London, the physical and moral black hole that it is, makes it very hard to escape to other parts of the UK. Sure, you can hop on a crap-o-jet flight to the continent for the loose change you found in the washing machine, but getting out to the lesser-known parts of the UK is another story altogether. Train timetables and fares that are designed to reduce your mind to mush and motorways that are more or less long, straight car parks make it feel like trying to escape from a lower pit of hell.
Thankfully, Mark played Virgil to my Dante and led me to the purgatory of Devon for one mad June weekend of Morris dancing mayhem and teenage munters. Yes, there was a morris dancing festival, and it is as ridiculous as it sounds (who 'wields' a handkerchief anyway?). It can get quite serious when the lads really go at each other with the sticks. We watched for a while hoping one of them would forget a step and cop a well timed stick to the face, but without luck.
So, like everyone else in the town, we settled in to a local pub to drink, listen to folk music, and eat strips of pork pulled from the still spinning carcass of some impressive swine. Why does food taste better when you can still see its face? The village was quaint (a word I'm sure that is only used to describe English villages), with a friendly, morris-style atmosphere... until sundown at least, when the teen townies came out and started boozing away in the town square, drinking from tesco bags. Although, when all the local youth can look forward to is a once-a-year morris festival, you can't really blame them.
July saw me ascending to the lofty heights of Edinburgh to compete in another rat-race. Having loved the inaugural race in London, I thought running in the place where it all started would be a good excuse to see the city too. Yes, I ate a fried mars bar (and a snickers bar). I also partook in various touristy things like wandering along the royal mile (although we couldn't go into the castle because the Proclaimers were setting up for a concert there - seriously), getting lost in the history museum, drinking at Ian Rankin's local, and drinking in general. The rate-race itself took us out to parts of Edinburgh normally unseen by the weekend tourist, forcing teams out to see the Firth of Forth and local stadia. Unfortunately a knee injury to the team forced us to slow to a walking pace, and we ended up coming-in just before the cut off but still somehow not finishing last. After a Sunday afternoon listening to a Scottish ska band doing a decent cover/mash up of Ice Ice Baby, the overnight train trip back to a London Monday morning was like a descent to hell.
Nevertheless, I did finally make it to the UK equivalent of paradise, spending the August long weekend in Exmoor National Park. Having spent so much time in cities, I'd forgotten what a simple joy it is to get away from the city and breathe in some fresh air (read: smelling of sea salt or animal dung). Staying in a hostel located in the middle of the moor with absolutely no mobile coverage was an added bonus. The national park lived up to the long, rambling descriptive pieces Thomas Hardy used to flesh out his otherwise terrible writing, and we made the most of it by being stupidly energetic and active: fell running and hiking on the moor, mountain biking along the coast near Minehead, and surfing at Croyde Bay. Thanks to the 8th day adventure sports people for making it a great weekend, and Alex in particular for introducing me to Devonshire cream tea.
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Saturday, 19 July 2008
Friday, 10 August 2007
What's wrong with the UK (part 3)
It's started.
People back home have begun asking me when I'm coming home... the routine and cost of London have started to bite... and, frankly, I've been tempted.
If I were back home, no doubt the funk would be dealt with by a drunken night out in Newtown with friends and some bad karaoke (is there such a thing as good karaoke?), but here that's just not an option. Instead, I've been fumbling from day to day, barely managing to keep it together, feeling hollow and... grey. There's even been a mini panic attack one afternoon at work. I'd say it was textbook depression, but I think it may be down to hormones in the drinking water here... it hasn't just been the mood swings, I've also had to start shaving more regularly. And I hate shaving. Perhaps it’s all due to the extra razor nicks.
For a while I thought there might be something behind the hormones in the water idea... perhaps an evil conspiracy run by the British government, or even Richard Branson (I’ve never trusted him. No one is that smug). But recent events have shown me that the Brits couldn't organise a piss up in brewery. They are incompetent at everything they attempt... even when they're trying to collect money from you.
First up, council tax. For those not familiar with this concept, council tax is the money you're forced to pay for simply living in London. In theory, it pays for rubbish collection, recycling services, and traffic wardens in your local area. Considering that rubbish collection consists of having to take my own trash to a large dumpster on the street, recycling services are practically non-existent, I can only assume that all the money goes on traffic wardens. Since most of the people you walk past on the streets of Westminster are in fact traffic wardens, I think I may be on to something.
