THE FOLLOWING TOOK PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 13.30 and 22.00 ON SATURDAY DECEMBER 19th 2010...
13.30 - BARWELL, LEICESTERSHIRE
I open my door and stride into the cool winter air. I'm prepared for a tricky journey - being a plucky BBC employee I've seen the weather reports and instead of lying in bed all afternoon catching up on my sleep I'm leaving early for my gig in central London. Plan is pretty much this:
1: Drive the two hours to London
2: Possibly see some snow showers
3: Not worry about #2 because I'm a mighty human in a car
4: Get to London
5: Find a pub
6: Watch Leicester City beat Ipswich Town on TV in said pub entirely populated by chirpy cockneys eating Pie and Mash
7: Do gig and make much mirth
8: Go home, finished for Christmas and happy with my lot.
As I leave there is a light dusting of snow. I smile to myself, thinking about how Christmassy it looks. Bless.
14.00 - LUTTERWORTH, LEICESTERSHIRE
Journey so far is a piece of piss. Nobody on the road as people are warned off the road by what I wittily call "scaremongering". It's only some snow. And besides, I'm on the M1 already and smashing it down to London. I think about how I'll show off to my London based comedy chums, listening to them talking of struggling on the tube when I've travelled 120 miles - like a green room version of the Four Yorkshiremen Monty Python sketch.
At this point I am planning my dinner. I reckon Mexican, somewhere near Embankment.
14.15 - DAVENTRY, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE
It's snowing a little bit, but is clearly no match for my mighty iron steed. Brrrrrrm.
14.30 - NORTHAMPTON, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE
The snow has stopped. Stupid fucking weather forecasts. Although I am buoyed by knowing I'll be well early, clever little monkey that I am.
15.00 - NEWPORT PAGNELL, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE
Quite need a wee, but pass the services knowing that Toddington has a Marks and Spencer and they do wasabi peas. Besides, I know I'll be there in 15 minutes or so.
15.01 - 1 MILE BEYOND NEWPORT PAGNELL, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE
How come it's so cloudy and foggy and that all of a sudden?
15.02 - 1 MILE BEYOND NEWPORT PAGNELL, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE
Fuck me, it's snowing like a bastard.
15.05 - 3 MILES BEYOND NEWPORT PAGNELL, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE
Ah, it's slowing down. Besides, the roads seem fine.
15.10 - JUNCTION 14, M1
Probably no point getting off here now, traffic is sluggish but it's bound to be a little congested. I laugh at the saps queuing to leave the M1. MORE MOTORWAY FOR ME, FUCKERS!
15.11 - ABOUT THREE FEET PAST JUNCTION 14, M1
More snow.
15.12 - ABOUT THREE FEET PAST JUNCTION 14, M1
More snow than backstage at a Motley Crue concert. In Switzerland. Midwinter.
15.13 - AS ABOVE
A car in front makes a bold move and drives forwards, then sideways, then into a barrier. I laugh in the style of a man who is mildly aware that he's fucked. Still have over four and three quarter hours to showtime. Pride myself on leaving early enough, although do briefly think I may miss City's scintillating start in Ipswich. Everything is bound to clear up soon.
15.20 - TWO FEET ON
I have spent the previous seven minutes getting excited every minute when the car in front moves a couple of centimetres. Have decided that the man in the car in front is a twat for the following reasons:
A: He has a personalised plate. Not a good one, like J1MMY or something like that. One so obscure that only he knows that it refers to the time he was born and the initials of his dog or some shit.
B: He's driving a car with too much torque, so it's struggling to get the power down on the snow. I have no idea what this means, but I've watched Top Gear.
C: He is leaving TOO MUCH ROOM BETWEEN HIM AND THE CAR IN FRONT.
15.30 - ANOTHER TWO FEET
Now swearing at the radio. Thanks to the weather I'm having to listen to Blackburn vs West Ham. Laugh briefly when the commentator describes Avril Grant as having a hang-dog expression. His face is the actual dictionary definition of the phrase.
16.00 - ANOTHER TEN FEET
Start inventing new swearwords for the people in Four Wheel Drives who seem to think its acceptable to drive on the hard shoulder merely because they have bigger wheels. And secretly regret buying a tiny little Ford Fiesta and giving a flying fuck about fuel economy. The best words I've invented thus far are "festwich", "clinth" and "banzunt".
