Credit Crunch and other types of cereal…

It seems that these days one cannot pick up a newspaper, watch tv, listen to the radio, or even walk down the street without being bombarded with the recent gloomy economic forecast. Sub-prime mortgages, inflation and stagnant economic growth are all terms that are beginning to worm their way into the conversational vocabulary of normal people.

The “credit crunch” is merely describing the fact that banks and other such financial organisations are unwilling to lend to eachother and the public at large – and not without good reason. Over the past few decades we, as a society, have been borrowing more than we can afford to pay back… and now we are paying the price for that.

What the credit crunch is not, however, is the root cause and explanation for all things evil in the world. My Mother has developed an annoying tendency to blame every unfortunate nuance on the credit crunch. From queues at the bus stop to the price inflation of cat food by 4p. If we eat at a restaurant and the sauce is a little watery, she insists that the kitchen is skimping on ingredients “because of the credit crunch”. 

What’s more, trade cycle fluctuations happen every 7 years or so. Just because we are heading into the downwards loop doesn’t mean that this is cause for mass hysteria. The word “recession” seems to spark fear into the hearts of many – but in fact “recession” only means 2 consecutive quarters of negative growth in the economy. Thanks to modern advances in economic understanding and theory, we are unlikely to see a return of the Great Depression in America when other three quarters of the work-force was unemployed.

I think that we, as a nation, must understand that the credit crunch does not signal Armageddon. The only thing we should bear in mind is that perhaps we ought to be a bit more cautious when takings out loans or buying things on credit. Spending money you don’t have is never really a good move.

Ponderings At The Bus Stop

Warning: This post contains vaguely fatist comments, which may vaguely offend fat people.

It always puzzles me why fat people insist on wearing clothes that are blatantly too tight for them. This revelation came to me whilst standing at a bus stop, waiting for the 760. This task saps up so much of my time these days that I have been tempted to write it in place of “student” as my occupation of forms.

Anyway, I had been to see a film at the cinema. It was in German. Fortunately, I speak German. Unfortunately, however, I do not speak enough German to be able to understand an actual German conversation.

I was stupid enough to nominate German as one of my GCSE subjects back in year 9 when I was young and carefree. I despised it as much then as I do now, but I despised French even more. I suffered six years of French lessons, at the end of which all I could say was “J’aime le fromage.” (I like cheese) and “Je voudrais allé au petit pois.” (I would like to go to the little pea).

Moving on…. the reason I went to see the German film was because Mrs Whittaker (my German teacher) told me to. Now, I am not normally one to pay heed to the words of a teacher, but this was a special case. You see, I am booked onto the highly coveted A-level German trip to Berlin for A-level German students. The only slight snag here is that I am not actually going to be an A-level German student. In fact, I would rather gouge out my own bladder with a spoon. Anyway, I have not told Mrs Whittaker that I am not going to be taking German next year – but somehow I think she secretly knows, and is glad. So, when she announced on Monday that she thought it would be a good idea for anyone on the Berlin trip go watch this German film (about Berlin, incidentally), I jumped at the opportunity to get some credit in my corner.

Having arrived at the cinema and completely forgotten the name of the film, I smiled sweetly and asked for tickets for “the German film”. It was then that something very unexpected happened. I was asked for ID. There were two thoughts running through my mind as I stared blankly at the cinema guy. Foremost was the very indignation of being refused access to a 15 certificate film. I’ve never been ID’d at a 15 – even when I wasn’t 15! Secondly, was the question “what sort of ID is a 15 year old supposed to have?” Anyway, sparing you the boring details…. I got into the film. There were subtitles, so it wasn’t too stressful.

So there I was, standing at the bus stop, waiting for the 760. And walking towards me up the road was a pair of legs. They were tall, slender, sporting wedge heel shoes and a spritzing of fake tan. They were wearing denim shorts that were so miniscule they could barely cover a thong, and attached to them was a thin torso, strapless top in bold print, and a rather un-attractive face.

This woman, however, was nothing compared to the one walking behind her. To call her “ugly” would be an understatement. She had blotchy, sun-bed skin onto which she had plastered several layers of war-paint, including lipstick in a rather grotesque shade of fuchsia which clashed horribly with her ginger-died-bleach-blond hair. She wore a skirt that even a cheerleader would consider as far too short, with a waist band that was far too tight and caused bulges of fat to cascade over it like the Niagara Falls. Like her friend, she too was wearing a strapless top, though it suited her considerably less. The flab hanging from her arms was so great that if she had made little flapping movements she might just have taken off.

I have nothing against fat people. On the whole I find them to be cheerful, friendly folk. And in fact, I think this woman would have been quite beautiful had she not chosen to dress herself like…. well… like a tart. The “tart” style doesn’t really suit anybody when it comes to down to it – but for those who are a tad overweight, it is a definite no-no.