Last Saturday (4th August), I received a reminder notice (dated 27th July) informing me that I had failed to pay my council tax, and that unless I did so within 7 days of the date of this notice, there would be unspeakable repercussions - spotted the problem yet? I was quite surprised, given that I never received the first notice.
When I call them and point out the flaw in their little scheme, that they never sent me the first notice, and the second arrived a week late, their response is: "Well yes, there HAS been a postal strike..." as though I should have known that there was mail coming to me, and gone down to the closed, picketed post office, and found it myself.
That would have been a bad enough start to Monday, but then I also had to deal with British Gas. In the same post, I also received a power bill for 79p. Yes, I know that's a fair bit back in Australia, but over here it won't even buy you a bottle of hormone-free water. I figured that I could actually afford to pay this, and dutifully went to their online bill payment system, verified my identity with a gruelling set of personal questions (does it really matter if someone else pays my bill?), handed over my card details and hit 'PAY'. The system responds with 'I'm sorry we cannot accept payments below £2.'
Ha bloody ha, I think to myself, how very amusing. I then call the British Gas bill payment phone number, and after about half an hour I finally get to speak to someone and the problem. He laughs. Once he collects himself, he tells me that I can’t pay anything less than £5 over the phone. The best he could suggest was simply not paying the 79p, and letting it roll over to the next bill. Sounded reasonable. Knowing that nothing is ever that easy, I ask him if my non- payment will result in threatening notices, late fees, or even disconnection. I know it’s only 79p, but I also know the British relationship to bureaucracy. The guy on the other end of the line, still laughing, says “The reminder notices and threatening letters are all sent automatically, but they won’t actually act on them for such a small amount." - I breathe a sigh of relief - "Probably” he adds before I hang up.
So if Branson’s evil scheme goes according to plan, it won’t be long before I’m left sitting at home in the dark, developing man breasts, and crying myself to sleep.
People back home have begun asking me when I'm coming home... the routine and cost of London have started to bite... and, frankly, I've been tempted.
If I were back home, no doubt the funk would be dealt with by a drunken night out in Newtown with friends and some bad karaoke (is there such a thing as good karaoke?), but here that's just not an option. Instead, I've been fumbling from day to day, barely managing to keep it together, feeling hollow and... grey. There's even been a mini panic attack one afternoon at work. I'd say it was textbook depression, but I think it may be down to hormones in the drinking water here... it hasn't just been the mood swings, I've also had to start shaving more regularly. And I hate shaving. Perhaps it’s all due to the extra razor nicks.
For a while I thought there might be something behind the hormones in the water idea... perhaps an evil conspiracy run by the British government, or even Richard Branson (I’ve never trusted him. No one is that smug). But recent events have shown me that the Brits couldn't organise a piss up in brewery. They are incompetent at everything they attempt... even when they're trying to collect money from you.
First up, council tax. For those not familiar with this concept, council tax is the money you're forced to pay for simply living in London. In theory, it pays for rubbish collection, recycling services, and traffic wardens in your local area. Considering that rubbish collection consists of having to take my own trash to a large dumpster on the street, recycling services are practically non-existent, I can only assume that all the money goes on traffic wardens. Since most of the people you walk past on the streets of Westminster are in fact traffic wardens, I think I may be on to something.
Last Saturday (4th August), I received a reminder notice (dated 27th July) informing me that I had failed to pay my council tax, and that unless I did so within 7 days of the date of this notice, there would be unspeakable repercussions - spotted the problem yet? I was quite surprised, given that I never received the first notice.
When I call them and point out the flaw in their little scheme, that they never sent me the first notice, and the second arrived a week late, their response is: "Well yes, there HAS been a postal strike..." as though I should have known that there was mail coming to me, and gone down to the closed, picketed post office, and found it myself.
That would have been a bad enough start to Monday, but then I also had to deal with British Gas. In the same post, I also received a power bill for 79p. Yes, I know that's a fair bit back in Australia, but over here it won't even buy you a bottle of hormone-free water. I figured that I could actually afford to pay this, and dutifully went to their online bill payment system, verified my identity with a gruelling set of personal questions (does it really matter if someone else pays my bill?), handed over my card details and hit 'PAY'. The system responds with 'I'm sorry we cannot accept payments below £2.'
