I can be your hero

I haven't been watching Heroes, but I gather it's about a bunch of people who "thought they were like everyone else...until they realized they have incredible abilities" (or so Wikipedia tells me). Apparently the first season shows the various people discovering their super powers, such as being able to heal themselves quickly, stop time, predict the future, fly, and so on and so forth. The next couple of seasons go on to show the new super people with their super powers doing, I presume, super things and getting themselves into all sorts of super situations. So far, so fictional, right?

Well, today I'm going to bust that fiction wide open (no, I have no idea what that means either), as I reveal to you a mysterious modern miracle and proof that human beings can have super powers.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you...

...myself.

That's right. I have a super power. Well, I'm not so sure of the "super" part of it, but I certainly have a power.

What could it be? Is it super hearing powers? Or maybe x-ray vision? Perhaps I have the ability to run vast distances without tiring? Or is mine the power to make the best carrot and ginger soup in all the land?

No, no, no and yes, but that's not my super power.

No, ladies and gents. My super power is this: I can switch off fluorescent lights with only the power of my mind.

It's true.

Weird, but true.

Completely useless, but true.

Totally uncontrolled, but, nevertheless, true.

And I lied about the "with the power of my mind" part, but the rest is true.

I don't know how long I've had this "power", but I only really began to notice it a few years ago. I'd be walking down the street of an evening, perhaps on my way t'pub or maybe going home, and suddenly the street light I was walking under would switch off. Or I'd be walking across a car park, looking for my car, and the light above would flicker... and go out.

Strangely, this doesn't happen to every fluorescent light; just some of them. And it doesn't seem to happen indoors; rather, it tends to apply only to street lights and the kind of strip lighting you get in underground car parks or passageways. You know... the kind of places where you really don't want the lights to go out. But it's happened regularly enough for me to think that it's not some random or chance event, but rather it is connected to me.

At first, when I noticed this random pattern (but a pattern all the same), of lights going out as I walked underneath them, I decided to put it to the test. There was one particular street light in one of the university car parks that always, without fail, went out as I walked underneath or past it. I thought "perhaps there is some loose connection or something in the ground nearby that causes the light to go out when I step on it?" (You can see why I'm not an electrician.) So one evening, I got a friend to walk ahead to test the theory. The friend was about my height and build, so the pressure on the ground around the light would be the same and lo, as the friend walked towards the light - nothing happened.

I walked on to join them and... the light went out as I approached it.

Lately, I've noticed one of the lights in the gym car park seems to do the same thing. As I drive in, I can see the light and it's fine. A strong, steady beam emitting from it. No problems. I can even park my car near it, and nothing happens. Until I get out of the car, that it. Then the light flickers... and goes out. I've watched others do the same - park their car in the same spot and when they get out, nothing happens. Then I walk over. Light goes out.

Hmm...

Is it possible for humans to emit some sort of... frequency?... that could affect the light bulb? Or is this special power something that has been reserved for me and me alone, and I should give up my job and spend the rest of my life learning to control it and using it for good (or evil)? If so, can I wear this costume?

What should I do? And, more importantly, what should I call my super self?

How to avoid getting dumped

It's quite simple really - you make sure you dump them before they dump you. Sounds trivial, sounds trite, but it feels GREAT!

I started "dating" (for want of a better word) eleven years ago, and I have only been dumped once. And, before some smart arse says it, this is not because I've only had one boyfriend, nor is it because I have the attention span of a magpie flitting from one shiny relationship to another. And, contrary to popular belief, it's not because I'm the World's Best Girlfriend and no one ever wants to dump me either. Although, I'm not far off winning that title, heheh.

Rather it's because whenever a relationship has turned sour for me, I've gotten the frick out of there. Oh yes, I'm a regular ol' heartbreaker, me.

Admittedly, I won't just run at the first time of trouble. I will stick around for a while, to see if the relationship can be salvaged, because I belive that people are far too quick to give up on love nowdays, and would rather Get The Frick Out (GTFO) than actually put in a bit of work. But, if it becomes obvious to me that it's over, then I'm gone.

And, as a result, I've only ever been dumped once, and that's because I didn't see it coming and Mr. McBastard got in there before me. Not that I'm bitter

So, how do you know when the relationship is over? How do you know that it's time to do a swift one and run for the hills? I think a handful of C++ statements can tell us the answer to these dilemmas:

if (good times > bad times) {

happy days ;
}

if (good times == bad times) {

work on it;

}

if (bad times > good times) {

GTFO;

}

Simple, no? For the uninitiated, this translates as:

If the good times outweigh the bad times, then all is well.

If there are as many good times as bad times, then you need to work on it to make it better.

If the bad times outweigh the good times, then Get The Frick Out.

And that, my lovelies, is the secret to my success.

Too many people bitch and moan about their relationships and their partners. Hell, I've done it myself on more than one occasion. And most of the time, this is not a problem. It's normal to have a little complain every now and then about your other half. There's nothing wrong with having a bit of a bitching session on the phone to your friend about how he never puts the toilet seat down or about how she never washes up after dinner, or whatever. You bitch about it, you make sweeping generalisations about the uselessness of the opposite sex, you feel better about it all and you move on. All's good.

It becomes problematic, however, when you're ALWAYS bitching about your other half. And it doesn't matter what you're saying about them - whether they're trivial little matters such as hanging up wet towels before they get stinky or big issues about how they never want to have children and you do. If you're constantly bitching about your other half, and you never have anything good to say about them, then you've got problems. And you need to sort that out.

If you're constantly being negative about the person who's bed you're sharing; if you always feel like second best; if you have nothing to talk about with them anymore; if spending time in one another's company is slightly less appealing than having your fingernails pulled off one-by-one and your eyes gouged out with a spoon, then you've got problems.

If your other half makes you feel worthless; if you find yourself nagging them all the time; if you think you can't trust them; or if you just wake up some day and look at them and can't think of a single reason why you like them, nor why you ever thought you loved them in the first place, then you've got problems.

And you need to GTFO.

That's not to say you should expect perfection in every relationship. Nobody's perfect. Not even you. There has to be some element of compromise for a relationship to work. It continually amazes me that there are so many people out there who don't realise this. Relationships are about give and take. You need both for the relationship to survive. You have to be prepared to be give in every now and then; to acquiesce to the other person needs, wants or desires, and not be a bossy boots. And, likewise, you need to take from the relationship too; to stand your ground and defend your own needs, wants and desires, and not be a doormat. There's a delicate balance that, once struck, makes for a beautiful relationship.

But, at the end of the day, if you're unhappy more often than you are happy in your relationship, then you need to GTFO. Remember that you're far, far better off being on your own than being in a relationship that makes you unhappy. More importantly, remember that there is plenty more flesh on the streets.

Having said that, before you go, make at least one attempt to talk about it. Make an attempt to sit down, without alcohol if possible becuase all that does is cloud the issues and raise the tempers, and talk about what's bothering you. Don't be argumentative, don't try to place blame. Simply tell your other half how you're feeling and try to work out a way of resolving that issue. Of course, if your other half won't make the time to sit down with you, or tells you you're talking shite, then that's a big bloody sign right there, isn't it?

