Cat Video

There are only three things in the world that I hate, and one of them is the vets.

Today I was happily helping Alex in the garden, using a wood chipper, which is my second favourite machine! My favourite is the paper folding machine in the St Albans Lib Dem office, which is what I like to think people mean when they talk about the Lib Dem Party Machine. It was going well, as shown by the fact that I still have all my fingers (despite Joe constantly trying to tickle me with long branches). Then I got a phone call from my sister, in tears, asking me to drive one of our cats (the obese one, not the epileptic one) to the vet. So that was fun.

I ran home, realising how unfit I am, as I rarely do any exercise. I was spluttering and panting after about five... runs? I haven't run in such a long time that I've forgotten the word. Steps? Paces! After about five paces. I wondered whether the vet could have a look at my breathing while I was there. I got home and suddenly thought of something.

"Is the car here?"

To which my sister replied, "oh, no. Mum took it to work."

So I have no car. That could make driving to the vet slightly more difficult.

We tried to ring the Animal Taxi service, the phone number of which had been given to us by the vet. As I tried not to laugh at the concept of an Animal Taxi (I know it wasn't appropriate, but picture it!), the phone said that the number wasn't recognised. The number that the vet had given us. Brilliant. The vet has one job and it can't even get that right. Well, two jobs, I guess. Giving out the number of the Animal Taxi (hahahahaha a taxi full of animals!) and saving the lives of animals. Only two tiny little jobs and still they fuck up!

I considered ringing Steven for a lift (mainly because he'd have to say "just coming!" He'll get that reference.) but decided that'd be unfair. Partly because Steven is allergic to cats. By this point Azurro (the cat; not the one at which Joe once chucked a full can of beer) seemed to be slightly better, so we decided that it would be safe to walk him the half hour to the vets. And by walk him I mean carry him in his cat carrier box thing, rather than walk with him like a dog. As I mentioned, Azurro is huge, so carrying him was a struggle. Apparently I had to carry him because my sister is a girl. Isn't that where feminism falls down? Nope, that's something idiots say. Anyway, I found a comfortable enough position where I could sort of rest the box on my belt buckle, which was practical as long as my shorts didn't fall down. We got to the vets, which is a depressing place, and always reminds me of this amazing moment from Charlie Brooker's Screenwipe. As that clip sprung into my mind, I accidentally laughed in the face of an ill dog.

The rest of the story is boring. Basically, they're keeping Azurro at the vets overnight to do blood tests and x-rays, he's probably alright, the problem is something that I forgot to listen to. Something about a hernia. Then I went to see the new Transformers film and it was fucking terrible. But I had a good time anyway; during the trailer for the new Harry Potter film, a trailer which must be as long as the actual film, Dan (see, not all my friends write blogs) asked me if Voldemort and Harry kiss in this one. And I asked if the trailer for Cars 2 was a trailer for Senna. Well, we had fun. Leave me alone, my cat is ill.

I will leave you with a picture of Azurro in a bath, and the Blue Man Group video that this blog is named after. Enjoy!

Midnight Swim

There are only three things in the world that I hate, and one of them is cancer. Yeah that's right, I said it.

But enough of that now. Instead, something slightly different. Here is a 5 stage plan for you to follow if you're ever going swimming.

1. Swim in a lane next to one in which a swimming lesson is taking place.

2. Pick out a child. (Not physically, obviously. That can get you into all kinds of trouble. I just mean select one of the children in the swimming lesson. The criteria for which child to pick is entirely up to you. Why can I see this blog being read out as evidence in some kind of court?)

3. Learn the child's name. (Again, the method you choose to do this is up to you. Ideally, pick a child with the same name as you.)

4. Swim in exactly the same way as them. Copy them precisely.

5. Follow the instructions the teacher directs at 'your' child.

Ta-da, free swimming lessons! You're welcome.

Oh and I am in no way responsible for any legal repercussions you may face as a result of this blog.

I'll leave you with the Incubus song that this blog is named after. Enjoy!

Stop at the Station, Get on the Bus, Head to Town

There are only three things in the world that I hate, and one of them is the price of buses.

Obviously by that I mean bus fares, I haven't tried to buy an actual bus. Though I doubt that would be much more expensive. Also, I realise that complaining about the price of bus fares is something characteristic of old people, but so is casual racism and incontinence, and rarely am I casually racist.

So today I needed to go to town to buy a present for my mum, because it's her birthday tomorrow, and for my aunt, because she's my mum's twin so it's her birthday tomorrow, and for my dad, because it's his birthday tomorrow, and for my dad again, because it's Father's Day tomorrow. Needless to say, I no longer have any money. Anyway, it was raining so I got a bus, and my exchange with the bus driver went exactly like this:

Me: Single to St Peter's Street please.

Him: That's £2.20.

Me: [Pause] £2.20?

Him: Yes.

