A cravat? Really?*

*The title will make sense in a bit. Honest. And I’ll try to write less next time.

I tend not to write too many personal things about myself for many reasons. For one, I have a terribly boring life. No one wants to know how much I enjoyed my Shredded Wheat this morning (I did, as it happens) or what time I went to bed (at boring o clock). Secondly, I am easily drawn towards self-despair like a moth to a bloody big bonfire, and any introspection is surely the path that leads me there.

However, I do enjoy ideas, events and general happenings and this is why I love the news. It provides endless amounts of comment, often idiotic, but it is always something which can be looked at with horror and genuine joy. It prepares you for every eventuality of life without having to, you know, experience that shit for yourself.

So, very few things surprise me, not even the price of petrol going up, Terry Gilliam making disappointing films or watching Nick Clegg, resigned to his fate, sucking once again on Tory cock as he retracts his actual opinions and possibly his balls. However, I occasionally do ask myself wtf (cos I’m all down with the kids, yeah, but not in a Vatican way) when something backfires so amazingly due to someone else’s lack of foresight.

The “someone” in this case is Buckingham Palace, who tried to extricate themselves from a publicity disaster and who have, somewhat inevitably, caused a massive media feeding frenzy in doing so.

It all starts with Nick Griffin, which is in itself a terrifying thought. It’s hard to know what to make of Nick Griffin. Someone suggested “a condom for a horny, genital wart-ridden, elephant”, but I couldn’t possibly comment.

For those of you who enjoy a life without constant interruption from Facebook, Twitter and rolling 24 hour news, Nick Griffin was supposed to go to tea with the Queen. All MEPs were invited and so, therefore, was he. However, approximately three hours ago, Buckingham Palace issued a statement saying they were withdrawing the invite as Griffin had “overtly used his personal invitation for party political purpose through the media”. One incident the palace has cited is Nick Griffin’s interview this morning on GMTV where he talked about cosying up to the Queen over sandwiches and maybe a bit of small talk. Perhaps their eye/s would meet over some cream scones, their hands brushing as they both reached for a tiny cucumber sandwich: Nick’s patriotic lips would quiver with excitement… Frankly, there’s a whole mine of disturbing slash fiction for that scenario. Enjoy that thought. You’re welcome.

The other incident was a message board thread where Griffin asked for suggestions about what to ask the Queen. Of all the things you could ask the Queen, I think “Where are the loos, love?” would probably be the most inappropriate, short of enquiring about Prince Philip’s immigration status.

Anyway, so far, so Griffin. The man hardly shies away from the limelight. Thus, I was not shocked to watch him mugging for the cameras an hour after he had heard about the dis-invitation. It was quite a spectacle. Firstly, he was done up like a Christmas turkey – I swear, he was wearing a formal suit and a cravat (told you it would make sense). Some news reporters generously suggested Griffin had only just heard about the news and that’s why he hadn’t changed. I’m less generous and seriously? A cravat?

Secondly, Griffin happily posed for pics, holding up his invite for all to see, grinning like a moron. He absolutely loved it. I have never watched a pig roll merrily in shit, but this is the closest human equivalent I have seen so far and a cravat? Really? With one of those stupid pin things in it?

I guess my point is that refusing people like Nick Griffin entry into the establishment only helps him hammer the nails into his feet and hands. Before: Nick Griffin “accepted” by the establishment. After: Nick Griffin, martyr, turned away by the old boy system again, denying millions of BNP voters (one million at best, I think) their right to vicariously eat fondant fancies with dignity!

Honestly, what was Buckingham Palace thinking? This is a man who had a guy dressed as St George in his election manifesto press conference, awkwardly balancing a fake sword and helmet as Griffin rolled out the “we only hate immigrants who don’t know their place” spiel. He even walked around with a PRETEND soldier during the election to boost his credibility as a patriot. How on earth did they ever think that banning Griffin would generate less publicity?

So, ironically, Buckingham Palace has just inadvertently allowed Griffin to overtly use their personal dis-invitation for party political purpose through the media. I suspect the irony may be missed by Griffin himself, but keep watching as the self-proclaimed everyman does his best to lap up every drop of media attention. This has the potential to last a whole couple of hours, at least. In this age of shot-straight-into-your-eyeballs information, it will feel like a lifetime.

Workspeak

For decades the working man has used a selection of phrases, acronyms and buzz words to motivate, inspire and in most cases confuse his fellow workers. The rule of thumb tends to be, the more confusing the phraseology, the more mystery it creates, leading to (initially) admiration for the speaker, increased productivity and a greater tendency to fall in love with the speaker and/or arrange coffee dates. Sadly the positive effects can only linger for so long. The admiration for the speaker deteriorates over a matter of hours or days and is replaced by acute confusion, followed swiftly by a noticeable break-down in communication and understanding.