16.30 - ANOTHER FIFTEEN FEET
Brief sense of excitement of hitting 8mph for three seconds is ruined by looking in my rearview mirror and realising that I have moved absolutely clinthing nowhere.
16.45 - NO PROGRESS
Start going through the cartoon cycle of despair. I've pretty much exhausted anger, I'm now onto wanting to weep. On the verge of tears until I watch a man climb out of his stationary car and walk to the hard shoulder to urinate. He steps onto what he thinks is a grass verge and vanishes up to his waist in snow. I laugh so hard that I stall the car and he definitely notices.
17.00 - ANOTHER TEN FEET
Match kicks off in 20 minutes. Have a feeling I may miss it.
17.15 - ANOTHER TEN FEET
Gig kicks off in 165 minutes. Have a feeling I may miss it.
17.20 - ANOTHER TWO FEET
Small surge in movement makes me foolishly think that I can get to Luton then get a train to London. Because of course the UK is well known for its reliable railway network that can cope with any small problem and is in no way ever delayed because of a wet leaf here and there, let alone a fucking blizzard of biblical proportions.
17.30 - ANOTHER TEN FEET
Cancel gig. Worry about the money I won't be earning that I may have already spent on tattoos, cake and hats.
17.35 - NO CHANGE
Realise that even with the gig cancelled I'm still not going anywhere. Wonder if I have a junior hacksaw to cut through the barrier and do a U-turn. Google Maps tells me that, with traffic, I'm over 90 minutes from the next junction. Which is three miles away. Fuck my life.
18.00 - TWO AND THREE QUARTER MILES TO JUNCTION 13
Man in front with private plate gets stuck. I watch him for a bit and then get out and push him as he accelerates. He moves on and I shout "I AM THOR! STRONGEST MAN IN THE UNIVERSE!" as a white van driver stares at me, agog.
18.15 - TWO AND A HALF MILES TO JUNCTION 13
Listening to 606 as City are already two down. Can only tolerate it for two minutes at a time before I either want to punch the listeners or Robbie Savage in the face.
18.30 - TWO AND A QUARTER MILES TO JUNCTION 13
Weeping.
18.45 - TWO MILES TO JUNCTION 13
Get deeply annoyed that the kids in the car next to me are watching a DVD. Try to keep pace with them to watch it over their shoulders but am blocked by a pie van. It was Toy Story 3 as well.
19.00 - ONE AND THREE QUARTER MILES TO JUNCTION 13
Remember how much I need to urinate. Consider sneaking onto the hard shoulder to relieve myself but then look at temperature gauge and realise that if I do so my penis will actually shrink back up inside me like a too-wide bellybutton.
19.15 - ONE AND HALF MILES TO JUNCTION 13
Everyone else has started using the hard shoulder as a lane and I no longer care about my strict adherence to the highway code. I'd drive over a sweet old lollipop lady if it got me to that fucking junction a minute sooner.
19.30 - ONE AND A QUARTER MILES TO JUNCTION 13
Screaming.
19.40 - ONE MILE TO JUNCTION 13
A SIGN! A MOTHERFUCKING SIGN FOR A JUNCTION!
19.50 - HALF A MILE TO JUNCTION 13
The traffic seems to be sorting itself into wheat and chaff. Chaff being the people choosing to stay on the M1, wheat being people like me who are leaving the M1 with no plan at all. Note that the other side of the M1 is equally fucked. I had not thought about that. Arses.
20.00 - EXITING THE M1 VIA JUNCTION 13
Start singing "Take on Me" by A-Ha in celebration at getting to 15mph. Realise I have no plan at all. I can go to Bedford or Milton Keynes. I reason that the easy road layout of Milton Keynes would be the best option to get me to the A5 and my steady route home.
20.15 - SOMEWHERE IN MILTON KEYNES
Whoever designed this place was fucking mental.
20.30 - STILL IN MILTON KEYNES
Seriously, how could you pick out landmarks in this place? Even if the entire concrete monstrosity wasn't covered in bastard fucking snow?
