I’m not going to apologise for being late again — ‘cos from now on, updates to this page will take place at the weekend [er, probably — there are at least two weekends upcoming when I’m going to be away, in which case…well, let’s just say that all bets are off]. A decade of wage slavery has taught me that there is no such thing as a late project, there are only those where the schedule has proved to be inadequate…

An interesting week at work: not only was I offered the change to escape from the tyrannical tedium of my current department (albeit probably only for a slightly different flavour of tyrannical tedium), and they announced that the company is going to move to Docklands.

The reaction of most people to this announcement was pretty much as you would expect, even though the plan isn’t to go there until 2001. Indeed, in some circles it’s seen as a cunning ploy to get rid of people without having to pay them any redundancy money: the new building has enough room for 8,000 people, and we suspect the current number employed is a couple of thou more than that. I’m not sure whether I would want to go or not, it’d probably wouldn’t add that much more on to my journey (caveat: assuming they actually FINISH the Jubilee Line extension by then), but I will have cashed in my share options by then, currently a large pair of golden handcuffs tying me to them.

There were a couple of things in the announcment that amused me. There will apparently be “underground parking for over 300 cars” — which may sound a lot, until I refer you to the number of people who’ll be there, mentioned above. It works out as one space for about every 27 employees, excluding any for clients. This may be taking car-sharing to unheard-of levels. The other sentence to provoke a snigger was that this will apparently “provide real benefits to customers, shareholders and staff”. The first two I can ALMOST see, but if the tone in the office is anything to go by, the only staff who will feel any “real benefits” are the three who live in the area anyway.

Previously, I talked about the bizarre culture of technology in the company, whereby we get hurled onto the bleeding edge, just as we are finally coming to terms with existing tech, and feeling comfortable. A similar kind of thing takes place with office locations: in ten years, I have worked in three different building, and am now back in the same one in which I started. And that’s ignoring moves within a building, between floors, and re-arrangements of desks which seem to occur on a weekly level. And, of course, none of it makes the slightest difference. It’s almost as if the company compensates for having made a touch short of five billion last year, by engaging in ostentatious and conspicious consumption.

This is somewhat worrying, as history is littered with the wreckage of civilizations which did much the same thing — thousand-year reichs and all that. Egyptian pyramids, Aztec temples, Kremlins: even Canary Wharf itself, which was something of a legacy of the Thatcher years. Maybe some future generation will stand at the foot of an incomplete 41-storey office block in Docklands, shake their heads, and mutter something about follies.

So, Jim Ferman, head of the BBFC has finally announced that he’s going to resign at the end of the year. This has kinda been looming for a while, as he’d already gone on past the nominal retirement age. It always struck me as strange that it didn’t seem to apply to any of those who spent their lives telling us what to do: censors, MPs and judges can all continue until they are senile — or, indeed beyond in some cases. But this wasn’t really an issue with Ferman, unless you count his obsession with a) The Exorcist (probably the most harmless movie never to receive a video certificate) and b) nunchakus.

He’s actually survived pretty well — a good measure of his impartiality is that he’s been slagged off by both sides, which must get very wearing after a while (unless you’re the sort of contrary bastard who enjoys picking arguments, not that we know anyone like that near here, dear me, no…). The latest fuss is over ‘Lolita’, which made front page news in our friend, the Daily Mail, with the predictable kneejerk comments. Maybe this is the start of Ferman’s closing-down sale – “We must be crazy! For a limited period only, every film will be passed uncut! Submit now before Mary Whitehouse spontaneously combusts!” – following as it does on the heels of ‘Crash’ being passed uncut for video release. This, of course, leads to the ridiculous situation where it’ll be on sale in, say, the Virgin Megastore on Oxford Street…even though the local Westminster Council banned it at the cinema. Duh…

So, the question is, who’s going to replace him? I’m toying with the idea of applying for the post myself, just for a laugh, and see what happens. The initial signs might not be too promising, given Jack Straw’s tight-assedness on the subject (just like on drugs — so what’s the betting his son can also do you a copy of Texas Chainsaw Massacre?). But then, similar fears were voiced about Andreas Whittam-Smith, when he became president, and he seems to have done okay. Well, the Daily Mail hates him, so that makes him alright in my books.

