Re-jigging

Minor tweaks and reforms ongoing, just to make the life of anyone who cares that little bit easier. On the right, there is a 'page' section, which can send you to archives of themed pieces.

Because I care.

New feature

Just because I love the word 'widget', I've added a little feature where you can click the box(es) under each post that reflect what you thought of them, if you can't quite be bothered to write a comment.
Give 'em a go. I dare you.
Some guy said you couldn't. Prove him wrong.

The Tale of Cameron's Cunning...

...Or, how the Pearls and Handbag are coming back to haunt us in more ways than we thought.


In a leaked cable around this time last year, it emerged that William Hague described himself, George Osborne and David Cameron as 'Thatcher's children'. Putting aside, if at all possible, the disturbing image of this terrifying and repulsive family (note to self: clean mind with bleach later), it is clear that several elements of truth have emerged from this out-of-the-blue maternity claim. It is certainly enough to make 2010's intake of the New Right giggle with glee, and make the Left grow a goatee for moral support while reaching for a copy of Das Kapital in the vain hope that, while worn in the jacket pocket, it can stop the myriad bullets of privatisation that are whizzing our way.

Some of this Thatcherism (and please, for the sake of sanity and all that is holy, let us please assume that Hague was speaking figuratively) is fairly explicit as Cameron bids adieu to the Royal Mail, the NHS (if some have their way) and anything along the lines of Union authority or money for the public sector. However, what is slightly more worrying is the stuff that isn't immediately noticeable; the wave of 'stealth Thatcherism', if you will, that is slowly creeping over us. The Big Society, sold to us in its vague, vague terms of 'self betterment', 'get the chance to do it yourself' and 'communities coming together', is a beast that masquerades under the cloak of 'empowering' (a term that I am, frankly, always slightly dubious of, despite the fact that at my school's open evening, at which I was helping, I said it so many times that I started to sound like a tiring and cheesy feminist rally, if such a thing could ever possibly exist). Perhaps it is. Perhaps there are people who really do enjoy organising their own sewage cleaning, and feel better for it. However, I can never quite shake off the feeling that the Big Society is just another Government ploy, another way for them to rinse their hands of people's lives, another way to disassociate themselves from any responsibility when things go wrong, while leaving them able to claim credit for success. It's the underhand, smiley re-emergence of the laissez-faire of yesteryear, "rolling back the frontiers of the state" in a cunning, brilliantly intelligent, gloriously Tory political master-stroke which allows Cameron to reap the crops that he did not sow. Thatcher would be proud.

And now, just as an afterthought, I'm going to embark on a brief dalliance which is sure to set some people a-tutting and which pre-emptively invokes Godwin's Law. I'm drawing on the Nazis. Now, before I jowls start quivering with rage, I will hastily point out that I'm not completely conflating the right-wing ideology of Conservatives with the right-wing ideology of a barking mad Austrian chap. Just hear me out. One of the reasons that the Gestapo were so effective was that Himmler engineered its methods in such a way that they had to do relatively little. Ordinary people were turned into informers through a mix of fear and duty, leaving the Gestapo as a mostly administrative body, sifting through the huge weight of reports that people filed on their friends, neighbours and family. Society was snitching on itself.

Wait wait wait wait wait... Government stepping back, leaving responsibility to the people of a society to do the job themselves? Familiar, much?

Sorry, Dave. When it comes to originality, you're 70 years too late.

Liberty, the Government, and 'For Our Own Good'

On Wednesday, a group of doctors advised the government to pass a ban on smoking in one's car. There is no point even trying to argue against the negative effects of smoking, be they physical, financial or psychological. Put bluntly, smoking kills.

Similarly, I myself dislike and disagree with the idea of smoking. I am also personally against taking illegal drugs. But do I think that my own opinions and the fact that things are dangerous make sufficient grounds for making something illegal? No; not by any means. I don't ever think personal views on a certain area should ever be the basis of legislation which will affect the whole country. My distaste should not translate into infringements on others' liberty.

Take the smoking in the car debate as an example. Obviously, if there is someone in the car with you, particularly a non-smoker, then the situation changes. You shouldn't be allowed to smoke in a situation such as this where it infringes on another's health. However, should it still be banned if you are the only passenger? No. What right does the Government have to say what you can and can't do with your own body? Yes, it's dangerous, as are drugs. But then again, so are knives. So are painkillers. So is alcohol So are plastic bags, and hammers, and chocolate.We don't ban those things. These are clearly not the same things, but the principle is the same. Danger and ill-health, when caused with consent, should not be reasons for illegalisation in my mind.

