It’s a sad indictment of our modern post-post-ironic-post-MTV-post-dancehell1 and high-tea (high) society that poets find it so hard to make a living. Except the crap ones who write the special forms of poetry that don’t scan and force you to place the emPHAsis on the wrong WORDS and syllables and then just run on to the end in a soppy, sappy mess - I’d imagine there’s money in that old rope. Not sure how you get into that line of work, though. It was never offered as an option in my careers education, I remember that much.
Vague rants archive
And I know this to be true, because I have a postcard from the city council’s anti-social behaviour department giving me a stern ticking off. My offence, it seems is that I have been contributing to litter in the street where I live by leaving out my bin bag on the pavement before collection day.
Which doesn’t sound all that pleasant, it’s true, but not all that heinous at the same time. Perhaps a little context would help explain. Here, then, are the facts.
- I live in a terrace house, with no rear access other than through the house itself.
- The pavement at the front of the house is not wide enough for residents to store bins (and there are no front gardens or yards here).
- Yesterday was waste collection day. But not recycling collection day
- The bin bag in question was, in fact, a clear recyclables bag, full of recyclable material.
- The council only collect these bags every fortnight.
- Not only that, but although they provided residents with bags to collect recyclables in, they did not provide us with bins or anywhere to store the bags. We bought our own bin for this.
- The house is small, and there isn’t really anywhere to set aside for the luxury of storing recycables waiting for someone to come collect them.
- The council is overly fussy about what can and can’t be put in these bags. Because they are collected then manually sorted (I assume this is why, anyway) you are not allowed to put shredded material in. Which is patently ridiculous, since I don’t really want recyclabe sorters going through any sensitive information I have, and besides, is it not the case, perhaps, just maybe, that in order to recycle paper, at some point during that process the paper is going to be mushed / pulped / whatever? Or have I got it embarrassingly wrong, and the process involves trained paper engineers painstakingly laying out individual sheets over ink-absorbent solutions to ‘clean’ the paper, producing new, crisp blank sheets?
Apparently, if I don’t comply with the instruction to NOT leave this ‘rubbish’ outside, I can be fined £75.
Funnily enough, it was only the other day that I was reading about how in the UK despite being among the higher waste producers (600kg per person, per year) across Europe, we manage to recycle the least amount, with a paltry 18% recycled or composted, which compares pretty unfavourably with The Netherlands (65%) and Austria (59%), and in fact all other nations except Greece (8%) and Portugal (a shocking 3%, but then there’s not many of them, and they each only generate two thirds of the waste that we do in the UK).
I wonder why it could be that we don’t recycle more in this country.
So, I watched most of Tuesday night’s Panorama investigation into English football financial skull-duggery while barely stifling my incredulity. To think that we could be hoodwinked in this manner by a bunch of so-called professionals, who are out to make a quick buck while the going’s good. And that there are people out there who value a bit of cash over integrity, thoroughness of thought and deed, and a sense of fair play. Who knew?
And the football agents aren’t much better either!
Boom-boom!
C’mon Panarama, you have to do better than this. Sure there’s corruption in football. Sure there are some shady operators. Sure I wouldn’t trust Harry Redknapp or Sam Allardyce to run a charity match, but that, and the secret camera footage shown does not make them the arch crooks you’re making out. Sam comes off worse, I have to say, but what did Harry do? When asked if he would be interested in player x if player x was available, and you never know player x might be available, nudge nudge, Harry leaned back, twitched a little, and just said “yeah he’s a good player, of course I’d have him”. Uh-oh Harry! Perhaps you should have said he’s a donkey with spoons for feet, then no-one would have minded, eh? P’raps you’ll be more street-wise next time.
And Sam’s son, Craig. Fancy him bigging up his links with his Dad! Lord. What. Do. You. Expect. Him. To. Do. You’re offering him business, and he’s trying to impress you. You’re suggesting that you could be interested in deals with Bolton, and whaddya know, he’s the son of the manager. And strike me down if he doesn’t mention it a little in the hope of getting some business. Did you think he wouldn’t?
Yeah, yeah, alright, so he’s probably just some talentless feck who’s coining it off the riches and skills of others, and for that, I say let him swing if need be. But the whole programme just missed the mark. Here’s my favourite moment: about two-thirds of the way through, we get to the part where Mike Newell, the Luton Town manager, goes public with the news that he knows of people in the game on the take. Newell, it should be pointed out here, isn’t in on the BBC’s little game, and is just acting apparently out of priniciple, and perhaps frustration. The voice-over in the programme makes the following remark, or words to this effect:
This is disastrous news. Now it’s going to be even harder to persuade anyone to take a bung
Now please jump in any time, here, but isn’t the editorial stance of this programme that football is rife with bung-taking, backhanders, brown envelopes, etc? Hardly the sort of situation in which you’d say it would suddenly be “even harder” to get anyone to act corruptly?
Actually, I lied, My favourite bit was when the moronic agent at the center of it all realised the undercover hero’s button had “went all red”, but was apparently too soused or short on slices to work out that he was being set up. Especially when all our hero could do was mumble something, say he didn’t know what it was, and fumble nervously with a pack of B&H. I won’t lose any sleep if that guy gets it, I must say, but let’s not think that it any way has Panorama exploded any lids off the modern game.
This guy:
should marry this gal:
And they could shout at all their guests, especially for daring to even look at the wedding cake, and for not eating all four thousand lentils they’d each been given at th reception, or for, well, just being there, and having weaknesses.
I could wish children upon them, except I would pity the poor sods. And it would be harsh of me to then wish that the kids wanted to eat junk food from time to time, occasionally went off the rails, or god forbid did anything to suggest that these two dispensers of brutality-led wisdom were less than prefect and beautiful.
I know McK means well, but fercrissakes, I am beyond wanting to say many pleasant things to anyone with such sanctimonious “I’m the busiest person I know, but I manage to eat perfectly” ideals.
As for Kyle. Just watch his show. That’s all I need to say. Watch as he tears into any of his ‘guests’. Watch him hurl abuse in the name of help. And watch him make his way up the aggressive pole to a comfortable retirement. Bastard.
Ryanair has announced that they hope to get regulatory approval for a highly odious scheme to allow passengers who can’t bear to be out of contact from their loved ones / pointy haired boss while at cruising altitude the luxury / millstone of being able to use mobile phones and other communications devices on planes. Which is just a-grade fantastic. At least wondering how best to punish various mobile owners as their novelty ringtones and suffocatingly meaningless conversations compete with the background noise might take my mind off the general lack of elbow or leg room, or the fact that my table drops to a 45 degree angle every time the bloke in front of me heavily shoves himself into the back of his seat, or even on longer flights that I have to lie on the cabin floor to be able to get a decent view of my own personal screen in the back of that seat in front should said bloke ever have the timerity to lean his seat back ever so slightly.
13 minutes left of the most exciting game of mafia I’ve ever been involved in (OK, I’ve only played 3 now, and I didn’t last long in the others) and the web site appears to be down.
I don’t know if anyone will see this. I don’t know if it’s the site or just me. I do know I have to be away from my computer at almost exactly 7.
:(