To some extent, it’s not going to make a difference. I suspect that things like the Internet, European Union, DVD, satellite, etc, will soon render the role about as obsolete as that of the Lord Chamberlain, who used to censor the theatre. Ferman has perhaps done the equivalent of King Canute looking at the incoming tide, and saying to a courtier, “Be a good chap and keep an eye on this sea thing for a bit, will you?”. All of which does tend to increase my grudging respect for the man: it’s a thankless task, and one that should not be necessary, but given that it is, at least we’ve had an intelligent (sometimes TOO intelligent) man in the role for the past couple of decades. Let’s hope his replacement is similarly endowed — assuming it’s not me, of course… 😉

Late again this week, for reasons I will nebulously describe as “technical difficulties”, and move rapidly on. Glad of the extra couple of days inspiration however — I work on the assumption that if I wait long enough, something interesting will turn up. Luckily for you it did, or the entire column could well have been taken up with a discussion of what many of my favourite babes seem to have in common: outstanding eyebrows.

This was triggered by a visit to www.eyebrowz.com, a site which specialises in fake eyebrows which will supposedly make you look just like a range of famous celebrities. Or at the very least, give you that oh-so-sexy, “permanently startled” expression. Discovering how many of my top 10 were in there, followed by perusal of the piccies I possess, led to the realisation that Audrey Hepburn eyebrows are apparently further up my list of wants than almost anything else.

But moving on, I was also pleased to receive my very first piece of abusive email. It seems to come from the exotic source of Uruguay, and runs, in full, as follows:

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From rober@mailcity.com Sat Mar 21 00:21:25 1998
Subject:
Date: Fri, 20 Mar 1998 20:10:31

you are a stupid
you are a “hijo de puta”
your page is “The trash of the red”

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Okay, it’s not much I know, but it is at least a start. Unfortunately, “rober” didn’t tell me precisely what it was about our pages that upset him so much he turned into a drooling imbecile. Maybe it was my praise for Brazillian women on the strip-pub pages? Whatever. Now, I don’t mind criticism, and I can even take abuse, too — providing it’s interesting, or at least coherent. But if you can’t grasp the minimal basics of the English language, then get mummy to help you, or else your insults are going to be somewhat wasted. And if anyone knows what “the trash of the red” actually means, please get in touch.

Secondly, and more pleasantly, was the following from TC’s American ambassador, reporting on a day spent chaperoning a field trip for her son’s 8th Grade class.

“…Next stop was lunch at the Five and Diner. Remember the Air Stream all-aluminum trailers that were used as diners in the 50’s? This place is just like that, out of time, with waitresses in saddle shoes and oldies music emanating from table side juke boxes and served the best damned malteds in the whole universe. Lunch, of course, were hamburgers and fries (*chips*) with *FREE* ketchup in bottles.” [Ah, yes — having to PAY for ketchup in the fish and chip shop was a major shock to the system for certain Americans when they visited recently…]

Speaking with my son’s teacher, Janet Jones (who’s husband, by the way, is from Liverpool), we had a complete discussion about London. Since she is married to a Brit, we enjoyed our conversation about my trip there and the things that were new and different from our way of life. I found out, to my complete amazement, that my new favorite beverage, “HOOCH” is now sold here in a local supermarket. Now I can “Mind the Bottle” here as well (just kidding). We also discussed the finer points of how to get a drink with ice IN it. […and another shock was that when the British put ice in drinks, in tends to be of the “one lump or two?” approach.]

