Shut up, BBC

Commercial television is supported by advertising.

It doesn't really want to be. Honestly. Commercial television bosses know that viewers hate adverts. Negotiations with advertising agencies are the bane of any TV employee's life. Plus, nowadays, everyone knows that almost all adverts are worthless lies. Frankly, commercial television would much rather not have it. But it needs it, because commercial television isn't free to make, and you, you lucky viewers, you get it for free.

Summary: Commercial television is supported by advertising because it has to be, not because it wants to be, or because it thinks that ramming toss down its viewers' throats is a good thing to be doing (with the exception of ITV, obviously, who seem to have based their programme schedule on that very principle).

SO WHY THE FUCK IS THERE SO MUCH PISSING ADVERTISING ON THE FUCKING BBC?

I turned on to watch Robin Hood the other night. Yes, I know, but I like it, so there. Anyway, between whatever it was that was before Robin Hood, and the appearance of the pleasantly-anachronistic Sheriff, I was treated to the following:

1. An advertisement for Eastenders. See my previous entry on Soap Operas. Sorry, I can't be arsed to figure out how to link it.
2. A quick cameo from seventy-nine-year-old Bruce Forsyth and some tart, telling me to be sure to tune in later so that I could find out the results of some vote about some dancing competition that is apparently being held. Now... if I had already watched the show, I would know to tune in later anyway and, if I had enjoyed the show as well, would already be planning to do so. If, as was the case, I hadn't watched the show, why the fuck would I care about the results? And either way, why is the BBC trying to drum up more people to watch their stuff when they get the sodding licence fee anyway?
3. An advertisement for a show called Joe Borrows A Big House, or something like that. Seemed to involve the cool guy out of Spooks in some capacity but I was too numbed and horrified by the thought of Bruce Forsyth dancing for my entertainment that it didn't really register.
4. Worst of all: On comes some twat of an announcer, and tells me something like this:

"And now, Robin Hood. Tonight, Robin has to deal with a traitor in his band, and Marion exposes a hint of cleavage to keep the dads interested, although there is no real plot justification for this behaviour."

Fuck. Off.

I'm just about to watch the show, during the course of which I will discover what the fuck happens in it, in the order and at the times determined by the show's writers, in order to give me the highest level of entertainment (once again recalling that this isn't an ITV show). Therefore I don't need someone to tell me - just before the show - what's going to happen in it. If, for some perverse reason, I did want to know what was going to happen in it, I could simply use the digibox OSD. Or, if I was the sort of person who wanted to know what was going to happen in TV programmes but who didn't have digital TV, I could have bought a Radio Times or one of those tat equivalents with all the celebrity gossip instead.

So, the question is, what function does the announcement serve? I'm going to watch the show anyway. Other people aren't. Are there really people out there who think "Oh, Robin Hood, that's shit, I wonder what utter toss is on ITV... oh, wait, a traitor in the gang, you say? Well, now I'll definitely watch it all the way through instead."?

Summary: BBC, stop the fuck advertising yourself and just tell me the name of the programme that's on next and (possibly) what will be on after that.

Oh, and another thing, no more "coming soon" trailers. I want a fucking date, God damn you. What, do you think I'm going to watch you more every day on the off chance that that might be the day you reveal the actual date the show starts?

Robin Hood was quite good though. Robin dealt with a traitor in his band, and Marion looked quite nice.

