Public Service Announcement

Brought to you direct from the front page of the Daily Express, today I'm using this esteemed and widely respected blog to try and achieve something truly good.

As you will probably know, little Madeleine McCann disappeared from her parents' holiday apartment six months ago. Since then, there have been several sightings of little girls who match Madeleine's description, a number of them from Morocco.

Sadly, the quality of these pictures has not been of the highest and determining details has been problematic. This is where you -- the readers of this blog -- can help.

Please, scrutinize this picture of a marketplace in Morocco and help to identify Madeleine:

Are you struggling to do this? Yes?

Then perhaps you might want to check out this version for a clearer image.

Perhaps that's unfair. After all, it's been six months, and a child can change a lot in that time.

We've commissioned an artist's impression of how Madeleine looks now, which you can see here.

I mean. Please. Seriously. How fucking stupid do you think I am?

Snatched by a passing paedophile? How about gypsies, then? The Child Catcher? Are we living in a world where Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is real?

This story is a complete fabrication with the active encouragement, perhaps even at the instigation of the British tabloid press, and it's a fucking disgrace.

These people build their financial success on engendering a state of fear for us all to live in, a world where predatory paedophiles roam every street, lying in wait outside the school gates ready to pounce upon the children unless Mummy and Daddy run them to the school gates in their petrol-guzzling SUVs.

You bunch of scare-mongering bastards. Do you know what you've done?

You've ruined childhood. You've terrified the nation's parents to the point where they won't let their kids out of their sight. They won't let them play any more. Keep 'em at home, upstairs in their bedroom, bashing away at the buttons on their XBox controller ...

OK, so they won't develop any imagination, they won't develop social skills through interacting with other kids, but at least they'll be safe, right? Safe from a threat that only exists in the minds of the headline writers of tabloid papers. Seriously.

Any parent should know that their child is in more danger of being impaled by an icicle of frozen urine that has fallen from a passing plane than of being snatched from the street by a randomly passing kiddy-fiddler.

Lighten up. Let the poor little bastards be kids for once.

Forgive The Link

I don't normally post links to other people's content, but ...

This really cheered me up ...

I say: "Bring on the Zombie apocalypse!"

The Great British Public

The Great British Public? Bunch of fucking cunts. I don't know which is worse, your stupidity, your greed, or your clear sense of entirely unwarranted entitlement.

For obvious reasons, I can't divulge too much information so let's just say this — I work for a company with a national High Street retail presence and one of my responsibilities involves incoming customer contact.

Here is a selection of the efforts to give me an aneurysm that the general populace have made this week alone.

Number One:

"I'm sorry, madam, but we have no transaction record of supplying you with that insurance policy. Clearly, it's not impossible that our records are in error, so all you need to do is provide the documentation for the policy and we will be happy to honour it and repair or replace your product free of charge."

"I've lost the paperwork."

"I see. So what you're asking us to do is honour an insurance policy that we have no record of selling to you, and you have no evidence of actually possessing?"

"No. That's not what I'm saying."

"I'm sorry, madam, but that is exactly what you're saying."

"Well, I don't like it when you put it like that. It sounds like I want something for nothing."

"Given that you're asking us to supply replacement product at no charge, without providing any evidence that you actually possess the policy you're asking us to honour, how, precisely would you put it?"

Number Two:

"I'm sorry. I've checked with our Accounts Department and that refund cheque has definitely been posted to you."

"Well, I haven't got it."

"Yes, I'm genuinely sorry about that, madam, but there has been a national postal strike and all the mail is currently subject to a backlog."

"But when am I going to get the cheque?"

"I'm afraid that I can't speak for the Royal Mail."

"Will I get it on Friday?"

"I'm afraid that I can't speak for the Royal Mail."

"What about Saturday?"

"I'm afraid that I can't speak for the Royal Mail."

"Well, when am I going to get it?"

"What part of 'I can't speak for the Royal Mail' are you not understanding?"

Number Three:

"No, I'm sorry, I can definitely confirm that this product has been posted out to you. The Royal Mail is clearing the backlog and you should have the product in the next few days."