The one thing I've learned from every relationship I've been in is that, if you're not prepared to put the work in, then it's not going to last. Equally, I've also learned to stand my ground, and not to put up with anything that makes me unhappy. Ok, that's two things I've learned.

I don't regret a single relationship I've ever had, even the bad ones, because I've learned something from all of them. I've finally reached the stage where I know what I want from a relationship; I know what I'm willing to put up with, I know what I'm NOT willing to put up with, and I know when I'm lucky to have found the right person for me.

And God said unto me...

And God said unto me "Rejoice! For the Flying V that has caused thee to wet thyself with desire when walking past music shops is now within thy grubby grasp!"

And, lo, the heavens did part and the angels did sing and mine browser did point to eBay where the most divine and holy sight did strike mine eyes:

It appeared to me in all its shiny glory, and I did place a bid and cross mine fingers that nobody else would cock this up for me.

And as the clock did tick down the remaining hours until the auction ended, I prayed to mine everlasting and holy God of Power Chords that this guitar would be mine. Oh yes, it will be mine.

6 hours and 42 minutes to go...

Theft with the intent to decorate

If you don't already know about Craigslist, then I strongly recommend you check it out. It is one of the very few sites that I return to day after day, as it contains, in my humble opinion, some of the best examples of modern day literacy and wit on this here Interwebnets. It gives me hope for the brains of mankind in this downward spiralling era of txt spk and general idiocy.

The link above will take you to The Best of Craigslist, which is updated monthly, and which contains gems such as the following:

--

An open letter to the person(s) who stole my porch light.

On the evening of Thursday, August 16th, right around bedtime, I thought I heard a bit of commotion out in front of my apartment. This is not unusual, as my neighbors sometimes blow off steam on weeknights by throwing parties, the theme of which seems to be "Scream and Throw Beer Cans In The Yard Until 5am."

So I thought nothing of it until I noticed over the weekend that one of the two chandeliers on my porch that I had been using as a porch light had gone missing. Putting two and two together, I now know what happened, and am trying to put together an accurate mental picture of you, the person who took them.

I like my stuff, and I like keeping it whenever possible. That said, I understand some thefts. If you are, persay, addicted to something, and you steal something from me because you need to buy that something and stealing is the only way to make that happen, then I get that. I still wish you wouldn't do it, but I get it. Or if you need to feed yourself or your family or your dog and and you need to steal something to do it, then I get that, too. Those are crimes of necessity, however that necessity came about. But that's not the case here. Not even close.

As I'm sure you noticed when you got home/sobered up/looked more closely, the chandelier you stole was not a nice one. I got them at a thrift store for a dollar, did a shitty job of painting them white (it's kind of peeling), and was forced to rewire it myself. If memory serves, the one you took was even missing a bulb. So they have no real value. Nobody in their right mind would give you any money for them, and there are many more valuable things laying out in garbage cans or on dark porches all over my street. You stole my porch light to use it. You stole it to decorate.

If you were casually walking down my street at night (as I doubt you came in from out of town or state to pull this 'heist'), then chances are, you live around here. Chances are equally good that you could very well afford to purchase your own chandelier instead of stealing mine. Or, maybe you're just trying it out for a bit, and I'll one day find it reinstalled on my porch after you sadly discover that it just doesn't look right in the bathroom, or really pull together the entryway like you'd hoped it might.

This is fair warning you to you, then, that I'm keeping my eyes open. I made the damned thing, and I know what it looks like. If I see it on your own porch, I'm taking it back. If i see it in your dining room through a window, you and I are going to have an unpleasant conversation (unlike car thieves or bank robbers, I'm not terribly intimidated by 'chandelier thieves'). Or maybe I'll just take something of yours and use it at my place. Tit for tat.

"Theft With Intent To Decorate" is something so unnecesarry, so achingly annoying (and, let's face it, so Victorian Village) that I wish I could run into you someday, just so you could see the face I'd make at you. It's the look on your grandmother's face as you trip her on purpose. It's the look on your parents face when you tell them you were dropping out of college to focus on your "real spiritual development as a person". It's like a whole host of angels coming down and singing "What The Fuck?" all at once. I'm making the face right now, actually.

So Bravo!, thief of the night. You have my shitty chandelier. As you bask in it's glow, I hope you feel good about the kind of person you turned out to be.. And if I might suggest it, perhaps remember that it was rewired by me, a less than skilled electrician. So from now on I'll be sitting out nights on my porch, with my one remaining chandelier, hoping that it's partner is out there somewhere, burning your god-damned house down.

Sincerely yours,

M

--

Genius. Pure and simple. I only wish I could write as well as that guy.

Don't believe the hype

Last week, as I was driving home one day, I heard a news report on the radio about a boy who had drowned in a pond in Wigan, which is not too far away from where I live. The boy, Jordon Lyon, drowned in May of this year, but there was an inquest last week which, which is why it was mentioned in the news.

Now I know that, in this day and age, it's hardly surprising when a news reporter sensationalises a story, particularly if it involves a tragedy such as a young boy drowning. But I was, quite frankly, fucking outraged when I heard the reports on this particular story.

It seems that Jordon Lyon and his sister, Bethany, were fishing for tadpoles in a large pond in Wigan when Bethany got into trouble and Jordon jumped into the pond to try to help her. He managed to hold Bethany up out of the water when two anglers who were passing by ran over and were able to fish Bethany out. They couldn't get to Jordon. The police were called, and this is where I get really annoyed, the news report states that the two police community support officers (PCSO's) who arrived "stood by and watched whilst Jordon drowned".

Jordon's stepfather then arrived at the scene with a friend, and both dived in to try to rescue Jordon. A policeman then arrived on the scene, and also jumped in. He managed to find Jordon, but by then the boy was dead. [Sources: BBC News, The Times Online, The Guardian]

As this story broke, the radio show was inundated with outraged people damning the police and asking how could two people just stand by and watch as a boy drowned in a six-feet-deep pond in front of them? And, to be honest, I wondered myself what the hell was going on.

And then I found out a bit more about the story.

First of all, the term "pond" is slightly misleading. It's actually more of a small lake, as you can see from the photo below. The lake is relatively wide and is about six feet deep. The water is dark and murky, and fairly impossible to see through to the bottom.

Aside from this misleading term, the rest of the reports on the matter deliberately left out key facts in order to sensationalise the story. When the two PCSO's arrived on the scene, Jordon had already gone underwater, and could not be seen. This fact has been confirmed by the two anglers who had managed to fish Bethany out of the water. The PCSO's did not stand by idly, twiddling their thumbs. They did what they were trained to do - they radioed for help.

The Greater Manchester Police have defended the PCSO's actions saying they weren't trained to deal with this sort of situation, and that they did exactly the right thing, by radioing for help and waiting. This has lead to further outrage, with people condeming the PCSO's for not diving into the lake, and the police for defending their actions. There have been comments stating that Jordon's stepfather and friend were not trained in water rescue, and yet they still dived in, and that anyone witnessing a child drowning would try everything in their power to save that child, regardless of training.

