Yesterday at CPAC, the conservative convention held this week in Washington D.C., Republic Report ran into retired police officer and anti-drug war activist Howard Wooldridge. We were interested in his take on the role of money in politics in the government’s crusade against marijuana. He explained that cynical lobbyists, who place their clients interests over America, have perpetuated the cycle of over-criminalization. In particular, pharmaceutical companies and the alcohol lobby have fought behind closed doors to keep marijuana illegal. Both industries, he said, fear competition. Also police officiers and prison guard unions, seeking “free federal money” from the government, have similarly supported draconian drug war policies:
WOOLDRIDGE: The beer wholesale industry donated five figure money to defeat Prop 19 because marijuana and alcohol compete right today as a product to take the edge off the day at six o’clock. Just because marijuana is illegal, doesn’t negate the fact that there’s still competition. The beer companies don’t want it, same thing with big PhRMA. My biggest opponent on Capitol Hill is law enforcement. ‘We love the money you give us to chase Willie Nelson, Snoop Dogg, and all the rest’ — with helicopters, and especially free federal money. The second biggest opponent on Capitol Hill is big PhRMA because everyone knows God didn’t make no junk. Marijuana’s an excellent medicine for many things, taking the place of everything from Advil to Vicodin and other expensive pills [...] Private prisons fight me because they want more people in jail. Is it good policy? These lobbyists don’t care. ...
Ta much, MSiegel!
Fuck, no. And you can’t corner the bowl on a Spotify playlist, either.
True dat, Mon.
#Martin Freeman is made of kittens
Megaupload goes down
Ain't that no shit.
Ta, Matt.
Testosterone-poisoned bullies shouldn't be running our planet.
The words "Spring snow" only appeal to me when Iggy sings them in The Horse Song.
Dammit.
A country whose young adults too frequently commit suicide when they get a B+ can't properly build (including location) nor run nuclear power plants. Who the fuck in their right mind could think a nation of Homer J. Simpsons
or anyone else can properly build and manage them?
Imagine the devastation a wind farm or solar plant could cause.
Nuclear damn near anything is obviously too much for this immature human race - it's like handing a two-year-old a cocked and loaded shotgun.
Japan, you have far more of my empathy than my pathetic comfort zone can bear, and I wish you great healing and all other good things.
or anyone else can properly build and manage them?
Imagine the devastation a wind farm or solar plant could cause.
Nuclear damn near anything is obviously too much for this immature human race - it's like handing a two-year-old a cocked and loaded shotgun.
Japan, you have far more of my empathy than my pathetic comfort zone can bear, and I wish you great healing and all other good things.
A friend of mine recently went home with a young woman after a party. However, before he, you know, got down to business, he went to use her toilet and spotted Britney Spears's perfume in her bathroom. He promptly made his excuses and left. Was that unreasonable? And what are other similar style deal-breakers?
Dave, by email
Your query with regard to the reasonableness or otherwise of your friend's swift exit can be quickly resolved. Simply put, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a grown woman in possession of a celebrity perfume must be in want of some psychological help. "Your friend", Dave, was reasonable and wise.
With regard to the latter issue, ah me. It's so tricky, isn't it? Life, I mean. At last, you meet someone at a party who doesn't want to make you bite off your own arm to give you an excuse to leave. You go home with them, and what is about to happen starts to happen – only for you to realise that their carefully chosen mood-assisting album is The Greatest Hits of Kasabian.
Oh sure, there are the danger signs to look out for on arrival in the house of a new encounter: posters of the Third Reich, a Ku Klux Klan hood hanging on a coat hook, books by Jeremy Clarkson – but these are obvious. It's the little things that really count. After all, as anyone who's been in a relationship knows, few end because of the dramatic discovery of a secret love child; most die because of a fight over why one of you forgot to buy lightbulbs.
Few details speak as loudly as someone's style choices because, superficial as they may seem, they are what your inamorata or inamorato elects to wear all day. Hence, they are actually more indicative of a person's true self than the books on their shelves, of which 35% were gifts from other people, 10% were freebies, 25% were bought just for show, and 85% are unread. (Incidentally, according to a recent scientific survey, the current book to flaunt for pulling purposes is Jonathan Franzen's Freedom. Seriously, only one in 17 of the people you see carrying that book around town are actually reading it. Fact.)
Now, in some ways your question surprises me, Dave, because I'd have thought the fashion warning signs would be obvious. Of course, having said that, if they were as clear to everyone as they are to those of us with a professional eye, no man would ever wear Ugg boots.
So, in a handy cut-out-and-keep guide, here is Ask Hadley's list of What Not To Have In Your Wardrobe For The Good Of The Perpetuation Of The Human Species: ...
Dave, by email
Your query with regard to the reasonableness or otherwise of your friend's swift exit can be quickly resolved. Simply put, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a grown woman in possession of a celebrity perfume must be in want of some psychological help. "Your friend", Dave, was reasonable and wise.
