...For I am now employed and have much less time on my hands while I get the hang of my new job. Sorry people, but this post is one of those same messages nailed to the doors of dusty, abandoned blogs all over the internet:
'Hey guys, sorry but I am taking a bit of a hiatus from the blog right now but I promise I will get back to you in a couple of months...'
Posted by Judas on April 3rd 2002
It's pathetic, isn't it. I barely managed to update this thing in the past when I was unemployed and lying on my arse all day, but now I have much less free time - especially while I try to pick up the mantle from my predecessor in the office. Over the next few days I will try to write up my trip to Denmark, which was both recent and awesome. After that, I am hoping to get back to writing more regularly only when I have got the hang of this job - probably a couple of months.
Thanks very much to those of you who have been reading and giving positive comments. Your input was extremely unexpected (seriously, why are you here?!?!? Go read something else!), but very much appreciated.
I will post on my fbook wall if there are any updates. Until then...
Monday, 14 September 2009
Thursday, 13 August 2009
Hansard: occasionally funny
I spend more time than I would like reading Hansard. Thankfully, this is less boring than it sounds. Sometimes I come upon things that are actually funny. Admittedly, it's one in every 1200 pages, but at least they are trying.
[A useful shortcut: go to www.theyworkforyou.com and type swear words into the search bar. You might be surprised at the kinds of things that get said in Parliament.]
I particularly love it when the whole House interrupts an MP by jeering like it's a football match. What makes it all the more funny is that Hansard scribes, duty-bound to write down everything of substance, will transcribe such interjections by attaching the words 'Hon. Members:' to the front, as if they are pleading with the reader to take this dirty stuff seriously.
I came across a classic example the other day. The following extract is Julian Lewis addressing another Conservative MP in a debate about the Racial and Religious Hatred Bill in January 2006. At this stage the Bill was about to be put to a critical vote. Everyone was taking things very seriously, because everyone (be they atheist, Christian, or Muslim) was convinced they might become a victim of the bill's regulations. They feared the new rules would forbid anyone from saying anything even remotely detrimental about anyone else's beliefs, under threat of arrest. Things were serious when Lewis rose to speak:
(For the following to be funny, you have to remember that Liberal Democrat MP Mark Oaten, at one point an up and coming leadership contender, had just been busted for visiting rent boys.)
You've got to love this about British politics, that slightly roguish aspect, the cut, the thrust, the rough and tumble of old folks with too much port sloshing around in them having a jolly good ruck.
Spare a thought for poor Mark Oaten, though. Voting records show that he was sitting through this debate. Must have been a pretty shit day for him.
[A useful shortcut: go to www.theyworkforyou.com and type swear words into the search bar. You might be surprised at the kinds of things that get said in Parliament.]
I particularly love it when the whole House interrupts an MP by jeering like it's a football match. What makes it all the more funny is that Hansard scribes, duty-bound to write down everything of substance, will transcribe such interjections by attaching the words 'Hon. Members:' to the front, as if they are pleading with the reader to take this dirty stuff seriously.
I came across a classic example the other day. The following extract is Julian Lewis addressing another Conservative MP in a debate about the Racial and Religious Hatred Bill in January 2006. At this stage the Bill was about to be put to a critical vote. Everyone was taking things very seriously, because everyone (be they atheist, Christian, or Muslim) was convinced they might become a victim of the bill's regulations. They feared the new rules would forbid anyone from saying anything even remotely detrimental about anyone else's beliefs, under threat of arrest. Things were serious when Lewis rose to speak:
(For the following to be funny, you have to remember that Liberal Democrat MP Mark Oaten, at one point an up and coming leadership contender, had just been busted for visiting rent boys.)
“Will my hon. Friend consider a slightly different angle on the problems that the Bill is likely to create? If a group of people following a particular form of undesirable activity set themselves up as a cult or religion, could they not use the Bill to claim protection from criticism? It is gradually dawning on moderate Muslims just how restrictive the Bill could be. For instance, a group or people with bizarre sexual preferences might say that those practices were part of their religion. [Hon. Members: "Like the Liberal Democrats."] I was not referring to the Liberal Democrats."
You've got to love this about British politics, that slightly roguish aspect, the cut, the thrust, the rough and tumble of old folks with too much port sloshing around in them having a jolly good ruck.
Spare a thought for poor Mark Oaten, though. Voting records show that he was sitting through this debate. Must have been a pretty shit day for him.
Sunday, 9 August 2009
Uni(ad)versity: Don't you love wee, baby?
The scene is a house party. Some really dull music is playing. TERRY stands awkwardly outside a toilet door on a small landing. Crap decorations are all over the place. Loutish students are loudly shouting swear words as they run down the stairs. Two girls’ voices can be heard inside the toilet.
VOICE 1: Come on, Zoe, you’re doing really well!
VOICE 2: Urh… Hold my hair…
In the middle of it all, TERRY spots an a girl approaching. She is calm, poised, and very pretty – essentially nothing like anyone else there. She goes to move past TERRY and continue down the stairs.
TERRY (loudly): Uh!
She stops, saying nothing. TERRY looks at her, she looks back, unimpressed but expectant.
GIRL: Are you going to move, please?
TERRY: Erm.
Time slows. TERRY looks like he is thinking really hard. It was already awkward, now it is embarrassing.
