A few words on the subject
A few words on the subject
A few words on April 2011
A few words on segregation, kinks, budgets and fucking "wellness"
Sun 3rd April 2011
Good hello dear readers,

It would appear that, despite knowing better, you have joined me again on the webpage that has done for inspirational technological communication what The Only Way Is Essex has done for 21st Century women’s sexual politics. Pass the vajazzle cream, Shaniqua.

So what’s going on with you? It’s Sunday morning here in afewwordsonthesubject towers and the much lauded but frankly same-old-same-old jangly clattery too much drumming spirally 60s pre-Britpop troubadour Ray Davies is on the wireless remenicing about his charmed life. No time for him, m’self. There were about 4 decent songs written in the UK during the sixties as far as I’m concerned. The rest a bunch of 3 chord mop topped chelsea booted sitar skiffle back-beated mersey wank. Feel free to disagree. I’m now listening to The Village Green Preservation Society by The Kinks. And if that doesn’t prove my point, what the fuck does. Jesus H Corbett...

Oh, that reminds me. On the subject of preserving the English village green, I have now taken to scouring the letters page of the ghastly “I’m going to read it because it’s free” inky Lady GaGa fanzine tabloid “Metro” for ill thoughtout idiocy I can share with you. (You’re all too smart and sophis’ to read it yourself, I’m sure. Or you don’t live in the UK and are saved from its horrors. A big shout out the to North American / Canadian Posse out there).

Anyhow, I came across this particluarly hypocritical gem this week from a Rachel W in Hertfordshire. As I say, on the thorny subject of keeping English villages “white, English & Christian” (like a Klan rally, presumably) she was resposting to a particularly offensive suggestion from a Mr Name-And-Address-Supplied. Here is her comment:

“I was shocked by the blinkered views of that person. If they want to be
so segregating, they should go and live elsewhere.”

Erm, righto Rachel W from Hertfordshire. You might want to think about that idea for a moment before you waste a valuable 10p text on sharing your twitness with the rest of the UK.

Talking of twits, there was the usual heckly fwaff fwaff public school panto of The Budget and the Budget response this week. The shadow chancellor accused the unshadowy chancellor of “giving with one hand and taking with the other.” A fiscal policy he referred to as “Delboy Economics,” to much “hear hear-ing” and “rhubard rhubarb-ing” from the house.

What a titwit. As anyone who grew up in the 70s and 80’s will tell you, Delboy economic policy is “no income tax, no VAT.” Frankly, something I think we would all welcome. Twerp.

Howe’er, it turns out something none of us should welcome, income tax and VAT free or not, is a Rennie.

Now you will all know “Rennies” as a charming and reliable brand of what Americans call an antacid. Ahh, antacid. Sounds like an early 90s Manc sound house rave album project by Stuart Leslie Goddard, I know (points if you can tell me why). But actually a charming portmanteau of “anti” and “acid.” Anyhow, Rennies are one of those familiar British brands like Anadin and Elastoplast that no self respecting bathroom cabinet should be without. There is a new advertisement for Rennies doing the rounds of ad breaks on ITV and Channel 4 and has chosen to go with the following reassuring strapline:

“Rennie turns excess acid into water and other natural things.”

Am I the only one slightly disturbed by this? I mean, as a dedicated follower of calories, I am no stranger to excess stomach acid. Shooting up a couple of Rennies and having that uncomfy stomachy bubble turn into harmless piss sounds like a medical marvel. But...what are these other “natural things” Rennies are going to turn it into? I mean methane is a “natural thing.” As is an enormous poo the size and weight of a housebrick. And a thunderous burp long and loud enough to knock a two room ground floor into a through lounge. Mr Rennie? We want answers.

I would also, frankly, rather like an answer from Arriba Wellness Club in Kingston Upon Thames. Not about the fact they are clearly just an overpriced gym that have rebranded themselves rather nauseously into a “wellness club.” Oh fo fuck’s sake. A Wellness Club? I’m getting cross  just thinking about the utter Birkenstock weilding Yakult glugging liberal tofu-casserole hessian Bugaboo homoepathic cuntefacts that would think a “wellness centre” is somehow not as corporate as a gym. But that, for once, isn’t what’s got my Hanes briefs in a twist. According to their flyer, Arriba Wellness Club states that, and I quote:

“Looking good and feeling great has never been easier.”

