A lot of people find it hard to believe that I went to university, never mind that I got a decent degree. I'm not sure why this is. I mention stories of my student days onstage a lot, I have used my education to get myself more than one stint of gainful employment and I'm certain that my mother has shown several hairdressers photos of me on my graduation day (which works as a rudimentary bush telegraph in rural Leicestershire).
Possibly the reason for the doubt over my educational credentials comes from my general scruffiness. In the eyes of most people, university graduates of the male persuasion come from two differing schools of fashion:
1: Smartly dressed, well turned out, impeccably groomed and resonating with intelligence and the wealth that brings with it.
2: Crazed, bearded nutcase wearing a tatty jumper, odd shoes and ripped cords. Clearly a mathematical genius.
I'm certainly not smartly dressed enough to convince anyone that I'm doing well - although, may I add, looking this spectacularly mediocre seems to cost me a lot of money - and the sight of me in a suit is one of the funniest things that you will ever see. I don't even own any shoes. Why should I? I'm never required to wear them. If I get invited to a formal occasion I either a) wear black converse or b) don't go.
I can't grow a beard, which is a shame. I'd love to straddle that line twixt madness and genius like so many beard wearers can. I'd like to buy my clothes exclusively from charity shops (preferably garments that someone has died in) then take my bearded face on the streets to scream equations at people whilst drinking horlicks from one of those faux-aluminium stay-hot mugs. And people would look at me and think "I bet he went to a good university. What stories he must have of his time in Russia, being courted by the KGB before writing an oft-quoted thesis on the genetic structure of ants".
The way people look at me at the moment is a fleeting glance - only ever a fleeting glance - never a penetratingly inquisitive stare or a worried look. They make one of two assumptions: That I am not worth their time and energy to imagine my delicately woven backstory, or that I'm a bit of a chav because I wear trainers and have tattoos.
Of course, what I should clearly wear to illuminate my fellow man of my illustrious educational background is a university hoody.
I work a lot at universities. I adore doing so. Students are great, they really are. Most importantly of all, my young friends are the DVD buying public of tomorrow so I love and respect them all. They love comedy, drink a lot (making me hilarious) and have enough free time to follow me on twitter and the like. Good on them.
Of course, that's MOST students.
The students that I find baffling are those that wear these university hoodies, which come in two types:
A: Plainish coloured hoody detailing the name of the university in a vaguely American collegiate font on the front. For people who seem to forget where they are, or want to show off about going to their university. Which I can understand if it's Oxbridge, I guess. Less so if it's Harper Adams Agricultural College. Or [INSERT NAME OF A TOWN NEAR YOU SO I'M NOT LIBELLOUS OR ANNOY A UNI I'VE WORKED AT], as those fuckers are dumb.
B: Dark coloured hoody detailing the name of the university on the front then whatever godforsaken "society" said owner is a part of on the back, often with a completely insufferable nickname to go with it. These people like to consider themselves as "wacky" and possibly, argh, "random".
Unsurprisingly, when I was a student I was neither part of a society nor proud enough of being a part of the population of De Montfort University that I felt the need to advertise it. I think it's the societies that irritate me the most - I can just about understand sports teams giving each other nicknames and wearing hoodies maybe on the way to a game (but at NO OTHER TIME) but these are GENUINE societies that I have seen marked out by hoodies on various campuses across the country:
"Latin and Ballroom Dance Society"
"Young Conservative Society"
"Countryside Alliance Society" (at an inner city university)
"Tea and Cake Society" (I would actually join that)
"Young Abstinence Society"
The last one was my favourite, as it included the owner's nickname on the back.
"Blonde Slapper"
I think my deep seated hatred for these hoodies is a consequence of two things. Firstly, I dislike the general university hoody because I miss being a student. I have a mortgage now, responsibilities, bills and the like. I miss the carefree days of studentdom and working at universities only seek to remind me of this.
Secondly, I really do believe that joining a society at university is merely a CV padding exercise OR an excuse to get drunk. Why not do what the rest of the world do?
* Lie on your CV. I claim to have invented wool.
* You don't need an excuse to get drunk. Just do it. In your home. Whilst listening to the Smiths and crying yourself to sleep, like I did. None of this being sociable and partying nonsense. Education, solitude and alcoholism.
Of course, this saves you £34.99 for the hoody. Which you can spend on drink.
I did think that wearing the university hoody was to create a sense of belonging. But how often have you seen someone in the uni holidays wearing a hoody from a far distant place in your home town, presumably while they are on holiday? Have you ever seen ANYONE go up to them and say "oh, you're studying there? Well done!" or "I used to study there myself" and exchange some kind of secret handshake? Never.
Of course, none of this has anything to do with the fact that I went to a fairly ropey university and that hoodies were not invented at the time.
Nope.
And besides, if you must wear a university hoody, you don't even need to be a student. Merely walk down Oxford Street in London and check out one of many street stalls. For about a tenner you can buy a hoody that reads:
"Cambridge University - London, England"
That'll show them all. Even with it being vastly incorrect it's still a better option than saying you went to Luton.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Friday, 14 May 2010
Monday, 23 November 2009
26: The Daily Mail
I'm immediately faced with a slight problem when it comes to writing this rant about the Daily Mail. See, when I initially wrote out my list of 50 things that I hated I was not working as a respected broadcast journalist - I was merely a gawky stand-up comedian with a distinct lack of jokes and some daft tattoos.
OK, I'm still that as well.
But because of my journalistic integrity I'm not allowed to really cut loose and let you know what I think of the Daily Mail. All I can do is present you with the facts - and as it is sadly Britain's second most read newspaper facts seem to be quite easy to find.
I feel I must point out that although the Daily Mail is clearly aimed at Conservative voting middle England, it does rather hilariously think that its a deeply respected broadsheet newspaper. If you want proof of this, read its society columns or entertainment reviews. I can wholeheartedly assure you that the average hyper conservative, anti-everything Mail reader is not likely to be interested in the slightest in opera or the latest French art-house film. And lets be honest, if that film has any nudity in it then we'd be looking at a very negative review from the Mail anyway.
So then, facts.
1: The Daily Mail has a clear editorial stance. For example, it is not only anti-EU but has at least one article a week harking back to what it sees as glorious bygone days for Britain where we invaded other countries and claimed them for ourselves. Ironic, that. The newspaper is also pro capitalism and pro monarchy - which wouldn't be problematic if the paper didn't make such an issue of denying any other alternatives like a teenager denying any other form of music exists outside of what they like. It's childish, negative journalism blinkered with jingoism and xenophobia. Allegedly.
2: My mum used to read the Daily Mail. One day I flicked through it and on the front cover it had its usual moral panic outcry choice for the day. On that given day it had a massive "exclusive" about the number of Bulgarian people that would move to the UK following their admission to the EU. Which begs the following question:
How did the Daily Mail know this? Did they comduct a survey in Bulgaria to see how many people wanted to move to the UK? You can only presume so, unless they have some kind of magic crystal ball with which they can predict the future.
(By the way - their vision of the future allegedly involves slavery being brought back and abortions being performed solely in alleyways in Whitechapel)
Anyway, in that VERY SAME edition of that paper they had a massive feature in their travel section. This crowed about how the newer, larger EU was of benefit to everyone in the UK because we could buy proper overseas at a massively reduced rate. Where did they recommend? Of course. Bulgaria. Thus ensuring that their readers could help drive up house prices in another country. Hypocrites. Presumably all of their readers who did buy property in Eastern Europe took British flags to claim the country as their own.
3: This is a newspaper that ran (on 16th July 1993) the tasteful headline of "Abortion hope after gay genes finding", showing that the paper is quite for abortion - but only when it fits its own remit of being distinctly homophobic.
4: The Mail is very good at mobilising its readers to complain about anything and everything - even things that they may not even have read, watched or listened to. See the Russell Brand / Jonathan Ross / Andrew Sachs controversy, which was as much to do with the paper's hatred of the allegedly left wing BBC than it was defending the honour of an innocent girl. Oh no, hang on. A burlesque dancer. No, wait. A goth stripper who shagged a famous bloke in order to say that she had.
5: I shouldn't need to recount the vile column from Jan Moir from 16th October this year, where she was incredibly poisonous and spiteful over the death of Stephen Gately in what has to be one of the most homophobic and nasty pieces of so-called journalism ever written. How ironic that a newspaper that calls for so many people in a year to be fired from their jobs once they mobilise their complaining army that she should still somehow be in a job. 25,000 complaints - the record ever recorded for a newspaper article - and she's still got a job.
