggy, meaty, greasy delight in public, as long as I can have control over my consumption of food.

The Language of Sexism: A Big Fuss Over Nothing

NB: I have been reliably informed from a number of sources that I come across in a sexist light from this post. I would like to reference my lecturer again to rectify this issue; feminists are not exclusively women, everyone should be feminists as the concept of feminism is equality between men and women.

This post does not attack women, or even feminism, it simply attacks one small area of one of feminism's arguments. I am not a sexist and I would not like people reading this to make that assumption.

Thank you.

Gender & Sexuality is the newest wonder to glide so effortlessly into my life and cause me yet more frustration and petulance in the face of getting this bloody degree.

In a recent lecture, feminism reared its foul head and began to approach my disinterested notepad. I’d seen it as it clambered over the horizon and begun its fetid journey towards me, yet its arrival was still greeted with a steely gaze and a smattering of unrepeatable phrases.

One such point made in said lecture was one of the word ‘mankind’ being inherently sexist as it assumes that ‘man’ is the focus and therefore more important. I see the point and, unsurprising, would like to challenge it. Our lecturer suggested that ‘humankind’ would be a more ambiguous, and therefore less sexist, term to use in this context.

I can only, in my ignorant and heavily prejudiced male brain, imagine that the offending articles in the word ‘mankind’ are the three little, generic symbols m, a and n (in that order). If my assumption is correct, why are they ignored in the supposedly-acceptable ‘humankind’? Surely they hold the same potency, here, as they do in the aforementioned frowned-upon word choice.

It seems to me that so-called feminists are ignoring the fact that adding letters to words does, in fact, allow the newly-born lexicon to disregard the previously associated meaning of the former word. Although they do embrace this rule with accepting ‘humankind’, is it suggests they approve of the word ‘human’ which has had its meaning changed by ‘hu’.

The power afforded to the humble ‘hu’ by these feminists is pretty powerful, although one ought not be surprised as the letters ‘man’ manage to conjure up such potent and uncomfortable meanings for subscribers to this line of thinking.

The claim that the word ‘humankind’ is less sexist than ‘mankind’ utterly ignores this linguistic (and simply logical) fact, that there only a finite number (26 in modern English, for those of you unbeknownst of this fact) of letters, so repetition is fairly likely when a language reaches the lofty heights of containing a dictionary with the wealth of upwards of 700,000 words to its arsenal.

I am not so ignorant assume the occurrence of ‘man’ in ‘mankind’ is random and is not inherently linked to the meaning of a male Homo Sapien, I realise the relationship they have. But, in terms of the evolution of language, the creation of ‘mankind’ is not a sexist attack on women, it is merely a description of the entirely of highly evolved apes on this little planet.

It is fairly obvious in the currently linguistic climate that words and phrases are no longer (not that they ever were) stitched irrevocable to the meaning they currently have; ‘gay’ once meant joyous, ‘wicked’ once had the connotation of evil, and sick used to mean both vomit and disgusting. Nowadays, these words can mean drastically different things – their original meanings still drifting around somewhere in the ether – as the new age of language architects and engineers – namely the youth generation (as it seems to have been for many generations) – craft new meanings and significances for previously familiar words.

I often hear people of my generation using words that I simply have no grasp of, I believe the (unjustly) popular TV show The Only Way Is Essex has managed to cast a handful of new words into circulation. This is simply what happens as language is very malleable and adaptable to the wants and needs of its users. ‘Ream’ now means sexy and good (at least I think so), when it used to be a bundle of paper. Things can change dramatically; it’s the nature of the unnatural construct of language.

This is why I feel the claim that ‘mankind’ is sexist is madness, by stitching ‘kind’ onto the arse-end of those arbitrary, yet ‘offensive’, letters changes what it means and uncovers an entirely new meaning for those of us open and accepting of the phenomenon of change.

I have asserted than youth culture tends to drive linguistic change, yet the majority of the most uttered words in normal conversation (those naughty swear words) were invented by adults. The secret language of cursing was conceived to discuss wholly adult topics whilst children’s delicate ears were present.

It is this ability of mankind – yes mankind – to create words and hidden meanings for personal use that shows both the weakness and brilliance of words; they both mean nothing and everything at once. They can be split down into their most raw building blocks and shuffled into new shapes to transform an abstract verb into a concrete noun, language is not – and never has been – fixed.

The meaning of the letters l, i, v & e, can mean ‘live’ as easily as they can ‘evil’. And yet, before they are interpreted by the understanding human mind, those letters are simply the sum of their parts and hold no meaning. It is in the decoding of letters that the power nestles, and not in the words themselves.

