spiffingwheeze

Well. I have neglected picking up any of the dismal news to pontificate over for a few weeks. Frankly it’s doing my nut to the point I cannot pick a topic to point and shout about…I’m overcome by a wave of apathy. And so I thought maybe a more freeform rant upon the wonders of  this special time of year would help ease the constipation of my troubled writing-mind.

The season of goodwill.

It seems a little lost in the sea of cheery news of people scraping by in countries broken by war, or falling apart economically and politically, or clearing up nuclear waste and whatnot. Still. Merry Fuck-em-all-it’s-them-not-us-mas eh? Sigh. I suppose as a child growing up in the 70’s and 80’s it wasn’t much different. But you just don’t notice at that time. Let’s face it – in that period, there was every chance of waking up to a 2000 foot glowing festive cold-war mushroom for Christmas Lunch.

Observation: As I age, it seems I put the Christmas decorations in the loft one weekend, then the next weekend I’m getting them back down again. It’s a worry. What happened to the days of the anticipation of Christmas, and it never seeming to get here fast enough?

Now it seems a bit too fast.

It’s a sure sign that I’m getting older, and so are the children.

Happily, Christmas still seems great for them, to be sure. However, some of the niggling doubts about the overall state of it all are creeping back in for me. Is it really all about the presents? I’m not religious, so I should probably have a bit more of a think about such questions before typing that question out. Still.The never ending arms race of consumerism is somewhat driving me round the bend.

It seems particularly obvious and somehow hollow this year. The adverts have a smack of desperation about them.

As for the goodies then – it sure is getting pricey:

Sure, a laptop is a great present, and number one son does need one for his homework and such. But the bastard thing is over 300 notes. And then needs the virus checker installed before it gets gleefully unwrapped. Then we’ll need another copy of your favourite office software, or a web license doodad or whatever. And crap knows what else.

Fuck a festive duck.

I’ve only just got over the experience of buying it. The buying experience having turned into a somewhat tear-jerking experience. Having seen no particular bargains on your favourite online retailers, I resorted to: Wait for it… Going into a shop.

You know the one. The last remaining electrical retailer pretty much. So I checked online. Ahoy! Yup – some discounts to be had… But I reckoned there may be more undiscovered bargains in store, and so the adventure began.

Having postponed a drive home for supper, I crawled through the traffic in my piece of crap car, taking in the festive gloom and mizzle, weaving through the greasy roads, to a miserable just-out of town shopping travesty. In the dark, it sat, like an illuminated warehouse graveyard, where once thriving businesses lumber off to die. Having parked up, with a vague feeling of the odds of ever seeing the car again in the dingy car park, despite its decrepitude, I kept my hand on my wallet, and hurried to the door. Inside it was pretty empty. And this is in a sizable city. A gigantic box, with the bottom crammed with electrical goods, and a smattering of disinterested shoppers shambling around like zombies, and spotty sales people kicking their heels.

Step One: avoid all the high-end laptops that were aimed at:

• Snobby PC gamers (people who scoff at games consoles and prefer to spend three times as much on a PC they spend forever installing updates on).
• Show-offs (the fruit-themed ones made impossibly thin)
• Porn addicts (plenty of storage, easily reformatted for some freeware nerdy operating system, and equally easily smashed with a sledgehammer when plod comes knocking)

That left me circling the bargain-stickered end-of-line laptops. Having attracted the attention of a bat faced teenager in charge of sales, I thrust a festive digit at the label and said “I’ll have one of these fine, merry laptops, good fellow” or something. When he returned empty-handed from the stock room, mouth-breathing a feeble apology through his now temptingly punchable face, I moved on. Repeat. Three times. Each time with increasing festive despair, anger and desperation.

It seemed anything of any “bargain” nature was strictly out of stock. Here’s a crazy idea then: Take the fuckers off display. Or put a sticker on saying “sold out” or hey, just bend over, and cram the bone-dry display model up your fucking arse. It’d give you something to do, in any case.

So I left empty handed, having been forced to walk past the checkout with the suspicion-laden checkout driver, that starts to give you that odd feeling of self-doubt as to whether you are actually a shoplifter, because you have the audacity to walk out empty-handed.

Once back home, and with the benefit of a medicinal bottle of red wine to ease the pain, the eventual winner was found online, the above experience having re-adjusted my understanding of the balance between bargain price, and MYTHICAL FUCKING BEAST.

Behold – the unicorn laptop! It existeth only as ye display model.

And that’s just the one present.

Not a month ago, number two son had expressed an interest in a camera, and (in my mind) probably becoming the next Celebrity Paparazzi or whathaveyou (not in this day and age, with the removal of photography to the lowest common denominator of “everyone doing it for nothing”, just like everything digital – see the music industry or self-publishing).

Anyhoo – this creative wish had disappeared, and been replaced with the desire for a Nintendo 3DS. Was it the power of advertising? Peer pressure? Or just that they are, after all pretty neat? Anyway. Sold! Purchased online to avoid a repeat of the experience of actually trying to keep shops alive (see above – anyway, it’s not like saving the high street when they built the fucking places out-of-town). Inevitably, this means, of course, that as soon as Christmas passes, he’ll suddenly express an interest in a camera again. Probably wanting me to purchase one outside of the pretences of a Christmas, or Birthday present.

At least the little princess wants a Furby. And amazingly I managed to get one of these when they were still reasonably priced, before scarcity drove the price up smartly. Hurray for Christmassy profiteering!