And of course, these comments have been reported and bandied about by the media, further fuelling this misinformed debate. Now, I am a trained lifeguard. I trained for five years, got all my certificates, and worked for two years as a lifeguard in my local swimming pool. Two of my brothers worked as lifeguards on the beach, which is no Baywatch, let me tell you. If someone starts drowning in a swimming pool, it's scary, but at least you know they're in a confined space. The water is clear, warm and not very deep. I used to pull about four kids an hour out of the water, and, thankfully, have only had to administer mouth-to-mouth once on a little girl who went under and stopped breathing before I could get to her. She was ok in the end, but I'll never forget what it was like seeing her floating about a foot under the water, unconscious, her eyes open and her lips turning blue.

That was in a swimming pool. When someone drowns in open water, be it on a beach, at a lake or in a river, it becomes a hell of a lot more serious. There are so many things to consider - the open water, with currents, which means that if a person goes under, by the time you get to the spot where you saw them go under, there's absolutely no guarantee that they'll still be there. Then there's the cold, dark, murky water which makes it almost impossible to see anything, let alone locate a drowning person who will have sank to the bottom by now.

But the most important thing that we were taught when lifesaving was "Safety First". As in, your own safety. If you see someone drowning, you have to evaluate whether you're going to be able to save that person, and not put yourself in danger. There's no point in attempting to save someone and putting yourself in danger in the process - you'll just end up with two people dead instead of one. That might sound harsh, but that's the reality. If you're walking along a beach and you see someone drowning who's twice the size of you and they're a mile out in the water, then it's more useful for you to call for help than to try to rescue that person. If you swim out to them, and you're already knackered (remembering how cold water tires your muscles so much more than warm water), you're putting both yourself and the drowning person in further danger. You can never underestimate the strength of a panicking person, and it can be physcially exhasting just trying to restrain them and calm them down. You then have to swim a mile back to shore, dragging someone who's twice the size of you and probably still kicking and struggling.

So the lesson that was hammered into us from day one was not to risk your own life to try to save another's.

The fact of this case is that, when the two PCSO's arrived on the scene, they were presented with a cold, murky lake in which there was no sign of the drowning boy. Neither PCSO was trained in how to search for a submerged drowning victim (remember how you learned to pick bricks up from the bottom of the pool? Try doing that in open water... I've done it in the sea, and it's nigh on impossible even with years of training), and so they did what they had been trained for - the radioed for help. It's not clear whether the PCSO's were even able to swim - it's not a requirement for the job - and so they, in my humble opinion, did the best thing they could have in that situation. Even when fully trained, water resuce is a dangerous job, and it certainly should not be attempted by people who don't know what they're doing. True, Jordon's stepfather dived in when he wasn't trained, but that was the natural reaction of a parent when faced with a situation in which their child is in danger. Parents would walk barefoot across broken glass to save their children - that does not mean we should expect others to do the same.

Bizarrely, in March of this year, a firefighter was told that he might be sued for saving a drowning woman from a river in Scotland. The man jumped into the river and feared for his own life, as the freezing water threatened to sweep him away. However, he managed to grab the woman and pull her to safety, only to be told that he had breached safety rules during the rescue, and was incident was being investigated internally by Tayside Fire and Rescue. [Source: The Times Online]

It is terribly sad that a boy died, however, I don't believe that the PCSO's could have saved him, even if they had jumped into the lake. Nobody has yet asked the question why two children were fishing for tadpoles, unaccompanied and unsupervised, in a six-foot-deep lake, but I'm sure that will be the focus of the newspaper and radio reports after the PCSO's get fired.

In the meantime, how about we take something productive out of this like... oh, I don't know... teaching kids about the dangers of water and hwo to swim and perhaps what to do when they get into difficulty? No? Ok... isn't it time for another terrorist threat? Or perhaps a weather disaster? Who hasn't had a tsunami recently? We need some death to sell tomorrow's papers, damnit! What's that... secret nuclear testing in Iraq caused an upset in the weather and that triggered Hurricane Katrina?! Goddamn!!

Dontcha just lurve the media?

This is just...brilliant

This is quite possibly the best, and most random, ad I've ever seen...

...ever.

Whoever made it deserves a lollipop.

Fuckit. Two lollipops.

Testing the limits

Everyone has their limits.

No matter how careless or reckless or feckless you like to think you are, you have limits. Everyone has a price and everyone has that one thing that they Just. Won't. Do.

And nowhere is this more evident than in relationships. Interestingly, there are limits both at the beginning and the end of the relationship. At the beginning, when you start seeing somebody for the first time, you test these limits to see if the person is a match.

It starts off innocently enough - you might start enquiring about the books they read or the films they watch or the music they listen to or even the type of car they drive or the job they do. And, consciously or not, you set your limits.

Ok, he's a Star Trek fan, but he doesn't own an actual Trekkie uniform or a pair of Spock ears, so he can live. Hmm.... she reads Harry Potter, but she doesn't queue up around the block to get the latest book nor has she tattooed that stupid lightening bolt onto her head, so that's ok. Crap... he has a Phil Collins album but, wait! It's only because Phil used to be in Genesis, so that's kind of cool, so I'll still go for a drink with him tonight. Yikes... is that her Mini parked outside? Wait, you know, it's a classic car and she keeps it in mint condition, so it's ok in a retro kind of way. WTF? He's an accountant? Um... well.... eh..... it means that..... um.... he'll never be out of a job...? (really pushing those limits here)...

If all goes well, the focus of the testing will eventually shift to making the beast with two backs. Again, you can test the waters by sussing out their ability to kiss. As before, you will have set your limits which will determine whether the kisser gets to go any further. If your date suddenly lunges at you, mouth wide open, tongue already churning like a sloppy washing machine, chances are you won't want to get jiggy with them either later that night or indeed any time in the future even if they were the last person on earth and you were just gagging for the ride, thank you very much. Some people may not be great kissers but not entirely horrible either and you might be willing to flex those limits and give them a chance to see if they have any other talents that may make up for it. After all, maybe you could teach them to be a better kisser?

So, assuming they don't kiss you as though they're attempting to imitate a washing machine or a vaccuum cleaner or some other household gadget, you (hopefully) find yourself in bed with them doing the bold thing. Again, your limits will determine when this happens - it may be the same night, it may be three nights later, it may be three months later. Some people set their limits according to whatever tripe is being spewed at them from magazines or television programmes or know-it-all friends ("Don't sleep with him on the first date, you slut!!" or "It's been two weeks and you haven't shagged him yet?? What's wrong with you, you frigid cow?!" and so on and so forth ad nauseum), and other people set their limits according to when it feels right for them.

Anyhoo, at some point or another you will find yourself in the sack. And limits come in to play big time here. Some people are afraid to test the limits, and so they hold back for fear of offending or upsetting or giving the wrong message.

If I suggest we swing from the chandelier, he might think I'm some sort of nympho slut so instead I'll just lie here like a sack of spuds and make the odd moan like I'm enjoying it and he'll still respect me in the morning, right? Right?!?

Others will push it (the limit!) as far as they can (oooer missus!) to see what they can get away with.