I cannot reiterate enough that I am against smoking. But what I am against more are the patronising, arbitrary attacks on liberty. By all means, try and discourage people from smoking, and taking drugs, and drinking too much. The fewer people that do these things, the better. But ultimately, it is their choice. Someone may choose to smoke 40 cigarettes a day and send themselves to an early grave, and many would disapprove of this. I would. It would be heartless not to care. But if it were their decision, then so be it. It was their path, and it was the right of no-one else to forcibly move them. Your body may be a temple, but everyone should be able to worship in their own way.

It's for this reason as well that I agree with President Santos of Colombia as he pushes for the legalisation of drugs. Personal liberty is ultimately the strongest driving factor for me, but there are swathes of other reasons. A regulated, taxed drug industry cuts out the evils of dealers with their shady methods and tainted products. It would also bring in large amounts of revenue; vastly more than the costs to any nationalised healthcare.

To an extent, I also find myself agreeing with the UK Libertarian Party's idea to "repeal nanny-state legislation such as compulsory seatbelt and crash helmet use". Harsh in words, but ultimately sound in reasoning. Quite honestly, you'd be an idiot not to wear a seatbelt or a crash helmet. I see no reason why one wouldn't want to. But equally, I see no reason at all why 650 well-off, predominantly unrepresentative people should be allowed to smother liberty, that most precious of commodities, in such a patronising, demeaning manner.

I wouldn't smoke, or take drugs. Nor would many other people. But, as I said at the start, I am not everybody. And the opinions of one should not block the freedom of many.

Things Which Irk Me.

I like to think that, on the whole, I am a mellow, calm, slow to anger kind of chap. However, there are certain things which just make me irrepressibly furious. Learn them, and avoid them.

1) Shoddy use of the subjunctive case: "If I was...". No. Shut up. Move along. You're to be shot. Shut up.
2) Coventry.
3) People who pronounce <H> as 'haitch'. It's 'aitch'. Not complicated. Google Chrome, while still refusing to recognise 'radicchio', gives 'haitch' the red squiggle of doom. Good work, Google Chrome.
4) First Past The Post. Bah.
5) Laughing babies on adverts. It's my firm belief that children should never be happy to the point of excessive chortling. They must be planning something.
6) Communism.
7) People who label Obama as a Communist. Get educated. Socialised healthcare does not make him the offspring of Lenin and the Devil. Sort your life out.
8) People who barge into you in towns and cities without apologising. Oh, how I hate you.
9) People who insist the world will end in 2012 and moan about it all the time. We all know it will end; we've accepted that and have moved on. I suggest you do the same.
10) The social stigma attached to lists which don't have 10 items in them.

Yet Another Political Cow Thing

Yeah, they're as common as dirt. But, as far as I know, there's not a 'Cow Political Theory' dedicated to our chums on the extreme left, and, besides, Communism's always good for a chuckle. Alors, voila:

Communist Political and Economic Theory Explained Through Cows

Marxism: After an age-long struggle, the proletariat throw off the shackles of the bourgeoisie and milk the cows. The milk is distributed evenly ensuring everybody gets a millilitre or two. Everyone is equal: equally unhappy and equally short of milk. Get over unhappiness over cup of tea. Green tea, of course, because proper tea would be theft.

Soviet Communism: Despite there being plenty of milk for everyone, there are long queues and inevitably shortages. People discuss failures of the capitalist system while sipping glasses of milk imported from the US. Meanwhile, the government has sent the cows to the Gulag over fears of them mooing anti-Soviet Propaganda.

Cuban Communism: After eventually deciding they live in a Communist state, citizens are well educated enough to read instruction booklet on milking cows. There is an attempt to seize the milk by Americans and Cubans happier with the previous corrupt dictatorship. Meanwhile, cows turn out to be secret plot to assassinate Castro and are sent into exile.

East-German Communism: Watch West Germans milk cows while being told how they are living in milk-less squalor. East-German cows milked. Milk is ‘borrowed’ by big brother Russia, who promises to pay you back one day.

African Communism: The one cow is milked. Milk taken by government to distribute elsewhere. People get fair share of dirt. In the middle of the night, people are taken away for having too much dirt. Cow dies, sparking bloody war with neighbouring country.

Far- East Communism: People milk cows. The government seizes the milk while informing citizens how proud, strong and milky the country is. Nuclear missiles are primed after apparent insults over milk production by western scum. West is bemused.

