STOCKHOLM, Feb 11 (Reuters) – A possible link between mobile phone radiation and Alzheimer’s disease is being tested on laboratory rats, the leader of a Swedish university research team said on Friday. Neurosurgery professor Leif Salford told Reuters, “I cannot say that mobile phones give Alzheimer’s. But we cannot rule it out,” Some medical experts have suggested that microwave radiation from heavy use of mobiles could cause brain tumours as well as serious side-effects, including headaches, nausea, tiredness and sleep problems.

Despite the above, there’s really no need for anyone to bother with any more research: even the most cursory observation around London reveals the that using a mobile phone immediately brings on Alzheimer’s. You can see the victims all across town, spouting their banal, irrelevant drivel and shuffling along as if crippled by an inability to walk and talk at the same time. Any similarity to Ronald Reagan is no coincidence. The only thing capable of draining as many IQ points is wearing a baseball cap backwards, which instantly reduces the wearer to the evolutionary level of a baboon. [Would it be cool and hip to wear your trousers back-to-front, or would that be the behaviour of a village idiot? Discuss…]

The trauma of mobile phones begins with the ring; back in the days when they all had the same sound, at least you could snigger as the entire top deck of the No.2 bus through Brixton lunged for their pockets, unsure whether it was their phone ringing. Now, they all play different tunes, but the new problem is this: there is no tune on Earth which is bearable when reduced to the beeping of a mobile phone. I think the worst aesthetic atrocities, to my tender ears, are the classical tunes: something intended to be played by a full symphony orchestra, is not going to sound anything byt painfully grating coming out of an electronic Mars bar. [That whirring sound you hear, is Mozart turning in his grave] After this, you have to listen to one side of someone else’s conversation, almost inevitably at the “I’m on the bus” level — of the hundreds I’ve overheard, I’ve yet to hear a single one that couldn’t have waited till the perpetrator reached home. And do not get me started on imbeciles who take their mobile phones into cinemas…that’s a whole separate rant in itself. Let’s just say that there are certain things which should only be done in private, between consenting adults, and phone conversations are definitely on the list.

Sure, there are people who need them; if your job is of no fixed abode, then I can see the point. And if your car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, I’ll cheerfully admit a cell phone would be useful. But outside of a small set of similarly special circumstances, I’m baffled: my employer gave me a phone several years ago: it’s currently lying (I think – not checked it for months) in the bottom of my briefcase, with a dead battery. Put simply, if I’m not at home, it’s because I’m out doing something entertaining, and if that’s the case, I don’t want to be interrupted. I own no small children who might be bleeding from the eyes: whatever it is can wait. Even if TC Towers was burning down, what would I gain by learning about it this instant? [Unless, of course, I wanted to toast marshmallows]

Phone me when I’m in the middle of watching a movie, and you will get, at best, short shrift, and more likely the answering machine. For while increased communication is a good thing, that’s only on my terms. If we start behaving like a pack of Pavlov’s dogs, springing into action at the sound of a bell (or, more likely, a tinny rendition of the theme from Star Wars), regardless of where we are, we have become the servants of the technology, and not the other way round.

I don’t know.. Is it me? Am I getting too old? I have to admit, Jim’s last editorial sparked a little blaze inside me when I read it. Enough of a fire to get me up off my ass to add a little more fuel to the fire he started burning in last week’s drum.

There are so many things happening in this world, and we are evolving into who knows what, and what irritates me more than anything on this planet are people that can’t take responsibility for their own actions (or inactions), and have this overwhelming need to blame someone else, something else…draw the attention away from them for the moment and have the light shine on something that may be nothing more than a “colouring” for their psychoses. Like the movies.

Columbine was a perfect example of the need to blame something else just because two kids went psycho who would’ve probably gone psycho and blown away their school, whether they watched The Matrix or not. Jim tells me that John Wayne Gacy was a Disney movies fan. How weird is that? Does that mean that just because we ‘ve seen The Little Mermaid twelve times, we’re probably psycho-pedophile-killer-cannibals? And watching The Matrix doesn’t mean we’re gonna go out with automatic weapons and blow schools away — unless we’re seriously disturbed in the first place. Then we’ll do it anyway, whether we watch Disney or Linda Lovelace.

This little rant is courtesy of last night. I was driving my son and his friends home from their YMCA jaunt. There they were, three of them in the back, two 15-year olds (survivors of the Chaparral High School Pseudo Hostage Crisis) and someone’s little brother, tagging along to be with the big guns. And me, the invisible driver. Oblivious to all the happenings in the back and, apparently to them, not listening to a word they were saying. But I was… Listening very carefully. And I heard things that I never remember hearing as a child growing up with my boy cousins. I know that boys tend to be more aggressive around their peers, but I never remember hearing such intricate detailing of how they were going to kill one of their classmates in a most gruesome manner. Throwing him into a bathtub of boiling water, then tossing in 7 or 8 toasters (“so it would hurt real bad”), then, for good measure, a couple of cameras and a blow dryer just to make sure he was dead. All this said in the presence of the nine year old – I’m sure he was seriously impressed and followed by a hysterical impression of Terence and Phillip fart jokes from the South Park movie.

