The Amazing Race, what's it all about, eh?

The Amazing Race, the American reality TV show where 11 teams of two couples each race around the world collecting clues, completing challenges and gradually being eliminated until only one team remains and are rewarded with one million dollars, sort of reminds me of the fleeting nature of life and the ultimate futility of mankind's endeavours, you know?

I mean, maybe I've been watching it a bit too much recently, catching up on a lot of seasons I had missed over the last couple of years on YouTube, and maybe a kind of madness has set in; seeped into my dreams...

Travel to Ifskititskistan airport. We're all gonna be on the same flight. All teams are now making their way to Hrghah. Taxi! There's no more taxis. Oh my god. Help me Jesus. TAXI! Get the clue box. Where are the other teams? I think they're behind us. There's the Blondes. Look for the marked sign. I think it's this way. My gut tells me it's this way. It's this way. I can't be around you right now. Oh my god. Help me Jesus. Oh, there it is. Read the clue. Come on baby, let's run. Why doesn't anybody speak English? Taxi! This is our taxi. TAXI! Rapido. Very fast. We're in a race. There's the brothers. Where's the clue box? Who's got a stomach for seafood? I got this. You got this. Go baby. Oh my god. Help me Jesus. I can't do this. I'm a vegetarian. YOU GOT THIS! Woo hoo! Good job! Taxi! This is our taxi. TAXI! Where's the clue box? Make your way to Zshjustikkie museum. There's the Asians. Follow them. Taxi! This is our taxi. TAXI! Go, go, very fast. We're in a race. You know, RACE? Do you know where you're going? Oh my god, he's stopping for gas. Help me Jesus. The lesbians just passed us. Detour. Sink or Swim. You got this. You so got this. Oh my god. Help me Jesus. I can't do this. I can't swim. YOU GOT THIS! Woo hoo! Good job! Taxi! This is our taxi! TAXI! There's the nerds. Come on. Go fast. You understand fast? Oh my god, why doesn't anyone speak English? Help me Jesus. This sucks! The Rednecks are ahead of us. We're lost. We're last. You never know in this game. We're not quitters. Hurry, lastteamtocheckinmaybeelimated. Okay, let's run, baby. Where's Phil? I'm sorry to tell you you have been eliminated. It's been amazing. I couldn't have run this race with anyone else. This race has taught me so much. I love you, too.


So yeah, going a bit mad there...

It's just that it makes me think how the world used to be this mysterious place, full of wonders, dangers and tales told by adventurous heroes. Everywhere but the village where you lived was far, far away. When people stepped into unfamiliar terrain it was with equal parts awe and trepidation. 


Now, reality show contests whizz in and out of whole continents on a daily basis, speeding past each other, shouting and muscling their way through museums and cathedrals, crowded city streets and isolated farms, monuments and natural wonders. Some stop and look around from time to time and enjoy the ride... but most are there to prove something to themselves, to their partner, to their psychiatrist.  


Look, I love the show. It's the best reality show EVER. And I can only sit back and watch these contestants climb, carry, claw and connive their way to the finish line - I would be utterly hopeless in every possible way. But it's just that, sometimes, when I think about, which is not very often, I think... what's it all about, Alfie?

I shall put this kettle on, but I shall do no more

A poem I wrote over a year ago but still seems so relevant today...

I’m putting the kettle on,

but I shall do no more.

On earth I was not put

you to make tea for.

I’ll fill her ‘til she’s full,

I’ll even flick her switch.

But then my work is done.

I am not your tea bitch.

All the times I have slaved

with tea-bag and cup.

All the minutes spent brewing

just for a sup.

All the tea that went cold,

and tea bags that burst.

All the tea made and forgot,

and mouths left to thirst.

All the milk that went sour,

all the sugar that was spilt.

All the tea that was made

out of pity or guilt.

Oh! I have drunk from that cup,

‘tis I that’s the mug.

Now you say you want more,

I plead for mercy; you shrug:

“I made tea last time,”

you scoff gleefully.

Defeated by logic

I’m forced to agree.

So I shall put this kettle on,

but I shall do no more.

I’ll find a mug and a tea-bag,

but then it’s all yours.

By the time I’ve done this,

the kettle has boiled.

So I’ll pour in the water,

my god, you are spoiled.

Heck! Here’s milk and sugar,

sure I’ll make one for me…

Oh, will I ever do anything

but make mugs of tea? 