The piece d’resistance on our little excursion was the Peoria Sports Complex, home to the Milwaukee Brewers and San Diego Padres baseball franchises in the spring, where we witnessed a training game. I, being a baseball illiterate and quite ignorant of baseball etiquette and rules, was awed by the ritual. Don’t get me wrong. I went to a baseball game about 11 years ago and that was the only time. So to say I enjoyed myself was a grand understatement. Today’s game featured, to my Baseball Ignorant self, the American League’s Most Valuable Player, Ken Griffey Jr., who played Center Field not 15 feet from where my carcass was parked on the Lawn.

Not having been to a baseball game in over 10 years, it was refreshing fun and hot as hell since it was an early afternoon game and the temperature was up in the 90’s with a sun that would burn you in 5 minutes.. Needless to say, my arms and face were burnt to death, and how I am going to explain that to my job tomorrow since I called in sick, is going to be a problem.

Baseball games are fun, not so much because of the game itself, but the fans are a trip and a species unto their own. The die-hard fans have witty sayings and dirges they will yell out to the players for different reasons:
a.) To boost their favorite team’s morale
b.) To berate the opposing team by picking on the players one at a time.
c.) To insult a player on their favorite team if he is not playing up to snuff.

Yes. I would have to say that, from the National Anthem, to the screaming fans, to the one-of-a-kind concession vendors who scream out the names of the products they are hawking in a ritualistic, mystical Cantor, that Baseball is indeed an American institution and makes for one hell of a good afternoon.

I think that someday, I should like to learn the rules about baseball… The only thing I remember is that you have to “run home”….

Yes…something like that. I think that on the next visit, a trip to a football (er, that’s *soccer*) game is in order. We’ll soon have Chris teaching chants of “You’re shit, and you know you are” to the Little Leaguers in Scottsdale. Wonder if Millwall will be at home?

It’s Saturday afternoon, and I’m sitting at work, watching the football scores roll in on the Reuters newsfeed, while I wait for various technical gurus to do stuff so that I can start the system up again, and then push off back to what’s left of the weekend. No real hurry though, as it gives me the chance to write this week’s editorial: it should have happened last night, but circumstances, in the shape of TC contributor Andy Collins, a quantity of beer and a particularly potent curry, conspired against me. [Barnsley 3, Southampton 2]

It has been a busy week: three evenings out, and the other two saw friends visiting; more and more I find myself out during the week, and using the weekend to recuperate and recover, quite the reverse of normal practice. [Motherwell 1, Rangers 1] I don’t mind this, as going out at the weekend is a hellish pursuit. Far better to sit at home and shake your head at the sad exploits portrayed on ‘Friday Night Fever’, roadcrash television at its most compellingly awful. This show follows people on nights out, providing a salutory lesson on why the best company is your own. If these are the sort of people who occupy London at the weekend, I’m staying home.

Not that going out during the week is trouble-free, especially if you have to deal with London Transport. Monday night saw me travelling down to Morden, which is ONE STOP outside the area covered by my Travelcard. I went to Bank station, with every intention of buying the extension which would let me travel like an honest citizen. But, during rush hour, at one of the busiest and largest stations, all the machines I could use were demanding exact change, and there was precisely ONE ticket window open, You can imagine what the queue at that was like. [Dunfermline 1, Aberdeen 1] Thanks to my futile attempts to buy a ticket, I was now late, so I hopped onto the tube anyway, planning to sort it out at Morden. [Spurs 2, Liverpool 1. Damn.]

Unfortunately, down at Morden, there was only one man in the ticket office, and he was too busy with people on the other side of the barrier to serve poor me at the “assistance” window. No problem, I’ll go through the barrier and join the queue there. Uh-huh. Not with the London Transport employee from hell on guard, with an attitude straight out of ‘Zulu’ — they shall not pass. Ten minutes of politely asking, begging and finally threatening failed to move him. Luckily, his supervisor turned up, and let me through without blinking an eye, but the LTEFH *followed me through* and explained in infinite detail how he was just “doing his job” and “obeying orders”.