20.45 - THE A5, HEADING NORTH
Somehow a single lane A-road is better gritted, salted and cleared than a major motorway. Although the Little Chef is closed and an Olympic Breakfast would be awesome right now.
21.00 - STILL THE A5
Hit a bump in the snow. A bit of wee comes out.
21.15 - DAVENTRY
The snow just fucks off. Seriously. Vanishes. Like I'm playing a bad video game.
22.00 - PARENTS HOUSE
Throw myself on the mercy of my mum and dad. Beg for food, shelter and somewhere to have a wee.
22.05 - PARENTS HOUSE
Piss like a racehorse.
22.10 - PARENTS HOUSE
Relax on sofa. Try not to think about what I could have done with the 8 and a bit hours I've spent in the car. Deeply troubled by the lack of snow in Leicestershire. After my day I want to build a snowman just so I can punch it in its stupid fucking carroty face.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Sunday, 19 December 2010
Monday, 13 December 2010
29: "Sexy" Mrs Claus
I don't want the first thing to think when you read this that I dislike Christmas in any way. I mean, I don't love it. I don't own any Christmas decorations - but that is mainly down to the fact that I'd have to put them up and then take them down, and I'm too lazy to do that. I'm so lazy that I tidied my lounge for the first time in about a year today and found the following things that I never knew I had:
1: A cigar. Cuban, I believe.
2: A copy of "Dead Snow" on Blu-Ray.
3: A small, neat pile of Ikea catalogues.
4: A hand-made ceramic snail.
But I do like Christmas. I enjoy giving presents to my family and friends, I enjoy Christmas dinner and I enjoy my early Christmas with my daughter (we have our present opening time on Christmas Eve, as she is under the impression that I have Santa's phone number and I text him every year). That's about it. I don't enjoy the crowds in the shops, the special menus in restaurants, the Christmas music on the radio or Egg Nog, whatever the fuck that is.
As a comedian we have the joy of performing in clubs in front of many a Christmas party during December, and I know that this is a subject of some consternation for many comics. It doesn't really bother me - this December I've had some beautiful gigs in front of Xmas party crowds that have outweighed the shoddy one that springs to mind that I hated every minute of.
I was in Putney this past Saturday at the Comedy Tree, a venue that I must have performed at around ten times this year. I like it there and had a great time this weekend, despite feeling like death and having a pain in my jaw so bad that I felt that someone was constantly hitting me in the face with a spade. Above the comedy club however is the Wahoo bar, a place that if I believed in Hell would resemble it somewhat.
At the beginning of any Saturday evening there it is full of sports fans watching the big screens and drinking quietly. At some point during the evening - I suspect at around 9.30 to 10pm - the mood of the venue changes. It becomes awash with crop-headed wannabe south London gangsters, all sovereign rings and attitude, and middle class girls from Putney, Wimbledon and Kingston who want to shock their parents by fucking one of these knuckle-scrapers to prove how terribly "urban" they are. It's a horrible sight, the air crackling with static electricity as G-Star jeans rub against Ugg Boots to the sound of Tinie Tempah.
I usually exit the gig through the fire door so I can avoid having to see how the youth of today chooses to mate, but this past weekend it was blocked and I had to step through the club to leave the building. And there, I saw three of them.
"Sexy" Mrs Claus.
You'll note my use of inverted commas around the word "sexy", because I imagine the only people who consider such an outfit sexy are the deeply deluded women that choose to wear them. Two were already hideous, one was actually quite attractive (although seeing the drinking venue and outfit she had chosen, I doubt we would have too much in common) but the costume she was wearing merely made you pity her.
As I left the bar and reached my car, I saw another two women dressed in similar garb. Then on my drive through London (taking in Chelsea and Kilburn, amongst other places) I saw dozens more. I genuinely lost count, although they may have been because a taxi driver cut me up and I was calling him a cuntbubble. A word I have genuinely never used before.
If you're not familiar with what a "Sexy" Mrs Claus outfit looks like then let me enlighten you (it's safer at this time of year than going to Primark or Ann Summers to find out for yourself):
A Santa hat, obviously. This part of the outfit is fine.
A very short red velour skirt, trimmed with white fur.
A red bra, again trimmed with fur.
If not the above two garments, then some kind of micro dress in the same vein.