I'll start by licking her ear and stroking her arm and move onto licking my way down and sucking lightly at her neck as I push my finger in there and oh, she didn't like that, ok, so I'll just move back up here, mmm.... boobs, wonder what would happen if I pinched them? Whoops, ok not a fan of that, maybe if I suggest tying her up, oooh, she seems to like that, and now I'll spank her ass and pull her hair and I wonder what she'd think if I told her I fancied a threesome with her sister... Ouch! She just kneed me in the balls!

And on it goes. More often than not, you'll spend the first delicious few days/weeks/months/years testing and teasing and discovering each other's limits and, hopefully, you'll find a happy medium just on the edge of your limits - pushing them ever so slightly to keep it interesting, but not so much that you feel uncomfortable.

But what happens if your limits change? What happens if your intended no longer does it for you? What if you start becoming a bit curious about that threesome, maybe not with your sister, but with some hot friend of his, but your man won't even consider the idea? What if it's something a lot tamer like maybe trying a bit of dressing up or role playing in the bedroom, but your lady thinks you're some sort of freak for even thinking about it?

Or it could go the other way, which is probably a much more common situation. Some day you wake up and your limits have become a lot narrower. Those little things that your partner does that you used to find endearing, or at least tolerable, start to really grate on your nerves.

The way he blows his nose and inspects the tissue afterwards... The way she corrects you in front of friends... The way he scruches up his face when trying to make that corner pocket on the pool table... The way she cooks spagetti so it's always slightly soggy and NEVER holds the sauce properly...

You may try to reset your limits; tell yourself that you're just being silly or over-sensitive or just having a bad day. But, eventually, you snap. You decide that you can't put up with this crap anymore and how can they not know how damn annoying they're being when they tap that frickin' pen over and over again when I'm trying to watch Who Wants to be a Millionaire?!

And so you dump their sorry ass.

And you spend a bit of time getting drunk and flirting with strangers and re-evaluating your limits (boundaries/values/whatevs) in your head.

And then one night you meet someone in a bar and you start chatting about your favourite films and he says his is "Apocalypse Now" and you say "Me too!" and he says "Have you seen the Redux version?" and you say "Yeah! I loved it so much I bought it on DVD!" and then you both say "Charlie don't surf!" and you smile and he offers to buy you a drink and you start over again.

Dear Mr. Driver

Dear Mr. Driver,

You are probably already aware of this, being the all-knowing knobjockey that you are, but I thought I'd state it here again just for kicks:

Tailgating me will NOT make me go any faster. Ever. As a matter of fact, just to annoy you, I'll probably slow down and start tapping my brakes randomly in the hope that I'll see your head explode with frustration in my rearviewmirror.

Yes, I know you drive a much bigger car than me. Well done. I'm sure your wife/girlfriend/bum chum is only delighted that you've compensated for your tiny penis and general lack of ability in the bedroom by buying a car that resembles a small tank. I, however, don't have a penis and thus I don't feel the need to drive a big car, nor do I feel the need to prove to all those anonymous people on the motorway that I can drive at 100 miles per hour for I am KING OF THE ROAD! RAWRRR!!!

You see, I actually believe in fuel efficiency and whatnot, and that's why I drive at a steady 65mph most of the time. Which is also the reason why I drive in the slow lane whenever possible. But, ocasionally, there are cars or trucks out there that are actually driving slower than me. I know! Crazy, isn't it! Must be a granny driver or something. Anyway, on ocassions like these I actually have to overtake these vehicles, and so I have to pull into the middle lane. But fear not, King of the Road, for there is a third lane that you can use to pass me out and leave me quaking in your dust and petrol fumes. This is not a race track. You do not get points for driving on top of me. Use your common sense, have some manners and use the fast lane.

Oh, and whilst you're passing me out in that third lane, don't flash your fucking lights at me. I know I'm driving slower than you. And I know that it's majorly inconvenient for you to have to overtake me. But you know what? I don't give a fucking rats ass, and if you flash your lights at me, I'll flip the bird right back atcha.

Now, there have also been moments when both the slow lane AND the middle lane are chock full of cars that are driving slower than me! Yeah, I know! Must be a fucking Sunday, right?

Anyhoo, this means that I have to pull into the fast lane whilst I pass these dinosaurs out. Yet again, if you've been thundering up the fast lane for three minutes now, you should have seen me pull into your lane to overtake. So, you know what, you really should know that, as soon as I've overtaken I'll pull back out of your way. Driving so close to me that all I can see in my rearview mirror is the front grill of your stupid-looking SUV is neither intimidating nor is going to make me put the pedal to the metal. You're just going to have to wait, aren't ya? And, like I said before, if you start flashing your lights or any of that other nonsense, I'll slow right down so you'll be stuck behind me forever. Have a little patience, and you'll be on your way before you can say "Back the fuck off buddy!"

And, finally, if you're on a slip road either coming on or off the motorway, driving on my ass is one of the worst things you can do. Slip roads are not meant to be driven at 90mph, mostly because they tend to be quite bendy and, even though I know you THINK you're God, you're actually not, and you, just like me, have no idea what's around that corner. Remember this morning when you were up on my ass all the way round that bend, trying to make me go fast than the 50mph I was already doing? And remember when I saw that big oil patch and slowed down to 40mph because the road was already wet? And remember when we went 'round the corner and saw that woman who's car was embedded in the ditch because she'd obviously just skidded in the oil? And remember how we had to swerve to avoid her car? Well, my fucktacular friend, if you'd been in front doing your 90mph stunt, you would have whalloped straight into that car, and probably into that woman, probably killing both of you instantly. So really, I saved your life this morning. You're welcome.

I won't do it next time.

Kindest regards,
The girl with her middle finger extended in the car behind you.

Kate Moss needs a wash

I'm not having a good week.

So far, my laptop has suffered from a hard disk failure and my desktop computer at home seems to be going through a mid-life crisis and will only show me a GRUB command line when I switch it on. To those of you who don't speak computer, that basically means "A Big Pain in the Ass".

*sigh*

Added to which, I've just been roped into working on a big legal project at work which I have been trying to avoid like the plague for the past few months. But they finally caught me. And that makes me sad.

But what's really annoying me this week is this: jeans. Specifically, skinny jeans. Like these:

I went shopping for jeans last Friday. I went to the Manchester Shopping Mecca (a.k.a. The Trafford Center) with the sole intention of purchasing a new pair of jeans. I was willing to spend a bit of money, for I have finally come to the realisation that there is a BIG difference between buying a cheap pair of jeans that just... don't... seem... to fit... right, and spending a bit more money on good quality jeans that fit perfectly.

The Trafford Center is disgustingly incredible. It's what ancient Rome would have looked like if Las Vegas puked all over it. And threw some palm trees in for good luck. It's all marble pillars and neon signs and just incredibly, beautifully, headache-inducingly tacky. I love it. But I can only go there about three times a year or otherwise my credit card starts sobbing. As does my boyfriend. And my feet.

