This Blog Post is None of Your Business

As I've mentioned on this blog before, Chris Brown (or Christopher Brown as he likes to be called on the streets) is an awful human being, and his offensively terrible pop music is overshadowed only by a rich history of domestic violence. Now he has teamed up with his former victim Rihanna on her latest album Unapologetic to record the controversial track Nobody's Business, and like a shit Midas that turns everything he touches into shit, Christopher has helped Rihanna create a track that is, well, shit.

Have a listen:

First of all, it would be unfair to disseminate this song without a look at the worst two lines of the song:

Every touch becomes infectious,

Let's make out in this Lexus.

What is it that's so irresistibly romantic about a Lexus? Sure, Lexus do generally make reasonably nice cars, but they are hardly the auto-mobile equivalents of a heart-shaped, rose-petal-strewn bed in a dimly lit room. A Lexus is probably about the connubial equivalent of two single beds pushed together in a Travelodge: the facilities are adequate for all your love-making needs, but you probably wouldn't choose it as the location of a surprise anniversary gift. Do you really want to make out in a Lexus, Rihanna, or are you just saying that because it rhymes with the word “infectious?” I suppose it is quite difficult to find rhymes for “Jaguar.”

“Ain't nobody's business” is the defiant refrain repeated ad nauseum, or at least that's what it says in the lyric booklet (if it comes with a lyric booklet that is; it's probably just pictures of Rihanna's boobs or something. I don't know you can't expect me to do any research.) because those certainly aren't the words Christopher and Rihanna are singing. Instead they repeat the words “ain't nobody bid-na” at you like some strange and disorientating form of Dada-ist high art. This I don't really understand. I mean I know in pop music language is de-formalised and you can expect the odd 's' or 't' to be dropped from a few words here and there, but the word “business” in no way resembles the word “bid-na.” Was it Christopher or Rihanna who came up with the idea of replacing the main word of the chorus with another, completely unrelated and meaningless word? It must have been something that they sat around and discussed. When planning that song someone must have said “hey you know this word “business?” Well, how about we replace half of the letters with a random assortment of vowels and consonants from this game of Boggle?” It must have been something they discussed, because there is no way in the world the two of them could have simultaneously decided to replace the exact same word with the exactly the same Dr. Seuss-esque nonsense word at exactly the same time. There's more chance of SpikeMilligan's “On the Ning Nang Nong” being an attempt at Agricultural Reform that miraculously encountered a string of eighty-eight consecutive typos.

Let's put the aside surreal pronunciation and awful lyrical content for the moment however and focus on the message of the song. It's quite a difficult song to unpick and I'm sure it is loaded with ambiguities and nuance, but I think what Rihanna appears to be saying is that her and Chrissy's relationship is none of anyone else's business. It's interesting that if her relationship with Chrissy is nobody else's business that she would choose to write a popular song about that relationship for an audience of literally millions of people. It seems somewhat contradictory, and possibly even dishonest towards her true feelings (can you believe it?). It seems like what the song should really be saying is not “our relationship is none of your business” but “if you disapprove of our relationship then it's none of your business, but if not then please show your support by buying this song, learning the words and singing along at performances costing £60 a head.”

That's just what I think anyway, although I'm sure it's none of my “bid-na.”

The Milk Fight

15^th September 2012

Today my best friend Michael came round to play. He arrived at 2 o'clock and we frolicked in the garden for hours until we became exceedingly thirsty and had to retire to the kitchen for a cool glass of milk. Feeling sufficiently refreshed, Michael put his finger in his glass of milk and flicked a speck of the milky liquid in my face. In retaliation and with a demeanour of mock outrage I took a sip of milk, kept it in my mouth and spurted out a jet of milk like a fountain into his eyes. Michael, laughing but also blinded by the milk, took his glass in his hand and poured it over my head, at which point I kindly returned the gesture. Things quickly started to get out of hand. “That's it...” said Michael forebodingly, and he disappeared into the garden. Moments later he came back with two large water pistols. “Milk fight!” he yelled. I grinned back at him.

Filling the pistols with milk was a laborious task and in retrospect the spontaneity of our wacky antics did suffer slightly. After a quarter of an hour was spent filling the pistols I was starting to reconsider how I had decided to spend my day, but we had two great pistols filled with milk now and it seemed a shame to let them go to waste.