Imagine (2010) – looking back at how the internet has changed our lives in the last ten years

Actually, that's not all (see last post). 

So... because it’s nearly the end of the ‘noughties’ I started getting all reflective and started ‘imagining’ what life was like ten years ago. Then I ‘imagined’ that John Lennon was still alive. Then I ‘imagined’ that alternate-reality-still-alive John Lennon decided to re-release his song ‘Imagine’ only this time changing the lyrics to reflect the significant technological changes that have taken place over the last decade in order to fit this blog topic. ;)

Anyway, I ‘imagine’ (sorry) it would go a little like this…

Imagine (2010)
By S H Webb aka Sock Drawer Fiasco

Imagine there’s no YouTube
It’s easy if you try
No Facebook or Bebo
only dial-up modem useless sites

Imagine all the people
who didn’t know ‘bout your holiday in Greece

You-ooh-ooh-ooh-ohh

You may say I’m a dreamer
but I’m not the only one
who remembers life the days before we all
did friggin’ everything online

Imagine when your loved ones
were just a phone call away
Now you can poke or tweet them
even if they’re just three feet away

Imagine all the random people
who didn’t even know you existed

You-ooh-ooh-ooh-ohh

You may say you love Justin Bieber
or that you hate his f**king guts
and your stalker, your aunty and your neighbour’s dog
will give you a little green thumbs up

Imagine all the celebrities
with nowhere to Tweet
No one to spruik their chosen charity’s message to
or talk about their favourite doggy treats

Imagine all the stalkers
when they lived in peace

You-ooh-ooh-ooh-ohh

You may say you never looked up an ex
but you’d be the only one
At the very least you’ve Googled your own name
Oh my God, what have you become?

Imagine all the journalists
without the social networks
No sex tapes or Twitter updates
or Facebook pictures of missing persons

Imagine all the media
without Wikipedia

You-ooh-ooh-ooh-ohh

You may watch live streamin’
of the news around the world
See Saddam hanging and IEDs explode
and Chilean miners waving underground

Imagine no internet memes
I wonder if you can
No David after the Dentist
or Double Rainbow Guy

Imagine no fat Star Wars kid
or Leave Britney Alone

You-ooh-ooh-ooh-ohh

You may say I’m just a blogger
but I’m not the only one
I bet some day you’ll join us
because it’ll become a mandatory part of life as our society begins to more and more resemble an Orwellian distopian vision of the future as predicted in his book 1984.

The end

OMG the internet LOL!

TEN YEARS AGO… I’d never heard of blogging, never used the internet to pay for, book or order anything, didn’t have a laptop, email account or a mobile phone, used a pen and paper if I wanted to write something, asked someone or consulted a 20 years-out-of-date encyclopedia if I didn’t know something and could only wonder in a vague sort of way what other people who were not in the same room as me were doing at that present time.

No point to this really, just kinda thinking, you know, internet, wow. Is there nothing it cannot do? What does the future hold? It’s so amazing I think my head’s going to explode… that sort of thing.

That’s all.

Modern Warfare... it's just advanced Donkey Kong

"It's just Donkey Kong. Really, really advanced Donkey Kong." I tell myself as I watch blood and bone gristle splatter across the 42' plasma TV screen. 'It's not real, it's just Donkey Kong.'

My husband is playing Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 and I am watching for a few moments in between making cups of tea and nagging him to turn off the game so I can watch The Apprentice.

I can't believe what I'm looking at. My husband is an American soldier or marine or whatever (I don't know military speak) and he's battling the Taliban in present day Afghanistan. I apologise in advance for the following lazy and overused expression but WTF?!


I'm sitting there thinking... 

This is way too real, this war too current, this situation too FUBAR (so I lied, I do know some military speak) and every single day real live human beings are having to deal with this shitty situation on all sides. Where is the pleasure in imagining you're involved in this mess?

And then I remember....


It's only a game. It's just a bunch of pixels and polygons and computer code and scripted situations. That soldier could just as easily be Super Mario running along a plank and jumping over barrels. Those Taliban could just as easily be the enemy space ships in Space Invaders.

All of these games are essentially the same: run, jump, shoot your way through a series of challenges until you rescue the princess/capture the flag. The latest violent gaming fare is just Donkey Kong all grown up.

In 20 years the war in Afghanistan may still be raging on but Modern Warfare 2 will just be a quaint old fashioned game that has long been replaced by some 3D hologram virtual reality shoot-em-up arcade game.

