Delusion Smoothie

If self-delusion were an Olympic sport, I’d be on the podium with a gold medal around my neck, fist in the air like a Black Panther. I’m not black, or a panther, but that’s kind of the idea in this sport.

I can convince myself that a dawdle is a jog, that a light dusting is an adequate clean, and that reading xbox360.ign.com for 20 mins each day should be considered “work” because in 2005 I wrote two jokes about video games.

This is why I love breakfast, it’s the ultimate meal for hardcore delusionists. So many foods that in years gone by would have been firmly entrenched in the “only occasionally” section of the food pyramid, that would have been locked inside the sweet, fatty apex that crowns the foundation of boring root vegetables, fruit and lean meats; have somehow worked their way down to the more acceptable sections in what must surely be nutritional voodoo, pure and simple.

Smoothies, muffins and banana-bread (aka milkshakes, cup-cakes and banana-CAKE) have all been making appearances in the AM, littering the desks of office-workers around the world, too strapped for time to eat a bowl of muesli at home before work.
Is it any wonder that we’re living in the fattest countries on Earth? Not when we’re all jamming cake and milkshakes into our face-holes before the clock has even struck nine.

Now a normal, socially conscious person might feel the urge to speak out against this madness that we’re engaging in, but I freaking love it. Back in the eighties I use to have to subtly sneak an extra spoonful of brown sugar, past my Mum and onto my Weet-Bix each morning in order to satisfy the sugar craving that will ultimately cripple me with type two diabetes; but now I just say “I’ll have a banana smoothie please”.

Everybody loves smoothies, and rightly so, they’re amazing. Some love the fruity taste, some love the cold freshness of the milk, but I best love the moment that I spend each morning, deluding myself that a drink with ice-cream in it is the cornerstone of a healthy breakfast. Yum!

– Fatty Valentine

Cage's Reduction

If you’re doing a “to-camera” piece in public, then the credibility that you’re automatically afforded by those who pass you in the street is directly related to the number of crew you have with you.

Watching a guy recording himself on a handicam at Kings Cross, I noticed that he was being bumped and jostled by any number of passers by who could see what he was doing, but didn’t care about interrupting him because his lack of crew indicated that it probably wasn’t very important. Crew of zero means you’re probably blogging on the long tail with a viewing audience of zero.

As you start to amass crew, the repect & space afforded to you by the general public will increase according the number of crew that you have. People see crew, realise that what you’re filming is probably legit and will give you more space.

This increase in respect will plateau at about 4 and will then actual diminish if the crew approaches 30. This is due to the fact that as the crew increases, it becomes statistically more likely that Nicolas Cage is involved with the project, a fact that will not only decrease cred, repect and space that the public is willing to give you, but may also result in the crowd becoming angry and violent, especially if they’ve seen Ghostrider, Next or Knowing.

Colloquially, this is known as Cage’s Reduction.

Where Have All The Gentlemen Gone?

The only memorable impression I have of Stockport, is a result of the toilets at the train station; perhaps not the most glamourous of beginnings, but you’ve got to start somewhere.

Last week I was travelling to Buxton to perform at the Fringe Festival, or more accurately, to cancel shows at the Fringe Festival due to a distinct lack of audience, and had to change trains in Stockport where I was caught short. I normally try to avoid the toilets at train stations as I’m not a fan of hepatitis and generally don’t need to buy heroin, but on this day both my bladder and circumstance were conspiring against me so I had to make the dash.

A station with open and operational toilets seems to be a rarity in these dangerous times. It seems the risk of fundamentalist insurgents hiding high-explosives in a large unflushable shit and depositing them in a train station loo is great enough to warrant keeping the toilets in a permanent state of bladder taunting closure. In Stockport however, sanity has prevailed, the station operators no doubt realising that the presence of terrorism in the world and the basic human requirement to urinate on a semi-regular basis are not mutually exclusive.

I found a station attendant, politely asked him for directions to the toilet and was directed to platform three where I braced myself for, at the very least, a rancid smorgasbord for the senses. Thanks to some spot-on directions, I found the toilets without issue and scoffed audibly when I noticed that the sign on the door read “gentlemen”. Considering some of the whopping specimens of humanity banging around Stockport station I thought that this was perhaps the most ironic sign in the world. It must be a joke, because if you took it at face value, it was at best a misrepresentation, and at worst, a lie.

When was the last time a “gentleman” had stopped in for a piss at Stockport toilets? When was the last time a Gentleman called for his driver to halt the carriage on the way to the opera, apologised to his beloved sitting across from him, stepped into the street, trotted up the station steps, leapt over the ticket barrier, strode to platform three, found the conveniences, avoided being blown-up by a shit-covered bomb, unbuttoned coat & breeches and managed to relieve himself? Never; that’s when.

Have the station staff no pride in the accuracy of their signage? It starts with mis-labelling the bathroom clientele as “gentlemen” but you know that the madness will continue until all the notices are lies and the electric rail is labelled as “Child’s toy, please touch”.

Perhaps they are in the process of changing the signs to something more accurate – based on the station’s male patrons, I’d say “fuck-knuckle” would have been pretty apt – but that it’s a highly skilled job requiring diplomacy, intellect, grace, aplomb and a deft hand with a soft touch. Perhaps there are only one or two people in the country qualified to replace “gentlemen” with their modern day equivalent and they’re up to their eyeballs, trying to update every train station toilet sign in the UK.

