The Green, Green Grass of Time Travel?

‘I never look back, I look forward.’

‘I always knew looking back on my tears would bring me laughter, but I never knew looking back on my laughter would make me cry.’

For the keenly observant among you, above you’ll notice two quotes. One I included because I think it’s total lying crap, and the other because it’s intelligent in a way I think most of us can appreciate. No prizes for guessing which is the lying crap one... I never look back, I look forward. Jesus. I might as well rename this blog highlystrungcliché.blogspot.com if I’m going to spend much more time on it. As an inspirational quote, it’s about as much use as a male sex organ to a lesbian; then again, the author of said cliché is more famous for spanking balls around than philosophising. Steffi Graf, Plato you ain’t. If there was no point in looking backwards, why is the study of history so prevalent in our society? Maybe I’m being a bit harsh to Steffi; she probably only said it to get some dozy tennis reporter off her back, but nonetheless, it all seems a bit daft.

I think there’s a great deal of benefit to be found in looking backwards; it doesn’t necessarily have to be happy reflection that pays dividends. After all, looking through photo albums of your dodgy dress sense and even dodgier hairstyle ten years ago is only good for a rueful laugh (note to self, still need to destroy those short shorts and the Action Man pyjamas). The occasional glance back to happier, carefree times can result in a very brief, though very tangible emotional high. More often than not, however, you realise that your life then wasn’t the utopia you imagine it to be. There were still problems to overcome, alarm clocks to wake you up in the dark winter months, sarcastic eegits of everyday life you had to put up with, then as well as now. It’s the challenge of life itself. The grass isn’t always greener; in fact, it rarely is. Thus, I can empathise with the second quote from above. After that initial moment of joy when I look back at old photos, letters, etc., it’s easy to be overwhelmed by a sense of dread. Was I happier then? Would I rather hop in a time machine backwards, chug a Peter Pan potion and live in a state of endless childhood ease? Course not. I can now grow an impressive fundamentalist-esque beard. I have the ability to stay up past 9 p.m. ON A SCHOOL NIGHT. I no longer wet the bed, unless it’s a Wednesday. I can even drink beer. (Admittedly, I could have done that ten years ago, but alcoholic ten year olds are generally frowned upon in our society, unless you’re going to see Jeremy Kyle/Vile.) Perhaps growing into an adult is like paying into a savings account: it’s a lot of effing hard work and you get out less than you put in, but sometimes you get some tasty interest.

So, when I look back on some of the ‘sad times’, it does indeed bring me laughter. Making a knapsack out of a towel, aged five, and pretending to run away forever as my mum tried to stifle her giggling. (I returned within thirty seconds, FYI, for I had forgotten my Teddy.) Being gutted, cos I’d ran out of empty Kleenex boxes  to put on my feet, so I could slide around the living room floor like an ice skater (the Winter Olympics were on and, in my defence, I was and remain an only child)... All of these things, which seemed so terribly important and distressing at the time, now make me think I was a right little rotter. And it’s funny. I opened an old book three days ago, only to find a bookmark of the Queen my junior school gave me in 2000. I’d ripped off one of her maj’s ears and given her a moustache. And, rather bizarrely, spots like a Dalmatian. So, Steffi, if you never want to look back, do go ahead. But I sure hope you’re telling porkies, because there’s a great deal of fun to be had.

(In case you were wondering, the second quote which I like was by Cat Stevens. Or, as he’s otherwise known now, Yusuf Islam. I wonder if it was looking back on his laughter, or his tears that made him change his religion?)

Who knows? Ciao for now. x

News of the World/of the Dirty Dogs That Run It...

So, power to the people is well and truly alive. Or so we are led to believe; the News of the World will be churning out its last issue this Sunday after the recent phone-hacking debacle that’s ruined its already dodgy reputation. It’s not the first time the NOTW, and its owner News International, have been involved in such claims; in 2007 it was the royal family that were hacked and, after a criminal trial, a private investigator and the paper’s royal editor were both jailed. Now, when it was people as rich and powerful as the royals being hacked, the general public didn’t mind quite as much. Perhaps it’s jealousy, or the fact that we don’t empathise with the rich and famous as, for the majority of us, our lives are too dissimilar. So, listening into Charles and Camilla having some cheeky phone sex? Why the devil not. Snooping on her majesty Liz II as she orders an extra large stuffed crust from Pizza Hut? Well, if there’s nowt better to do. Obviously I’m taking the piss when I’m talking about our queen ordering from Pizza Hut (she’s obviously more of a Domino’s kinda’ gal)... But on a serious note, although there was a successful public enquiry that resulted in jail time for two people, the crisis never threatened to engulf the entire newspaper, did it? Lots of negative headlines and a promise to clean up their act... And what good did it do? Was the investigation worth all of the countless man hours and resources invested in it? Basically, did it bloody work?