Oh where to even begin with this shit.

If you’d take the fucking Zutons off your ipod for one minute and stop jizzing over Grand Designs and remove your punchably stunted and cotton-wool wrapped popsies from thier Buddhist Montesori for half an hour, you’ll see this is patently arsewash of the first, second and remarkably third and fourth order. “Looking good and feeling great has never been easier?” In the 80 hour working week hell of 21st Century London, with size zero models flashing £5000 designer shoes from pin thin toned tanned legs, buff Gilette men scrubbing Clarins over bobbly pecs while smoothing scented balms over $25,000 chin tucks and every billboard, magazine, tv show and advert throwing up impossible images of billionaire sporty hunks in trunks and achingly glamourous chicks in Choos, I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that looking “good” has never been as fucking DIFFICULT as it is now. Wellness club or not.

Infact to push this idea unecessarily further, I’d say that – oooh – the late 1500s was a much easier time to look good and feel great. As looking good consisted of not washing, not brushing teeth, not exercising, not cleaning hair and shitting out of a window, I would have thought passing for a “superhunk” was a remarkably low-impact affair. And as living over 35 was unheard of, I imagine “feeling great” wasn’t too much of a push either.

Idiots.

Love to all
Rx

A few words on  two-wheeled terror
25th April 2011
What ho my lovelies

I greet you after far far too prolonged an absence (the explanation of which may be forthcoming if I can think of one. Erm, the dog at my wireless connection? I don’t know). Tis a glorious Easter Monday and I am knee deep in my eleven – count ‘em – eleven days from work. We have Pontius Pilate and “Waity” Katy Middleton to thank for this freak storm of calanderial fortuitousness. So I hope you will join me in showing respect. I check my seatbelt light and seat-tray position humbly before Pilate. And, actually what with the history of her type, I might cautiously double check my seatbelt for Katie as well. You never know...

So what the fuck is it with Argos? Sorry to just dump you face first into that, but . . . well, there’s no but. What the buggery fuck is it with Argos? Here’s what I don’t get, okay? One of you I’m sure will correct me on this. They have an advertsising strapline, as gits in the trade call them. Anyone with a commercial TV habit will be able to recall it. For the rest of you, here you go: Want it. Get it. Argos it.

So there you are. Want it. Get it. Argos it. A perfectly harmless 7 syllables, you might say. The marketing pedants amongst thee will be slightly irked by the clumsy rhythm of it. No doubt right now, sipping a machiato and toying with an iPhone and musing that this really is a slogan for a single-syllabled brand. “See how better this scans, Marcus: Want it. Get it. Gap it. See? Punchier huh? Knock up a thumbnail and email it to publicity.”
But that’s not the point. The spanner in the works here is that the slogan DOESN’T EVEN MAKE ANY FUCKING SENSE FOR CHRISSAKES PEOPLE. Sorry, got a bit het up there. Must get het down. Look, I’ll say it once and then we’ll move on.

“Want it.” Okay, so far so good. You see something – an Elizabeth Duke anklet, a Philips coffee maker, some curtains with Colleen Rooneys face on –and you think: I want it.

“Get it.” Again, so far so whassit. You get it. Purchase it. Buy it. Own it. Get it. Your house is now replete with said trinket, white-good and WAG-based soft furnishing.

“Argos it?” What? Argos it? You mean, get it from Argos? But I already fucking got it. You remember? 2 words ago? Just after I wanted it? I GOT IT. Why do I NOW need to fucking Argos it? I GOT IT. Infact, because you didn’t remind me sooner, I got it from John Lewis. But NOW you’re telling me to Argos it? NO! Maybe “Want it. Argos it. Have it,” would make more fucking sense.

The only damned explanation I have is that “Argossing” something doesn’t actually mean “buy it from Argos.” This is the only possible theory that makes sense. Perhaps “Argossing” something is what you do to it after you buy it from Debenhams, to make it more like you got it from Argos? Maybe, and I’m just speculating, the idea Mr Argos has is that you want something – a 3 plug extention cord; you get it (from Robert Dyas). And then you Argos it: Take it home, take a photo of it, print the photo, laminate the photo, stick it in a ring binder, give it a code number, hide the object in your basement, write the code number on a pad with a spitty betting-shop pen, punch the code into a calculator and then ask a bored 17 year old Asian girl to go down to the basement for a fag and then come back upstairs with something else.