Me: For a single?

Him: Yes.

Me: To St Peter's Street?

Him: Yes.

Me: St Peter's Street St Albans? [Expecting him to say, 'Oh sorry, £2.20 is the fare to St Peter's Street Texas.']

Him: [Getting annoyed] Yes.

Me: [Turning to get off the bus] Well I don't have enough then, sorry.

Him: How much do you have?

Me: About £1.60.

Him: Ok, that'll do.

And he gave me the ticket. And I was really happy! Until I realised that even £1.60 was still extortionate. Just to contextualise this for anyone unfamiliar with St Albans buses; that would be a 10 minute bus ride. I wouldn't expect to pay more than £1.20 for a single. And that's still way too much. Fucking £2.20?! Is it a magic bus? Does it fly? Are the seats made of gold? Is there a free iPod with every fare? No? Then I'm not paying over £2 THANK YOU.

I did also have a £20 note on me (I'd done a Dan) but I was worried that if I handed him that he'd only give me £1 change and blame it on constantly increasing fares. By the way, if you happen to live outside the UK, a word of advice; bus drivers LOVE it when you try to pay a couple of quid fare with a £20 note. Try it, it honestly makes their day. They'll love you even more if you hand them a £50. Trust me.

Anyway, I'd be happy if stupidly expensive bus fares were just a tax on the lazy, but it's more than that, it's practically an abuse of human rights. I felt violated. And it's all David Cameron's fault. I feel like I've been raped by David Cameron. I'd also like to thank that bus driver for letting me off the ridiculous fare and only charging me a slightly less ridiculous fare. And when my mum, dad and aunt open their shit presents, I'll say 'I'm sorry, but I spent all my money on the bus fare. You shouldn't be annoyed at me, you should be annoyed at David Cameron. Besides, he didn't get you anything.'

Thanks for reading, the title of this blog comes from the Big D & The Kids Table song Stop, Look & Listen (Shake Life Up). I will leave you with that song, enjoy!

Nothing Left To Say But Goodbye

There are only three things in the world that I hate, and one of them is this argument for the existence of God.

By the way, this is going to be a very short blog. It was meant to be a tweet but the quote I'm going to talk about is over 140 characters. And I'm not going to use TwitLonger because I'm not a dick. Seriously, that thing just defeats the point of Twitter.

Loads of my blogs start with me saying, 'I actually really like' whoever it is, before going on to complain about something they've done. And this blog is no exception.

I actually really like Tom Hollander. I know Rev was a bit rubbish, and he was probably miscast in Hanna, but he was absolutely brilliant in In The Loop and briefly (so far) in The Thick Of It, so that's good enough for me.

But in an interview in this week's New Statesman, Hollander says: 'Intellectually, it's so easy to disprove the existence of God - a five-year-old could do it - so it's far more compelling, for me, to think there might be one.'

I mean, well, exactly. I can't really add anything to that. The stupidity of the argument is self-contained. There is, in the words of Audioslave, 'nothing left to say but goodbye.' I'll leave you with that song. Enjoy! And goodbye!

We Are Fucking Angry

There are only three things in the world that I hate, and one of them is this piece of news.

Obviously I'm not surprised, the police will always have an institutionalised advantage in these reviews. It was initially ruled that the officer who, during the 2009 G20 protests, pushed Ian Tomlinson (a newspaper seller who had the audacity to walk past) to the ground, would not be prosecuted. Fortunately, it was ruled a few days ago that the officer is now to be charged. Hopefully the same will happen in the Jody McIntyre case, but I highly doubt it.

Today's report is almost as sickening as the event itself, the footage of which, along with the BBC interview, I suggest you watch if you haven't already. Apparently the police were justified in tipping someone from their wheelchair, dragging them across a road and hitting them with a baton due to the "perceived risk" to him. So this was for McIntyre's own safety? How compassionate of the police to protect him. By lovingly tipping him from a wheelchair and benevolently dragging him across a street. I don't know what he was at risk of, but it seems unlikely to be worse than what the police did. It's also horribly offensive to suggest that he needed their "help." But to even indulge the ridiculous idea that the police were acting in McIntyre's best interest is to do them a service they do not deserve.

Initially, the police justified their actions by suggesting that McIntyre was a threat. Obviously they ditched this excuse because it's difficult to see how a man in a wheelchair can be a threat to riot police, as he himself argued: "Do you really think a person with cerebral palsy in a wheelchair can pose a threat to a police officer who is armed with weapons?" To which the BBC newsreader Ben Brown replied: "But you do say that you're a revolutionary." Oh, he says he's a revolutionary?! Well that changes everything! The police were right, in fact I'm impressed by quite how restrained they were considering they were dealing with a revolutionary! In fact, Brown's line of questioning and tone throughout the interview is dubious, as he attempts to justify the actions of the police. At one point he accuses McIntyre of threateningly rolling towards the police, a ludicrous justification that is best tackled by Mark Steel's brilliant article:

Presumably the police turned to each other in shock, spluttering: "Oh my God, he's rolling straight for us. These riot shields and helmets with visors offer woefully inadequate protection against such a persistent rolling machine. If we're lucky our batons can buy us some time, but his momentum is terrifying, it's like a cerebral palsy tsunami."