Me: I'd like to cancel my Sky subscription, please.
Person: Oh, may I ask why?
Me: Yes. I think it's too expensive, and I already have Virgin phone and broadband, so I'm moving to them, because it's cheaper.
Person: Have you considered maybe changing your package? That would save you some money.
Me: Yes. I have considered changing it. To Virgin. That will save me some money.
Person: Only we have a great special deal available at the moment!
Me: You do? Really? Is it - in actual fact - great and special?
Person: Well, OK, no, it's not really that special.
Me: Fair enough, good effort though; you nearly had me there. What is it then?
Person: If anyone threatens to leave us, in a convincing enough fashion, we offer to pay £125 for their BT reconnection fee. Would that be of interest?
Me: Well, I guess it would be of interest, except that it isn't. You see, the thing is, it's actually cheaper for me to move to Virgin. That's what I've been trying to tell you.
Person: OK, so what you're saying is, if we could come back with a competitive package, you'd want to stick with Sky, right?
Me: No, what I'm saying is, I hate giving my money to any millionaire, but now that I have the choice I'd rather give it to a silly beardy one than a hateful and rather suspect politically-dubious one.
Person: Sorry, I didn't quite follow that.
Me: Your boss is a git.
Person: Oh, right, so what you're saying is, if we could come back with a competitive boss, you'd want to stick with Sky, right?
Me: Is that a service you're likely to offer in the near future?
Person: Well, ok, no. Not really.
Me: Right, I'd like to cancel my Sky subscription then, please.
Person: OK, right you are. Thanks very much. Motherfucker.
Me: I beg your pardon?
Person: Oh, I said, "That's all done for you now, sir."
Me: Great. Bye then.
Person: Bye.

Heroes of Olympus

O·lym·pi·an (ō-lĭm'pē-ən)
Surpassing all others in scope and effect

I am impressed by Olympic athletes. They push back the boundaries of what the human body can achieve. They inspire us all with their amazing endurance. They train damn hard. They are not ashamed to parade in front of world audiences wearing very tight shorts.

Admire the majestic poetry of the javelin thrower.

Witness the dynamic power of the sprinter.

Be amazed by the tenacity of the long-distance runner.

Gasp at the total fucking pointlessness of Olympic walking.

See, when I throw a javelin, I do it like an Olympic athlete. Nowhere near as well, but - basically speaking - it's the same idea. Same for sprinting. I don't go as fast as an athlete, but the principle is very similar. And long-distance running? Well, my distance just isn't as long, but sure enough, it's a recognisable approach otherwise. But Olympic walking? It's not walking like I walk only better, it's more like jogging but with pointless extra rules to make you look like a twat while you do it.

If you want to get somewhere else as fast as you can, you don't do walking but with extra speed, you run, you know, properly, like you really mean it. In fact, the only time in real life that people do anything remotely like Olympic walking is when they walk between you and the television, in that particular way that suggests they want you to notice that they are trying very hard not to interrupt you.

So my proposal to improve Olympic walking is to have them do it back and forth in front of an official who, throughout the event, attempts to watch a television. I think this would be probably be better than watching the conventional event, because there is a chance, after all, that something interesting might be on TV.

You'll Never Wait Alone

Airport luggage carousels are a great invention. You all stand away from the carousel looking on, wait until you spot your baggage coming, step up to retrieve it, then get the fuck out of everyone else's way. Great.

However, there's always one person who has to step up right next to the carousel immediately and wait there for his (yes, it's always a man) bags to appear. And once hed does that, everyone has to do that, which means that now nobody can see whether there luggage is coming or not. Which means that whoever stepped up first is a selfish wanker who has now spoiled a perfectly good system for everyone else.

In other news, the former Eastern Bloc countries apparently have large numbers of crack marksmen who are no longer required by their armed forces. Some people will not initially see an opportunity connected to the previous paragraph here, but think about it for a moment. You will.

Especially for you. All of you.

"Why not take advantage of this magnificent gift, designed just for you?" said the leaflet from the credit card company.

Aside from the fact that the magnificent gift in question was neither magnificent, being in fact a cheap pair of speakers for an iPod (which I don't have, incidentally), nor a gift, since I had to pay a large sum for "postage and insurance", turning over the leaflet revealed that I also had to fill in my name and address.

This left me wondering exactly how designed for me this magnificent gift really was.

One numpty, no vote

Over 140,000 votes - out of a total of around two million - have been rejected in the recent Scottish elections, says the BBC.

Why? Because there were two votes on one ballot paper. The elector had to put a check in one box, then further down the page, rank some other candidates in order of preference. Apparently 7% of people found this too difficult.

Not exactly rocket science, though, is it?