6: Even more nauseating is the fact that Richard Littlejohn works for the same newspaper. The man who has been named by such a well-to-do pillar of the community as Nick Griffin as his favourite journalist is paid £800,000 per year for his "hard work". Shall we see some of his greatest hits?
i) He once suggested that the police should use flamethrowers against "militant homosexuals".
ii) He has constantly lied about the benefits that asylum seekers can claim - often quoting hundreds of pounds per week. When journalist Johann Hari put it to him that the actual proven figure is £37.77 it became quite obvious that Littlejohn hadn't bothered doing his research. Hari often criticises Littlejohn - whose response is to say that Hari fancies him. Hmmm.
iii) On writing about the Rwandan genocide he stated: "Does anyone really give a monkey's about what happens in Rwanda? If the Mbongo tribe wants to wipe out the Mbingo tribe then as far as I am concerned that is entirely a matter for them." Classy.
iv) On December 19th 2006 Littlejohn's response to the Ipswich prostitute murders was to descrive the victims as "disgusting, drug addled street whores".
All of this got me thinking. The Mail can't just write what it wants in regular stories for fear of criticism of its already slight grasp on journalistic integrity. But it can employ columnists to write whatever hate-filled garbage that they choose on a weekly basis.
Hmmmmm.
Well then, as a broadcast journalist myself I can't state how I truly feel about the Daily Mail as that wouldn't be at all correct.
I can, however, employ a columnist to take over at this point of this rant to talk about whatever he chooses.
So then, I hand you over now to my guest columnist - James Littlemann.
"Hello there, dear reader.
The Daily Mail, eh? What a bunch of cunts. With aspirations far in excess of the limited brainpower of their readers and employing such imbeciles as Jan Moir and Richard Littlejohn it makes my blood boil. I would rather be fellated by a rabid polar bear with a coldsore than be caught reading that newspaper.
If you scan any random issue of the The Mail you will find at least one coded mention of "Enoch Powell had a point, you know". It's usually written within their letters page. Or by Littlejohn. The papers attitude to homosexuality is as blinkered and retarded as that of a twelve year old boy living in a village in Devon. Only difference is that child can be educated. There is no turning the Mail around.
The average Daily Mail reader lives in a small house surrounded by unkempt animals. Their lounge has a Union Jack taped to the wall and on top of their ancient television set (which only gets BBC1 and ITV - too much filth on the other channels) there is a framed photograph of Margaret Thatcher. Across the mantlepiece are framed photos of a miner getting punched by a policeman and two of their four grandchildren. They don't care for the other two - one grandson once played with a Barbie doll and the other speaks French.
The average reader would still have a job but they were fired for deciding to put a large sign reading "ARBEIT MACH FREI" above the entrance to their place of employment. They claim benefits but it's ok because they're white.
In the next election they're not voting conservative as Cameron is a bit Blairish, but that nice chap Nick Griffin seems like a good bet. After all, he loves Richard Littlejohn.
Littlejohn earns £800,000 per year. Horrific homophobe and bigot Jan Moir earns around £100,000. Its nice that in delicate financial times that the Mail can afford to pay these figures. Luckily they recoup a lot of these by selling "exclusive" tat to their senile and infirmed readership who are too drunk on propaganda and morphine to say no. Important things like portraits of the Queen and Dambusters coins, available in monthly instalments.
I will go on record now as saying that if you can find me £50 for the train ticket to London that I will happily save the Mail this money by hunting down Moir and Littlejohn. I'll no doubt find Littlejohn in Soho, sat in a coffee house pretending to shake his head and be disgusted by all the gay men - when we all really know that he's merely as repressed as Cliff Richard. And I'll happily stab the bigoted fuck in the face so he can't have a state funeral in a glass coffin - like he no doubt thinks he's entitled to after two failed TV programmes and a few failed books. Cunt.
Then I'll hunt down Jan Moir. I won't do anything to her. I'll merely threaten her and record her trying to backpedal out of her opinions once again, like she has to when faced with any opposition. I'll then play them via loudspeaker outside of her own house until she doesn't know what her opinion is anymore and she's locked away in a padded cell, screaming to herself about the power of twitter and how unfair everything is.
Of course, the Mail still won't fire her and she'll have a column showcasing her bizarre, insane views. It will be slightly more readable than her previous efforts. Even though often she'll use no vowels.
Then I'll burn their offices down."
I'd like to thank my guest columnist there. What refreshing views. Nice to see someone say what we were all thinking.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
OK, I'm still that as well.
But because of my journalistic integrity I'm not allowed to really cut loose and let you know what I think of the Daily Mail. All I can do is present you with the facts - and as it is sadly Britain's second most read newspaper facts seem to be quite easy to find.
I feel I must point out that although the Daily Mail is clearly aimed at Conservative voting middle England, it does rather hilariously think that its a deeply respected broadsheet newspaper. If you want proof of this, read its society columns or entertainment reviews. I can wholeheartedly assure you that the average hyper conservative, anti-everything Mail reader is not likely to be interested in the slightest in opera or the latest French art-house film. And lets be honest, if that film has any nudity in it then we'd be looking at a very negative review from the Mail anyway.
So then, facts.
1: The Daily Mail has a clear editorial stance. For example, it is not only anti-EU but has at least one article a week harking back to what it sees as glorious bygone days for Britain where we invaded other countries and claimed them for ourselves. Ironic, that. The newspaper is also pro capitalism and pro monarchy - which wouldn't be problematic if the paper didn't make such an issue of denying any other alternatives like a teenager denying any other form of music exists outside of what they like. It's childish, negative journalism blinkered with jingoism and xenophobia. Allegedly.
2: My mum used to read the Daily Mail. One day I flicked through it and on the front cover it had its usual moral panic outcry choice for the day. On that given day it had a massive "exclusive" about the number of Bulgarian people that would move to the UK following their admission to the EU. Which begs the following question:
How did the Daily Mail know this? Did they comduct a survey in Bulgaria to see how many people wanted to move to the UK? You can only presume so, unless they have some kind of magic crystal ball with which they can predict the future.
(By the way - their vision of the future allegedly involves slavery being brought back and abortions being performed solely in alleyways in Whitechapel)
Anyway, in that VERY SAME edition of that paper they had a massive feature in their travel section. This crowed about how the newer, larger EU was of benefit to everyone in the UK because we could buy proper overseas at a massively reduced rate. Where did they recommend? Of course. Bulgaria. Thus ensuring that their readers could help drive up house prices in another country. Hypocrites. Presumably all of their readers who did buy property in Eastern Europe took British flags to claim the country as their own.
3: This is a newspaper that ran (on 16th July 1993) the tasteful headline of "Abortion hope after gay genes finding", showing that the paper is quite for abortion - but only when it fits its own remit of being distinctly homophobic.
4: The Mail is very good at mobilising its readers to complain about anything and everything - even things that they may not even have read, watched or listened to. See the Russell Brand / Jonathan Ross / Andrew Sachs controversy, which was as much to do with the paper's hatred of the allegedly left wing BBC than it was defending the honour of an innocent girl. Oh no, hang on. A burlesque dancer. No, wait. A goth stripper who shagged a famous bloke in order to say that she had.
5: I shouldn't need to recount the vile column from Jan Moir from 16th October this year, where she was incredibly poisonous and spiteful over the death of Stephen Gately in what has to be one of the most homophobic and nasty pieces of so-called journalism ever written. How ironic that a newspaper that calls for so many people in a year to be fired from their jobs once they mobilise their complaining army that she should still somehow be in a job. 25,000 complaints - the record ever recorded for a newspaper article - and she's still got a job.
6: Even more nauseating is the fact that Richard Littlejohn works for the same newspaper. The man who has been named by such a well-to-do pillar of the community as Nick Griffin as his favourite journalist is paid £800,000 per year for his "hard work". Shall we see some of his greatest hits?
i) He once suggested that the police should use flamethrowers against "militant homosexuals".
ii) He has constantly lied about the benefits that asylum seekers can claim - often quoting hundreds of pounds per week. When journalist Johann Hari put it to him that the actual proven figure is £37.77 it became quite obvious that Littlejohn hadn't bothered doing his research. Hari often criticises Littlejohn - whose response is to say that Hari fancies him. Hmmm.
iii) On writing about the Rwandan genocide he stated: "Does anyone really give a monkey's about what happens in Rwanda? If the Mbongo tribe wants to wipe out the Mbingo tribe then as far as I am concerned that is entirely a matter for them." Classy.
iv) On December 19th 2006 Littlejohn's response to the Ipswich prostitute murders was to descrive the victims as "disgusting, drug addled street whores".
All of this got me thinking. The Mail can't just write what it wants in regular stories for fear of criticism of its already slight grasp on journalistic integrity. But it can employ columnists to write whatever hate-filled garbage that they choose on a weekly basis.
Hmmmmm.
Well then, as a broadcast journalist myself I can't state how I truly feel about the Daily Mail as that wouldn't be at all correct.
I can, however, employ a columnist to take over at this point of this rant to talk about whatever he chooses.
So then, I hand you over now to my guest columnist - James Littlemann.
"Hello there, dear reader.
The Daily Mail, eh? What a bunch of cunts. With aspirations far in excess of the limited brainpower of their readers and employing such imbeciles as Jan Moir and Richard Littlejohn it makes my blood boil. I would rather be fellated by a rabid polar bear with a coldsore than be caught reading that newspaper.
