Every little s**t helps themselves

Apologies for my lack of blogging last week, I had a nasty case of man-flu, or what unsympathetic woman call “sniffles”, piss off - you get grumpy once a month that’s your thing, we get ill with the “sniffles” ok. It’s all fair. Anyway here’s what I would have talked about if I hadn’t been in my bed dying – that’s right dying! Get well gifts welcome.

Last week’s news was dominated by lots of important stories, from the death of Colonel Gaddafi to the reformation of Steps, approximately none of which I have picked to talk about this week. Such is life. The story that perked my interest was one showing the worst of human nature (no still not Steps), as a horde of (presumably soon to be obese) people descended on Tesco’s stores around the country desperate to buy up every single Terry’s Chocolate Orange in the place.

For those of you who missed this news, basically Tesco’s accidentally placed a number of special offers on Terry’s Chocolate Orange all at the same time, it was one of those accidents that when you read about in the paper, you instantly despair at the story and go “How could this happen?”. Yet all of us could probably have easily made a similar mistake, due to our society’s dependence on simply shoving random numbers in a computer and hoping for the best in the completion of all tasks. The advantage of modern technology making it possible for less people to be employed to do simple tasks, like pricing up confectionary objects, is countered by the disadvantage of there being less people to go “Hang on a minute, are you sure this is a good idea?”

Anyway fun as it to rant about the insatiable march of technology that will eventually lead to us all having our brains replaced with iBrains and instead of learning new skills we’ll be downloading them from iTunes (still it’d be simple than salsa lessons in the local school hall). I’m instead going to side step that important issue and concentrate on the thing that grabbed me about this story. And that is the nature of the people who took advantage of this offer, as word spread across the internet faster than pornographic shots of Emma Watson dripping in baby oil. Facebook groups appeared and internet discount sites tweeted that £2.75 Terry’s Chocolate Orange were now available for 29p each. Excited by this news people appeared to go stark raving bonkers. According to The Sun (which is a bit like saying according to a badly translated fairy tale recited by John Prescott whilst under the influence of class A drugs, but let’s go with it anyway), people were taking photos of their massive haul and posting them on Facebook. As if they’d won it big on the Premium Bonds and these were piles of cash they had sprayed round the living room. Not as was the real case, that they’d just bought a lot of chocolate and have little going on in their life. Some of them even journeyed to multiple stores to clear them all out – really? Have you nothing better to do?

One shopper, apparently, loaded their trolley with 192 individual Terry’s Chocolate Oranges, apparently saving £471. Amazing, but you’ve still spent £57 on Terry’s Chocolate Oranges that’s a lot of money to spending on chocolate, what the hell are you going to do with them all, build a bloody house?! Place them all in a bingo machine and recreate the National Lottery Draw in your own living room, but with more tasty consequences?

You could eat them all, of course, except that these 192 oranges weigh in at 176,640 calories (or about 3 Burger King Whopper meals) - which is equivalent to your daily calorific intake for THREE MONTHS! And that’s not mentioning the 10kg of fat (equivalent to FIVE MONTHS allowance). So presuming you aren’t planning an Eamonn Holmes tribute act, or intending to gorge them all and hibernate for winter, you presumably bought them for some other reason. But what? What is the point of having nearly 200 Chocolate Oranges in your house?

Some papers reported that people had been selling them on and making a profit, but who buys second hand Terry’s Chocolate Oranges? Is there a black market for them? Are people really going out to the back of a pub car park or heading onto eBay for chocolate? Is this black market frequented by people trying to work their way onto heroine but starting out at lower levels? In fairness having tired the Popping Candy version of the Terry’s Chocolate Orange I strongly suspect there is something deeply narcotic in that. The other alternative is that you’re buying them as a Christmas presents, now whilst I think it’s reasonable (especially in these tough economic times) to try and make some savings whilst doing the Christmas shopping, this might be a step too far. Suspicions will arise if everyone around the tree opens their presents from you to find all they have a single Terry’s Chocolate Orange, particularly if one of them is nut intolerant and still that’s what you’ve bought them. I for one know that if I open a Terry’s Chocolate Orange this Christmas my first thought is going to be “cheapskate”, who probably ironed the wrapping paper I gave them last year and has wrapped this cheap gift in the said old paper.

