Self Deluded Cranium Dump

Oh, Just Grow Up! Arrested Development And Republicans.

Sometimes, even the most liberal parent has to give a misbehaving child a smack, despite their squeamish dislike of such punishment. Which is why the Democrats should treat the conservative far-right like a petulant 6-year-old. Like children jumping up and down, red-faced and plump, the Republican right are annoyed that their toys and massive bag of chocolate coins are to be shared around the other less fortunate kids. But like children, they're using facile falsehoods to try and get rid of that horrible new sensible parent who just won't give and give and give, like that last slightly stupid Uncle did. "Look at that Stephen Hawking!" they squeal, "he'd be dead if he was in that horrible socialist United Kingdom and in that grimy hospital they call the NHS! We want shiny hospitals just for us, fuck the rest of those stupid kids". You can lie and lie till you're blue in the face, fat spoiled brats, it's not going to change the world just by you fibbing repeatedly. "He's not our real parent anyway - he's not even American. Look, see. He's Black. And his birth certificate proves he's not a Yank. We need a real American, like that Terminator-dude, to be in charge". We've been here before. We let the brats scream and bawl the last time a sensible parent tried to run the States. We heard them moan about non-existent conspiracies involving sneaky property deals and ridiculous romantic affairs. When the spoilt ringleader, Kenneth Starr, found that some random lady had sucked the surrogate parent's willy in the Oval Office, they jumped up and down in delight and argued that this just proved all the other fairy stories correct. And by doing so, they finally got what they wanted - they got a stupid Uncle adopting them, who would just let them run around remorselessly with impunity.

If you think I'm taking the American far-right as regressive minors parallel a touch too far, then think again. I can go all the way to the beginning of Piaget (and subsequent neo-Piagetian texts) to show that arrested development is responsible for a majority of this behaviour. Seriously, if you have the time, read the summary of Piagetian stages of child development. Even if there's debate as to when those stages occur, they're generally followed as a model for children growing up.  Whether it be the lack of perspective, empathy, abstract thought or recognition of reciprocal altruism, the American far-right might as well be spoilt kids. After the last time in the 1990s, of spending eight solid years in total self-delusion and denying Clinton was in the Whitehouse, they're now doing it again from the moment President Obama Hussein took power. This time, the only way to deal with the Republican brats is to actually treat them like children, because we saw what happened when Starr and his bunch of jockey pals chased Clinton all over the schoolyard. Fast-forward a few years and they're desperately trying to claw back being King of the Castle. Sarah Palin is behaving like a spoilt little princess from drama school, going on about healthcare plans being "evil", as well as claiming that the British NHS has "death panels". Meanwhile, the source of that embryo death panel idea, Betsy McCaughey, sat at The Daily Show desk, like a child showing her badly written homework, with Jon Stewart acting as the responsible adult trying to point out that certain words didn't exist in the proposed healthcare legislation. Most notably the words "mandatory" or "euthanasia".

During the last election campaign, John McCain had to apologise on many an occasion at the pack of feral fibbers behind him and notably was the only Republican who did try to behave like an adult. This was the reason why he had to be the only Republican presidential candidate, because the previous eight years of the U.S. had been governed by an occasionally Pretzel-choking teenage brain permanently hooked into the baseball coverage. If the conservative right are bereft of arguments and ideas, why not just be truthful instead of lying? "We don't like Obama's healthcare plan, because we have shares in Medicare and will lose money, plus we don't want to pay our taxes toward poor people" would actually go down a lot better with the right-wing electorate than making up stuff. Except maybe not. These conservatives are all at various early stages of arrested development and probably actually believe in death panels.On top of that, if all those shockingly barely-racist remarks that some leading Republican thinkers are choosing to come out with are perceived as allowable, then the most troglodyte-like followers are going to be led to do something stupid. The best example being Glenn Beck's hick town school jock act, which has finally bitten him back. Advertisers (including even Walmart) wanted nothing to do with a show where the main protagonist accused Obama of being racist against white people. Again, another childish lie. An egocentric passive-aggressive lie. He only learned his lesson in the way that all teenagers learn their lesson. By being punished and having his toys confiscated and told to do his homework, Glenn was effectively told to go to his room and not come back until he'd finished (he's on "forced vacation" at the moment). But then Glenn always struck me as the guy stuck in a regressed frat boy stage, wondering why the kids that he used to bully at school were suddenly earnestly engaging in adult debate and (currently) now running the country.

But as many media commentators have pointed out, it's not just the fact that the far-right Republican movement make up lies. It's that they're really bad lies. Rather like children saying things off-the-cuff, it's the sheer infantile nature of the fibs. They even behave like juveniles when they're caught and remonstrated. A figure of speech employed by extreme right-wingers is fears of a "Nanny state" or "big government". These words are spoken truly as the children who can't stand what sensible parents might say. I always remember one media commentator saying that the the George "Dubya" Bush administration pedaled "small lies" as well as "big lies", all the way down to the municipal level. A perfect example he drew from was a massive flag drawn up by Republican campaigners for an aircraft carrier that said "Mission Accomplished", where the embarrassing real-world disagreed with the statement. Later, the sailors on the battleship were blamed for the daubed banner. The commentator who pointed out the lies at all levels was Ron Reagan, son of Ronald Reagan. Admittedly, Ron Reagan Jnr is a well-known liberal, but it's notable that more forward-thinking Republican senators, such as Arnold Schwarzenegger, have kept an embarrassed silence during the snarling vitriol aboutt an American national health insurance scheme idea. Maybe it's because Arnie realises that his Austrian countrymen enjoy a successful national health scheme and that one in the US might be quite a good idea?

But if the UK has felt under attack from childish insubstantiated claims, a particular part of the UK, Scotland, has just had another avalanche of lies to go with the double-order of Freedom lies it got with the NHS.The attack had been prompted by the Scottish Government freeing Al-Megrahi, due to his terminal cancer. First up,Scotland is apparently "a state where Church and government" are the same, while America is secular. Another brilliant example of the lie that is just plain awful and cringeworthy. Has the dog eaten your homework this time? They also claim that: "You have shown to the international community that your government and the United Kingdom as a whole will stop at nothing to pursue the neverending and relentless acquisition of oil revenues." This awful Boycott Scotland campaign wasrightly hijacked by Scots who used their well-used tools of mockery and out-and-out belligerence.To quote Charlie Brooker (admittedly about Jeremy Clarkson insulting Gordon Brown), rather like the pot calling the kettle black, this is a case of the cunt calling a cunt, a cunt.