Democratic Socialism: People milk the cows. The government takes the milk and holds a nationwide referendum to decide where the milk should go. By the time this has been decided, the milk has gone off. New Referendum is unanimously passed to begin production of more milk. Rinse and repeat.

New Name

The astute of you out there (and I use astute very loosely here. Perhaps it isn't really the right word; maybe 'not blindingly thick' would be more appropriate) will have noticed that the name of this blog* has changed. This is because, put bluntly, the last name (WHICH WILL BE MENTIONED NO MORE) was poor. I hated it to the point where it actually made me physically sick.

So, I changed it. I believe, and I'm sure you'll agree with me, that it's a suitable title; after all, I'm a cheery chap, and there's little in this world to get riled about. So bear with me a while until I decide to change it again. It'll probably be fairly soon.

*I can't fail to notice that as I write this, Google Chrome's spell-check doesn't recognise 'blog' as a word, and has given it the red line of death. Nor does it recognise Miliband, or radicchio. Keep up, Google Chrome.

The death of a dictator and the sorry state of modern morals.

Every paper seems to have had one image splayed over their front pages; that of a grimacing old man with a bullet wound in his head, hair matt and sticky from blood, eyes clamped shut. Pitiful it may be, but this picture is a sign of triumph for many. But for me... it just seems outdated, jingoistic and unnecessarily gruesome.

Yes, through the lense of the media Colonel Gaddafi may have been a bloodthirsty tyrant who did unspeakable things, but then again, so have many other people. But for crimes, whether at a local or national level, there are courts. It is when 'justice' is devolved to the hands of a bloodthirsty mob that it is at its most blurred, at its most questionable.. And it is for this reason that I find myself uncomfortable with the cold-blooded killing and the subsequent media frenzy that howled for blood and photos. There was no need; no need for the murder, no matter how it was justified as 'execution', or excused as 'crossfire', no need for the ubiquity of the image of a dead man to satisfy the masses' baying for blood.

By no means am I defending Gaddafi. Of course he should have been punished. But punished by law, order and authority; not by vigilante justice. The end result would almost definitely have been the same. Gaddafi was always going to die following his being deposed, despite imprisonment probably being a preferable alternative; a way of separating us from him in terms of morals and method. The cruel-minded may even say that life imprisonment is a harsher punishment than a quick death. But if he had to die, at least death by court would have been a more modern, more appropriate way. Better that for the 21st century than the savage, archaic habit of stringing up he who opposes you so all may jeer at his bloodied corpse.

A Very Middle Class Crisis

When it comes to newspapers, I'm a chap of routine. The i on weekdays, as it's cheap and easy to read; the Independent on Saturday, due to its 'Errors and Omissions' column and the 'Say what you see' column at the end of the magazine; the Observer on Sundays as, hey, everyone needs a bout of left-wing journalism littered with typos every now and then. As such, every Sunday morning I take the short walk up to the Tesco Express near my house clutching my £2.20, and take the short walk back trying to prevent the paper from blowing away (I'd like to say that I decline a plastic bag because I'm eco-friendly, but the truth is that I'm just lazy at times).

And so it was today. But when I reached the paper section of the shop, calamity struck. The section which usually contains the Observer was empty. I refrained from panicking at first; sometimes, it is misplaced and has another paper shoved on top. I checked each section. This was not the case. Now, panic started to ooze into my being. There was no Observer.  This was unusual; living in an area where the locals would vote for a piece of swede if it had a blue rosette attached means that the Observer is usually the last paper left. But not a single one was to be found. Luckily, I have a back-up plan for such an emergency: the Independent on Sunday. There was one left, and I picked it up. I calmed down a little; the situation wasn't perfect, but it could have been a lot worse.

As it was, it did get a lot worse. The paper felt unusually light. I opened it to find that some blaggard had pilfered the magazines and the New Review. This was not on. I put the paper down, and felt a blood vessel start to throb in my brain. I had to buy something; walking into a shop, spending the best part of ten minutes dithering, then leaving with nothing would have made me, as it is technically described, look like a bit of a numpty. Besides, I had set off with the intention of buying a paper and, by Jove, I was going to leave with one.

So began my agonising decision. In front of me were stacks of the Fail on Sunday, the Telegraph, the Sunday Times, and a whole load of local papers. I discarded the latter immediately; I am not on best terms with local papers, especially their tendency to have as their front page story something which the nationals declined to include as ten words on their most obscure and unread page (Man buys fridge. Fridge doesn't work. Fury. Fridge replaced. Contentment). Eventually, I chose the lesser of many evils, and picked up a copy of the Sunday Times.