If you scan any random issue of the The Mail you will find at least one coded mention of "Enoch Powell had a point, you know". It's usually written within their letters page. Or by Littlejohn. The papers attitude to homosexuality is as blinkered and retarded as that of a twelve year old boy living in a village in Devon. Only difference is that child can be educated. There is no turning the Mail around.
The average Daily Mail reader lives in a small house surrounded by unkempt animals. Their lounge has a Union Jack taped to the wall and on top of their ancient television set (which only gets BBC1 and ITV - too much filth on the other channels) there is a framed photograph of Margaret Thatcher. Across the mantlepiece are framed photos of a miner getting punched by a policeman and two of their four grandchildren. They don't care for the other two - one grandson once played with a Barbie doll and the other speaks French.
The average reader would still have a job but they were fired for deciding to put a large sign reading "ARBEIT MACH FREI" above the entrance to their place of employment. They claim benefits but it's ok because they're white.
In the next election they're not voting conservative as Cameron is a bit Blairish, but that nice chap Nick Griffin seems like a good bet. After all, he loves Richard Littlejohn.
Littlejohn earns £800,000 per year. Horrific homophobe and bigot Jan Moir earns around £100,000. Its nice that in delicate financial times that the Mail can afford to pay these figures. Luckily they recoup a lot of these by selling "exclusive" tat to their senile and infirmed readership who are too drunk on propaganda and morphine to say no. Important things like portraits of the Queen and Dambusters coins, available in monthly instalments.
I will go on record now as saying that if you can find me £50 for the train ticket to London that I will happily save the Mail this money by hunting down Moir and Littlejohn. I'll no doubt find Littlejohn in Soho, sat in a coffee house pretending to shake his head and be disgusted by all the gay men - when we all really know that he's merely as repressed as Cliff Richard. And I'll happily stab the bigoted fuck in the face so he can't have a state funeral in a glass coffin - like he no doubt thinks he's entitled to after two failed TV programmes and a few failed books. Cunt.
Then I'll hunt down Jan Moir. I won't do anything to her. I'll merely threaten her and record her trying to backpedal out of her opinions once again, like she has to when faced with any opposition. I'll then play them via loudspeaker outside of her own house until she doesn't know what her opinion is anymore and she's locked away in a padded cell, screaming to herself about the power of twitter and how unfair everything is.
Of course, the Mail still won't fire her and she'll have a column showcasing her bizarre, insane views. It will be slightly more readable than her previous efforts. Even though often she'll use no vowels.
Then I'll burn their offices down."
I'd like to thank my guest columnist there. What refreshing views. Nice to see someone say what we were all thinking.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
25: People Blowing the Paper Bit of Restaurant Straws Off
I have a temper. It takes a lot to push my buttons enough to make my face crimson and my blood boil, but there are certain little things that you can do to guarantee that I'll become irate. Not just mildly miffed (in the way that middle class people feel the need to write a letter to someone) but proper testicle-dropping, teeth-grindingly irate. Some of the things that do this to me have already been mentioned in these little rants. Others include:
Insulting any member of my family or friends.
Moving my wheelie bin too far from my house because you think it's YOUR wheelie bin.
Calling the Police to tell them I've parked over your driveway when I haven't.
Knocking on my door to tell me to move my car when I'm parked on a public road.
Getting your solicitor to write me a letter about my perfectly fine back fence.
OK then, the main person to make me angry at the moment is my next door neighbour. In fact, his entire family. He's the only person in months who is capable with a sheer ham-fisted lack of social skills to make me want to commit actual murder. Of course, I didn't tell this to the Policeman when he came round. I find they frown upon that.
You know how people go on about the old days, when you could leave your front door open and how everyone in a street knew everyone's business? My mother always says that she wants a return to these good old days, despite her hating the people who live directly opposite her and not talking to any of her neighbours for the last ten years - unless you count saying hello whilst making an excuse to go back inside as a detailed conversation. I certainly don't want a return to those days either. You know what I want? A return to the apathetic late eighties, where everyone was wrapped up in their own business. People were depressed and had no prozac, people had no money but speculated wildly, every man was for himself and therefore no-one bothered getting to know their neighbours and better yet, this was in a time before anyone had a clue what legal rights they thought they had over fucking fences.
I will gladly wear a pinstripe suit, pink shirt, braces and red spotted tie every day if we can somehow bring this way of life back.
I would love to be a fly on the wall in my neighbours house every night. I see the blinds twitch every time my car pulls up (and I'll be honest, I've taken to pulling up with a screech of brakes with Metallica playing very loudly to make sure I see the twitch every night - they haven't invested in double glazing yet, presumably waiting to sue me for some reason). I'm sure that my very existence irritates them beyond all belief, in the same way that theirs bugs the heck out of me. I want to catch them outside in the dead of night measuring how close I've parked to their drive with a small plastic ruler that came in a special Snoopy pencil case in 1988. I want to have been in that very house the day they thought that a useful way for the Police to spend their time (in Barwell, for fucks sake, well known for its policing issues at present) would be to call them and complain (I imagine in a whiny tone that belies my neighbour blinking back tears of frustration) that someone had parked an inch over their driveway.
Where was I? Oh yes.
Anger.
When I was a child, Hinckley had a McDonalds in the town centre. I would go there for a treat every now and again. This became a virtually daily ritual when I was studying my A Levels and could drive - we would skip lessons and go there for breakfast. It was at around this time - and yes, I'm a late starter in this regard - that I discovered the joy of tearing the top bit of paper from a McDonalds straw, and then blowing the rest of the papyrus sheath in the face of a friend.
Ho ho ho.
The first fifty times, this was funny. It was always funny because I would be the only one able to buy a McDonalds every day (thanks to my burgeoning business selling pornography to my peers) and therefore the one most likely to have a straw. I would do it to an unsuspecting friend, they would jump and flinch, we would all laugh and so on.
After a while, I would carry on doing it out of a sense of duty but it really wasn't having the same effect as before. So I feel that I got out of that particular game at the peak of my career, with around 65 faces struck with paper and only my shoulder and right forearm ever struck in return.
Fast forward several years. I have graduated university and have been to Next for a job interview. After I leave their head office I go for McDonalds. I sit in a plastic booth in my suit, mulling over the events of the day. I'm very much in my own world when...
FFFFFFFFT.
I am hit in the face with the paper sheath from a straw. I look around me: Could this be one of my old adversaries taking revenge? It hardly seems likely. The only people within striking distance are a McDonalds employee (sullenly wiping down the life size plastic sculpture of Grimace), an old lady who upon further inspection is only drinking a coffee, and an 10 year old child who is staring at me, beaming.
I have been made humble by my prepubescent enemy.
At this point I find myself blinded by completely pointless rage. I should sweep the whole event under a metaphorical rug but I cannot. I look at my drink - I already have a straw. I could get up and get another straw to fire back but the whole charade would lack decorum. What do I do?
I do nothing.
Fast forward again several years. Any time that any person I know repeats the event of what I like to call "Black Tuesday" is met with my wrath. Pointless, childish wrath. Girlfriends, nephews, my own Father. All have been met with fist shaking and cursewords as they stare at me bemused. For to them, all they have done is have a mild laugh at my expense. To me, they have besmirched my honour with a slap in the face made from 95% recycled paper.
Recently I sat in a McDonalds drive through (I refuse to spell it "thru") with Amelia, my 6 year old daughter. Someone had taught her the skill of straw-sheath blowing. She giggled and smiled as the paper flew past my face and ricocheted on the drivers window behind my head. I laughed back. But I smiled at her with a grin that I hope gave away my true feelings:
If she wants a war, there will be a war.
I love my daughter more than life itself. But I know what will happen the second that her aim improves. I have already secured myself ten spare straws in the side pocket of my drivers door for that very second she comes even merely close to striking my visage.
She will face my papery vengeance, daughter or not.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Insulting any member of my family or friends.
Moving my wheelie bin too far from my house because you think it's YOUR wheelie bin.
Calling the Police to tell them I've parked over your driveway when I haven't.
Knocking on my door to tell me to move my car when I'm parked on a public road.
Getting your solicitor to write me a letter about my perfectly fine back fence.
OK then, the main person to make me angry at the moment is my next door neighbour. In fact, his entire family. He's the only person in months who is capable with a sheer ham-fisted lack of social skills to make me want to commit actual murder. Of course, I didn't tell this to the Policeman when he came round. I find they frown upon that.
You know how people go on about the old days, when you could leave your front door open and how everyone in a street knew everyone's business? My mother always says that she wants a return to these good old days, despite her hating the people who live directly opposite her and not talking to any of her neighbours for the last ten years - unless you count saying hello whilst making an excuse to go back inside as a detailed conversation. I certainly don't want a return to those days either. You know what I want? A return to the apathetic late eighties, where everyone was wrapped up in their own business. People were depressed and had no prozac, people had no money but speculated wildly, every man was for himself and therefore no-one bothered getting to know their neighbours and better yet, this was in a time before anyone had a clue what legal rights they thought they had over fucking fences.
I will gladly wear a pinstripe suit, pink shirt, braces and red spotted tie every day if we can somehow bring this way of life back.
