Self Deluded Cranium Dump

Statuesque Reality

Originally published 10/08/2009, updated 05/09/2009

Art is a reflection of reality, right? Or is reality a reflection of art? Never have two questions been more in perfect symmetry as when the subject of performance art comes up and a recent best example is, of course, oneandother. Performance art is something I've never been completely comfortable with, even though I admire some of its representatives. Too often, it can end up as an inane stunt, such as a mime artist throwing prawns from a bucket at a brick wall to represent the stalemate of the War On Terror. However, when I heard about the oneandother showpiece in Trafalgar Square, I was genuinely baffled as to how it was going to work, despite my faith in the chief artist, Antony Gormley. I could understand his motivation behind such the piece, though. A member of the public would stand on the fourth plinth for every hour, on the hour, for the next 100 days. It would be a brilliant piece of 'living art', but the performance art itself wouldn't be Gormley; it'd be the individual random members of the public. But my bafflement can be asked with two questions; how would you administrate such a thing and surely that would just attract the same members of the public that would audition for reality television? You'd get a rather skewed section of a supposed Great British public. While that question hovered in front of me, it appeared to be answered decisively by a close friend of mine, Louise, who promptly announced that she'd be doing it; and said close friend is eminently sensible and has zero interest in chasing fame. In fact, she was even a sort of an ex-boss of mine who used to keep me in line. We worked in an office where we couldn't move the fishtank from the previous office, so we replaced it with a computer piping forth the "Big Brother" Channel 4 live feed. This was about the most literal upgrade replacement I could think of. All done irony-free, of course. It's about a year since I wrote about "Big Brother", Channel 4's reality TV series, and it's generally recognised as the granddaddy of reality shows (loved and loathed in equal measures, but no-one can deny it te granddaddy title), but that ain't what this article is strictly about.

Because I hate "Big Brother". There, I've said it. Weirdly enough, not because of any contestants who have gone into "The House" this series (or, indeed, from any series). Yes, there's wannabes, exhibitionists, et al, but I always have a sneaking admiration for anyone who lasts till the end. My occasional co-writer, Spiderboz, and I have had chats about the series and are distinctly confused as to why anyone would want to go on it. Spiderboz tends to go from a privacy angle (e.g. why would you offer your entire life on a plate for people to watch?). Mine is more pragmatic - I can't stand people in general and love living in a flat by myself. In fact, I'm always impressed by the "mediator" characters who are in the final, as they've essentially got to the end with the patience of Mother Theresa living in a habitation full of closeted adults afflicted with attention-deficit disorder and/or juvenile dementia. I've gone hiking and hosteling before and you always end up in an enclosed place with at least one asshole, usually in the middle of nowhere. I'm nearly always the one to make the "first call" on said asshole, much to the embarrassment of the rest of a hostel group and am therefore, "evicted" (usually to sleep in someone's car boot or in a tent outside). In fact, often the said asshole is me. Case closed.

I might've shocked a few of you by saying that I can't stand "Big Brother", while others that might have seen my odd Twitter/Facebook status update will be thinking, "Hang on, I've seen you pollute my news feed up occasionally with the odd BB reference, what gives?". For the haters, a lot of them use a superiority position and claim a "tabloid" or "lowest common denominator" argument. For others who know me better and who have seen me write about BB (from over a year ago), they'll know my dislike of producer-choice edits. Oh, c'mon, production companies have got into trouble for re-editing the Queen, for fuck's sake! Conversely and perversely, my friends will also know that the reason I liked it (certainly in the olden days of the first few series) was because it allowed voyeuristic ex-psychologists like me to observe a social experiment unshackled of any pesky psychological ethics committee intervention; this was pre-OFCOM obviously. However, there's a very simple reason why I don't like BB. It eats up too much fecking time. I had an entire Summer eaten up by the seventh series (sparked by an ex-school buddy going in) - as a result, I've decided to just read two very funny blogs on it and dispense with the long silly hours spent watching producer-constructed storylines and go and enjoy slices of real life.

This leads back neatly onto oneandother. The phrase 'slices of real life' is a fairly good subtitled description for it. There's no supposed storylines, so you can tune in and out of the 'live feed' whenever you want to. In that respect, there's a pleasing symmetry to oneandother being a simple live feed, while the granddaddy of reality shows has perversely dispensed with theirs. It shows an understanding that spectators want another model of reality to perceive, as opposed to one individual egocentric's take on it. If you live in London, you can even go along and have a good old gawp at whoever is on the fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square. However, this still leads back to my original question of who would go up there? And, like I said, I appear to have got half-an-answer when my dear friend, Louise, travelled down to London to, well, go up there. For the past year, I've also been in occasional online contact with a former reality TV contestant, who has offered up some feedback on televison's take on reality soap opera when reading my blog entry on the subject. My conclusion is that the common thread through all of these people is very simple - and it's not actually exhibitionism or wanting instant fame. It's impulsiveness. It's "why the fuck not?".