I don't have an extensive history with the Times. Every now and then, I will sit and tut at it in the Library, as it is there and it is free. Other than that, it has entered my house only twice. The first time was when my mum bought it for her sister in Texas; it was the time of the Royal Wedding, and it had the best pictures. Fair enough. The other time was when it was free at WH Smiths with a magazine that my dad was buying. I don't remember much of either time.

And so it is that today, I take a step into the unknown. Downstairs, the Sunday Times awaits me.

Quite frankly, Neil Armstrong has nothing on me.

And now for something disappointingly serious...

The Problem with PR

Proportional Representation is often cited as the 'fairest' of the electoral methods, and the most democratic it could be before slipping from representative to direct democracy. Perhaps it is; after all, the party preferences of the nation are reflected exactly in Parliament, with every vote counting. Compare this to First Past the Post, where the percentages of votes and seats accrued by a party are often grossly different, and many votes go wasted in a constituency which traditionally always selects the same party.  However, PR is by no means perfect. I will examine some of its flaws here.

Firstly, there is the most commonly cited argument of the coalition government. This particular one is disputable, depending on one's personal views. PR will almost definitely result in a Hung Parliament after each General Election; parties very rarely achieve over 50% of the nation's vote, meaning no-one has a majority. The result is the need to form a coalition of two parties or more. This is where one of two issues arises. 

While no one of the three major parties gains more than half the electorate's votes, the 50% mark can usually be reached when the total for two of the three are added together. It is very doubtful that Labour and the Conservatives, traditional enemies, would form a coalition. Therefore, if a two-party coalition were the main objective, the Liberal Democrats would usually become the junior partner. This means the fate of each election would effectively rest with them; they choose who to go into government with, assuming their seats would cause a majority for either Labour or the Tories. This could lead to criticism, as they would have a disproportionately large amount of power, deciding as they would which party becomes government.

The alternative is discounting the Lib Dems, and attempting to form a coalition with many other smaller parties. However, this would lead to coalitions made up of many partners, any of whom could theoretically block a bill if it weren't to their taste. For want of a better example, Weimar Germany showed the inefficiency of a PR based Parliament. Any proposed bill would have to be seriously based on compromise, which would leave no partner fully satisfied.

The next flaw in PR is that it would remove local representation. An advantage of plurality based systems, like FPTP, is that each area has a recognisable candidate whom it has chosen to represent them. PR does away with constituencies, therefore removing local representatives, and a direct link to the House of Commons for the electorate. How does an unhappy person voice their complaint to Parliament, without a local MP who can be held accountable? Theoretically, each party could allocate its MPs to a region, but this process would be messy, and there is no guarantee that the allocated individual would suit the people they were meant to represent.

The final issue is similar to the last, in that people have no choice over who is actually elected. Yes, they choose the people on an indirect, macro level, but they have no say over individuals. Say a party has a devious, cunning member who would be very useful in a democratically elected governmental position; a latter day Peter Mandelson figure, if you will. Such a figure would probably be seen as unelectable by the people, regardless of how useful the party may find him. However, under PR, he could be put at the top of the party list, ergo meaning that as long as he chose to run for Parliament, he would always find himself with a seat.

This is why I do not believe Britain should move to full PR. However, I don't feel either that it should stick with FPTP, or even settle for the Alternative Vote. My method of choice is a form of the Additional Member system. The Commons would have a slightly raised number of seats (say, 700), and the number of constituencies would be reduced to 500. Each constituency would elect an MP via a system like FPTP, or preferably the Instant Run-off method (think London mayoral elections: numbered preferences, if no candidate achieves a majority of number 1 preferences then everyone bar the two highest candidates are eliminated. Preferences are distributed until a majority is achieved). The remaining 200 seats are allocated on a proportional basis based on the nationwide vote tallies. It combines strong government and local representation with elements of electoral fairness.

  

Get something off my chest

I have an announcement. Some will deride me for it, and others have already mercilessly mocked me. "How can you?" they ask. They don't understand.

So... It's best to just stop denying everything, and get this out of the way.

My name is Chris, and I am a Liberal Democrat.

We're not all useless. Don't listen to the Daily Fail.

Serious Stuff

If you're looking here for serious journalism/political commentary... then I'm afraid you'll be sorely disappointed. However, my dear ol' bruv is co-editor of a really quite good political and news blog, The Grapevine. So, if you want high quality serious stuff, then yeah, give it a go.


It's won awards and everything.