I would love to be a fly on the wall in my neighbours house every night. I see the blinds twitch every time my car pulls up (and I'll be honest, I've taken to pulling up with a screech of brakes with Metallica playing very loudly to make sure I see the twitch every night - they haven't invested in double glazing yet, presumably waiting to sue me for some reason). I'm sure that my very existence irritates them beyond all belief, in the same way that theirs bugs the heck out of me. I want to catch them outside in the dead of night measuring how close I've parked to their drive with a small plastic ruler that came in a special Snoopy pencil case in 1988. I want to have been in that very house the day they thought that a useful way for the Police to spend their time (in Barwell, for fucks sake, well known for its policing issues at present) would be to call them and complain (I imagine in a whiny tone that belies my neighbour blinking back tears of frustration) that someone had parked an inch over their driveway.
Where was I? Oh yes.
Anger.
When I was a child, Hinckley had a McDonalds in the town centre. I would go there for a treat every now and again. This became a virtually daily ritual when I was studying my A Levels and could drive - we would skip lessons and go there for breakfast. It was at around this time - and yes, I'm a late starter in this regard - that I discovered the joy of tearing the top bit of paper from a McDonalds straw, and then blowing the rest of the papyrus sheath in the face of a friend.
Ho ho ho.
The first fifty times, this was funny. It was always funny because I would be the only one able to buy a McDonalds every day (thanks to my burgeoning business selling pornography to my peers) and therefore the one most likely to have a straw. I would do it to an unsuspecting friend, they would jump and flinch, we would all laugh and so on.
After a while, I would carry on doing it out of a sense of duty but it really wasn't having the same effect as before. So I feel that I got out of that particular game at the peak of my career, with around 65 faces struck with paper and only my shoulder and right forearm ever struck in return.
Fast forward several years. I have graduated university and have been to Next for a job interview. After I leave their head office I go for McDonalds. I sit in a plastic booth in my suit, mulling over the events of the day. I'm very much in my own world when...
FFFFFFFFT.
I am hit in the face with the paper sheath from a straw. I look around me: Could this be one of my old adversaries taking revenge? It hardly seems likely. The only people within striking distance are a McDonalds employee (sullenly wiping down the life size plastic sculpture of Grimace), an old lady who upon further inspection is only drinking a coffee, and an 10 year old child who is staring at me, beaming.
I have been made humble by my prepubescent enemy.
At this point I find myself blinded by completely pointless rage. I should sweep the whole event under a metaphorical rug but I cannot. I look at my drink - I already have a straw. I could get up and get another straw to fire back but the whole charade would lack decorum. What do I do?
I do nothing.
Fast forward again several years. Any time that any person I know repeats the event of what I like to call "Black Tuesday" is met with my wrath. Pointless, childish wrath. Girlfriends, nephews, my own Father. All have been met with fist shaking and cursewords as they stare at me bemused. For to them, all they have done is have a mild laugh at my expense. To me, they have besmirched my honour with a slap in the face made from 95% recycled paper.
Recently I sat in a McDonalds drive through (I refuse to spell it "thru") with Amelia, my 6 year old daughter. Someone had taught her the skill of straw-sheath blowing. She giggled and smiled as the paper flew past my face and ricocheted on the drivers window behind my head. I laughed back. But I smiled at her with a grin that I hope gave away my true feelings:
If she wants a war, there will be a war.
I love my daughter more than life itself. But I know what will happen the second that her aim improves. I have already secured myself ten spare straws in the side pocket of my drivers door for that very second she comes even merely close to striking my visage.
She will face my papery vengeance, daughter or not.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
24: Religion
A friend of mine once told me, in a very matter-of-fact way, that I will be going to hell when my time on Earth is through. This doesn't bother me in the slightest, as being a devout atheist (How devout? I believe in nothing at all WAY more than you do) the concept of hell is as imaginary and non threatening to me as the threat of me somehow being transported through time and space to the land of the dinosaurs.
And why exactly will I be going to hell? Take your pick, dependent on how crazy your religious choice is - we can cover everything from the serene buddhists all the way up to the hellfire and brimstone nutters in the Westborough Baptist Church in the USA - those lovely people that picket funerals of dead soldiers.
I'm divorced.
I've had sex before marriage.
I don't go to church.
I worship false idols (Josh Homme and the entire LCFC team)
I've kissed a man.
I'm friends with more than one homosexual.
I've stolen several things (a mars bar, a miniature keyboard and a Faith No More album from Hinckley library, to name but a few)
I may have masturbated once or twice.
I often take the lord's name in vain. I may have also taught my 6 year old to do so.
I once vandalised an RE textbook at school with several amusing speech bubbles. (My favourite, however politically incorrect, was the stupidity of putting a speech bubble between two starving boys saying "Oi, give us a crisp")
I honestly believe that if my neighbour had an Ox that I would strongly covet it.
I must quickly state that I have no problem with anyone who believes in any religion whatsoever. If anything, I admire you and I'm a bit jealous. There's no saying that what I believe in is right. If my friend was correct and I die and end up in the place filled with flames and stalagmites then that's my problem. Must say though, I vastly prefer to be warm rather than cold.
My main issue with religion is not the obvious one. The stereotypical thing to choose would be the fact that religion is seemingly blamed for every conflict in global history. While this is true on many levels, I'm always ashamed that most patriotic, jingoistic British people don't look in the mirror and blame the old days of Imperialism for the problems of the world on an even keel with religion.
The war in the Middle East is as much to blame on oil and America's mistakes as it is religious fervour from the Taliban. The troubles in Northern Ireland stem from the British Government occupying territory that isn't theirs to take as much as it is sectarian issues. World War Two was driven by an Axis of insane people wanting to take over the world, and the horrors committed by the Wehrmacht and the SS were driven by racism as much as intolerance for another religion.
Religion has a lot to do with the problems of today, but it's not the sole problem. In fact, if everyone followed the teachings of their relevant religion to the letter then we would have no war, would we? Pretty much all of them stress the whole "not killing" shit over everything else. Also, if everyone heeded the teachings of their religions then there would be no greed, no desire to expand territory, no mistrust, more diplomacy, more handshakes, more hugs, more tolerance.
The world is essentially fucked up because we're fucked up. People are greedy, scheming, manipulative beasts who want to achieve their own goals. I know I do. Apparently admitting that makes me some kind of satanist - well, it would if I believed in him as well. But I don't, cool as a dude with goat's feet would be.
My issue with religion comes from the fact that as a society we are getting pushed away by it more and more with each generation. We're smart people. We know that we're not all sinners. I've done plenty of stuff wrong but I'm still a good son, brother, colleague and friend. I go out of my way to help people. My mother raised me to be a gentleman, and I try my best to be. But in the eyes of the faith I was born into does this matter? No, not one bit. Because I was born a sinner, I've lived through sin and I'll die a sinner - because I'm not repenting anything I've ever done. All I've done is live a life. I may have made mistakes but I always learn from them - isn't that more important?
The way forward for religion is this: Find a universal belief system that everyone can adopt. Nothing too difficult to describe. Nothing too airy-fairy and open to misinterpretation. None of this "born sinners" rubbish.
We're all essentially born nice. Why not focus on that?
Let's form a new religion now, all of us. A new ten commandments.
1: We're all essentially nice people.
2: Treat people how you'd like to be treated.
3: If you make mistakes, learn from them.
4: Don't kill other people. I'm stressing this, but number 2 should give that away.
5: If someone has a different viewpoint to you, that's just human.
6: If your neighbour has an Ox, just stroke it or feed it grass.
7: Worship who you want, but don't force it on others.
8: Seriously, don't kill other people.
9: Don't feel the need to buy into something just to make you feel better. In fact, feel free to ignore this if it's clouding your judgement in any way.
10: Did we mention not killing people?
If only we could all agree to get along. Disband every religion and simply reverse the notion of being born into sin to that of we're all born nice and remain nice until we do something wrong. And let us all remember, if you do stuff wrong then karma gets you in the end. After all, who on Earth have you ever heard of being complete scumbags and getting away with it for their entire lives?
OK, I shouldn't have asked that.
Screw it. Forget my religion idea. Believe in what you want. I'll believe that when I shuffle off this mortal coil that I'll be buried and have my face eaten off by worms. At least I'll be getting some sleep.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
And why exactly will I be going to hell? Take your pick, dependent on how crazy your religious choice is - we can cover everything from the serene buddhists all the way up to the hellfire and brimstone nutters in the Westborough Baptist Church in the USA - those lovely people that picket funerals of dead soldiers.
I'm divorced.
I've had sex before marriage.
I don't go to church.
I worship false idols (Josh Homme and the entire LCFC team)
I've kissed a man.
I'm friends with more than one homosexual.
I've stolen several things (a mars bar, a miniature keyboard and a Faith No More album from Hinckley library, to name but a few)
I may have masturbated once or twice.
I often take the lord's name in vain. I may have also taught my 6 year old to do so.