There's a strong element of wanting to take one's self outside the usual rules and conventions of dull everyday life, if only for a little while. This doesn't have to include exhibitionism, or getting your face on telly, or getting a magazine deal to talk about romance. It can do, but it doesn't have to be like that. I'd actually say that oneandother is scarier than any edited reality television construct. In a television gameshow, you're at least cocooned within a studio environment that is ringed by security and then eventually ejected to possible audience ridicule for, oh, about two minutes. Then you can admire Davina McCall's improbably shiny and conditioned hair, as well as shelf-life fame afterwards. As part of oneandother, you're exposed to unexpected weather changes, random strangers and Sky Arts cameras delivering live feed video footage to bored Guardian journalists, online Messiahs and giggling students. Who'd have thought it would be an ideal replacement for "Blockbusters"? With this in mind, I'm glad I travelled to Trafalgar Square a week ago. I felt surprisingly protective of Louise. I say surprising, because I'm always trying to give the projection of being aloof and distant. Because I am both of those things, I generally succeed. When I encounter an emotion that is outside of that, I don't try and repress; I tend to go and follow it to see where it leads me. The results of this journey can be seen in the live blog entry version of this. You see? In the traditions of the earlier Big Brother series, there's actually a "live feed" version of this blog entry; this blog entry is the "producer edited highlights" (for those wanting to read the live feed version, I recommend playing assorted birdsong noises while reading it and watching the recorded feed of these people - click on Wednesday, and check them out from midday).

The conclusion from my "live blogging" is two-fold. Firstly, it's as much about the way the audience perceives the plinth inhabitant. About which, more later. Secondly, it's another spin on using different media to try and make some sense of day-to-day reality. From the crude modelling of real life in reality television to the scarily natural uptake of social networking devices to advertise what we're doing, this is the modern art's take on day-to-day living and, by rights, it should really win the Turner Prize. It overshadows the posturings of Tracy Emin, because Antony Gormley has always had a very clear-sighted vision of what he wants to achieve. Every single plinth person has done something immeasurably different from everyone else. So, Gormley has been able to illustrate the innate uniqueness that exists in every human being. However, the audience reaction is far more interesting, particularly as I spotted something fascinating that may well-and-truly spell the end of reality television series like "Big Brother". I've christened it the Fifty Minute Fame Mark.

Put briefly, there seemed to be an almost unnoticeable shift in peoples' perceptions of dear Louise on the plinth at about the 50 minute mark of the hour she was up there. I've described it in more detail in my 'live blog' version of this blog article. Yes, you heard. It takes approximately 50 minutes. Ok, fair enough, it's maybe an ephemeral sort of fame - did you expect any less? Oh, it doesn't even need TV cameras either, although that does help. How do I know it takes 50 minutes? Well, empirically, I don't. But after observation over a decade of "instant fame", plus a gathering of qualitative data while watching my friend on the plinth in Trafalgar Square, I reckon this is a good ballpark figure. The ephemeral fame is obviously variable too, depending on your performance value. Remember Susan Boyle? I think that was about the 50 minute mark in an hour long show too - the ephemeral fame was rather extreme, obviously, as the 'reveal' of her singing voice occurred at just the demographically-targetted moment and for maximum effect.

I think the Fifty Minute Fame Mark (FMFM) will be a substantial nail in the coffin of reality television. We're already seeing it anyway; the extremely low audience figures for the granddaddy reality TV programme is one example. Mark Lawson argued that all TV brands have a finite life anyway and used examples like DIY programmes lasting for about 7-8 years. A lot of hardcore devotees of reality TV would claim the loss of a live feed and having to rely on producer edits is the kiss of death for "Big Brother" - indeed, such is the anger at the lack of a live feed this year, I've seen a discussion thread with a ludicrous number of posts, as well as a rather sweet former reality TV contestant asked to lobby the powers-that-be for it to be returned (her reply was an understandably baffled, "Um, I can't do anything, why do you ask me?!?"). As I alluded to before, social networking ensures we're constantly living in an environment viewing the unfolding reality show of other friends' soap operas. TwitVid, which is the latest add-on to Twitter, is effectively the real-life version of "Big Brother" anyway (celebrity or otherwise).

A lot of reality TV shows, as we know them now, will increasingly look like they will soon be added to the ranks of curious zeitgeist mementos, such as "The Adventure Game" from the 1980s or "Treasure Hunt" from the 1990s. Also, rather like politics being ruined by the emergence of the professional career politician, TV programmes like "Big Brother" are being ruined by professional reality TV careerists; they literally live from one reality show to another (two examples of this just left the BB house recently). They do it to keep the profile up, as well as the cash that comes their way. Perhaps tragically, the prediction that I made a few years back about there being genuine casualties amongst reality TV's depleted lifeblood of careerists looks to be becoming true. Already we can count more and more cries for help, particularly this year with Sree and the aforementioned Susan Boyle, as well as the case of Kat McKenzie's post-series suicide in "Paris's Best Friend" (accompanied by a hugely suspicious lack of coverage for that last one). But the FMFM rule means that you don't have to sit in a badly hoovered TV studio for three months to achieve fame, because it takes 50 minutes. Ask my friend Louise. At the 50 minute mark, the schoolkids had all suddenly decided she was a Goddess, one bloke (a few yards away from me) decided he was in love with her and I was suddenly getting calls on my mobile phone from mutual friends who suddenly wanted her to acknowledge them in some way while she was up there. Instant fame? Either use your own personalised social networking tool with video plug-in, constant daily updates and make your own reality show with your friends. Or just add water and a picnic to Trafalgar Square.