Red stockings or long socks.
I hasten to add to the mix here that I was, the last time I checked, definitely a red-blooded male. I like girls. Without divulging too much of my personal predilections, I'm not adverse to girls dressing up. There's a list of outfits that I consider sexy and that I can share with you now:
Princess Leia.
Chun Li.
Nurse.
Snow White. (watch the Rammstein video)
Silk Spectre. (from Watchmen)
Empowered. (another comic book character)
Morrigan.
Felicia. (the last two both from "Darkstalkers", the video game)
Bayonetta. (Shut up, I'm a nerd)
I should really, ageing pervert that I am, applaud the decision for these hardy young ladies to expose themselves to the cruel winter air in order for us to gaze upon their bodies and be filled with Christmas cheer. But I can't. Firstly, here's a phrase I have never, EVER heard another man say:
"Phwooooar. I'd love it if she dressed up like Mrs Santa Claus."
Never.
It isn't sexy. Not in the slightest. When I worked in an office the only girl who would dress like for the Christmas party eventually left to start a career in pornography, specialising in DVDA.
(Dad, if you're reading this, that's a sexual practice. Not where you get your driving license from)
Also, when deciding what men may or may not find sexy, here's a tip. If Ann Summers sell it, it's probably not sexy.
Sorry, I just went to check the Agent Provacateur website to see if they sold anything like that. And they don't, it's just that I got distracted for a very long time indeed.
Anyway, you're probably reading this and wondering why I'm so bitter about this seemingly tedious and pointless issue. I'll tell you why.
Because once I dated a girl who thought that a relevant Christmas present for me would be dressing up in such a fashion so we could do the sex. That was it. I bought her LOADS of stuff. She bought me nothing. No video games, no DVDs, nothing. Not even a pair of socks. She bought herself some cheap lingerie and allowed me to have sex with her.
Merry Fucking Christmas, Mr Smallman.
It was during said intercourse that I really thought hard about why what she was wearing was so wrong. I mean, think about it. She is dressed up as Mrs Santa Claus. She is literally the wife of Santa Claus. I have no beef with ol' Saint Nick. I happen to like him. I like him enough to ensure that I NEVER smash the living heck out of his wife. Because I respect the man who brought me presents and that my daughter still believes in.
Also, if she is representing Mrs Claus then also consider this: If we take the modern representation of Santa Claus as starting in the 1950s at the latest (Coca Cola blah blah blah) then she needed to have been 16 then. So, 16 in 1950 makes her 76 now. And until Helen Mirren is 76 it is impossible to be 76 and sexy, man or woman, animal vegetable or mineral.
But, I hear you say: What if she's his second, third, even fourth wife? Then I put this to you: If she usually dresses like that around the North Pole then she's nothing but a money grabbing hussey. I bet when Santa is out on his rounds she's in the middle of a train-pulling orgy with the elves, and when Santa is resting she's probably constructed some kind of hoist arrangement in which to abuse the reindeer.
I know that you now think that I think about things too much, and you'd be right. But I got that outfit worn for me for Christmas once and it's scarred me forever. If you struggle to understand then let me utter the phrase used by many in Vietnam to quieten down questioning:
You weren't there man. You weren't there.
http://www.twitter.com
1: A cigar. Cuban, I believe.
2: A copy of "Dead Snow" on Blu-Ray.
3: A small, neat pile of Ikea catalogues.
4: A hand-made ceramic snail.
But I do like Christmas. I enjoy giving presents to my family and friends, I enjoy Christmas dinner and I enjoy my early Christmas with my daughter (we have our present opening time on Christmas Eve, as she is under the impression that I have Santa's phone number and I text him every year). That's about it. I don't enjoy the crowds in the shops, the special menus in restaurants, the Christmas music on the radio or Egg Nog, whatever the fuck that is.
As a comedian we have the joy of performing in clubs in front of many a Christmas party during December, and I know that this is a subject of some consternation for many comics. It doesn't really bother me - this December I've had some beautiful gigs in front of Xmas party crowds that have outweighed the shoddy one that springs to mind that I hated every minute of.