Dana Gould talks about a "permanent anger class" and described these people as "conservative fundamentalists". "People who have stuff are enraged, while the people who have nothing live in hope". Now, the "people who have stuff are enraged" - what does that sound like? Disgruntled toddlers who have flung their toys out of the pram. Conclusion: let us not forget that a lot of conservative fundamentalists are at the earliest stage of Piagetian development They're trying to own the world around them using accomodation and assimilation, while having a complete egocentricity about anything needing to be shared out. "It's my stuff, you're not having any of it!". The only way to educate kids like this is the one that most liberal parents are uncomfortable with. And that's to just give them a smack when they behave unreasonably. There's absolutely no way the new liberal elite can go down the same path as last time. When Clinton was in power, the Neo-Conservatives played as dirtily and vehemently as possible to get rid of him from day one. They're doing the same again. If liberals think about these people no more than spoilt children, a use of mockery or force is only to be expected. Or even the old Victorian maxim that "the Republican right should be seen and not heard".

Update 06/09/2009

It's since taken the courage of the slightly unlikely figure of Dan Savage to point out that "unfortunately in the Republican Party, there are no adults left in the room", as well as the fact that the anti-Obama rhetoric trotted out by a lot of leading conservatives is tantamount to "trying to get the president killed". My own take on this is not only should the new Democrat administration treat these people as infantile, they should also treat them as children who have access to guns. Or, worse, as angry children armed with guns. That gives a whole new map direction to the way liberal politicians should behave toward these extreme views espoused by conservative Republicans.

Janet Street-Porter: Surely She's An Obvious Twitterati Member?

This is a 'mini blog post' on Janet Street-Porter's article in The Independent.

As per usual, while The Guardian grows more and more Twitter obsessed (I'm expecting the headline "Twitter saves the world" from them soon), The Independent dredges up another anti-social networking article bringing them in line with The Daily Mail and Express. The truth lies somewhere in the middle, unsurprisingly.

There is a real need for a genuinely critical article of Twitter by someone who has used the service. Janet, your article isn't it. It's counterproductive, particularly as you've made the usual mistake of criticising some of the superficial features. But dig deeper and you'll find that the reason there's a 140 character limit is because it's the perfect length for a hyperlink (normally leading to a blog or even -shock horror- your article) and a few descriptive words. Also bear in mind that Twitter now has picture and video plug-ins, which you can link to from a tweet. How did that old saying go? A picture tells a thousand words?

Just like the telephone or even the television, Twitter is extremely good for some things and bad at other things. I wouldn't ever use Twitter to conduct a job interview, for example. But then I think job interviews held over the telephone are bad too - where's the body language to study? Twitter is very good at transporting info very VERY quickly and it's genuinely worldwide. You can use a bog-standard mobile phone, so it doesn't alienate people who don't have a computer. Don't trivialise it's use in the Iran elections or in helping break up the lies that Fox News spread about Obama's healthcare bill.

In short, I've always felt the strengths of Twitter is when using it for 'micro-blogging' or information sharing. It also helps if you have strong opinions to share. Using it as a 'sleb' following machine is normally relatively useless at best, unless you're bringing something interesting to the table (e.g. if you really want to talk to Wossy, bring your obscure film trivia with you). I always think of Twitter as a 'thought networking' tool, as opposed to 'social networking' tool, as I think it's surprisingly bad for the latter. Normally, if social interaction is to continue post-Twitter with anyone, then Facebook, email or the real-world are better.

In short, Twitter is the beginning of major conversation, but certainly not the end of it. There are better critical articles one can write about Twitter. For example, there does appear to be a liberal bias built into it and the broadcast media luvvies utterly love it, particularly ones who have big mouths and opinions. Which rather baffles me as to why you're not on Twitter, Ms Street-Porter.

Down, but Definitely Not Out

There's no chance that I'm doing a blog entry on the Iran elections. As such, this is no more than a mini blog post. There are two things to note, however. The first thing concerns an extremely astute (and now prophetic) article written by a close friend of mine, Deborah Martin. About six months ago, she wrote an article on the untapped potential of Twitter and Facebook for political protest and free speech. The second (and rather sadder) thing to note is that Twitter can finally lay to rest the dull celebrity tag that has been foisted on it by tabloid and (shamefully) broadsheet newspapers. Currently, only The Guardian appears to have 'got' Twitter - even The Independent has written appalling articles on tittle-tattle, naff status updates and it being that social networking tool that's used to stalk celebrities. Real-time searching, tsunami/earthquake warning system possibilities and almost universal blogging potential have all been roundly ignored in the print media.

If you want to read a blog post on the Iran elections, here is what you do.

1. If you're not on Twitter, sign yourself up with an account. Don't worry, you can always delete it later if you think that Twitter is just a banal social networking tool with pointless talk and too many egos.
2. Once you're on Twitter, sign in and look at trending topics - click on #iranelection. If this isn't present, type in #iranelection into the search box.
3. Read, absorb and watch the fully live 'blog entry' on the situation in Iran. I don't need to tell you anything.
4. If you want to help or get involved, please read this blog entry. If this blog entry has been taken down, then look for similar blog entry guides on how you can help the #iranelection online campaign. I really recommend this, as I tripped myself up by re-tweeting a proxy server that Iranian people could use and thus ended advertising it in the public arena (and was rightly told off by someone). Better to use Direct Messages if at all possible.
5. An 'internet meme' this maybe is - but it involves real people, in real danger. As opposed to something silly like Rickrolling (as much as I was amused by that).

Oh and 6. Don't do what this idiot Republican senator did with his thoughts on the Twitter Iran campaign.

Vote for The Celebrity Party!

This blog entry comes from four threads of thought. The first thread comes from watching the precision of the Ghurkas campaign led by Joanna Lumley. The second thread comes from observing the slight snootiness of some media commentators, when they muttered that celebrity was needed to challenge Gordon Brown in the first place. The third thread is from MPs deluding themselves with their own sense of importance and ability, particularly Hazel Blears MP (just before she "resigned"). The final thread regards former presenter of "The Word" and ex-reality show contestant, Terry Christian, and a discussion he had with Blears in mid-May about non-participation in politics. But what really united these threads of thought was seeing a television programme that one of the people mentioned above used to be in. It was really funny. You should've seen it. If you've never seen it before because of some sort of highbrow small-mindedness, give it a go. I was entranced by all those people filing into that house and now they're either walking out or getting evicted already. But enough about the BBC News coverage of 10 Downing Street. Boom boom. There's that oft-quoted statement repeated ad nauseum that politics is "showbusiness for ugly people" and I used to hate when folks said that, as I've always believed that politics was standing for what you believe in and was a great public service. Nowadays, MPs can't do their job properly and have a puffed-up idea of their own personality - they think they're celebrities of principle, in the mould of Muhammed Ali, when they're actually behaving like the worst example of reality television contestants.