I'll check back here in 2030 for an update.

STUPID NEWS ALERT

I've been writing these spoof news articles for an Irish college website and magazine. Thought I'd rehash them again here on my blog. What? It's not lazy, it's efficient.

Health Alert! Curry Chips are F**king Deadly – Shitfaced Student Declares

Ossified first-year college student and curry chip connoisseur, known only to casual acquaintances as Stevo, announced Thursday night outside a popular chipper van that his late night refreshment was “the dog’s bollocks” and that he could die happy after having consumed them.

“These (curry chips) are fucking deadly! I’m telling ya, man! Deadly!” shouted the blood-shot-eyed, slack-jawed youth as half masticated morsels of curry sauce smothered chips spat from his mouth onto surprised bystanders.

“I could ate these bastards till I die! Curry chips are da fucking bomb!” he went on to say before collapsing into a nearby urine soaked doorway.

“Wha’ you looking at? Feck off!” the langered man continued as fellow first-year teaching student - but not a friend, relative or in any other way associated with the scuttered subject - Cormac O’Shea, tried to assist him from the doorway among the debris of empty take-away cartons still containing remnants of other patron’s battered sausage, chips and garlic-mayo dip.

“I’ve seen him eating curry chips loads of times here before,” explained O’Shea, who was quick to add that other than begrudgingly giving Stevo a smoke at the end of the night, had never actually spoke to or hung out with him - on or off campus. “He usually he just eats half of them, throws the rest at a passing Gardai car and then legs it home. He must be completely bolloxed tonight.”

When asked how he found the taste of the curry chips himself, O’Shea commented that they “tasted like shite,” but that he usually preferred his chips with gravy anyway.

When told of the possible incidence of ‘deadly’ curry chips at this late night convenient mobile food facility, the Food Safety Authority of Ireland (FSAI) announced that they had examined the business and were satisfied with levels of deadliness in the curry sauce, and that it posed no risk to consumers who were not already legless at the time of consumption.

“To be honest, it’s not the food hygiene standards you have to watch out for at these mobile food locations,” said an industry spokesperson, “it’s gettin’ fleeced by the man when you’ve asked for a two piece chicken and chips box and he charges you for a Dinner for Two snack box and you only get bleedin’ wings!”

Chip van owner, Ispitin Yorfood, declined to comment about the health and safety concerns of his business, but did allow our reporter to have extra curry on her chips, which tasted friggin’ awesome, so the matter has not been pursued.

Stevo’s apparent near-death experience from his curry chip meal may have been responsible for his absence from lectures over the following week. He was, however, found alive and well outside the chipper van on Monday following a two-for-one Jaeger Bomb night at a local student bar.

He was later seen throwing curry chips at a lame pigeon.

*****

Songs about Mums

My mum came to stay recently. She’s the best. No, seriously, she is literally the best mum in the world. Sorry, other mums, but it’s true.

It’s weird… I’m now officially two years older than she was when she gave birth to me, and I was the youngest of four… Which inevitably leads to the next question… To baby or not to baby? Time she’s a tickin’, but baby’s can be trickin’. (Note to self: crap rhyme, doesn’t even make sense, no such word as trickin’.)

Oh well, that’s my deep emotional thought of the day out of the way…

What I’m really thinking about right now is replacing the word ‘mum’ with the noun ‘love’ in songs to see what ha!larious* results I can come up with. 

Let’s see…

 “All you need is mum (ba da da da da) All you need is mum (ba da da da da) All you need is mum, mum. Mum is all you need.”
- the Norman Bates theme tune; for those with serious mother issues.

“Sometimes I feel like throwing my hands up in the air, I know I can count on you. Sometimes I feel like saying, Lord I just don’t care… But you’ve got the mum I need to see me through.”
- for friends who should really be asking their own mothers for whatever assistance it is they require.

“Your mum keeps lifting me higher than I’ve ever been lifted before.”
- Mum’s a weight lifter who likes using children as dumbells?

“Mum is in the air, everywhere I look around. Mum is in the air, every sight and every sound.”
- Mum’s a pilot with a very busy schedule?

“Wouldn’t you agree? Baby you and me, got a groovy kind of mum.”
- these kids dig their mum’s hip style and funky dance moves.