ROGER’s voice fades in, delivering unhelpful one liners, as TERRY’s confidence slowly shatters. Camera closes in on his face…
ROGER (voice over): Are you actively avoiding sex or do you just not know what it is yet? The only way a girl would look at you is if you tore pages from Heat Magazine and glued them to your face, and the only way she would ever touch your knob is if you dipped it in a mixture of chocolate and crack, and maybe stapled a fiver to your balls. Christ almighty, Ter! You’re such a virgin you’d have to shag five women just to break even. You’re more desperate than an incontinent between bus stops. Other people carry condoms to stay safe, but with you it’s just [loudly] WISHFUL. THINKING.
Pause. Camera lingers on TERRY’s wide eyes. Silence.
ROGER (voice over again, this time in a quizzical, cheery tone): Why don’t you consider men?
TERRY (yelling): NO I WILL NOT!
We cut back to GIRL, who looks somewhat unimpressed at the answer to her question.
Suddenly we cut to a scene that is all light, cheery and soft focus. TERRY is sitting in the pub with, well what do you know, the GIRL he just met! They are laughing freely.
TERRY: And that’s how we met. It was embarrassing!
GIRL: I keep on telling you, I am the only one who should be embarrassed. (Matter of fact) I pretend to be a real bitch to people I have in fact fallen in love with at first sight. Really, I was the nervous one.
TERRY: Aw, you’re so cute.
GIRL: No, you’re cute.
TERRY: Well, anyhow, after a long conversation, the details of which escape me right now, she agreed that I was amazing and she should come on a date with me. Before you know it we were an item. Isn’t that right?
GIRL: Yes, that extremely non-specific account just about covers everything, give or take a few minor details.
ROGER (sitting opposite, for it is him they are speaking to): That’s so great. I am so happy for both of you. She is so much more attractive than all the scabby bitches I date – half of whom I pay!
TERRY: I knew it!
GIRL: He’s a loser!
ROGER: I am!
They laugh
ROGER (cheerfully wiping tears of joy from eye): Ha, you’ve basically won forever, ha!
TERRY: I know!
A grey haired man walks in wearing full academic dress, like your academics do at graduation ceremonies. He looks really severe, but is weirdly smiley as well.
DR PAYNE: Hello, Terry! I thought I should pass by and have a quick word!
TERRY: Why, it’s Dr Payne, my dickhead of a supervisor! What are you doing here?
DR PAYNE: Well, Terry, I was having a chat with all the other old fuckers who make up the committee supervising your doctorate, and we decided that you have been doing a really top job recently, even though we haven’t been showing it and have in fact behaved like a right shower of cunts towards you. We recognise this terrible mistake, and we wanted to make it up to you. Professor Etheridge made you a cake, while Dr Sloane has committed ritual suicide.
TERRY takes the cake that DR PAYNE proffers: Chocolate! My favourite!
DR PAYNE: We also thought – hey! let’s award him his doctorate two and a half years early!
TERRY: Wow! Thanks Dr Payne!
DR PAYNE: No problem, Dr T!
ROGER (stands up, and shouts): Three cheers for Terry, everyone!
The whole pub starts huzzahing. While they do so, TERRY turns to GIRL.
TERRY: I’m so happy I could piss myself!
GIRL: You are pissing yourself.
TERRY looks down. He is pissing himself.
He stands, knocking over drinks, even while the pub continues cheering. He spies a door marked ‘Mens’ and runs through it. He ends up back in the pub, just on the other side.
TERRY: Where’s the loo!
The cheering becomes louder and more confused. It’s getting nightmarish.
GIRL: That’s your body’s way of telling you to get up and go to the toilet.
TERRY: I tried but there isn’t a loo, there’s nowhere to go, what do I do!!!
(Pause)
TERRY: I’m asleep, aren’t I.
GIRL: Yeah.
TERRY: And when I wake up, all of this stops.
GIRL: Yup.
TERRY: I’ll have to go back to reality, where that twat always makes fun of me…
[ROGER, offscreen: Hello!]
TERRY… and where that old git makes me miserable.
[DR PAYNE, offscreen: Yes, I do!]
GIRL: Not like you can stand there pissing forever.
TERRY: Can’t I? [We notice the stream of urine continuing to pour down his leg.]
GIRL: Even though I am supposed to be your fantasy girl who thinks you’re great and loves you no matter what and blah blah blah, to be honest – even I found what you just said a little bit disgusting.
TERRY: Fair point. Sorry.
GIRL: That’s ok. You’d better get up, before you start weeing in real life.
TERRY: Alright, goodbye then.
GIRL: Don’t say that. I might still be there.
TERRY: What?
CUT TO Terry lying in bed, waking with a start. He sits up, takes a deep breath, and turns to his side.
We see the GIRL lying under covers next to him, snoring slightly. TERRY looks surprised. He checks under the covers to see if they are wearing anything. He places the covers back gently and smiles sweetly. He then raises his arms triumphantly.
TERRY (quietly): YEEEEESSSSSSSSS! [Starts pumping fist enthusiastically] 'Ave it!
ROGER (calling from outside the door): Oi! Wanker! Cuppa tea?
TERRY: Yes. Actually, make it two.
ROGER: Why? Are you desperately trying to wash the taste of cock out of your mouth?
TERRY (smug): No, there’s someone in here with me, and I am sure she is thirsty after... you know.
ROGER: Oh. (Pause) Well don’t get too smug. While you were gone last night I beat your best time on Gran Turismo.
TERRY: Yeah, well done mate.[Pointedly] Two sugars, please.
During this conversation the girl has woken up and is now smiling at Terry.
GIRL: Morning.
They stare at each other coyly while a song from the Bridget Jones soundtrack plays. Girl playfully puts his hand on his hip. The music suddenly stops, and her smile falls.
GIRL: Um. I can’t remember your name yet, but –
TERRY: That’s ok!
