I used to think “I’m not a morning person”. However, it’s 09:58, and I’ve just tried to phone Lino. I would have had better luck communicating with the dead, but I have gained a whole new respect for what the phrase “not a morning person” really means. In his case, I reckon even afternoons are a bit dodgy. But from my point of view, now that the clocks have gone back, getting up ceases to be a mild irritation and become a major feat. Never mind single-handed conquests of Everest, me getting into work (vaguely) on time is something much more deserving of applause on the ‘human endeavour’ front. It’s bad enough getting out of bed in the summer, when sunlight falls in dapples through the curtains, and birds are singing on your windowsill. But when it’s pitch black, and any sensible fauna has migrated to warmer climes…

Things are not helped by the steadily escalating round of Christmas parties and outings, which tend to lead to me staggering from one day to the next, desperately trying to cram eight hours of sleep into six hours in bed, and two hours of hungover misery at your desk. Put two or three such nights in quick succession, and I rapidly start looking like a audition candidate for George Romero’s next epic.

Oddly, though, I’ve found a small loophole in biological law, which I hereby pass on, in the hope that it’ll be of use to others: if you aren’t going to get eight hours sleep, it’s a lot better to get four than six. I presume it’s something to do with cycles, but six hours invariably leads to the aforementioned walking dead impression, while on four, I can usually just about function and get through the day. I might crash out in the bogs for half an hour’s kip, mind, but hey, rather that than the feeling that your brain has been replaced by two pounds of treacle.

The other advantage is obvious: you can get so much more done when you don’t have to go to bed till 3 a.m. And there is much less competition for leisure resources at that hour, because your more sensible housemates have already departed for bed. Thus, television, computer, Playstation — all are available for your entertainment. The major problem is when it reaches your revised crash-time, and you start trying to talk yourself into thinking you can survive on no sleep whatsoever. This is very, very bad and should be avoided at all costs, unless you want to start Seeing Things out of the corner of your eye round about tea-time.

Now, I take this approach as an emergency measure, good for one or perhaps two evenings per week to tide you over until you reach less sleep-challenged waters. However, I passed the technique on to Rob Dyer, of ‘Dark Star’ magazine, and he has taken it to the next level, with prolonged periods on four hours sleep per night. [Dunno whether this means we’ll see a new issue inside 18 months… :-)] I am monitoring his mental condition to see if he starts giggling inanely, staring into space, or purchasing B*witched CDs — as yet, there have been no signs of Mr.Psychosis paying him a visit, but I’m not yet going to risk it myself.

I did it last night, however, since I was looking at about six hours sleep by the time I got back from the company Christmas party and pottered around on the Internet. The party was actually rather good, compared to previous nightmares. I’ll spare you the details, but the most noteworthy thing was the decorative theme which dragged in Area 51 and alien autopsies, with vats containing ETs, etc. Interesting how it has become so engrained in public consciousness that it can be used in this fashion without anyone batting an eye-lid. But of course, this is precisely what “they” want to happen…

And on that note, I’m off to bed. I have some catching-up to do.
Zzzzzzzzzzzz…

[I am groaning under the burden of a vastly increased workload — for my sins, I am even having to work all Saturday and Sunday. This week, I will thus hand you over to our American ambassador, for something perhaps a little more educational than our usual editorials…]

“Specialists recommend that just in case, if citizens do not have any special tasks at hand, they should stay indoors,” Georgia’s national radio said. “Foreign astronomers advise that people with circulatory conditions can suffer ill-effects. Those who are lovers of alcoholic drinks should be especially careful, because during times of world cataclysms people tend to become drunk more easily,” it continued without elaboration.

It was 3:00am – I set the alarm to go off and decided to stay in bed for just FIVE MORE MINUTES.. after all, this wasn’t something I HAD to do, just something I wanted to do. I sat in the darkness of my room, under the warmth of my covers debating with myself whether or not to get up and go outside. Arguing that this only happens once a year and this year it was supposed to be spectacular.