I once vandalised an RE textbook at school with several amusing speech bubbles. (My favourite, however politically incorrect, was the stupidity of putting a speech bubble between two starving boys saying "Oi, give us a crisp")
I honestly believe that if my neighbour had an Ox that I would strongly covet it.
I must quickly state that I have no problem with anyone who believes in any religion whatsoever. If anything, I admire you and I'm a bit jealous. There's no saying that what I believe in is right. If my friend was correct and I die and end up in the place filled with flames and stalagmites then that's my problem. Must say though, I vastly prefer to be warm rather than cold.
My main issue with religion is not the obvious one. The stereotypical thing to choose would be the fact that religion is seemingly blamed for every conflict in global history. While this is true on many levels, I'm always ashamed that most patriotic, jingoistic British people don't look in the mirror and blame the old days of Imperialism for the problems of the world on an even keel with religion.
The war in the Middle East is as much to blame on oil and America's mistakes as it is religious fervour from the Taliban. The troubles in Northern Ireland stem from the British Government occupying territory that isn't theirs to take as much as it is sectarian issues. World War Two was driven by an Axis of insane people wanting to take over the world, and the horrors committed by the Wehrmacht and the SS were driven by racism as much as intolerance for another religion.
Religion has a lot to do with the problems of today, but it's not the sole problem. In fact, if everyone followed the teachings of their relevant religion to the letter then we would have no war, would we? Pretty much all of them stress the whole "not killing" shit over everything else. Also, if everyone heeded the teachings of their religions then there would be no greed, no desire to expand territory, no mistrust, more diplomacy, more handshakes, more hugs, more tolerance.
The world is essentially fucked up because we're fucked up. People are greedy, scheming, manipulative beasts who want to achieve their own goals. I know I do. Apparently admitting that makes me some kind of satanist - well, it would if I believed in him as well. But I don't, cool as a dude with goat's feet would be.
My issue with religion comes from the fact that as a society we are getting pushed away by it more and more with each generation. We're smart people. We know that we're not all sinners. I've done plenty of stuff wrong but I'm still a good son, brother, colleague and friend. I go out of my way to help people. My mother raised me to be a gentleman, and I try my best to be. But in the eyes of the faith I was born into does this matter? No, not one bit. Because I was born a sinner, I've lived through sin and I'll die a sinner - because I'm not repenting anything I've ever done. All I've done is live a life. I may have made mistakes but I always learn from them - isn't that more important?
The way forward for religion is this: Find a universal belief system that everyone can adopt. Nothing too difficult to describe. Nothing too airy-fairy and open to misinterpretation. None of this "born sinners" rubbish.
We're all essentially born nice. Why not focus on that?
Let's form a new religion now, all of us. A new ten commandments.
1: We're all essentially nice people.
2: Treat people how you'd like to be treated.
3: If you make mistakes, learn from them.
4: Don't kill other people. I'm stressing this, but number 2 should give that away.
5: If someone has a different viewpoint to you, that's just human.
6: If your neighbour has an Ox, just stroke it or feed it grass.
7: Worship who you want, but don't force it on others.
8: Seriously, don't kill other people.
9: Don't feel the need to buy into something just to make you feel better. In fact, feel free to ignore this if it's clouding your judgement in any way.
10: Did we mention not killing people?
If only we could all agree to get along. Disband every religion and simply reverse the notion of being born into sin to that of we're all born nice and remain nice until we do something wrong. And let us all remember, if you do stuff wrong then karma gets you in the end. After all, who on Earth have you ever heard of being complete scumbags and getting away with it for their entire lives?
OK, I shouldn't have asked that.
Screw it. Forget my religion idea. Believe in what you want. I'll believe that when I shuffle off this mortal coil that I'll be buried and have my face eaten off by worms. At least I'll be getting some sleep.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
23: Hulk Hogan
There comes a point in every life where you have to make a decision on what path to take. Just like Luke Skywalker turned his back on the Dark Side, or Adolf Hitler decided to become a mass-murdering cock with a natty line in moustaches. I once faced that choice. The decision to dedicate my life to the good, the worthy, the needy... or to be selfish, self centred and a little bit evil.
I remember the day I made that choice.
I was sat watching television in the lounge of my parents house. We had recently had an Astra satellite fitted, the precursor of Sky TV. What I really liked to do with this lovely analogue device was wait till my folks had gone to bed and retune it to the german channels where pornography could be readily viewed through slight distortion. One particular favourite was TeleKlub ("Der Kino Kanal") where the best in banned video nasties could be balanced out with ropey eighties porn. One excellent night was spent being scared by "Zombie Flesh Eaters" followed immediately with a wank - half out of terror, half lust - over "Sperma Spiele" which I'm led to believe means "Sperm Games". How would they even work? Unless they were having competitions to test muzzle velocity.
They didn't, as it turned out. Mainly just shagging.
Anyway, the day in question. I sat on my parents sadly-missed floral sofa, flicking through the channels. The satellite decoder made a very satisfying click as it thunked its way through the 16 channels on offer. I avoided MTV, as I was not yet of the age to have opinions on music. But I did stop on the sports channel. And there I watched my first episode of WWF Wrestling Challenge.
Wrestling was not that new to me. I had been forced to watch World of Sport by my Gran and her Husband (Dave) every time we visited them on a Saturday, with Dave always grabbing me in a wristlock and shouting "submit" until I cried enough for my Gran to yell at him and I would be sent to the paper shop to buy some sweets while they had a massive row. I did not like wrestling. I thought it was boring and hokey, with my parents always reminding me that it was fake.
But by 1989 - when my revelation occurred - the WWF was the talk of the playground. After my discovery of it I would go on to ridiculous levels of fandom for a good few years. Every morning we would recreate the in-ring action we had seen that weekend, swap stickers from our WWF sticker albums and do impressions of Randy Savage. Because he was the easiest to do an impression of. I even got a day off school once because my mate Lee knocked my fresh TB scar off, drenching my school shirt in blood (unbeknown to me as I was still wearing my Nevica ski jacket) with a well timed double ax-handle from his desk.
So I was already aware of the WWF thanks to the playground buzz. My friend Richard already had a lot of official videos that I wasn't really interested in until now. I watched the first couple of matches, my eye half on the action and half on the game of football taking place in my street between kids I didn't like. But then I heard the strains of Rick Derringer's "Real American" and out strode Hulk Hogan. He was the real deal, the superstar that all the other kids were talking about. The crowd went INSANE for him, every single man, woman and child getting to their feet to welcome into the arena not just a man, not just a wrestler but some kind of demi-god, superhero and action figure all rolled into one.
He spoke. He uttered forth phrases that drew squeals from the collected masses; Americanisms, references to saying your prayers and eating your vitamins and how he would vanquish his foe. None of this was contentious to me - I was an idealistic 11 year old boy. I knew I was an atheist and I wasn't a fan of sanatogen, but this was Hulk Hogan. He was already a legend. I knew that the talking was merely the precursor to him kicking some serious ass.
I forget who he was wrestling that day, but the match lasted about 30 seconds. I can sum it up for you as follows - and I know that this match was meant to be a squash match, but it's the sheer wooden nature of what transpired that offended me.
Hogan enters ring, tears off t-shirt. My mum brings me a cup of tea and shakes her head, saying "what a waste of a good t-shirt".
Opponent attacks. Hogan takes a small beating for a few seconds.
Opponent punches Hogan. He shakes his head, points his finger and shakes his head some more.
Opponent tries to punch Hogan. He blocks it and hits him back.
Opponent runs at Hogan. He hits him with a big boot.
Hogan bounces off ropes and lands a legdrop.
Ref counts to three.
Even though I'm 11 years old and I know that I should join the other baying thousands in smiling at his win, I can't do it. I go from seeing him as the legend people had falsely told me he was to seeing him as a balding, orange, overrated, wooden and pointless figure. What I had just watched was as fake as British wrestling. I had suspended my disbelief as I watched the other matches, but this? His terrible promo before the match and performance within it was as bad as those of Big Daddy, with kids trailing in his entrance and his one move. Horrible.
Luckily the next match was the Million Dollar Man, Ted DiBiase. And everything about him was amazing. His entrance music, his mean streak, his crispness in the ring. Next up was Randy Savage, a bad guy at the time. He leapt across the ring like a cat with bad intentions, desperate to hurt his opponent. These guys were good to watch. As I watched more wrestling I became even more enamoured with these bad guys - Ric Flair, The Big Boss Man, Jake Roberts, Curt Hennig, even the Honky Tonk Man. But it wasn't their superior skills that I enjoyed. It was the prospect of them beating Hulk Hogan. I couldn't bear the sight of him. When the Ultimate Warrior beat him for the WWF Title at Wrestlemania 6 I was agog with excitement, even if the Warrior was the most useless, steroid infested waste of oxygen that ever drew breath.
I lost interest in wrestling in around 1993, as I was 15 and it turned out that girls and drink held a lot more interest for me. In 1998 I got into it again, after accidentally seeing Mick Foley fall off the Hell in a Cell whilst channel hopping. I then spent my time researching who was still around, trying to get myself back into it. And lo and behold, I found that Hogan was still around - now trying to get on my good side by being a bad guy. It didn't work.
