Mine, all mine… I have sole occupancy of TC Towers for the next week, and I am thoroughly looking forward to it. Don’t get me wrong, I like my housemates very much, but there is something about having 100%, irrevocably uninterruptable access to the entire place which is genuinely appealing. I can watch what I want, when I want; use the computer at will; have a bath without prior warning; chat on the phone for hours on end. And all of these, without a stitch of clothing on, if I so desire. Not that I would; merely having the freedom to engage in such anti-social behaviour is sufficient in itself.

For I remain unconvinced that man is a social animal; or perhaps it’s just that our ancestors never had to engage in subtle and largely implicit negotiation over who gets to watch what on the video. The way it seems to work in TC Towers (with the obvious caveat that my housemates’ may see it totally differently), is a complex dance of polite diplomacy and tolerance. If person X is watching a show/film/barbed-wire deathmatch when Y enters the room, X can finish watching it. However, if Y is still there at the end, X should include Y in discussion over the next item. If neither has any specific choice, X may provide a short-list of possibilities, from which Y shall select, or vice-versa.

Given the above, you can see why I am looking forward to going home and simply slapping on Brawlin’ Broads, or any of the other titles unlikely to make it off the short-list when the rest of the inhabitants are around. I have even done my level best to clear the social diary for the week, so I can make the most of this opportunity for glorious isolation — it’ll be a bit like a solo version of Big Brother, with fewer cameras. This should mean a significant drop in the unwatched backlog (currently sitting at 15 tapes, 9 laser-discs and 3 DVDs), as I rip through the less housemate-friendly titles.

This will mean a back seat for my other favourite indoor pursuit, since it can be done privately, in my own room… No, I mean working on the computer, of course – what did you think I meant? Admittedly, the new TC hasn’t been receiving the attention it should have lately (at least on the design and layout front – I continue writing apace) but I am working on the site, specifically, “enhanced” versions of the Incredibly Bad Film Show series going all the way back to TC 0. And you try finding pictures from Revenge of the Teenage Vixens from Outer Space. This is why it’s instead far more likely is that I will continue beating my brains out against the immensely irritating LMA football management sim on the Playstation. I suspect this game may be a cunning device, engineered by TC’s enemies to prevent me continuing to subvert the population at large.

This week, however, they needn’t bother. I’ll be locking the Playstation away in a cupboard, perhaps the same one as the cooking utensils – with my heavy-on-the-microwavey diet, it’ll be severely out of mind there. Perhaps now would be a good opportunity to try out that long-planned experiment as to whether M&M’s and out-of-date Twinkies are sufficient to sustain human life. Sadly, I’ll still have to come to work, but that doesn’t really count as social interaction: maybe I should take a vow of silence and see whether anyone notices.

And so, I retreat, pausing only to shave my head and don the cassock belonging to the Holy Order of the Happy Hermit. If I’m not back next week, send in a SWAT team.

Anyone who ever doubted Einstein’s statement that time is relative, clearly has never experienced a sunny Friday afternoon in the office. There’s no need to reach a velocity near the speed of light, all you have to do is go down the pub for a lunchtime pint, and time stands still: entire continents rise and fall before the hands of the clock reach 5pm. The more imaginative members of the department have left early, claiming to have “meetings” in other buildings, and a suspicious part of me thinks these were perhaps entirely spurious. Jealous? No: until I qualify for my share options – which paranoia suggests my employers would dearly love to withhold on a flimsy pretext, such as my bunking off early on a delightful summer’s day – I’m far too honest and upright to do anything like that. Still, only two weeks of gritting teeth and being polite to irritating work colleagues (the one with the Star Wars mobile phone tune has gone; the one who whistles the Blackadder theme remains) to go; it’s difficult to believe I’ve been waiting five years for the bloody things.

The moment they turn up, I quit – in fact, I’m thinking of writing my letter of resignation of the back of the share certificate, just to make the point. I’ve only got to give one month’s notice, but my boss wants me to give more; she can’t start recruiting until I have “officially” resigned. It makes no difference to my expected leaving date – the end of October – but I want to cut her some slack, not least because she’s writing a reference to help me get my American visa. It thus seems wise to do unto others. This will be my only plunge into the job market since leaving college (my first job was for a software house, I was shipped out to one of their clients, and jumped ship permanently a year later, where I’ve been ever since). This is a scary thing, playing on standard human fears of rejection: will anyone want me? And will I end up at a company that requires me to actually work? Eeek.