Must be.

But you’ll be itching to know, after weeks of hoo-haa, how my Compulsory Motorcycle Basic Training Day went., I’m sure. Well I’m gonna go for a poo, have a fag, make a coffee, come back and tell you. But for those who can’t wait that long, a spoiler alert: “Fucking badly.”

Okay, I’m back. I didn’t really enjoy my poo, fag or coffee, as in doing so, I was recalling yesterdays humilating stop start jerky fuck-it damn sorry motorcycle lesson and getting all cross again.

So. Here’s some things you should know if you’re going to have a motorcycle CBT with the nice people at Metropolis Bikes in Vauxhall.

1.Learn to drive a car first. This is the basic and puts you at an advantage. If you, like me, have never sat behind the wheel of a car before, things like gears, throttle, biting points and clutch are meaningless, abstract, clumsy and  very fucking hard to get to grips with.

2.Be able to tap dance and play the banjo at the same time. Riding a 125cc motorcylce requires the sort of left foot doing one thing, right foot doing something else, left hand doing another thing and right hand doing something completely fucking different at the same damn time. While balancing on two narrow wheels. Moving across baking hot hard tarmac at 10mph. Avoiding other bikes. While being yelled at by a burly instructor with no people skills. In a helmet.

3.You’ll be balancing on an engine. You’re sitting ON a fucking engine. This is not like being in a car. You rev that fucker a fraction of a centimetre too hard and your whole world roars and vibrates beneath you in a deafening angry growl, vibrating your bollocks and putting the fear of Thor up your jacksie. 

4.Realise your limitations. You aren’t going to be able to do it. Not after an hour. Not after 2 hours. You will be using coordination and muti-tasking muscle and motor skills you have never ever ever ever used before. At speed. Infront of strangers.

So  by midday, when EVERY OTHER FUCKER had moved on to U-Turns and slaloms between tiny cones, your author was still sat on his bike, heart thundering, sweating in leather gloves and two jackets, steamed up specs, staring at the controls and handlebars and just going utterly blank. They’d told me the theory.
1.Roll the bike back and forth to check you’re in neutral.
2.Right foot on the floor, left foot on the pedal.
3.Turn on machine with the key and look for the green neutral light.
4.Hit the red start button.
5.Close the clutch on the left grip.
6.Click the left pedal down into first gear.
7.Shift weight back to left foot and put right foot on the pedal, over the brake.
8.Ease back the throttle until the bike begins to rev. Not too much. (“How much?” “You’ll feel it.” “Well I 
fucking won’t, will I, as I’ve no idea what I’m fucking doing, but yeah, cheers mate.”)
9.Slowly ease out the clutch until you feel the biting point where the engine and gears connect. (“What does
it feel like?” “You’ll feel it.” “Well I fucking won’t, will I, as I’ve no idea what I’m fucking doing, but
yeah, cheers again mate.”)
10.Breathe in.
11.Begin to roll forward. Ease out clutch further to pick up speed.
12.Put left foot up on the pedal.
13.Keep going, controlling the speed with the clutch (left hand) and keeping the revs turning solidly (right hand)
and your foot over the rear brake (right foot) and your foot over the gears (left foot).
14.When you reach the cone, close the clutch with your left grip slowly. (“How slowly?” “You’ll feel it.” “Oh
forget it.”). This disconnects the back wheel from the engine.
15.Release the throttle with your right hand (this turns off the engine)
16.Squeeze the front brake slowly with your right hand. (“Excuse me? How slow...oh don’t worry.”)
17.Apply the rear brake with your right foot.
18.Stop.
19.Breathe out.

See? Just 19 easy steps to move a bike a foot and a fucking half.

Now bare in mind I’m not the most physical man in the world. You’re surprised, I can tell. But I’m not what you’d call “outdoorsy.” Sport, activities, fitness – these are not things I have aptitude for or interest in. I, like Armando Ianucci, live in constant fear of walking through a park where some bigger boys are playing footie, the ball coming rolling over to me and them shouting “hoy mate, kick it back.” I would rather run away and hide behind a tree.
So at midday I felt exactly like an 8 year old boy. Not a little bit. Not remenicent of. Exactly like an 8 year old boy. An 8 year old boy who’s been bullied into doing something by his agressively macho and competitive dad. A boy who’s frightened and embarrassed and ashamed and who just wants to throw his helmet on the floor, shout “I can’t do it!” through hot tears and run and run and run off and away to the coolness of his room where he can cry and sniff and sleep and wake up and read Beano Annuals by himself.