Michael started off our skirmish with a milky jet straight into my chest and dived behind the sofa to take cover. I took refuge on the staircase and waited for his head to pop out before shooting the creamy liquid into his temple. We carried on in this vein for about 10 minutes before abandoning these conservative measures in favour of more aggressive tactics. We jumped out from our defensive positions and pumped our milky guns until all the milk was drained and the living room was drenched in milk.

A wry smile passed between us. We knew that there was only one way to settle this battle: hand-to-hand combat. In fits of giggles we attempted to wrestle each other to the floor, exchanging a series of head locks and half nelsons. Once we were horizontal we gave up the wrestling in favour of violent tickling, before we collapsed on the milk-soaked carpet, drenched from head to toe in milk and suffering with paroxysms of hilarity.

The two of us laughed until the cows came home.

Then all of a sudden things became very serious.

*

The cows were not best pleased to witness such a wanton waste of milk.

“What the fucking shit, Dave?” said Martin. “Have you been using our milk for your cunting milk fights again? Do you have any idea how long it takes to squeeze that much milk from my fucking udders?”

Linda's tone was that of disappointment rather than anger: “the whole living room is ruined. You must have wasted at least a dozen pints of milk this time David. I'm really upset.” I tried to apologise but she cut me off: “I can't even talk to you right now. I feel so used.”

Martin was unrelenting in his abuse. He called me the foulest names, and just when I felt ready to burst with guilt he took off his large metal bell from around his neck and proceeded to beat me with it. The steel chimed against my ribs like a clock striking ten, all the while Michael cowered in fear, too afraid to speak out.

Eventually the beating ceased and I was left to crawl upstairs into my room alone, where I passed out on the bed.

*

I felt awful about what Michael and I had done. We had completely taken Martin and Linda for granted and treated their milk like tap-water. Their teats were not taps and I needed to remember that. There was a knock at my door; it was Martin and Linda. I was terrified; I didn't want another beating, be it verbal or at the hands of a steel cowbell again.

“David...” they started.

I started to apologise and explain that it would never happen again but they stopped me in my tracks.

“We know David. We overreacted, and for that we too are sorry. So sorry in fact that we made you a little something...”

I knew what this meant. I started to grin in disbelief.

“That's right: milkshakes!”

And the three of us raised a toast to the joys of milk and laughed about our day.

Dave's Faves 2 November

Track List:
1. Pavement - Cut Your Hair 
2. Menomena - Baton 
3. Slow Club - Giving up on Love 
4. Japandroids - The House that Heaven Built 
5. Les Savy Fav - Pots and Pans 
6. Albert Hammond Jr. - In Transit 
7. Girls - Lust for Life 
8. Titus Andronicus - Ecce Homo 
9. Temper Trap - Need Your Love 
10. Moldy Peaches - Anyone Else But You 
11. Neutral Milk Hotel - Holland, 1945 
12. Japanther - First of All 
13. Chromatics - Kill For Love

My Little McEnroe (fiction)

It took me years to realise that Sarah had been fucking Michael's tennis coach. I suppose I did always think it strange the frequency with which Michael was going to tennis—three or four times a week on occasion, and at varying times. The impromptu tennis lessons sprung upon me out of nowhere; I always thought he was just developing urgent and capricious desires for emergency tennis coaching. 'What a promising young sportsman,' I used to think. I was so proud of my little McEnroe.

I think I really started to suspect something was wrong when Sarah started taking Michael to tennis lessons but forgetting to take him with her. I would come home late to find Michael sitting on the sofa with a bag of crisps in one hand, the T.V. remote in the other and his mother nowhere to be seen.

“Where's your mother?” I would ask.

“She's taking me to tennis,” was his reply.

Things weren't quite adding up. I was fairly sure that going to tennis coaching usually involved some sort of combination of tennis and coaching, but then I never was very good at sport. Michael used to bamboozle me with tales of his sporting victories; stories of how he'd back-slapped the T-ball into the back of the net from thirty-five yards out. It all sounded so impressive.

It finally clicked when one day, in a naïve attempt at familial bonding I challenged my son to a game of tennis, hoping to witness the fruits of my huge investment in lessons.

He didn't even own a racket.

Do you have a nectar card?

I

It's a Saturday afternoon. Peter is in the pub reading the Independent and waiting for Nigel at their usual table: far away enough from the toilets to avoid the smell, yet close enough for them to make frequent trips now that the years have taken their toll on the middle-aged bladders. Nigel enters with a fresh tattoo on his forehead marked in thick black ink and a beaming smile on his face.