This all of course completely overlooks the moral issues that I have with shopping in this way. In fairness I know no one else is going to agree with me. Having recounted stories where I’ve returned to the till to ask the cashier to charge me for an item I’ve noticed they’ve missed on the bill - friends and colleagues have only ever replied to this admission with gasps of horror which suggest that such behaviour is on a par with organising an orgy in a branch of the Early Learning Centre. However surely all these people knew Tesco were not intending to charge 29 pence for a Terry’s Chocolate Orange otherwise they’d have signs up advertising the fact (they’re quite good at advertising apparently), so is it okay to take advantage of their mistake? I’m not sure that it is, sure you may have accidentally bought some and not realised the vast saving you were making – in which case it isn’t your fault, you don’t need to rush back to the shops with them. But clearing the shelves into your trolley, as if you’ve realised the apocalypse is coming and the only way to save yourself from the ensuing fireball is to hide in a vault constructed entirely of confectionary products once advertised by Dawn French. That seems a bit different. I mean if there was a charity cake sale, and you noticed a horrendous pricing error in your favour would you take advantage? Would you? If an old lady was selling her house in order to fund her retirement and you noticed the decimal point was in completely the wrong place, would you still buy? Now I’m guessing if you’re not a cold heartless bastard (or a Conservative MP) you’d say no. Because it is immoral. But surely the whole point of morals is that they apply equally regardless of the people affected, if it’s wrong to take advantage of mispricing by a little old lady it’s also wrong to do the same against a large multi-national company, because it’s the act that is wrong not the victim. And if not, what is it that Tesco does that makes it ok to take advantage of their mistake, as I’m aware they’re a company that tries to provide you with cheap goods to save you money and keeps a lot of people in employment. Yes they make a profit, as all companies attempt to, but it’s not as if every tenth customer is shot in the kneecaps, or for every Clubcard point you earn, a live rabbit is dipped in a deep-fat fryer. One of the quotes in the newspaper was from a woman who said 'I only bought 42 as that's all they had on the shelves. I wish I asked for more, but then I'd be worried I would be banned, having bought all their stock.' – sounds like you think what you are doing is wrong doesn’t it? As otherwise why would Tesco ban you?

Of course this isn’t the first nor probably the last time something like this has happened. Every now and again we hear stories of people fighting in supermarket car parks over crates of beer accidentally being sold for £2, or huge queues forming at cash machines which have accidentally been dispensing twice the amount of cash people have been withdrawing. In our enlightened, civilized society, where we’ve reached some impressive moralistic heights it’s good to have your faith in humanity restored in the knowledge that should you make a mistake people will not point it out but instead queue up to take advantage of your cock up and milk you for every penny they can. Welcome to modern day Britain.

Oh and whilst we’re on the subject of supermarkets I was in the computer games and DVDs aisle (see I’ve spelt ‘aisle’ right this week) of Sainsbury’s recently when I saw this on one of the display cases:

Yes that’s right this computer game says on it “To buy me, please take me to the till.” – I’m sorry but what products in the store does this advice not apply to. Are all products without this label fair game to shove under your top and wander out of the store with? Not the Chocolate Oranges of course, you don’t want to miss out on the discount. Worse of all this ridiculous sign is on the one product in the store you can’t take to the till to buy. No, as I’ve found to my cost if you take this to till they will laugh in your face as if you’ve undertaken the most cretinous act in the world since The Daily Mail last wrote a headline. This item which proudly claims, that unlike all other items in the store you should go to the till with them, is lying. In fact you have to take it to the customer service desk where another more qualified member of staff will poor scorn on you using advancing techniques for having the audacity to ruin their day by expecting them to get the key and open the drawer with the computer games in. I’ve had a bad experience ok!

Cleaning Up Our Act

I’ve got a question for you, one that I’m almost certain you won’t be able to answer. No not “Where are your house keys?” or “Why is it that people actually like listening to Chris Moyles?”, but something far more taxing. Ok, ready for your starter for ten?

“What is the name of the cleaner(s) in your office?”

An innocuous little question, but one that I’ll wager you probably can’t answer, I know I can’t. Oh and by the way it doesn’t count if you are the office cleaner, or you are their direct manager (in which case chances are you probably call them Scum A and Scum B anyway) – that’s cheating.