With regard to the latter issue, ah me. It's so tricky, isn't it? Life, I mean. At last, you meet someone at a party who doesn't want to make you bite off your own arm to give you an excuse to leave. You go home with them, and what is about to happen starts to happen – only for you to realise that their carefully chosen mood-assisting album is The Greatest Hits of Kasabian.
Oh sure, there are the danger signs to look out for on arrival in the house of a new encounter: posters of the Third Reich, a Ku Klux Klan hood hanging on a coat hook, books by Jeremy Clarkson – but these are obvious. It's the little things that really count. After all, as anyone who's been in a relationship knows, few end because of the dramatic discovery of a secret love child; most die because of a fight over why one of you forgot to buy lightbulbs.
Few details speak as loudly as someone's style choices because, superficial as they may seem, they are what your inamorata or inamorato elects to wear all day. Hence, they are actually more indicative of a person's true self than the books on their shelves, of which 35% were gifts from other people, 10% were freebies, 25% were bought just for show, and 85% are unread. (Incidentally, according to a recent scientific survey, the current book to flaunt for pulling purposes is Jonathan Franzen's Freedom. Seriously, only one in 17 of the people you see carrying that book around town are actually reading it. Fact.)
Now, in some ways your question surprises me, Dave, because I'd have thought the fashion warning signs would be obvious. Of course, having said that, if they were as clear to everyone as they are to those of us with a professional eye, no man would ever wear Ugg boots.
So, in a handy cut-out-and-keep guide, here is Ask Hadley's list of What Not To Have In Your Wardrobe For The Good Of The Perpetuation Of The Human Species: ...
Forget those creative writing workshops. If you want to write, get threatened
And don't ask me for advice. I'd prefer you to never achieve anything. Ever
Charlie Brooker
Monday 16 August 2010
One of the side-effects of having your work appear in a public forum such as this is that people often email me asking for advice on how to break into writing, presumably figuring that if a drooling gum-brain like me can scrape a living witlessly pawing at a keyboard, there's hope for anyone.
I rarely respond; partly because there isn't much advice I can give them (apart from "keep writing and someone might notice"), and partly because I suspect they're actually seeking encouragement rather than practical guidance. And I'm a terrible cheerleader. I can't egg you on. I just can't. My heart's not in it. To be brutally honest, I'd prefer you to never achieve anything, ever. What if you create a timeless work of art that benefits all humankind? I'm never going to do that – why should you have all the glory? It's selfish of you to even try. Don't you dare so much as start a blog. Seriously. Don't.
Sometimes people go further, asking for advice on the writing process itself. Here I'm equally unhelpful. I've been writing for a living for around 15 years now and whatever method I practise remains a mystery. It's random. Some days I'll rapidly thump out an article in a steady daze, scarcely aware of my own breath. Other times it's like slowly dragging individual letters of the alphabet from a mire of cold glue. The difference, I think, is the degree of self-awareness. When you're consciously trying to write, the words just don't come out. Every sentence is a creaking struggle, and staring out the window with a vague sense of desperation rapidly becomes a coping strategy. To function efficiently as a writer, 95% of your brain has to teleport off into nowhere, taking its neuroses with it, leaving the confident, playful 5% alone to operate the controls. To put it another way: words are like cockroaches; only once the lights are off do they feel free to scuttle around on the kitchen floor. I'm sure I could think of a more terrible analogy than that given another 100,000 years.
Anyway the trick (which I routinely fail to pull off) is to teleport yourself into that productive trance-state as quickly as possible, thereby minimising procrastination and maximising output. I'm insanely jealous of prolific writers, who must either murder their inner critic and float into a productive reverie with ease, or have been fortunate enough to be born with absolutely zero self-critical reflex to begin with.
As for me, I'm stuck in a loveless relationship with myself, the backseat driver who can't stop tutting and nagging. There's no escape from me's relentless criticism. Me even knows what I'm thinking, and routinely has a pop at Me for that. "You're worrying about your obsessive degree of self-criticism again," whines Me. "How pathetically solipsistic." And then it complains about its own bleating tone of voice and starts petulantly kicking the back of the seat, asking if we're there yet. ...
And don't ask me for advice. I'd prefer you to never achieve anything. Ever
Charlie Brooker
Monday 16 August 2010
One of the side-effects of having your work appear in a public forum such as this is that people often email me asking for advice on how to break into writing, presumably figuring that if a drooling gum-brain like me can scrape a living witlessly pawing at a keyboard, there's hope for anyone.
I rarely respond; partly because there isn't much advice I can give them (apart from "keep writing and someone might notice"), and partly because I suspect they're actually seeking encouragement rather than practical guidance. And I'm a terrible cheerleader. I can't egg you on. I just can't. My heart's not in it. To be brutally honest, I'd prefer you to never achieve anything, ever. What if you create a timeless work of art that benefits all humankind? I'm never going to do that – why should you have all the glory? It's selfish of you to even try. Don't you dare so much as start a blog. Seriously. Don't.