A perfect example of this behaviour is Brown's use of Youtube, with that wrong-headed fake smile. It's already well-documented and is probably Brown's mistaken belief that you need to be perceived as some sort of talkshow host to be popular. Brown also waffled about "saving the world" in a Freudian slip that illuminated the suspicion of his narcissism complex. Lumley, in comparison, showed unerring down-to-Earth leadership in single-mindedly pursuing the Ghurkas case and behaved more like a politician than either Brown or Phil Woolas (Immigration Minister), who infamously stood there like a scalded schoolboy while school matron Joanna read his speech out for him.  At a different level, Hazel Blears has demonstrated throughout her career how totally deluded she is, with snidey articles full of silly "Youtube if you want to" jokes that just come across as pithy. After being caught up in the expenses scandal in avoiding capital gains tax, she infamously held up a £13,000 cheque, like some parody of a Telethon or Comic Relief personality. This only succeeded in overshadowing an ill-advised quote about countering voter anger by introducing "ordinary people" into the Standards Committee. Her choice of words seems to suggest she now no longer counts herself as an "ordinary person" and just shows her up to be the female equivalent of the reality TV pastiche, David Brent. Of course, use of this analogy leads me neatly to Terry Christian, as he had previously grilled Hazel in mid-May and has himself appeared on a rather famous 'celebrity' version of a reality show at the beginning of this year. The show was pretty instantly forgettable, but one surprise that was thrown up from the show was Christian himself. Formerly associated with infamously tawdry pub-night Channel 4 show "The Word", nobody expected a slyly intelligent, articulate and politically aware Mancunian - but that's exactly what happened. After casually stealing the show with a dry wit, he was always chortling at the ludicrousness of 'celebrity' and the comfort he had in being an ordinary bloke. Crucially, he left fellow contestant and supposed actual politician, Tommy Sheridan, looking guppy-mouthed in awe at the level of detail he commanded on political legislation. After his eerily prescient interrogation of Hazel Blears on ITV show "Its My Life" on the lack of connection between youth communities and local government (a week before she was seen waving that cheque around), can't we now just have Mr Christian as Communities Secretary instead of somebody as ludicrously self-deluded as Blears?

So, bearing in mind that two personalities from different parts of the celebrity spectrum could do ministerial work better, why don't we have The Celebrity Party? Well, snobbery, mostly. There's still an air of slight incredulity and ironic detachment when a national institution like Ms Lumley gets interviewed by broadsheet journalists about the possibility of public office. As an actress, she high-kicked villains in the 1970s and then went all weird on us by playing a non-existent periodic table element in the 1980s. Mr Christian gets it even worse. Not only does he have "The Word" as an albatross around his neck, he's also been tarred with the reality television brush. This means automatic Z-list relegation for most people, if not out-and-out demotion to a cephalopod. You want proof? Another inspiration behind this blog entry concerns a book I'm reading by a former reality show contestant, Aisleyne Horgan-Wallace. The reasons why I'm reading it will be possibly saved for another blog entry, but even I was taken aback by the sheer ferocity of the snobbery aimed at her book launch by The Snaily Fail. The book itself is breezily well-written and literate, so any worries that this was a hack job don't appear to be founded. It's a rare feeling when I'm slightly astounded by The Fail, but when they actually win their own snootiness contest for which they've raised the bar quite high, even I admit to being slightly impressed. But I've got to thank the Fail for that, as I also recall them being appalled by regional accents on telly and "The Word". "What the Fail say, bet the other way" is one of the many principles of life that I swear by. "The Word" and assorted other pub-fare shows were just bread 'n' butter jobs for Mr Christian anyway, we can easily disassociate them from the man himself. So, if we kick the snobbery specs off, there shouldn't be a problem with getting well-organised and relatively intelligent celebrities to just go ahead and stand in a new independent political party?

Of course, another reason for not having The Celebrity Party is feeling overwhelmed and slightly jaded by the sheer number of celebrities, celebrity magazines and, yes, celebrity books. I admit, I have in the past been peeved by all this. This comes from years of being worn down from reading accompanying stories whirling about in the printed press. "Right, what's happening in Afghanistan?" I'd think before I opened the newspaper. After a bit, I'd then close the newspaper and muse, "Well, I don't know what's happening in Kabul, but I do know that Brian Belo tripped over a car yesterday. I didn't even think that was physiologically possible". Nowadays, that story would bring a warm smile to my face and it's got nothing to do with mellowing during my thirties. Every other figure in the public eye has let me down. MPs have obviously let me down. High profile bankers have lied, cheated and shown no remorse. Religious figures have all totally confounded me. Even print journalists that exposed all the political corruption have disgusted me. One fine example of the latter was a Daily Telegraph journalist crowing delightedly over MPs being heckled on Question Time; he smugly announced he'd been fighting for truth when exposing the expenses scandal, and then promptly got booed himself. In contrast, celebrities are doing a great job. Essentially, they're providing a service within the public domain and have done it unfailingly. They make speeches, play villains and heroes in films, trip over their own shadows on reality shows, walk up red carpets, occasionally get caught drunk on camera and bits of their bodies sometimes fall out of their dresses. Those last two examples are particularly important for The Celebrity Party, as it proves your Celebrity Party representative is a real person and not an automaton. Plus the question now isn't whether there's too many of them, like it usually is. The question raised is now whether there's too many MPs. They've all realised that themselves now. 600 could easily be culled down to 400, say some leading figures.

The reasons for creating The Celebrity Party become more pervasive when you realise it appears to be spontaneously happening anyway. Sir Alan Sugar was offered a government post. This was just before he was supposed to offer a job to one of his new Apprentices. Old Gordo must've realised that his Youtube performance was like a pale imitation celebrity and he should maybe employ a real one with more gravitas. Particularly someone who has an idea of how an enterprise might be run in the current economic climate. Meanwhile, Esther Rantzen has unofficially thrown her hat into the ring as a possible Member of Parliament. It's not as if she's got a grip on current political issues, or has the common touch, or can speak to the ordinary member of the public? Oh wait a minute, yes she has. Martin Bell hasn't said no to going back to the old Parliament building either. As a political television journalist, he proved more than capably knowledgeable in his last stint as an Independent MP. Then there's David Van Day. He's thinking of standing for election as MP in his local area. Actually, scrub that last one. There are limits, honestly. If we're talking proper representative democracy, I suppose there's always going to be one extremely silly candidate anyway.