(GIRL is now looking at her hand, smelling it)
GIRL: Yeah, um, about this patch here…
TERRY: It’s Terry.
GIRL: Yeah, this…
TERRY: Call me Ter.
GIRL: Ok. Ter, did you piss yourself last night?
TERRY looks to her hand, then down.
VOICE 1: Come on, Zoe, you’re doing really well!
VOICE 2: Urh… Hold my hair…
In the middle of it all, TERRY spots an a girl approaching. She is calm, poised, and very pretty – essentially nothing like anyone else there. She goes to move past TERRY and continue down the stairs.
TERRY (loudly): Uh!
She stops, saying nothing. TERRY looks at her, she looks back, unimpressed but expectant.
GIRL: Are you going to move, please?
TERRY: Erm.
Time slows. TERRY looks like he is thinking really hard. It was already awkward, now it is embarrassing.
ROGER’s voice fades in, delivering unhelpful one liners, as TERRY’s confidence slowly shatters. Camera closes in on his face…
ROGER (voice over): Are you actively avoiding sex or do you just not know what it is yet? The only way a girl would look at you is if you tore pages from Heat Magazine and glued them to your face, and the only way she would ever touch your knob is if you dipped it in a mixture of chocolate and crack, and maybe stapled a fiver to your balls. Christ almighty, Ter! You’re such a virgin you’d have to shag five women just to break even. You’re more desperate than an incontinent between bus stops. Other people carry condoms to stay safe, but with you it’s just [loudly] WISHFUL. THINKING.
Pause. Camera lingers on TERRY’s wide eyes. Silence.
ROGER (voice over again, this time in a quizzical, cheery tone): Why don’t you consider men?
TERRY (yelling): NO I WILL NOT!
We cut back to GIRL, who looks somewhat unimpressed at the answer to her question.
Suddenly we cut to a scene that is all light, cheery and soft focus. TERRY is sitting in the pub with, well what do you know, the GIRL he just met! They are laughing freely.
TERRY: And that’s how we met. It was embarrassing!
GIRL: I keep on telling you, I am the only one who should be embarrassed. (Matter of fact) I pretend to be a real bitch to people I have in fact fallen in love with at first sight. Really, I was the nervous one.
TERRY: Aw, you’re so cute.
GIRL: No, you’re cute.
TERRY: Well, anyhow, after a long conversation, the details of which escape me right now, she agreed that I was amazing and she should come on a date with me. Before you know it we were an item. Isn’t that right?
GIRL: Yes, that extremely non-specific account just about covers everything, give or take a few minor details.
ROGER (sitting opposite, for it is him they are speaking to): That’s so great. I am so happy for both of you. She is so much more attractive than all the scabby bitches I date – half of whom I pay!
TERRY: I knew it!
GIRL: He’s a loser!
ROGER: I am!
They laugh
ROGER (cheerfully wiping tears of joy from eye): Ha, you’ve basically won forever, ha!
TERRY: I know!
A grey haired man walks in wearing full academic dress, like your academics do at graduation ceremonies. He looks really severe, but is weirdly smiley as well.
DR PAYNE: Hello, Terry! I thought I should pass by and have a quick word!
TERRY: Why, it’s Dr Payne, my dickhead of a supervisor! What are you doing here?
DR PAYNE: Well, Terry, I was having a chat with all the other old fuckers who make up the committee supervising your doctorate, and we decided that you have been doing a really top job recently, even though we haven’t been showing it and have in fact behaved like a right shower of cunts towards you. We recognise this terrible mistake, and we wanted to make it up to you. Professor Etheridge made you a cake, while Dr Sloane has committed ritual suicide.
TERRY takes the cake that DR PAYNE proffers: Chocolate! My favourite!
DR PAYNE: We also thought – hey! let’s award him his doctorate two and a half years early!
TERRY: Wow! Thanks Dr Payne!
DR PAYNE: No problem, Dr T!
ROGER (stands up, and shouts): Three cheers for Terry, everyone!
The whole pub starts huzzahing. While they do so, TERRY turns to GIRL.
TERRY: I’m so happy I could piss myself!
GIRL: You are pissing yourself.
TERRY looks down. He is pissing himself.
He stands, knocking over drinks, even while the pub continues cheering. He spies a door marked ‘Mens’ and runs through it. He ends up back in the pub, just on the other side.
TERRY: Where’s the loo!
The cheering becomes louder and more confused. It’s getting nightmarish.
GIRL: That’s your body’s way of telling you to get up and go to the toilet.
TERRY: I tried but there isn’t a loo, there’s nowhere to go, what do I do!!!
(Pause)
TERRY: I’m asleep, aren’t I.
GIRL: Yeah.
TERRY: And when I wake up, all of this stops.
GIRL: Yup.
TERRY: I’ll have to go back to reality, where that twat always makes fun of me…
[ROGER, offscreen: Hello!]
TERRY… and where that old git makes me miserable.
[DR PAYNE, offscreen: Yes, I do!]
GIRL: Not like you can stand there pissing forever.
TERRY: Can’t I? [We notice the stream of urine continuing to pour down his leg.]
GIRL: Even though I am supposed to be your fantasy girl who thinks you’re great and loves you no matter what and blah blah blah, to be honest – even I found what you just said a little bit disgusting.
TERRY: Fair point. Sorry.
GIRL: That’s ok. You’d better get up, before you start weeing in real life.
TERRY: Alright, goodbye then.
GIRL: Don’t say that. I might still be there.
TERRY: What?
CUT TO Terry lying in bed, waking with a start. He sits up, takes a deep breath, and turns to his side.