"Well, I want to cancel the order and get a refund."

"I understand that, and we will be pleased to honour your refund as soon as you return the goods to us."

"I haven't got the goods."

"I understand that. I'm afraid you'll have to wait for the goods to arrive, and then you can return them in favour of a refund."

"But I want the refund now."

"Yes, I understand that, but surely you understand that if we give your refund without you returning the goods, then we are just giving you the fucking goods?"

Number Four:

"Yes, sir, I understand that you want us to make a written declaration of our findings to enable you to pursue an entirely frivolous law suit against a completely different retailer. However, I hope you can appreciate that since we have no documentation of the supposed findings, and you are now unable to supply the allegedly defective goods in order for us to do a new inspection, our hands are somewhat tied."

"That's not good enough. I wanted those findings recording."

"I understand that, sir. However, given that they weren't, and that I am lacking a time machine or magic wand to enable me undo events that have occurred in the past, my options to help are somewhat limited."

"Well, I don't see why you can't write a letter for my solicitor, anyway."

"I'm sorry, sir, but can you not see that if we supplied you with a written statement that your solicitor used as basis for beginning legal proceedings against another retailer, the very first thing that other retailer would do is instruct their solicitor to find out what evidence we have based our statement? Evidence that we have already established does not exist?"

"Yeah. But why can't you just write the letter?"

"Because that would be dishonest, sir. We would be making a written declaration of 'facts' that we cannot prove are true."

"Yeah, but I know it's true, so why can't you write the letter?"

"Because you're attempting to find grounds for legal action, sir, and what you know is irrelevant. All that matters is what can be proved."

"I want to speak to your superior. You're not interested in helping me."

"No, sir. No-one can help you because you're a fucking idiot."

I Told You So

Forgive me for saying this, but I did tell you so.

Emboldened by their successes against the smokers, the health nazis are coming after the drinkers.

http://society.guardian.co.uk/health/news/0,,2191932,00.html

This is typical of the type of story that has been gathering momentum for a few months now.

No more is the villification reserved for the ASBO-draped, White Lightning-drinking, faux Burberry-wearing, car park inhabiting Chav motherfuckers so reviled for their alcohol-fuelled antisocial behaviour.

Oh, no ... the social fabric now has a new enemy: the wine swilling middle-classes. The opening salvoes in this assault have been fired, with health experts wheeled out on news programmes, declaring their wish to eliminate irresponsible drinking habits from the national character.

Let's be entirely clear on this:

If I wish to take what is left of my paltry pay packet, after the Government has deducted both tax and National Insurance (which is an 11% levy on my salary to ensure that I get NHS healthcare, amongst other things, before we forget) and spend that on wine, or vodka, or beer, and pay another massive Government levy in the form of duty ...

If I wish to be double taxed on purchasing a product that I know is bad for me, and then consume that product in my own home to the detriment of no-one but myself ...

If I wish to invite some of my friends round so that we can all sit at a table, enjoy a meal, and drink alcohol to excess, and do so without breaking any laws, have a pleasant evening and head home in taxis, presenting neither nuisance nor threat to anyone ...

Then why the fuck shouldn't I be allowed to do so? What fucking business is it of the Government what I do?

Worse yet is the positively disingenuous nature of some the arguments being put forward by the health lobby: particularly the one where it the costs of a particular unhealthy lifestyle, in this case drinking, are volunteered as a burden on society that must be eliminated.

As I have observed previously, this is dishonest in the extreme, since it assumes that if we all stopped doing things that were bad for us, we would live healthy and productive lives at no burden to the state until the happy day when we had the decency to drop dead in a tidy fashion at no expense to the system.

In truth, if the Government eliminated all drinking from society, then we could absolutely not take the number of alcohol-related deaths and simply remove from the healthcare equation. This is statistical dishonesty of the most disgraceful type.

Every single one of those people would still die of something. Some would die from cancer, some from Alzheimers, or Parkinsons, some of pneumonia, some would just get hit by buses ...

And every single one would incur a cost to the NHS. Do NOT try and tell me that you can simply eliminate drinking as a factor and then deduct the cost of that from the NHS bill. Drinkers or not, smokers or not, every single member of the general public is going to die sooner or later.