Ha bloody ha, I think to myself, how very amusing. I then call the British Gas bill payment phone number, and after about half an hour I finally get to speak to someone and the problem. He laughs. Once he collects himself, he tells me that I can’t pay anything less than £5 over the phone. The best he could suggest was simply not paying the 79p, and letting it roll over to the next bill. Sounded reasonable. Knowing that nothing is ever that easy, I ask him if my non- payment will result in threatening notices, late fees, or even disconnection. I know it’s only 79p, but I also know the British relationship to bureaucracy. The guy on the other end of the line, still laughing, says “The reminder notices and threatening letters are all sent automatically, but they won’t actually act on them for such a small amount." - I breathe a sigh of relief - "Probably” he adds before I hang up.
So if Branson’s evil scheme goes according to plan, it won’t be long before I’m left sitting at home in the dark, developing man breasts, and crying myself to sleep.
Friday, 25 May 2007
What's wrong with the UK (part 2)
This isn't going to be in the same vein as the last rant. I'm talking about a different sort of wrong. As Hartigan (Frank Miller's Sin City) says:"There's wrong, and then there's WRONG, and then there's this. "
On Channel 4, after the champions' league final, there was an informative and enlightening programme entitled Celebrity Sex Tapes Unwound!!!. Nothing wrong so far (apart from the multiple exclamation marks in the title). TV, and most of western society when you think about it, survives on smut and celebrity gossip.
The programme consisted of discussing the top 10 celebrity sex tape 'scandals', by showing pixellated excerpts (no, that's not the wrong bit), along with various talking heads discussing the impact on society these tapes had at the time (still fine, even if it's just a poor excuse to show the tape excerpts).
These talking heads were made up of people you might expect: people in the porn industry, gossip journalists, lawyers involved in some of the cases, and Germaine Greer.
Yes. That's the wrong bit.
Gezza, as I think she should be known, was sitting comfortably in her living room, as though she'd just had a nice cup of tea, when what she'd actually had was a nice viewing of porn. And as usual she let her opinions be known. Just imagine it...
Germaine Greer discussing Rob Lowe's romp with two teenage girls at a political convention (long before The West Wing).
Germaine Greer mouthing off about Paris Hilton's prowess (or lack thereof, in Gezza's view) at giving head.
Germaine Greer talking about Tommy Lee Jones', and I use her own words, "magnificent cock".
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
The only thing that could be more wrong, is the sequel 'porn-umentary' where Gezza shows Paris how to do it right...
I apologise dear readers, but a pain shared is a pain lessened.
On the upside, I like the idea that I might get some accidental traffic to the blog from people searching for "Germaine Greer porn" - muahahahhaaahaha.
On Channel 4, after the champions' league final, there was an informative and enlightening programme entitled Celebrity Sex Tapes Unwound!!!. Nothing wrong so far (apart from the multiple exclamation marks in the title). TV, and most of western society when you think about it, survives on smut and celebrity gossip.
The programme consisted of discussing the top 10 celebrity sex tape 'scandals', by showing pixellated excerpts (no, that's not the wrong bit), along with various talking heads discussing the impact on society these tapes had at the time (still fine, even if it's just a poor excuse to show the tape excerpts).
These talking heads were made up of people you might expect: people in the porn industry, gossip journalists, lawyers involved in some of the cases, and Germaine Greer.
Yes. That's the wrong bit.
Gezza, as I think she should be known, was sitting comfortably in her living room, as though she'd just had a nice cup of tea, when what she'd actually had was a nice viewing of porn. And as usual she let her opinions be known. Just imagine it...
Germaine Greer discussing Rob Lowe's romp with two teenage girls at a political convention (long before The West Wing).
Germaine Greer mouthing off about Paris Hilton's prowess (or lack thereof, in Gezza's view) at giving head.
Germaine Greer talking about Tommy Lee Jones', and I use her own words, "magnificent cock".
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
The only thing that could be more wrong, is the sequel 'porn-umentary' where Gezza shows Paris how to do it right...
I apologise dear readers, but a pain shared is a pain lessened.