“I’d go hungry, I’d go black and blue. I’d go walking down the avenue. No there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do, to make you feel my mum.”
- ummmmm….. Pimp, that’s just wrong.

One more… “MUM is a many splendored thing.”
- someone admiring their mum’s rainbow coloured dress.

(*not a typo, that’s how I’m going to spell hilarious from now on because that’s how I roll)

I liked the new bedside locker, so I put a ring on it

Our landlord got us a new bed. Slept in it for the first time the other night.

It's really comfortable, and at four whole inches bigger than the last bed, provides just the required amount of extra space to stop me from whinging to my husband, thusly...

“Move over you’re taking up all the space oh my god yes you are look at how close I am to falling off the bed my arm hurts from dangling over the side I do love your cuddles but I need to sleep don’t start that passive-aggressive psychological warfare on me and you've got my pillow oh my god look at all the space on your side wait don’t go I'm sorry hey maybe we can ask the landlord for a new bed?”

To which, he agreed. Bless him.

And the landlord agreed. Bless her. (Or should I say landlady? Do we still worry about using the correct masculine or feminine pronouns for job titles, or is that so 90's?)

She also sent us an old headboard with bedside lockers that she had lying around. Great! No more our crap on a kitchen chair next to the bed. 

So, to celebrate the new bed, mattress, headboard and lockers, I made myself a cuppa and thought I’d sit up in bed and do some writing... or maybe watch another episode of Dexter, because it’s getting really exciting right now.

(When, oh when, will Dexter’s secret finally be revealed? I want him to get caught, but I don’t, know what I mean? Quandary.)

Anyway, I decided to put a folded up piece of tissue under the mug in an effort to protect the polished wooden veneer of the locker. Then I climbed into bed.

After a moment I turned around to pick up my cup of tea and the locker was soaked.

I climbed out of bed, scratching my head (well, not really, who scratches their head when they are trying to figure something out, nobody really does that. Itchy scalp, yes.)

I stood there, staring at the mess, (not scratching anything) and decided I needed a coaster for the job. What was I thinking with tissue paper? Duh!

I got a coaster and a damp tea towel to mop up the spillage. 

I wiped down the locker, placed the coaster on the locker, placed the tea on the coaster, and hopped back into bed.

Damn it, I wasn’t connected to the internet. I had to go through the whole ‘Network Diagnostics’ thingy until I got to the point where I needed to enter the password from the router, or modem, or black box recorder, or whatever it’s called, so up out of bed I got again.

Internet connected, I hopped back into bed one last time and signed into Facebook. 

Said ‘happy birthday’ to a cousin, looked at a photo someone had taken of themselves, commented on a comment my sister had left my friend about the movie ‘Duets’ (my friend didn’t like it, my sister loved it, I said I thought it was alright but that I really liked the bit at the end where the guy sings “Free bird” and shoots himself – at least that’s how I remembered it. Facebook is so random sometimes.)

Then I went to take another sip of tea, and the bedside locker was soaked again!

Arghh!!

I got up, wiped down the locker and hopped back into bed. Picked up the tea and guess what? That's right! Soaked!

Arghh!!! (I added one extra exclamation mark compared to the last 'Arghh!!' to show that I was slightly more frustrated than the previous time, a clever use of punctuation I'm sure you'll agree. Some people don't like exclamation marks. I think they tell a story all of their own!!!!!!!!!!!)

I looked at the bottom of the ceramic mug for signs of leakage. Nothing. How was the locker getting soaked? It was one mystery I was determined to solve.

I hopped out of bed to investigate.

The tea sploshed over the sides of the mug.

I sat down again, toying with a theory that was developing in my brain...

The tea spilled again.

“Ohhhh”, realisation slowly dawned on me like the sun rising slowly over a person who was slowly realising something.

The locker. The headboard. Me, hopping in and out of bed. The headboard not pushed against the wall far enough. The headboard wobbling everytime I got in and out of bed. The locker connected to the headboard. The tea….

We won't be needing you today, Mssr. Poirot.

So anyway, now I’ve ruined the brand new second-hand landlord’s bedside locker with a bloody great big tea mug ring.

It was a very eventful morning, I tells ya.

That’s not the first time I’ve ruined something I’ve only just got. In our last house I thought I’d be really diligent about cleaning (that didn’t last long) so I scrubbed the stainless steel cooker until it sparkled! Except, it didn’t sparkle, it just had scratches all over it. I’d only gone and cleaned it with a steel wool scourer! Unnghh!