After some rushed research on Yahoo! Answers, it seems unexpectedly that it was Aristotle (in ancient Greek mind), who originally uttered the phrase ‘you get out what you put in’. And looking at News Intl.’s current sitch, they must have put in the ingredients for an almighty shit sandwich, because that’s what Rupert Murdoch, the founder and company chairman, is tucking into right now. And it seems that he’s only taken his first tentative bite into said shit sandwich; the crusts are a long way off. Several arrests are imminent. There’s ample room for this to escalate even further. It could even become a crap-filled ciabatta, or worse still, a poo pancake. (Okay, enough with the faeces related bakery gags.) However, very gravely, the public enquiry has failed and, as a result, two hundred people working at the paper are now unemployed. The cynic within me thinks that Murdoch will wait for the dust to settle, before reemploying most of the NOTW journalists in a brand new Sunday newspaper with a different editorship team, fresh values, a renewed promise to strive for fit and proper journalism, etc. etc. Basically, the same effing paper but with a snazzy new title and a lot of very anxious business execs with their tails between their legs in the background, hoping Mr. Murdoch doesn’t sack them.

This has been suggested by several public figures and, when you look at the statistics, it’s hard to disagree with them. The NOTW was a successful format and the nation’s most popular Sunday paper; why would Rupert the Sneaky Bear want to sacrifice such a profit-spinning venture? As to whether he could pull it off I’m not so sure; the British public are fickle at times, yes, but they don’t forget it when you’re accused of hacking into a murdered teenager’s mobile phone solely for a story. Rebekah Brooks, the CEO of News Intl. and editor of the NOTW at the time the hacking supposedly happened, surely has to go, despite Murdoch refusing her offer of resigning. Big Davey Cameron has said publicly he’d have accepted her resignation. It seems that Murdoch has sacrificed 200 employees, as well as a hugely successful newspaper dating back to 1843, merely to save a Mick Hucknall lookalike who is clearly lying through her teeth. Why? I don’t know. Maybe he’s her bitch. Maybe he’s just quite fond of her.

All I know is that the shit sandwich Rupert is tucking into can’t be tasty; and the question is, for how long can he, as well as the rest of the News International hierarchy, tolerate the stench?

Ciao folks. x



Cocaine and A Gardener Shagging Breakfast

Inappropriate comments at equally inappropriate moments; the scourge of newsreaders everywhere. The stuff of nightmares for Jon Snow, the type of incidents that leave Adam Boulton waking up at 3 a.m. in a cold sweat. For the gag reels on political panel shows a la Have I Got News For You and people with an awkward sense of humour like myself, however, it’s simply comedy gold.

So it was that, at breakfast time this morning, I almost choked on my Cheerios. When mechanical newsreaders let out high-pitched yelps, losing their robotic smiles, it appeals to the inner anarchist within you. Or at least, within me. The status quo is rocked; the powers that be are made to look foolish and helpless. It’s all the sweeter when the source of their downfall is a middle-aged, seemingly innocent woman with a sensible haircut and a very middle-class accent. Viva la revolucion! Most of you have probably come across the following recent news story, but for those of you that haven’t, I’ll give you a quick lowdown.

Heidi Withers is a bride to be; her fiancé’s stepmother sends her an abusive e-mail. In it, she accuses her future daughter-in-law of staying in bed too late, being vulgar and drawing attention to herself and, even more bizarrely, of traumatising and depressing the family dog with her rude behaviour. She also accused her stepson’s fiancé of being an ideal candidate for the Ladette To Lady television series. All pretty harsh stuff; apparently, the seemingly innocent woman interviewed on BBC Breakfast agreed. Throwing her hands into the air, she shouted ‘it’s not as if the young girl is snorting cocaine in the living room and shagging the gardener’. Cue an awkward silence, a stammering newsreader and a reminder that sometimes it’s more enjoyable when life doesn’t go too smoothly.

Some newsreader gaffes stick long in the memory whilst others fade into obscurity, albeit with a chuckle or two. The following are either screw ups I remembered myself, or found when randomly trawling through the internet; may God bless the invention of Google. You lucky sods even get the video link to enjoy the awkwardness all over again. Over and out; have a wonderful weekend petals. x

1.       A Sky News journalist who couldn’t decide between saying ‘seal hunt’, or ‘seal cull’, before managing to combine the two by dropping the ‘c-bomb’ live on air. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zsIuT-Pdi70

2.       This guy’s name is Chuck Storm. So he already sounds like the offspring of a crap superhero and a 70s pornstar. He got what he deserved. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Y1q32AeMvM

3.       When newsreaders say BREAKING NEWS, it’s usually anything but; here, however, it’s quite apt. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DUjbQUp9SR8&NR=1

4.       I guess he meant to say ‘keep plucking that chicken’. That makes even less sense than what Ernie Arnastos, American newsreader, accidentally did say. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ss8LDBNcsWc&feature=related

Fellatio Lopez? WHAT

If my mother was a Wimbledon umpire, she’d be the Jade Goody (too soon?) of tennis officials; it’d be hilarious, yes, but the players would end up aiming aces directly at her face.