This seems to be drifting evermore towards the concept of language in the brain and away from a discussion of feminism. Well if that’s the road it has chosen, then so be it.

Language and meaning is literally (in the ‘proper’ meaning, not the overused and undervalued common use) nothing without man (meaning people, not just men. I’m sure I don’t need to point that out, though). A) It would not have emerged without people, culture and civilisation, and B) without man (you know what I mean) to decode the arbitrary combinations of symbols they would remain exactly that – arbitrary and meaningless.

Therefore, the only reason for feminists to decide than ‘mankind’ is a sexist term is simply for the sake of creating a sexist term to allow them to decode it as sexist and thus make a fuss about it. Language tries to bridge gaps between people and the chasm that exists between individuals’ minds, but it falls down in that we all attach our own meanings to words. For example: I, for years, believed the word ‘vivid’ meant vague and weak – the polar opposite of its ‘true’ meaning, yet in my head that word fitted my meaning exactly and I was sure of that.

No matter how hard we try to tap into the relationship between words and cognitive meaning, language will probably never reach the goal of full and proper correlation between what is said and what is meant.

‘Mankind’ is fine, 'humankind' is also good. I will continue to use them interchangably, as is my wont.

Bad Decisions

In recent years I have felt my decision making skills to be in a shameful spiral of decline; I firstly chose to study English at uni, and then chose Bournemouth as the place to study it. These two have thrown me into the clutches where I currently reside and contently complain about these decisions.

Today, though, saw me making a series of poor decisions that won’t affect my life in such a drastic way, but have really rammed home that I am useless at picking out the right path (in this case, literally).

This recent heat wave tempted me to leave the safety of my slug, damp and rodent infested home (although this morning this sight greeted me, so the rodent problem could be sorted, for now.)

This beckoning from the Sun sent me towards Turbary Common, along with my bike and a large bag. I was having a lovely time; cycling along paths, taking tiny jumps and feeling like a man for doing them, and taking little detours through thickets to add some interest to my ride.

Bad decision number 1.

Trying to nip under low braches on a very high-set bike with a large bag on your back only leads to constant snagging and the need to stop, untangle oneself and getting scratched several times by the vicious heath land plants before remounting and continuing towards the next precariously placed tree limb.

Going along one of these pseudo-paths lead me to an opening into a housing estate and, inevitably, home. I wasn’t ready to go home and I saw no reason to turn back. So I continued onwards on, what was most probably, an animal track; forcing my oversized road bike along with me, my bare legs taking the brunt of the damage from the surround flora.

Bad decision number 2.

Whilst ploughing on through the undergrowth, the ground beneath my feet begun to take on a distinctly spongy form, so it became necessary to hop between small clumps of grass as they quickly became the only solid ground I could rely on. I continued forward in my naivety, assuming that this path must meet up with a larger one at some point soon.

Bad decision number 3.

I was quickly left in the following situation after my reliance on the grassy islands failed me.

After standing here for a good 15 minutes, taking in the Sun, I thought it about time to make a move. Going back would surely not be the right move, as that's where I had the accident, plus it wouldn't give me more thing to explore? Correct. Onwards I went.

I hatched a dasterdly plan to resolve this monumental problem, though.

My phone then got very low on memory so the videos had to stop. I was left with about 4 photographs worth of memory to document the rest of my ordeal.

Upon gaining relatively sturdy purchase the other side and retrieving my bike from the tangle of brambles it somhow found itself, I was almost home and dry - well apart from my right foot - and it was just a small amount more clambering through bushes with my ungainly bicycle until I was free. My path did take me past this rather attractive pool of stagnant water, though.

I finally found my way out and came home certain in the knowledge that decisions, in future, should not be made by me as things like this are all too likely to happen again.

The Inconsistencies of Belief

My mother, a few years ago, decided that both she and I are autistic. We are both keen on logic and order in our lives and anyone that knows us will be frustrated with our persistence with certain, irrelevant and unimportant elements of life. Herein lies an issue, though; her autistic tendencies bolt at the concept of religion, whereas my unrelenting opinions plough on through everything spiritual and spooky (that’s right, I’m cracking out the alliteration).

Anyway, the nature of today’s long-awaited blog is the inconsistencies that the general public are willing to leave in their beliefs. It really rubs me up the wrong way as I have grown up expecting people to think logically and to draw similar conclusions to mine.

I have had the ghost and soul debate with many people (if you’ve still not read it, get on this one) and what consistently baffles me is the arrogance that people have regarding souls. The most commonly held beliefs I’ve had the displeasure of hearing are that, firstly, souls equal ghosts and, secondly, souls are held by the majority of mammals but most other life forms are, for some strange reason, devoid of this special accolade.