One final and deeply serious point. The Celebrity Party would have the added skill of quelling angry heckling from frequent experience and are already good at exposing personal frailities for tabloid readers to project their rage on. They wouldn't utilise the political practice of repeating the same thing over and over again to a question that wasn't asked. In a supposedly celebrity-enthralled culture, where newspapers like The Scum encourage online readers to anonymously vent their fury at reality TV show stars in the comments section (most shockingly demonstrated by attack articles on a highly vulnerable Susan Boyle, as well as Ms Horgan-Wallace at her book launch), people are more likely to be desensitised to chucking anger around willy-nilly and doing something stupid like walking into a voting booth, disillusioned at the three expenses-splurging, piss-taking political parties, and voting for the British National Party. Oh shit, they already have. Call me an old-fashioned mixed-race Brit, but I don't want different parts of my anatomy being deported to four different parts of the planet. I'd prefer a celebrity-obsessed society to vote for The Celebrity Party, to be honest. For fuck's sake, if The Roman Party can poll about 5,000 votes in the European Elections, then it's conceivable that The Celebrity Party would perform well.

2010 British Cabinet - Joanna Lumley (PM), Carol Vordeman (Chancellor of the Exchequer), Stephen Fry (Minister for Technology), Terry Christian (Communities Secretary), John Cleese (Minister For Overseas Development), Ross Kemp (Minister for Defence), Keith "Cheggers" Chegwin (Culture & Sport), Jeremy Clarkson (Dual role: Justice Minister and Foreign Office), Bill Oddie (Minister for Environment), Peter Andre (Minister for Education), Mr Motivator (Minister for Health). Thanks to Spiderboz, an esteemed co-writer of mine, and Bigkenny, for helping me compile a shortlist for the new Cabinet. I realise that the last one was just an excuse to stick a photo of Mr Motivator at the end of this blog entry, but I think EVERY blog entry would be improved by a photo of Mr Motivator at the end. In precisely the same way that another friend of mine suggested every movie ending would be improved by Burt Reynolds and an orang-utan turning up in a battered truck. Seriously, think of any movie and tack that at the end. "Se7en" is my personal favourite.

Faraway, So Close

I don't sleep well at night. I have regular insomnia. Not a particularly shocking statement, I suppose, considering it's partly hereditary. Anyone that claims any sort of closeness to me will know that I worry a lot too. It's all stuff I perceive to be mountains to climb that causes me a restless night as well, which makes the whole thing a bit more pathetic. Global warming, tsunamis, Third World debt and Palestinian children are all concerns that get me into a vicious circle of never-ending sleepless worry. But four nights ago was different. As I struggled with the latest insomniac worry of Gary McKinnon's potential extradition to the U.S., I actually wept. I can't remember when I last shed a tear on my pillow - we're talking early teens and we're probably talking about early thoughts of a schoolbully's latest victim. The emotional reason comes from that red-hot cheeked feeling harking back to being a helpless childish bystander seeing a vulnerable classmate being completely subjugated. The logical reason is that, unlike any of the other seemingly world-wide massive mountain problems to climb, this one should be a molehill and should be something we can fix. If we can't help Gary out, if we can't help one man out, then we can't do very much else.

I'm affected badly by this for other reasons. One of those is the personal one of having two people in my life who have Aspergers Syndrome, just like Gary. My first degree is in Psychology and I did a great deal of research into the list of prototypical Asperger symptoms. One of the slight misunderstandings associated with the condition is its relation to autism. Some would describe Aspergers Syndrome as a 'diluted' form of autism. This may be true in some respects, but it'd be wrong to completely characterise it as simply just this. In some ways, people who suffer Aspergers Syndrome are actually more vulnerable. For a start, some more extreme autistics live in their heads, figuratively speaking, and the outside world doesn't really impinge on them very much. Meanwhile, Aspergers Syndrome people are fully self-aware that they're deficient in recognising social and emotional cues in their environment (the obvious one being facial expressions on peoples' faces). They're aware that they relate differently to other people with a lack of emotional awareness, and that consequently makes them feel more isolated. It's one of the reasons they're vulnerable to depression and, in some cases, suicide. And it utterly kicks me in the kidneys and it makes me unable to see the screen because of the mist when I write that last word, as both people I know with Aspergers have variously suffered bouts of depression (and with one, three actual nervous breakdowns). So, it's a very real issue for Gary if he is sent to a prison in the U.S.

Another reason is my current career as a web developer, which also involves a lot of stuff with search engines. It's very easy to kickstart a process within a search engine that opens all doors that are not locked, but only closed on the latch, so to speak. Sometimes, you'll open doors that people that have forgotten to lock and you'll catch a glimpse of something that you shouldn't really see. Most of the time, I gulp a bit, reverse the process and stare red-faced at my keyboard. I then repress, banish the thought and carry on with my work. It's just what you do, particularly as people assume there's an elegant world-wide web out there (although I should point out, for sake of clarity, that I haven't hacked any military base machines - I'm talking about ordinary peoples' personal machines that should be locked properly!). What I can actually see is an internet structure still packed with holes, bizarre little caches, broken links, half-protected web servers and forgotten backroom dusty backend machines. Using something as simple as a Perl script that ties together a few other applications, which detects "blank passwords" on machines isn't really even hacking. Boris Johnson argues this point strongly in his Daily Telegraph article defending Gary.

Aspergers Syndrome doesn't permit you to the luxury of social niceties and it arms you with a naive and honest bluntness. Gary saw the real-world equivalent of several unlocked doors with some very important US military types caught sleeping over a half-finished game of poker and left a note saying "Your security sucks" (I'm paraphrasing), with an accompanying email address. It's what I've played with doing, when accidentally finding some insecure web resource somewhere, but I realise that the messenger often gets shot, even when he's doing the decent thing. The point being that when you're dealing with doing any work on the web at even a day-to-day level, it is sometimes unavoidable to trip up over someone else's unlocked private safe. It's an occupational hazard, I believe the phrase to be. So, Ms Jacqui SmithMr Alan Johnson, you might as well round all of us web developers up and hand us to the appropriate authorities. I'm sure if the rest of us were afflicted with the naive honesty granted by Aspergers Syndrome, we'd end up in the same situation.

For more information on Gary McKinnon's case and to sign a petition, please visit Free Gary McKinnon.

Mini Blog Entry: Who Do You REALLY Want To Vote For?

This is an interesting quiz to fill out. It tells you which party you should vote for in the European Elections, based on what your political views are. I filled it out, for two reasons. Firstly, despite being a lifelong Labour Party voter, I now have no idea what the Labour Party, or New Labour, or New Tory, stand for anymore. Secondly (slightly related to the first reason), it's next-to-impossible to learn what all the other political parties stand for anymore. Mainly due to the huge amount of spin, gloss and celebrity standing in the way; not to mention the daily obfuscation that escape from politician's mouths these days, when trying to pin them down on any particular policy. So, fill this out and then, for goodness sake, VOTE! It's an extremely important democratic right that we don't exercise enough.