How to Cope with Being Dead

If you’re reading this, then there is a strong possibility that you are dead, and not coping, or that you will be dead sometime in the future and are worried about not coping.
The first step is checking to see whether you are actually dead and not just a bit hung-over. If you have no pulse, or there are large holes where any major organs should be, or you have an unnatural desire to chew on human brains (fig 1) then you are dead. CONGRATULATIONS! Acceptance is the first part of coping with your death.

Unfortunately, there is one problem that often faces dead people; they are buried in a thick wooden coffin under a good deal of fairly stiff soil. If this doesn’t apply to you, due to wishes of being cremated or stuffed-and-preserved so you can take centre stage in the living room once more, then feel free to skip this section. Luckily, several graves are fitted with a bell system, wherein you can pull on a string to indicate that service would be quite pleasant right now. However, people often either blame the bell’s ringing on the wind, or faint from fright when there is no wind. Due to the selfish nature of mankind, it looks like you’re going to have to get out of this pickle yourself. Thankfully, it appears that dying can actually be good for one’s health; it is widely known that, along with little old Italian ladies, the dead possess super-human strength. So, using a bit of ingenuity and uber-strong dead muscles, you should have shuffled out of your grave in no time.

When you are back on the surface, you’ll encounter several more problems, namely the fact that plucky groups of desperate survivors, or even the army, will try and shoot you. This is why you should always carry a certificate proclaiming the friendliness of your deadness, and remember not to chew on too many people.

Your next worry may be that you will be unable to find a suitable job. However, there is no place in today’s modern, progressed society for the awful prejudice that can be held against someone simply because they are dead. Just some of the fun, rewarding jobs that a differently-alive (to use the politically correct terminology) person can hold are shown below (fig 2)

Now that you’re dead, your social life is going to be quite different. Primarily, this will be due to the fact that sooner or later, you’ll stink like the rear-end of a rotten skunk. To mask this, there are plenty of perfumes, deodorants and colognes out there to hide your smelly shame. A further issue is that some of your friends won’t want to see you any more, on account of you being dead. In this case, they’re not your true friends, and maybe chewing on their brains a bit won’t go amiss. Also, you’ll be able to gain a lot of new friends by performing novelty bar tricks, such as juggling your own ears. Nothing wins people over like self-mutilation, cheap clown acts and a couple of pints of lager. (Fig 3)

Overall, the secret to coping with being dead is to embrace your un-life, but not let stereotypes dictate whatever you do. Show off your new found talents, but never go too far and cross the line of causing a virus outbreak and national panic. That would just be selfish.

How to Make a Cup of Tea

Tea. It built a trade empire, which in its heyday advocated the brutal treatment and persecution of thousands of natives, who were cruelly forced to grow the delicious crop, then sell it at low prices to the British, who in were desperate need of something to wash down their afternoon cakes, and spew in outrage at the day’s news (for more information on tea spewing, see Fig 1 of ‘How to Read a Newspaper'). But it sure is tasty!
Yet evil... (fig 1).

It is also positively ridiculously easy to make, which is why it’s so inexplicable when the majority of cafés, tea-rooms and their ilk manage to mess it up so extravagantly. If it’s not woefully under-brewed, essentially brown water, then it’s stewed for three weeks in a clay urn and is thick enough to clog up the Thames for a good few days.

This is why, if just for my mental wellbeing rather than anything else, I have produced a fool-proof, fail-safe, have-to-be-the-lovechild-of-Homer-Simpson-and-a-dodo-to-get-it-wrong list of instructions on how to make a Great British cup of tea. ‘Why are they so secure?’, you may ask. Well, quite simply, it’s because many of the steps are interchangeable, or simply voluntary AND AFTER ALL, ALL YOU’RE DOING IS PUTTING THREE (MAYBE FOUR, BUT I DIGRESS. APOLOGIES) THINGS INTO A MUG, STIRRING IT THEN LEAVING IT FOR A PERIOD OF TIME.

You Will Need:

• A teacup

• Water

• Kettle

• A teabag

• Sugar (optional)

• Milk(optional)

How you do it:

1) Boil the water in the kettle. Refer to kettle manual on how the kettle works. If kettle refuses to work, do not use cold water for the tea. Call the nice man from Comet for help. Sort your life out.

2) Place boiled water, teabag, and optional ingredients into teacup in any old order. Just bung ‘em all in, because contrary to popular belief it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference what order they go in

3) Stir, with anything non-organic which comes to hand and is clean. Leave for 1 to 5 minutes depending on how strong you want it. No more, no less.

4) Remove teabag, and drink tea from the teacup. Saucer, scones and spewing are optional, but recommended.