My decision was made for me when my bedroom lit up like a Christmas tree. I tilted my head back to peek through the blinds and squinted because I didn’t know exactly what I was looking at. I made out the sky and the stars, clear as a bell. It was a clear night. Then I saw it again, several streaks crossing the stars then seemingly *exploding* and streaking off again. That did it. Hopped out of bed, put on a jacket against the evening desert chill (yes, I live in a desert and it DOES get cold contrary to the belief of your fine editor), and ran out back with binoculars in hand. ‘Course I didn’t really need them, the sky was like a veritable light show. The atmosphere was clean and clear, no twinkling and that made for excellent viewing. Yes, folks, in addition to all her writing talents designed to entertain you, your American Ambassador is also an Amateur Astronomer. I had to see this, I had to document it.

I bore witness to the Leonids Meteor Shower which graces our system every year about this time. This year, however, we passed through a denser area of the Comet tail and were destined to see a lot more meteors than the norm. Last time the Leonids were this dense was in 1966. Reports of up to 1500 meteors per hour were reported. The original comet that made up this tail passed our system in 868AD and left its first trail in 902AD. Every year, we pass through this comet’s tail and see meteors or *Shooting stars* as many people like to call them.

The most dense shower in the history of this storm was in 1833 when it appeared over the Northeastern United States and it seemed as though it were raining meteors. The sky was illuminated with majestic fireballs all evening. It was estimated that over 240,000 meteors fell that evening and that is only a rough estimate since they didn’t start counting till it began waning!

Your American Ambassador was in awe this morning. I realize that we are a much smaller part of something huge in this universe. I felt amazed watching multiple streaks exploding in the pre-dawn sky. Makes you wonder what would happen if any of those rocks would hit something. Good thing we have an atmosphere that burns up most of the debris before it hits the ground, otherwise we’d all be wearing combat hats every few weeks when we pass through comet tails, although some renegade pieces manage to sneak through our planetary defenses and bash in the hood of a car or the side of a building. Nothing to speak of, and certainly not *Armageddon*.

Jim tells me I am outwardly passionate about everything. And why not? Stand outside this morning watching this and realize how cool it is to be here, alive and able to see this, able to enjoy life and all its pleasures with gusto. Besides, what is the alternative?

Chris Fata
Scottsdale Arizona
18 November 1998

One slightly delayed editorial this week, due to a busy weekend. Saturday saw the start of the nightmare which is Christmas shopping; even at this early stage of the festive pre-season, I’ve already traded off significant sanity points, in exchange for a pitifully small pile of presents. At this rate, I will be experiencing Christmas lunch from inside a padded room, with no sharp implements in reach.

The day didn’t exactly get off to the best of starts in the nostalgia department, with the discovery of a calendar-challenged wasp in my bedroom, seemingly unaware it was now the middle of November. My dread of wasps has been with me since childhood, when I used to hide under the bedsheets at the slightest insect noise. I was thus less than impressed to return from the bath to find seriously peeved buzzing coming from the curtains, as well as the shadow of something large enough to contend for a role in ‘The Dambusters’. I rapidly discovered that the efficiency of insect murder-death-kill spray does not extent to operating THROUGH curtains. Mind you, at least I was using insect spray; on one previous wasp-invasion, I sprayed most of a can on the critter, to absolutely no effect — unsurprising, given that I was actually using air freshener.

Fortunately, the wasp (mandibles the size of small saws, attitude like a crack-crazed football hooligan) was too busy trying to chew its way THROUGH the glass to notice that I’d pulled back the curtain and unleashed a chemical weapon assault of which Saddam Hussein would be proud. It didn’t die easily, or quickly. Indeed, I got bored and drifted off to tell a housemate how I had bravely vanquished the beast, though they were not quite as impressed as I felt they should be. On the return, my heart nearly stopped, as Wasposaurus Rex was no longer on the window-sill; I had visions of it hanging from the ceiling eager to pounce. However, it had merely fallen off in its death throes, and was lying on the carpet. Amazing how much smaller it looked; by the time I carted it ceremoniously downstairs to the housemate, it was no more than average size…

We’ll draw a veil over the hell which is Camden Market on a Saturday afternoon as Christmas nears, and skip neatly to the evening, spent at a mate’s 30th birthday. In what could be seen as a last, desperate attempt to cling to the vestiges of youth (except for the fact that he looks a damn sight more than two years my junior), he’d been up in the attic and had dragged down some of the games which he and his brother had enjoyed, such as Rebound (kinda like shove ha’penny, with a U-shaped track and two elastic band powered bumpers), table skittles and the justly renowned Ker-plunk.