The Little Boy That Stole The Money (WARNING: Strong Language)

Let me tell you a story set in Paisley; a young girl at the end of Primary School (and, hence, about 10 years old) was given some pocket money by her mother. It was a small amount, some of which could be spent on sweets and the rest could be saved in an old-fashioned piggy bank. That little girl skipped down the street, determined to award herself after after a hard week at school of homework, smelly boys and sharp-voiced teachers. With a high degree of excitement, she opened the big door of the local newsagent open and, in the process, dropped her pocket money onto the cold floor of the shop due to her trembling hands. Before she could reach for the cash, another pair of hands reached and grasped onto the scattered money. The young girl gazed upwards at another pair of youthful eyes; they were the eyes of a boy in her year at Primary School. Happily recognising familiarity, she asked, "Could I have my money back?". After a barely perceptible pause, the 10 year old wiry boy whined back, "This is my money" and walked off. The girl ran home, crying and upset. She told her parents about the boy from her class. The parents were upset too; not just by the bullying she received, but by the causal assumption of ownership that the little swine had showed. "The youth of today," the parents might have exclaimed. As you read this blog, you're probably thinking the same thing. Only, this story of "today" was 40 years ago, in 1969. It's a true story and the little boy was the son of the Goodwins and his name was Freddie. This story was fairly widespread in the school then and, I suspect, is going to become even more widespread at a national level. It's safe to assume he wasn't a popular boy at school, just like he's not popular now. Other tidbits that have reached me was that he was bullied during High School. Rather pleasingly, the reason for the bullying was because the rather skinny runt was arrogant and it wasn't for being wimpy or part of a minority group. Not that I condone bullying, I despise it. As will soon be made abundantly clear.

I had no real opinion of Sir Fred, positive or negative. How could I? I didn't know him. I knew only what the press had printed about him. For a journalist, it made great copy. Everyone hates bankers at the moment. We need a real identifiable target for the general populous to vent their anger at (and, by 'target', that now seems a very real possibility). But, honestly, I didn't particularly mind him. From what I could gather, he was someone who did a job reasonably well and had signed the dotted line that promised him a pension. A rather large pension admittedly, considering he'd only worked at the bank since 1998. But he'd still negotiated it and, if both parties are agreed, then a contract is a contract and he deserves the money. Except I then did a little digging and discovered many reasons why this man is deeply unpopular, with the school story being the smattering of icing on the rather congealed fatty cake.

The man has a ruthless lineage stretching from his school days all the way to the present. This would perhaps be acceptable if he was any good at his job. But he doesn't even have that string to his rather mangy bow. Charmingly, Sir Fred was infamous at moving RBOS into the lovely minefield of sub-prime mortgages, while simultaneously telling the board that there was no exposure to the sub-prime mortgage market; "spinning" would be one way to describe what he was doing, with "lying" perhaps being more appropriate. Fern Britton mentioned "men" on Question Time as being a cause of the problem in the financial sector. "If there was the old-fashioned housekeeping where women are traditionally pretty good at making sure the money goes in the pot for electricity and the phone and the whatever – we didn't pillage and rob it and stick it all on a horse to see if the money would come in next week which it clearly hasn't – when we put all that money into the banks and we see nothing coming back." I'd go further and say it was "men" of a certain age, mainly in their 50s and 60s; the "baby boomers". There is always talk of the "youth of today" in the print media being seen as scroungers, yet all I see (and, yes, I'm talking about the generation next down from me) are people trying to work hard with the very little that has been afforded them, while the "baby boomer" generation above them continues the inward breast-stroke and grabbing more and more; be it property, final salary pensions, free education, foolish investments and oil-guzzling cars. The few visible "youthful scroungers" are merely taking their cues from the generation above them anway.

I've worked for a number of organisations, all in different domains of expertise. Three of the places I've done work for have been finance companies. The first thing that struck me, as a major difference between the finance sector and every other office I've worked for, is the awful sense of entitlement to bonuses; it came from every employee there, including ones who hadn't even done anything that spectacular. And, let's face it, there were many of those; you had a lot of the grey "dead men walking" who'd been beaten into submission; you had a very small group of managers and professionals who had a genuine creative spark; and lastly, you had a group of managers that were extremely "testosterone fuelled" and, despite being so driven, were often to be seen staring jealously at the creative group. Most of the time, the aim was simple from this last group; to expand ruthlessly, like some maladaptive Social Darwinism plan. Who seems more dangerous now? The so-called 'benefit scroungers' or the 'finance sector' scroungers? It seems only fitting that an exhibition of Stanley Donwood's art has opened, with the theme being the financial crisis. Donwood has produced many paintings for this, but he's tellingly commented on a triptych panel called the "Goodwin goat"; "They go after benefit cheats but these bankers are far worse and are being rewarded... people walk away with legally protected, huge bonuses".

Interestingly, a certain anonymous manager I worked for (that I thankfully didn't have many encounters with) fits a personality profile and, like shite rising in a sewer, looks like he's rising to the top. There is a personality profile of Sir Fred Goodwin on Wikipedia, with hobbies being "golf", "shooting" and a keen interest in gas-guzzling cars; pointedly, he also had no technical expertise, but is seen as nakedly ambitious. The personality profile fits this anonymous manager too; it's almost like there exists a "Financial Sector Social Darwinist Sociopath" template. This man could easily have had a five part blog series in his own right and, by rights, he should've had. Luckily, I stopped myself from indulging in such a folly while I worked in the office, as the oleaginous creep would've probably sued me for defamation of character. Except, he wouldn't have been able to, because libel presupposes that the initial defamation had to be untrue. As anyone who knows this blog well, I tend to use nicknames to protect the identity of people I write about to a world-wide community. Those readers that want me to name-and-shame this passive-aggressive, backstabbing, reptilian creep will have to stay disappointed, as I'm not making him the exception. So, instead, I have to think of some witty non de plume with which to christen him for the purposes of this article. I'll call him Cunt.

There now follows a completely subjective and utterly cathartic rant. Anyone looking for reasonably coherent invective should probably look away now. Please also note that all of this is based on fairly widespread knowledge and not through insider knowledge from my previous trade union.