Update: 05/09/2009

The tenth series of "Big Brother" ended last night. Next series will be the last, as broadcast by Channel 4. The announcement that the franchise will no longer be shown on the channel occurred last week. The above blog article had already predicted some sort of reality television cancellation, so it didn't surprise me at all. Of interest to me was that two former contestants from the "Big Brother" series commented on the cancellation with the same criticisms that I mentioned in my article.

Nick Bateman argues strongly for returning to the earlier roots of the series, with meddling from producers cut down to a minimum. It chimes strongly with what I'd said about producer-edits actually being a turn-off.

Meanwhile, Aisleyne Horgan-Wallace is trying to put forward the idea of attracting people who are not fame-seekers with the intriguing concept (not to mention funny concept) of chucking ten bankers in the house. This strongly tallies with what I said about attracting a genuine cross-section of society, not to mention the number of reality TV careerists.

In short then, if the concept of reality TV is dated, it needs adapted. But I still think in the world of social networking, it'll need to be substantially revised.

Awkward Chats

After the last blog entry, things were getting rather incendiary. If the pen is mightier than the sword, then I'd gladly like to think I'd given a couple of "personalities" both barrels of a shotgun. But that's not really what this blog is all about. Despite the fun I had in ranting, this blog entry is going to try and return back to it's slightly fluffier roots and do what it does best. Namely, people can read it and laugh as I expose yet more of my 'hilarious' inadequacies. Chief amongst those is the awkward conversation, of which I excel at. Admittedly, not as bad as Jacqui Smith opening up dialogue with her husband as to how "Raw Meat 3" ended up on her pay-per-view TV bill, but close. Although having said that, her husband should've just checked his wife's Home Office website, as it appears to be have been providing free porn on tap.

I've got the rather onerous task of going through every message in my Facebook Inbox after work this week. This is because I've just discovered the very real possibility that the Facebook computer virus that I had in November might have affected a whole load of people that aren't even on my Friends list. I thought the whole point of internet communication was to avoid awkward conversations. That's the whole reason I use it. But I've now got to go and have the virtual equivalent of the 'real world' STD talk. In other words, speaking to people I've had casual contact with and tell them they might have caught a virus from me via an ephemeral interaction. Great. Sodding great.
 
My real life is replete with awkward conversations, usually as a result of something escaping from my mouth in the heat of the moment and it then staying with me forever. I like Twitter because you can savour a moment in current time, look at it from a number of angles and then post it. It's a bit like always being ready with the witty one-liner and committing it to a world-wide community cocktail party, rather than cursing yourself for not having the perfect put-down for the random pavement heckler. Kimire actually describes it best in her latest article, so I'll plug her blog post here. I love collective blogging, because somebody somewhere has usually put something in words better than I ever could, and my self-inflicted inertia of boundless laziness can just continue.
 
A perfect example of such laziness is also the aim of this blog entry, since I've got several parties to go to in the next few weeks, alongside a school reunion (another one) in June and three weddings in May, one after the other. All I can see is a minefield of monumentally ill-timed rambling, littered with solipsism semtex at every step. All of these parties will be filled with loads of people I haven't seen (some in over a decade) and I'm about to make a tit of myself, even with my sober chat. It's a bit of a homecoming too, of sorts, as I'll be seeing old schoolfriends that I haven't inadvertently offended in over 15 years. So, this blog entry is a pre-emptive strike of sorts. I can give all the witty quotes and hilarious anecdotes here, because I know that a fair chunk of them read my blog. Then, at the parties in question, I can turn up and claim some sort of chat asylum and remain mute for the rest of the party while tucking into chicken drumsticks. That'll show 'em.

Oh, so you don't believe in my propensity for pitiful parley? Well, here's an example of my decidedly crap conversational chit-chat here, at a front-of-house reception for a performance of "King Lear". I'm still scarred by that memory and I blame the director of that play, Casual Egoist. The fact that his show got a standing ovation and I was reduced to his "idiot savant" comedy sidekick as he basked in the glory of it all makes the pain all the more great. As a result, it's payback time and I'm going to remind him of one of his greatest conversational floorkillers, to show I'm not the only one who is an expert at 'foot-in-mouth' gob gaffes.  