He was terrible as a good guy. As a bad guy he was even worse, not acting like enough of a coward, only expanding his moveset to include eye and back rakes and he took something that was earth shatteringly awesome (the Outsiders) and turned them into a joke that eventually destroyed WCW and indeed competition in wrestling.
And then when WCW died, he somehow parlayed his way back into the WWF fold, with fans cheering at his very presence like the mindless sheep that they are. They had Austin, the Rock, Michaels, HHH and so on to deify but they chose the Orange Goblin as their hero instead. All he did was make me hate wrestling once again, sapping my love for it that I had built up over the years. Now I only watch independent wrestling or the occasional pay per view because my joy has been so sullied.
But back to my revelation. That day back in 1989 I set my stall out. If everyone else thinks that one man is the highest possible power, the ultimate force and the real deal - in spite of all the evidence to show that he is hokey, fake, false and unworthy - then I can question it. I decided that day to ignore the cheers of the sheep and back the others, the black side of the coin, those whose opinions were reviled and whose actions were deemed unsavoury. And I have taken that idea on throughout life, driven first by my dislike for Hogan and then amplifying it to bigger ideas and more complex theories. And this is where I stand today.
And for all of my hatred for Mr Terry Bollea, I must thank him for something.
Because his existence seems to have made me a satanist.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
I remember the day I made that choice.
I was sat watching television in the lounge of my parents house. We had recently had an Astra satellite fitted, the precursor of Sky TV. What I really liked to do with this lovely analogue device was wait till my folks had gone to bed and retune it to the german channels where pornography could be readily viewed through slight distortion. One particular favourite was TeleKlub ("Der Kino Kanal") where the best in banned video nasties could be balanced out with ropey eighties porn. One excellent night was spent being scared by "Zombie Flesh Eaters" followed immediately with a wank - half out of terror, half lust - over "Sperma Spiele" which I'm led to believe means "Sperm Games". How would they even work? Unless they were having competitions to test muzzle velocity.
They didn't, as it turned out. Mainly just shagging.
Anyway, the day in question. I sat on my parents sadly-missed floral sofa, flicking through the channels. The satellite decoder made a very satisfying click as it thunked its way through the 16 channels on offer. I avoided MTV, as I was not yet of the age to have opinions on music. But I did stop on the sports channel. And there I watched my first episode of WWF Wrestling Challenge.
Wrestling was not that new to me. I had been forced to watch World of Sport by my Gran and her Husband (Dave) every time we visited them on a Saturday, with Dave always grabbing me in a wristlock and shouting "submit" until I cried enough for my Gran to yell at him and I would be sent to the paper shop to buy some sweets while they had a massive row. I did not like wrestling. I thought it was boring and hokey, with my parents always reminding me that it was fake.
But by 1989 - when my revelation occurred - the WWF was the talk of the playground. After my discovery of it I would go on to ridiculous levels of fandom for a good few years. Every morning we would recreate the in-ring action we had seen that weekend, swap stickers from our WWF sticker albums and do impressions of Randy Savage. Because he was the easiest to do an impression of. I even got a day off school once because my mate Lee knocked my fresh TB scar off, drenching my school shirt in blood (unbeknown to me as I was still wearing my Nevica ski jacket) with a well timed double ax-handle from his desk.
So I was already aware of the WWF thanks to the playground buzz. My friend Richard already had a lot of official videos that I wasn't really interested in until now. I watched the first couple of matches, my eye half on the action and half on the game of football taking place in my street between kids I didn't like. But then I heard the strains of Rick Derringer's "Real American" and out strode Hulk Hogan. He was the real deal, the superstar that all the other kids were talking about. The crowd went INSANE for him, every single man, woman and child getting to their feet to welcome into the arena not just a man, not just a wrestler but some kind of demi-god, superhero and action figure all rolled into one.
He spoke. He uttered forth phrases that drew squeals from the collected masses; Americanisms, references to saying your prayers and eating your vitamins and how he would vanquish his foe. None of this was contentious to me - I was an idealistic 11 year old boy. I knew I was an atheist and I wasn't a fan of sanatogen, but this was Hulk Hogan. He was already a legend. I knew that the talking was merely the precursor to him kicking some serious ass.
I forget who he was wrestling that day, but the match lasted about 30 seconds. I can sum it up for you as follows - and I know that this match was meant to be a squash match, but it's the sheer wooden nature of what transpired that offended me.
Hogan enters ring, tears off t-shirt. My mum brings me a cup of tea and shakes her head, saying "what a waste of a good t-shirt".
Opponent attacks. Hogan takes a small beating for a few seconds.
Opponent punches Hogan. He shakes his head, points his finger and shakes his head some more.
Opponent tries to punch Hogan. He blocks it and hits him back.
Opponent runs at Hogan. He hits him with a big boot.
Hogan bounces off ropes and lands a legdrop.
Ref counts to three.
Even though I'm 11 years old and I know that I should join the other baying thousands in smiling at his win, I can't do it. I go from seeing him as the legend people had falsely told me he was to seeing him as a balding, orange, overrated, wooden and pointless figure. What I had just watched was as fake as British wrestling. I had suspended my disbelief as I watched the other matches, but this? His terrible promo before the match and performance within it was as bad as those of Big Daddy, with kids trailing in his entrance and his one move. Horrible.
Luckily the next match was the Million Dollar Man, Ted DiBiase. And everything about him was amazing. His entrance music, his mean streak, his crispness in the ring. Next up was Randy Savage, a bad guy at the time. He leapt across the ring like a cat with bad intentions, desperate to hurt his opponent. These guys were good to watch. As I watched more wrestling I became even more enamoured with these bad guys - Ric Flair, The Big Boss Man, Jake Roberts, Curt Hennig, even the Honky Tonk Man. But it wasn't their superior skills that I enjoyed. It was the prospect of them beating Hulk Hogan. I couldn't bear the sight of him. When the Ultimate Warrior beat him for the WWF Title at Wrestlemania 6 I was agog with excitement, even if the Warrior was the most useless, steroid infested waste of oxygen that ever drew breath.
I lost interest in wrestling in around 1993, as I was 15 and it turned out that girls and drink held a lot more interest for me. In 1998 I got into it again, after accidentally seeing Mick Foley fall off the Hell in a Cell whilst channel hopping. I then spent my time researching who was still around, trying to get myself back into it. And lo and behold, I found that Hogan was still around - now trying to get on my good side by being a bad guy. It didn't work.
He was terrible as a good guy. As a bad guy he was even worse, not acting like enough of a coward, only expanding his moveset to include eye and back rakes and he took something that was earth shatteringly awesome (the Outsiders) and turned them into a joke that eventually destroyed WCW and indeed competition in wrestling.
And then when WCW died, he somehow parlayed his way back into the WWF fold, with fans cheering at his very presence like the mindless sheep that they are. They had Austin, the Rock, Michaels, HHH and so on to deify but they chose the Orange Goblin as their hero instead. All he did was make me hate wrestling once again, sapping my love for it that I had built up over the years. Now I only watch independent wrestling or the occasional pay per view because my joy has been so sullied.
But back to my revelation. That day back in 1989 I set my stall out. If everyone else thinks that one man is the highest possible power, the ultimate force and the real deal - in spite of all the evidence to show that he is hokey, fake, false and unworthy - then I can question it. I decided that day to ignore the cheers of the sheep and back the others, the black side of the coin, those whose opinions were reviled and whose actions were deemed unsavoury. And I have taken that idea on throughout life, driven first by my dislike for Hogan and then amplifying it to bigger ideas and more complex theories. And this is where I stand today.
And for all of my hatred for Mr Terry Bollea, I must thank him for something.
Because his existence seems to have made me a satanist.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Wednesday, 9 September 2009
22: Ageing
I realised during my sojourn to Edinburgh in August that I'm getting old. I'm aware that I cannot stop the relentless march of ageing, but I kind of hoped that my natural charm would somehow keep it at bay for a while. I was wrong.
I've had to start wearing hats because my hair is falling out. Now, I can rock a hat pretty well. But I bought a brightly coloured trucker cap in Edinburgh and realised that, upon seeing my reflection, I am no longer a teenager and therefore look like Jonathan King or some other fucktard who is trying desperately to cling onto his younger years. Of course in my book, I'm trying to do that because I don't want to get old. He does it for quite different reasons.
I mistook a guy in the audience for a teenager. I genuinely thought he was 14, and it turned out that he was 25. That's quite a mistake to make. In retrospect, he didn't even look boyish. He just looked younger than me, and for some reason in my head I still think that I'm 20.
Even worse, one day I was sat with several lovely people in our Fringe hideaway of the GRV office. Loud music played downstairs. I found myself - with not one beat of my heart skipping to warn me - complaining that the bass drone from beneath the floorboards was "just a noise". Some of my younger chums stared at me. They agreed with me, it was a noise. But they are young and do not need to state this. They don't need to make the rest of the planet hear their irksome quibbles and complaints. Because they still have youth, and life is still rosy and good for them.