Cunt was one almighty fucking backstabbing prick. He was a cockroach that could survive anything, but that was his only skill. At most other things, he was as useless as a stapled condom. His one great idea appeared to be surveillance, and plenty of it. It was initially targetted at a few people he had a grudge against, and normally with an extremely shaky business reason for doing so. However, he has since made it more widespread. The man must be near-wanking himself to death every night in a feverish frenzy of excitement over the email records, telephone surveillance records, web histories and (probably) CCTV footage. Fuckwit. Shouldn't he be thinking of managing proper projects, since he's being paid an inordinate sum of money to do? Rather than behave like an orifice of Oceania? I looked into the face of Cunt. I realised he was dead behind the eyes, had a big black hole where his soul should have been and, when I looked really closely, saw a small protuberance jutting out of his forehead that on closer inspection was a runted gnarled sexual organ. The "youth of today" in the office, that showed a spark of creativity, were all regularly trampled on by Cunt. One particularly skilled young employee (spoken of highly by other managers) was barked at by Cunt for having his hair too long. While people like the slightly long-haired programmer generated the ideas, people like Cunt and Goodwin carry on their pointless accumulation and endless pursuit of control and grander titles.

All over the finance industry, people like those rancorously grey men haven't had a creative thought apart from how to shift money around. But I also have a lot of thanks for those grey men (and Cunt). It gave me an impetus to actually quit my job with nothing else to go to; which is an interesting thing to do when there's a recession around the corner and a roof over my head needing to be paid for. But that fabulous rush to the head, when I finally announced I was completely throwing the towel in, was utterly tremendous (the first people to know were my mother, naturally, and a former Big Brother contestant*, rather bizarrely) . Better than any drugs, trust me. It was a fight not to become creatively bankrupt either (hence the now weekly update to this blog). Meanwhile, I can look to the next generation, such as a number of young people starting up environmentally-friendly cottage industries that can actually save the world. I admit to looking rather jealously at them. Look at that spark? Can I get it back? Rather than look to the older generation, I've decided to celebrate the younger cousins and listen to them. I'm not going to jealously stare at them, thinking that they're all out to scrounge off me.

Meanwhile, I just hope that the Goodwin gamble does have a happy ending, of sorts. You see, I never quite told you the end of that story about little Freddie Goodwin at school. Apparently, after some weeks of procrastination with the Goodwin parents being told by the little girl's parents about the daylight robbery, little Freddie turned up at the girl's doorstep and gave the money back. This happened at the very point where retribution and punishment were being discussed, but not acted upon. We have to hope that Sir Fred Goodwin will remember that little girl from his past. In the meantime, if anyone wants to look at possible suspects attacking Sir FG's house, look no further than his former employees at RBOS that treated so abominably. Oh hang on, look a bit further back than 1998, when he worked for other companies and showed similar form. Oh, then there's High School, where he behaved like an arrogant tosser. Oh, and Primary School where he took the money from the little girl. And...

The police are questioning 3 million suspects.

* No, I'm not telling you which former Big Brother contestant it was.

Chris Nicholson has now calmed down after writing this blog article and promises something light-hearted for the blog entry that will be published after April Fools Day.

Interruption of this blog for an important newsflash

This isn't really a blog entry. It's more pointing you in the direction of Graham Linehan's latest blog entry, which expresses horror at a newspaper article that a barely-regulated press can publish. I'll leave you to read the blog entry yourself, as Graham Linehan is a more established (not to mention more fluent) writer than me. But on top of all my agreements with Mr Linehan, stands my bafflement of what the aim of the article is supposed to be anyway. I kept thinking, "Oh, the Express journalist is leading up to some real tabloidy-scandalous tidbit, like the protagonists now own guns themselves or the protagonists took part in a Mosely-lite sex orgy". In the end, it appeared to be some pathetic tut-tutting at social networking websites and the 'yoof of today, they're all corrupt drunken hoodlums'. And before I get accused of being a lefty-liberal who can't stand the Mail and the Express, I stumbled across a similarly poorly-written article knocking "social networking/yoof of today" in The Independent (although admittedly forsaking the callous kicking of innocent victims in the process), so the whole print media is fairly guilty of this trend. The Express really knows no boundaries anymore though, as this seems to take a peculiar delight in utterly dehumanising a group of people who have already arbitrarily suffered enough, not to mention a (surely illegal?) privacy invasion. And I thought The Sun's treatment of Hillsborough victims was terrible.
 
Here's the link to Graham Linehan's article, please click on the links in said article for what you can do.
http://whythatsdelightful.wordpress.com/2009/03/18/the-express-wins-the-race-to-the-bottom/

"You Think YOU'VE Got It Bad?"

This latest blog entry is written for Comic Relief. Last week wasn't the best of this year. I wasn't feeling well. Hence, the "You have reached this blog, unfortunately there was no-one in to answer, so meanwhile, here's Jean Michel Jarre's Greatest Hits On The Panpipes Vol II" nature of the last blog entry. My week was uncomfortable, slightly dull and very frustrating; linked to the fact that I quite enjoy my new job and so was constantly pulling at the bungee-jump rope-lead of my crappy malady to get back to it. In my last job, there wasn't much of a struggle. My public face was of a trade union rep and I had to display outward feelings of impartiality, while inwardly I realised that the brown stuff was colliding with the air conditioner. Huh? You think YOU'VE got it bad?

Of course, previously, I just looked to friends who were having a tougher time than my indulged precious worklife. There's my dear friend, Ster, who remarks on his tireless work as a careworker; this often involves wiping an arse an awful lot, and it's often not his own. Meanwhile, Buddhist Cop (or Pouty MacPout), in her bountiful bravery for London's Metropolitan Police force readily texts me from the morgue while looking into some cadaver's guts. Nice. But undercutting both of these friends of mine is my pal, Marching Band Guitarist. His fate? You think YOU'VE got it bad?

The poor sod was subtitling a Tory Party Political Broadcast. Unlike the last two protagonists, doing a job because they felt it benefitted a service to the public, he was locked in the equivalent of a stuck elevator with the reincarnation of Norman Tebbit (re-incarnation? you mean he's not dead yet? my mistake). Adding insult to injury, also stuck in the hypothetical elevator was an innocent deaf bystander, needing to hear everything that's been said. Marching Band Guitarist, through his job, had to translate the rather objectionable load of bollocks being transmitted around said chamber. Just in case anyone feels I'm being a little over-critical of David Cameron's new incarnation of the Conservative Party, I should add it was a very specific broadcast by a very specific Tory MP. The Tory used such choice phrases as "troublemakers" and "youths", as well as Marching Band Guitarist's "favourite" phrase from this beloved right-wing non-entity, ""We need to do less on rights, and more on wrongs!" (after the supposed "troublemaker's" refrain of "I know my rights"). I think Marching Band Guitarist was cradling his head in his hands at that point. Poor sod. You think YOU'VE got it bad?