We see the GIRL lying under covers next to him, snoring slightly. TERRY looks surprised. He checks under the covers to see if they are wearing anything. He places the covers back gently and smiles sweetly. He then raises his arms triumphantly.
TERRY (quietly): YEEEEESSSSSSSSS! [Starts pumping fist enthusiastically] 'Ave it!
ROGER (calling from outside the door): Oi! Wanker! Cuppa tea?
TERRY: Yes. Actually, make it two.
ROGER: Why? Are you desperately trying to wash the taste of cock out of your mouth?
TERRY (smug): No, there’s someone in here with me, and I am sure she is thirsty after... you know.
ROGER: Oh. (Pause) Well don’t get too smug. While you were gone last night I beat your best time on Gran Turismo.
TERRY: Yeah, well done mate.[Pointedly] Two sugars, please.
During this conversation the girl has woken up and is now smiling at Terry.
GIRL: Morning.
They stare at each other coyly while a song from the Bridget Jones soundtrack plays. Girl playfully puts his hand on his hip. The music suddenly stops, and her smile falls.
GIRL: Um. I can’t remember your name yet, but –
TERRY: That’s ok!
(GIRL is now looking at her hand, smelling it)
GIRL: Yeah, um, about this patch here…
TERRY: It’s Terry.
GIRL: Yeah, this…
TERRY: Call me Ter.
GIRL: Ok. Ter, did you piss yourself last night?
TERRY looks to her hand, then down.
END
Monday, 20 July 2009
The Mystery of The Millionaires and Their Bizarre Al-Qaieda Recruitment Video Which No-One Understands Why They Shot It. Also - Dr Dog.
I frequently have those days when I really wish that murder was legal, or at the very least that everyone could commit one free murder in their lifetimes, like a get out of jail card that you only get one of. But in this case such a freebie would be utterly pointless and I would still get in trouble, because I would have to murder all three of these idiots (and that twat on the keyboard guitar thing that manages to be even more irritating and pointless an instrument than the arsewhistle, which doesn't even exist).
I would normally label a piece of music that made me consider a conversion to Islam as something deeply profound, but I don't think those are quite the right words for this one.
'Come get fucked up!' I know people with brain damage are in the minority and we should treat them with care and respect. That doesn't mean we should allow them onto the television and radio to advocate in favour of their condition.
Blogger actually got in touch with me the other day to complain about my blog. Apparently there is so much hatred sprayed down this page that it is creating a small vortex of misery in the centre of the internet. This black hole is apparently swirling at ever greater speeds, angrily pulling in the rest of the internet. To counteract this negative balance (and to make the hosts of this blog piss off and leave me the hell alone) I have decided to balance this negative reportage with something good. This something good is Dr Dog.
Wait until you get to a couple of minutes in, and this twinkling slow burner sets off with some classic rock wailing. Oh my god. That's actually what love feels like. Sigh (but a good sigh this time).
Even better, the first song I heard by Dr Dog. More intense, driven beat and that focused, repeated scale on the guitar ---- augmented with cheerful hand clapping and dreamy slide guitar/backing vocals ---- all of it whirling around a fucking brilliantly catchy chorus. Excuse me, but I am banging my foot so hard in time to the music that I'm kicking a hole to China.
I would normally label a piece of music that made me consider a conversion to Islam as something deeply profound, but I don't think those are quite the right words for this one.
'Come get fucked up!' I know people with brain damage are in the minority and we should treat them with care and respect. That doesn't mean we should allow them onto the television and radio to advocate in favour of their condition.
Blogger actually got in touch with me the other day to complain about my blog. Apparently there is so much hatred sprayed down this page that it is creating a small vortex of misery in the centre of the internet. This black hole is apparently swirling at ever greater speeds, angrily pulling in the rest of the internet. To counteract this negative balance (and to make the hosts of this blog piss off and leave me the hell alone) I have decided to balance this negative reportage with something good. This something good is Dr Dog.
Wait until you get to a couple of minutes in, and this twinkling slow burner sets off with some classic rock wailing. Oh my god. That's actually what love feels like. Sigh (but a good sigh this time).
Even better, the first song I heard by Dr Dog. More intense, driven beat and that focused, repeated scale on the guitar ---- augmented with cheerful hand clapping and dreamy slide guitar/backing vocals ---- all of it whirling around a fucking brilliantly catchy chorus. Excuse me, but I am banging my foot so hard in time to the music that I'm kicking a hole to China.
Tuesday, 14 July 2009
Dear Black People....
Do you remember that godawful film that won all those Oscars? No, not that one! This one!
Crash (2004) was directed by Paul Haggis. Much like the director's name, the film involves mashing nauseating ingredients together, leaving the repulsive concoction for an hour or so under high pressure, and spooning the gritty mess into the face of reluctant onlookers. But whereas haggis is controversial because it is made from the churning together of disgusting offal, Crash is controversial because it churns together people of different races. (Or at least, it was controversial. Nowadays, I like to think we are all embarassed instead of angry).
I know many of you will have seen it too, so I will just skip to the joke.
[clears throat]
Here's the first draft of the Crash script:
Dear Black People:
See? We understand you.
Love, White People
PS: Chinese is Black, right?
DISCLAIMER: THIS JOKE SHAMELESSLY STOLEN FROM METAFILTER
Crash (2004) was directed by Paul Haggis. Much like the director's name, the film involves mashing nauseating ingredients together, leaving the repulsive concoction for an hour or so under high pressure, and spooning the gritty mess into the face of reluctant onlookers. But whereas haggis is controversial because it is made from the churning together of disgusting offal, Crash is controversial because it churns together people of different races. (Or at least, it was controversial. Nowadays, I like to think we are all embarassed instead of angry).