I was seriously considering the possibility that perhaps there was something to the ravings of the radio talk show people, screaming that kids are influenced and will act on things they’ve seen at movies. But I did something that radio talk show people don’t do. I asked the kids outright. I turned to them and asked them about the situation they were describing. I asked them, if the opportunity arose and they had the means with which to make that scenario real, would they put this boy they hate into a bathtub of boiling water with a crate of electrical appliances? Would they want to see him dead? The answer was “No way. We just like talking about it ’cause it makes us feel better.” My point exactly: harmless violence. Releasing the tension like the steam out of a pressure cooker.

And I know these boys get to see all the gory, violent, horrifying films they want. But what makes them different from the psychos who saw the same movies and kill/rape/maim/cannibalise/torture? Simple. They’re not psycho. Just lumped in with the same group because of a common interest they share.

But God help that kid at Chaparral they hate so much if they were psycho!

Chris Fata
North American Ambassador,
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When I went across to Arizona last October, I was looking to buy a long, black leather trench-coat — like so many clothes, they’re a lot cheaper in America, and so it seemed a good chance to get one. But I soon discovered that post-Columbine, long black trench-coats have become an under-the-counter article — you just don’t see them in shops. Sure, they still exist, but they’re a special order item. In fact, you need a licence to own one, and the background checks are considerably more stringent than for any automatic weaponry.

Actually, that last bit is an exaggeration, but the black market in black clothing is not the only cultural change to take place in Arizona since the Trenchcoat Mafia had their day in the sun. In the first four weeks of the year, no less than 18 schools were threatened with Columbine-style retribution; bombings, arson or good ol’-fashioned shooting sprees. The latest hit close to home, at Chaparral High School, which Chris’s son Robert attends. This started with graffiti in a bathroom, saying that everyone would die on February 3rd. Next, there was threats made to kill/rape/dismember a specific teacher – found in the supposed sanctity of a staff toilet. And then a gun was found on school premises. Whoever was responsible had a nice sense of threat escalation; a career in Hollywood script-writing beckons.

The authorities took no chances, and made February 3rd an optional school day. Robert went – armed with his mobile phone, so that at least he’d be able to phone-in an eye-witness account of the apocalypse to CNN [Interestingly, my old high school, Forres Academy, have just banned mobile phones as “disruptive”. Wonder how far they’d get with that in America?] Needless to say, nothing happened; well, Robert got hit with a volleyball, but this did not turn out to be the precursor to Armageddon. This is unsurprising, given the presence of enough armed law-enforcement, in a variety of flavours, to take over most less well-armed nations. You’d need to be a particularly stupid psychopath to take them on, after a marketing campaign that puts The Blair Witch Project to shame.

All these incidents have prompted soul-searching about the causes, from the blatantly obvious – “it’s power for the kids,” said the president of a security company – to the patently fatuous, with one “expert” suggesting it was partly due to Arizona’s nice weather, giving kids lots of alternatives to do on their extra days off. The responses to the threats have been similarly varied: the best one seems to involve bribery. At one school, they found a threat at 10:15, the principal offered a $200 reward after lunch, and the perpetrators were in custody by 1 p.m. That’s swift and to the point. It helps that the kind of losers who make these threats (not to be confused with those, more deserving of respect, who actually carry them out), are usually Johnny No-Friends, so that only mild inducement is necessary for their classmates to turn them in.

There’s no doubt, as mentioned above, it’s a power trip for an almost entirely powerless group to be able to cause so many adults to run around doing headless chicken impressions. And it’s not something that’s going to go away in the near future; no school is going to treat these threats with the seriousness they deserve i.e. none at all, simply because they would be totally crucified if something did happen — even if it was a meteor hitting the school. These days, the hypersensitive authorities tend to leap on even the slightest sign of “trouble”; so no matter how fine your grades, you’d better watch out with those English compositions…

Sometimes, extraneous factors have a habit of imposing themselves on your lifestyle choices. For example, I could never be a vegetarian, for the simple reason that I don’t like vegetables — no matter how subtly they’re cooked, it still can’t make up for the lack of a central nervous system. And similarly, while there are some facets of the S/M scene which appeal, I’m limited by the fact that I have absolutely no tolerance for pain and suffering at all. Which is also why this Tuesday was a day ringed in the calendar with black ink, since it marked my first visit to the dentist in the best part of a decade.

This lackadaisical approach was not, it has to be said, entirely of my own making. My previous dentist, C.K.White of Forres, went and died on me, and signing up for another torturer was never exactly high on my list of priorities. Such things tend to be done on a needs-must basis: I’ve been in Tulse Hill for seven years now, and I still haven’t got a doctor, despite there being one approximately fifty yards up the road. As long as my teeth didn’t bother me, I wouldn’t bother them, and having encountered no problems in coping with medium-rare steak, I was inclined to leave well alone.