This problem was bought to the forefront of my mind when I was in Sainsbury’s the other day and heard the following announcement “Could the in-store cleaner please come to aisle four.”, two things initially sprang to my mind. One that something incredibly grim has occurred in aisle four hopefully involving a pot of Chicken Arrabbiata pasta sauce rather than a small child not making it to the in-store toilets in time – there’s something to put you of your purchase of HP Sauce. Secondly, was the fact that the cleaner wasn’t named, I’ve often heard calls for Steve, Shelia or whoever to come to the Customer Service Desk, or I’ve heard calls for generic people “could a manager come to the tills” for example. But in the above case we’re referring to “the in-store cleaner”, so presumably there is only one, therefore why doesn’t the person giving the announcement refer to them by name? Why are they just called in like some electronic slave? Although saying that in this case the in-store cleaner has been treated worse than an electronic slave, R2-D2 was always called R2-D2, he was never summoned with the phrase “Could the droid that looks like a kitchen bin on wheels grab his mop. Spillage in spacedock three”.

As an overly self-critical, slightly egocentric, madman these comments made me look inwards and examine my relationship with cleaners. I can only judge others when I have judged myself. Actually this is a lie, I’m almost certainly judging someone right now, probably you for reading this blog – don’t worry it’s a nice judgement (unless of course you’ve got those hideous piercings– you know the ones where you have your ear hole-punched. And then you gradually force the hole wider and wider with a ring until you can hang a towel through it. In that case I am judging you. And I’m judging you as a moron). Anyway back to the point, and I realised I don’t know the names of any of the cleaners in the office building where I work, in fairness much like the Tooth Fairy and rapists they tend to work in the wee hours when I’m not in the building. But occasionally due to unfortunate “excrement thrown in the air-conditioning” disasters I’ve had to work in these obscene hours and thus have seen them. Yet I have no idea of their names. We’ve never even engaged in anything approaching conversation, admittedly this is probably not unusual. I often avoid conversation with people, as they often avoid conversation with me. But in this case it feels somewhat disturbing – they don’t even know I’m the kind of tedious person not worth talking to. Of course there are other people in the office I’ve pretty much never spoken to, but I have an idea on their names or I’d at least be happy to ask them their names should the need for contact arise. But not cleaners, for some reason I don’t feel there’s a need to know their names. Which is not only rude and unfair, but also odd because of all the people in the office they are one of the most critical if the manager of such and such a department didn’t come in I probably wouldn’t notice, if the cleaner didn’t come in I’d notice within seconds when I discovered the office kitchen looks like a student bedroom that’s been inhabited by fifteen boys all manically studying for their final year exams who have yet to discover the joys of bin bags or washing-up liquid.

In fairness it’s not always easy, I’ve noticed (with the cleaners that I’ve worked with anyway) that they seem to have an inbuilt repulsion to engaging in conversation – more so than the usual repulsion of conversation that people have with me you understand. But they seem to have had the mantra beaten into them, that somehow they are second class citizens and everyone else who works in the company they work for must be treated like royalty. I think they’re taught this at the same place that anyone who appears on Britain’s Got Talent is taught that the judges must be screamed at and respected at all times as if they represent the reincarnation of the Messiah (which for the avoidance of doubt Amanda Holden certainly doesn’t). For example early in the morning the cleaners often use the lift, if it stops and as they board they find I’m already in it, they apologise to me. Why? Who the hell do they think I am? They clearly have far higher esteem of me, than I do.

Of course, they’re perfectly welcome to travel in the lift with me. I always reply with “It’s fine”, but they still sheepishly board the lift as if the knowledge they’ve just accidentally thrown up in the managing director’s face. If I’m in the kitchen and they walk in to clean it, again they will apologise to me – despite the fact that I’m clearly the one in the way, they’ve come in extra early to clean so they don’t disturb the other residents of the building and I’ve rudely come in at this god-forsaken hour and thrown their plans into chaos, yet they still apologise to me. It makes no sense, unless they revere me as some kind of hair gel based God, which actually still doesn’t make any sense - but does give me an amusing image of myself sitting on a throne entirely constructed of VO5 tubs. It floats my boat, ok?