Picture the scene. Three friends, made up of Casual Egoist, Gingerbread and Chris turned up at a MacDonalds on Sauchiehall Street, and found the place almost completely empty. They bought their burgers and fries and sat at one of many identical Formica white tables. While the three tucked into a hearty snack of American imperialism, two young (and not unattractive) women entered the premises. One of these ladies instantly clamped eyes on young Casual Egoist and decided that she'd quite like "a bit of that". The two young ladies bought their meals and sat at the table directly behind Gingerbread and Casual Egoist. There were many, many, many identical Formica white tables in the empty restaurant, so this could scarcely have been a coincidence. So, Gingerbread, Casual Egoist and Chris carried on tucking into their meal, while going slightly more quiet as they were aware of the female strangers' company.

"Excuse me," asked the younger attractive female to Casual Egoist, "but do you have the correct time on you?". "Aye," said young Casual Egoist, "It's, um, 12.05". The younger attractive female fluttered her eyelashes coquettishly. "Why, thank you!"

Casual Egoist turned back to Chris and Gingerbread, with a gleeful gleam in his eye and an uncharacteristic swagger had suddenly developed in the gait of his stance. But before this startling transformation could fully take hold, the younger attractive female tapped him on the shoulder. "Do you know when this place closes?". Casual Egoist was suddenly aware that all of her attention was focused on him, her pupils dilated in his direction. The attractive stranger was ignoring the other two spuds. Casual Egoist's swagger was back and a hint of a terrible New York accent had crept into his voice. "As late as you want it!"

The tension had now become unbearable. The younger attractive female winked at him, her eyes full of unquenchable truths. She smiled fully, revealing almost perfect teeth."Tell me, do you know where the toilet is in here?" she exclaimed. "Aye, it's up those stairs, take the first on the left, then the first on the right!" he orated confidently. "Why, thank you again!" she smiled and rose from her seat, her destination being the aforementioned bathroom. Casual Egoist was on a roll... which was a shame, as without thinking, he leapt before he looked. And shot his own gob off with sheer abandoned recklessness.

"Aye, no problem. I'm a toilet expert, me!" (author's emphasis)

The young attractive female's beautiful smile vanished rapidly. She glanced at her friend, seemingly now slightly panicked. Her friend just turned to her meal and examined some of her chips incredibly closely. As quickly as they had arrived, the younger attractive female rushed upstairs to the bathroom, came back downstairs, grabbed her friend and the two bolted out of the door, leaving two perfectly half-finished McDonalds meals.

After their swift departure, a dawning of some sort occurred over Casual Egoist's face, after a pause of about three minutes. "What in FUCK'S name did I just say? I can't believe I said that!". Scarcely unable to contain themselves (and almost scarcely unable to breathe too), Gingerbread, Casual Egoist and Chris subsequently burst into hysterical laughter, which didn't stop for nearly three weeks. Because if they hadn't laughed, they would've cried.

The thing is, I always regard that friend of mine as a bit of smooth-talking belligerent male totty (albeit balding belligerent male totty), so the fact that he can have feet of clay rather frightens me. When am I next going to embark on a rapidly spiralling speech of utter calamity? Soon, if this June school reunion comes along. Thankfully, I don't have to organise this one; but it's my responsibility to get everyone in my original year to be "in the know". This is fine, as it goes. I'm all for telling everyone. But perhaps the most intimidating of these forthcoming invitations, is having to face up to the awkward chat to end all awkward chats. At some point very soon, I need to meet French Lawyer, a girl who was in my year. Why will it be awkward inviting her?

So far, every colleague at school has kindly reciprocated any of my mangled memoried messages, with polite friendly messages of confabulation back. I've even had the pleasure of sparking up new friendships with people I wasn't that close to at school, such as Bailey's Belle. However, the last time I spoke to French Lawyer at school was when she remarked to my (admittedly smug) face that she should've won the English prize rather than me. It didn't look like she was joking either. A few years after school ended, there was also a disastrous evening out with her. The night ended with me being half-inebriated, hanging off a bar, trying not to drool on my shoulder and trying not to look like a lonely tramp. This was after my drunken flower-seller mate had gatecrashed the evening by burbling pervertedly "'Ere, is she your date, Chris?" before tripping over his own shadow and spilling one perfect bottle of Sauvignon Blanc over her nice dress. It was the final straw, after the fountain of foolishly flirty fug that had emanated from my alcoholic moosh. The evening ended pretty abruptly at that stage.

Her only contact with me since that incident, has been one singular Facebook photo tag request. The request was the not-at-all-narcissistic "French Lawyer would like to tag 'French Lawyer' in one of your Facebook pictures". So, she can browse my pictures and photos, but can quite happily give me the cold shoulder? Actually, I don't blame her. As for the picture tag request, this doesn't surprise me remotely, as someone pointed me to her blog and I saw her picture. It's all stark black 'n' white, Bergmanesque beauty with a hint of zephyr blowing at her long strands of dark hair; but she's supposed to be Rumpole of the Bailey, not fucking Tess of the D'Urbervilles. If that's too tough on her, well... she upset a few people, including a female schoolfriend of mine, by a blog entry where she slagged off a large area of London. So, I'm just getting revenge in for my friends. How chivalrous of me? Not really. So, now I have to have an awkward conversation about an awkward conversation I had about 14 years ago. Great. Although, you'd think her being a human rights lawyer would afford her a bit of compassion. Surely she should realise that the person that I am now is not the slovenly, drunken piss artist I was 14 years ago? Or, indeed, that anyone is the person they were 14 years ago?