Flicking through the Phoenix press, I notice the large numbers of jobs which require a drugs test. This isn’t a problem in itself (I may be the only person in favour of legalising all illegal drugs, who has never tried any of them), but I confess to some qualms about it from a civil liberties point of view. If you’re a train driver or heart surgeon, I could perhaps see the point, and I wouldn’t want my employees to turn up stoned, but what you do outside of work hours should be your own concern. If I wanted a moral guardian, I would go back home to my mother, not off to the “land of the free as long as you provide us with a urine sample”. Ideally, I’d love to have a company beg me to work for them, only to say “Sorry, I don’t do drug tests”, but I suspect moral qualms will go out of the window, for the first job or two anyway, and I’ll be delighted to have the opportunity to piss in a paper cup.

If nothing else, such dilemmas are a good way to try and pass the time until five, especially in conjunction with comfort eating. Well, “comfort” isn’t actually the word, it’s more “recreational” in this case — you can only look up the latest Open golf scores on the news feed so many times before that begins to pall. Spurious errands are also good: get a sandwich, post a parcel, get the coffees in, anything to get out into the warm summer sunshine while it lasts (probably until roughly 5:01 p.m.). It’s horribly like a hangover. There’s not much in the way of a cure, all you can do about it is hold on and wait for the pain to go away, for you know it will eventually stop….

…until 9 a.m. on Monday morning at least. 🙁

This editorial really came about from two directions: firstly, an email which arrived here at TC Towers:

Are your comments about the English your own views or do you mean it tongue in cheek (The English are all scum etc.)? These might not be your sentiments as I got the link from a review of Braveheart…I meet lots of Politicians – Alex Salmond and Rosie Cunningham, most of the time. As Alex is at the moment trumpeting ‘The new Maturity of the Scots in their dealings with their southern neighbours’ I am sending examples to him of various Scottish web sites with a virulent anti English Bias. Of course its a two way traffic (See the England supporters web site and comments about who they term the ‘Sweaty Socks’) I’m just sad that this sort of hatred seems to be on the increase.

My reaction to this email was one of some bafflement – largely because I wasn’t sure whether the writer was joking or not. I suspect not, although he was largely vague on what he found on the site which qualified as “virulent anti-English bias”. I obviously pointed out that I’ve been living in England for 13 years, so I can’t think it’s that bad, but also suggested that he take a look at Hollywood — this is largely a film site, after all, and there seems to be a growing number of films with English villains, for more or less justifiable reasons. Gone in Sixty Seconds and X-Men both have them, although the latter as least has Patrick Stewart leading the good guys too. Which brings me to the second point: a savage mauling of The Patriot in yesterday’s Daily Telegraph (disclaimer: I only bought it for the fantasy cricket scores), in which the film was ripped apart for being historical “porn”. My feelings on this are somewhat ambivalent. Part of me wants to say “It’s only a movie, get over it.” But the problem is, that a Hollywood production is quite likely to have more of an impact on people than long-forgotten history lessons, and the potential for, at best, confusion, is significant.

There is an inherent problem with basing films on real-life dramas. Real-life is not cinematic – it doesn’t come in convenient three-act structure, with a tidy ending. So something has to give, and it’s usually the facts. But when you start discarding them, what you are making is effectively a propaganda film, since you are skewing the truth towards a certain point of view. This applies whether we are talking about The Patriot or Schindler’s List: both are equally dubious (though I doubt the former is quite as blatantly manipulative). And this is on top of the questions about history in general: it’s generally written by winners, and so is rarely a reflection of what actually happened. If the Nazis had won the war, for example, we would certainly be hearing what a total bastard Churchill was.