Perhaps the answer as to why the office cleaners consider themselves beneath us all lies in the way they are managed. In a previous job, in a supermarket as it happens (yes once upon a time I had to work in the lower classes too!), again I didn’t know the name of any of the cleaners. I did however know the name of the manager of the cleaners, who was perfectly nice… when she spoke to myself and other members of staff. When she spoke to the cleaners, (when she thought we were out of earshot) she screamed absolute blue murder at them – like a satanic version of Jeremy Kyle, without the reassuring knowledge that at any point you can save yourself and switch over to BBC One. This combined with the fact the cleaners were given their own staff “room” (read hovel) and weren’t allowed to use the normal staffroom – is probably enough to give anyone a complex about being a second class citizen. Well that and earning less money an hour than the average set of “weigh yourself scales” on Brighton seafront.

So my call to action for you to is to get to know your cleaner, say hi, learn their name, go for a drink with them, invite them round for dinner. Who knows they might even whiz the vacuum round for you? Ok so we both know it’s never going to happen, but at least by thinking you probably should do it, you can alleviate some of the guilt faced when you next hear the announcement “Could the in-store cleaner please come to aisle four.”. Or alternatively be an uncaring bastard, that works for me too.

Speaking of “uncaring bastards”, sadly I am forced to briefly turn my attention to The X Factor, I know I lured you in with high class philosophical debate in the earlier part of this blog, I can only apologise. I tried my best to avoid it, but sadly I became subject to a portion of this weekend’s show, not all of it you understand, else I wouldn’t have had time to live my life, write this blog, or even get washed. Two and half hours!! I mean seriously! Who can stand it? Especially given it feels like a hell of a lot longer. Einstein’s Theory of General Relativity states that time appears to pass more slowly for an observer who is stationary. I can only presume that during the average edition of The X Factor I become frozen in the exact spot I was sitting, with even the movement of the tiniest molecules in my body completely curtailed thus forcing me to sit through the maximum possible duration of the programme. I mean perhaps if the programme makers had made the programme slightly shorter than an eternity, it would have actually been physically possible for Simon Cowell to appear in both the US and the UK versions without having to violate the laws of time. And after two and half hours, is there really anyone who can stomach the thought of “turning over for more with The Xtra Factor” – seriously are you on some kind of suicide pact?

Fortunately I only caught the result show, of which approximately 75% is a recap consisting of pretty much all of the original show bar the advert breaks. But this week the “big twist” was the fact that rather than us voting, the judges were each forced to evict one of their own acts. The Sun said “X Factor contestants and judges wept last night as four acts were dumped from the show live on air in shockingly brutal scenes.” Shockingly brutal, really? I don’t remember that bit, were the losers savaged by a pack of wolves unleashed by Caroline Flack over on ITV2? In which case I’m disappointed I didn’t turn over to The Xtra Factor. Obviously these “shockingly brutal scenes” were completely different to the previous week’s exceptionally similar scenes where multiple acts were also jettisoned from the show by individual judges – but as it happened in the sunshine it’s clearly not brutal (despite them being thousands of miles away from the support of any family and friends, unlike in the studio). Even poor old Dermot was shocked as Digital Spy reported “O'Leary described the changes to the opening live show as the "worst thing we've ever done",”. Conveniently forgetting the fact The X Factor has previously mocked the mentally ill, exploited children as young as 14 by entering them in the show and worst of all given birth to Chico –  an act for which surely everyone involved in the entire production should rot in hell for, for all eternity as penance.

Thankfully unlike pretty much everyone else on the planet, I’ve managed to maintain my sense of perspective by remembering it’s only a bloody reality show – these people would probably have been voted off anyway, and harsh as the “big twist” is, the only purpose it’s really served is to save a lot of morons a fortune in telephone voting. That and I’d say that anyone who goes on the show deserves what they get, but perhaps it was the only way to escape the commands of “Could the in-store cleaner please come to aisle four”, in which case who can blame them for wanting to escape that?

Anyway I’m off to wash my mouth out with soap and water for discussing The X Factor – again my heartfelt condolences.

Enforced enjoyment of the sunshine is just the first step to totalitarianism.