Sometimes people go further, asking for advice on the writing process itself. Here I'm equally unhelpful. I've been writing for a living for around 15 years now and whatever method I practise remains a mystery. It's random. Some days I'll rapidly thump out an article in a steady daze, scarcely aware of my own breath. Other times it's like slowly dragging individual letters of the alphabet from a mire of cold glue. The difference, I think, is the degree of self-awareness. When you're consciously trying to write, the words just don't come out. Every sentence is a creaking struggle, and staring out the window with a vague sense of desperation rapidly becomes a coping strategy. To function efficiently as a writer, 95% of your brain has to teleport off into nowhere, taking its neuroses with it, leaving the confident, playful 5% alone to operate the controls. To put it another way: words are like cockroaches; only once the lights are off do they feel free to scuttle around on the kitchen floor. I'm sure I could think of a more terrible analogy than that given another 100,000 years.
Anyway the trick (which I routinely fail to pull off) is to teleport yourself into that productive trance-state as quickly as possible, thereby minimising procrastination and maximising output. I'm insanely jealous of prolific writers, who must either murder their inner critic and float into a productive reverie with ease, or have been fortunate enough to be born with absolutely zero self-critical reflex to begin with.
As for me, I'm stuck in a loveless relationship with myself, the backseat driver who can't stop tutting and nagging. There's no escape from me's relentless criticism. Me even knows what I'm thinking, and routinely has a pop at Me for that. "You're worrying about your obsessive degree of self-criticism again," whines Me. "How pathetically solipsistic." And then it complains about its own bleating tone of voice and starts petulantly kicking the back of the seat, asking if we're there yet. ...
“Doctors are reasonable people”
Senate hopeful Sue Lowden’s plan for Healthcare reform is to barter chickens for medical procedures. But you may be unsure how many chickens are required for your medical care. This handy calculator converts many common procedures into chickens so you won’t look like an idiot at your next Doctor’s Appointment. ...
Ta much, dear Anneliese
Are short-sleeved shirts with ties ever acceptable for a man at work or do they, as I suspect, just make you look creepy and as if you still live in your parents' spare room and play Dungeons and Dragons?
- Rod, by email
To answer your queries in order, no and yes, you suspect correctly. I am very sorry if you suffer from sweaty wrists, Rod, but unless your personal style icon is Napoleon Dynamite, or you wish to resemble one of those guys who is eventually arrested when police discover piles of dead bodies in his freezer and his neighbours all give quotes saying, "It's so strange – he always seemed like such a pleasant fellow. Kept to himself, mind", then you will not pair a tie with a short-sleeved shirt. Truth be told, I object to button-down short-sleeved shirts full stop, and when I am Queen of the Universe – as shall soon come to pass, it has been foretold in the Book of Grazia – I shall ban them...
- Rod, by email
To answer your queries in order, no and yes, you suspect correctly. I am very sorry if you suffer from sweaty wrists, Rod, but unless your personal style icon is Napoleon Dynamite, or you wish to resemble one of those guys who is eventually arrested when police discover piles of dead bodies in his freezer and his neighbours all give quotes saying, "It's so strange – he always seemed like such a pleasant fellow. Kept to himself, mind", then you will not pair a tie with a short-sleeved shirt. Truth be told, I object to button-down short-sleeved shirts full stop, and when I am Queen of the Universe – as shall soon come to pass, it has been foretold in the Book of Grazia – I shall ban them...
I’m tired of this shit.
It’s about time that everyone learned their damn homophones. If you slept your way through the fourth grade or just skipped all of the grammar lectures because you were too busy sucking off that dude in the locker room, then maybe this table will help clear up some of the fucking confusion.
Commonly fucked up homophones.
These …are not …the fucking same.
Affect - Your horrendous grammar affects the quality of your input as an interlocutor.
Effect - Your grammar’s effects are so unspeakable that you should be prosecuted at The Hague.
*Hint: Effect is most commonly a noun; affect is most commonly a verb.
Bare - By using improper grammar, you are laying bare your ignorance.
Bear - I cannot bear this any longer: please, learn your damn homophones. ...
... Discreet - If you can’t discern the difference between homophones, then be discreet.
Discrete - There is a discrete difference between someone who knows homophones and someone who does not. ...
... Its - Bad grammar shall no longer rear its ugly head.
It’s - It’s a terrible thing to use improper grammar.
*Hint: Its can only be possessive; It’s is a contraction of ‘it’ & ‘is’.
Loose - The grammar gods shall let loose some horrible plague upon you should you choose to continue fucking up homophones.
Lose - Using bad grammar is a social stigma, which makes you lose credibility. ...
... Your - Your grammar sucks.
You’re - You’re an idiot if you fuck up homophones.
*Hint: Your can only be possessive; you’re is a contraction of ‘you’ & ‘are’....
... Please, learn your damn homophones.
You think this is obscene? Do you even read any of the stupid shit you write? That’s obscene.
Ta much, dear MSiegel
It’s about time that everyone learned their damn homophones. If you slept your way through the fourth grade or just skipped all of the grammar lectures because you were too busy sucking off that dude in the locker room, then maybe this table will help clear up some of the fucking confusion.