Anyhoo, I started at one end of the mall and systematically worked my way through each shop, looking for a pair of jeans. And I discovered that apparantly we're only allowed wear skinny jeans now, for clothing manufacturers have decided that any other type of jean is just crap, and we have to do what the clothing manufacturers tell us because it's the law.

Every bloody shop I went in to just had row after row of these stupid skinny jeans. Oh sure, each row varied slightly - here's one with high waisted jeans (who wears these? Seriously?), here's one with ultra-low rise jeans, here's one with jeans made of velcro or something that looks slightly wet so you look like you're wearing leather trousers but guess what? You're not! But all the jeans were skinny - not a boot cut in sight.

Now, I don't like skinny jeans. At all. Partly because, unless you're borderline anorexic, skinny jeans make you look fat. They're one of the most unforgiving items of clothing I've ever seen, and unfortunately, I've seen a lot of unforgiving clothes. They just make people look unbalanced, like they've got huge bodies and little chicken legs. Unless, of course, you're anorexic in which case you simply look like a beanpole.

But more than this, I hate skinny jeans because anyone who wears them looks like they're trying to imitate that skanky crack whore Kate Moss. Kate Moss has ruined fashion for me. Everything she wears immediately turns into "This Season's Must Have!!!" and suddenly the streets are lined with clone after clone, dressed in skinny jeans and vest, with manky hair, bad eyeliner and a junkie boyfriend hanging out of their shoulder.

Why is this woman being hailed as a fashion icon when, as a matter of fact, all she does is wear a variation of the same bloody thing every day?

Anyhoo, I've ranted about this before so I'm not going to do it again. Suffice to say that Kate Moss has ruined so many items of clothing. Want to wear a waistcoat? Can't - you'll just look like a Kate Moss wannabe. Want to wear a minidress? Can't - you'll just look like a Kate Moss wannabe. Want to wear wellies at a festival? Can't - you'll just look like a Kate Moss wannabe.

And other such annoyances.

So, back to the original story which was... oh yes, jeans. As I may have mentioned, I don't like skinny jeans. I much prefer bootcut jeans. They suit every body shape, they feel good, they look good and they look even better with heels. What's not to like? But I literally could not believe my eyes on Friday night. Every single shop I went to seemed to sell only skinny jeans. Topshop used to have a great range of jeans called Moto, but these now only come in the skinny variety. I went to Levi's, but the only jeans they had that weren't skinny were those weird engineered things that look like you're wearing them backwards and that really aren't comfortable.

I even went to Miss Sixty. I clung tightly onto my wallet to try to stop my credit card from shrieking like an idiot and proceeded to try on pair after pair of jeans that cost upwards of £150. And I was prepared to buy them if they looked nice! Honest! And I have a major, MAJOR problem with paying that much money for ANY item of clothing, let alone a pair of jeans. But I was willing to do it, if they had nice jeans.

Luckily for me they didn't. Even their so-called bootcut jeans were suspiciously skinny-like, making my legs look all weird and shrunken (I don't know why but skinny jeans make my legs look short, even though they're actually fairly long). I was beginning to think I'd have to just buy a tracksuit and live in that instead.

And then I remembered that last bastion of good jeans - the Gap. Now, most clothes at the Gap are way too preppy for me, and as such I never shop there. But I remember buying a fantastic pair of jeans there a few years ago, which I still wear and love and which seem to get better with age, and so I thought I'd give it a try. I walked through the door (thankfully absent was the perky sales clerk who just really, really wants to help you - that shit don't go down in Manchester), and made my way to the jeans section. My heart sank. Right in front of me, flipping the bird and sticking it's tongue out at me was a big pile of skinny jeans.

I fell to my knees, raised my fist and my face skywards and shouted "Nooooooooooooooooooo! Not you too! Not the Gap!!!"

Actually, come to think of it, what I did instead was turn on my heel and made to march out, disgusted. And then I saw them. Tucked away in the corner. Bootcut jeans. Proper actual bootcut jeans! And there was much rejoicing!

I tried them on and they were perfect! I'm in love with them. I was tempted to buy ten pairs right there and then, but then regained my composure and pranced up to the till with my treasure. And as soon as I get paid on Monday I'm going to go back and buy another pair.

Gap - I should never have doubted you. I heart you.

And thus ended another successful adventure.

Whatever happened to live and let live?

[begin rant]

Velvet Revolver have just released a new album, Libertad, which I *ahem* managed to get my mitts on last night. Before, um... 'receiving' said album, I looked up a couple of reviews online to see what the general vibe was about the music. It's been three years since their incredible debut, Contraband, and I was interested to see what people thought of their new offering. I'd head so many rumours - that Pharrell Williams (of N.E.R.D.) was going to be producing it, that Slash had walked out of the studio saying "I thought this was a fucking rock band, I ain't playing fucking disco", etc., etc. - that I didn't really know what to expect.

For the most part the reviews were good - really good - but one stuck out in my mind as being particularly stupid ignorant amusing. Some guy something along the lines of "It just sounds like Stone Temple Pilots and Guns 'N' Roses" and then proceeded to call anyone who liked the album a "fag".

*sigh*

I get so tired of this shit. People taking the piss out of other people for listening to certain types of music or certain bands or whatevs. What is the problem here? Why do you care if all I want to listen to is shouty-shouty music? Or country? Does that make me less of a person? If you prick me, WILL I NOT STILL BLEED?!?!

Heheh.

I had a similar blood-vessel-about-to-burst-in-my-head experience a couple of weeks ago when I heard about people throwing bottles of piss at My Chemical Romance when they headlined at Download.

Now, I know I've just confessed to recently becoming a fan of MCR, but this mini-rant emerged back at the start of last month before I'd listened to much of their stuff. In fact, MCR were really only brought to my attention when I saw footage of all those silly people throwing bottles at them on stage. And they're not the first band that this has happened to.

Personally, I just don't see the point. Do you really think that any band are going to stand on stage in front of, oh let's give a conservative estimate of 30,000 people, and pay any attention to the hundred or so that are throwing bottles at them? Or will they look at the remaining 29,900 people who are singing along and jumping up and down to the songs and continue to play for them instead?

Hmm... it's a toughie!

But more than that, at the time that My Chemical Romance were on the main stage, Korn and Suicidal Tendencies were playing on the other two stages. Why were those hundred or so morons throwing bottles at MCR when they could have been watching either of these two other bands? Why would you waste your time throwing missiles at an "emo fag" band when you could have been watching some "proper metal" band on another stage just a few feet away? Or when you could have gone to the bar and had a drink? Or when you could have gone back to the campsite and cranked up Slayer at full blast and started headbutting your friends or whatever it is you do for fun?

I don't get it.

I don't understand this mentality of "if it's not what I like, then it's shit". My ex-husband used to do that a lot. "If it's not Canadian, it's crap" was his motto. Which is fine, you know, as long as you keep it to yourself. But he would constantly ridicule people from other nations, including his best friend's girlfriend who was Greek, and including me, Irish, because of our "funny customs", etc. Why would you bother? All it results in is a lot of pissed off people and, in this case, divorce. Because this was a major factor in us breaking up. That and the fact that he's a cheating, lying, lazy bastard, may he rot in hell forever.