I ask you, am I the only one who wants to cut through this crap? I don’t imagine I’m alone. In the ten years (yes, ten whole years now — fuck!) I’ve been in and out of digital publishers and creative agencies the city over, I’ve experienced more than my fair share of what I like to term as bullshit phraseology. Why just yesterday I sat through an hour long meeting where the man in the chair used such phrases as “In this new dawn…”, “We have to shoe-horn this functionality…” and, my personal favourite “We’ve got to pick the low-hanging fruit while it’s still hanging.” Jesus, it’s enough to make you consider momentarily that the man in charge might in fact be a closet poet. Or to consider momentarily killing yourself – I’m not sure which (sometimes I flit between both ideas; different scenarios play out in my head: in the first, he’s dipping a quill lovingly into a pot of thick black ink, looking up at the summer blue sky with wonder, before looking down upon some crumpled paper and carefully writing the sentence “In this new dawn of low hanging fruit” on the page before beaming back at the rest of us with a satisfied smile. In the other, I’m standing up while he’s full-throttle on his corporate preaching, making my excuse to suddenly leave the room due to “toilet trouble” and heading for the roof, making long strides towards the building’s edge and praying that the fall doesn’t just break both my legs).

I mean it’s just unnecessary! That’s my point. It’s just plain unnecessary to attempt to tart up what will always be, no matter what, an absolutely dull and lifeless line of work (let’s face it, all office work is dull and lifeless, I don’t care if you work for Apple or Google, it’s still shit) We don’t need this crap – our days are depressing enough as it is without having to try to translate the mystical dialect of the corporate preacher. Just give it to us straight. Instead of “low hanging fruit” how about “obvious opportunities”? Instead of “new dawn” how about “well it’s kinda, like, different now…” – or whatever! Get my drift? Stop thinking you’re Obama, or Ghandi. If you think you’re Obama or Ghandi then stop working in an office and start hanging out at disused polling stations and so on.

There is no place for such language at work – We’re tried and tired enough as it is.

#newyorkwankers

Whenever there is anything exciting to be excited about, I turn into a small child all over again. I’m a little bundle of energy, all sparkly eyes and high pitched voice, annoying as I remind you bi-hourly about whatever event it is that has me all worked up.

In two days and twenty three hours, Abbi and I will board a plane bound for New York. On twitter, where we regularly talk bollocks, it has been granted a hashtag of its very own – #newyorkwankers. (Abbi’s twitter is here and mine is here!)

It’s the first time I’ve been outside of the country since I was thirteen, and that was a family holiday that my father insisted on dying in the middle of, which ruined everything frankly.

When I was twenty-ish, I tried to get my passport so that I could go on holiday, but no no! Thwarted! Pesky housemate had thrown my birth certificate in the bin. This would have been a mild annoyance, but I was born in South Africa and it took three applications before I finally got my birth certificate a few months ago. I’m twenty-five!

So when my passport finally plunked through my letterbox, it felt like a weight off my shoulders. It’s really hard to prove anything about who you are without a passport or a driving license, which I also couldn’t get without my bloody birth certificate. I hope I’m adequately conveying how fucking, fucking annoying it has been.

This trip to New York, although short, feels like a really big deal. It feels like my freedom, my coming-of-age, and not to mention my dream of visiting America coming true.

So when we are sitting on the plane, and Abbi will I’m sure be thinking about shoes and shopping and museums, I’m going to be thinking about myself. And a bit about my dad too. And maybe a bit about shoes and shopping and museums. God, such a #newyorkwanker.

Overpeopled

Today, I’m feeling very overpeopled.  I don’t know if that’s a word that I’ve made up or if it’s an actual proper word, but whatever, that’s how I feel.

I need to have time to myself regularly.  If I don’t get it, I start to get very irate, anxious and uptight.  That’s the feeling of being overpeopled.  The only way for me to get rid of it is to be on my own for a while.  The longer I’ve gone without lone-time, the longer I need to get over it.

When I get this way, the smallest, most innocuous thing can greatly irritate me.  Someone scrunching up a can.  Someone coughing.  Someone breathing.  It sounds a bit ridiculous, but these little things all build up and up and I find it incredibly hard to not start screaming and shouting and crying.  Over something as everyday as breathing.

I don’t tend to tell people when I feel like this; I’m worried they’ll take it personally and think that it’s an affront to them.  It really isn’t though.  It’s never anything personal.  It’s just the strange way that my head works.