So because the whole wheelchair-bound-man-as-threat argument was clearly ridiculous, they've changed their story and gone with the whole we-dragged-him-from-his-wheelchair-to-protect-him argument. Find an offensively absurd argument and stick to it.

As for hitting the wheelchair-bound man with a baton, that was justified because it was "inadvertent." I read that and thought, "I thought inadvertent meant accidental. I must just be stupid. They can't seriously be trying to justify hitting him with a baton by claiming that it was an accident. That would be laughable. If it wasn't so disgusting." So I looked the word up, and I was right. How exactly does one hit a wheelchair-bound man with a baton inadvertently? They're justifying it because the police officer was careless. So careless that he hit a man in a wheelchair with a baton. To misquote Oscar Wilde, "to lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune; to hit a wheelchair-bound man with a baton is FUCKING INEXCUSABLE YOU MORALLY REPUGNANT CUNT." He was a shouty man. But therein lies his famous wit. If the police consider that behaviour careless then they have more serious problems than I thought. But again, to accept for a moment that it was "inadvertent" grants these police a level of respect of which they've proved themselves unworthy.

Finally, we learn that: "Following the investigation, internal guidelines will be drawn up on the most appropriate way to move a wheelchair user in such circumstances." Might I suggest that the guideline "hit them with a baton, tip them from their wheelchair and drag them across the road" is omitted? As I said, I sincerely hope, but sincerely doubt, that these disgraceful findings are overturned. Even if just on health and safety grounds, as in the case of Jean Charles de Menezes. I will leave you with the appropriate angry, punk, protest song (and video) by The King Blues that this blog is named after. Enjoy!

Batnight

There are only three things in the world that I hate, and one of them is a bat.

Of course this building has bats. It's old, it's creepy, it's labyrinthine, it's full of asbestos, it's probably haunted. Not that I believe in such things. I mean in haunted houses, obviously I believe in asbestos. I know that exists because on the door of the room directly below mine is a sign that says: 'Danger, Asbestos, Do Not Enter.' Which is reassuring.

Anyway, this morning on my way from the shower back to my room, I saw it. I didn't know what it was at first, it was just a brown lump on my door frame. Sounds like I'm describing a pile of faeces, doesn't it? Well that's what it looked like. Until it started to move.

I don't think I'd ever seen a bat up close in real life before. My only experience of them had been seeing flickering things whizzing past streetlights at night. And vampire films. But there I was, staring at a bat, just outside my room. It was small and furry, like a rat, with leathery wings wrapped around its body, and what I could just make out as ears pointing towards the ground. Because it was upside down. Like a bat.

How had I not seen it when I went from my room to the shower? Well, I'm completely useless before my shower. There could have been an entire zoo in the flat and I'd have completely missed it until I'd showered. I wondered how it had got there. Maybe it reads my blog and had been pissed off by my constant ridiculing of Christopher Nolan's Batman. Maybe it was a test from the Vegetarian Society, checking to see if I responded in an animal-friendly way. Possibly it had been sent by Nicky Campbell. I hadn't seen one of my flatmates in a while, perhaps he's secretly a bat-based superhero. Whatever that would be called. Batboy, presumably.

I decided that the best course of action would be to alert the university's accommodation staff, who deal with such things. Well, I assumed they did. I don't imagine it was something they had to deal with very often. Infestations. Of one. But anyway, this was essentially a maintenance issue. But with a bat. I pictured myself explaining the situation at the help desk, only to have the staff hold up and point at a copy of my accommodation contract, with my signature at the bottom, just above the small print about the pet bat.

So I went into my room to get dressed, and then came back out and looked at the bat. Or rather, at the bit of wall where the bat had been. The bat was gone. You know that creepy feeling of seeing a huge spider, and then looking again to see that it's disappeared? Imagine that, but with a bat.

I looked around, cautiously, and suddenly there was a bat swooping towards me. To put this all into context, my life is pretty dull, and nothing exciting ever really happens. So finding myself with a bat hurtling at my face was probably the scariest thing that's ever happened to me. Pathetic, I know. But the really frightening thing about bats, as I found out at that moment, is that they are fucking fast, and fucking silent.

It flew over my head, and then darted around the flat for a bit. I stood helplessly in the middle, not wanting to leave because I'd lose sight of it again. And the creepiest parts were when I didn't know where it was. Again, sounds pathetic, but I was worried that if I lost track of it, it'd just show up in the shower or something. And neither of us would want that. So I'd rather know where it was. Which is why I was worried when I lost sight of it again.