Others push this ridiculous claim further and hail the human species as the only creature on this Eden-like oversized asteroid to be blessed with the gifts of a soul. Both of these mindsets are, well wrong, and in need of addressing.

The question I usually pose is ‘where did souls come from?’ Strangely, this question rarely receives such a confident response and, if it does, it is irrevocably linked to God which, as we all know, is plainly farce and lies. The first scenario almost suggests the soul as a natural thing, as it is present in many mammals (notably, the cuddly ones kept as pets and the larger ones are seemingly more likely to have been gifted this ghostly inner-being than the less attractive aye-ayes and more enigmatic platypuses), and is recurring throughout the world.

Yet severe inconsistencies are suddenly made hideously obvious as large chunks of the animal kingdom are doomed to rot in the ground, whereas others have the good fortune to be able to reside in heaven or to simply hang around on this barely notable and very average rock for all eternity at a ghost. Or something.

The reason for leaving out other beings seems not to be one that can be discussed logically at great length as one might suggest a certain level of evolution (if you dare believe in such an atrocity that is so plainly faulted and constantly disproved by ignorant church-goers) might ‘earn’ a soul, yet everything on Earth is as evolved as necessary to survive at this very moment. When pointing out this fact, the inconsistent might widen their net to include all animals under their bracket of ‘souled’, yet an example of a coral polyp as an animal usually puts a stop to this bold claim.

The second claim of humans being special is a more widely held one, and is far more traditional. It has two major flaws. On the one hand it tells us that humans were put here by another being after being imparted with souls, we have since thrived and kept these souls. This option does, somehow, overlook the blindly obvious link we have to apes, the countless sources that tell us that humans have evolved from apes and ‘lower’ life forms over millions of years. The facts are ignored by the fearful as they cling onto their belief that we are special and that salvation will, one day, come.

The other option is that we did (which we certainly did) evolve from said beings and this was followed by a mystical entity pootling on over to planet Earth, shoving a sprits down every human’s throat, then lying in wait for any new humans to be made, then springing on all of those and continuing this peculiar act to this day. This would not only be a ridiculous thing for any ‘higher being’ to do, but also would beg the question; why us? We have evolved intelligence, yes, but we are by no means the masters of this planet, we are a mere spec in the history of the universe, life has existed before us and will supersede us far into the future.

The biggest issue I take with it all is the assumption that my life must be scary because I don’t believe in ‘anything else’. Why would my life be sullied by the knowledge that life on Earth is a miracle in itself, the chances of life evolving to the stage where it can shape the atmosphere of the planet, thus allowing higher life forms to develop and take hold, slowly and systematically (not randomly, like the gods decide to do things) colonising a planet that I now live on are unbelievably tiny. This wonderful rock is home to some of the most amazing things that I have ever seen. The sheer diversity of life that has cropped up on this mediocre planet in a mediocre position in a mediocre galaxy baffles me. Evolution is the most beautiful systems in nature and it is irrefutably perfect. The faults that belong to the farcical tales of creation lead only to failure in practise.

I am utterly in besotted with this planet, and the arrogance that it, and its contents and spoils, belong to us is a terrifyingly large hurdle in the face of convincing the ignorant that this is all we have, and our continual irresponsible behaviour will, inevitably, lead us to doom and could, potentially, wipe out life as we know it, as the effects of our brief spell on Earth will, no doubt, be felt long after we have all gone. Leaving the astounding haven we dwell in scarred indefinitely by man’s keenness to accept that life was created around and for man.

 

Well that quickly got out of hand.

Jon Richardson. Be Surprised

Whilst watching the infinitely correct Jon Richardson on Live at the Apollo just now, I was applying for a nectar card as moving into my new house is now 8 days away and Sainsbury’s is rather close and I sense some points to be had!

Anyway, on the registration form this confronted me (click it to understand my disgust)

If I need to point out the filth that lay before me then I am duly disappointed in you. MRS B SURPRISED. Blimey.

I’m sure this sickening example of twee design would equally infuriate Mr Richardson, and whilst watching him and being annoyed as I imagined he would equally be I remembered a video I found a few weeks ago relating to this brilliant man, so I just thought I’d share this thought and the following video with you.

Enjoy


 
I also wired the plug onto this lamp as I am a man and men do stuff like that. Now to drink beer, swear and talk about sports.

Splendid News! The Return of Sir Alex!

I’ve taken a bit of a rest from blogging recently, mostly because nothing ‘notable’ has happened, but something especially notable hit me just a few hours ago. News that I’m sure will shake you as it has shaken me.