My rapid ageing puts me in somewhat of a quandry. How do I deal with this? I can go down two routes. I can grow old gracefully, or hold on, kicking and screaming, to my youth until I'm even more gap-toothed and a darn sight balder than I am now.
I don't know. I don't feel like a 31 year old. I certainly don't act like one. I still get really excited driving into tunnels. I buy Pick and Mix whenever I feel like it. I consider Weetabix topped with Jaffa Cakes as a nutritious breakfast. In the bath I will fashion my hair into a bubble-bath mohawk.
I was too sensible when I was younger. I had a "career" and a house at 22, married at 23, Dad at 25, divorced at 26. I started comedy at 27, so a large part of what I do these days is counteracting my sensible early twenties, where I would wear a suit to work and trawl around garden centres at the weekends. But at least my body was intact then, even if my sensibilities were more aged and mature. I had a full head of hair. My man breasts still only required a training bra. During Edinburgh I got out of breath doing part of my routine about me and drugs. I used to be able to run for ages at a time, what happened?
It's ageing, thats what. Not me becoming unfit through laziness, no way. Stupid ageing.
So then, let me examine my options:
1: GROW OLD GRACEFULLY
To do this I will need to do the following things.
a) Stop wearing brightly coloured trainers, preferring a sturdy brogue.
b) Avoid daft hats at all costs, especially for irony reasons. So no Stovepipe.
c) No more tattoos, ever. And cover the ones I have with swaddling.
d) Adopt a proper diet. No more scotch egg and mars bar dinners after gigs.
e) Get a proper job.
f) Consider getting an ISA.
g) First, find out what an ISA is.
h) Consider Take That as the forefront of British music.
i) Clean my car every weekend. Especially if it doesn't need doing.
j) Get dressed on my days off.
k) Buy some slippers. Not tartan. I'm not a monster.
l) Start to enjoy soup as an actual meal.
m) Watch football matches just to be disappointed.
n) List at least one Richard Curtis film as a favourite, replacing "Dawn of the Dead".
o) Abandon hopes to somehow become WWE Intercontinental Champion.
p) Start to view the TV as something to watch documentaries on, not just play games.
q) Stock up my freezer. Just in case.
r) Dream of DIY at night, rather than scoring the winning goal in the cup final.
s) Claim to prefer Vanilla ice cream to all the other flavours.
t) Ensure I exhale loudly after sipping tea or sitting down on a high backed chair.
u) Stop going to the cinema. No-one over 30 goes to the cinema.
v) Steam at least two meals a week, whilst wearing a self-satisfied grin.
w) Wear a tie to go to Sunday dinner.
x) Rate funerals as "good sendoffs" rather than sad events.
y) No longer listen to rap music, heavy metal, punk or electro. Or music.
z) Accept each birthday with a wry smile, knowing that dreading the onset of age is pointless and accepting my fate with the meekness I will only exhibit later on when I'm undoubtedly a dribbling fool in an old folk's home.
That's the first option. A quiet slide into my forties awaits. When I was a reckless twentysomething I couldn't see myself living past 40. You may think that is a frightening prospect, but I find the potential future of mowing a lawn whilst wearing rugged outdoor sandals and combat trousers on a damp September morning infinitely more terrifying than a premature death.
But there is of course option 2.
2: TRY TO HOLD ONTO MY YOUTH
This is the option that I seem to be taking my default, and failing at it. Sure, I still spend money on clothes that are best suited to a teenager and I own enough trainers to be classed as the Imelda Marcos of comedy. But when even my six year old daughter tells me that I'm old and embarrassing then it's probably time to throw in the towel. When I worked in a school I thought of myself as quite cool. I dressed differently to the other teachers, retained a sense of individuality and made a point of empathising with the kids. That said, when they guessed how old I was, what did they say?
42.
Now, if my daughter or nephews had of said that, then fine. Little kids always overshoot estimations. That's why you don't ever employ them as quantity surveyors in a washing machine warehouse. But 15 year olds? Come on. 42? And they LIKED me. They weren't trying to offend me. I went home from work that day and stared at my gaunt reflection in the mirror for far too long. You know what I mean - until the mirror starts spinning slightly in your head and the Boards of Canada start providing a soundtrack to the whole sorry situation.
I then decided to amp up the acting young. Which made me arrive where I am today, wearing a parody Run DMC T-Shirt I bought from a skate shop, stupidly low slung jeans and pink and green patent leather trainers. With video game girls tattooed on one arm, plans to have Ron Burgundy tattooed on the other and hare-brained plans to have a piercing just because I don't have one yet. With a lounge that looks like I won a competition in Nuts magazine, bursting to the seams with video games, films and a massive telly. With kitchen cupboards that have nothing more sensible than biscuits in them. With a job - my dream job - that I do full time, wearing a permanent grin.
So I think I have my answer.
It's not how old you are, it's how old you feel. And though my body may be falling to pieces and my forehead is starting to be as wrinkled as Abdullah the Butcher's, I'm not ready to be old yet. Or sensible. So my solution to my hatred of ageing is to take a measure akin to holding a pillow over my head and screaming "Lalalalalalala I'm not listening".
I shall merely stand here, smile, and hold up two fingers to the tireless march of time.
Fuck you ageing. I win.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
I've had to start wearing hats because my hair is falling out. Now, I can rock a hat pretty well. But I bought a brightly coloured trucker cap in Edinburgh and realised that, upon seeing my reflection, I am no longer a teenager and therefore look like Jonathan King or some other fucktard who is trying desperately to cling onto his younger years. Of course in my book, I'm trying to do that because I don't want to get old. He does it for quite different reasons.
I mistook a guy in the audience for a teenager. I genuinely thought he was 14, and it turned out that he was 25. That's quite a mistake to make. In retrospect, he didn't even look boyish. He just looked younger than me, and for some reason in my head I still think that I'm 20.
Even worse, one day I was sat with several lovely people in our Fringe hideaway of the GRV office. Loud music played downstairs. I found myself - with not one beat of my heart skipping to warn me - complaining that the bass drone from beneath the floorboards was "just a noise". Some of my younger chums stared at me. They agreed with me, it was a noise. But they are young and do not need to state this. They don't need to make the rest of the planet hear their irksome quibbles and complaints. Because they still have youth, and life is still rosy and good for them.
My rapid ageing puts me in somewhat of a quandry. How do I deal with this? I can go down two routes. I can grow old gracefully, or hold on, kicking and screaming, to my youth until I'm even more gap-toothed and a darn sight balder than I am now.
I don't know. I don't feel like a 31 year old. I certainly don't act like one. I still get really excited driving into tunnels. I buy Pick and Mix whenever I feel like it. I consider Weetabix topped with Jaffa Cakes as a nutritious breakfast. In the bath I will fashion my hair into a bubble-bath mohawk.
I was too sensible when I was younger. I had a "career" and a house at 22, married at 23, Dad at 25, divorced at 26. I started comedy at 27, so a large part of what I do these days is counteracting my sensible early twenties, where I would wear a suit to work and trawl around garden centres at the weekends. But at least my body was intact then, even if my sensibilities were more aged and mature. I had a full head of hair. My man breasts still only required a training bra. During Edinburgh I got out of breath doing part of my routine about me and drugs. I used to be able to run for ages at a time, what happened?
It's ageing, thats what. Not me becoming unfit through laziness, no way. Stupid ageing.
So then, let me examine my options:
1: GROW OLD GRACEFULLY
To do this I will need to do the following things.
a) Stop wearing brightly coloured trainers, preferring a sturdy brogue.
b) Avoid daft hats at all costs, especially for irony reasons. So no Stovepipe.
c) No more tattoos, ever. And cover the ones I have with swaddling.
d) Adopt a proper diet. No more scotch egg and mars bar dinners after gigs.
e) Get a proper job.
f) Consider getting an ISA.
g) First, find out what an ISA is.
h) Consider Take That as the forefront of British music.
i) Clean my car every weekend. Especially if it doesn't need doing.
j) Get dressed on my days off.
k) Buy some slippers. Not tartan. I'm not a monster.
l) Start to enjoy soup as an actual meal.
m) Watch football matches just to be disappointed.
n) List at least one Richard Curtis film as a favourite, replacing "Dawn of the Dead".
o) Abandon hopes to somehow become WWE Intercontinental Champion.
p) Start to view the TV as something to watch documentaries on, not just play games.
q) Stock up my freezer. Just in case.
r) Dream of DIY at night, rather than scoring the winning goal in the cup final.
s) Claim to prefer Vanilla ice cream to all the other flavours.
t) Ensure I exhale loudly after sipping tea or sitting down on a high backed chair.
u) Stop going to the cinema. No-one over 30 goes to the cinema.
v) Steam at least two meals a week, whilst wearing a self-satisfied grin.
w) Wear a tie to go to Sunday dinner.
x) Rate funerals as "good sendoffs" rather than sad events.
y) No longer listen to rap music, heavy metal, punk or electro. Or music.
z) Accept each birthday with a wry smile, knowing that dreading the onset of age is pointless and accepting my fate with the meekness I will only exhibit later on when I'm undoubtedly a dribbling fool in an old folk's home.