Someone must have opened a door, because next thing I knew, the bat had flown out of the flat, and up the stairs into the tiny library room above mine. Someone also must have alerted the staff, because men in yellow jackets appeared, with no more idea of what to do than myself. To try to get rid of the bat, the doors were all closed and the windows opened. Well, the windows were sort of opened. None of them open more than a couple of inches, for safety reasons. I've always thought they'd end up causing my death, in a wonderful turn of irony. And now that looked likely. Well, as likely as it was that this bat would kill me.

The tiny crowd that had gathered were sent away, myself included, to allow the yellow-jacketed men to get on with unhindered bat-removal. The men have gone now, so I'm guessing the bat has been dealt with. However I cannot be certain, so if this is my last blog, assume the worst, and call The Joker.

Thanks for reading, I will leave you with the Bossacucanova song that this blog is named after, along with a terrible photo I took of the bat at one of the rare moments that it was stationary. Enjoy!

Down On The Street

There are only three things in the world that I hate, and one of them is the BBC programme The Street That Cut Everything.

The first problem was that it was presented by Nick Robinson, a man who seems incapable of reporting the news without incessant attempts at humour which make absolutely no sense. 'The coalition is beginning to present itself as two different dishes, which taste better together, than on their own.' WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!

But last night we saw him go to a street in Preston, where he told the residents that for the next 6 weeks, the council would not exist to them. They were given back 6 weeks of their council tax, with which they'd have to provide the withdrawn services themselves. The idea was to make them see how difficult life was without the council, but it was all ridiculously skewed to make it completely impossible.

Jimmy McGovern's latest character

The programme weirdly made it look as if Nick Robinson was personally responsible for the revocation of council services, to the point where if I ever see him again my immediate response will be to panic and lock up my bins before he gets his Tory hands on them. Because in this programme, Nick Robinson takes away the bins of the residents, because they're council owned, but not before he's emptied the contents of the bins into the street. So the residents have to collect the loose rubbish and keep it in their garages, exactly like councils don't.

Nick Robinson realises he's accidentally thrown away his glasses

He also arranges for some fly-tipping, where sofas and fridges are dumped on the street, and the residents have to deal with it. I thought this experiment was about how people would cope without their council, in which case all you need to do is withdraw the council's services. Don't create more problems by orchestrating your own unrealistic situations, BBC. By doing that, they completely undermined the whole point, whatever that was.

The opening titles of Preston's version of Friends

For some reason, another thing that is withdrawn is the carer of the dad of one of the residents, even though the dad lives on a different street. This experiment is meant to just be affecting one street, yet for some reason the BBC have decided to take away care for a man with no legs who lives somewhere completely different. They also take dogs down the street and make them leave dogshit for the residents to clean up. Because obviously if we didn't have councils, dogs would be encouraged to shit everywhere. Just like how people would be encouraged to graffiti everything, which also happens. And Nick Robinson arranges for some 'youths' to be 'antisocial' in a 'car'. I'm hoping they were the children of Nick Robinson and, I don't know, Andrew Marr. Because they can't phone the council, one of the residents deals with the situation himself. He seems to forget that its all engineered for a TV programme, and threatens to get a crowbar. Which is presumably just what the council would have done.

Well we were all thinking it

For further reasons that are never adequately explained, the residents have to take on council jobs, such as cleaning public toilets. But again, these aren't on the street. The BBC set what are essentially Big Brother style tasks all the way through, in a futile attempt to make it less fucking boring. And in the same reality TV vein, they create human conflict through these tasks and through editing, because TV patronisingly thinks that we need this ridiculous narrative in everything we watch. At one point a woman says she needs money to replace the housing benefit that the council would normally provide, because independently she can't afford to pay for housing, due to having a low income and being a single parent. A cunt then says that he's also a single parent but he manages it just fine. Well done, you have more money than she does, presumably you earn more.

Anyway, I liked what this programme was trying to do. It's main message was that cuts to local councils are a bad thing, and I agree with that. At the start of the experiment a woman says she doesn't think the council's services are worth what she pays in council tax, but by the end she has changed her mind. So that was good. In fact, it's surprising quite how biased this programme was. No wonder some Tories spoke out against it. It was openly anti-cuts. It showed that tax is basically a good thing, and that the Big Society is a bad idea. If it wasn't for the fact that I approve of the message, I'd be annoyed by the lack of impartiality shown by the BBC. But I can't help feeling that by orchestrating these ridiculous situations, by organising fly-tipping and anti-social behaviour and dogshit, and by making it into a Big Brother style reality show, they pushed it so far that the message may have been undermined.

The cunt that cut everything

This blog is named after a song by The Stooges; I will leave you with Rage Against The Machine's brilliant cover version, enjoy!