On the plus side, I can look back at my past, recognise the piss-poor parlance that I've indulged in and confidently look forward to a future of more mistimed fuckwittery, despite supposed maturity of my mid-thirties.

Next week: Chris Nicholson will review the next Doctor Who story. Then he'll remind everyone that it's not just the rebooted series that portrays the Doctor as the ultimate romantic hero, but the classic series from the 1960s - 1980s as well. Seriously.

25 Things You Didn't Know About Me - The Abridged Version

Right, I've had a stomach virus in the last 3 days, so I've not been able to do much writing for the blog. In fact, I've not had much time to do anything apart from let my guts indulge in some soft-mittened fisticuffs in the depths of my intestines (which, incidentally, is a lot more uncomfortable than it sounds, even if it does sound like an exercise in "kicking off" in a Glasgow pub, while asking for a pint of warm milk). So, I'm just going to rehash some old material I wrote as part of one of those ludicrous Facebook "share some interesting facts about yourself with your friends" fun 'n' games. I've had to "anonymise" (is that even a word? it's a Nicholson neologism now) some of the acquaintances in it for a world wide web community, so enjoy.

1) I wrote the music for the Pearl & Dean adverts in the 1970s. This should've netted me a small fortune in royalties, but I couldn't think of any lyrics. As a result, I violated the contract and I don't make a penny out of those adverts. I still wince whenever I hear, "Baaaah bah, baaaah bah, ba ba ba..." in my local cinema.
2) I bought the only 4-wheeled Reliant Robin.
3) An anagram of Christopher Philip Nicholson is "Shh, Cliche Nihilist Porno Prop".
4) I have the sexual magnetism of a lion on heat, but the sexual performance of a depressed trombone.
5) My mate, Casual Egoist, keeps expecting us to have a fistfight in the near future. What he doesn't know is that we've already had the fight and I knocked him into the future.
6) Priscilla Presley doesn't actually exist and I was the man who proved it.
7) I had a sex change operation when I was 14, but then got bored and changed back again when I was 17. Apparently, I was the only person to have done this. Unless you count the bloke that changed six times.
8) One of my best friends is my complete opposite. Hairy Insomniac is a short, hairy, married Scottish nationalist white honky and has been with the same woman nearly his whole life. I'm a tall, wiry half-n****r who actually hates the Scottish and can barely nail down an Ikea wardrobe, let alone a steady relationship with a woman.
9) Political correctness is something I'm vaguely aware of, but only nod to briefly.
10) I'd like to be reincarnated as Tori Amos's piano stool.
11) I'm not a bad man, but I wouldn't say I'm a good man.
12) One of my best new friends is a lovely lady called Bailey's Belle. We knew each other in school, but not that well - so it's nice that we're close friends now. However, any time I've ever gone out drinking with her, I end up with more and more extravagant injuries. I'm half-expecting to lose a major limb the next time I go to the pub with her.
13) I'm an atheist fundamentalist. I set fire to Watchtower magazine whenever it makes disparaging remarks or does fatuous cartoons about Richard Dawkins.
14) I once hacked the internet in the 1990s. The internet is only one line of code, I still don't know what the fuss is about.
15) Lots of rock stars sold their soul to the Devil. On the one occasion that the transaction was reversed, the Devil sold his soul to Lemmy from "Motorhead". I negotiated the contract.
16) I used to think I was gay, until I was told it was a sexual orientation, not a state of mind. I still thought I was gay, until another friend of mine told me that having sex with yourself doesn't count. After a third time of thinking I was gay, Peter Tatchell told me to stop calling him. I'm now straight, but only by default.
17) I once fell asleep while driving my car, only to dream that I was driving the same car. I woke up, just as I parked my car in the drive. I then walked into my front door without opening it, banged my head and required stitching.
18) During Summer, I suffer an obscure form of Tourettes Syndrome, where I sing the swear words in operatic arias.
19) I once stole a Thunderball scratchcard off Mystic Meg, during the one time in her life when she 'used powers for evil'. I won £20,000, but lost it immediately as it happened to be the one day when David Blaine had 'turned bad' as well, and he levitated the cash onto the Statue of Liberty as part of a 'street magic' TV series. The bearded, monotonous-voiced cunt.
20) I was actress Dawn Steele's first 'leading man' in a play. She asked me if I could see her as a successful actress whilst I was driving her around the Campsie Hills. I told her I could see a future where she'd star in a couple of Sunday night serials ('the televisual equivalent of a log fire, mug of cocoa and comfy slippers'), co-star with two former Doctor Whos and would be beaten in a TV singing contest by someone in "Eastenders".
21) I was in an arranged marriage. It had been arranged by John Williams, written by Debussy and sung by Sarah Brightman.
22) My favourite word is 'plinth'. I like it, because I invented it.
23) I once wrote a journalistic piece for The Guardian, which coincidentally was the first article in said newspaper that didn't have a misprint. Polly Toynbee hailed it as a 'new era in print history' for the beleagured lefty liberal broadsheet.
24) My catchphrase is: "What are you doing in that big cardboard box?". It didn't catch on.
25) I might have lied in some of these 25 "facts".