On the upside, I like the idea that I might get some accidental traffic to the blog from people searching for "Germaine Greer porn" - muahahahhaaahaha.
Friday, 13 April 2007
What's wrong with the UK (part 1)
I am fortunate enough to live near my place of employment, which is good since I can walk to work and I don't have to put up with the london undergoround service - I think disservice is a more appropriate term - each morning and evening (if you haven't yet heard it, check out the london underground song which neatly captures the locals loathing for the tube experience in a catchy little tune)... but I digress. This isn't a rant about public transport in the UK (all in good time).
As I walk to work each morning past Madame Tussaud's, with crowds of people queueing at 8am to spend a few hours gawping at wax likenesses of celebrities that are probably more realistic than the person it's modelled on, it strikes me that the people of this once great land are a touch obsessed with celebrities. I know that the people outside Tussaud's wax emporium are unlikely to be locals, but with all the 'personalities' who take up most of the column inches, news minutes and conversation topics over here, it's fair to say that Brits love their celebs.
I admit, we're not entirely innocent back home, what with all the stories about the latest movements of 'our Nicole', 'our Kylie', and 'their Russ', but at least they've achieved something. Sure, they haven't cured cancer, or helped society in any way, but they are at least very successful in their chosen professions.
A Brit celebrity, on the other hand, doesn't even need to have a profession.
When I first got here back in January, there was a race debate raging in the media. Nothing wrong with that, since it's an important issue: the UK has to open its borders to European workers, and people fear the cheap labour from the east... but that wasn't where it started. There are tensions based on religious and racial conflict being played out around the world and in UK towns in microcosm... but that wasn't where it started either.
Where it started was Celebrity Big Brother. I shit you not. Apparently, racist insults had been traded in the big brother house. Perhaps if Germaine Greer were still in there, and she'd been banging on in offensive terms, it might have gone unnoticed. But no. The racist taunts were uttered by people so important that the whole nation had to take notice. Jade 'I'm on celebrity big brother because I got famous on regular big brother, but have otherwise done nothing of note in my life' Goody and Danielle 'I'm famous for being the girlfriend of a fairly ordinary footballer, and am so unimportant Pat can't remember my surname' Somebody got into hot water for insulting Shilpa 'big in bollywood apparently' Shetty about being Indian.
Look, racist insults are unacceptable anywhere, but why does no one think about an issue until some no-talent 'celebrity' brings it into the spotlight? Until Jamie Oliver decided to tackle British kids' poor diets, everyone was happy feeding the tubby little things crisps all day. Until Bob Geldof decided to fight global poverty, no one realised that people in Africa weren't just on a severe diet to make it as a model. Until Peaches Geldof started mouthing off about Posh Spice and Charlotte Church, no one realised Bob had a daughter.
And why are the British celebs and heroes of today of such poor quality? These days, if a lad can half kick a football he's a national treasure, and if a girl gives a footballer a blowjob in the lav' of a Camden pub, she'll likely get on tv as one of the WAGs (wives and girlfriends - they have their own reality tv show, and they're less believable than the characters on the fictional Footballer's Wives).
Time was, British heroes were made of sterner stuff. You had to actually be pretty decent with a football, slay a dragon, or win a war. St George got famous off the back of his dragon kebab skewers. Footballers like Charlton and Best won titles. Churchill recognised his shortcomings as a footballer, couldn't find any mythological beasts, so set about winning a world war. Thatcher also recognised her shortcomings as a footballer, decided slaying herself would be a bit self defeating, and set about finding a war to win. Now the Brits look up to David Beckham (sure he can take a free kick, but when have you seen him do anything?), Jordan (Mrs. Peter Andre), and their cricket team (nuff said).
No wonder the youth of today are running around shooting and stabbing one another... they live in a world devoid of hope. All they can aspire to is becoming famous, and that's simply not based on ability or hard work. The person to really pity though has to be Tony Blair. Nearly a decade in power, he found a war but didn't really win it, and I don't fancy his chances on the pitch. Unless he gets on celebrity big brother, in a few years he'll simply be known as the former husband of Cherie...
As I walk to work each morning past Madame Tussaud's, with crowds of people queueing at 8am to spend a few hours gawping at wax likenesses of celebrities that are probably more realistic than the person it's modelled on, it strikes me that the people of this once great land are a touch obsessed with celebrities. I know that the people outside Tussaud's wax emporium are unlikely to be locals, but with all the 'personalities' who take up most of the column inches, news minutes and conversation topics over here, it's fair to say that Brits love their celebs.