“Hi Pete, how's it going?” he asks nonchalantly.

“Hi mate,” he says while finishing the sentence he was reading in the paper, before looking up at Nigel's forehead and sighing. “What have you got on your forehead?”

“It's a tattoo Peter, obviously. It says “no, I do not have a Nectar card.”

“Well, I don't have one either but I don't brag about it.”

“Yeah but, you know when you buy something in a shop and they ask you if you have a Nectar card?”

“Yeah.”

“And it's really annoying because you don't have one...”

“A little bit, I suppose.”

“So I got this tattoo, which explains clearly that I do not own a Nectar card. That way cashiers can just read the information off my forehead rather than having to ask me, and I can just show the cashier my forehead instead of having to tediously explain my situation regarding Nectar cards. I'm literally saving hundreds of hours.”

“But you just say “no.””

“What?”

“When somebody asks you if you have a Nectar card, you just say “no.” It takes a fraction of a second, and you probably say it while bagging up your shopping or entering your pin number anyway, and thus you can exchange the information at no detriment to your inexplicably busy schedule.”

“Hey, why did you say “inexplicably busy schedule” in such a sarcastic tone?”

“You just spent a couple of hours getting a completely redundant forehead tattoo.”

“Yeah but... Okay so I may not save time at the checkout per se, but at least it's one less word I have to say to the cashier. I hate those people.”

“They having a terribly boring job to do and they work for nothing, you could at least show them some respect.”

“But they have spots and smell like grease.”

“So what?”

“And they always wear those stupid jackets. They're like walking advertisements.”

“That's their uniform.”

“Yeah well... I hate poor people.”

II

Nigel is in Homebase, bagging up curtain hooks, batteries and a floral mug. His excitement is tangible; this is the first time he's had the chance to put his new tattoo into action. This is going to be great, Nigel thought, I am such a practical man. This will show Peter who's awesome.

“That's £12.32 please,” said the cashier.

“There you go.”

“Do you have a Nectar card?”

“I'm sorry what?”

“Do you have a Nectar card?”

“Read my forehead.”

“'No... I do not have a... Nectar card.' Oh right, sorry. Force of habit.”

“Well it's not okay. I spent a lot of money on this tattoo; the least you could do is read it.”

“Sorry I didn't notice. I process dozens of customers every day. I have to ask if they have a Nectar card; it's my job.”

“But I have conveniently provided the answer to your question in writing on my face in order to avoid this trouble and save our time.”

“It seems like you're only wasting more time by having this conversation. Do you think I enjoy having to ask everyone if they have a Nectar card. “Do you have a Nectar card? No.” “Do you have a Nectar card? No.” “Do you have a Nectar card? No.” For every single customer. Nobody has a Nectar card; they're completely useless. I know that as well as you. I'm not an idiot. I don't do this for fun, you know? I don't go round all my friends and family asking if they have Nectar cards and discussing the potential benefits of Nectar cards. I work for a multi-national corporation that is affiliated with the Nectar card company and therefore I am required, as part of my contract, to ask every customer if they have a Nectar card, and enquire as to whether or not they intend to get one. You don't need to get a tattoo to tell me how annoying that is.”

“Yeah well... I hate poor people.”

And with that Nigel fled into the distance. The sound of his plastic bags bumping irritatingly against his knees drowned out the cashier's explanation that actually he was from a middle-class family and was working part-time in order to earn a bit of money for himself and, by the way, could he interest Nigel in a Hombase store card?

The Pursuit of the Adolescent Beard

If I were King for a day and I could do whatever I wanted... I would probably be disappointed by the limited power of the monarchy in modern day Britain. But if I was to become King and with this change I gained some sort of sovereignty over the nation there would be one law I would wish to enact. “What is it David? Would you aim to create jobs in order to combat this country's staggering levels of unemployment?” Of course not, guess again. “Would you reform the tax system and make it impossible for the super-rich to avoid paying millions of pounds in tax?” Don't be ridiculous, I have no time for these petty scruples! For there is one issue closer to my heart than anything else in the world; one issue that makes my heart swell with passion and stirs great indignation within my soul, and if I could make one law in this country it would be this: you should only be allowed to try and grow a beard if you are able to attain full facial coverage.