That last pal of mine had it really tough, because not only was he shut in an editing booth, he was having to hear the most blinkered of privileged moans and then having to nail it down for a minority, a lot of whom would probably reply with, "So what? I'm deaf, I've got other things to worry about". It leads me rather neatly to other friends, people who have it tougher everyday and don't have things that I take for granted (quite apart from all five senses). They're my friends, your friends, they're members of the human race. For example, there are carers for disabled people in the U.K. that aren't wanting to be patronised and are wanting to contribute to society. Outside the U.K., there are honest people trying to carve out an honest living in Africa and looking for trade that is being undercut by an unhelpful international trade agreement. That knee-jerk reaction of a reactionary party political broadcast said it all; in these times of spoiled bankers and grabbing what little we perceive we have, there's still a tendency to kick downwards. Because, in the narrow bandwidth of human experience, there's always someone else worse off, if we can afford to think just a bit more. You think YOU'VE got it bad?

In the few times that people kick upwards, they tend to kick the wrong people. A lot of the same people bemoaning the most vulnerable citizens of society as being the rot, also seem to complain about Comic Relief and the 'overprivileged entertainers' raising their profile by highlighting a faux awareness of people less fortunate than themselves. Well, sorry, the world has moved on - a lot of these 'overprivileged entertainers' can (and do) easily raise their profile by telling us what they're having for their tea on Twitter. Those who like the 'first point of contact' Heat-lite gossip go mad for this type of thing. Others like the updates on a purely human interactive level, as well as the polite broadcasting of artistic projects. The entertainers don't really need a charity telethon to raise their profile these days. On that final point, the entertainers are filling a position in a monetarist society anyway; appealing to peoples' individual choice in giving to charity.

Superficially, society is supposedly kicking against the 'get rich' paradigm and going through a personal re-evaluation of what's important. At a deeper root, they're still wanting the lowest-of-all-lowest taxes and keeping as much to themselves as possible. As such, they're still subscribing to an out-dated idea of the 'trickle-down' economy of enlightened entrepeneurship giving back some proceeds. In which case, they should listen to their 'overprivileged' Comic Relief cousins dancing like puppets, free-of-charge, entertaining them for nothing, and they should give a little something back for it. But not to them, comedian entrepeneurs that they are, but to the causes of our forgotten Third World neighbours instead. For all of you, do what I'm going to do. Laugh raucously at the uneven comedy sketches. Don't fast-forward or mute the appeals in-between, because then you realise... do you think YOU'VE got it bad?

If Africa is really too far away for you, and those friends of ours are perceived as "too distant" then remember that Comic Relief is giving a rather large amount of money to homegrown charities. Those are the UK charities for women and children that are victims of domestic violence, that can't get of a cul-de-sac trap. Other British charities concentrate on young peoples' problems with mental illness, as well as older people who are isolated and vulnerable. But after that, spare a thought for my pal subtitling a distinctly unworthy cause. After I reminded him of my friends, Ster and Buddhist Cop, he responded with "You know what? I think I'd actually rather spend an hour of my time wiping arses *in* a morgue". You think you've got it bad.

This week, Chris Nicholson has basically been saying: donate to Comic Relief. Or, alternatively, vote for governments that invests taxes wisely in attacking poverty, environmental protection and sensible trade policies. Oh...

If I'm Mixed Race, How Come I Dance Like A White Guy?

Hey, everyone! Did you read my last blog entry? 2009 is a brand new start for me and I found out that I'd got a brand new spanking job to go with it, literally in the last week of 2008. The sense of joy at this Christmas present can perhaps be understood by the abject misery I'd faced in my previous job and the unexpected unemployment of October, November and December. It was a real two-fingered salute to 2008, a year of financial collapse and, perhaps poignantly, a two-fingered salute to a few people who would've been quite happy to see me fail for desperately superficial reasons. These reasons have come flooding into my frontal lobe again recently, mainly due to Carol Thatcher's rather clumsy apologies over her "golliwog" comment, made a few days ago on "The Wright Stuff".

Yes, the two are linked - and before I go on, I'll go on the record and say I quite like Carol Thatcher (although the less said about her geographically challenged, thick-as-pig-shit brother, the better - and, as for her mother, she needs her own blog entry for why I think she's a boorish vampiric vandal of Britain). But, I do realise why Carol's caused offence - it's a shame, because I'm libertarian at heart. Freedom of expression is something I believe in. But my problem isn't that she set out to make an offensive remark or even use racially-charged taboo words. It's not even with her failure to make an honest-to-goodness, gosh, hocky-sticks apology (which Boris Johnson, in similar red-cheeked huffing-puffing majesty, is known to do with frequent amusing regularity). No, the reason I found her behaviour crude is because of that slick-palmed, creepy over-familiarity someone like her occasionally exhibits; the assumption that she knows a group of people well enough that she can say what she wants; and then is incredulous when some other people perceive their personal space invaded. I guess it's racism of sorts; lacking the wisdom of social interaction. As an example that is nothing to do with racism, but everything to do with offence, I fucking adore swearing me. But I tend to do it raucously with close pals, not in the hushed silence of a group of Catholic Nuns praying.

I've had a multifaceted relationship with racism throughout my life. It's not something I perceive to encounter very much, but perhaps I should pay more attention. For a start, I've noticed close friends cringing on my behalf in social scenarios when some 'borderline' comments are made by some stranger professing to understand my 'culture' - something I usually miss, because I'm often not a member of that culture in the first place. Worse, this can cover a multitude of 'Scottish/UK non-conformist qualities', such as my skin colour, my English accent (of sorts; it slips around on an almost John Barrowmanesque journey), my religion, my sexual orientation, my music taste* or which sports team I support. Just for the record, I suppose I regard myself as a UK resident, living in Scotland and justifiably proud to be living here, as I was born and raised here. But I'm not a nationalist (either British or Scottish). Oh, and a little digging around in my family tree will see blood that is a mix of Spanish, African Carribean, English, Scottish (Isle of Skye), Chinese and Canadian. Any trips visiting British National Party (BNP) rallies in either Tower Hamlets or Yorkshire will probably involve four different types of shit kicked out of me. Five, if you include the Scottish.

However, before this turns into a straightforward attack on BNP ignorance, my encounters with barely-concealed antipathy of 'difference' goes way wider. It touches upon, for example, why I've (finally) got a job in Glasgow - but never managed to get one before, despite me living in the damned city for almost a quarter century. Don't try and convince me that it was innocent whenever I was asked at the end of every interview about which football team I supported. It bore only a sideways glance at kicking a ball around (Celtic or Rangers notwithstanding, is there a Glasgow footie team that atheists like me can support?). It also gave me a distinctly queasy sensation during interviews when I decided to say I wasn't interested in football at all; this usually meant the (always heterosexual male) interviewer's darting eyes would betray a panic of me 'not being one of the lads' or me having a 'sexually ambiguous orientation'. Oh, we're near the end of this paragraph and I've also failed to point out the hulking great elephant in the room. I was explicitly told that my English accent would be a barrier to getting jobs in Glasgow (despite the aforementioned Barrowmanishness of said accent).