There. How hard was that? Not at all. Should anyone still need nannying, here are some top tips:

Remove teabag with a spoon or similar appliance if possible. Any other method is probably ill-advised. (Fig 2)

If the milk you are planning on using is so far past its best that it is in fact, cheese, then do not add to cup. Instead, add a slice of lemon and claim it is edgy and modern (Fig 3) despite the fact that tea with lemon is really quite an old tradition.

How to Go Shopping

Unless you live in the wonderful, magical land where online shopping is consistently reliable and on-time, then chances are that you will have to go shopping for the necessities at least once a week.
The major shop at a supermarket is a bit like life at a micro-scale. It’s confusing, disorienting, hectic and stressful, and full of people either shouting at you or pushing a large, heavy metal object at you at high speed with every intention to maim. So don’t even think about taking that last tin of chopped vegetables (fig 1). Also, you have no idea where the hell anything is.

Sometimes, to steel themselves for the forty minutes of torture they know awaits them, some people make a shopping list. From this, one of two scenarios can occur

1) You get to the supermarket, and have your trolley. You look at the list, and then swear to meticulously follow it from top to bottom, even if item number 1 is at one end of the shop, and item number 2 is at the other. Every item on the list must be found, and found in the order in which it is written down. The result: a two hour long shop which culminates in you having a nervous breakdown when you can’t find the coleslaw.

2) The list is just a rough guide. You’re going to do this as quickly as possible, so you can escape this shiny, plasticy hell-hole. This means you just go up every aisle you see once a single time, from one end of store to t’other picking up every item you see that rings a bell. The result: Twenty minutes of shopping, three hours of agony when you realise when you’re halfway home that as well as forgetting the tooth-paste, toilet roll and caster sugar, you’ve also left one spouse and a number of children in the supermarket café.  

There is, thankfully, a happy medium. It involves using your noggin and coming up with a loose but definitive plan which covers everything you need, which usually means waiting at the checkout and taking it in turns with your significant other to dash off and pick up something that you’ve just remembered, then bask in the glow of the points earned on your store-card. SAVINGS, SOON YOU WILL BE MINE!

In my experience (humble thought it may be) the most stressful part of the shop is usually the buying of cheese over the counter. In some supermarkets, you are issued with some sort of ticket with a number, and you are expected to wait until a voice booms your particular digits over the speaker. It is rather like waiting to be shot. This is because -for me, at least- the sitting down and waiting instils a sense of panic, which slowly matures like the fine cheeses in front of you. You get nervous. Will they like my cheese choice? Will they think badly of me? Are they going to get all snobbish when they see the Dairylea and Cheese Strings in my trolley? Then, when you are beckoned like a lamb to the creamy and mature yet tangy slaughter, the person in his cheese uniform waits, holding some very sharp wire in a threatening manner. Of course, the best, calmest solution to dealing with the problem of cheese-buying-anxiety is a simple and obvious one. Simply smash through the counter, pick up the largest wheel of cheese you can, throw it through the wall and run to safety. (fig 2)

The most important thing to remember when one is going shopping is not to panic. Hyper-ventilating has no place in today’s busy, consumer driven lifestyles. If you want to hyper-ventilate, do it in the safety and manure-scented comfort of a farmers’ market. The supermarket is a place for bold derring-do, where every bargain must be sought out and acted upon. Be brave, be dashing, and be thrifty. Good luck.

How to Read a Newspaper

As a race, humans are obsessed with what’s going on around them in the world. Albeit, this lust for knowledge does include, for some, wanting to know which celebrity has lost weight in a break-up while adopting a cute orphan, only to be found out to be the secret leader of an even more secret world-wide drug cartel, responsible for the deaths of dozens of people in gang warfare. But most people are just decent, normal folk who just want to know what’s going on. And this, friends, is what newspapers are for.

Despite each news-worthy event only having one way in which it panned out (i.e, the way it actually panned out), there are dozens of different newspapers out there, each with their own different spin on an occurrence or amount of indignation heaped upon people involved, be they actually responsible or not. As a result, it can be confusing, even frightening, to decide which newspaper you want to buy in the first place. Luckily, for your convenience (and because it takes up a large area, thus preventing the need to think of and write any more words. Words are tricky) I have provided, just for you, a handy table to see which paper suits your frame of mind.

(Click to enlarge)         

There are, indeed, others; notably the Times, the countless tabloid papers, and the ‘local rags’. However, I had unfortunately run out of both space and witty remarks to continue. (Looking back at the table, it appears I had run out of the latter some time before writing. In fact, why stop at the table. The whole series would be a more suitable and encompassing term.)