Why can't people just live and let live? Who cares if I listen to what you consider to be crappy music? If I'm not forcing you to listen to it, and I'm not preventing you from listening to something more to your liking, then what's the frickin' problem?

People annoy me at times.

Oh, and before I forget, to the person who wrote that Velvet Revolver just sounds like Stone Temple Pilots and Guns 'N' Roses mixed together - what the fuck were you expecting?! It's the lead singer of STP and three of the members of GNR!!! What did you think they'd sound like?!
Also, for the record, Libertad rocks!

[end rant]

I have the emo

A couple of days ago, I found myself painting my toenails and fingernails black whilst nodding my head to My Chemical Romance.

I stopped for a moment.

I looked in the mirror.

I was wearing a black vest under a black hoodie, with dark blue (almost black) jeans and a scruffy pair of converse. I had recently dyed my hair so it was looking quite dark. Earlier I was bored and had painted eyeliner on for something to do. My skin was paler and more corpse-like than usual from being cooped up indoors for so long.

The panic building slightly within, I did a quick stock take of my feelings, man.

Apathetic - check.
Disheartened - check.
Grumpy - check.
Dejected - check.
Spirits at an all time low - check.

Oh dear gods. There's no doubt about it.

I have the 'emo'.

But, wait a minute; isn't the 'emo' only for kids? I'm an adult. I'm not angry with the world. I have a good job. I live in a nice apartment. I recycle and I buy flowers for my living room. I have plenty of friends and my parents definately DO love me enough.

Plus, I don't have one of those silly haircuts.

So what's going on? What's with the general feeling of malaise that's been hanging over me for the past couple of weeks? Why am I suddenly listening to Green Day, Funeral for a Friend and AFI and the like and thinking they write bloody good songs? With an emphasis on the bloody. Why have I become so anti-social? Why does the thought of interacting with people fill me with dread and a slight loathing? Why do I feel an affinity with the teenage boy from Little Miss Sunshine who hasn't spoken in nine months? Why is it that the only thing I want to do right now is crawl under my duvet and shut the world out?

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?!

*ahem*

Could it be the simple fact that I haven't seen sunshine in about five weeks? Could it be the fact that it's been raining non-stop for about thirteen days now and I'm at the stage where I'm actually sodden on the inside? Could it be the pervading smell of damp coming from everywhere? Could this be what's making me feel like curling up into the foetal position on crying myself softly to a never-ending sleep?

Probably.

I used to scoff at the idea of Seasonal Affective Disorder. I used to think it was a clever little marketing ploy that some man with a neat little ponytail thought up of in a boardroom somewhere. He even shrunk it down to a snappy and appropriate T.L.A. (that's Three Letter Acronym for all you non-cynics). Why? So he could flog us extra bright lamps which promise to cure the depression.

And then I realised that I'm always much, much happier when the sun comes out and that, in the depths of winter, I spend most of my time walking around in a daze wishing I was a bear so I could hibernate until the sun comes out again. I'm not even too bothered by warmth, as such. I just want to see that big fireball in the sky, beaming down at me and sending me sunny-love-vibes and then I feel all good again. And now, looking outside at the grey sky with the rain pelting against my window, I'm convinced I suffer from S.A.D.

So here's an idea.

You know all those emo kids that live in sunny places like California and France and, oh, I don't know, Cuba? You know the ones. They look something like this:

I propose we start up some sort of S.A.D. <--> Emo exchange programme where we send teenagers from hot and sunny countries to rain old England where the weather and generally shite climate will match their mood perfectly. People will EXPECT them to be emo over here. It's the law. And, in exchange for this wonderful opportunity to indulge your inner whinger, us adults affected by S.A.D. will take your place in said hot and sunny country to soak up the rays and get a tan and generally feel much better about themselves.

Doesn't that sound good?

So, if you've got an emo teenager or cousin or brother or sister, pop him/her in an envelope and post it to me and we can start putting the wheels of this happy clappy No-More-SAD-Emo's™ exchange programme into motion.

I thank you.

Another Kate Moss rant

I've been a bad blogger. I haven't been blogging very much at all recently.

Now, despite what you may think, I'm not doing this to fuck with your head. I'm not like those insecure men you read about who surreptitiously place nicotine patches on your back while you sleep so that you develop a craving whenever he's not around and associate that craving with being around him and thus start to think that you're addicted to him and consequently he must be The One. What? That's never happened to you?

Oh.

Anyway, I've actually been spending most of my time travelling to meetings and client sites (the oil refinery at Grimbsy the week before last, Belfast and London last week, off to Edinburgh today and then back to the refinery at Grimsby for tomorrow and Thursday - glamourous, eh?) which makes it somewhat difficult to whip out the laptop for a weekly dose of celebrity bashing. And, in between all this work, I've been crippled with writer's block.

The good news is that the 'block has finally been kicked to the curb. Thank you to all who sent suggestions and good wishes. The combination of your positive vibes, a serious hangover, too many cups of coffee and copious amounts of reading has kickstarted my brain, and last night I wrote with a zeal I haven't felt in quite some time. I doff my hat to all of you, and to Mr. Coffee of course.

Now, despite the fact that I've been up to my eyes with work recently, I've noticed that I'm being bombarded with images and hype about one particular person everywhere I turn, and I honestly cannot see what all the fuss is about. So, let's put it to the vote.

Ladies and gents, I give you:

Kate Moss

For those of you who don't know who she is (and, seriously, what rock have you been living under for the past twenty years or so?), Kate is a British model, famous for all the wrong reasons it would seem. In the early 90's, she was the icon of heroin chic. At a skinny 5'6", she was lauded as the anti-supermodel - the exact opposite of the supermodels of the time, such as Cindy Crawford and Claudia Schiffer. More recently, Kate's been hitting the headlines for being captured on camera snorting cocaine, and for hanging off the arm of the talentless super-minger, otherwise known as Pete Doherty. After losing most of her modelling contracts in the wake of the publication of the coke pictures, Kate has made an admittedly spectacular comeback, and this week launched a range of clothes she designed all by herself for Topshop, one of the leading trendy shops in the UK. [Source 1, Source 2]

Which is why she's currently being splashed all over our TV screens and magazine and newspaper pages.

Personally, I haven't bought any of Kate's Topshop stuff, nor have I tried to. In fact, other than what I've seen in the newspapers, I don't actually know anything about "The Collection", because I really don't give a rat's ass. How and ever, what does bother me is the fucking maelstrom of publicity that has fashion victims whipped into a frenzy in anticipation of getting their grubby mitts on some of these clothes. I know I'm not the most stylish person in the world, and my my fashion sense could be described as "lazy" at best, but I do like to flick through the glossy mags every now and then, and I have to say that I really don't see how or why Kate has been labelled as a fashion icon, or "the most stylish woman on the planet". I don't think the girl is even particularly good looking, and I certainly wouldn't wear clothes designed by someone who dates a man like this:

The man is wearing a vest held together with a safety pin, for cryin' out loud! And you just know he smells.... Ugh! Mind you, she's not much better - is that a gold lamé waistcoat?