I don't literally mean the whole face, forehead and all; I'm not that ambitious. I just mean the parts of the face where beard usually grows. The parts of the face which, if you were to lie down on your front and rest your head in your two hands, while looking upwards in a naïve and playful manner, it would be the part of your face covered by your two hands. Plus the upper lip too—that is also an important part of the beard situation.

If you do literally have full facial hair coverage—forehead and everything—then maybe overgrown but fashionable facial hair isn't for you, and you might want to shave that. On the plus side though, if you've got a forehead covered in hair then you essentially have fully customisable eyebrows. You can also combat the effects of ageing with a completely manageable hairline, so it's not all doom and gloom.

Growing up as a teenage boy among other teenage boy I encountered so many people trying to grow beards before their time. They would come into school with about twelve hairs on their faces; five around the left sideburn area, five around the right sideburn area and two inch-long hairs protruding from the chin.

“Have you noticed, David, I'm growing a beard?” they would say to me, audibly proud of their achievements. “Where's your beard? Can you not grow a beard? How ridiculous you look standing next to me and my beard,” they would gloat, while twisting both their chin hairs around their forefinger (the adolescent alternative to the classic beard-stroke manoeuvre).

My reply would always be the same: “No. Like you I've also grown twelve hairs on my face, but unlike you I didn't think my face needed to be adorned with pubes. Do you know who else has a beard like that? Have you seen that woman that walks up and down the Botley Road rifling through bins and collecting carrier bags? The one that shouts at you if you make eye-contact, with the questionable personal hygeine? The Bag Lady, that's right. You have the Bag Lady's beard.”

Then they would say, “wow David that's a pretty hurtful thing to say to your friend; you should try being nicer to people and then maybe everyone would like you a little bit more,” or some rubbish like that; I don't know I wouldn't be listening. “And anyway, even if I do have the Bag Lady's beard then you've said the word beard so it's still a beard.”

“No it's not. When a woman has twelve hairs on her face she has a beard; when a man has twelve hairs on his face he has to shave. That's a cutting edge observation about gendered societal responses to body hair for you there.”

“Thanks David, you are great.”

“Yeah, I suppose you're right.”

Where was I? Oh yes: don't grow a shit beard. If possible, go back in time and tell your sixteen-year-old self not to grow a shit beard.

Or, you know, do what you like. I probably won't say anything.

Trains for the Dissatisfied (fiction)

When the train to London slows to a standstill in front of me I realise that my carriage is broken. That might sound dramatic or even catastrophic at a push, but I can assure you it's not. Really the train is fine; it pulled up to the platform effortlessly and it will leave in the same way (effortlessly that is; it will continue on it's course through the opposite side of the station if you have to be so pedantic). The train is quite capable of carrying on as normal; the engine hasn't blown. The wheels are resting on top of the rails just as they should; they haven't become de-railed through a collision with an abandoned vehicle or a particularly large pile of dead leaves. No, the problem is not with the whole train but with a single carriage. “Which carriage?” I hear you ask. My carriage, as I said.

At least I can only assume it's my carriage. For you see my carriage—the one listed on my seat reservation—is carriage C, and working from the back of the train I've walked past E and D and found myself at a carriage missing a designated letter. The LED display on the side of the carriage that has provided me with the letters of the preceding ones seems to be out of order. This hasn't stumped me though, for I've managed to deduce, using my advanced knowledge of the alphabet, that the next carriage must be carriage C, and therefore my carriage.

And that is the extent of the faults with my carriage: the LED display isn't working, meaning that inside the train the seat reservations won't be shown electronically above the reserved seats, and thus those that have pre-booked seats are forced to contest with those free spirits who just turn up on trains unprepared and hope to find a place to sit. Like I said before: it's not a big deal.

In fact the problem is even smaller than one may have previously assumed, for there are dozens of seats available for myself and the other passengers wishing to find seats in carriage C of the 9.36 train from Cambridge to London Euston. I discard my reservation and find a seat facing forwards next to a window, which is all I ever ask of a seat on public transport. My satisfaction seems to be shared with all of my fellow passengers except for one woman, whose voice is inescapable:

“The seat reservations aren't being shown,” she observes, “we're not going to get our seats.” Although her language is plain her discontent is detectable. She has two small children following behind her, to whom I assume she is speaking but I doubt they're listening. While her comments may have been spoken at her children they were obviously meant to be heard by a wider audience.