I know many of you will have seen it too, so I will just skip to the joke.
[clears throat]
Here's the first draft of the Crash script:
Dear Black People:
See? We understand you.
Love, White People
PS: Chinese is Black, right?
DISCLAIMER: THIS JOKE SHAMELESSLY STOLEN FROM METAFILTER
Monday, 13 July 2009
Not-so-smug marrieds
Anyone who has read the Bridget Jones books (and I have, despite not being a girl. I know, I know, keep it to yourself...) might recall two things about her:
1) She loves Labour for reasons she can't explain (so a typical supporter right there).
2) She hates smug married people.
And that pretty much all you need to know about her (sorry, Helen Fielding, but that's what you get for pretending that an increase in a woman's weight is equal to an increase in character).
This rather random observation pulls together the subject of this article, which is what has happened to the institution of marriage under Labour. It seems that our Government, formerly headed by the ultimate smug marrieds, Tony and Cherie (even their names are smug...!), in fact hates marriage themselves, according to a new report commissioned by Iain Duncan-Smith and recently released. Talking about Bridget Jones for a paragraph is a slightly strange way to introduce such a topic, you might think. But if I hadn't done this I would have had to begin with a picture of Iain Duncan-Smith and some boring words about the report he just came out with on this subject. Which, admittedly, is the source of this post - but Christ above, he's dull...
You see? It's a miracle if any of you are still reading.
To be fair to IDS, his recent report on marriage has tapped into a common vein of thought, a traditionalist outlook that appeals to naturally conservative types. It is the kind of thing the Conservatives should be pushing right now - a return to traditional family values, traditional father figures, traditional homes (none of this single lesbian mother crap), and, to sweeten the deal, traditional tax breaks. It's a sensible approach to appeal to an evident sentiment floating around in newsland: "If only there were less single Mums and more Dads on the scene, things would be different." You hear this kind of stuff from columnists like Jon Gaunt (I hate to link to such an obviously hostile source rather than the original - but this commentator puts his, and my, view of Gaunty down quite clearly. Also, I plan on linking to the Telegraph site a few times in this post, so you have to make some gesture at balanced reportage).
So, the Conservatives want you to think that this report marks an innovative move against a Government that has overseen a depressing stint of social decline, at the heart of which is their erosion of the importance of marriage. In fact, this report is scraped together from the dregs in the barrel marked 'Two Years Old'. It has received a lot of coverage from the socially conservative press, the kind who love phrases like 'Broken Britain' and words like 'yobs'. I can't speak for IDS's report because I haven't the patience to read it, but examining one paper's coverage suggests an obvious flaw.
Is it a case of this...
...or this?
Nowhere has the enthusiasm been more evident than from the scolding, slightly demented grandmother herself, the Daily Telegraph, which has always devoted a lot of effort to covering this issue. A new series "on fixing Broken Britain", timed to begin just as Duncan-Smith's report comes out (funny that), aims to explain how the world of today's poverty stricken kids looks like Lord of the Flies. Actually, no, it doesn't, and it is depressing that an ageing middle class readership can only understand kids in relation to fifty year old books that don't involve any, ooh, let's see:
a) Homelessness
b) Heroin
To name two random things beginning with H that bear slightly more relevance to the situation than an island in the middle of the Pacific.
Oh all great books are timeless and all that, but I still think this is the lazy way of framing the problem. Even lazier, perhaps, is taking all the ills that stem from poverty - welfare dependency, educational failure, personal debt, addiction to drugs and alcohol, and family breakdown - and saying that the key problem is... family breakdown. Really?
This is very unfair. Are the Left denying that there is no correlation between marriage and other measures of wellbeing? They would be stupid to. But correlation and causation are not the same thing. Let's take that list I just quoted, above. I could just as easily say that marriages would survive if it weren't for the drugs and the debt, the educational failure, the money problems, that put them under pressure and cause them to shatter. Family guidance counsellors in America are famous for recommending that couples in trouble bring over an au pair from abroad - this takes the pressure of childcare off the parents and defuses many arguments over who is putting more into the family. Ergo, less divorce. Would as many middle class marriages survive if it weren't for having the money to afford the au pair and guidance counsellor in the first place?
I admit, I'm taking a disingenuous approach myself, here. Most likely there is a feedback loop, where family breakdown is caused by addiction, money problems, lack of education, and leads to more of these things, which lead to more marriage break up, and so on. People inherit their neuroses from their parents, after all.
You know, in my mind, this all started as a very jolly article. I couldn't help but snigger when I read Paul Kendall's account of what this Government is doing to undermine this sacred institution. Says one critic:
Kendall goes on:
I only found this funny in the light of another recent Telegraph story about married couples and benefits. Except in this case, they seemed fairly angry that the combined income wasn't taken enough into account and the benefits weren't reduced accordingly...
"Until now, there has been nothing in parliamentary rules to stop married MPs from claiming the maximum allowance for a second home, even if they live in it together."
Make your mind up.
1) She loves Labour for reasons she can't explain (so a typical supporter right there).
2) She hates smug married people.
And that pretty much all you need to know about her (sorry, Helen Fielding, but that's what you get for pretending that an increase in a woman's weight is equal to an increase in character).