Anyhoo, of course us non-fashion victims will get the last laugh because not only are the sheep paying upwards of £40 on eBay for a sold-out Kate Moss designed-vest that cost £12 in Topshop, but by this weekend, those who actually managed to get their hands on some of the clothes will all step out wearing their new garb, looking like little Kate Moss clones. Anyone in England who walks into a bar on Friday or Saturday night is going to be greeted with the sight of probably half the women all wearing the exact same clothes. Morons!

So, if you're still reading this (and I do apologise for that mini-rant - I had to get it off my chest!), what do you think? Take a look at these pics, and tell me whether you think she deserves the "fashion icon" lable she's been given?

Weapons of mass delusion

It's that time again.

It's the middle of the week, when I'm up to my reddened, sleep-deprived eyeballs in work, with deadlines looming over me like like big, angry school-yard bullies. My frazzled mind does its best to cope in these stressful sitautions - around about midday on Wednesday it just shuts down, refuses to do any more work, and instead gives its full attemtion to contemplating life, the universe, and everything.

Today's topic for contemplation is global warming.

This has been niggling away at the back of my mind for weeks now, but it finally managed to push its way through the various other thought bubbles (including what to wear for dinner with the outlaws on Friday night, those three research papers I promised to get started on before my boss returns from Brazil tomorrow, and just how, exactly, they get the figs into the fig rolls) to the front yesterday morning whilst I was driving to work.

In fact, I think it was around about the time that a huge 18-wheeler in the lane beside me decided to overtake the slow-moving flat-bed truck in front of it, and, not bothering to look properly and thus not seeing my little Yaris beside him, hauled his truck into my lane, forcing me to swerve into the fast lane beside me and nearly killing us all in the process. Amidst all the angry horn-blowing and lights-flashing of the other truck drivers, who had been watching the whole process with disbelief, I got to thinking about how much I fucking hate truck drivers, and trucks in general, and how I'm damn sure they can't be good for the environment, and why the hell are there so many of them on the roads all the time anyway?!?

I was still rather annoyed by the whole thing when I got home last night.

Driving to work this morning, giving evils to all the truck drivers around me, I started to think about the wider issues involved here, and wondered what my stance on the environment and the global warming debate is. And I realised it's this:

I don't believe in global warming.

Now, before you start photoshopping photographs of my face on to George W. Bush's body, or vice versa, let me clarify.

I believe in global warming in so much as I believe the earth is getting warmer. I just don't believe that human beings are the cause of this.

I don't believe CO2 levels are rising dangerously. I don't believe in this Carbon Footprint rubbish. I do believe that if we don't stop polluting our environment we will destroy this planet and make it uninhabitable, but only from the point of view that I don't think any of us want to live on top of a stinking pile of rubbish, with nary a tree in sight. I don't, however, believe the planet is going to heat up to the extent that it becomes some sort of Mad Max-like desert wasteland. Neither do I believe that great ice storms will ravage the planet, á la The Day After Tomorrow.

 

I just don't buy it.

Amongst various other TV programmes about global warming and climate change, I've also watched An Inconvenient Truth and it's a pretty interesting, thought provoking and often frightening film. To call it a documentary is stretching the definition of the word a little too far for my liking. Rather, it is a sensationalist, sentimentalist and ultimately scare-mongering piece of pseudo-science wrapped up in some scientific-looking graphics and delivered by an ex-politician (and we all know how truthful politicians are) who is not, in any way, shape or form, a scientist or a respected/published authority on climate change.

Gore's predicitions for climate change in the future are so over the top, they're laughable. He directly contradicts hard facts developed by scientists. You know, the people who actually spend years researching this kind of stuff, and who actually are respected authorities in this area?

I recently watched a very interesting documentary on Channel 4, called The Great Global Warming Swindle, which held a lot more sway for me.

In my opinion, this is a much more accurate documentary on the state of the planet, and on how it might be affected by global warming in the future, because it corresponds with what I see around me on a day to day basis.

Again, it is my own opinion that carbon admissions are not nearly as high as they were even less than 20 years ago. I know this, because I can see it when I look out my window. I remember sitting in the back seat of my parents' car as we drove through Rathmines, in Dublin city, about 18 years ago or so, and gazing in amazement and disgust at the thick blanket of smog lurking over the buildings around us. I remember day trips to the city when I was a teenager and coming home with a visible layer of grime on my skin from the exhaust fumes being belched out by cars, buses and trucks.

And now?

Well, in my experience, the air in Dublin is not significantly dirtier than that in my own (clean) hometown by the beach. The layer of smog seems to have disappeared. And this is true of many other cities I've visited over the past twenty years.

Annoying pro-Gore sheep-type-person: But Claire, isn't is true that there are more cars on the road nowdays? Thus, there must be more CO2 being pumped into the air? Ipso facto. Nyeh.

Well, being honest, I don't actually know if there are more cars on the road nowdays, but I know that any car I've been in for the past seven years or so has run on unleaded petrol. And I imagine this is probably true in many other countries. I remember the first time I drove through Los Angeles, back in 2000, and there was a disgusting haze of sickly yellow-grey smog hanging over the city. I drove through LA again in 2005 and the skies were a hell of a lot clearer.

Annoying pro-Gore sheep-type-person: Well, why would Al Gore bother making this movie if it wasn't true? Why would the government be so concerned with global warming? Why would they tell us lies? Why? Huh? Whyyyyyyy?!?

Why, indeed. I have no answer to this. Some think it's a political thing. Some think it's Al Gore's revenge on Bush. Some think it's the government's way of deflecting attention from the unbelieveable fuck-up that is the invasion of Iraq. Could be any of these things. Could be all of them. Could be none of 'em. But just because the government (minus Bush, but who listens to him anyway?) tells us this is what's going on doesn't make it true.

But, aside from my own feelings and observations on carbon admissions, as pointed out in the documentary above, rises and falls in the Earth's climate are part of Earth's natural cycle and have been ocurring for millenia. In the 14th century, Europe was in the grip of the Little Ice Age, during which time the Thames River in London froze solid. That's cold. Going back further, to the 10th century, there was the Medieval Warm Period, during which time there were vineyards in Northern England. Before this, 10,000 years ago, was the Holocene Maximum, when temperatures were significantly higher than they are today. This period lasted for 4,000 years.

The evidence of it is all around us. On a recent trip down south, I visited Sidmouth beach in Devon which has some beautiful steep red cliffs. Surprised by the rich red colour of the rock, I found a tourist information plaque which said that the deep red colour are a result of the desert environment that existed in this area 250 million years ago when these rocks were formed. Before that, England's climate used to be tropical.

So, yes, I believe that the Earth is warming up - the winters here are certainly milder than I remember, and summer is positively balmy - but I also believe that this is part of a natural cycle and is neither a result of nor under the control of human beings.

I really do think that too many people are proclaiming Gore and his movie as the foremost authority on global warming, without actually stopping to think where he got his information from, or to ask why he's based his predictions on the results of just one or two studies. Some of his points are valid, sure, but he is guilty of sensationalising them and of grossly over-exaggerating the likelihood of a global rise in temperature.