So anyway, I had a good look at myself in the mirror when I got home. I also took a few moments to gaze at the “size 8″ (American size 4) label on my jeans, and smile a little to myself.

PICTURE: What happens if you scan a mirror?

The answer may surprise you.

read more | digg story

Nike… It really isn’t that glamorous!

    Here in the UK we’ve gone health mad. Every other program on tv is either devoted to healthy eating or keeping fit. And so the clever guys down at Nike product design decided to come up with a new trainer that magically syncs with your iPod in order to give you a “better running experience”.

    

    In my opinion, the only way to create a better running experience would be to invent a device that constantly fed chocolate straight to your mouth. Unfortunately, I have yet to find such a device.

 

    Anyway, I caught Nike’s new advert this morning – it features an impossibly handsome man who goes for a run through impossibly gorgeous scenery. It’s warm, it’s pleasant, the sun is setting in the west and he reports to have “come back a changed man”. In fact, Nike paints a very romantic picture of going for a run. The reality, however, is very different.

 

    I live in a village where, if you decided to run on the pavements, you would most likely fall and break your neck. From time to time builders from the local council come over and stand around and grumble about how uneven our pavements are. They take up a few slabs, put them back down again, cause a whole load of traffic… and then leave. So anyway, to cut a long story short – this means that I am confined to going for runs along the local bridleways. This is no bad thing, though. It’s pleasant – there is an abundance of trees and fields and wildlife.

 

    I was just starting to hit the adrenaline rush today, about 20 minutes into the run. My iPod was blaring inspirational music into my ears, the sun was shining, and I was really… feeling it. And then, as happens in England, it began to rain. And not just some pathetic drizzle either, we’re talking torrential downpour. Now, seeing as it had been baking when I had left the house – I had not bothered to wear anything remotely waterproof. In fact, I was just in a t-shirt. Within seconds I resembled a drowned rat.

 

    But that, sadly, was not the least of my woes – for within minutes the bridleways had turned into swamps, with great gushing rivers of mud. This made navigating my way home slightly treacherous. I certainly did not appreciate being caked in grime up to the knees of my designer jeans.

 

    Now, you may think that this is just bad luck. But somehow… and I don’t know how… the weather always seems to turn from brilliant sunshine to rainfall worthy of Noah’s Ark exactly when I go out running. Not only this, but it always happens at the point when I am furthest away from home – and the minute I step back through the door…. It stops. Perhaps I am imagining this. Perhaps I am simply paranoid. But I like to think that there are forces in the world bigger and more powerful than our puny human brains can comprehend. And these forces – these divine, pan-dimensional beings of infinite knowledge… find it funny to watch runners get soaked.

 

    Don’t ask me why, for I know not. However, if I were to hazard a guess… I would say it was some form of bizarre s*xual fantasy.

Spiderman 3 – Action Thriller Or Soap Opera?

There were two things that struck me about Spiderman 3. Firstly, the complete and utter randomness of the plotline… and secondly, its uncanny resemblance to an episode of Desperate Housewives – where you can expect at least one major plot twist before every ad break.

What’s wrong with the old reliable “superhero” formula? You get your cool hero guy, you get your nasty villain guy, and then you throw in the cute chick just to liven things up a bit. And hey, it worked in Spiderman 1 and 2…. Why fix something if it ain’t broke?

You might well ask.

Spiderman 3 brought us “revenge” – a weird toxic gooey stuff than originated from an alien meteorite and consumes good ole Spiderman; turning him into something dark… something menacing… something that bore frightful similarity to… dare-I-say-it… an emo.

In fact, I got the impression that the plot was dreamed up by a bunch of guys who got together in a dark room, drunk a large amount of alcohol, and then started saying to each other, “Hey! Wouldn’t it be cool if…..”

Firstly, we get the escaped convict. He appears to be a villain – but no, he’s just some guy trying to buy medicine for his sick daughter. Oh but wait…. He’s not just some guy – now he’s a freak who’s entire molecular structure is made of sand. Errrr…. Right.

Then we get the photographer guy. Seems innocent enough until he gets nabbed by the weird gooey stuff and becomes the equivalent of Spiderman’s evil twin.

Oh… and let’s not forget Harry. First he’s a villain. Then he’s dead – oh but wait! He survives! Great, now he’s reformed. Aaaaaaand, nope, villain again. But it’s ok – because he turns out to be a good guy in the end and then…

God. Somebody pass the aspirin.

Although I admit the special effects where phenomenal, the plot left much to be desired. It jumped around faster than a grasshopper, and by half way through I’d already developed a migraine trying to keep track of who was a good guy and who wasn’t.

