It was last Wednesday morning and my phone went off at 8am, which it does not do very often.  A quick glance showed it to be my parents home number.  It is worth pointing out at this juncture that my parents never call me.  Ever.  I think the last time I had a call from either of them was six months ago when my Mum had been hit by a bus (she is fine, apart from the screaming in terror every time a bus appears on TV).

It was my Mum.

“Don’t worry.  Everything is OK!” were her first words, clearly anticipating my panic.

I took this to be her way of breaking some exceptionally bad news to me in her gentle Irish manner.

“What do you mean everyone is OK?  What’s happened?  Why are you calling?!”

“Oh, I just wanted to tell you that we’re snowed in.  We had a LOT of snow last night.”

“Right.”

“It’s quite beautiful actually.”

“And you called to tell me that at 8am because you assumed I hadn’t listened to the news, looked at the Internet, turned on a television, or indeed opened my curtains?”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

“Is there any danger of it melting in the next hour or so?  Or was it really essential you call to tell me about it at this very moment?”

We agreed that adverse weather conditions no longer necessitate a phone call outside normal office hours, unless a) someone has been hit by lightening, or b) a freak tornado has caused millions of pounds worth of improvements to my home town.

Watch it below. Or don’t, it’s up to you…

We were joined by the Fat Jim’s and settled in to watch a movie that has been nominated for numerous awards.

I knew full well that Amy had only selected this film because Brad Pitt was in it.  I am not stupid. She once said that the only reason she would kick him out of bed would be to shag him on the floor.  This led to a little game for Fat Jim and I to play during the film, a film in which Brad Pitt starts really old, and gets younger.

We called it, “Would you fuck him yet, Amy?”

She seemed to think that this game was sick, for merely suggesting that she might shag a bald, ninety year-old, arthritic Brad Pitt.

It was still a sick game when he was eighty-five. “You wouldn’t kick him out of bed, you might break a hip.” I helpfully pointed out.

It turned out however, that SHE was the sick one, as she would “probably” have sex with a seventy year-old Brad Pitt.  The fucking septuagenarophile pervert!

We had reached the point where Brad Pitt had got down to about sixty, and Amy was all agog, when the sound went off.  The picture was fine, but the sound disappeared.  I tried cleaning the disc, playing it in my Xbox 360 instead, fast forwarding it to a different chapter.  Everything.

It was simply a shit forgery.

I suppose I should be grateful for this stark reminder that counterfeit films are not as good as the real thing, and that they put cash directly into the hands of the drugs trade (though I think it’s fair to say a large number of actors and film execs put their cash in exactly the same place, so my watching moody films merely cuts out the middle man).

In hindsight I am pleased the sound failed when it did, as I have no idea what sort of frenzy Amy would have been in had Brad ever got to twenty-five.

Dear Sirs,

I am writing to complain about an advertising slogan soon to be seen on the side of a buses in central London.  It proclaims, in large letters, that there DEFINITELY is a God.  I find this interesting, as my long-term agnostic stance would most definitely be softened if there really was a God.  I have always found the thought of eternity in Heaven an attractive prospect (who wouldn’t), but the arguments for God (all of them, I am not discriminating by picking on any one of them) seemed weak at best, and laughable at worst.

So as you can imagine, I was delighted to see this advert.  Imagine, proof at last that there was, without doubt, DEFINITELY a God watching over us!

So I got in touch with The Christian Party to enquire about this new proof, and to see if I could help spread the word of it’s arrival.  It is after all, a momentous occasion in the history of our planet.  Who wouldn’t want to be a part of that?

Do you know what I found out?  NOTHING has changed!  I know, it was shocking to me too.  In fact, all I found was a suggested donation on their home page of TWO HUNDRED POUNDS!  I found nothing to show there definitely is a God.  Nothing whatsoever.

I can therefore only conclude that this is an elaborate money-making scam.  Perhaps it is one of those pyramid things I have seen on Watchdog.  I don’t know.  All I know is that there will be many consumers that, like me, fall into this trap after seeing an advertisement promising there DEFINITELY is a God.  I believe this is what you call “false advertising” and I would like to know what you plan to do about it.

Yours sincerely,

Mr Angry.

I will post any response I receive.

I had knocked on a couple of my elderly neighbours doors to see if they wanted anything whilst I popped out to the shops during the “The Worst Snow Fall In Years”.