“Hello? Anybody home? Think, McFly, think!”

How about yas? Ever done anything totally stupeedo? Like this other time I dropped a slice of buttered bread butter side down when I was a kid then tried to wash off the bits of dirt and then took a bite only to realise it was now soggy and totally disgusting... (by the way, I have an average IQ and two university degrees, so I'm not, y'know, technically... I don't want to say the word.)

I'm just sayin', sometimes, very rarely, I do really dumb things, that's all. Don't we all? 

That's where you come in and agree with me...

Going Out – Why I’d rather stay in and watch QI

SO, I went out last night and basically spent most of the evening wishing I hadn’t.

I tried to look like I was having fun, but it was no use. I just wished I was at home.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t like a drink or eight and an evening of nonsensical banter down at the local pub with mates. Oh contraire, that happens to be a personal hobby of mine.

And I’m not blaming the girls I went out with last night – they were trying their best to enjoy themselves too.

No. I can hang out in a bar until the wee hours with the best of them. If the mood strikes me, I might even get up and dance or join in, nay even occassionally start, the Sing Song.

What I’m complaining about here is Going Out – the kind of evening that involves hair straighteners and high heels and clutch bags and desperately trying to look socially acceptable despite the fact that regardless of my best efforts I will still be older and fatter and less fashionable than all the skinny, young, fake-tanned, false-eyelashed, micro-skirted and stilleto wearing college students.

(Who knows where they get the money to spend on themselves, their car, their iPhones and all the drink they consume – hmmm, prostitution anyone? Jokes, of course!)

The kind of evening that involves ridiculously loud cover bands telling the audience to “make some noise” even though those wankers are already making more noise than would be necessary if they were playing Wembley Arena, which they never will because they are shit.

The kind of evening that involves excruciatingly long queues at the bar and Dolly Birds who think it's cute to push in, and young studs who take up all the space at the bar drinking several rounds of shots and slamming them down while they’re waiting for their actual round of Vodka Redbulls and pints of lager (what is this, guys, the Wild West? Are you about to embark on a tour-of-duty tomorrow? Is one of you is off to board a ship to Americay, ne’er to return? No? Then go easy for fuck’s sake.)

And when it’s finally my turn at the bar I have to scream for my order to be heard and do it in a stupid kind of Irish accent so that I can be understood by the bar staff who largely rely on lip reading. (God bless ‘em, they deserve a medal.)

The kind of evening that involves invading people's personal space to shout in their ear before eventually giving up on chat and trying to look happy just chillin' and watchin' the band (which, as mentioned above, are SHIT).

The kind of evening that involves wondering if there is somewhere better to be, then spending half the night going from one bar to the next, only to find the bars just get shittier and more annoying each place we go, before finally ending up in a nightclub we have to pay to get in to only to have one drink before we realise that one of us is waaaay too drunk and needs to leave NOW.

The kind of evening that involves late-night freaking yummy, next-morning feel guilty and can’t do a poo stodgy and dodgy food, and a shared taxi home.

The kind of evening that costs way too much, involves being surrounded by way too many horny young egotistical people and ends in stuffing my face with crap food and passing out in bed for twelve hours.

The kind of evening I used to love.

But with each passing year I'm coming to terms with the fact that it just ain’t no fun no more.

When I finally got home last night I kicked off my heels, threw on my pyjamas and settled down to watch a recording of the latest episode of QI. The best music I heard all night was the show’s theme tune. Sad.

But I could feel my tensions easing, my mind relaxing as it focussed on the witty repartee and interesting but ultimately useless facts presented by Stephen Fry. And as I sipped my hot cup of tea I laughed at Bill Bailey’s surreal ramblings and Alan Davies’s charming silliness.

Ahhh, bliss.

So will I Go Out again? Probably, inevitably, yes.  But I’d give it at least another six months. And I’ll need to make sure I have some comfort viewing to come home to.

I’ll consult the TV Guide.

P.S. Yes, I am a married woman and the reason my husband doesn’t feature in this rant is because he’s gone on a bender in Munich for the weekend to celebrate Oktoberfest. And yes, he’s totally cool with me going out to nightclubs with single friends. Maybe I wish he wasn’t cool with it. If he ‘forbade’ me at least I would have a good excuse not to Go Out. But then if he ‘forbade’ me to do anything I would kick his arse.