Commonly fucked up homophones.
These …are not …the fucking same.
Affect - Your horrendous grammar affects the quality of your input as an interlocutor.
Effect - Your grammar’s effects are so unspeakable that you should be prosecuted at The Hague.
*Hint: Effect is most commonly a noun; affect is most commonly a verb.
Bare - By using improper grammar, you are laying bare your ignorance.
Bear - I cannot bear this any longer: please, learn your damn homophones. ...
... Discreet - If you can’t discern the difference between homophones, then be discreet.
Discrete - There is a discrete difference between someone who knows homophones and someone who does not. ...
... Its - Bad grammar shall no longer rear its ugly head.
It’s - It’s a terrible thing to use improper grammar.
*Hint: Its can only be possessive; It’s is a contraction of ‘it’ & ‘is’.
Loose - The grammar gods shall let loose some horrible plague upon you should you choose to continue fucking up homophones.
Lose - Using bad grammar is a social stigma, which makes you lose credibility. ...
... Your - Your grammar sucks.
You’re - You’re an idiot if you fuck up homophones.
*Hint: Your can only be possessive; you’re is a contraction of ‘you’ & ‘are’....
... Please, learn your damn homophones.
You think this is obscene? Do you even read any of the stupid shit you write? That’s obscene.
Ta much, dear MSiegel
Ta much, dear Edosan
One of the FBI's top agents warned yesterday that corruption in the US was increasing and tearing at the fabric of society.
Special agent John Gillies, who has led major anti-corruption drives during his 27-year career with the bureau, focused his words primarily on crooked financiers and unscrupulous officials. ...
Can you say, 'greed?'
Can you say, 'capitalism?'
I knew you could.
Special agent John Gillies, who has led major anti-corruption drives during his 27-year career with the bureau, focused his words primarily on crooked financiers and unscrupulous officials. ...
Can you say, 'greed?'
Can you say, 'capitalism?'
I knew you could.
... For one thing, we learned that the modern conservative movement, which dominates the modern Republican Party, has the emotional maturity of a bratty 13-year-old.
But more important, the episode illustrated an essential truth about the state of American politics: at this point, the guiding principle of one of our nation’s two great political parties is spite pure and simple. If Republicans think something might be good for the president, they’re against it — whether or not it’s good for America.
To be sure, while celebrating America’s rebuff by the Olympic Committee was puerile, it didn’t do any real harm. But the same principle of spite has determined Republican positions on more serious matters, with potentially serious consequences — in particular, in the debate over health care reform.
Now, it’s understandable that many Republicans oppose Democratic plans to extend insurance coverage — just as most Democrats opposed President Bush’s attempt to convert Social Security into a sort of giant 401(k). The two parties do, after all, have different philosophies about the appropriate role of government.
But the tactics of the two parties have been different. In 2005, when Democrats campaigned against Social Security privatization, their arguments were consistent with their underlying ideology: they argued that replacing guaranteed benefits with private accounts would expose retirees to too much risk.
The Republican campaign against health care reform, by contrast, has shown no such consistency. For the main G.O.P. line of attack is the claim — based mainly on lies about death panels and so on — that reform will undermine Medicare. And this line of attack is utterly at odds both with the party’s traditions and with what conservatives claim to believe.
Think about just how bizarre it is for Republicans to position themselves as the defenders of unrestricted Medicare spending. First of all, the modern G.O.P. considers itself the party of Ronald Reagan — and Reagan was a fierce opponent of Medicare’s creation, warning that it would destroy American freedom. (Honest.) In the 1990s, Newt Gingrich tried to force drastic cuts in Medicare financing. And in recent years, Republicans have repeatedly decried the growth in entitlement spending — growth that is largely driven by rising health care costs. ...
Ta much, dear Anneliese
But more important, the episode illustrated an essential truth about the state of American politics: at this point, the guiding principle of one of our nation’s two great political parties is spite pure and simple. If Republicans think something might be good for the president, they’re against it — whether or not it’s good for America.
To be sure, while celebrating America’s rebuff by the Olympic Committee was puerile, it didn’t do any real harm. But the same principle of spite has determined Republican positions on more serious matters, with potentially serious consequences — in particular, in the debate over health care reform.
Now, it’s understandable that many Republicans oppose Democratic plans to extend insurance coverage — just as most Democrats opposed President Bush’s attempt to convert Social Security into a sort of giant 401(k). The two parties do, after all, have different philosophies about the appropriate role of government.
But the tactics of the two parties have been different. In 2005, when Democrats campaigned against Social Security privatization, their arguments were consistent with their underlying ideology: they argued that replacing guaranteed benefits with private accounts would expose retirees to too much risk.
The Republican campaign against health care reform, by contrast, has shown no such consistency. For the main G.O.P. line of attack is the claim — based mainly on lies about death panels and so on — that reform will undermine Medicare. And this line of attack is utterly at odds both with the party’s traditions and with what conservatives claim to believe.