My first neighbour had chuckled and said they were fine but thanked me for asking anyway. The second had asked me for a bottle of milk, which I was happy to pick up. The third though, had looked at me strangely.

“The shops?”

“Yes, I’m heading that way, and I noticed your car hadn’t moved since the snow came down, so I wondered if you wanted me to pick anything up for you?”

“I’m not giving you any money.”

“Well, yes, I understand that. I don’t mean to be patronising, I just wondered if you wanted anything, as I was heading that way anywa…”

“Is this a scam?”

“No, I assure you this isn’t a scam. I couldn’t scam an old person even if I wanted to, which I don’t, as most of you are skint anyway, so you’re perfectly safe. I’m happy to get you what you need, provide you with a receipt, and you can pay only for what you want.”

“Where’s the catch?”

“There isn’t one, I promise.”

“There’s always a catch. Is this one of those hunting scams I’ve read about?”

“It’s not a scam, I’m only trying to help, honestly.”

“No. No, I don’t think so.”

And with that, she closed the door on me. Admittedly, she is someone who I have only spoken to maybe a couple of times in the three years I’ve lived here, but still, I would have hoped to have garnered a little trust among our small community.

Somewhat unusually, I felt good about myself having at least made the gesture, but now I am struggling to stop myself from knocking on her door to see if she said “hunting” when she actually meant “Phishing”.

Tonight sees us drift serenely, and somewhat inebriated, into 2009.  But this New Years Eve is slightly different.  It is different because we get to take advantage of a leap second.

The extra second we are getting this year is something to do with our orbit around the sun and other sciencey things about which I know very little.  You can read more here.

More importantly however is the fact that we have been gifted an extra second in 2008, and it is our duty to use it as best we can, otherwise we might as well have let Space keep it.  And you just know that Space would have wasted it.

A lot of things can be accomplished in a second at midnight.  You can double your foreplay efforts, listen to James Blunts Greatest Hits, or even spend time thinking about those less fortunate than ourselves.

So how will you be making the most of your extra second?

I could not help but chuckle at the hilarity of a plimsoll based attack, but as I am not from the Middle East, I was surprised to learn that shoe throwing, and showing the soles of your feet, is just about the most offensive thing you can do in that part of the world.  Yes, shoes.

I must admit that I think us Westerners are having our legs pulled a bit here.  In the land that invented the suicide bomber, they claim the worst thing you can do is throw a shoe at someone?   If it really is the biggest insult of all, then why aren’t Al Qaeda arming themselves with racks upon racks of Flip-Flops and Espadrilles?

I feel a bit sorry for Muntadar al-Zaidi, the shoe thrower, as shoes cost real cash money.  However, a bag of your own excrement, does not.  A bag of shit would have made an even more entertaining clip, as would a bit of throwing practise.  If there were concerns about sneaking in a bag of faeces then he could simply have headed in a bit early, armed with an empty bag.

All in all I praise his efforts, as once again people are taking an active interest in Middle East politics, which can only be a good thing.

Since then I have watched with interest as the incident has unfolded.  After initially making a ‘run for it’ (well, as best you can in a vehicle weighing almost half a million tons) they have now decided to hold the ship and crew hostage, which makes them, officially, rubbish pirates.

I assume this change in tactics has something to do with their difficulty in shifting the two million barrels of oil.  Plus the ship itself.  It’s not like they could put an advert in Exchange & Mart.

“Hi, I’m call about the boat you have advertised.  How big is it.”

“A little over 40 feet.”

“How little?”

“Oh, about 1000 feet.”

If you are going to be a pirate, you have to think about your exit strategy.  If I were a pirate I would focus on ships transporting Xboxes and iPods.  That way, eBay is your friend.  It is difficult setting a Buy It Now price for a quarter of the worlds daily oil production.

I’ve also been wondering about why pirates are called pirates?  It’s quite a cool name if you think about it.  I imagine land based criminals who steal, kidnap and extort are a bit gutted they do not get romaticised as much as the parrot-fondling sea-farers.  So next time you read about an onland robbery, just have a little think about that poor criminals self-esteem issues before you condemn them.

There are some people who claim to have seen their own destinies mapped out before them in the stars.

And now it appears that there are people who can see their own futures, in alarming detail, whilst deciding on an appropriate title for their new books.  You might need to click on the image to get a look at it in all its glory (a little bit of back-combing and that monkey could be his partner in crime).