This rather random observation pulls together the subject of this article, which is what has happened to the institution of marriage under Labour. It seems that our Government, formerly headed by the ultimate smug marrieds, Tony and Cherie (even their names are smug...!), in fact hates marriage themselves, according to a new report commissioned by Iain Duncan-Smith and recently released. Talking about Bridget Jones for a paragraph is a slightly strange way to introduce such a topic, you might think. But if I hadn't done this I would have had to begin with a picture of Iain Duncan-Smith and some boring words about the report he just came out with on this subject. Which, admittedly, is the source of this post - but Christ above, he's dull...
You see? It's a miracle if any of you are still reading.
To be fair to IDS, his recent report on marriage has tapped into a common vein of thought, a traditionalist outlook that appeals to naturally conservative types. It is the kind of thing the Conservatives should be pushing right now - a return to traditional family values, traditional father figures, traditional homes (none of this single lesbian mother crap), and, to sweeten the deal, traditional tax breaks. It's a sensible approach to appeal to an evident sentiment floating around in newsland: "If only there were less single Mums and more Dads on the scene, things would be different." You hear this kind of stuff from columnists like Jon Gaunt (I hate to link to such an obviously hostile source rather than the original - but this commentator puts his, and my, view of Gaunty down quite clearly. Also, I plan on linking to the Telegraph site a few times in this post, so you have to make some gesture at balanced reportage).
So, the Conservatives want you to think that this report marks an innovative move against a Government that has overseen a depressing stint of social decline, at the heart of which is their erosion of the importance of marriage. In fact, this report is scraped together from the dregs in the barrel marked 'Two Years Old'. It has received a lot of coverage from the socially conservative press, the kind who love phrases like 'Broken Britain' and words like 'yobs'. I can't speak for IDS's report because I haven't the patience to read it, but examining one paper's coverage suggests an obvious flaw.
Is it a case of this...
...or this?Nowhere has the enthusiasm been more evident than from the scolding, slightly demented grandmother herself, the Daily Telegraph, which has always devoted a lot of effort to covering this issue. A new series "on fixing Broken Britain", timed to begin just as Duncan-Smith's report comes out (funny that), aims to explain how the world of today's poverty stricken kids looks like Lord of the Flies. Actually, no, it doesn't, and it is depressing that an ageing middle class readership can only understand kids in relation to fifty year old books that don't involve any, ooh, let's see:
a) Homelessness
b) Heroin
To name two random things beginning with H that bear slightly more relevance to the situation than an island in the middle of the Pacific.
Oh all great books are timeless and all that, but I still think this is the lazy way of framing the problem. Even lazier, perhaps, is taking all the ills that stem from poverty - welfare dependency, educational failure, personal debt, addiction to drugs and alcohol, and family breakdown - and saying that the key problem is... family breakdown. Really?
Countless studies show that children who grow up in two-parent families do far better, on average, than those brought up by a single parent. This applies to every sphere of life – from jobs to health and wellbeing. But this fact has never been acknowledged by the Left.
This is very unfair. Are the Left denying that there is no correlation between marriage and other measures of wellbeing? They would be stupid to. But correlation and causation are not the same thing. Let's take that list I just quoted, above. I could just as easily say that marriages would survive if it weren't for the drugs and the debt, the educational failure, the money problems, that put them under pressure and cause them to shatter. Family guidance counsellors in America are famous for recommending that couples in trouble bring over an au pair from abroad - this takes the pressure of childcare off the parents and defuses many arguments over who is putting more into the family. Ergo, less divorce. Would as many middle class marriages survive if it weren't for having the money to afford the au pair and guidance counsellor in the first place?
I admit, I'm taking a disingenuous approach myself, here. Most likely there is a feedback loop, where family breakdown is caused by addiction, money problems, lack of education, and leads to more of these things, which lead to more marriage break up, and so on. People inherit their neuroses from their parents, after all.
You know, in my mind, this all started as a very jolly article. I couldn't help but snigger when I read Paul Kendall's account of what this Government is doing to undermine this sacred institution. Says one critic:
"Policy-makers refuse to admit that marriage makes any significant contribution to society."
Kendall goes on:
This is most evident in the tax and benefit system, which provides no financial incentive to get married or to stay married. A couple on £18,000 a year who live in the same house pay a ''penalty'' in reduced benefits of £8,588 a year. When they live together, they are assessed for benefits on their combined income. If the man moves out, his wife and children are assessed as eligible for benefits on the basis of her income alone.
I only found this funny in the light of another recent Telegraph story about married couples and benefits. Except in this case, they seemed fairly angry that the combined income wasn't taken enough into account and the benefits weren't reduced accordingly...
"Until now, there has been nothing in parliamentary rules to stop married MPs from claiming the maximum allowance for a second home, even if they live in it together."
Make your mind up.
Wednesday, 1 July 2009
Uniadversity: Tesc-urgh
We are looking down a relatively nondescript corridoor. TERRY and ROGER come into view, but we see only their head and shoulders. Throughout the scene, they walk in and out of the frame, moving from side to side. We can hear them doing something out of sight, to the sides, but we only see what they have been doing at the end. While they progress, slowly, down the corridoor, towards the door at the end, they have the following conversation:
TERRY: You do that side, I'll start here.
ROGER: Ok, but quickly! We have to hurry!
TERRY: I'm not sure how fast I can go.
ROGER: Why? We planned this days ago, you know what to do.
TERRY: Mate, I'm knackered after last night. Slaughtered. Worst I've been in a while.
ROGER: I was wondering why you were out so long. I only sent you out to pick up milk.
TERRY: And The Spectator. And some Kleenex for when you were finished with it.
ROGER: I'll ignore that, because I have found your porn collection on your computer.
TERRY: [pause]I don't know what you are talking about it.
ROGER: You tried to hide it, but I know you too well to believe you would genuinely have a file called 'My Dissertation'.