My paranoia was understandably heightened during my unemployment recently, particularly after a decade of continuous employment, during which I always ran into 'social embarrassment' scenarios of the above two paragraphs. When the BNP membership list came tumbling out of the internet ether at the beginning of November, right in the middle of my unemployed phase, I scoured the list. I noticed a disturbing number of people living in my postcode, as well as seeing a name that appeared congruent with an ex-manager of mine who'd displayed a baseless immediate dislike of me (and, apparently, baseless no more?). Could the reason for all those failed job outcomes be the same reason that haunted me over a decade ago? Desperate times certainly lead to a more closed communities, that's well documented. British jobs for the British, ain't that what Gordon Brown endorsed? As an extra added twist for a Scottish-born Prime Minister, the nation that I was born in would probably want Scottish jobs for Scottish people; in other words, the Scottish archetype. White (or, more accurately for Scotland, cyan). Scottish accent. Dour. Dependable. Likes football. Heterosexual in a very obvious way, and not a threat. One of the lads! Like a slight madman, I started consulting the BNP membership list after every failed interview I had! After all, I surmised, if someone on that list looked like a previous manager I had, surely anyone could be on there?

Oh, and now that I've mentioned I'm libertarian, but understandably wary of BNP members (for personal skin-deep reason), it shouldn't surprise anyone that I support their right to uncensored free speech. Even if that is a right to say they want me out of their sight. Or for me to keep my eyes off their white blue-collar jobs. Democracy, particularly in these internet-savvy times, tends to throw up diametrically opposite parties to the BNP that will protect my interests anyway. And, of course, the police will protect me in the likelihood of BNP harrassment - unless my police friends happen to hate liberal, pussy-footed Guardian readers. Oh...

On that subject, I ended up having an interesting discussion with a friend from school, who now serves in the Army. You'd think that an army soldier would disagree with a wet lefty liberal like me. And you'd be right... just not in the way you'd stereotypically think. Broadly, it was pro-censorship vs anti-censorship, particularly in light of a fellow unit officer being found to be on the BNP membership list. I've already voiced anti-censorship for the BNP (or, indeed, for anyone who might have 'controversial' views in UK society). However, my soldier friend made it quite clear that allowing the BNP to have inflammatory opinions would hamper his job in protecting British people and he made it explicitly clear that he counted me amongst them. His upbringing was the same as mine, in a state school that had a rich heritage of Scots with Pakistani, Chinese, Indian, African American and French backgrounds; in other words, his job hinged on him being not just concerned about the 'enemy', but equally protective of British citizens - no matter what their colour. More intriguingly, he also argued that it wasn't the business of anyone in the Army to belong to any political party, mainly because it involves swearing allegiance to the Crown (and the currently sitting government). So, as an example, an Army Officer with paid-up membership of the Labour Party (or New Labour) might not be a problem now, but should there be a Conservative government elected in future, you have the problem of an Army officer perceived as no longer being loyal to the government. The nutshell summary of this whole paragraph is that he was disgusted that a fellow officer could be a member of the BNP, or, indeed, a member of any political party.

All of this I knew in November, which made me feel slightly more secure with it all, even in the midst of my interviews and anxiety of not being Scottish or British enough. I even had a perceived boost to my job prospects. A day before a job interview, for a job I was certain was mine for the taking, Barack Hussein Obama got voted President of the United States of America. The first Black president of USA? Actually, no he isn't. Hands off, you gangsta rappers and African Americans - he's mixed race! He's my golliwog President, not yours! However, 48 hours later, he was a mixed-race President Elect that still never helped me get that sodding job, as I walked out of my prospective new office, utterly disheartened and rejected. Except, while I attempted to jump a Lothian Bus on the way home in the heavy spattering rain of the rapidly approaching night, I laughed raucously at something that had happened a full year before. It's a story that has turned into something of an internet apocryphal story, not owned by anyone. So, I'm claiming it back for me and my pals...

In November 2007, I decided to go and have a quiet drink on a Friday night with my friend, Big Kenny. It was the end of harrowing working week. Seeing as we were of a sufficiently braindead state of mind, we decided to just go to the nearest pub - in other words, a pub full of suits. Full of respectable finance types. Scrub that. A pub full of finance slags in suits who had successfully hidden the impending bank crisis. Anyway, Big Kenny warned me that two pisshead mates of ours were in Edinburgh that weekend, down from Inverness. They were in town, mainly to sample the delights of some scantily-clad female Philosophy students, trying to plug a gap in their student loans, by lapdancing on their clumsily inebriated erections. With that in mind, we glanced nervously at the door of this 'faux posh' wine bar, while we downed our pints and tried to block out the invariable shitness of our working weeks. However, after about three particularly stale beers, our two pisshead mates staggered in. Promptly, they announced loudly, in loud, ciggie-hoarsed voices, "Yaay, guys! We've just been to a fucking ace titty bar! And I got a lapdance off this gorgeous Negro woman...". At which point, we had to stop them in their tracks, before the wine bar bouncers threw them out. "You can't say Negro in front of Chris," protested Kenny nobly, "he's part Black!". Quick as a flash (and still in the same loud volume), pisshead mate claimed reasonably, "Yeah, I know, man, that's why I never said nigger!".

The resulting crash of me hitting the floor, while I laughed uncontrollably for a full seven minutes, was probably a sight to behold. I couldn't work out what I found funnier; the speed of my pisshead mate's delivery, when he'd drunk a brewery's worth of Tennent's industrial strength piss; or the shocked look of approximately forty Standard Life/Royal Bank Of Scotland employee WASP suits. Of course, if any of those strangers had patted me on the shoulder and repeated the joke, with a faux Thatcher-like familiarity, I would've said, "That's offensive, don't you think? Considering you don't know me?"

I don't think they got the joke. I don't think Carol Thatcher would get the joke either.

* I quite like reggae, some hip-hop and grime, but I dislike most rap. I like a fair few skinny white boy guitar bands, but dislike 'new MOR' such as Keane. I can't stand music that speeds along at 400bpm and you need to be off your tits on drugs before you can 'truly get it'.

Chris Nicholson is terrified that this blog entry's reference to 'nigger', 'Obama' and the 'BNP' will line him up with some rather extremist Google searches.