An odd feeling to have when you’re 38.

Anyhoo, the nicer of the two instructors gave the usual platitudes about everyone learning in their own time and not everyone having the “knack” straight away and once he’d said “Oh, oh right,” when I told him I didn’t drive a car so no, gears were a new thing to me, we had a bit of a chat over lemonade and a cigarette. His suggestion was that I was trying to do too much too quickly. Going from a fairly novice cyclist to a motorcyclist, without going via a car or moped or scooter, was a big step. From simple front brake/back brake/pedals to the spider octopus Record Breakers plate-spinning terror of the above was asking a lot. Especially as I would have to do all of the above at 50mph in heavy traffic by 4pm. He recommended I come back and do the whole thing on an automatic scooter. No gears, no pedals. Just push-bike brakes and a right hand rev for speed. I could get my balance, my confidence, my road awareness – all that – before deciding I was ready to step up to a man’s bike. (My words, not his).

So, helmet in hand (so to speak), I took a trundle away from the training ground, waving everyone else off, offering good-luck-kids to them as they u-turned and slalomed and buzzed in and out of cones. Walking back to the showroom to hand in my stuff, I thought long and hard. The two images here of bikes and mopeds fighting in my tiny brain.

But then, in talking to my wife, I guess I had a moment of clarity. Was I just being a dick? A too keen, image obsessed, got to do it all right now, all or nothing twit head? Would a sensible man really head shakily out on a machine he’s afraid of in London traffic? Or would he take sensible baby steps towards a goal cautiously, getting better and more confident over the course of months and years? Well exactly.
Plus of course, look at this:

So I’ll be calling the Training Centre and booking myself in again asap. I’ll let you know what happens.

Happy Easter munchkins...
Love to all
Rx

A few more words on two-wheeled terror - Damien Moped II
Thurs 28th April 2011
Hello
I am heavy of heart. Heavy of heart and darkened of soul and furrowed of brow and lighter of wallet. I hope you aren't.
For those with one eye on the clock, you won't care that it's 1.30pm on Thursday. The very Thursday I booked in my second attempt at Motorcycle Compulsory Basic Training (9-4.30pm). So you do not have to be the bastard offspring of Hercule Poirot and/or Charlie Makepeace to figure out...yeah, didn't go well.
At the fuck all.
So this short entry will be a cathartic cleansing of all things bikular from my soul and I will no doubt, during the next few paragraphs, get a tad tetchy and a bit crosspatch, but by the end - with a tear in my eye, a little older, a little wiser - we'll have got through this together. As friends.

So anyway. Turns out I can't fucking ride a fucking 50cc automatic fucking moped either. For fuckadeedoodah's sake. "Oh it'll be much easier," they said. "A lot more straightforward," they said. "More like riding a bicycle," they said. "No clutch, no gears. no fuss. Just get on and go," they said.

Lying cunts.

So here it is. A message. A warning. To all those late thirties dunderboobies who fancy themselves as greasy Ace Cafe rockers and dream of Steve McQueen and black leather and putt-putt-putting along the King's Road on beaming chrome vintage dream machines.

Warning 1. A CBT is NOT a riding lesson. Okay, it's fucking not. Yes, it is considered step one of learning to ride a bike. But it fucking isn't step 1. It's about step 43. The first 42 steps being: get really really confident, comfortable and familiar with sitting on thin rubber tyres and skooting off across tarmac at 30mph. Metropolis Bikes of Vauxhall do NOT show you how to ride a bike. Oh, they TELL you how to ride a bike. Oh yes. They TELL you all sorts of fucking things. About oil changes and kick stands and tread depth and dangers of skidding and such. But they don't TEACH you.

Now before you start, I know this sounds just like so much precious "poor me" whining. But fuck off (he said, cleverly). I may know cock all about carbourretors and clutches, but I do know a lot about training. What with me, y'know, being a fucking training manager for Chrissakes.

(Sorry, I'm coming across much angrier than I actually am).

Warning 2. There is a mammoth cavernous divide between learning knowledge, and learning skill. Knowledge is learned through reading, classroom study and mentoring. Skill, however (such as serving a tennis ball, juggling, changing chords on a guitar) is learned only through practise, repetition, repetition and repetition. (I use that joke in my training sessions. It gets as piss poor reaction then, you'll understand, as you just gave it).