Worse yet, the third instalment of the spidey story seemed to take it upon itself to give us a moral message. The only trouble is I still haven’t worked out quite what that message was. Whilst there were some generally touching moments – others were positively cringe-worthy.

If I were to some up the film in three words, it would be: “what the hell?”. There are rumours of Spiderman 4 in the making…. But quite frankly, I think they should just quit while they’re ahead – or perhaps, quit before they make complete and utter fools of themselves would be a more apt phrase.

Since When Did Eurovision Become A Cesspit Of Goth Wannabes And Weirdos Wrapped In Foil?

    

    I’ve watched a great many Eurovision Song Contests over the years. I suppose I am attracted by the pretty colors, the bright lights, and the chance to listen to some cheesy music – which is, after all, the best kind. The thing I like about Eurovision is that you can rely on it to be bland, predictable, put your feet up and sip a mug of tea whilst flicking through Vogue and watching the screen with half an eye sort of Saturday night entertainment…..

 

    This year, however. Everything changed. Eurovision is still predictable…… predictably weird. The acts seemed to fall in two categories: Number one – goth wannabes, complete with dramatic eyeliner, chains and an abundance of black. Now, I’m all for being “individual”, but these days eyeliner wearing “alternatives” who enjoy listening to Fallout Boy and telling us all how depressed they are seem to be being churned out by some factory somewhere. Probably in the fens. In fact, I’ll find out their address and send them hate mail.

 

    Now don’t get me wrong, I like a bit of rock music and the odd horror movie – but the 90s were better; when we got quality as apposed to quantity. Lordi were cool, there’s no denying that (in fact, I went to see them in concert, and they were fantastic) but this year everybody has jumped on the band wagon….. and quite frankly – it sucks.

 

    So then, if we look past the base guitars and the thin men in skinny jeans…. We come to the second category: the throwbacks of psychadelia gone wrong. Ukraine’s act resembled shiny silver Christmas trees – and as if this wasn’t enough they had to sing a really annoying song that made me want to gouge out my own liver with a spoon. Seriously, there was something very abnormal about those men. Something that whiffed of illicit substances.

 

    Sadly, however, it gets worse. Whilst Europe is obsessing over Dracula and LSD – Britain is quite a different story. Our own contribution, a bunch of gangly limbed wackos with plastic noses and cute little outfits managed to vomit up the first and last song to be written about air hostesses. Unfortunately, this was very far from an accurate representation of Britain today – whose radio stations are being increasingly smothered with choking smog that is “chav culture”. Indeed, every other song is an R&B with that really annoying computer generated drum beat that sounds like a bunch of people tapping wooden spoons together; and when you walk down the street you can’t help but notice the abundance of people wearing tracksuit bottoms, baseball caps, and swearing at each other.

 

    I ask you, what was wrong with good old pop? The spice girls? S Club 7? Steps? Dare I say it…. Westlife? They may have been cheesy, but at least they knew it. They didn’t pretend to be cool. They didn’t adorn themselves with bling and fail to perform wheelies on their bikes in a laughable attempt at looking “hard”.

 

    Bring back the 90s. That’s what I say.

Oh summer! Where for art thou?

Global warming may be good news for tan-seekers, but not for everybody else.

I really, really don’t like global warming. And I don’t mean that it irritates me a little – I mean that I completely loathe global warming. I despise global warming. In fact, I would be quite content if global warming were to go and drown itself in a well – oh but wait, there won’t be any wells left, will there? No. They’ll have all dried up because of global warming.

 

Anyway, my hatred stems from the fact that – because of global warming – the seasons have gotten themselves in such a muddle that they simply do not know whether they’re coming or going; and neither do I.

 

For the last week or so it’s been freezing. In mid-march it actually snowed! And not just the odd flake, either, we’re talking proper blizzard! Then suddenly, at the weekend, it was scorching. And I was sat there, in my jumper and woolly hat thinking “Hoorah! Summer at last!”.

 

But just when I thought it was safe to grab the sunglasses, slap on the sun cream and head off down to the lake for a picnic and a spot of tea – I arrived to find that the temperature had plummeted to minus three and the damn thing had frozen over!

 

This is simply not acceptable. What are we to do in a world were you’re dying of heat stroke one day and freezing with hypothermia the next?

 

So this got me thinking about the whole global warming business. Maybe I could do something about it? Yes, I suppose I could dig the rusty bicycle out of garage instead of just driving everywhere. Yes, I could turn off my high-watt bulbs and just squint in the evenings. Yes, I could even turn my television off on a night instead of just leaving it on standby.

 

And then, as if to add insult to injury – some scientists came along and said that global warming isn’t caused by greenhouses gasses or carbon emissions or anything like that… it is actually caused by sun spots.

 

Sun spots my foot.