Unless you’ve been on holiday somewhere much colder, like the Mediterranean, you probably noticed that the civilized parts of the UK (sorry Scotland) were bathed in unseasonable sunshine this weekend. It was sticker than on Peter Stringfellow’s leather sofa, as we broke the record for the all-time hottest day in October. Well done us.

In addition to the rather bizarre sight of sunbathers being buried in the fall of autumn leaves, and birds wondering around scratching the heads and checking the date on their tickets to fly south for the winter, every moron in the country rushed to tell us how “if this is what global warming does, count me in”. As if the collapse of the planet-wide ecosystem is some how a reasonable price to pay for them to be wearing their three-quarter length linen chinos in late September. I should imagine that if the greenhouse effect does go unchecked and the Earth bakes in 60 degree heat, that at the very moment the wave from the final melted piece of the Antarctic rushes to flood the last vestige of un-submerged land, said island will be covered in thousands of scantily clad humans all thinking “what a lovely January we’re having” as their untimely death rushes towards them. On the plus side the mass starvation that global warming induced total crop failure will have caused will at least mean you finally fit into that bikini.

The problem I find with hot weather, seasonal or otherwise, is there seems to be an inordinate amount of social pressure to “make the most of the weather”. But what exactly does that mean? I found that throughout the weekend and Monday people were asking me if “I’d spent all the day in the sun?” with the tone of the questioning strongly implying that to say anything other than yes would make stupider than the person who had the idea for “Don’t Scare the Hare” (Saturday early afternoons BBC One – bring a trowel so you can gouge your own eyes out). Don’t get me wrong I did venture out of the house at the weekend briefly, but I find it odd the assumption that I have to go outside and soak up every last ray of light like a cold-blooded lizard that’s about to be taken on a six month expedition into the darkest depths of hell (or Croydon as cartographers prefer to name it). Yes we don’t get glorious sunny days that often, but we don’t get hurricanes that often, and I wouldn’t go and stand in the path of a Force 10 gale and get blown down the street just to “make the most of it because there won’t be another one until May”.

Of course the difference is sunshine tends to be both nicer and less likely to flatten you under an upturned ice cream van than a hurricane. But what are you supposed to go and do outside, if like me you happen to be on your own. No I’m not just talking about my fatal allergy to forming a meaningful relationships with a partner; I mean the fact that my flatmate and everyone who lives nearby had better things to do this weekend than spend it with me. Am I supposed to find an excuse to go it alone alfresco? Needlessly coming up with something productive that I could do outdoors on my own like a solar-powered loner?

Ok, so I could go sunbathing but whilst that’s ok to do on your own in a garden, it feels a bit odd in a public space alone. Won’t everyone be judging me going “look at the loner”? In fairness those people don’t matter as I don’t know them, and I’ve freely told everyone I know on this blog that I am a loner. So given that, you’d think I wouldn’t be bothered. But I am. Groups of happy people, enjoying all the things that are alien to me, like social interaction and laughter.

Besides where do you go to sunbathe? The minute there’s even the faintest glimmer of sunshine in London every single public space is carpeted in people within about 20 seconds. Clapham Common this weekend just looked like a giant ocean of undulating flesh. Which in reality is about as attractive as that simile makes it sound. I suppose on the plus side for a lone sunbather like myself, it’s so crowded that wherever you sit you appear to be with a group, all you need to do is occasionally laugh at something someone says and the illusion is complete. On a serious note though, where do all these people come from? I mean I have never seen so many people in Clapham ever, are all these people living in hibernation until the one day a year when the sun actually shines. Or is literally every house and public building in the capital empty, surely good weather is a burglar’s paradise what with empty homes and windows wedged open for ventilation – well it would be if they weren’t also on Clapham Common slapping on the factor 10, that they stole from Boots. I mean did I miss the new legislation that it is illegal to be indoors on a sunny day? Presumably that’s the reason why no one bothers to build houses in the suntrap that is the Sahara.