I admit, we're not entirely innocent back home, what with all the stories about the latest movements of 'our Nicole', 'our Kylie', and 'their Russ', but at least they've achieved something. Sure, they haven't cured cancer, or helped society in any way, but they are at least very successful in their chosen professions.
A Brit celebrity, on the other hand, doesn't even need to have a profession.
When I first got here back in January, there was a race debate raging in the media. Nothing wrong with that, since it's an important issue: the UK has to open its borders to European workers, and people fear the cheap labour from the east... but that wasn't where it started. There are tensions based on religious and racial conflict being played out around the world and in UK towns in microcosm... but that wasn't where it started either.
Where it started was Celebrity Big Brother. I shit you not. Apparently, racist insults had been traded in the big brother house. Perhaps if Germaine Greer were still in there, and she'd been banging on in offensive terms, it might have gone unnoticed. But no. The racist taunts were uttered by people so important that the whole nation had to take notice. Jade 'I'm on celebrity big brother because I got famous on regular big brother, but have otherwise done nothing of note in my life' Goody and Danielle 'I'm famous for being the girlfriend of a fairly ordinary footballer, and am so unimportant Pat can't remember my surname' Somebody got into hot water for insulting Shilpa 'big in bollywood apparently' Shetty about being Indian.
Look, racist insults are unacceptable anywhere, but why does no one think about an issue until some no-talent 'celebrity' brings it into the spotlight? Until Jamie Oliver decided to tackle British kids' poor diets, everyone was happy feeding the tubby little things crisps all day. Until Bob Geldof decided to fight global poverty, no one realised that people in Africa weren't just on a severe diet to make it as a model. Until Peaches Geldof started mouthing off about Posh Spice and Charlotte Church, no one realised Bob had a daughter.
And why are the British celebs and heroes of today of such poor quality? These days, if a lad can half kick a football he's a national treasure, and if a girl gives a footballer a blowjob in the lav' of a Camden pub, she'll likely get on tv as one of the WAGs (wives and girlfriends - they have their own reality tv show, and they're less believable than the characters on the fictional Footballer's Wives).
Time was, British heroes were made of sterner stuff. You had to actually be pretty decent with a football, slay a dragon, or win a war. St George got famous off the back of his dragon kebab skewers. Footballers like Charlton and Best won titles. Churchill recognised his shortcomings as a footballer, couldn't find any mythological beasts, so set about winning a world war. Thatcher also recognised her shortcomings as a footballer, decided slaying herself would be a bit self defeating, and set about finding a war to win. Now the Brits look up to David Beckham (sure he can take a free kick, but when have you seen him do anything?), Jordan (Mrs. Peter Andre), and their cricket team (nuff said).
No wonder the youth of today are running around shooting and stabbing one another... they live in a world devoid of hope. All they can aspire to is becoming famous, and that's simply not based on ability or hard work. The person to really pity though has to be Tony Blair. Nearly a decade in power, he found a war but didn't really win it, and I don't fancy his chances on the pitch. Unless he gets on celebrity big brother, in a few years he'll simply be known as the former husband of Cherie...
Friday, 9 March 2007
This is a LOCAL country...
"... for local people... are you LOCAL???" demanded the customs official at Heathrow, who did actually have an upturned nose not unlike Tubbs. I should have taken his message to heart.
The first few weeks living in this country have been less than ideal. It's surprising that an Australian can feel so unwelcome and out of place in a nation that shares the same language, heritage and 'policy bitch' status with the US... nevertheless, I find myself feeling more foreign and unable to understand the strange local customs here than when I watched people drinking wine with snake penises in it in Vietnam.
Vincent Vega be damned! The little differences I can handle. In fact, I think mayonnaise on chips is fantastic (but serving carbs cooked in fat with a dollop of more fat for extra flavour does seem a bit excessive, and maybe, just maybe, has something to do with the UK's 'obesity pandemic'). My problem is with the great big stinking differences. And I don't mean the weather (although that is incredibly shit too).