After a little scepticism, people really got into these. Though I don’t think it’ll quite replace VR Baseball in my affection, Jenga is a curiously satisfying game. You start with a tower of wooden blocks, each of the 18 levels made of three flat slabs not unlike shortbread fingers. Each player in turn has to take one block out from the middle and place it on the top; whoever makes the tower topple loses. Deceptively simple, yet a good test of a steady hand, and also your skills at mental levitation, as there are times when all intuition says gravity should take its toll, yet the tower resolutely stands tall. A good Christmas gift, especially for that relation with Parkinson’s disease (“Oh dear, Granny — you lose again! That’s 23-0 to me. Fancy another game?”).

Indeed, so compelling was all this, that I came within an ace of missing the last tube home — being stuck in Morden on a Saturday night is not something I’d wish to experience. And there endeth one Saturday; one less shopping day to Christmas, one fewer vicious, black-and-yellow striped insect in the world, and a new appreciation of the delights of childhood. Maybe I should ask Santa for my own Ker-plunk set…

This editorial will be dominated by follow-ups to last week’s litany of hate. With regard to my dislike of the idiots on public transport, Miles Wood said “Me thinks Jim will LOVE Hong Kong!!” — and as he’s currently residing out there, it did indeed make me wonder whether to cross it off the list of destinations. But on reflection, that’s DIFFERENT: there, I am an honoured ambassador, who must abide by the traditions of a different culture. Here, it’s where I live, and everyone else can fuck right off. That’s that sorted. 🙂

[I’ll insert here a gratuitous plug for Miles’ fine book “CineEast – Hong Kong Cinema Through The Looking Glass”, in which he interviews some of HK’s top directors and actors. See the FAB Press site for details — and between this and the Rockbitch piece, I have given FAB more than enough free publicity. I hope head man Mr.Fenton is appropriately grateful.]

Secondly, there’s a lengthy follow-up from Mal Aitchison, who is the guy who pointed me in the direction of Ceefax P.576 to start with:

It would take a much longer letter to list all my initial reactions to the Litany of Hate editorial, as well as the several semi-considered responses to it. Even this reply is being written in the after effects of the catatonic shock your cataclysmic edict induced in the very core of my soul (how’s that for literary hyperbole?). Apart from the worryingly New Ageish slant to comments like “it is only by confronting your demons that you can control them” – not if they’re built like brick shit houses you can’t – I don’t think aversion therapy or whatever you were alluding to was intended to address issues like people “who put their bags on seats, walking three abreast, with umbrellas” etc.

Hell, I though the bit about demons was more Nietzche than new-age — unless new-age has toughened up a lot since I last noticed it massaging its crystals. As for aversion therapy, sadly, I’m too psychologically stable to suffer from any addressable issues. He continues:

Don’t take this personally, although you can if you want, but having read more than enough P576s (i.e. more than one) I think I’m well qualified to say that you are wrong about these lists. On the whole they fall into two categories (ie when produced by sane people, I’ll stick with my original assertion about the majority of 576ers); boring, self-important whinging by humourless bastards or, even worse, really laboured attempts at humour which fall somewhere between tautology and cliche (I’d be very surprised if “waiting for a bus, then 3 turning up at once” type comments had never been posted on Ceefax). I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and put you into the rare 3rd category – people who produce great zines and are therefore allowed the occasional lapse of taste.

Interestingly though, it’s still produced more immediate feedback than any other editorial I’ve written – not hard, admittedly – and I reckon this goes to prove the power of the underlying concept. I would at this point go on to discuss how it addresses fears of alienation by allowing people to realise that they are not alone in their hatred of, say, milk-cartons, but I’ll just get accused of being new-agey again.

I’ll finish now, I’m going to meet a couple of mates so we can stand three abreast on the left hand side of escalators, under the shade of the umbrella we nicked from an outdoor cafe table, while buying milk with a credit card and selling the Big Issue etc etc etc…

Of course, all the above is really my attempt to avenge your disparaging comments about Renee O’Connor during the TC World Cup 😉

Hah! Knew I’d forget something off my list: irritating blondes… Renee O’Connor still sucks, Hudson Leick is god. Dead, but a god… 🙂 [The previous sentences will not make a blind bit of sense unless you watch Xena: Warrior Princess. Sorry.]