A few moments pass and the ticket inspector starts to make his way down the carriage and the woman approaches him. The aisles are narrow and there's nowhere for this poor man to run.

“Why aren't the seat reservations being shown?” she asks.

“I'm afraid the LED displays aren't working in this carriage,” he replies.

“I have two kids and I went out of my way to reserve seats around a table so that the three of us could sit together. Now there are other people sitting in our places.”

“I'm really sorry about that.”

“Well that's not good enough.”

“I'm sorry but there's nothing much I can do.”

“I'm not very happy about this.”

“I know. I do apologise.”

“Hmm.”

The ticket inspector carries on walking and the disgruntled woman pauses before fitting herself and her two children into two seats; quite easily too may I add.

Why do some people insist on doing that? Why do they have to complain about insignificant things to people completely powerless to change anything? Of course that ticket inspector doesn't know how to fix the LED displays in a carriage. Even if he did have the electronic expertise to repair such a fault it's not part of his job anyway; he's too busy inspecting tickets among other things. Or maybe there are no other things, I don't know, but the point is that that woman was never going to get anywhere directing her complaints at him, and if she stopped to think for a second she would have realised that. Or perhaps she knew full well the futility of her whining but spoke up anyway just to spread a bit of dissatisfaction. I bet on the way here she had a go at her taxi driver about the traffic.

I can't see the point in getting hung up on these things; on the traffic or the weather or the price of fish or the Wi-Fi capabilities of your local Starbucks or the LED displays of a train carriage. Most of the time the problem isn't even caused by anybody you could point a finger at so why bother? It's hard enough to be happy without dwelling on these tedious grievances.

Thankfully the woman doesn't speak up for the rest of the journey and we make it to Euston unscathed. I think she realised rather quickly that two train seats provide more than ample room for the average woman and two tiny children, but I doubt she'll be hunting down the designer at First Great Western trains to thank him for such a spacious journey.  

The World's Worst Tea Towel

About ten years ago now my poor mother was savagely ripped off when she purchased a tea towel from Cumnor Primary School. This tea towel is covered in the self-portraits of local artists and I can only imagine it was produced as a form of egotistical self-promotion for the featured painters. As if this shameless self-endorsement was not bad enough, it gets worse: the artwork on this tea towel is appalling. I am not being snobbish or elitist, the artists on this tea towel truly are among the least talented painters ever to sell a piece of artwork. If you don't believe me, take a look at this picture of the offending article:

Hopefully from this you can get an idea of the low-grade artistry we're dealing with.

These portraits are generally terrible. Very few of the artists actually manage to provide any sort of realistic depiction of their own facial features, and most of them use an incredible infantile form of minimalism when using simple dots for eyes or a straight line for a mouth, which is really quite ineffective at portraying the idiosyncrasies of the human form. I don't know how these untutored philistines have the gall to sell my mother such a weak piece of art. To be quite frank, my nine-year-old niece could provide a better portrait than most of the ones featured on this tea towel. Admittedly at nine years old my niece is older than most of the artists on the towel, but at least she doesn't have the ludicrous delusions of grandeur that these young art students seem to entertain.

I think at this point it is important to show you a number of individual examples, so that you can really see the standard of some of these atrocious portraits. The first one I want to show you is by a man named Joel:

At least I assume Joel is his name.; he seems to have used some sort of snail-like creature in place of the letter 'e.'

This portrait of Joel's is hopelessly abstract, and he seems completely incapable of drawing anything resembling a human being. He seems to have drawn two eyes and then from one of these eyes sprouts two stick-thin legs and one of his arms. Joel has fundamentally misunderstood the nature of the human form. It appears that he believes the left eyeball is the central crux of the human body, from which all other limbs and body parts grow. I wonder if Joel even so much as glanced in a mirror or some other random reflective surface before he drew this picture of himself. I highly doubt that Joel's limbs actually sprout from his left eyeball, as I am unsure whether it would even be possible for an eyeball to provide the necessary blood flow and nerve endings in order to control two arms and a leg. If a human could survive with such a deformed body shape, then I don't think they would be able to produce such a life-like image of themselves on a tea towel. Besides, even if this genuinely is how Joel looks, he has missed the point; the tea towel is only meant to be covered in facial portraits, and the rest of the body is superfluous. In order to maintain a sense of congruity with the other portraits he only needed to draw himself from the shoulders upwards. Perhaps he is incapable of following simple instructions, what with all his energy seemingly being spent on controlling three heavy limbs through his left eyeball.