I was in Putney this past Saturday at the Comedy Tree, a venue that I must have performed at around ten times this year. I like it there and had a great time this weekend, despite feeling like death and having a pain in my jaw so bad that I felt that someone was constantly hitting me in the face with a spade. Above the comedy club however is the Wahoo bar, a place that if I believed in Hell would resemble it somewhat.
At the beginning of any Saturday evening there it is full of sports fans watching the big screens and drinking quietly. At some point during the evening - I suspect at around 9.30 to 10pm - the mood of the venue changes. It becomes awash with crop-headed wannabe south London gangsters, all sovereign rings and attitude, and middle class girls from Putney, Wimbledon and Kingston who want to shock their parents by fucking one of these knuckle-scrapers to prove how terribly "urban" they are. It's a horrible sight, the air crackling with static electricity as G-Star jeans rub against Ugg Boots to the sound of Tinie Tempah.
I usually exit the gig through the fire door so I can avoid having to see how the youth of today chooses to mate, but this past weekend it was blocked and I had to step through the club to leave the building. And there, I saw three of them.
"Sexy" Mrs Claus.
You'll note my use of inverted commas around the word "sexy", because I imagine the only people who consider such an outfit sexy are the deeply deluded women that choose to wear them. Two were already hideous, one was actually quite attractive (although seeing the drinking venue and outfit she had chosen, I doubt we would have too much in common) but the costume she was wearing merely made you pity her.
As I left the bar and reached my car, I saw another two women dressed in similar garb. Then on my drive through London (taking in Chelsea and Kilburn, amongst other places) I saw dozens more. I genuinely lost count, although they may have been because a taxi driver cut me up and I was calling him a cuntbubble. A word I have genuinely never used before.
If you're not familiar with what a "Sexy" Mrs Claus outfit looks like then let me enlighten you (it's safer at this time of year than going to Primark or Ann Summers to find out for yourself):
A Santa hat, obviously. This part of the outfit is fine.
A very short red velour skirt, trimmed with white fur.
A red bra, again trimmed with fur.
If not the above two garments, then some kind of micro dress in the same vein.
Red stockings or long socks.
I hasten to add to the mix here that I was, the last time I checked, definitely a red-blooded male. I like girls. Without divulging too much of my personal predilections, I'm not adverse to girls dressing up. There's a list of outfits that I consider sexy and that I can share with you now:
Princess Leia.
Chun Li.
Nurse.
Snow White. (watch the Rammstein video)
Silk Spectre. (from Watchmen)
Empowered. (another comic book character)
Morrigan.
Felicia. (the last two both from "Darkstalkers", the video game)
Bayonetta. (Shut up, I'm a nerd)
I should really, ageing pervert that I am, applaud the decision for these hardy young ladies to expose themselves to the cruel winter air in order for us to gaze upon their bodies and be filled with Christmas cheer. But I can't. Firstly, here's a phrase I have never, EVER heard another man say:
"Phwooooar. I'd love it if she dressed up like Mrs Santa Claus."
Never.
It isn't sexy. Not in the slightest. When I worked in an office the only girl who would dress like for the Christmas party eventually left to start a career in pornography, specialising in DVDA.
(Dad, if you're reading this, that's a sexual practice. Not where you get your driving license from)
Also, when deciding what men may or may not find sexy, here's a tip. If Ann Summers sell it, it's probably not sexy.
Sorry, I just went to check the Agent Provacateur website to see if they sold anything like that. And they don't, it's just that I got distracted for a very long time indeed.
Anyway, you're probably reading this and wondering why I'm so bitter about this seemingly tedious and pointless issue. I'll tell you why.
Because once I dated a girl who thought that a relevant Christmas present for me would be dressing up in such a fashion so we could do the sex. That was it. I bought her LOADS of stuff. She bought me nothing. No video games, no DVDs, nothing. Not even a pair of socks. She bought herself some cheap lingerie and allowed me to have sex with her.
Merry Fucking Christmas, Mr Smallman.
It was during said intercourse that I really thought hard about why what she was wearing was so wrong. I mean, think about it. She is dressed up as Mrs Santa Claus. She is literally the wife of Santa Claus. I have no beef with ol' Saint Nick. I happen to like him. I like him enough to ensure that I NEVER smash the living heck out of his wife. Because I respect the man who brought me presents and that my daughter still believes in.