Chris Nicholson realises he didn't make all of the references to his friends completely anonymous. But Dawn has an agent now and she can go through the usual channels of litigation. The stuff about the drive around the Campsie Hills is true enough though.

A Bite of 2009

Mercifully, I'm back in 2009 and already delighted that 2008 has gasped its last, which was easily the worst out of any year I've had on this planet. Yes, that even includes 1987, when I had the ubiquitous unrecquited teenage crush; my 14th birthday fell on Black Monday; acid house/Rick Astley were in full dissonant diarrhea mode; and watching Doctor Who equalled an evening around the TARDIS console with Bonnie Langford (by the way, has any sad Whovian noticed that her penultimate episode is episode 666 on IMDB? Just me then). Oh, and just to prove the 1987 parallel, 2008 had full-blown rickrolling as the tortuous deja vu soundtrack to the crisis of faith in my last career; a career that I've thankfully ditched (more of that in another blog entry, however). 

2009 has started with a brand new job, a brand new location and, yes, another New Year Resolution of a weekly update to this blog. Admittedly almost broken, but I can blame the lack of a proper internet connection and trying to get a permanant roof over my head since the beginning of November. But I'm back with a vengeance. For future posts, I'm looking to witter about Twitter (annoyingly, the mainstream Press appeared to have finally caught up with the Twitter phenomenon, just as I was writing the article); ask Carol Thatcher why I can't dance if I'm half-black (no, really); and mention the time during The Wilderness Years when I attended an alien-worshipping cult (with photos included).

Until then, it's nice to be back...

Virtual Reality

I used to think there were two different types of training course.

The first is your typical classroom and tutorial session. Bloke at front of classroom, gesticulating wildly at a blackboard (or PowerPoint presentation); passive learning from the students; the odd tutorial session acting as the ''active learning' component, so the stuff learned during passive learning is reinforced.

The second is more concerned with practical exercises that punctuate and act as a foundation to a quickly explained theory. One example would be learning the guitar or the piano; the playing is the thing, although a quick explanation of theory underpins why you're doing what you're doing. Another example would be job interview technique; role-playing is the thing, but why you're giving 80% eye contact to your job interviewer and not farting continuously at an 80 degree angle in your swivel chair underpins the theory of body language.

It came as some surprise that when I did a Negotiation training course last week, I stumbled across a third approach. It involved dumping a bunch of anxious trade union representatives in the middle of an isolated spartan country house miles away from civilisation and subjecting them to a bunch of mind games, seeing how they would react and interact with each other. To those who are reminded of Big Brother (the Channel 4 TV series*, as opposed to the leader of a dystopic future in George Orwell's "1984" novel), they're not far wrong. There was even a game that involved nominating, voting and then evicting fellow housemates, for Chrissakes!

From the beginning, I'd already prepared myself for the worst. I was being driven up in a 2 hour car journey, with three comely female companions (one of them driving). For those regular readers of my blog, it's already known that my life is a catalogue of "out-of-the-comfort-zone" moments, replete with misunderstandings and gnashing of teeth. I was ready for the stark truth of reality as compared to the fluffy cloud of the theoretical. You want an example? Okay, a few of my male mates were understandably excited (but only by means of proxy) that I was to be indulged by being confined in a car with three (two single and unattached) attractive women. I, however, could only see the terror**.

Contrary to popular belief (or more specifically, FHM masculine fantasy), when there is a group of women and one singular male in a confined space, that singular male does not suddenly turn into a potential breeding vessel.

Also, my testosterone-fuelled befuddled beefcake pals, there is only a very VERY tiny probability that all the women will spontaneously turn lesbian and start writhing around on top of each other, before spontaneously switching back to a 'natural' heterosexual status quo and then them all 'doing' the nearest male mate. The female car driver wouldn't be able to steer straight for a start***. No, dear fellow male bloggees, as a singular male, what really happens is you become a small experimental specimen; like a small insect continuously prodded in curiosity.

So, what really happened? Well, there was my dearest friend and confidant, Donna, and she was the designated driver. She was a very good driver and I felt safe in her hands. She must have known she was a good driver. It would certainly suggest why most other drivers on the road were lacking the same motoring skills as her, as she patiently explained that driver 'A' was "a total fuckwit" or that driver 'B' "couldnae find the right lane if his life depended on it". After a particularly useful throwaway remark about driver 'C' "not knowing the difference between his indicator light and his left arse cheek", I decided to turn to my other female companions.

"Hello, I was wanting to know," said a cute bubbly blonde called Jen, "you're a man. Why are you all such total bastards?!?".