The net result of this aggravation [Spurs 2, Liverpool 2, hooray!] is that I am now seriously considering fare dodging as an active pursuit, since it seems that this is what London Transport want. Why else do they make it so hard to buy a ticket, and treat people who WANT to pay like common criminals?

I’ve been on the early shift at work this week, which is about the nearest thing to hell I can envisage. “Early” in this context, means being at my desk at 7 a.m which, the more I think about it, goes beyond merely hellish to positively Satanic. This means getting up in the dark, and going out into a freezing, damp and miserable morning when any sane person is still curled up with dreams of [insert favoured sex-god(dess) here]. It sucks.

Admittedly, I’ve not exactly helped things, by averaging about six hours sleep this week. But you go to bed early on Sunday night, in preparation, and find yourself deeply acquainted with the cracks in the ceiling because you are, of course, not tired. But, boy, do you know the meaning of that word by about Wednesday night, especially as I resent having to go to bed when civilised society is still down the pub. So I don’t. Oddly, though, the most easily survived day was Thursday, when I got a mere four hours of kip: I think four is better than six, for some reason connected with sleep cycles.

Thankfully it’s only one week in four, but that’s still one week in four too much. And I was thus grateful for the following rant which appeared in my mailbox courtesy of regular TC contributor Lino. It saves me having to think up anything when my brain is curled up in a corner demanding large quantities of R.E.M. — and I don’t mean the dumb band. So, ladies and gentlemen, I give you…

PUBLISH THIS!!

So, anyway, it’s 12:30am on Tuesday morning, and I’m downloading “blueprints” from usenet, surfing and with my third eye am watching “Late Show with David Letterman” on Sky One, an ad break appears… blah blah, small Japanese car, blah blah, Burger King, blah blah, usual bland crap… then… I see two men in lab jackets standing in front of a chimp… one of the men is holding a picture of a packet of sweets… not just any sweets… Opal Fruits, but you see, and this is where my world starts falling apart, they’re not marked up as Opal Fruits… the wacky duo are testing out new names on the chimp… the chimp getting excited and pushing the “OK” button when they show him the name “Starburst”…

Yes, the new name for Opal Fruits is Starburst… now, look, I love Americans, I love America, in fact I’m IN love with an American… and I’ve tasted Starbursts, and I like them (America having discovered that there are more than two fruit flavours…), but I will NOT accept this name change… ok, so a few years back, in the spirit of corporate greed they changed the name of my favourite nutty chocolate bar from Marathon to Snickers (In an attempt to make the world a happy place and flood the UK with these horrible generic advertising campaigns[*]), I accepted that (Although I do happily confuse stupid looking newsagents by asking where they keep the Marathons), because, while I enjoy them, my childhood wasn’t bombarded with mind altering ad campaigns for Marathon bars…

It was warped forever by mind altering ad campaigns for Opal Fruits… “Opal Fruitssssssss, made to make your mouth waaaaaaaater”… OK, I accept that they weren’t designed to make my mouth water, they were infact designed to be hard, then soft, and consisting of only a couple of flavours…. But they were Opal Fruits damnit…. OPAL FRUITS!!! Good God, I’m 32 on Saturday, I don’t need to have my rapidly dimishing grip on reality jarred by evil plans like this…. STOP IT NOW!! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!! WHERE WILL IT ENDDDDDDDDD!!

[*] These horrid generic advertising campaigns get worse. The latest Doritos advertisment being the American one. The worst offender so far are the series of Eurodisney ads where they cleverly place cups etc, in front of the “actors” mouths, thus making it easy to dub a foreign voiceover on it and ship it Europe wide…

OK, that’s it, I’m going to find some Americans on IRC and abuse them….

Goodnight

Indeed. Now THAT’s a sentence I can agree with…

Goodnight…