Also, if she is representing Mrs Claus then also consider this: If we take the modern representation of Santa Claus as starting in the 1950s at the latest (Coca Cola blah blah blah) then she needed to have been 16 then. So, 16 in 1950 makes her 76 now. And until Helen Mirren is 76 it is impossible to be 76 and sexy, man or woman, animal vegetable or mineral.
But, I hear you say: What if she's his second, third, even fourth wife? Then I put this to you: If she usually dresses like that around the North Pole then she's nothing but a money grabbing hussey. I bet when Santa is out on his rounds she's in the middle of a train-pulling orgy with the elves, and when Santa is resting she's probably constructed some kind of hoist arrangement in which to abuse the reindeer.
I know that you now think that I think about things too much, and you'd be right. But I got that outfit worn for me for Christmas once and it's scarred me forever. If you struggle to understand then let me utter the phrase used by many in Vietnam to quieten down questioning:
You weren't there man. You weren't there.
http://www.twitter.com
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
28: That Tosspot in the Hat
Before I begin here, I should let you know that this little rant is not the sweary modernisation of a Dr Seuss story. This concerns my second of two gigs in Nottingham on Tuesday, at the Canalhouse.
One of my favourite songs is "Thou Shalt Always Kill" by Dan Le Sac vs Scroobius Pip. Fantastic wordplay, such passion and anger AND a sense of humour. It also features two elements that I really like - the pleading for people to spell the word "pheonix" correctly (as I have just done) and one line that I found myself screaming at the top of my lungs as I drove home last night. And I quote:
"Thou shalt not attend an open mic and leave before it's done just because you've finished your shitty little poem or song you self-righteous prick"
Of course, I wasn't taking part in a poetry slam or anything like that. I still can't get my head round the fact that poetry doesn't have to rhyme. If we had limerick slams I'd be well up for that. And of course, I wasn't strumming a guitar singing songs about unspeakably sensitive I am. I can't even play the ukelele.
No, I was performing stand-up comedy - which has been my full time employment for the past year and a bit - headlining a show in front of what I suspected could be quite a nice audience. A bit studenty, but seemingly up for it. Pleasant.
When I arrived a small new act competition was in full swing. The first two guys were decent enough, the second in particular being very talented indeed. Twas performer number three though who will forever be known as "the tosspot in the hat".
Let me describe what this miscreant looked like. Oddly, I'd pegged him as a cock before he'd even begun - and this was merely as he sat in the audience. The first thing to note about him was the hat perched atop his head. As I write this I am wearing a hat. I have no beef with hats. But this student urchin was wearing a fucking straw trilby.
Take that in for a second.
A straw trilby.
He had curly hair and looked to me like he was auditioning to be a lead singer in a tribute act to someone like The Kooks or Razorlight or the View or any of those so called "indie" bands that have their clothes supplied by Topman and spend more time doing their hair than, you know, writing songs and being anything less than run of the mill shite.
He was also committing one of my pet fashion crimes. Shorts with a long sleeved button up shirt. I hate that. It isn't "preppy", you don't look like you're about to take in the Boat Race, you just look like a fucktard who can't make his mind up if he's in the office or on the beach. And hey, just because you've seen the emaciated models in the aforementioned Topman dress like that it doesn't mean it's viable. THEY'RE TRYING TO SELL YOU THEIR SHITTY CLOTHES, DUMMY!
Anyway, our chum wandered up onstage to do his two minutes.
Issue One: He began his set by telling us his name (which I genuinely forget) and then said that most people only know him by his nickname. It was Tatchy or Blotchy or Scratchy or some such shit. The sort of name that only features in sentences uttered by middle class cocks at university who think that "[INSERT NAME HERE] is totally wacky, we had this random night where he drank five pints blah blah blah heeeee hawwwwww".
That last noise was a donkey.
Issue Two: When he wandered up onstage, the back two rows exploded in some kind of ticker tape parade for him, akin to the reaction for Argentina in 1978 when they won the world cup. The back rows consisted of my least favourite type of students - orange girls with massive hair who seem to think that Peaches Geldof is a style icon, rather than a vapid, pustulating axe-wound in the already gangrenous, fetid corpse that is celebrity. Sprinkled amongst this appalling dressed valley of mongs was the occasional bloke, all dressed in a similar manner to the aforementioned tosspot. So much bad hair in such a small space.