I started explaining back patiently to young Jen that it's only a loud-mouthed minority that misrepresents us so horribly, but she wasn't really listening - I think she was noticing my eyes were a cold shade of bastardliness. I turned to my final car occupant, the dark-haired sultry beauty called Heather, and tried the same line again (aka the loud-mouthed minority of men misrepresenting the quiet, sensitive souls that we really are).

"Are you gay?" she retorted. "No, seriously, are you?".

The rest of the journey's conversation seemed to revolve mostly around the art of fisting. And, no, that doesn't mean the FHM reader's lesbian fantasy has come true. Merely, a rather bemused exchange of ideas between four confused heterosexuals about what gay women get up to.

So, we eventually reached our destination, the isolated country house that I described above in the third paragraph. There was something curiously enigmatic about the place - lots of odd dark corridors locked off by security doors; biology labs; an old library where you can imagine Colonel Mustard bludgeoning somebody with a candlestick. I remarked that the place was possibly haunted - something that irritated nearly everybody.

"Don't say that!" someone hissed at me. I repeated that the place was probably haunted - the repetition wasn't for any portentous reason, it was just to annoy everyone.

As some of you who know me really well, when I'm in a slightly stressful situation, I tend to put on an act. It's normally one of nonchalance, flippancy and irreverance. It was emerging even now and would eventually be the exaggerated facade that showed itself to a jaded audience of union reps in role-playing negotation scenarios. In fact, it culminated in one gloriously heated exchange, where it was perceived that I'd suggested to a kind and thoughtful woman that her kids were "care in the community" cases. I've been reliably informed that, for the first day at any rate, most of the union reps were unaware that this was an act and thought I was an arrogant bastard.

This "total immersion" role-playing in proper scenarios is actually really powerful. Quite apart from eliciting strong emotional reactions in its participants, it's well-known that strong emotional arousal cements memory retrieval. So, all those potentially dry notes on Negotiation Technique are suddenly spot-welded to your frontal lobe. I'm never going to forget being nominated and voted out by a bunch of people who were convinced that I was in the mafia. Trouble is: it was a game where the mafia had to hide the fact they were the fricking mafia and achieved this by convincing a gullible community to vote out innocent citizens (specifically, those who had deduced who the real mafia were). I fecking well remembered my Negotiation notes after that; particularly after the rather nasty nightmare I had later, based on those events****.

* For those of you interested, I plan on posting a series of blog entries on the Channel 4 'Big Brother' TV series in the week before the new series launches. Then I won't watch it. I have my reasons which will quickly become apparent after the series of articles. And, no, I'm not a 'Big Brother' snob, I've watched the entire third and seventh series.

** No, it's not because I'm in I.T. and so, by default, I'm scared of women. Smart arse.

*** I'm ignoring the male colleagues who said that impairing a woman's ability at driving wouldn't be noticeable in the first place.

**** Of course I'm not going to tell you explicitly what the nightmare was - suffice to say, it involved being chased by a large number of medieval villagers, desperate to set me on fire or chuck me in a lake.

The Late Post

Well, there should've been a post here describing a bizarre encounter with some animals at http://www.auchingarrich.co.uk/. However, the animal photos have not yet been published, so that's for another day.

Instead, I'm posting a final entry before I head up North to Pitlochry for a training course in negotiation tactics that I need as a trade union representative (stop sniggering at the back). Boy, do I need it, as I can't even leave a company office without some walk of shame taking place. So, this blog entry continues the familiar thread of embarrassment (see practically every blog entry below).

After a long exhausting week last week, I decided to practically skip out at quarter to four on Friday (that's the 20th April). It was sunny, the skies were a peculiar drinkable hue of blue, Spring was in the air and Spring was in my step. By rights, I shouldn't have had a worry in the world. Correct? No, wrong. We're talking the demented world of Nicholson here, esteemed worrier of things that should not be worried about.

An absolutely delightful female colleague of mine happened to be leaving at the same time. Again, for any other normal human being, this would augment the wondrous ascent of glee in leaving a stuffy office for a glorious April day. However, my first perceived problem was as follows; although I'm on speaking terms with this colleague, I can't claim anything more than a fleeting friendship with her (she won a sheep-shaped Easter Egg off of me in a competition). A complete stranger would be no problem; you just leave at the same time and comfortably ignore the other person. A friend that you've known for sometime is also a no-brainer; you walk out the office together, laughing at the huddled masses still slaving within. However, a 'fleeting friendship' is something different. It could be a burgeoning embryonic potential, fed by a throwaway clever conversational gambit. Or tragically, it could be an aborted Lennon-McCartney partnership, thown away because of the 'Frog Chorus'.

It probably doesn't help that I work in I.T. either.