So, if I am going to take what little cash the Government allows me once they have finished with their deductions and blow it on a perfectly legal vice that generates additional revenue for the Treasury whilst significantly reducing the likelihood that I will require £1500+ per week of residential nursing care as I slide into senile decrepitude ...?

Why the fuck shouldn't I?

I didn't vote to put Puritans into Government. Trust me on this - if we don't fight them here, then they will be coming after chips, and cheeseburgers, and video games, and porn, two sugars in your tea, and not looking both ways before crossing the road, and climbing trees ...

Fuck off. I reserve the right to do shit that is bad for me because I enjoy it. If you don't like it, fine. Charge me for my healthcare at the point of delivery and give me my fucking taxes back.

Wish I HAD died before I got old

While I'm on the subject of music ...

What the fuck is going on with all this comeback shit?

Take That and the fucking Spice Girls? Don't try to tell me that we all retroactively appreciate their past efforts in a post-ironic kind of way ... that we should really now all admire their perfectly-crafted pop creations?

FUCK OFF.

Are we all so unbelievably stupid, are our memories so addled that we're going to allow this suggestion to stand?

I know it's not exactly momentous issue, but I think someone needs to stand up and say:

You were always shit. You were always a fucking joke. We could never stand you and we're not pleased to see you back.

Take your vacuous pop posturing and fuck off back to the oblivion of musical history that had, quite rightly, swallowed you and in which we had fervently hoped you would now reside until doomsday.

Your music was always fucking dreadful but you traded on the fact that you were, at least, easy on the eyes. Now ... Now you're not only shit, but you're fat and old and shit* and therefore have no redeeming features whatsoever.

Are we being punished for something?

* All right, Posh - I'll concede that you, at least, aren't fat. Instead, you look like a Belsen victim in a Gucci frock. Malnutrition is such a good lifestyle choice to be peddling to the young. You empty-headed, fame obsessed bitch.

Hope I Die Before I Get Old?

Emo?

Fucking emo? What in the name of Jesus God Bastard Christ is wrong with kids today? You pustulent little shitbags can't even rebel properly!

You've allowed the record company marketing whores to take what was (let's face it) a pretty bloody wimpy sub-culture and achieve the seemingly impossible ... they've made it even more wimpy, they've made it even wetter.

I mean, those of us who were goth kids back in the day: deep down inside we knew we just didn't have the flat-out balls to be punks, we couldn't muster the casual, testosterone-laden sexism to be metalheads and we just had too much care for personal hygiene to be crusties.

So, for us, goth it was, then. It wasn't all that much of a rebellion, but it was ours and it was enough.

But emo? What the fuck is all that about?

We'd sort of like to be goths, but we can't be bothered. We'd like to paint our bedrooms black, but it's too much like hard work. We're going to go to nightclubs and stay out all night ... well, until Dad comes and picks us up, anyway.

If you were any wetter, you'd be puddles, you dismal streaks of piss. I find myself praying for a strong wind, because it's very clear that every last one of you would blow away, you snivelling little shits.

Don't give me any of that crap about subcultures evolving, about each generation finding its own voice. This emo shite isn't an evolved subculture, this isn't about like-minded individuals finding disparate bands that speak to the same unnamed, unnameable yearning, a musical expression of a shared experience.

This is about the record companies' marketing departments targeting the pasty-faced, eyeliner-wearing demographic. This is about second rate bands who are tedious corporate puppets mouthing meaningless pap; pop with alternative trappings, to tap into the alienated youth market.

Am I showing my age? Am I falling victim to the flaw of every generation as it's superseded; to the "it was better in my day" way of thinking?

So ... the unfettered, heart-rending melancholy of Joy Division? The brilliant, dazzling intelligence of Bauhaus? The black, black wit of the Sisters of Mercy? I can get that from Villi Vallo moping about in a beanie hat with his shirt off, singing about lurve, can I? That God-Bothering slapper from Effervescence duetting with Linkin Fucking Park? I can find anything on a par with the brittle, crystalline beauty of Siousxie and the Banshees?