I must stress that the rest of the audience was lovely.
Issue Three: I love most comedians, whether they be old or new. But I do despise some johnny-come-lately accident at the clothes show thinking that comedy is "easy" because he makes his retarded friends laugh with crude jokes and by tapping girls on the head with his semi-erect elongated acorn of a penis. Here's the thing - try and be funny. Don't wander up onto the stage and reel off a list of swears that you know mixed in with other peoples gags, you fucking cretin.
Issue Four: This is the big issue. Don't lose a new act competition and then in the break decide to decamp - with all your cronies - to the back of the room and talk all the way through the closing act (ie me) despite being warned by the organiser, bar staff, MC and so on. Also, when I threaten to kill you from the stage I'm not kidding.
Seriously.
Should this person ever have the audacity to perform at a gig with me ever again, one of two things will occur:
ONE: I'll be MC and in charge of prepping the room for his arrival onstage. When people speak in hushed tones of the legendarily downbeat introductions for new acts provided by Malcolm Hardee in his heyday, they will pale into insignificance compared to what I have planned. It'll go something like this:
"This next act is the best type of new act, one with no gags who believes he'll be on E4 in six months times. He's wearing a hat and that is the limit of his personality. I can assure you no laughs in the next five minutes. You'll want to pull your own eyes out with a rusty spoon rather than gaze upon his face again, and replace your cotton buds with drill bits in order to ensure you can never hear such dross again. But don't take my word for it. Judge for yourself. Feel free to mill about while he's onstage, talk to your friends or do anything to keep you from losing your enthusiasm for life if this tosser is the future of comedy.
Oh, but before I bring him onstage, I need to share something with you. I went to the office of births, deaths and marriages today and found out that I'm actually an orphan..."
TWO: I'll be performing a set and he'll be doing an open spot, sat nervously at the gig with none of his friends around him. And i'll think back to when I had to do that, too scared to speak to the other acts, stomach churning in terror before my slot comes up, panicking that I'll die on my arse in from of people who do this for a living. Upon seeing that fear I'll go up to him and quietly reassure him. Because this business is hard, he'll need all the help he can get. I'll put an arm round his shoulder and with my own panful memories burning behind my eyes I'll put everything behind me and try to impart some knowledge into him and have him go on and give it his best shot. He'll look at me and realise that respect in this industry is the way forwards, take my words on board and go up there more pumped up than he ever could be.
And then after he's died on his arse, I'll take more solace in his broken spirit than I would from kicking his fucking teeth in.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
One of my favourite songs is "Thou Shalt Always Kill" by Dan Le Sac vs Scroobius Pip. Fantastic wordplay, such passion and anger AND a sense of humour. It also features two elements that I really like - the pleading for people to spell the word "pheonix" correctly (as I have just done) and one line that I found myself screaming at the top of my lungs as I drove home last night. And I quote:
"Thou shalt not attend an open mic and leave before it's done just because you've finished your shitty little poem or song you self-righteous prick"
Of course, I wasn't taking part in a poetry slam or anything like that. I still can't get my head round the fact that poetry doesn't have to rhyme. If we had limerick slams I'd be well up for that. And of course, I wasn't strumming a guitar singing songs about unspeakably sensitive I am. I can't even play the ukelele.
No, I was performing stand-up comedy - which has been my full time employment for the past year and a bit - headlining a show in front of what I suspected could be quite a nice audience. A bit studenty, but seemingly up for it. Pleasant.
When I arrived a small new act competition was in full swing. The first two guys were decent enough, the second in particular being very talented indeed. Twas performer number three though who will forever be known as "the tosspot in the hat".
Let me describe what this miscreant looked like. Oddly, I'd pegged him as a cock before he'd even begun - and this was merely as he sat in the audience. The first thing to note about him was the hat perched atop his head. As I write this I am wearing a hat. I have no beef with hats. But this student urchin was wearing a fucking straw trilby.
Take that in for a second.
A straw trilby.