Think about just how bizarre it is for Republicans to position themselves as the defenders of unrestricted Medicare spending. First of all, the modern G.O.P. considers itself the party of Ronald Reagan — and Reagan was a fierce opponent of Medicare’s creation, warning that it would destroy American freedom. (Honest.) In the 1990s, Newt Gingrich tried to force drastic cuts in Medicare financing. And in recent years, Republicans have repeatedly decried the growth in entitlement spending — growth that is largely driven by rising health care costs. ...
Ta much, dear Anneliese
...When you ignore the idiots completely, you are not calling them anything at all. You are not trying to advance any sort of argument, because there is no debate taking place. You are simply bypassing the giant pothole of ignorance entirely. ...
Jennifer Aniston movies, hateful horror films, cosmetic surgery – what the US should ban
In America there are worse things to outlaw than smoking
Hadley Freeman
Wednesday 23 September 2009
The chances one gets to mangle a Charles Dickens quote in discussing American local legislation are all too rare. This, happily, is one of them. Well, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times in this tale of two cities, states, coasts, even. The big news in New York City at the moment is that smoking may soon be banned in outdoor public spaces. Meanwhile, over in California, cannabis looks set to be legalised. As we Americans (and possibly Dickens) would say, "Wait, what?"
On the east coast, tell New Yorkers about the imminent ban, and they look stunned and sceptical, a reaction my colleague Alexander Chancellor seemed to share in his column last week. Meanwhile, over on the west coast, medical marijuana dispensaries are selling cannabis to anyone with a driver's licence and a doctor's letter citing a need such as, say, anxiety. Many are predicting that next year cannabis will be "taxed and regulated" in California.
It's tempting to see this disparity as illustrative of America's tendency towards wild extremes: in one state, there's pioneering liberalism, in another there's fist-thumping legislation. Tempting, but not quite right, as California has already slapped down a smoking ban in outdoor public spaces – and, in some cities, in private housing, so smokers can't even smoke at home. Quite how you would partake of medicinal cannabis if you live in an apartment block that has banned smoking is something I am too naïve to fathom.
But seeing as New York is in a banning state of mind, there are plenty of things the city's health commissioner, Dr Thomas A Farley, could outlaw in this city – heck, in this country - that affect one's quality of life far more than the very occasional smoker in Central Park. I'm not talking about the obvious stuff. The New York Times recently asked the public for suggestions of things to ban and a popular answer was "cellphone blabber", which was both predictable and wrong. This is because the paper asked New Yorkers and New Yorkers have no concept of how brilliant their "cellphone blabber" is. My favourite overheard conversation so far came from a young woman bellowing into her Nokia in the middle of Union Square, "Just because you're gay doesn't make you king of New York!" The city would be a poorer place without this.
No, I'm talking about the more insidious toxins that the country produces in abundance and everyone then inhales passively. In a public space, you can move away from the smoke. This stuff, however, is so ubiquitous it is absorbed by osmosis. ...
In America there are worse things to outlaw than smoking
Hadley Freeman
Wednesday 23 September 2009
The chances one gets to mangle a Charles Dickens quote in discussing American local legislation are all too rare. This, happily, is one of them. Well, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times in this tale of two cities, states, coasts, even. The big news in New York City at the moment is that smoking may soon be banned in outdoor public spaces. Meanwhile, over in California, cannabis looks set to be legalised. As we Americans (and possibly Dickens) would say, "Wait, what?"
On the east coast, tell New Yorkers about the imminent ban, and they look stunned and sceptical, a reaction my colleague Alexander Chancellor seemed to share in his column last week. Meanwhile, over on the west coast, medical marijuana dispensaries are selling cannabis to anyone with a driver's licence and a doctor's letter citing a need such as, say, anxiety. Many are predicting that next year cannabis will be "taxed and regulated" in California.
It's tempting to see this disparity as illustrative of America's tendency towards wild extremes: in one state, there's pioneering liberalism, in another there's fist-thumping legislation. Tempting, but not quite right, as California has already slapped down a smoking ban in outdoor public spaces – and, in some cities, in private housing, so smokers can't even smoke at home. Quite how you would partake of medicinal cannabis if you live in an apartment block that has banned smoking is something I am too naïve to fathom.
But seeing as New York is in a banning state of mind, there are plenty of things the city's health commissioner, Dr Thomas A Farley, could outlaw in this city – heck, in this country - that affect one's quality of life far more than the very occasional smoker in Central Park. I'm not talking about the obvious stuff. The New York Times recently asked the public for suggestions of things to ban and a popular answer was "cellphone blabber", which was both predictable and wrong. This is because the paper asked New Yorkers and New Yorkers have no concept of how brilliant their "cellphone blabber" is. My favourite overheard conversation so far came from a young woman bellowing into her Nokia in the middle of Union Square, "Just because you're gay doesn't make you king of New York!" The city would be a poorer place without this.
No, I'm talking about the more insidious toxins that the country produces in abundance and everyone then inhales passively. In a public space, you can move away from the smoke. This stuff, however, is so ubiquitous it is absorbed by osmosis. ...