Once you have chosen your local paper, open it. Get a large bin bag, and clear away all the needless sub-sections until you have found the one or two bits of many that you actually desire to read. Burn the rest. All that remains is to make a nice cup of tea (if you don’t like tea, then tough. Just go with it. For instructions on tea making, see ‘How to make Tea’), sit down in a comfy armchair, and get ready to explode in outrage at at least one story, be it in the rise of price of lentils and bean-sprouts for the Guardian readers, or the latest conspiracy about the People’s Princess’s death for fans of the Express. Spewing tea everywhere for effect is optional, but greatly emphasises your disgust (fig 1). 

Try it. It will make you feel a lot better.

Finally, once read, the newspaper can act as a cunning, failsafe plan which can get you out of any sticky, undesirable situation which could possibly arise (fig 2) 

Facts and Tips

Following my 'How to...' theme, here a few useful facts and tips to help you out in any (read: barely any) of life's little difficulties. Again, I'm technologically incompetent, so just click the image below to see it all big like.

The Daily Fail

I'm in conflicted minds about the title of this post. On the one hand, I do appreciate a finely wrought and appropriate pun such as this. On the other hand, I find myself frowning at the fact that I have stooped to the level of using 'fail' as a noun, such is the current trend in internet patois. How extraordinarily vulgar.

Anyway, this is a piece of AS English Language homework; the brief was to retell the story of Jack and the Beanstalk in a medium of our choice. Enjoy. (I haven't yet found a way to get word documents on this blog-type thing, so just click on t' picture below.)

How to Protest

Let’s face it. There are times in life when one is, quite frankly, ticked off. A factory could decide to outsource, causing mass redundancies (and inevitably, a film ten years later depicting the plucky unemployed people’s refusal to give in and make a musical about their plight). A proposed motorway could cut straight through a quaint, Middle-England village, running straight over Grandma’s grave and the statue commemorating the first inhabitant to own a fridge. A posh supermarket could be destroyed, sparking a middle-class crisis when they are unable to find olive spread, capers, or the right type of mayonnaise.

Yes, there are times when even a very stiff letter to the Daily Telegraph isn’t enough to fully express one’s anger (fig 1). And it’s at times like these that the British sense of community and togetherness swells up, and groups of similarly hard-done-by people gather together to hurl a brick through a window.

Protests have a long, illustrious history, dating back to the Stone-Age when ecological modern-thinking cavemen would intervene on the behalf of the mammoth, rapidly being hunted to extinction. Unfortunately, large stone tablets are bloody difficult to use as banners (fig 2), so the idea of protesting never really kicked off until people found something lightweight to wave (Banners and waving will be covered in more detail later). However, the art of the protest progressed over the years, their demands being heard, and then consistently refused by the people in charge. And they say democracy is a lie.

Guide to Protesting

A fine example were the student protests over the removal of the cap on tuition fees. Luckily, they were a fine example of protesting, and will thus be used as our example here, though feel free to adapt these guidelines to any subject or scale that you so desire, from minor tiff to violent and decisive coup.

You will need:

• A group of like-minded people to protest with. One person waving a placard? Unlikely to achieve much. Two people waving two placards? Now we’re talking.

• Placards/Banners/Signs with well thought out, sensitive, witty, thought provoking messages (fig 3)

• Some sort of projectile to hurl, e.g.: stones, eggs, the packed lunch your mum made you, but turns out to be egg mayo (Yuk). Aim for maximum effect when hurling projectile, but be careful not to do it when the nice riot police men are watching (or mum, on the telly)

When your necessities are gathered, simply stand around looking disgruntled while waving your lovely banner. Eat any of the packed lunch which you do like, and hurl the rest. When all else fails, shock any nearby royals who happen to be passing (fig 4).  And remember, when all looks like it is going down the metaphorical pan, feign casual nonchalance while subtly and unnoticeably doing some more damage (fig 5). 

DISNEY!

There's really no excuse for this. I am so, so sorry. But let this serve as a lesson to schools that it is never a good idea to combine a large amount of disney and zoo video clips, movie maker, and a lot of free time.

Truth

I suppose, looking back at the whole affair, the seeds of discontent and suspicion were first sown a few weeks ago. That was when the whole thing kicked off.

Every night, the same routine. Come 10PM, the telly would be switched over to Channel 1, for the BBC News at 10. In his lilting valley tones, Huw Edwards would tell me of the day's events, and everything, no matter how depressing, how gruesome, how terrifying, would just seem all right. After all, the BBC makes everything better. Doesn't it?