Simple solution: Make all ballot papers at least this "complicated" from now on. If you're too stupid to follow basic instructions on a ballot paper, you're too stupid to have a say in who runs the country.

No representation without education!

Incidentally, my apologies to anyone who deliberately spoiled their vote by way of offering a protest - I don't mean to lump you in with an entirely different type of imbecile.

Vereinigtes Königreich

I really don't know why so many people struggle with the difference between England, Great Britain, and the UK. It's extremely straightforward - allow me to explain using the following handy pocket reference guide which I have prepared for your convenience:

The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland is comprised of the Kingdom of Great Britain and the Province of Northern Ireland.

Northern Ireland is part of the land mass of Ireland but should not be confused with the Irish Republic (Eire), which is a state in its own right and nothing to do with the UK. Northern Ireland has its own set of laws, which are naturally enough created by the British Parliament based in Westminster, although there is some expectation that legislative power will shortly be devolved to Stormont.

The UK did at one stage include the whole of Ireland, and at that point was known as the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, but the Irish didn't like this system particularly since they thought that Ireland should have come before Great Britain. It was therefore scaled down at a later date, mainly on account of Archduke Ferdinand of Austria. The Irish are technically from Scotland.

Great Britain is comprised of the Kingdom of England, the Kingdom of Scotland, the Principality of Wales, and various other minor places. England is a Kingdom because it is ruled by a King (technically a Queen at present, but that's by the by). Scotland is also a Kingdom because it is also ruled by a King. The Scottish King is also the English King - this tradition was started with a Frenchman called James. Wales is a Principality because although it did have a King, he was a different King from the English King; this was against the rules and he was therefore replaced by an English Prince whom the English King at the time (Edward, who pretended to be French but who was technically in many senses really from Sweden) had just had delivered for the occasion. The Prince was also called Edward so as to prevent any confusion.

Great Britain is so called in order to prevent any confusion with Little Britain, which is actually part of France, although David Walliams mistakenly thinks otherwise, and the term "Briton" technically refers to a certain Celtic ethnic group which currently represents about 1% of the population of the UK, and is therefore an ideal choice as an appellation to describe its entire people. The English are technically from Scandinavia and Germany, the Scots are technically from Ireland (q.v. the Irish), and the Welsh are technically from England.

The Kingdom of England generally shares its law with the Principality of Wales, although the Welsh also have a separate Assembly with some lawmaking powers. English laws are created by the British Government in Westminster, the ruling body of which is comprised primarily of Scots. These particular Scots, however, are not responsible for laws in Scotland, which are passed by the Scottish Parliament, comprised of a different set of Scots. Therefore although Scotland and Wales (and even Northern Ireland in the very near future) have their own lawmaking bodies, England has no such separate body and is governed directly by the British Government. This gives rise to the West Lothian Question which relates to whether it is appropriate that e.g. Scottish MPs in Westminster can have a say in English affairs whereas English MPs in Westminster do not have a comparable say in Scottish affairs. It is also quite an irony since for the past 1000 years or so the English have spent most of their time telling the Welsh, the Scots and the Irish exactly what to do.

This clear and logical system translates easily into the international sphere. It should therefore be quite plain to the reader as to why England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland field four separate football teams, Northern Ireland and Great Britain (united) field two separate athletics teams (except in the Commonwealth Games), and the UK fields one united military which - for reasons which should by now be obvious - was based throughout the '70s and '80s mostly in Germany but is now based mostly in the Arabian desert.

It therefore makes perfect sense that the whole business is presided over by a Queen from Germany and a Prince Consort from Greece.

I hope this clears the matter up. Any questions?

Dropping like flies

So, it's virtually summer, and everyone's getting their drop-top out to enjoy a brief bit of ideal convertible weather before it gets too hot.

There is an excellent game which you can play if you drive a drop-top. It works like this: Any time you see another convertible being driven (parked doesn't count), you win a point if your top is down and theirs is up, and you lose a point if yours is up and theirs is down.

At the end of the year, whoever has the most points wins!

I have 27 points so far, so you've a little catching up to do.