Honestly, sometimes this shit just writes itself.

]]> http://www.iamlivid.com/2008/11/14/prescience/feed/ 2 http://www.iamlivid.com/2008/11/05/the-sins-of-the-father/ http://www.iamlivid.com/2008/11/05/the-sins-of-the-father/#comments Wed, 05 Nov 2008 11:00:19 +0000 Mr Angry http://www.iamlivid.com/?p=932 Osama Bin Laden has nineteen (19) children.  That was the first alarming thing that struck me after I read this article.

Osama Bin Laden has had sex at least nineteen times.  Which I am sure you will all agree is pretty impressive for someone who has spent a large proportion of his adult life in a cave.  I live in a vibrant tourist town and I have only just struggled to reach double figures (that is a joke, my struggle to reach double figures ended ages and ages ago).  This news does seem to make one statement though; to all those people who say we should, “Make love, not war”, old Osama seems to have proven that the two are not mutually exclusive.

His son is seeking asylum in Spain, I’m not sure from what, but having the world’s most unpopular Dad (Clinton’s worst selling mug) is probably quite high on the list.

Getting out from under your fathers shadow can be a tall order, I imagine.  Especially if your father is famous, or should I say, infamous.  It must also be tough for Osama himself, having his son that fails so spectacularly to live up to expectations.  I suppose it is a bit like Alan Carr’s Dad who was a footballer, and then a football manager, the stereotypical man’s man.  A camp comedian was probably not high on his list of hopes for his infant son.

The fact that Bin Laden Jnr. is a confirmed pacifist must have hit Osama very hard indeed.  He would probably have preferred it if he had announced he was gay and wanted to perform stand-up.

“Dad, I abhor violence of all kinds.  I am committed to a life of peace.”

“Are you sure?  You’ve not given terrorism a proper go yet.  How can you say you don’t like it if you’ve never tried it?  It’s a bit like Spinach when you were a kid, and look how much you like that now!”

“No Dad, I want to live in the West and meet a visually impaired fifty-something that I can grow old – well, oldER – with.”

“Won’t you try blowing up just one infidel?  Just one?  For Daddy?”

So while debate rages about whether to admit Bin Laden Jnr. into Spain, let us not forget his heartbroken father crying himself to sleep in a cave somewhere.

In their infinite wisdom, her parents have decided to call her Coco Lux.

Let us just think about that for a minute.

When Coco Lux gets older and has her own family, they will be greeted at family parties with the call, “Here come the Coco Lux Clan!”  Whereupon all the black people will run and hide.

Why would you give your child a name that sounds like a stuttering racist? Unless of course you were a closet racist yourself?  We can only assume the names “Aryan Race” and “Apartheid” were considered a little too ‘in your face’, and that Coco Lux was deemed to strike the right balance between subtlety and a strong white supremacist message.

Good luck Coco, I think you will need it.

Sometimes you have to be a big man and own up to previous indiscretions.

Which is why I am amazed at the furore surrounding Russell Brands brave admission to Andrew Sachs that he had sex with his grand-daughter.  That takes balls.  Even more so to do it on national radio.

Admittedly, he needed the moral support of a good friend and fellow broadcaster to do the actual confessing itself, but that should not detract from the effort on his part.

Would the 20,000 or so people who have complained to the BBC rather he had lied?  The BBC has already been in trouble over misleading it’s viewers and listeners, so the public should make up its mind.  You can not have it both ways.

These 20,000 truth-haters have now ensured that both Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand will find themselves on the Sachs Offenders register, whose only previous occupant was a moustache wearing Torquay hotelier.  It is a shame.

I understand that Ross took his suspension after his refusal to read the following statement:

“I say sorry, unreservedly, and regret my rude, randy and rotten remarks. I did not intend the worry or embarrassment derived from my remarks.”

UPDATE: I have just learned that Georgina Baillie, Andrew Sachs’ grand-daughter, about whom this whole sorry affair began, has decided to take action.  So ashamed is she by the embarrassment caused to her grand-father, and so offended by the publicity granted to her by a brief dalliance with Russell Brand, she is taking the only action she can, and is removing herself from the public eye whilst hoping this whole sorry affair will die down, sooner rather than later.  And she has found just the person to help her in this quest. Max Clifford.