“So what’s the name of this guy Murray might be playing in the quarter final then... Fellatio, right?”

Are you having an effing laugh? I glance over, a bit distressed, equally amused, waiting for her to crack a smile. Was that a little joke on Janice’s part, referring to this professional tennis player as a blowjob? This, surely, must be the pinnacle of his global career.

“Fishano?” I could end this torture now, but it’s just too damn funny as she reels off another gaffe. Rifling through the paper, she eventually finds out it’s Feliciano, turns a shade of crimson, and the matter is most definitely closed. My madre is often a clever woman, but Spanish first names clearly aren’t her strong suit. Manuel becomes Manure, Esteban becomes Oestrogen, and the whole thing is a massive screw up.

Then again, some of these players don’t exactly make it easy; I found a junior in the Boys’ Singles and Doubles with a wonderfully eccentric name. Aslan Karatsev. Yep, read it and rejoice; this curly haired Russian cherub has been named after a lion in a kid’s book. A very heroic lion, that may be, but a fictional big cat nonetheless.

Completely unrelated, but...

I walked out of the house yesterday morning, blinking in the morning sunshine and already sweating like a newborn piglet, when suddenly an introspective fashion drama occurred. I was wearing a Beatles t-shirt.

Now, I do like the Beatles, don’t get me wrong, yet only with a passing interest like most casual fans. Strawberry Fields Forever, Help, Can’t Buy Me Love, Something, amongst others are up there. And yet, can I be considered enough of a fan to warrant waltzing around, declaring my loyalty for them on a t-shirt? It seems a tad fraudulent; I wasn’t there in the Cavern Club at the start of their careers, I didn’t witness Beatlemania, I didn’t scream my ass off at any of their concerts. And then, I see a teenage girl, of about 14ish, flicking her hair in the air like she just don’t care y’all, wearing a Rolling Stones t-shirt. Fake tanned to the hilt with some Pat Butcher earrings on, I don’t think she even knows who Mick Jagger is.

The Beatles related guilt quickly receded.

J Au revoir. x

British Booze Hounds- Anyone For Tennis?

What, you may ask, is the greatest distraction for a young man sitting at home as he attempts to plan a trip to Asia whilst writing something worth publishing?

Is it the internet? Music? The Jeremy Kyle Show? An endless supply of chocolate biscuits as he piles on some mighty bingo wings? Cheap porno (if you’re that way inclined; frankly, I think it’s revolting)... Hehe.

None of these perfectly acceptable answers; it’s tennis. Plain old tennis, the sport played by Russian women built like cage fighters and an angry Scot who has all of Britain hooked, as he moans and mumbles his way through another tedious press conference. What is it about Wimbledon that so transfixes me, as well as millions of other British people who most of the time couldn’t give a rat’s arse about double faults and break points? Patriotism is the easy answer and, let’s face it, probably the correct one; any excuse to dust off the Union Jack flag in the garage and stuff your face with scones is always welcome. Additionally, the Brits love an excuse for a booze up in the hazy afternoon sunshine and, weather permitting, Wimbledon supplies us with a two week window to do so, during the height of summer. Considering we’re a country with some of the worst alcohol related statistics in Europe, the world, the universe, this must be taken into consideration. What more could a borderline alcoholic, sun-deprived, success-starved nation like us want? Nowt, quite frankly. Asides from the England footie team winning a World Cup Final 10-0 against Germany at Wembley Stadium, I can’t think of any other sporting occasion which comes close.

Such was my urgency to rush back to the BBC coverage, with Sue Barker the (almost) silver fox showing a little too much leg whilst Tim Henman definitely tries to suppress a semi, that I neglected my household duties. The point of drying the dishes is in the name: drying. Not shoving them back in the cupboards and wondering why everything is soggy when you come back later to cook dinner. Blaming it on a fictional hole in the roof just doesn’t cut the mustard really, not with my hawkeyed mother. It’s quite strange, being back at home and suddenly domesticated, after spending three years working every hour of the day and having almost total independence. I don’t yet find helping out at home emasculating in the slightest; however, I do draw the line at feather dusting.

Tomorrow I’ll be venturing on my third tandem biking session with Chris Blackabee, which I’m glad to say is rapidly becoming a regular fixture; not sure if I fancy doing it in the Saharan heat we’re experiencing today. I may actually melt into the saddle otherwise. But hey ho, at least I’m fortunate enough to even see where we’re going, so I’ll look on the bright side and keep you posted on our next adventure. Assuming we don’t plough into an oncoming lorry (fingers crossed). Tapping away at a laptop in a full body cast might be tricky.

Game, set and match. G x