Trackie Bottoms

The Man came to fix the tracker in my car today.

And by "The Man", I don't mean a metaphorical gestalt entity representing the harsher side of corporate capitalism, but an actual homo sapiens-type man man.

He suffered from terrible Builder's Bum.

Yes, naturally I had to look.

It has been suggested that this "makes me" gay.

Anyone who has ever seen The Man's builder's bum will know it's far more likely that if I were gay, it would rapidly have "made me" heterosexual.

Soapy tit - wank

Soap Operas. Why do you watch them?

If you want to know what normal lives are like, just talk to some normal people. You don't need a TV for that. Plus you might make some friends. You will require basic communication skills, but these will come with practice.

If you already have friends, and you watch Soap Operas so as to have a common frame of reference about which to chat with your friends, why not agree on a different subject in advance? Who knows, you might even come up with an original and creative thought instead of becoming nothing but a vapid sponge for the tedious output of a manufactured and meaningless subgenre.

And no, your opinion is not as valid as mine. I had mine first.

Why Vegetarians Are Wrong

One bar of butter, fresh from the dairy, and warmed just enough that it almost spreads.
One loaf of the finest ever-so-slightly-crusty bread, direct from the baker's.
And most important of all, eight slices of the world's best bacon, direct from the butcher's.

I sliced the bread and left a knob of butter on each slice.
I fried the bacon in a pan, using premium olive oil instead of cooking oil because I am decadent like that (and because I couldn't find any cooking oil).
I put the slices of bacon onto the bread so that the heat from the bacon melted the butter into the bread.

This is the finest cuisine known to man.

And that's why vegetarianism is wrong.

Wisdom of the Ages

Thus spake the Wise Man:

Yea! Spare not the ice from the cola, for down this path lies the unrighteous state of lukewarm cola.

But stay also thy hand from filling the glass with ice unto its very brim before thou dost pour therein a single drop of thy cola, for thus thou wilt cause the cola to taste of mildly-carbonated water.

Treadest thou then the middle path, neither withholding clear coolness from thy liquid as the blasphemers, nor inundating it therein as the false and foolish heathen, but rather, seek solace and comfort in the offering of, say, two, or maybe three cubes, by which sign shall ye be known and welcomed amongst us as a true believer.

Ode to the Croquant

Ode to the Croquant

There are many, many Croquants spread across the Empire's lands
Some are bigger than your feet and some are smaller than your hands
Croquants come in two varieties - one has a puffed-up chest;
But the other Croquant's noted for his fashionable crest.
Now learn these words of wisdom for it really doesn't do
To misidentify a Crested - they're divided into two:
The Lesser Crested Croquant's crest doth stand most fair and tall
But the Greater Crested Croquant has the greatest crest of all.

Prius Inter Pares

On the three most recent occasions when I have left the building at which I work, a silver Toyota Prius has driven past.

I left at a different time on each occasion, and once, in a different direction.

It is obvious that the government have found out who I really am, and are having me surveilled. (See how I verbed that there? Nice.)

Why the government? Because surely only government agents would be simultaneously furtive and environmentally-conscious.

Economics in Action

"I'm working on a $100,000 project," said my colleague. "It's going to save $150,000."

"Well I'm working on a $200,000 project," said my other colleague, "and it's going to save $350,000."

"Well," said I, "I'm working on a $500,000 project."

"How much is it going to save?" they chorused.

"Nothing. But it's very kind of you gentlemen to pay for it."

Apparently, the sort of project that doesn't save any money is also the easiest sort of project for which to get approval. That's economics in action.

Patchy quality control?

In a recent game patch, the following problem was fixed:

"Attempting to turn in a charter with a signature from an ineligible player will no longer result in an inappropriate error message."

Please let it previously have said "Sod off, you cock."

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something poo

Old:
Richard Herring, at 39*. He's very funny though. An excellent balance between rather clever multi-layered comedy and straight-up toilet humour.

New:
A ripped Burger King bag on your table is a great way of making sure people don't sit too close to you, even on a surprisingly-crowded midnight train back from London.