This is just another sign that the country is going to the dogs.  With the credit crunch biting, the housing market stagnant at best, and the price of every day commodities rising faster than at any point in the last in the last ten years, something must be done.

We need cheaper products, and we need them now.  But how?

If there is one thing that Panorama has taught us, it is that children in the Far East can make things very cheaply indeed.  Surely it is not too much a of stretch to train them to make other things for us, apart from just trainers and jeans?  If we could get them into food production it would go quite a long way in reducing your weekly shopping bill, and this should be the overall aim for everyone at the moment.

So come on Tesco, come on Waitrose, let’s see you train up little Sandesh into a highly-skilled bread making machine and let’s start making Britain great again.

That is where I come in.

Last week’s post advising George W. Bush to use the law to his advantage got me thinking, and as a result I do have another tip for Al Qaeda – Sponsorship.

I think it is fair to say that when Osama Bin Laden releases a video, it is seen by the entire Western world.  How hard would be it be to preface each release with a short message?

“This warning to the godless infidels in the West is brought you by Starbucks – your pick-up in a cup.”

Don’t say that no-one will pay to sponsor something as morally questionable as Al Qaeda, because Virgin paid £3m to sponsor Big Brother, so there is a precedent.  I believe this will work because the advertising industry truly has no moral compass.

I know what you are thinking, you are thinking that it is not true that there is no such thing as bad publicity, after all, Gary Glitter is hardly storming up the iTunes chart, is he?  But that is wrong.  Trust me, if he had been hounded back into the UK drinking a can of coke you would all have been going, “That dirty bastard!  How did we let him come back here.  But you know what, I have got a bit of a thirst on now…”

On a personal note, it is really disappointing to find out the one thing you are good at is advising terrorist organisations.  There is not much career development there.  I doubt that any terrorist organisation would ever believe that I was running a genuine agency.

“Ha! I bet this is a secret MI6 plan to capture us!”

“No, honestly, I genuinely want to help you leverage the value of your brand.”

It wouldn’t be the first time a brand has been associated with Al Qaeda either.  I bet that deep down, in the place where we have the thoughts that no-one talks ever about, the Marketing team at Porsche were secretly pleased that the phrase ‘9/11′ took off.  I can almost hear them saying, “…and please let one of the terrorists have been called Cabrera!”

I do not think there has ever been an accurate headcount, but I will bet that there are literally thousands of people on it.  And of those tens of hundreds, I have just one request.

Please, please, please write to Ringo Starr asking for a signed photograph.  We only have a week in which to make this request, as after the 20th October he will be ignoring all requests.

This means we only have six days for everyone on the Internet to get their Ringo Starr autograph.

You might think this is a petty practical joke in response to a public figure’s egotistical dismissal of his fan base, but it is not.  It is a serious request, and I will now explain why.

Ringo is now 68 years of age, and though Sod’s Law dictates he will inevitably be the last Beatle to die, he can not go on forever.  When he finally relinquishes his grasp on this mortal coil, there will be a stampede for items bearing his name.  This booming trade will lead to profiteering by ruthless criminal elements, and much like the moody DVDs at your local market, it could end up ’supporting terrorism’.  Which is a bad thing, mostly.

The only way to ensure that this black market does not thrive upon Ringo’s demise, is to ensure that every man woman and child on the planet already owns a Ringo Starr autograph.

Of course, in order to write to Ringo Starr we need an address for him, which is not on his website, for obvious reasons.  So, if anyone knows how to get hold of the correct address to use in the next six days, please leave it in the comment box below or email it to me, as you could be helping us BEAT THE TERRORISTS!

Therefore I have not been hit particularly hard by the steady rise in the price of petrol in the last year or so.  So I tended to ignore it, like most social issues that do not directly affect me.

But, I recently filled up at a cost of over £60 for the first time, and after a long debate with the forecourt manager where he convinced me they had not, in fact, made a mistake, I decided to look into what makes today’s petrol so expensive.  After all, the price of crude oil is dropping quite quickly at the moment.

An average 115p litre of unleaded petrol is broken down like this:

50.35p on fuel duty
37.35p on the product itself
17.13p on VAT
10.17p for the retailer

Now, I understand the arguments for fuel duties, I really do.  Some of them I agree with, others I do not.  What I do not understand however is how the Government can tax us on the tax we are already paying.