The greatest shock so far has been the ubiquitous incompetence encountered while trying to find work: recruiters who promise you half a dozen interviews then stop talking to you; recruiters who do talk to you, but send you to an interview without forwarding you the position description; companies who interview you in January, promise to get back to you in a few weeks, but still can't give you an answer in March; HR departments who take a week to send an email; another company who actually want to offer you a job, but forgot to do so because someone went on holiday... the good news is that I have a job offer and start in a few days. But I still haven't seen a copy of the employment contract.
Given that any employer will end up having to give me money, I can understand their reluctance and inertia. But when it comes to me paying people money, I'd have thought that they'd be a bit more pro-active. My flat hunting experiences demonstrated that British incompetence isn't subject to economic theory - it's bred in, or in-bred if you prefer. So far, the letting agency we're going to be renting through has managed to mismanage just about everything, from messing up the reference checks to bungling the moving-in date... the good news is it seems like everything's sorted out now. But we still don't move in for over a week.
Everything should be fine soon, in a matter of days I'll be employed and in a place of my own.... famous last words? I'm not holding my breath.
On top of the job- and house-hunting shenanigans, London lowlights have included, but are not limited to:
The first few weeks living in this country have been less than ideal. It's surprising that an Australian can feel so unwelcome and out of place in a nation that shares the same language, heritage and 'policy bitch' status with the US... nevertheless, I find myself feeling more foreign and unable to understand the strange local customs here than when I watched people drinking wine with snake penises in it in Vietnam.
Vincent Vega be damned! The little differences I can handle. In fact, I think mayonnaise on chips is fantastic (but serving carbs cooked in fat with a dollop of more fat for extra flavour does seem a bit excessive, and maybe, just maybe, has something to do with the UK's 'obesity pandemic'). My problem is with the great big stinking differences. And I don't mean the weather (although that is incredibly shit too).
The greatest shock so far has been the ubiquitous incompetence encountered while trying to find work: recruiters who promise you half a dozen interviews then stop talking to you; recruiters who do talk to you, but send you to an interview without forwarding you the position description; companies who interview you in January, promise to get back to you in a few weeks, but still can't give you an answer in March; HR departments who take a week to send an email; another company who actually want to offer you a job, but forgot to do so because someone went on holiday... the good news is that I have a job offer and start in a few days. But I still haven't seen a copy of the employment contract.
Given that any employer will end up having to give me money, I can understand their reluctance and inertia. But when it comes to me paying people money, I'd have thought that they'd be a bit more pro-active. My flat hunting experiences demonstrated that British incompetence isn't subject to economic theory - it's bred in, or in-bred if you prefer. So far, the letting agency we're going to be renting through has managed to mismanage just about everything, from messing up the reference checks to bungling the moving-in date... the good news is it seems like everything's sorted out now. But we still don't move in for over a week.
Everything should be fine soon, in a matter of days I'll be employed and in a place of my own.... famous last words? I'm not holding my breath.
On top of the job- and house-hunting shenanigans, London lowlights have included, but are not limited to:
- spending my first day praying to the porcelain with food poisoning received on the Thai airways flight here;
- returning from a weekend in Leeds, only to be told 5 minutes before my train left that the service was cancelled, then spending the day in 'amazing race' mode to get back to London for a job interview;
- another job interview where I was literally told to go read a textbook (this is a LITERAL 'literally' Joe, I know how you feel about the word's misuse), and, to my disbelief, was then invited back for a second interview that was even worse.
It hasn't been a terribly auspicious start. About as auspicious as inspecting the entrails of a bird, then realising as you study the liver that the bird is a turkey from a Bernard Mathews farm in Hungary (sorry guys, a little Latin studies/British bird 'flu joke there). I guess the good side of all this is that I must be getting over my culture shock - I'm already fitting in as a whingeing pom.
One of the few moments of mirth provided by this bleak tumour of a city was the sight of a morbidly obese man in Tesco. This chap was seriously diabetic, in an electric scooter, with scabs covering his legs up to his knees, and a naso tube to assist his breathing. (No Leon, that's not the funny part). He was wearing a simple black XXXXXXL t-shirt with the slogan "I beat anorexia!"I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, and was almost tempted to ask to have my photo taken with him. I think that man has a message for everyone living under London's leaden sky... stop stuffing yourself with chips and mayonnaise!
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