Let's move on from Joel to another young artist called James:

His portrait is at a slight angle because I'm too lazy/incompetent to fix it.

James' picture is another strange one. Like Joel, he seems to be unaware of the places from which limbs attach to the body. However while Joel at least knew the correct number of limbs usually found on humans, it looks like James thinks that he has about 8 limbs, all of which grow straight from his head. I think what James has done, is instead of drawing his own face, he has drawn what he imagines he would look like if he were a spider. It's odd the way such simple instructions can be misconstrued in such a ridiculous fashion. Sebastian is another man that has fundamentally misunderstood the task required of him:

His portrait is that big thing in the middle, in case you too have trouble interpreting pictures.

What Sebastian has done here, is he has heard the instruction "Sebastian, can you please draw a self-portrait for me," and interpreted this as "Sebastian, can you please draw a picture of Diglett from the animated children's television series 'pokémon' for me." Seriously, he has just drawn a picture of Diglett. If you don't know what Diglett looks like, (you disappoint me) study this:

Diglett

Then this:

Sebastian

They're the same! I don't know how he could make that mistake; he must be a total idiot. You know, I would find this funny except my mother paid a lot of money for this tea towel; it cost almost four pounds. Therefore I'm going to do the only reasonable thing I can do, and I'm going to go down to Cumnor Primary School with this ten-year-old, used tea towel and demand my mother's hard-earned money back. She paid for a collection of self-portraits by local young artists; she did not pay for a poorly drawn depiction of Diglett.

The Black Eyed Please Stop Making Music

Disclaimer: After the publication of this article I was made aware that there is actually a vegetable called a black-eye pea. The following piece of writing therefore contains a glaring oversight on my part, and even though the words I have published are fully editable, I've chosen not to do so because I can't think of a whole article's worth of new jokes. It would be a whole lot less embarrassing for me if you could pretend that I'm being ironically stupid. Enjoy!

The Black Eyed Peas are a band that make popular music for money. This one time they wrote this really good pop song called “Where is the love?” but they later decided that things like innovation and artistic merit got in the way of all the money they could make writing songs about Fergie's lady lumps. I'm not going to dwell on their music too much because I had a delicious mushroom-based pasta dish for dinner and I wouldn't want to throw it all up. Instead I want to examine the cause of their evil, money-grabbing ways, and I think we can trace the problem back to the naming of the band. I mean, how terrible a band name is the Black Eyed Peas?

First of all, what sort of a subject for a band name is a pea? Why would they choose to conjure up associations with a small, boring and insignificant vegetable? Such characteristics goes against the Black Eyed Peas' ethos of attaining widespread fame and popularity at all costs. If they were going to choose a vegetable, surely the pumpkin or the large novelty beetroot would more appropriately capture their aspirations. You know, something that is impressively big but at the same time inherently disgusting.

And these aren't just peas, but “Black Eyed” peas, which is stupid because peas don't have eyes. They don't. I know you might assume that they do, but if you really think about it, they don't. You might have seen a pea with two tiny bruises on it, which may look a bit like eyes, but they aren't. They are bruises. Maybe for a practical joke somebody managed to draw two tiny little eyes on a pea, and then they showed it to you and from then on you always thought that peas have eyes. But I can assure you that those eyes were fake, and that peas don't have eyes. In fact, I can go one step further in the clarification of things and their relation to eyes, and say that no vegetables whatsoever have eyes. This is because vegetables are not animals, and thus they have no need for eyes. I don't know if the Black Eyed Peas have made the mistake of assuming that peas are a kind of animal. Maybe they thought they were the ball-forms of large green woodlouse. Or perhaps they have never seen a pea before; however if this is the case then why would they name their band after a thing they have had such a limited experience with? For all they know peas could be evil or sexist, and I imagine they don't want to be associated with that (although their music does suggest otherwise).

I suppose you could argue that peas look a bit like eyes. I mean, they are spherical, which is pretty much the main feature of an eye. If you were going to make a face out of vegetables then of course you would use peas for the eyes. You would be mad not to. Utterly mad. Then once you've got the peas for eyes I imagine you could have like, a bit of carrot for the nose and... some carrot for the mouth. Perhaps you could use some shreds of grated carrot for the hair. Actually you could use slices of carrot for the eyes, but that would probably be a bit too much carrot; it's important that you keep the peas in there to balance out the pea:carrot ratio. Very important. There are no other vegetables.