With ancient history (and in these terms, I mean anything beyond living memory), this is probably less important: it’s not that crucial whether some people in mid-West America think Robin Hood had an American accent. But the closer you get to the present day, the greater the dangers, as recent fusses over films like U-571 and the proposed Colditz Story shows, where history is being rewritten to show Americans in the fote-front of World War II, rather than turning up three years late (albeit with much enthusiasm). Because if present history gets a little bit skewed, then down the line, that “little bit” has the potential to become “a lot”, and the cinematic version also has a better chance of getting locked into popular consciousness. I imagine there are people out there who think, thanks to Schindler’s List, that the Holocaust was invented by Hollywood, and took place in black-and-white. The risks of this hardly need mentioning…

…or, at least, slightly more sun-tanned than I was when I left for pastures Arizonan two weeks ago. Thanks largely to the liberal application of factor 60 sun-block, I managed to survive the furnace of Arizona in June, though I now have a huge respect for those who settled and lived there before the arrival of industrial-strength air-conditioning. A laid-back and unhurried lifestyle becomes less an option, and more a medical necessity, during the months on end when the top daily temperature hits levels never seen in Britain, outside a deep-fat fryer.

My qualms about the wildlife (emphasis on “wild”) also proved largely unfounded. The closest call came while tubing down the Salt River — this involves a group of you roping inner-tubes together and drifting lazily down a local stream for 3-4 hours, a cooler full of beer and snacks occupying another tyre. Fine, except that when you’d wedged in your tube, you can’t move with any speed, and believe me, I wanted too, when an F-sized wasp landed on the edge of my tyre. It looked at me; I looked at it; it began an inexorable crawl towards the cool and shady leg of my shorts. I attempted to move, capsized, and executed a manoeuvre not seen in any diving manual, but worthy of at least a 5.8 from the judges. I could swear I heard the sound of waspish sniggering as it flew off.

I returned to this country for one night, before Chris + I headed off to Paris; a potentially fraught affair given her low tolerance for rudeness, and the “somewhat variable” reputation the French have in this area. I’ve never had any problems; being British, I’m perhaps just too cowed to make a fuss. Thought it best not to tell Chris that, in an obscure part of their penal code, French waiters still have the right to guillotine fractious tourists on the spot. However, there were no major undiplomatic incidents to report: about the worst thing was the train home being delayed three hours. This was especially galling, as it was the night of the Euro2000 final, and so we could only hear the rest of Paris celebrating, as we waited, burdened with luggage and unable to move, in the Eurostar departure lounge at the Gare du Nord.

Otherwise, Paris was enjoyed, and stuff bought, though I drew the line at the fluorescent-pink fur, stuffed-toy Eiffel Tower, complete with beret. Even stumbled across some laser-disks, in the back of a discount music shop (special editions of 12 Monkeys and Crying Freeman for under six quid will do very nicely). The Eiffel Tower was looked at – from the bottom, the queues to go up it being insanely long – the Sacre Couer admired, and Notre Dame drifted past. Perhaps the unexpected highlight was the Museum of Erotic Art, located in a seven-floor building sandwiched between sex-shops in the middle of Pigalle. This was almost completely unerotic, but did introduce me to the totally mad artwork of Jacques Brissot. A lot of his creations remake classic paintings by the likes of Brueghel, using scraps apparently culled from porno mags; the overall effect falls disturbingly between Salvador Dali and Larry Flynt.

I now find myself back in Tulse Hill: normal (dis)service has been resumed, though I feel somewhat gloomy and rather wish it hadn’t. Still, immensely cheered by Tony Blair’s son getting done for being drunk and incapable — can anyone arrest Blair Sr. for being sober and incapable? Can’t blame the kid for giving false details: “sure, son, pull the other one”, would be the inevitable reaction to anyone who gave ’10 Downing Street’ as their address. Also, very kind of him to provide, by tossing his cookies in Leicester Square, a perfect example of the “drunken, noisy, loutish and anti-social behaviour” the Prime Minister railed against less than a week ago. Proof – as if any more were wanted – that politicians who try to pontificate about morality need to ensure they are wearing bullet-proof socks.

Have I said, “I told you so” yet? Except that even in my wildest dreams, I didn’t envisage England cocking things up so spectacularly. As Oscar Wilde said (or would have, had he been a TV pundit), “to lose one half-time lead is a misfortune; to lose two smacks of incompetence”. To go down to a penalty, for a Sunday pub-team tackle, was merely the icing on the cake, and made losing five quid to the guy on the next desk at work, not just bearable, but a wholly satisfactory investment. Though even if England had got through, it would have been Italy in the quarter-final, and does anyone really think you’d have beaten them?