I heard the best piece of news in many years this morning. When I heard it I could hardly contain myself, I ran from the kitchen where I was making breakfast, burst into my father’s studio and proclaimed the wonderful revelation, the news that will surely change all of our lives indefinitely.

The elegant, soothing, comforting words of Sir Alex Ferguson will once again grace our ears over the radio and TV waves of the BBC. This was this ground moving announcement that shook me so, this morning.

http://www.sabotagetimes.com/wp-content/uploads/sir-alex-ferguson-pic-getty-251997844.jpg

It has been a long 7 years without his holiness on the BBC, and I am now overflowing with excitement for his insights on Match of the Day. I’m sure he’ll have many interesting, thought-provoking and witty things to share with viewers. My growing disinterest in Premiership football is sure to end; now the tour de force of eloquence and intellectual merit will be back on our screens.

I have been sick to death of seeing the Manchester United support staff talking about the performance of their team, so I am more than excited to get words from the man himself. The big cheese. The head honcho. The brains behind sending 11 goons running around a field after spherical, bouncy object.

What I’m most keen to hear from Sir Alex (how ridiculous is it that he’s been knighted? It really brings it down as an achievement, I feel sorry for people who’ve actually earned the honour, they must be so disheartened to know they’re considered equal to him) is his arrogance. I am so eager to hear him speak about his decisions and the acts of his impertinent henchmen and hail them as heroes or compare them to people who’ve actually done good in the world.

This is just a quick thought on the big man himself, I’ve not got much else to say...

Ooh, the Ayling household is soon to have a kitchen garden. How posh are we!? We’re buying a bit of some neighbour’s land and it’s set to becoming a working garden. We’ll be on Gardener’s World before we all know it!

Also, after having a conversation last night, sparked by Derren Brown, about the likelihood of lottery numbers coming out in a predictable or regular order, in which my mother decided it was less likely the numbers would come in in an order as it imposes more restraints on the outcome. This is nonsense, the order is random so 1,2,3,4,5,6 is just as likely as 4,7,22,34,41,49. It's just human intuition to believe that a random selection of numbers is more likely to come out than an ordered one. 

Anyway, I saw the lotto numbers just before I went to bed. Coincidence? I think so.

Jam and Greed

My day yesterday slowly grew in success, beginning with shopping (as I’ve discussed the negatives of previously) and finishing in coming home to about 8 of homemade blackberry jam (which I am now making my way through). But in the middle I heard the most amazing conversation on the train home.

The most quintessentially cute and doting old lady’s voice came floating over to me as I sat on the train and she had, somehow, in the few minutes she’d been sitting on the train she had sparked up the God-debate. She was – as many of her generation are – Christian and hearing her voice discussing the virtues of her religion with two young atheists was one of the cutest things I have ever heard.

The two guys she was speaking to were level headed, seemingly hadn’t been hoodwinked into believing in any religions and were brilliantly honest with this lady. At one point, one of them declared his viewpoint was one from ‘using his head’ – something that I would be terrified to say to a believer’s face, let alone this doting old grandmother who was a complete stranger to these lads – which I thought was fantastic.

I am, as you probably know, strongly opposed to the existence of religion, spirituality and any kind of nonsense related to those areas, but it is ingrained into me – and all of us – that all Christians are thoroughly nice people. I know this to be wrong as some simply aren’t, but the approach of this lady was so inherently kind-hearted and generous that I sat there on the fold-down chair grinning away like a moron, the bluntly honest approach of the other two aided in this smile, and I was helpless to the joys of eavesdropping.

Now, that sounds a bit too heart-warming so I shall make a new complaint.

Religion in greedy.

I thought this earlier, and it’s got to be right. Even if the believers who follow the commandments are doing it in the best of intentions, the basis of them was written in order to scaremonger followers into ‘good’ behaviour through promises that can (unfortunately) as easily be proved as they can be disproved. The very fortunate system of most of the promises coming to fruition after death or happening to your ‘soul’ (which is as easy to access as your afterlife) means that followers blindly follow rules set out by psychopathic morons hundreds of years ago.

Even Buddhism – the ‘nice’ religion – has a strong basis in greed; Karma is the system by which people behave pleasantly to one another in order to have ‘Karma’ repay them by having equally pleasing things happen to them in return.

http://religions.iloveindia.com/images/buddhism.jpg

Christianity is about spending your life fearing God – a stupid system that isn’t for discussion today – in order to get a cushy afterlife up there in the clouds with Jesus. Muslims are all about getting their hands on those 40 virgins, Jehovah’s Witnesses are in the race to get into heaven before the spaces run out. Religions are about gaining something, even if it’s something as innocent as a peaceful afterlife; most parts of religion are about attaining something in return.