The very fabric of society is breaking down around us. What the hell is there left to believe in?
o Charlie Brooker
o The Guardian, Monday 13 July 2009
... The internet. Can we trust in that? Of course not. Give it six months and we'll probably discover Google's sewn together by orphans in sweatshops. Or that Wi-Fi does something horrible to your brain, like eating your fondest memories and replacing them with drawings of cross-eyed bats and a strong smell of puke. There's surely a great dystopian sci-fi novel yet to be written about a world in which it's suddenly discovered that wireless broadband signals deaden the human brain, slowly robbing us of all emotion, until after 10 years of exposure we're all either rutting in stairwells or listlessly reversing our cars over our own offspring with nary the merest glimmer of sympathy or pain on our faces. It'll be set in Basingstoke and called, "Cuh, Typical."
What about each other? Society? Can we trust us? Doubt it. We're probably not even real, as was revealed in the popular documentary The Matrix. That bloke next door? Made of pixels. Your co-workers? Pixels. You? One pixel. One measly pixel. You haven't even got shoes, for Christ's sake.
As the very fabric of life breaks down around us, even language itself seems unreliable. These words don't make sense. The vowels and consonants you're hearing in your mind's ear right now are being generated by mere squiggles on a page or screen. Pointless hieroglyphics. Shapes. You're staring at shapes and hearing them in your head. When you see the word "trust", can you even trust that? Why? It's just shapes!
Right now all our faith has poured out of the old institutions, and there's nowhere left to put it. We need new institutions to believe in, and fast. Doesn't matter what they're made of. Knit them out of string, wool, anything. Quickly, quickly. Before we start worshipping insects.
o Charlie Brooker
o The Guardian, Monday 13 July 2009
... The internet. Can we trust in that? Of course not. Give it six months and we'll probably discover Google's sewn together by orphans in sweatshops. Or that Wi-Fi does something horrible to your brain, like eating your fondest memories and replacing them with drawings of cross-eyed bats and a strong smell of puke. There's surely a great dystopian sci-fi novel yet to be written about a world in which it's suddenly discovered that wireless broadband signals deaden the human brain, slowly robbing us of all emotion, until after 10 years of exposure we're all either rutting in stairwells or listlessly reversing our cars over our own offspring with nary the merest glimmer of sympathy or pain on our faces. It'll be set in Basingstoke and called, "Cuh, Typical."
What about each other? Society? Can we trust us? Doubt it. We're probably not even real, as was revealed in the popular documentary The Matrix. That bloke next door? Made of pixels. Your co-workers? Pixels. You? One pixel. One measly pixel. You haven't even got shoes, for Christ's sake.
As the very fabric of life breaks down around us, even language itself seems unreliable. These words don't make sense. The vowels and consonants you're hearing in your mind's ear right now are being generated by mere squiggles on a page or screen. Pointless hieroglyphics. Shapes. You're staring at shapes and hearing them in your head. When you see the word "trust", can you even trust that? Why? It's just shapes!
Right now all our faith has poured out of the old institutions, and there's nowhere left to put it. We need new institutions to believe in, and fast. Doesn't matter what they're made of. Knit them out of string, wool, anything. Quickly, quickly. Before we start worshipping insects.
Women! You have no concept of the depth of male simplicity. And until you do, our world is doomed
Charlie Brooker
The Guardian, Monday 1 June 2009
Women - why aren't you running the world yet? Frankly I'm disappointed in you. Men are still far too dominant for their own good, and consequently we've made a testosterone-sodden pig's ear of just about everything: politics, the economy, religion, the environment ... you name it, it's in a gigantic man-wrought mess. The world's been one big dick-swinging contest, and we've caught our collective glans in a nearby desk fan. By rights we should be squealing for your help, but we're not, because we're too damn stupid and too damn proud. We swagger convincingly, and that's about it. And swaggering's fine for scraping by in primitive times, but the world we've built is altogether more complex now. We've got stock exchanges and nuclear warheads. It's too easy to swagger your way into big trouble without even realising. Well, we've had our turn. It's time for the Rise of the Ladies.
We don't need a few women in conspicuous positions of power scattered here and there - we need a 10-year prohibition on all forms of male power. Seriously: a decade in which men don't get to control anything, from the remote control upwards. Imagine the consequences. For one thing, there would be an instant and massive reduction in armed conflict around the globe. Sure, nations would routinely bitch about each other in secret (and with a new, hair-curling viciousness), but there'd be fewer intercontinental punch-ups and a far smaller bodycount.
The economy should clearly be run by women. City boys are dicks, plain and simple. Look at them. Listen to them. Consider the carnage of the past 10 years. What the hell were these idiots thinking? Even now they're still at it. In any sane world they'd all be herded into a shed and blasted with hoses until they promised to stop. Everything they say, think, do, watch, read and fill up their iPods with is awful. Even their girlfriends are awful. Straight women, reading this: if your partner is a city boy, leave him. Leave him now. Dump him with a text message, right this very second. It'll hurt for about six days, then your life will improve beyond measure. Sod that little number-swapping dick who dares call himself a man. Lob him in the shed with the other squeaking fakes and train the cold jets on the bastards. Shut the door and let them shiver. ...