I suspect the best thing is, it absolves me from the need to track down football…sorry, “soccer”, during the upcoming holiday in America, and concentrate on the matter in hand: survival. For, while plans to move out there at the end of the year advance apace, this will be the first time I’ve been out in Phoenix in the summer, previous visits have been in months like February or October when, while it’s still warm, the heat is rather less pronounced. And when I say “heat”, I’m not kidding: remember how hot it was over the weekend? Chuck another 30 degrees on top, and you’ll be there or thereabouts.

Told of such things, it’s no surprise to learn that I am preparing for a week spent scampering from air-conditioned home to air-conditioned car to air-conditioned mall to air-conditioned baseball stadium. Yes, baseball stadium. It has a retractable roof, which they close a few hours before each game, and then crank the coolers up to eleven in order to get the temperature down to comfortable by start time. I quite like the idea of working there…or perhaps even moving house under the stand somewhere.

You may have realised heat is not a favourite commodity of mine. Cold can always be countered with another jumper, but especially for those who work in a bank, there are certain minimum dress standards one is expected to meet — in quantity, if not necessarily quality. It’s really quite unfair: women get to flounce around in loose skirts, or anything this side of G-strings, while us blokes aren’t even allowed to loosen our ties without the risk of a fatwa from the office God-Emperor.

I do have to say that I feel certain quality thresholds should be required, and this applies both to men and women. Now, I’m no Adonis, but I do at least have the decency to keep myself largely covered. As one friend commented, “Englishmen shouldn’t wear shorts” (unfortunately, choosing to make the statement while sitting next to…yep, you guessed it, an Englishman wearing shorts), and there’s something to be said for this. Countries where hot weather is common have a far better idea of what looks good than places like Britain, where the summer lasts seven days, scattered between June and September.

Love for the sun makes people do strange, self-mutilating things, which result in large areas of pinkish skin. I’m firmly in agreement with the Victorians, who regarded a sun-tan as evidence of a life spent labouring in fields, and thus something to be avoided. However, this is probably tied in with my hypochondria, which inevitably elevates any mole to a malignant melanoma, and puts going into the sun in roughly the same risk category as unprotected sex with a male prostitute.

You will, given this, probably be wondering how I am going to cope with the thermonuclear temperatures to be found in the American South-West. But it’s not an issue that concerns me (though we’ll see how it goes for the next week). I’m perhaps more worried about wildlife which bites, stings, or simply looks as if it does. What do we have in this country which can compete? One slightly poisonous snake, which no-one I know has ever seen, and which would trigger reptilian laughter from its Arizonan siblings, were it to slither along and try to gain admittance into the annual VenomCon.

Because, let’s face it, we in Britain are remarkably insulated from such things. As well as having fauna that belongs in a petting zoo, there are effectively no earthquakes, volcanos, or other natural disasters to speak of. The weather is temperate, without tornados and hurricanes, and the political situation is stable to the point of utter tedium — if Britain was ever to have a military coup, it would probably involve the consumption of tea and biscuits, and be so well-mannered that no-one would notice it had happened.

I have to say, if you look at what made Great Britain great, it’s all in the past; these days, we are associated less with empire and industry, and more with football hooligans, the Millennium Dome, and a bunch of dysfunctional aristocrats. Which is why I have few qualms about leaving this place; America may be screwed up in a million and one ways, but at least they are good at the sports they invented, albeit largely because they don’t let anyone else play them. [Conspiracy theorists may care to ponder whether the real reason behind the USA’s embargo on Cuba, is because they were getting a bit too good at baseball.] Seen in this light, the failure of the English football and cricket teams is less a cause than a symptom.

Do I care? Only in a strange, abstract sort of way, in much the way I feel for a relative I’ve never met, and only been told about. At one time, I used to be quite patriotic — that’s just ebbed away and, now, I’m not sure whose country this is any more, but it’s not mine. And so, having set what I think is a new record for editorial topic drift, I’m going to pack a bag full of every light-coloured T-shirt I possess, and head off. Ice-cubes ahoy!