And then I had an encounter which changed my life. Walking through town one day, I was accosted by a man, scruffy in appearance and demeanour. He was bloodshot of eye, frothing of mouth, and pungent of scent. He pulled me to one side.
"You poor fool! I've seen you, every night, watching the news, happy in your rut. Have you ever considered that there may be other news? Ever considered that there are other channels than beloved Auntie Beeb? All knowing, all loving, all caring Auntie Beeb?" He spat with disgust "You've wool in front of your eyes, my boy, and it's time it was pulled away!"
 Before I could respond, he had limped away, leaving me with a feeling of fear, an inkling of distrust, and a face covered in spittle.

His words, although clearly insane and delusional, rang true. In a twisted, obscene manner, yes, but true nonetheless. I really should try something new; expand my horizons and all that jazz. So, that night, after a session of Dave's original comedy (hah!) I dared to be different. I dared to break the mould. I dared to rebel.

I watched Channel 4 News.

It was fine, good enough, unremarkable. Yes, it covered the news, and yes, I learned things. But it seemed to lack the comforting warmth of the BBC. But, I persevered; not just with Channel 4, mind. Oh no. ITV, Sky and even (lord forgive me) Channel 5 all graced me with their journalism. I was gradually weaning myself off Auntie Beeb.

It was an odd feeling. Imagine a safety harness that has been there all your life, protecting you from life's little stumbles. You get used to it; so used to it, you forget it's there. It just seems natural. Now, imagine that it just disappeared. Life would seem new and scary and worrying. That's how I felt; I was permanently on edge, more aware of everything grim that was going on in the world. Despite this, I still resolved not to go back to the Beeb.

Then, one night, stuff began to happen. A knock on my door, at exactly 12 o' clock. I shuffled downstairs, blinking wearily. There was no-one there.

The next night, the same thing. A midnight visitor who fled before he could be confronted. So, the night after that, I employed some cunning. I fashioned myself a snug little den out of the coats in the hall, comfy and hidden from sight, and set my alarm to 11:55PM.

***

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Be-.
Then waiting.

***

Two knocks, and I opened the door. Standing there was a bland, featureless man in a grey suit, who seemed completely unsurprised at my finding him. He stood there, nonplussed, for a second, before enquiring, very politely, exactly why I thought it necessary to watch other news. Enquired why I would even question Auntie Beeb's judgement. I told him that an open mind was a good thing, thank you very much, and slammed the door on him.

The next thing I knew, I was in what looked like the waiting room for a doctor. There was a pleasant looking old woman of around 60 behind the counter. She was relatively short, with curled grey hair, glasses and a distinct aura of 'likes cats' around her. She smiled politely at me. I was alone.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but could you possibly tell me where I am?" My head had a slight groggy feeling, and my thoughts were ever so slightly blurred at the edges.

"Why, dear, you're at the Education Centre. Fancy silly old you not knowing that!"

I grinned, sheepishly. Come to think of it, I did realise this was the Education Centre. Silly me, indeed! Then I shook my head, and frowned.

"The Education Centre? What's that?"

The woman tutted. "It's for all those daft numpties who thought they knew better than Auntie Beeb, dear! No-one knows better than Auntie Beeb." She reached under the counter, and pulled out a saucer, cup, and teapot. She poured some tea into the cup, popped in a cube of sugar and some milk, and left it invitingly on the side. "Come and have a drink, deary. You look parched."

I was, so I did. The tea was delicious.

"So who runs this place then?"

"Silly chap! It's Auntie Beeb!"

I rolled my eyes. "Well yes, it's the BBC. Obviously. But who runs the BBC at the moment? Do they run this Education Centre, or is it some other department?" I took a swig of tea. It was really good.

"I said, dear. Auntie Beeb runs it. She helps make everyone feel ever so safe and secure. It's the waves, dear. The waves broadcast by our channels. They make everyone better. And those who forget get taught again."

I laughed. "You talk about 'Auntie Beeb' as if she were a real person."

The woman looked at me, appearing slightly confused. "Well, you're talking to a real person, aren't you, dear?"

My eyes bulged.

"YOU'RE Auntie Beeb?" I looked down at my tea. "Then that must mean-" She nodded. I should have felt alarmed, shocked, outraged that my tea had been drugged. But I wasn't. It was comforting, and reassuring. It just felt right. My vision went shaky, then all I could see was black.

***

I woke up the next morning, got dressed, brushed my teeth, and went downstairs to find some breakfast. I fed the cat, then flicked the telly on for the morning headlines. BBC 1, naturally. Well, who else?