That's the first option. A quiet slide into my forties awaits. When I was a reckless twentysomething I couldn't see myself living past 40. You may think that is a frightening prospect, but I find the potential future of mowing a lawn whilst wearing rugged outdoor sandals and combat trousers on a damp September morning infinitely more terrifying than a premature death.
But there is of course option 2.
2: TRY TO HOLD ONTO MY YOUTH
This is the option that I seem to be taking my default, and failing at it. Sure, I still spend money on clothes that are best suited to a teenager and I own enough trainers to be classed as the Imelda Marcos of comedy. But when even my six year old daughter tells me that I'm old and embarrassing then it's probably time to throw in the towel. When I worked in a school I thought of myself as quite cool. I dressed differently to the other teachers, retained a sense of individuality and made a point of empathising with the kids. That said, when they guessed how old I was, what did they say?
42.
Now, if my daughter or nephews had of said that, then fine. Little kids always overshoot estimations. That's why you don't ever employ them as quantity surveyors in a washing machine warehouse. But 15 year olds? Come on. 42? And they LIKED me. They weren't trying to offend me. I went home from work that day and stared at my gaunt reflection in the mirror for far too long. You know what I mean - until the mirror starts spinning slightly in your head and the Boards of Canada start providing a soundtrack to the whole sorry situation.
I then decided to amp up the acting young. Which made me arrive where I am today, wearing a parody Run DMC T-Shirt I bought from a skate shop, stupidly low slung jeans and pink and green patent leather trainers. With video game girls tattooed on one arm, plans to have Ron Burgundy tattooed on the other and hare-brained plans to have a piercing just because I don't have one yet. With a lounge that looks like I won a competition in Nuts magazine, bursting to the seams with video games, films and a massive telly. With kitchen cupboards that have nothing more sensible than biscuits in them. With a job - my dream job - that I do full time, wearing a permanent grin.
So I think I have my answer.
It's not how old you are, it's how old you feel. And though my body may be falling to pieces and my forehead is starting to be as wrinkled as Abdullah the Butcher's, I'm not ready to be old yet. Or sensible. So my solution to my hatred of ageing is to take a measure akin to holding a pillow over my head and screaming "Lalalalalalala I'm not listening".
I shall merely stand here, smile, and hold up two fingers to the tireless march of time.
Fuck you ageing. I win.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Monday, 24 August 2009
21: Coventry
It's not unusual for people to hate the nearest town to them - it's the cheap and easy staple of any comic to slander the next-door neighbour town whenever they're working at one venue and reverse it the next week whenever they're in the town that they've just slagged off.
Towns that I have slagged off onstage in my last ten gigs include:
Barnsley
Wakefield
Elgin
Welwyn Garden City
Marseilles
Chloride (It's in Arizona)
Montevideo
Fray Bentos
St Petersburg
Atlantis
I've honestly got no ill feelings towards these towns at all, but it's easy to slate the unknown. I've only visited three of these towns anyway - although I'll always be sad that I haven't visited Fray Bentos in Uruguay to see if they specifically farm incredibly gristle-bound cows.
Coventry is a horrible city. If you've never visited, don't. I can very quickly describe to you the main attractions to save you actually needing to ever take the trip up the M6.
THE CATHEDRAL - After the tragic events of World War 2, the Coventry cathedral (which was a beautiful Gothic structure) was rebuilt as some terrible angular nightmare, bearing resemblance to a comic book villain's lair.
THE TAPESTRY - There is a massive tapestry in Coventry. It's of the virgin Mary, I think. Who even bothers making tapestries?
THE TRANSPORT MUSEUM - Just to remind the people of Coventry that once upon a time they had a thriving industry.
That's it. Nothing else.
There is no real reason for me to despise Coventry so. There really isn't. It is completely unfathomable. I don't really dislike anybody. I'll take a gig anywhere and pretend that I am madly in love with any audience that makes even the slightest giggling noise in my direction. For I am a comedy whore. A joke-bearing slut. I'll take gigs in Coventry (and often have) but the only reason I dislike the city - despite it having a ring road shaped like a Scalextric - is merely down to the geographical proximity to the town I grew up in.
I don't mind the people. There seems to be a larger chav population than most towns but fuck it, I've been to Burnley. Just because the rustle of tracksuits against fake Ugg boots punctuates the darkest of nights with noise and vague sparks, it doesn't make it a bad place. The fact that it is one of very few cities to have an Ikea within the city centre doesn't irk me, neither does the platoon of idiots that shop there, treating cheap Swedish furniture like its the most amazing thing they've ever seen whilst dodging roaming gangs of townie scum who are trying to steal large stuffed snakes for little Tyreese or Chardonnay.
It's not the layout of the town really. Sure, the previously mentioned slot racing-esque road system is annoying, as is the way that you have to cut someone up (metaphorically, not literally, although it may help relieve tension) in order to enter any of their roads because no one has the manners to actually let you out. I don't think that it's the fact that they decided to build some of the ugliest buildings ever committed to concrete - I mean, who the fuck decided to make a structure shaped like an elephant? Seriously?
Football is a major driving factor in my likes and dislikes - the fact that I was once chased by a man with a iron bar in Portsmouth means that I'll never speak highly of the town. But football doesn't bother me that much, especially when the team in question doesn't really matter. What have Coventry ever done? Keith Houchen once scored a fantastic header in the FA Cup Final, but apart from that? Nothing, asides from the legacy of having a famous brown kit. That is literally the ONLY thing people remember them for. What else is there? Having a football ground with stands that are too high for people to even walk up?
It's not even the fact that it's bigger than Nuneaton but further away from me, closer than Birmingham but not as big or that it has a shopping centre with an outside escalator.
Can't even think of a reason why I hate it so. Silly geography.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Towns that I have slagged off onstage in my last ten gigs include:
Barnsley
Wakefield
Elgin
Welwyn Garden City
Marseilles
Chloride (It's in Arizona)
Montevideo
Fray Bentos
St Petersburg
Atlantis
I've honestly got no ill feelings towards these towns at all, but it's easy to slate the unknown. I've only visited three of these towns anyway - although I'll always be sad that I haven't visited Fray Bentos in Uruguay to see if they specifically farm incredibly gristle-bound cows.
Coventry is a horrible city. If you've never visited, don't. I can very quickly describe to you the main attractions to save you actually needing to ever take the trip up the M6.
THE CATHEDRAL - After the tragic events of World War 2, the Coventry cathedral (which was a beautiful Gothic structure) was rebuilt as some terrible angular nightmare, bearing resemblance to a comic book villain's lair.
THE TAPESTRY - There is a massive tapestry in Coventry. It's of the virgin Mary, I think. Who even bothers making tapestries?
THE TRANSPORT MUSEUM - Just to remind the people of Coventry that once upon a time they had a thriving industry.
That's it. Nothing else.
There is no real reason for me to despise Coventry so. There really isn't. It is completely unfathomable. I don't really dislike anybody. I'll take a gig anywhere and pretend that I am madly in love with any audience that makes even the slightest giggling noise in my direction. For I am a comedy whore. A joke-bearing slut. I'll take gigs in Coventry (and often have) but the only reason I dislike the city - despite it having a ring road shaped like a Scalextric - is merely down to the geographical proximity to the town I grew up in.
I don't mind the people. There seems to be a larger chav population than most towns but fuck it, I've been to Burnley. Just because the rustle of tracksuits against fake Ugg boots punctuates the darkest of nights with noise and vague sparks, it doesn't make it a bad place. The fact that it is one of very few cities to have an Ikea within the city centre doesn't irk me, neither does the platoon of idiots that shop there, treating cheap Swedish furniture like its the most amazing thing they've ever seen whilst dodging roaming gangs of townie scum who are trying to steal large stuffed snakes for little Tyreese or Chardonnay.
It's not the layout of the town really. Sure, the previously mentioned slot racing-esque road system is annoying, as is the way that you have to cut someone up (metaphorically, not literally, although it may help relieve tension) in order to enter any of their roads because no one has the manners to actually let you out. I don't think that it's the fact that they decided to build some of the ugliest buildings ever committed to concrete - I mean, who the fuck decided to make a structure shaped like an elephant? Seriously?
Football is a major driving factor in my likes and dislikes - the fact that I was once chased by a man with a iron bar in Portsmouth means that I'll never speak highly of the town. But football doesn't bother me that much, especially when the team in question doesn't really matter. What have Coventry ever done? Keith Houchen once scored a fantastic header in the FA Cup Final, but apart from that? Nothing, asides from the legacy of having a famous brown kit. That is literally the ONLY thing people remember them for. What else is there? Having a football ground with stands that are too high for people to even walk up?
It's not even the fact that it's bigger than Nuneaton but further away from me, closer than Birmingham but not as big or that it has a shopping centre with an outside escalator.
Can't even think of a reason why I hate it so. Silly geography.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
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