TERRY: Well as long as you didn't find the pictures of me and your mum.
ROGER: Sorry, I didn't see the folder marked 'Badly photoshopped wank fantasies.'
TERRY: And your sister.
ROGER: Jokes on you, mate, don't have a sister. You probably filmed yourself with a complete minger in a mistaken attempt to spite me. Or at least, that's the excuse you gave yourself. Really you just wanted to be held.
Pause
TERRY: And your girlfriend.
ROGER: Ha, don't have a girlfriend eith... Shut up. Tell me what happened.
TERRY: Yeah, so, I'm in the supermarket looking for milk when I run into Minty.
ROGER: How's his breath?
TERRY: Still awful. But he's buying cans and offers me a few round his, so I think - free beer? Why not?
ROGER: Because his breath could dissolve an armoured van.
TERRY: To the tune of the Fairy Liquid song
ROGER: That's good, that. Did you make it up?
TERRY: Nah. I met an undergrad who told me that Minty was at school with him. Apparently, he was a right bastard to the little kids so they made that up and sang it when he walked past just to wind him up.
ROGER: Christ, what a tosser. It must be aggrieving to have an open sewer attached to the front of your face. Must make him want to punish the world by breathing on it.
TERRY: No wonder they thought he was a bully - if he even talks in your direction it is already GBH.
ROGER: So you head to his and...
TERRY: Oh right, yeah, so I'm at his and we crack a few open. And then it's mainly a blank. I woke up later in my own bed.
ROGER: Not so bad.
TERRY: My shirt was all torn and I was a bit tender. I was manhandled a bit the night before. Also, I had a bottle of something foreign shoved down my trousers.
ROGER: That won't fool anyone, mate.
TERRY: Thanks for that. Anyhow, I think one of Minty's housemates must have brought it back from travelling and we just helped ourselves. Hm. Hope it wasn't expensive.
Pause
ROGER: You don't actually give a fuck, do you?
TERRY: I thought it might be worth pretending.
ROGER: You're a dark bastard, you know.
TERRY: I had it down my knickers because I was trying to get it past some security.
ROGER: Hold on, you went clubbing? And you didn't call me?
TERRY: Calm down, mate, I knew by then you would already be in bed rolling around with Herodotus.
ROGER defensively: He puts me to sleep.
TERRY: Don't worry, you didn't miss out on anything. I was so drunk I couldn't even speak to call you. And I was immediately thrown out, anyway.
ROGER: Holy shit! What did you do?
TERRY: I drank something I hadn't paid for.
ROGER: You can't steal drinks, mate! That was very bad form. Did the person who owned it nut you?
TERRY: No - it didn't belong to anyone, it was sitting on ther shelf.
ROGER confused: You went behind the bar? The bouncers must have crucified you.
TERRY: Nah, that's not it. What happened was, I left Minty's, completely battered, and midway through my erratic stumble home I remembered about the milk, which was why I went out in the first place. So I went to the 24 hour Tesco near the motorway, almost dying as I ran accross eight lanes, stuffed the foreign liquor in my pants, and casually strolled in for a pint of semi-skimmed. Not surprisingly, they objected to the drunken pervert with the artificial member down his right trouser leg. They also objected to his casually yelling, 'What's one more?!' before cracking open an as yet unbought can of beer in the middle of Aisle 6. So they threw me out.
ROGER: Why did you even bother going in?
TERRY: Well I know how unhappy you get if you don't get your Choco-Ricicles in the morning.
ROGER: Aw, mate...
TERRY: I didn't want to let you down.
ROGER genuinely touched: I forgot to mention - we ran out of cereal yesterday. Puts his arm round Terry But thanks.
TERRY: Don't push it, wanker. It's getting a bit mushy, now. Besides, simply crumble some custard creams into the bowl instead, and you have a perfectly adequate replacement.
There is a vaguely nauseating pause. Our heroes are now standing in the middle of the screen, having reached the end of the coridoor down which they were slowly progressing. Arms still round each others shoulders, they turn and head away from the camera, towards the exit that is just behind them.
ROGER: Let's go round to the newsagents. I'll get you some Panda Cola.
TERRY [excited] : And some penny sweets?
ROGER: Why not! Although they don't cost one penny each anymore, do they?
TERRY [as they exit]: It's a disgrace.
ROGER [offscreen]: You know you've been banned from every supermarket near our home, now?
TERRY: Pfff. Lightweights.
We cut to a wide shot looking down the whole coridoor. We can now see what they have been doing while they talked. There are doors to a half a dozen teaching classrooms on each side of the hallway. Each one has been tied to every other one with chains and rope that weaves intricately and criss crosses between them all. ROGER reappears in the doorway at the end.
ROGER: Almost forgot.
He pulls the fire alarm just next to the door, and leaves just as a satsifying ring becomes very audible. There is the noise of chairs scraping, feet pounding, murmiring voices and lecturers calling over the top of them as the people inside the classrooms go to evacuate. The doors begin to move but, chained together as they are, they struggle pathetically against each other, refusing to open more than a few centimetres. The murmuring begins to build to a panicked talking, then yelling. The doors begin to rattle urgently as people become more desperate to get out. Now some people are starting to scream.
END
TERRY: You do that side, I'll start here.
ROGER: Ok, but quickly! We have to hurry!
TERRY: I'm not sure how fast I can go.
ROGER: Why? We planned this days ago, you know what to do.
TERRY: Mate, I'm knackered after last night. Slaughtered. Worst I've been in a while.
ROGER: I was wondering why you were out so long. I only sent you out to pick up milk.