Which is why atheism is better. Not only because is it simply correct, but the mentality of most atheists is that one ought to be nice to others as it’s just not a good thing to do. We hope to be treated in the same way, but not through ‘Karma’ and not because we want to be rewarded later in life (or afterlife) but just because it makes for a better world and a more successful society.

This post has drifted from the warm fuzzy feeling I got from that elderly lady so let’s get back to her; she was the cutest thing ever. That was my point for today, really. Oh and that blackberry jam is wonderful.

I also went to a Derren Brown TV recording, set to air at the end of next month. It’s going to be another amazing series, so I’m awaiting the end of September with great excitement.

http://derrenbrown.channel4.com/images/event4_big.jpg

Jono: The Musical DVDs are getting there, we are recording a commentary tomorrow which will hopefully be included on the disc, provided we can get technology on our side. If you are keen to get your grubby little hands on a copy of the show, then email me at jonoayling@hotmail.com to order yourself a disc.

Toodloo.

Self-Referential Media

A few days ago I heard Scott Mills announcing an Ed Sheeran song on Radio 1 and to my great surprise it was not ‘The A Team’, which, if Radio 1 is to be believed for the past 4 months, is the only song he’s ever attempted to write or play.

This song, You Need Me, not only seems to hail the artist as a necessary entity and demotes ‘you’ to a lowly parasitic being, unable to function without the glorious Mr. Sheeran, it also comments on Ed’s song writing process and his thoughts on his career. This is what today’s moan is going to centre around.

http://www.pyromag.com/music/9902/ed-sheeran-the-a-team-exclusive-review/

 

Most music played on Radio 1 at the moment is bloody awful and this song has made me realise part of what is so annoying about the new breed of artists. Songs seem to now be an ego trip of artists, a platform upon which they can discuss the fact that they are musicians or to describe themselves in ways that are almost certainly exaggerated, misguiding or simply false.

Another instance of this happening I have noticed is on the ‘Street Summer’ advert shown on Channel 4 every 15 minutes; someone called ‘Mz Bratt’ claims the following: ‘I am big, I am Bratt, I am bruffer dan brat, I am tougher than a lion’, another line does follow this but the words have been so lost in ‘ghetto’ that they have drowned into an oblivion of nonsense.

Who the hell are these people!? This seems to be their replacement for walking. Walking has evolved with us over millions of years, why's that girl on one arm!?

 

I have no guess what ‘bruffer dan brat’ means, but I’m fairly sure it’s as unlikely as her being sturdier than a lion. Why do these hideously over-confident people feel the overpowering urge to bombard my ears with these ill thought out lyrics that, in effect, means absolutely sod all?

This genre of music seems to have escaped the normal constraints of humanity; if any other medium were to spend 50% of its air time commenting on the fact that it was a part of the media spectrum and described falsehoods about itself it would not last long, it would be ridiculed and branded as pointless.

If I were to spend most of my time writing this blog going over the fact that I am writing, occasionally making up phrases such as ‘bruffer dan brat’ and exaggerating parts of my own body, personality and credibility then an even more negligible number of people would bother sifting their way through my various mumblings.

If the BBC were to do the same... Actually, here I’ve found a stumbling block. But this is also something that has annoyed me. Onwards I plough.

 

BBC nature documentaries, such as Life, are amazing. The effort gone to to get right shots and to enlighten the ignorant masses is fantastic. These documentaries are amongst my favourite programmes on telly, and I would love to see more of these on. The recent fascination with the final 10-minute copout at the end of each of these, however, frustrates me no end. I have watched some of these, and it is amazing to see the lengths gone to to secure the perfect few seconds of film, but it does seem to have become standard to include this at the end, cutting a good hour-long programme to a measly 50 minutes when other publicly funded channels are already cutting down programme length as ad breaks are getting increasingly longer.

http://battlebunny.com/2010/04/26/bbcdiscovery-life/

This has quickly gone off-topic, my rage is towards ‘urban’ music and hideously bad lyricists.

Despite the obvious inappropriateness of this technique (providing we ignore the BBC’s current form), ‘street’ music has picked up this annoying habit and its fans lap up the lies of these idols thoughtlessly.

There’s very little else I’d like to do more than to trawl through more terrible music on YouTube to find more examples of this music in order to provide my observation with more ammunition, but unfortunately I’ve got better music to listen to, so if you wish to prove it to yourself, listen to any music liked by the popular kids and you’ll soon find too many examples to shake a stick at.