The use of the animated polar bear was just a kick in the crotch.

Despite the fact that I refuse to drink the Kool-Aid, I do believe people need to take action to combat the ongoing pollution and destruction of our environment. As I wrote in a previous blog, I try to recycle as much household waste as I can. Although I can't take public transport to work (because I work in the middel of nowhere), I did swap my petrol-guzzling behemoth of a car for a smaller, more fuel-efficient one. I try to use the car as little as possible, and instead take public transport or walk to my destination when I can. I switch off my electrical appliances at the socket when I'm not using them, to make sure they don't waste energy by being on standby. I do my best to buy local produce, but that's more to support local farms rather than any anxiety about the number of air miles my grub has travelled. My electricity, gas, petrol and food bills are lower now than they ever have been.

But, I've said it before, and I'll say it again - it's not easy being green. It's bloody expensive to be environmentally friendly. Energy-saving lightbulbs cost around 24-times as much as a normal lightbulb. I know the engery-saving bulbs have a longer life-span than normal lightbulbs, but I doubt it's 24-times longer.

I laughed the other day when a green wheelie-bin was delievered to my apartment "For garden waste only". Um... great in theory, but... eh... I don't actually have a garden. Now I've got a big green lump of useless plastic sitting outside my house, and nothing in it. At the same time, my local council still doesn't provide recycling facilities for plastic (probably the highest percentage of household waste) or cardboard.

Meanwhile, Richard Branson offers $25 million to the first person who can develop a viable way of reducing global warming - an issue which may or may not be within the control of human beings in the first place. Maybe I'm wrong, and I'm not saying that Branson's heart isn't in the right place, but wouldn't it be better to put that $25 million into, oh let's say, the healthcare system? Maybe use it to buy medicines for Thrid World countries who can't afford to buy the drugs that we get for free? Maybe it would be better spent educating our children about how to look after this planet so that future generations won't have to live on a rubbish heap? Maybe it could be put towards developing better renewable energy sources to cure us of our oil dependency?

So, what do you think? Do you believe humans are responsible for global warming? Do you think it's something we can control? Or, like me, do you think that if every person makes a small effort to be environmentally friendly in their own lives, it will have a much bigger impact on the health of our planet, and is more likely to work than any miracle cure for global warming?

California Dreamin'

Every now and then I get a real yearning to go back to California.

Unusually, this doesn't happen when I'd expect it, i.e. when it's cold and windy and wet outside. Rather, it happens as soon as I catch the first glimpse of summer; when the air warms by that single essential degree marking the difference between spring and summer; when the smell of flowers hangs heavy in the air; when I feel the sun warming the stones under my feet and the bones under my skin; this is when I long to be back in California.

A cloudless sky and an endless horizon ahead of me as I drive home; the outline of the city against a backdrop of hazy mountains; sunshine glinting off a beat-up Ford pickup ahead of me on the motorway; these are the things that remind me of California.

It literally wrenches my heart. The longing to be in California grips me and leaves me breathless, aching, unsatisfied.

I have only ever been to California three times, but each single time was such an incredible experience that I have never forgotten it. The first time I visited was in 2000, and, bless me father for have sinned, it's been a year and a half since my last visit. Far, far too long.

In my three visits to California, I have driven the Pacific Coast Highway from just south of Portland, OR, to just north of Tijuana, Mexico. I have driven through incredible redwood forests and along roads clinging to the sides of mountains, as the surf pounded the rocks hundreds of feet below. I distinctly remember my first glimpse of the Pacific ocean in Oregon - grey and vicious and angry. I disctinctly remember the first time I swam in the Pacific in San Diego - clear and blue and warm. And very salty, as I discovered when I was dragged under by a massive wave.

I have cruised along beach boulevards, with the top down on my car, honking the horn at the glistening muscle men and gazing upwards at the clear blue sky through the almost-touching, impossibly tall palm trees. I have made the road trip from San Francisco to San Diego three times, and each time is more wonderful than the last. I have driven through Baja Mexico, from Tijuana to Ensenada and beyond. From poverty to paradise and back to poverty again.

There are some moments of my three trips that are etched indelibly in my memory. Driving through the desert for days on end, with nothing but Pink Floyd playing on the only station my broken radio could pick up. Since then, every time I hear Dark Side of the Moon I get a shiver down my spine.

I remember my big gay weekend in San Francisco, celebrating the successful open houses of our photographer and artist friends by getting pissed on Mojito's in a trendy bar on Castro Street and going to a Gay Glo show. Buff naked men in neon paint - nice!

I remember making plans to set up camp in a pink glittery tent at Burning Man the following summer... Unfortunately those plans were never realised.

I remember sitting in a beer garden near the Golden Gate Bridge, drinking pitchers of Bud with hairy bikers and gazing up at the stars. Watching Podge & Rodge on DVD in an apartment overlooking the bay.

Driving through wine country, with vineyard after vineyard rolling out all around us, windows rolled down, hand surfing in the warm breeze.

Hanging out in La Jolla, giggling at the seals and eating giant freshly-baked cookies from the local café. Drinking Hang Ten beer with the surfers who brewed it in their bar near the beach whilst eating BBQ shark and fish tacos and saying "Dude!" a lot. Walking in on a bizarre speed dating session in an Irish bar in the Gas Lamps, San Diego, where all the women looked like Cindy Crawford and all the men looked like George Costanza.

I remember Ozzfest in the desert. The dry, baking heat that you only get in the Californian desert. The weird, yet undefinable differences between American and European music festivals. Trying to avoid staring at the tattooed gang members down from LA for the day, as they walked around in their uniform of baggy blue jeans, white wifebeater vest and numerous bullet holes and scars. Doling out suncream to sunburnt teenagers because seemingly I'm the only person in America who brings suncream to a festival in the desert in California. Watching the dust bowl develop and envelope the mosh pit whilst Rob Zombie pounded the stage in front of us. Ten bucks for a beer... some things never change.

Drinking beers and watching the wannabes at the Rainbow Bar & Grill on Sunset Strip, the birthplace of my kind of music! Waking up in my hotel, opening the curtains and feeling my stomach flip with excitement and my hangover rapidly disappear as I see the Hollywood sign right in front of me. Getting lost whilst driving around southern LA, taking a wrong turn and ending up in a bad neighbourhood. Burning rubber as we sped out of there, laughing with relief and near hysteria, stopping only to pick up a case of cold beers as we raced toward the beach.

Sipping coffee on a patio café in the morning. Soaking up the sunshine at the beach in the afternoon as we spot the Irish students on their summer visa. Hot, sultry nights shooting pool at the local bar and sitting on the steps outside the apartment, sipping beers and watching the world go by.

California has everything I want. Mountains. Sea. Sunshine. The laid back attitude. The hopefulness that anyone can be someone if you just work hard enough.

I need to go back!

So, if anyone has two round-trip flights from Manchester to Los Angeles that they're not using, let me know...

In the meantime, I'm hoping this longing will wear off soon, because I can't get to California until next year at the earliest. It's due to rain tomorrow, so if that doesn't shift it my trip to the oil refinery north of Grimsby on Friday will surely do it!