TERRY: And The Spectator. And some Kleenex for when you were finished with it.
ROGER: I'll ignore that, because I have found your porn collection on your computer.
TERRY: [pause]I don't know what you are talking about it.
ROGER: You tried to hide it, but I know you too well to believe you would genuinely have a file called 'My Dissertation'.
TERRY: Well as long as you didn't find the pictures of me and your mum.
ROGER: Sorry, I didn't see the folder marked 'Badly photoshopped wank fantasies.'
TERRY: And your sister.
ROGER: Jokes on you, mate, don't have a sister. You probably filmed yourself with a complete minger in a mistaken attempt to spite me. Or at least, that's the excuse you gave yourself. Really you just wanted to be held.
Pause
TERRY: And your girlfriend.
ROGER: Ha, don't have a girlfriend eith... Shut up. Tell me what happened.
TERRY: Yeah, so, I'm in the supermarket looking for milk when I run into Minty.
ROGER: How's his breath?
TERRY: Still awful. But he's buying cans and offers me a few round his, so I think - free beer? Why not?
ROGER: Because his breath could dissolve an armoured van.
TERRY: To the tune of the Fairy Liquid song
Can't breath till he's walked past,
But the oxygen won't last,
It's Minty...
Minty Fresh Phil
ROGER: That's good, that. Did you make it up?
TERRY: Nah. I met an undergrad who told me that Minty was at school with him. Apparently, he was a right bastard to the little kids so they made that up and sang it when he walked past just to wind him up.
ROGER: Christ, what a tosser. It must be aggrieving to have an open sewer attached to the front of your face. Must make him want to punish the world by breathing on it.
TERRY: No wonder they thought he was a bully - if he even talks in your direction it is already GBH.
ROGER: So you head to his and...
TERRY: Oh right, yeah, so I'm at his and we crack a few open. And then it's mainly a blank. I woke up later in my own bed.
ROGER: Not so bad.
TERRY: My shirt was all torn and I was a bit tender. I was manhandled a bit the night before. Also, I had a bottle of something foreign shoved down my trousers.
ROGER: That won't fool anyone, mate.
TERRY: Thanks for that. Anyhow, I think one of Minty's housemates must have brought it back from travelling and we just helped ourselves. Hm. Hope it wasn't expensive.
Pause
ROGER: You don't actually give a fuck, do you?
TERRY: I thought it might be worth pretending.
ROGER: You're a dark bastard, you know.
TERRY: I had it down my knickers because I was trying to get it past some security.
ROGER: Hold on, you went clubbing? And you didn't call me?
TERRY: Calm down, mate, I knew by then you would already be in bed rolling around with Herodotus.
ROGER defensively: He puts me to sleep.
TERRY: Don't worry, you didn't miss out on anything. I was so drunk I couldn't even speak to call you. And I was immediately thrown out, anyway.
ROGER: Holy shit! What did you do?
TERRY: I drank something I hadn't paid for.
ROGER: You can't steal drinks, mate! That was very bad form. Did the person who owned it nut you?
TERRY: No - it didn't belong to anyone, it was sitting on ther shelf.
ROGER confused: You went behind the bar? The bouncers must have crucified you.
TERRY: Nah, that's not it. What happened was, I left Minty's, completely battered, and midway through my erratic stumble home I remembered about the milk, which was why I went out in the first place. So I went to the 24 hour Tesco near the motorway, almost dying as I ran accross eight lanes, stuffed the foreign liquor in my pants, and casually strolled in for a pint of semi-skimmed. Not surprisingly, they objected to the drunken pervert with the artificial member down his right trouser leg. They also objected to his casually yelling, 'What's one more?!' before cracking open an as yet unbought can of beer in the middle of Aisle 6. So they threw me out.
ROGER: Why did you even bother going in?
TERRY: Well I know how unhappy you get if you don't get your Choco-Ricicles in the morning.
ROGER: Aw, mate...
TERRY: I didn't want to let you down.
ROGER genuinely touched: I forgot to mention - we ran out of cereal yesterday. Puts his arm round Terry But thanks.
TERRY: Don't push it, wanker. It's getting a bit mushy, now. Besides, simply crumble some custard creams into the bowl instead, and you have a perfectly adequate replacement.
There is a vaguely nauseating pause. Our heroes are now standing in the middle of the screen, having reached the end of the coridoor down which they were slowly progressing. Arms still round each others shoulders, they turn and head away from the camera, towards the exit that is just behind them.
ROGER: Let's go round to the newsagents. I'll get you some Panda Cola.
TERRY [excited] : And some penny sweets?
ROGER: Why not! Although they don't cost one penny each anymore, do they?
TERRY [as they exit]: It's a disgrace.
ROGER [offscreen]: You know you've been banned from every supermarket near our home, now?
TERRY: Pfff. Lightweights.
We cut to a wide shot looking down the whole coridoor. We can now see what they have been doing while they talked. There are doors to a half a dozen teaching classrooms on each side of the hallway. Each one has been tied to every other one with chains and rope that weaves intricately and criss crosses between them all. ROGER reappears in the doorway at the end.
ROGER: Almost forgot.
He pulls the fire alarm just next to the door, and leaves just as a satsifying ring becomes very audible. There is the noise of chairs scraping, feet pounding, murmiring voices and lecturers calling over the top of them as the people inside the classrooms go to evacuate. The doors begin to move but, chained together as they are, they struggle pathetically against each other, refusing to open more than a few centimetres. The murmuring begins to build to a panicked talking, then yelling. The doors begin to rattle urgently as people become more desperate to get out. Now some people are starting to scream.
END
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