Personally, I hope that “gentlemen” is intentional, left there in the hope of inspiring the men of Stockport to perhaps become Gentlemen, as least for a few brief minutes while they empty their bladders and/or bowels. What a wonderfully optimistic strategy for a noble goal that would be, improving the calibre of the men in the world with inspirational signage. Optimistic, because it’s unlikely to succeed and noble because if there’s one thing this world could do with, it’s more gentlemen.

We’ve got man’s men, ladies’ men, hard men, tough men, metrosexuals, homosexuals, transexuals, bisexuals and heterosexuals. We’ve got go-getters, trend-setters, junkies, tramps and thieves, but where oh where have the gentlemen gone? Where are the men that will open doors and shake hands, offer seats and handkerchiefs? Men who are quick to act, but slow to fight, keen to enquire and willing to assist? If the signs are to be believed, then they’re in the toilets at Stockport station.

Perhaps that’s where they’re hunkering down. Maybe they saw a world too callous and cruel to embrace their placid, giving nature and decided to wait for the current climate of selfishness and suspicion to blow over, before striding out to make their way in a world that was ready to accept a polite man that refuses to fight.

I push on the door and enter into a surprisingly quite, clean, almost pleasant room. Expecting a typical piss-drenched tile-nightmare, I quicly glance back out the door to ensure that I haven’t stumbled through some Narnia-esque portal, but my eyes confirm what my brain won’t believe, I am in fact standing in a public toilet and I’m not dry retching. Neither am I surrounded by a cadre of gentlemen cowering from a unforgiving world. Despite only requiring the facilities for the briefest of moments, the experience is so shockingly pleasant that I’m tempted to put down my bag and soak up the atmosphere on the bench provided. Reluctantly I leave the toilets to catch my connecting train from the station’s mysteriously named “platform 0” (which I can only assume is Stockport’s homage to both Harry Potter and Being John Malkovich).

On my way to the train I pass a teenage boy-man-idiot, smoking on the platform and swearing into his mobile phone. He’s ignoring his girlfriend who is calling out to him for help as she tries to drag their twin kids in a double pram up the steps to the platform. Seeing a young woman in obvious distress, an old man at the bottom of the stairs drops his bags and lifts up the bottom edge of the pram, helping the woman carry it to the top of the stairs. While the woman thanks the old man for his help, her partner, Smokey McFucktrain, throws his cigarette onto the tracks and yells “Fuck off away from my kids you old paedo!” before returning to berating whoever is on the other end of his phone. The old man ignores the insult, offers the young woman a little bow and returned to his bags at the bottom of the stairs.

I quickly hustle past the pram scene and made my way down the stairs towards platform 0. As I pass the old man in the underpass, I nod hello to him, whereupon he stops me and asks if I know where the toilets are. I smile. “Head to the end of platform 3, they’re well sign-posted, you won’t miss them.”

As I climb aboard my platform zero train from Stockport to Buxton I think about the toilets again. There might not be many gentlemen left in the world and considering the scene I’d just witnessed you can understand why. Who wants to go out of their way to be nice when it’s only going to earn you a bollocking from a fuck-tard on a train platform? But, despite this, gentlemen exist, chipping away at the callousness of the world. They might not have our gratitude, they might not have our support, but at least they have a public toilet bearing their name on a train platform in Stockport.

Great Expectations

Of course, if anyone English had asked me about the cricket this morning, I’d have said “there’s a game on at the moment? I didn’t know”; but the truth is, I spent the morning bouncing nervously on the red swiss-ball I use for an office chair, completely unable to type anything of value as I listened to the commentary slowly eek itself, ball-by-agonising-ball over the radio.

We lost of course, and it was hugely disappointing, not because it looked like we would win (it never did), but because it looked like we could win, which is even worse.
A win when you “should have”, is no fun; in fact, it’s been the problem with Australian cricket for the last 15 years.

There’s no point celebrating when your world class-team absolutely thrashes some third world squad where the wicket-keeper can’t even afford gloves (I’m looking at you New Zealand), and why should there be? If there’s no contest, there’s no fun.

I don’t want to see Mike Tyson punch his opponent’s head clean-off the body in the first round because the best person they could find to fight him was a blind, four-year-old kid in a wheel chair (although if televised, that would rate well), I want to see a fight between two, evenly matched, equally reprehensible, human killing-machines.

Thankfully the departure of “Fingers” Warne, “Angry” McGrath and the big-hitting human-wingnut that is Adam Gilchrist, allowed the Australian cricket team to atrophy (it/s easier to accept than the fact that England may have improved). That, and a disastrous first-innings, resulted in an almighty second-innings run chase that looked impossible from the outset, and didn’t look any better after the English bowlers went through our top order like dysentery.

Our only hope for avoiding embarrassment and disgrace came in the form of the valiant, Clarke (and his squire Haddin) who not only showed that we weren’t going down without a fight, but at one stage looked like he might win he game, slay the dragon, save the princess and bang her in the car home, all at the same afternoon.

Unfortunately, a little bit of hope is a dangerous thing, and once Clarkey let Graeme Swann rip out his off stump, it was all-over, red-rover.

I’m sure Australians the world over are feeling not only disappointed, but also anxious at the verbal drubbing they’re going to get at the hands of every Englishmen they know (I’m in London and shitting myself). I think however, that we Aussies should all take heart: we may not win every single game that we play from now on, but at least we can actually celebrate a win when it comes, with all the sledging and bragging it deserves. We can shout and drink and swear and sing, content that the match was won fair and square, not in some one-sided, smash-fest against an opponent too incompetent to even realise they were playing (I’m still looking at you New Zealand).