You see, I was under the impression that the VAT (‘Value Added’ Tax) should only be applied to that part of the price in which I am paying for, well, “additional value”?  i.e. the product and the service that is delivered it to me?  Whereas in effect they are benefiting twice by raising fuel duties, once with the duty itself, and secondly by the increased VAT charged upon it.

I hope someone out there cleverer than me can surely explain why this is not illegal?

Or maybe it is?

I just wish someone would hurry up and invent the solar powered BMW.  Though they would surely find a way to tax sunshine the day that happens.  It might not even be the first time.

A lot can happen in seven years.  Fortunes can be won and lost, careers made and then ruined.  Or, you can choose to hide in a cave for that entire time.  You see, it has been seven years since we have had a genuine confirmed sighting of Osama Bin Laden by anyone other than his close allies.

By happy coincidence, someone can be declared dead in absentia after they have been missing for seven years.  Now, I am not telling G Dubbya how to do his job, he has lots of other poorly-qualified people to do that, but if I was him I would look to claim a quick points victory in the run-up to the election.

OK, he might not have Osama’s head on a stick to parade in front of the world’s media, but a death certificate with Osama’s name on it would make a nice photo call in front of the White House.  He might as well use the rules to his advantage, he has made enough of them.

“Osama is dead!” he would proclaim from the White House steps.

“Show us his cold dead eyes then!” would be the cry from the hordes of press.

“I don’t need to!  I have a piece of paper here showing that he has definitely and properly died to death according to the legal laws of the land. Fact!”

You never know, it might even tempt Osama out of hiding and into the clutches of an eager Secret Service.  Or he might just show up in his next video wearing a “Vote McCain!” t-shirt just to spite him.

Then I look at the state of the country today, with rising inflation, falling house prices, banks on the verge of collapse, recession looming large on the horizon, and a feeling among many that things are about to take a significant turn for the worse.

Then I look back to just over three years ago to the Live 8 concerts, and I wonder if the Government completely misunderstood the stated aim of Making Poverty History.  Because right now, it looks like they could be about to do just that.

It is the only sensible choice.  With all the spam emails, junk mail, and telesales cold calls we get in a modern society, you can only be sure to get your message across by using a pattern of gristle in some charred bovine flesh.  Then the people will really take notice of what you have to say.

Especially when what you have to say is just your name (in case they had forgotten that bit of information about you).

Admittedly, this is where the use of a well done steak becomes a little less practical, because after writing your name on it there isn’t much room left to put things like, “Please stop blowing yourselves up, we are fresh out of virgins.”

There is also the very real danger of the deity being branded a graffiti artist, after all, graffiti artists have successfully bagsied the ‘Surreptitiously Writing Their Names On Their Creations’ modus operandi.  Then again, you never see Allah and Banksy in the same room, do you?

Perhaps these food based messages should be transferred to one of those American steak restaurants where you can have a 64oz steak for free if you can finish it.  There is room for a good couple of paragraphs on those.

Unless of course this particular Nigerian restaurant patron only noticed his meat was inscribed with the name of Allah after eating a good proportion of it?  Maybe the full meal contained a great message of hope for the human race, but due to his gluttony (a Christian sin, oh the irony) all we are left with is, “Thanks, Allah X.”

Not all messages in food mean something though.  When I was at school I had a piece of toast that said, “Spastic Noodles”.  I spent all afternoon wondering what it meant until Little Alan admitted to scraping the words into it with his (now very illegal) penknife.

I am not saying this is the work of Little Alan, but no-one has seen him since he went to a meeting with a rich Prince from Nigeria that he met on the Internet.

There was no mention of cape-less crusaders delivering water to needy homes, which I am sure you would agree is much more news worthy.  Instead, they just went on a bit about it being ‘good’ water, followed by a brief discussion on why it is the best water.

Apparently, Thames Water is the ‘best’ because they had the least number of complaints last year of all the water companies.

This strikes me as a strange way of determining which is the best.  It is a bit like saying Gary Glitter is the best Paedophile because only two girls complained about him.

It is a pretty damning indictment of the industry if having the least complaints is the new benchmark to aspire to.  What about counting customer congratulations?  The numbers would be much smaller, so it would be an easier process to manage and it would offer the consumer a nice bargaining chip when discussing and bill related queries.

There would be a lot of nil-nil draws though.