No. I don't think I can. I looked to you, to the next generation, to surprise me. To find something new, to find something exciting, thrilling.

It's not just the emo kids, mind you ... it's all of you. You cut your hair like a punk, but you wear a Blink 182 hoodie ... you have no fucking clue. John Lydon wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire, and Henry Rollins would actually snap you in half.

Take your Nirvana sweatshirts and understand this: Kurt Cobain was the moderately talented frontman of a band that mercilessly recycled other peoples' riffs and -- and this is the important bit to understand for anyone under the age of 14 who wears a Nirvana shirt -- who topped himself before you were born.

Nevermind is a pretty decent album, but Cobain ain't Jesus and you need to find some heroes who aren't dead, and weren't drugged-up fuckheads who slept with talentless slappers. Or, if you're unwaveringly set on having a hero who -is- dead- and -was- a drugged-up fuckhead who slept with talentless slappers, might I offer John Lennon or Jim Morrison as alternatives with infinitely more charm, ability and material?

We handed you the future, and said: "Go ahead, rebel" and, in return, you said "Do we have to?"

No. No, you don't fucking have to. But you don't get to moan about the world you live in if you never even tried to change it.

A Moment's Seriousness, I'm Afraid

I promised myself that the one thing I would try and avoid with this blog is politics. This isn't a political blog, but I don't believe that this is a political issue.

I want to have a word with our American cousins, citizens of that proud nation across the water. Land of the Brave, Home of the Free ... you know the place.

I'm sorry to have to break this to you: your President is a fucking lunatic.

Seriously. This isn't a political issue, it's a moral one.

Stop him. Please. Just fucking stop him. He's a maniac intent on rolling back history by 600 years and starting a new crusade.

I don’t care what you do: petition your elected representatives to reign in the power of the executive branch; impeach him; storm the fucking White House and string the demented little fucktard up from the nearest street lamp with piano wire, if that's what it takes.

I don't care, just stop him before he starts another war. Please, for the love of God, stand up and say: "Enough. You have the intellectual capacity of a sea squirt* and we realize now that you shouldn't be in charge of flipping burgers at Mickey Ds, never mind running the most powerful nation on Earth. Sorry. Our mistake. May we please have our country back?"

There is a school of thought that says you don't get to be President of the United States by being an idiot. Well ... if there's an exception that proves the rule, we're looking at him.

Case in point? How about the air of utter bemusement this intellectual pygmy radiates when confronted with the mess in Iraq? The palpable sense that he cannot understand how this abominable, clusterfuck of a crime against humanity has come about.

Newsflash, you cretin: anyone with the slightest fucking clue has known that this would be the near-inevitable outcome for over a decade. Your own fucking Dad knew, and that what was stopped him from knocking over Hussein's regime back in 1990.

How could you not have grasped that? How can it come to light in the last few weeks that Pentagon analysts have started to model scenarios for possible outcomes if the Kurds declare independence?

Started? For. Fuck's. Sake. This was one of the most blindingly obvious potential repercussions of your illegal war in the first place. A fucking standard poodle could have seen this coming. A fucking standard poodle would probably have concluded that maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

But Dubya? Ohhh, no ... he has right on his side, the Good Lord sits on his shoulder. How could things go wrong?

Take a long, hard look. I wish that you would hang your head in shame, but I don't believe for a second that you understand the enormity of what you've done.

(As an aside: I'm not a religious man, but I hope that there is a very special place reserved in Hell for Tony Blair as a result of his craven, supine capitulation to Dubya's imperialist leanings.)

No matter, though. It's done. Can't take it back, and there's probably no way of making it right, either.

Depressing as that thought is, surely he can't be allowed to do it again? Surely?

Stop him. I'm begging you. Stand up and say "Stop." Take a look at those poor, brave bastards in Burma and find your spines. Grow some balls and say: "No more."

Please. I'm begging you.

*You know: the sea squirt ... the animal that reaches adulthood, attaches itself to a rock and then, having found its place in the world, digests its own brain because it has no further use for it ....