Of course there are other pitfalls of solo sunbathing, in your garden you can always pop in for refreshments, books or sun cream. Not so in public sunbathing, you’ve got to bring everything with you, and then eat it or drink it within 10 seconds of arrival before it turns to melted mush (not the books and sun cream you understand). Without a fellow sunbather you can’t even nip to the ice cream van without losing your spot, and don’t whatever you do leave your stuff to reserve your space – remember all the burglars are out sunbathing too. And what happens if you need the loo, you just have to do it in situ and hope that onlookers presume that any unfortunate stains are the result of melted choc ices. Then of course there’s the fact that at least one other person within ear shot of wherever you choose to lay on whatever public space you do it at, will decide that this is the perfect opportunity for them to become a DJ. They’ll be pumping out heavy base “tunes” faster than Theresa May pumps out b****cks about cats and asylum seekers. And, much like Theresa, whatever noise they make you’re guaranteed to hate it. I mean no one ever played out a nice episode of Just a Minute whilst in the park; instead we get music whose heavy dull beat is designed to penetrate into the deepest synapses of your ear and shake all the wax loose. When you get up they’ll be two piles of orange residue either side of your head, it’ll look like a freak accident where both David Dickenson and Dale Winton melted in the sun at exactly the same moment.

Plus, of course, there’s the sporty types (read w***ers) playing with their football, discus or bat and ball set, for some reason the former is always the most annoying. Who will then proceed to smack you in the face with the ball before apologising as they trample all over with you whilst wearing studded boots in order not to “interrupt play”. Still you’ve got to love the beautiful game, or perhaps NOT. And finally there’s of course the people who feel that clothes aren’t really for them, yes it’s hot, and whilst we don’t mind short sleeves and shorts, walking around with more oil on you than John Prescott’s chip pan and in pants so tiny that if they were televised they’d disappear between the pixels on the screen is a bit too much. If you haven’t got the body for that look you really shouldn’t be trying it on grounds of taste and decency, and if you have got the body then stop making all the rest of us feel inferior. There’s nothing quite as soul destroying when you’ve got a body so vile that taking a bath makes you nauseous, as seeing the modern day Adonis wondering the streets half naked. And before people rush to my defence and say “don’t worry you’re not that fat” as I’m sure you were about too (rather rude if not), it’s not the fact that my torso is fat. But more that it has absolutely no contours, it just looks like a bland lump of fat that’s been sliced off from a mound of nondescript flesh in preparation to be moulded in some dark genetic experiment – much like that old school ice cream you used to get in long cardboard boxes and just hacked slabs off for dessert.

And they say I have issues?

Still sunbathing is not the only thing you can ruin your day doing in the sun, yeah that’s right you can also ruin your day by going swimming in an outdoor pool. The problem is you won’t be the only person with that idea; the pool will be so crowded that your “swimming experience” will be much like standing on a packed Victoria line train during an unfortunate flash flood (where all the passengers happened to be wearing their undergarments… yeah ok the comparison sort of breaks down there). The other problem being that despite this being a typically freezing cold country, no one seems to have worked on the idea of the outdoor heated pool. Thus the pool is typically so icy cold that stepping in it causes your genitalia to retract into your body so fast that you end up getting whiplash of the penis. Which is just as unpleasant as it sounds.

Then there’s the beach, which is basically the above but with pollution instead of chlorine and the joy of sitting through eight hours of tailbacks to get there. And if that wasn’t enough there’s the utter thrill of sand. All you have to do is catch sight of a beach for hundreds of thousands of grains of sand to get stuck up every orifice of your body. This is just the beginning of the most tedious game of hide and seek known to man as you then spend the next six months finding the grains of sand that accompanied you home in the most obscure of places in your house, you name it there’ll be sand there, from the bottom drawer of the freezer to the fuse box – sand will have got there.

So thanks but no thanks to all those who judge me for not going out and enjoying every moment of the sun, even when there’s no one to spend the day with. I think I’ve successfully argued my way into going against the sun-worshipping norm and embracing hermitage. Roll on winter, the season where it’s socially acceptable to be a loner and never leave the sofa.

P.S. This is the tenth week of my blogging, so thanks if you managed to stay with me all this time, much appreciated (I know it’s not been easy), and special thanks to those who leave comments, especially if you manage it every week -  you know who you are!

If you haven’t already been, feel free to leave a comment below (I’ve changed the settings so you don’t have to submit an e-mail address if you’re worried about being spammed for ever more!), and you can subscribe to this blog and get it delivered directly to your inbox (much like spam) by shoving your e-mail in the box at the very bottom. And if you happen to understand Blogger software and can suggest any other cool features I can add, I’d love to hear from you.

Until next time…