Charlie Brooker
The Guardian, Monday 1 June 2009
Women - why aren't you running the world yet? Frankly I'm disappointed in you. Men are still far too dominant for their own good, and consequently we've made a testosterone-sodden pig's ear of just about everything: politics, the economy, religion, the environment ... you name it, it's in a gigantic man-wrought mess. The world's been one big dick-swinging contest, and we've caught our collective glans in a nearby desk fan. By rights we should be squealing for your help, but we're not, because we're too damn stupid and too damn proud. We swagger convincingly, and that's about it. And swaggering's fine for scraping by in primitive times, but the world we've built is altogether more complex now. We've got stock exchanges and nuclear warheads. It's too easy to swagger your way into big trouble without even realising. Well, we've had our turn. It's time for the Rise of the Ladies.
We don't need a few women in conspicuous positions of power scattered here and there - we need a 10-year prohibition on all forms of male power. Seriously: a decade in which men don't get to control anything, from the remote control upwards. Imagine the consequences. For one thing, there would be an instant and massive reduction in armed conflict around the globe. Sure, nations would routinely bitch about each other in secret (and with a new, hair-curling viciousness), but there'd be fewer intercontinental punch-ups and a far smaller bodycount.
The economy should clearly be run by women. City boys are dicks, plain and simple. Look at them. Listen to them. Consider the carnage of the past 10 years. What the hell were these idiots thinking? Even now they're still at it. In any sane world they'd all be herded into a shed and blasted with hoses until they promised to stop. Everything they say, think, do, watch, read and fill up their iPods with is awful. Even their girlfriends are awful. Straight women, reading this: if your partner is a city boy, leave him. Leave him now. Dump him with a text message, right this very second. It'll hurt for about six days, then your life will improve beyond measure. Sod that little number-swapping dick who dares call himself a man. Lob him in the shed with the other squeaking fakes and train the cold jets on the bastards. Shut the door and let them shiver. ...
... I know of no one who likes cars solely because of their design, no one who loves cars purely for how they look. This would be fine. This would be cool because it would be like enjoying the clothes you see on a catwalk.
I know of no one who truly loves cars for the freedom they bring or the views they afford. And no, please do not introduce at this point, people who love old crocks and classics. By rumbling around in an old Ghost or a Napier, what they're demonstrating is not a love for cars but a love for the past. Every single person with a classic car would like to see policemen clipping hoodies round the ear, and a return of National Service.
All this has to stop. Luckily, I have a plan.
In the early days of homosexuality, there was much prejudice and tittering. So those campaigning for more equality took it upon themselves to bring famous faces out of the closet, to say, "Look everyone. George Michael and Peter Mandelson are homosexuals. So you at the back stop sniggering, and accept that a bit of botty sex is fine."
It worked well, and I think we should do the same. We should out the people who are interested in cars but daren't say so for fear their neighbours will call the police.
Rowan Atkinson is one. And Nick Mason is another. Then you have Michael Gambon, Joanna Lumley, Steve Coogan, Chris Evans, and yes, even Rory Bremner.
All of you. Put down your copies of Autocar. Stop Sky-Plussing TG to watch in the middle of the night when everyone's in bed. Come out of the garage and tell the world you don't have to be an alpha male to like an Alfa Romeo. Because, with a bit of luck and a fair wind, we can convince everyone that liking cars does not demonstrate you have a pornographic hard drive and a wardrobe full of track suits. ...
I have no pornography, and don't own a single track suit.
I love cars that look fabulous, however old or new. I love the freedom of blasting down a freeway, passing all the slow boys. I love staring out the windows when the view's beautiful.
Let's face it: it also just feels better to go for a ride in a 1966 Satellite than in a geo metro.
I don't like cops, the very idea of a military draft, nor the testosterone-poisoned - esp those who spend more time playing with their hair than I.
I also thoroughly loathe hydrangeas.
I'd kiss you Jezza, but you're too far away.
I know of no one who truly loves cars for the freedom they bring or the views they afford. And no, please do not introduce at this point, people who love old crocks and classics. By rumbling around in an old Ghost or a Napier, what they're demonstrating is not a love for cars but a love for the past. Every single person with a classic car would like to see policemen clipping hoodies round the ear, and a return of National Service.
All this has to stop. Luckily, I have a plan.
In the early days of homosexuality, there was much prejudice and tittering. So those campaigning for more equality took it upon themselves to bring famous faces out of the closet, to say, "Look everyone. George Michael and Peter Mandelson are homosexuals. So you at the back stop sniggering, and accept that a bit of botty sex is fine."
It worked well, and I think we should do the same. We should out the people who are interested in cars but daren't say so for fear their neighbours will call the police.
Rowan Atkinson is one. And Nick Mason is another. Then you have Michael Gambon, Joanna Lumley, Steve Coogan, Chris Evans, and yes, even Rory Bremner.