Borrowed:
A young girl on the train was crying because the battery in her mp3 player was bust and she had to go all the way to Shoeburyness (not a nice experience at the best of times). I "lent" her mine, although I don't suppose I'll be seeing it back again. I politely left aside the question of what a mere slip of a 14-odd-year-old was doing on her own on the midnight train coming back from London.

Poo:
In the Burger King they didn't have any Double Whoppers left, only a Double Whopper XL. I had a theory that this would be too big, but I bought it anyway. It was too big. Therefore, for the last part of the journey, I was holding in a huge poo, which my readers will be pleased to know I released into the depths of the sewerage system just before writing this entry.

Also, why is it a Double Whopper XL rather than, say, a Triple Whopper? Does it really all three of the words in its name to describe its size?

__
* This is called "poetic licence", incidentally.

The Great Fajita Swindle

Mexican restaurants.

Everyone likes Mexican, but did you ever stop to consider...

At an Italian restaurant, you will pay for example £10 for a delicious main course. The ingredients for the course will be provided by the restaurant, cooked by the restaurant, and then presented to you, by the restaurant, in an aesthetically pleasing fashion ready for you to eat.

But at a Mexican restaurant, at which you will also pay £10 for a delicious main course, whilst the ingredients will be selected and cooked for you, you are beholden to scoop them up yourself and wrap them in some sort of consumable packaging.

Surely this should be done by the establishment? After all, isn't the point of paying to eat that people do the preparation for you?

Outrageous. Something Must Be Done.

See also Crispy Aromatic Duck.

On the 97th Day of Christmas...

...my good friend gave to me "The Dangerous Book for Boys" by Conn Iggulden - who, by an amazing coincidence, is the author of the "Emperor" book I mentioned earlier today.

It contains much useful information and is recommended to everybody. Yes, even girls.

Examples of the useful information contained therein: How to make a bow and arrows; The laws of cricket; The story of Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson; How to teach tricks to a dog; A brief history of artillery; Common British trees.

Good.

New and Improved

Is it possible for something to be both new and improved?

I think they are probably mutually exclusive.

My television thinks different.

If you liked sarcasm, you'll love irony

"If you liked 'Gladiator', you'll love 'Emperor: The Gates of Rome'!" said the blurb on 'Emperor: The Gates of Rome'.

Now, leaving aside the questions of whether or not I did like (or love) either of these things, let us consider the implications of this type of assertion.

We can suppose that people who like something also have, in general, a tendency to like similar things. Furthermore, we can usually observe that the more similar things someone likes, and the more they like them, the more likely they are to like another similar but as-yet unexperienced thing.

This is how (and why) Last.fm works. I tell it that I love, let's say, HammerFall, Zero 7, and Savatage, and it suggests that perhaps I might like Nightwish. Correct, Last.fm. Go to the top of the class.

Imagine a band (or any other item within your subjective frame of reference) as a set of variables. The meaning or value of each is irrelevant, but what we are saying is that for several variables x, x(Nightwish) is similar to x(HammerFall), x(Zero 7), and x(Savatage), and that for several other variables y, y(Nightwish) is either dissimilar to y(the rest), or unknown. If there are many more xs than ys, it predicts that I will like Nightwish. Otherwise, it predicts that I won't.

So, the point is that whilst you can predict that someone might like something if they love something similar, you can't predict that someone will love something just because they like something similar.

I suppose that this entire entry could consist of the first paragraph and the previous paragraph, but it is early in the morning and I have nothing better to do.

Also, if you loved 'Gladiator', you might like 'Emperor: The Gates of Rome'.

The DVLA

The DVLA are shit. I have proof.

Polite Welsh Man: Hello, this is the DVLA. How can I help?
Me: Hello, yes, I wonder if you can help me. My car tax is due at the end of this month, but I haven't received a reminder yet, the number from which I need in order to fill in your wizzy Internet application for a car tax disc, thus saving you, the government, money, thus saving me, the taxpayer, money, thus benefitting both of us in a mutual not-as-much-money-being-spent kind of a way.
PWM: Ah, no problem sir, we'll send one out right away. Can you just confirm the registration number?
Me: Yes, it's Sierra Five One Five Juliet Charlie, er, whatever the phonetic for "Y" is*.