After obsessing about this limbo of a friendship, I also perceive a second problem. I am proud of the fact that I have a long and fast step, picked up from my hillwalking days, and am somewhat startled to find that my office associate has exactly the same speed stride. As a result, I find myself lagging behind her for a good forty seconds with a precise three foot gap between us. With mounting panic, I realise that she's chosen the same exit route as me and this could be perceived as straightforward stalking. Of course, I never once entertained the thought that a genuine professional stalker wouldn't be caught dead doing this Morecambe & Wise routine and would be concentrating on tapping into CCTV cameras.

The ending to this particular scenario doesn't end particularly favourably. I chose the seemingly preferred less-embarrassing option of turning down a corridor and improvising an 'alternative' exit route. I ended up in the first aid cupboard. At the end of a dead-end corridor. This means I have to about-turn and re-emerge back into an open-plan office. An open-plan office that's full of bored office workers on a Friday afternoon, desperately wanting to witness some unorthodox and unintentional entertainment.

However, unlike my other tales of toe-curling winces, this one has a moral at the end of it. The above story shows that all my nailbiting nuances were a direct result of introspective over-analysis. There are flashes of recognition onto reality that I should follow closer. For example, my few encounters with this colleague shows somebody who is thoughtful of others, exceedingly kind and has an imaginative sense of humour.

She also smiles a lot. And widely. That doesn't sound like someone who would turn around in a corridor and scream, "Oh my God in Heaven, it's Peter Sutcliffe. Stop stalking me!".

Moral of the story: take a deep breath, trust a genuine smile and dive in. It's not statistically impossible to make new friendships in your 30s. Catch you all when I get back from 'oop North, 'oop North.

Who I'd like to meet

As one of the many things you are asked when creating a profile or writing some type of autobiography, a typically austere and slightly archetypal question one answers is, "Who are your heroes? Who would you most like to meet?". It's one of the questions I got asked as I was creating a MySpace profile yesterday. If one is understandably guarded about the truth of self-projection, I might be tempted to answer Nelson Mandela. I've got his autobiography and it confirms everything about the man that I initally thought; a man of such impossibly high integrity and grace, as well as possessing a formidable intellect. It also bolsters my own self-image, to be associated with such a worthy hero.

However, if I analysed this highly hypothetical scenario of meeting Nelson Mandela, the truth of the matter is that it's a path strewn with so many massive bear-traps as to be unbearable (pun intended). If I met him, how do I introduce myself. "Um, yo, Nelson - I sure dig what you did after you left prison. Who am I? Um, I'm an IT programmer with an unhealthy predilection for rubbish cult TV and my biggest achievement has been keeping my pet fish alive". That's just the start of a potentially disastrous meeting. "Um, what are you up to later, Nelson? Fancy grabbing a few nibbles from Kebab Mahal?".

A far more subtle truth to emerge from this blog entry is one of acute embarrassment. An emotion I seem to suffer more than any other. It's also going to be a common theme to this blog - trust me on this. My next few blog entries will touch on this exceedingly painful truth, all told from different times of my life. It will make it clearer why I've malformed into the pained and closeted individual that my friends scratch their heads at.

It's with all this in mind that I've decided a far more relevant person that I'd like to meet and have a serious conversation with, is this bloke.

He's now also under the "Who I'd like to meet" section on MySpace. Now, that's a far less cringe-making proposition for any hypothetical scenario turned real. For sheer idiocy value, I'd have to ask him what made him appear on national US television and how he now feels being an internet phenomenon and then politely refer him to some of my own red-faced exploits on Youtube's flickering monopoly. Have at him (special note: it's Steve Harvey, the presenter, and his expression of "What the fuck are you doing, pal?" that really makes this clip).

Direct to Youtube here.

I Look Like These Celebrities

Apparently, I most look like a cross between Art Garfunkel and Nick Lachey.

After not being especially pleased about this, I decided to try the same trick with two mates of mine - Kenny Watt and Barry Stewart.

Kenny Watt

Barry Stewart

Then I realised I shouldn't be bothered that much, when one of my mates is compared to Adam Sandler and Stephen Jay Gould and the other isn't even recognised as a frickin man!

It was after some consideration that I thought that this face recognition stuff might not work properly and a litmus test would be to try one of my female mates. Since women are traditionally more sensitive about their looks and also because I like annoying her a lot, plus she lives thousands of miles away and can't come around and kick my arse, I tried Christine Day.

Christine Day

Sadly, it appears to have back-fired. Firstly, I overlooked the fact that Christine is quite pretty - so it came as no shock and some bloody-minded annoyance that it claims she looks like a cross between Jessica Alba and Soffia Coppola. Secondly, the few male traits she has, are comparable to such distinguished gentlemen as Ang Lee, Jason Biggs and Stephen Chow.

She'll probably still want to kick my ass though. But she'll have to fly back - long haul.

Luddite Musings

I finally got around to it.

In fact, I finally stopped procrastinating on two things that betray my stern Luddite sensibilities. I refuse to allow gadget envy get the better of me; to me, it's just as bad as the blokes in pubs that talk about cars. But I did eventually get an MP3 player a fortnight ago. Plus, this new blog from me furthers the other niggling little thing that I needed to get launched.

Enjoy, by all means.