He had curly hair and looked to me like he was auditioning to be a lead singer in a tribute act to someone like The Kooks or Razorlight or the View or any of those so called "indie" bands that have their clothes supplied by Topman and spend more time doing their hair than, you know, writing songs and being anything less than run of the mill shite.
He was also committing one of my pet fashion crimes. Shorts with a long sleeved button up shirt. I hate that. It isn't "preppy", you don't look like you're about to take in the Boat Race, you just look like a fucktard who can't make his mind up if he's in the office or on the beach. And hey, just because you've seen the emaciated models in the aforementioned Topman dress like that it doesn't mean it's viable. THEY'RE TRYING TO SELL YOU THEIR SHITTY CLOTHES, DUMMY!
Anyway, our chum wandered up onstage to do his two minutes.
Issue One: He began his set by telling us his name (which I genuinely forget) and then said that most people only know him by his nickname. It was Tatchy or Blotchy or Scratchy or some such shit. The sort of name that only features in sentences uttered by middle class cocks at university who think that "[INSERT NAME HERE] is totally wacky, we had this random night where he drank five pints blah blah blah heeeee hawwwwww".
That last noise was a donkey.
Issue Two: When he wandered up onstage, the back two rows exploded in some kind of ticker tape parade for him, akin to the reaction for Argentina in 1978 when they won the world cup. The back rows consisted of my least favourite type of students - orange girls with massive hair who seem to think that Peaches Geldof is a style icon, rather than a vapid, pustulating axe-wound in the already gangrenous, fetid corpse that is celebrity. Sprinkled amongst this appalling dressed valley of mongs was the occasional bloke, all dressed in a similar manner to the aforementioned tosspot. So much bad hair in such a small space.
I must stress that the rest of the audience was lovely.
Issue Three: I love most comedians, whether they be old or new. But I do despise some johnny-come-lately accident at the clothes show thinking that comedy is "easy" because he makes his retarded friends laugh with crude jokes and by tapping girls on the head with his semi-erect elongated acorn of a penis. Here's the thing - try and be funny. Don't wander up onto the stage and reel off a list of swears that you know mixed in with other peoples gags, you fucking cretin.
Issue Four: This is the big issue. Don't lose a new act competition and then in the break decide to decamp - with all your cronies - to the back of the room and talk all the way through the closing act (ie me) despite being warned by the organiser, bar staff, MC and so on. Also, when I threaten to kill you from the stage I'm not kidding.
Seriously.
Should this person ever have the audacity to perform at a gig with me ever again, one of two things will occur:
ONE: I'll be MC and in charge of prepping the room for his arrival onstage. When people speak in hushed tones of the legendarily downbeat introductions for new acts provided by Malcolm Hardee in his heyday, they will pale into insignificance compared to what I have planned. It'll go something like this:
"This next act is the best type of new act, one with no gags who believes he'll be on E4 in six months times. He's wearing a hat and that is the limit of his personality. I can assure you no laughs in the next five minutes. You'll want to pull your own eyes out with a rusty spoon rather than gaze upon his face again, and replace your cotton buds with drill bits in order to ensure you can never hear such dross again. But don't take my word for it. Judge for yourself. Feel free to mill about while he's onstage, talk to your friends or do anything to keep you from losing your enthusiasm for life if this tosser is the future of comedy.
Oh, but before I bring him onstage, I need to share something with you. I went to the office of births, deaths and marriages today and found out that I'm actually an orphan..."
TWO: I'll be performing a set and he'll be doing an open spot, sat nervously at the gig with none of his friends around him. And i'll think back to when I had to do that, too scared to speak to the other acts, stomach churning in terror before my slot comes up, panicking that I'll die on my arse in from of people who do this for a living. Upon seeing that fear I'll go up to him and quietly reassure him. Because this business is hard, he'll need all the help he can get. I'll put an arm round his shoulder and with my own panful memories burning behind my eyes I'll put everything behind me and try to impart some knowledge into him and have him go on and give it his best shot. He'll look at me and realise that respect in this industry is the way forwards, take my words on board and go up there more pumped up than he ever could be.
And then after he's died on his arse, I'll take more solace in his broken spirit than I would from kicking his fucking teeth in.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Friday, 14 May 2010
27: University Hoodies
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
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
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