All of you. Put down your copies of Autocar. Stop Sky-Plussing TG to watch in the middle of the night when everyone's in bed. Come out of the garage and tell the world you don't have to be an alpha male to like an Alfa Romeo. Because, with a bit of luck and a fair wind, we can convince everyone that liking cars does not demonstrate you have a pornographic hard drive and a wardrobe full of track suits. ...
I have no pornography, and don't own a single track suit.
I love cars that look fabulous, however old or new. I love the freedom of blasting down a freeway, passing all the slow boys. I love staring out the windows when the view's beautiful.
Let's face it: it also just feels better to go for a ride in a 1966 Satellite than in a geo metro.
I don't like cops, the very idea of a military draft, nor the testosterone-poisoned - esp those who spend more time playing with their hair than I.
I also thoroughly loathe hydrangeas.
I'd kiss you Jezza, but you're too far away.
True dat, Mon.
The world will never be safe until Scrabble is banned
Board games do not bring a family closer together. They rip out its heart in a seething cauldron of rage
Jeremy Clarkson
January 11, 2009
News from the dusty bit at the back of the toy shop. In the past 12 months, sales of Trivial Pursuit have tripled, Monopoly is 13% up and Scrabble is 23 times more popular than it was in 2007.
Naturally, the sort of people who like long walks in the fresh air see this as an indicator that Britain is reverting to traditional family values and that instead of going out at night to sniff glue and stab a policeman, the nation’s children are all at home in pinafore dresses, whittling chess pieces round the fire with mum and dad. They see the resurgence of the board game as a good thing.
I’m not so sure, though. Take Monopoly as an example. To begin with it’s good fun but, like the banking and property system on which it is based, there is a flaw. It never ends. You go bankrupt so you borrow money from your mum who has loads. Then you go bankrupt again. So you borrow more money from the bank. And then, when there is no more money left in the box, you write out an IOU and keep on borrowing by which time it is Thursday, everyone is bankrupt and you have realised that unchecked capitalism doesn’t work whether it comes in a stock market or in a box. That’s if you’re lucky. If you’re not, there will be a “bad loser” around the table who will land on your hotel in Northumberland Avenue and in a hysterical rage will burst into tears and throw the board, his dog, your iron and all your dad’s houses into the fire.
In theory Scrabble is much better and yet it, too, is flawed. Well, it is for me because I always end up with seven vowels. So while my opponent is writing “underpass” across two triple word scores and claiming it’s a game of skill, I’m getting five for “eerie”. Again. And they are looking at me as though I might be a simpleton. ...
Whenever I've played scrabble, I wind up with nothing but Qs and Xs and no vowels. Were it really a game of skill, I would have been able to win instead of constantly passing. scrabble hates me, but it might hate me less if Jezza were my partner and we pooled our tiles. We'd get words like 'exequies' and 'exquisite' and 'quorum.'
Board games do not bring a family closer together. They rip out its heart in a seething cauldron of rage
Jeremy Clarkson
January 11, 2009
News from the dusty bit at the back of the toy shop. In the past 12 months, sales of Trivial Pursuit have tripled, Monopoly is 13% up and Scrabble is 23 times more popular than it was in 2007.
Naturally, the sort of people who like long walks in the fresh air see this as an indicator that Britain is reverting to traditional family values and that instead of going out at night to sniff glue and stab a policeman, the nation’s children are all at home in pinafore dresses, whittling chess pieces round the fire with mum and dad. They see the resurgence of the board game as a good thing.
I’m not so sure, though. Take Monopoly as an example. To begin with it’s good fun but, like the banking and property system on which it is based, there is a flaw. It never ends. You go bankrupt so you borrow money from your mum who has loads. Then you go bankrupt again. So you borrow more money from the bank. And then, when there is no more money left in the box, you write out an IOU and keep on borrowing by which time it is Thursday, everyone is bankrupt and you have realised that unchecked capitalism doesn’t work whether it comes in a stock market or in a box. That’s if you’re lucky. If you’re not, there will be a “bad loser” around the table who will land on your hotel in Northumberland Avenue and in a hysterical rage will burst into tears and throw the board, his dog, your iron and all your dad’s houses into the fire.
In theory Scrabble is much better and yet it, too, is flawed. Well, it is for me because I always end up with seven vowels. So while my opponent is writing “underpass” across two triple word scores and claiming it’s a game of skill, I’m getting five for “eerie”. Again. And they are looking at me as though I might be a simpleton. ...
Whenever I've played scrabble, I wind up with nothing but Qs and Xs and no vowels. Were it really a game of skill, I would have been able to win instead of constantly passing. scrabble hates me, but it might hate me less if Jezza were my partner and we pooled our tiles. We'd get words like 'exequies' and 'exquisite' and 'quorum.'
Mike Thompson - Detroit Free Press
12 January 2009
Go away, Palin!
Mike Thompson - Detroit Free Press
12 January 2009
Yesh, Shtinky Puddin'!