(a brief dialogue ensues)

PWM: Ah, but you see the thing is, we haven't received a change of owner for that car, so the reminder will have gone to the old owner.
Me: Ah, but you see the thing is, I do own this car, I've owned it since September, I've got the car keys, I've got the code for the radio, I've got it pre-programmed to all the radio stations that I like, at least insofar as it's possible to like nine of the frankly rather poor radio stations currently available in this country. I've got the thing from the dealer that says it's mine, all my friends have seen me in it, my mum's taken my photo in it, I've even got that funny little bit of New Keeper paper and everything. I know: How about I just give you the number off that and you can send me the reminder that way?
PWM: I'm afraid you'll have to send us the New Keeper slip along with an Application Form. Then we'll send you a Log Book.
Me: And one I get a Log Book, I can get the car taxed, right?
PWM: That's right sir.
Me: OK, how long will that take?
PWM: About six weeks, sir, all being well.
Me: Six weeks huh? Well, that is very quick given the huge amount of effort clearly involved on your part, but I kind of need it taxed at the end of this month - that is to say, in considerably less than six days, never mind the sextuplet of weeks of which you speak. How could I get it taxed in the meantime? Can I get some sort of interim road tax dispensation order, perhaps, or a letter from the Queen?
PWM: I'm afraid not sir, obviously you'll have to keep it off the road until you want to get it taxed.
Me: Ah yes, that is obvious now you put it that way. But I want to get it taxed now. I have insurance, I have an MOT, I even have a ridiculous sum of money which I wish to give unto you as a token of respect for the superbly efficient administration system which it appears you have constructed.
PWM: Yes, but you don't have a Log Book, I'm afraid.
Me: And why don't I have a Log Book?
PWM: Because we haven't received details of you having taken ownership.
Me: But I've just given you the details.
PWM: We need it on the proper form, I'm afraid sir.
Me: But you accept that I'm the owner of the car?
PWM: Yes sir.
Me: And you accept that I have valid insurance, MOT, and some money with which to pay you the requisite price?
PWM: Yes sir.
Me: Yet despite these facts, despite the clear evidence that I am doing everything I possibly can in order to stay on the right side of the law, no matter what injustices and wrongs have been done unto me, the motoring public, by you, the evil persecuting public-transport-obsessed monolithic state, you still refuse to grant me the one thing I cherish and desire above all else** despite the relative simplicity of doing so, thus forcing me to choose between wilfully living the life of a brigand and an outlaw, or an inability to travel in my car in order to, for example, I don't know, get to my job perhaps, or do my shopping, yes, the shopping for the food and drink I require to live and without which my body will wither and die, or, well, let's say, visit my mother?
PWM: That's about the size of it, yes, sir.
Me: I see. Well, is there anything else you can suggest I do?
PWM: Yes sir. Perhaps you could leave the car off the road either on the drive that you don't have or in the garage that you also don't have, whilst using the contingency car that funnily enough you don't have either in order to fulfil your personal transport type requirements. Or you could perhaps indulge in a spot of pogo stickery? Or possibly you could fly around everywhere, if you're richer than Cardinal Richelieu and not too worried about the carbon emissions.
Me: Right, thanks then.
PWM: Is there anything else I can help you with today then, sir?
Me: I don't think it's technically possible to answer that question, since doing so would imply that you have already helped me with something, a conclusion clearly not in alignment with the facts as they present themselves for independent inspection, I think you must agree.
PWM: Okay, good point, anything else you want to discuss then?
Me: Yes. Fuck you, DVLA. Fuck you.
PWM: Thank you very much sir.
Me: Thanks then. Bye.
PWM: Goodbye.

___
* it's "Yankee", as it turns out
** my dear reader excepted, of course. If you are clever, pretty, rich, and single. And a girl.