However, the planned departure for pastures foreign would remove me from the tender mercies of the NHS and abandon me to the rapacious private health sector – “one filling? That’ll be $27,500”. Poor people in America frequently have all their children’s teeth extracted at once, purely for financial reasons, y’know… It thus made sense to get something back for ten years of National Insurance payments, while I still had the chance, and so I registed with the “Gloria Dental Centre”, conveniently located near Tulse Hill Station. Not too sure about the name (I’d have preferred something brutally honest, such as ‘Tortures R Us’), but it’s apparently tough enough to find anyone happy to acquire NHS patients. Paranoia suggested this willingness was due to a rash of sudden, inexplicable deaths on their current patient roster…

Having made an appointment, I then had to suffer the traditional week of hypochondria and psychosomatic concern. Every mouthful of food was analysed — was that crunching sound my teeth falling out, or merely a particularly crispy piece of pork pie? Tooth brushing took on an almost religious significance – I flayed my gums until they bled – and flossed, rinsed and gargled like a student indulging in last-minute cramming, hoping to make up for years of benign neglect. The day dawned and, after one last polish, I entered the chamber of horrors…

Of course, the actual event proved to be something of an anti-climax. Had an X-Ray (I was tempted to ask if they did enlargements, or could make it into coasters), discovered my old fillings were a bit worn, I need to floss more, and I’ve got to go back next week for cleaning. Not quite the sewing-up of my mouth, with a “This Property is Condemned” sticker placed over my lips, which I’d feared. I was impressed by the technological advances: C.K.White was an old-school dentist, who largely worked with pliers and his knee on your chest; the surgery here had a chair that tilted back so far I could feel the blood rushing to my head, and even had a television set playing music videos to distract you. Mind you, I now associate Britney Spears with having things stuck in my mouth, a reversal of most guys’ Britney-inspired thoughts.

But I’ve learned my lesson: no more shirking my toothsome responsibilities. I hereby vow to make regular trips to the dentist from now on. Every seven years. Whether I need to or not…

Maybe it’s a result of my Scottish Protestant upbringing, but when it comes to manners, I am terribly old-fashioned. For exaample, you should always say please and thank you — even when addressing those who are inflicting pain on you. Indeed, especially so then, since the last thing you want is a peeved dentist wielding power tools in your mouth [An issue currently close to my heart since next Tuesday sees me in the chair for the first time in…er…a while. I shall be exruciatingly polite, to the point of subservience.]

I mention the above, in preparation for an “It Makes Me Mad…” rant, since it appears that commitment, as defined above, is a term which seems more than a little unfamiliar to some people. In the past four days alone, I’ve had the following:

1. Friend X was supposed to be coming round on Sunday afternoon; I got a phone call at 4pm saying he couldn’t make it, largely because he’d now got some bird in tow.
2. Friend Y should have come round last night, but phoned to say he was “too tired” after a book-buying trip
3. We played five-a-side football today at 1215. Colleague Z announced at 1100 that he was going to a noon meeting instead.

None of the above is the slightest bit life-threatening, admittedly, but all were variably irksome in their own ways. I’m not really a formal guy, but if you’re going to break arrangements with me, there are things you need to remember, and they are nicely illustrated by the above. Firstly, try and have a good reason — “I found something better to do” is not, as far as I’m concerned, sufficient justification. Now, I remember well the days when I would cheerfully have sold my own grandmother for a shag, but I never did — admittedly partly because the market for grandmothers was sluggish in my part of the world. However, I will let Friend X off, because, having gone out and bought beer ‘n’ stuff, the fridge is pleasingly well-stocked. His loss is my alcohol-induced stupor.

The second occasion was perhaps the most understandable, but fell into disfavour because of the lack of notice. That very afternoon, another friend had invited me out for Chinese. “Thanks, but…”, I said, and explained my prior engagement. Having blown that out, getting a call that night left me high ‘n’ dry. You may not have anything else in your empty little lives, but mine is a hectic social whirl. Or rather, I’d quite like it to be, if people would stop faffing around at the last bloody minute!!!! Thank you.

The third case combined the worst of both worlds: not enough notice to make alternative arrangements, and a poor excuse. Part of my burden in life is being the dude who has to try and shepherd enough bodies to make up the footie team each week, and it’s a chore of Sisyphean proportions. I am now hardened to getting a steady stream of emails on the day before, from cancelling players: this I can handle, since I just ask the next guy on the list to bring in his kit. But on the day itself, I’m creek-located and paddle-deficient. In addition, when you get a mere sixty minutes notice of a meeting, it is perfectly reasonable to say “Sorry, I can’t make it”. Unless, of course, you’re a sad lap-dog with no social skills for whom work is the centre of life. Mind you, given this guy’s mobile phone plays the theme from Star Wars, it would seem a valid possibility…

Worse still, the meeting ended up being delayed by an hour, so he could have played after all. On the other hand, when it did start, it ended up being The Meeting From Hell, with people notorious for sorting paper-clips by size and colour. It lasted four-and-a-half hours. And this is the moral of the story: learn from this, and remember what happens when you can’t tell the difference between “I’ve found something better to do”, and “I love it when you come on my tits”. Now, that is what I call commitment…