So – that just leaves bits and pieces for the stocking. So let’s say another one hundred and fifty quid then shall we? Urgggghhhhh…

And so… What would I like for Christmas?

Nothing really. Some time off.

Maybe a few surprise bits and pieces in the stocking. A reminder of simpler times.

The chance to watch some harmless tat on the TV, whilst sneaking in a crafty Martini, and wolfing down half a kilo of peanuts between each meal.

Some time hopefully watching the children enjoying the fruits of my hunter-gathering on the shopping plains.

And some time to nurse my wallet back to health.

Announces Great Ploy To Get Voters. Sound Of Wet Fart. Somebody Sniffs. Dog Barks In Distance. No Applause.

Yes. Rather than any rash promises to renationalise the whole shit-stained affair of privatised power,

Ed will use his might as PM to get you a temporary discount.

Whoopee shit. This is hardly the stuff of legend is it?

Do I have to draw him a diagram? I can’t be arsed, but here’s a contrast in text: 

Current situation With Horse-Raping Privateers Running The Show:

Where all that lovely money from “customers”  goes:

• Costs
• Investment for the future
• Profit for Co. and its shareholders (Jaguars / Coke / Hookers / Big Southfork-Style abomination houses / Privately educating Children)

Nationalised:

Where all that lovely money from “customers”  goes:

• Costs
• Investment for the future

See – if you’re feeling all mighty and generous about this – you don’t even have to tax us Ed.

 Can you spot the difference? Put your glasses on dear, and really concentrate.

Come on. Do the railways whilst you’re at it, as there’s really no consumer choice there either. Just lazy greedy bastard companies, with shareholders to feed cash to.

 Some things should NEVER have been privatised.

Now grow some balls and try that speech again. Once more with feeling.

In the news today: The HS2 rail development could end up costing around double the original projections, at around 80 billion of your  Earth pounds sterling .

Choo! Choo! Cockneys coming through!
Soon to be seen close-up by half a million people?

Additionally, the building of the snaking carbuncle dribbling mostly up the left hand side of England, and then bifurcating into the middle too, will apparently affect about half a million people directly, in terms of impact upon them during construction.

Most people would be disturbed enough by the disruption caused when asked by their son if they can set up their train set downstairs. Let alone smashing down the whole house so that David Cameron’s infrastructure storm troopers can put his up there.

 Looking further at the plans, there’s a phase outlined to extend it further up to Scotland.

Alex Salmond notwithstanding, of course. As if he gets his way with independence, it’ll probably have to screech to a halt for passport checks, strip searches, and changing currency once it gets to the border.

Ignoring all this though, one can’t help but get the feeling that the entire project is solely about ensuring people can get to London in the fastest possible time.

You could ponder whether the whole damn thing started when they decided to punt most of the BBC up to Manchester. Yes. Let’s save some license payer money  by moving the BBC up to Manchester, and then get the taxpayer to build an enormously quick train service, so all the million-pound mansion dwelling presenters can be back for pink gin and caviar each weekend, or even each evening.

Because, if you look at the proposed journey times Manchester to London could be a journey of about one hour and eight minutes. That’s daily commuter territory.

Ignoring the BBC “wrong way” commute to work, this scheme could be seen as another way to make every poor bastard in this country a commuter, if they so wish.

Coupled with the seemingly unending desire of every company to be in London, rather than anywhere else, it kind of makes sense.

So, get your braces on, disguise your regional accent, and practice your best Lambeth Walk. We’re all commuters now…

Get it over with. Let Alex Salmond put his new Hadrian’s Wall up. Call everything below it London.

As an added bonus, geographically it’ll be exactly what every other American tourist thinks is the case anyway.

http://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2013/aug/18/hs2-budget-rail-study

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-23744619

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/High_Speed_2

Just Out Of Shot RHS: Light Saber About To Land In Kung-Fu Grip

In an outbreak of outrageous common sense, the Archbishop Of Canterbury (no, the new one, not the other beardy one) has come out against payday loan firms.
In particular, his sights have been set on Wonga. You know, the company advertised by what can only be described as annoying pensioner cunt puppets.
Their drivel puppet mirth disguises lending that, whilst legal, and legitimate, is at astounding interest rates.
And who needs these kinds of loans? People whose circumstances mean they can’t borrow from lenders with sensible rates. I.e. mostly the poorest of people. Potentially worsening their plight, if they can’t keep control of their borrowing.
So, we salute you Archbishop. Whilst you can frankly keep the God bit, you are at least standing up, showing moral fibre, and some leadership. You have Christian conkers of steel Sir! Bravo!
However, should you invent a light saber, start wielding it, and wearing cool hooded cloaks, then even I may be persuaded to come onside.
Now, not being over-religious,I’m not sure precisely where that Jesus chap stood on this, what with him having pulled a bit of an uncomfortable scene regarding money lending (moneychangers) and temples. But don’t let that put you off.
The only unfortunate fly in the ointment seems to be that the church may itself have invested in Wonga. But I’m fairly sure the Archbishop will sort that gaping hole out pretty pronto, if this is true. I wouldn’t like to be that particular church investment manager.
So Archbishop, if you’re looking at sticking your head above the parapet more often, there are plenty of other topics seemingly forbidden to talk about, that you could dive into.
Like immigration. Re-nationalising the railways. The list goes on.
In fact, fuck it. I’m voting for you next time round…