Taking me to one side and saying "look, you're not looking ahead at where you're going. You're not turning your head before you take the corner. You're yanking the brake too hard," is not giving anyone a lesson in fucking anything. Aside from a lesson in how to feel about 6 years old and that you're back at school in a sweaty gymnasium in hand-me-down trainers and baggy shorts and an ex-military mustachioed cunt is bellowing at you to "try harder" and "be more like the other boys."
Of course I'm not. Of course I'm not controlling the brake gently, of course I'm not bringing my feet in fast enough, of course I'm not turning my head prior to the corner to check clearance. Of course I'm fucking not being aware of my surroundings. Of course I'm not coming to a practised, smooth and gentle rolling stop when you put your arm out. Of course I'm fucking not. Wanna know why, you tattooed greasy fuck? It's because I CAN'T RIDE A FUCKING MOPED. Of the 38 years, 5 months I have been on planet earth, I have sat on a moped for precisely 3 fucking minutes, you presumptious impatient fucka-me-do.

A good friend of mine was talking bikes after my fuelled fiasco on Sunday. He is an accomplished rider. I asked him how he learned. He said he took a small bike out to some fields where he grew up and spent a day getting to grips with controlling the clutch and changing gears. A whole fucking day. Not, Mr Metropolis, 10 minutes.

Warning 3. If you weren't the sort of rough-necked scabby kneed Embassy Regal lifting tracksuited wide-boy cuntchops who didn't spend every two hours after shcool "up the park" fucking about on your cousins Lambretta, tatooing football teams on your arm with Quink and a stolen WHSmiths compass and fingering the frightened fannys of Jackie McSlutsworth from the flats, then you're not going to be prepared to take a CBT in anything.

"It's not for you, is it mate," chuckled Mr Man in his leathers from behind his sunglasses and biker tattoos, as he ambled across the tarmac. Granted, I had just ploughed into a steel fence at 10mph, slammed on panicky brakes, skidded and fallen off. But really? "It's not for you, is it mate?" Well no, it isn't. You'll be surprised to fucking know that after 10 minutes and about 200 yards, I haven't grasped the necessary balance, motor-skills, experience, foresight and coordinatiion that you demand. Of course, y'know mate, you could, oh I dunno, TEACH ME HOW TO RIDE A FUCKING BIKE but then of course, as I have discovered, that's not really what today is about is it.

I'll stop in a minute, I promise.

Can you imagine a driving lesson in a car being like this? 10 minutes talk on what every button on the dashboard does, what every light means, what every pedal does then:
"In you get mate, on you're own, let's see how you do. I won't be next to you, I'll be standing 50 feet away with my hands on my hips. YOu're on your own. Oh and roll the windows up tight so I can't hear if you ask or say anything. Ready? Now move your car expertly forward without a stall, skid, false start or any anxiety whatsoever. Whoopsie, Stalled it. Try not to stall it and have another go. C'mon, get on with it, you'll only get better by doing it. Woah! Shit mate, you lurched a bit there. Okay, have one more try...
Hmmn. Based on that 8 seconds, I don't think you'd be very safe driving around London for 2 hours on your own after lunch so...not for you, is it mate? Thanks for trying anyway, bye then. Oh and I'll keep the 140 quid."

So gone. Gone are my teenage dreams of bikes. Of chrome and steel and the tangy dark smell of polished leather. Of studded panniers, of gleaming helmets, retro chrome goggles, flying jackets, the wind in my face, grease on my Hanes white t-shirt and a feeling of freedom and joy. No more will I scour Autotrader for a good price on Honda Rebels, Suzuki Maraurders or Yamaha Virago 125s. Never again will I watch a tooled up low slung custom cruiser rumble up to the lights and think anymore than - smug twat.

Oh damn. I've sort of upset myself now a bit. I thought this would help. Turns out being bitchy and sarcastic on a web page isn't as cathartic as one might imagine. I don't even want to stop typing and play some rock n roll guitar, which normally cheers me right up, as - for today at least - I associate a fat twangy Gretsch 6120 as just the sort of growling rebel geetar noise that bikers like.

Arse.

Please stand by. A normal mood will follow shortly.

'til then, Landlord? An Oyster card for me please.

Love to all
Rx     .