Elsewhere, I was temporarily cheered to hear of the election of former pro-wrestler Jesse Ventura to be governor of Minnesota, thanks to the biggest turnout in the election. The American two-party system is even more screwed than ours, so for anyone else to break through is a major feat. And can you really see Giant Haystacks being elected to anything here? [I should mention there is a precedent in Japan, where pro wrestlers are held in a lot more respect] However, what largely seems to have escaped notice is that the “Reform Party” which backed him is the one started by H.Ross Perot, the loony computer mogul who made a failed run for President. Perot, head of EDS, is a very scary man. Maybe the two-party system isn’t so bad after all. But let’s give ex-Navy Seal Ventura a chance: he may or not break the mould, but it should liven things up a bit at the very least.

Some people actually chose to cast doubt on the veracity of the week before last’s editorial, in which I documented my encounter with a Tube Loonie — they didn’t seem to believe that such a mild-mannered citizen as myself could be so upfront. But it all happened as described (allowing for literary hyperbole); there are just some things which push my buttons and cause me to react in a way which can seem excessive to those who don’t share the particular dislike.

TC reader Mal Aitchison pointed me in the direction of page 576 on Ceefax — a corner of this usually staid and straight-laced medium given over to people ranting about the things that they hate. Entitled, “It Makes Me Mad”, it is populated by, in Mal’s words, “the largest collection of oddballs, fuckwits and psychos outside of Rampton”. And largely he is correct, with lists of things like “foreigners talking in their own language in front of you” and “modern underwear, because the elastic perishes, but you can’t replace it like you used to” — world hunger, the Kosovo crisis and the destruction of the rain forests don’t get a look in.

But there is something curiously infectious and cathartic about the process of compiling such a list. It defines your persona, and it is only by confronting your demons that you can control them. Thus, here are the things that make me go AAAAAAAAAARGGGGH!

• On public transport, people who put their bags on seats — see the aforementioned editorial. I make a deliberate policy of sitting next to these bastards, even if there are other empty seats.
• Car drivers who accelerate on zebra crossings. To get to Tulse Hill station, I’ve to use two of them, and barely a week goes by without some twat choosing not to stop — even though he’s got to stop ten yards up the road. If you time it right, you can clatter your bag into the side of their car with a most satisfactory thump… On at least one occasion, the driver in question has come screeching to a halt, before realising that the South Circular is perhaps not the best place to park.
• Johnnie Vaughn + Denise Van Outen. Those faux-flirty couples on daytime TV are bad enough, but these two REALLY piss me off, with their forced ad-libs, and a rapport as natural as margarine, just greasier. Vaughn’s “I’m so clever” attitude is utterly unbearable, making even Chris Evans seem like a choirboy. And how Van Outen makes it into so many of those “most fanciable women” lists beats me.
• People who choose not to queue. You’re in a shop; there’s two or three tills open, but people wait in one line for whichever becomes free. But there’s always some imbecile who ignores the large queue and decides to start their own.
• Supermarket customers who pay for a pint of milk with a credit card. This is self-explanatory. Just as bad are those who queue up, then decide to wander off and get some more items, leaving their basket behind them. Hey, do your shopping FIRST, huh?
• Pedestrians who insist on walking three abreast down busy pavements. Inevitably at the speed of an arthritic slug too.
• Closely related, in the “should be a capital offence” category, are those who stand on the left hand side of escalators.
• People with umbrellas. Especially those who have golf umbrellas large enough for a herd of elephants to shelter beneath.

There are a whole bunch more: Big Issue sellers, everyone over 65, politicians, feminists, anybody who thinks horse racing is interesting, the undeserving rich, the undeserving poor, cycle couriers, Cleo Laine, Carla Lane, anyone involved with the National Lottery TV show, and animal rights activists, all to varying extents deserving of extermination. On the one hand, I am a bitter, misanthropic person given to sweeping generalisations; on the other, all the above combined probably account for much less than a billion people, and the other five billion or so are fine by me. I’m sure they are cheered by the knowledge.

Readers are encouraged to try the above for themselves, and see just how satisfying it can be. Once you get started, it’s difficult to stop! Feel free to submit your lists to me as well: I’m sure I can sympathise with some of them. Or have a good laugh at least. As for me, having safely unburdened the above, I’m off for a pint…