But the Black Eyed Peas aren't making the entirely reasonable suggestion that peas look a bit like eyes, but they are saying that peas have eyes, and what's more, that these eyes are black. Why are they black? Have they been punched, or are they some sort of cartoon-style black and white eyes?

There are so many questions left unanswered. If the peas' eyes have been punched, who is going around punching all of these peas? Why would they do that? It seems incredibly unreasonable, what with the pea being one of the most harmless vegetables in the vegetable kingdom (unlike the carrot or the sweet potato). And who is this person that is so inept at punching peas that he is unable to squash said peas, and instead merely leaves their eyes bruised? He must have tiny fists.

If, conversely, the peas' eyes are black because they are involved in some sort of animated cartoon probably aimed at children, then is this a reference to the 1990s BBC children's T.V. series Poddington Peas? I find it very strange that an American pop group should decide to name their band as a sort of homage to a mediocre British children's television series. The Black Eyed Peas are mad I say. Mad. Although I suppose it would make sense if the Black Eyed Peas enjoy Poddington Peas because they are not quite ready to move on to adult television programmes, what with all the big words and attempts at artistic credibility.

All in all: it's a rubbish name for a band, and they need to think of a new one. Perhaps I could help? Will.I.Am, if you're reading this (as you probably are), how about calling your band the Massive Sell-Out Pumpkins? It may not be a great name, but at least it makes sense.

The worst student cookbook

Before I came to university I was given a book called “The Ultimate Student Cookbook” by Fiona Beckett, which is a book that aims to provide realistic recipes for students to cook. Here is a picture of me with that book for a face:

If only this was my real face. It would be so useful.

If you look at that front cover there you would be forgiven for thinking that it does actually provide simple and easy recipes for students to cook. I mean out of onions, flour, eggs and pasta even an idiot like me knows how to cook three of those things (which is a pretty high ratio in comparison to most pictures of food that I generally see). However the front cover of this book is an absolute lie. Here are just three of the ridiculous dishes that they genuinely believe an incompetent student like myself is able to cook:

• Irish soda bread.
• A red onion, chicory and gorgonzola tart.
• Unami salmon, which includes ingredients such as demerara sugar, fennel seed, cayenne pepper and nam pla (which is some sort of thai fish sauce apparently).

Out of all those words I just used I think I understood less than half of them. How many students have nam pla in their cupboards? But this is not my main reason for hating the book. No, it would be ridiculous of me to hate a thing based on it not fulfilling its one and only simple function. The real reason why I hate this book is because of the smug and irritating former students they have to put in their expert advice (as both students and cooks, you'd think they would be qualified to do so; but they aren't). My least favourite of all these students is a man called James. First of all I obviously hate James because he cooks. Who likes cooking? Nobody likes cooking; get some hobbies or dedicate your life to something more worthwhile (like having a less smug face). The second reason why I hate James is because of this stupid thing he calls a "Top Student Tip." You don't need to try and read this photo, I just thought I would give you a picture of his stupid face:

So blurry and smug.

So he's talking about ways to avoid hangovers and then right at the end he says “One method I tried, and it was effective, if hard to maintain, is to drink the same volume in water every time you get a drink. Pint of cider? Pint of water too, please. It really pulls the birds as well. They love it."

Let me just repeat that last bit for you: "It really pulls the birds as well. They love it."

Do they James? Do they really love it?

First of all; birds? Who says "birds?" Yeah birds. Wahey birds. Top birds. Wahey birds. Tits wahey birds. Tits birds. Tits football birds. Wahey nuts football birds. Tits football wahey beer football birds. Football birds tits nuts beer geezer birds tits. Wahey tits birds geezer football beer nuts birds tits lads football. Birds lads football top geezer beer tits birds. Football birds tits beer lads geezer nuts lads bird tits birds.

Secondly, I may not be very good with women, but I have seen at least two films in my life and I am therefore under the impression that girls are meant to like bad boys. But according to James' logic, what attracts girls is not bad boys, but boys that regulate their blood alcohol levels through a sensible hydration system. The only way in which I can see a woman being aroused by a man buying a pint of water with every pint of beer or cider is if he was trying to chat up a woman working for the Drink Responsibly advisory committee. If you saw her sitting among her friends, all of whom have an alcoholic beverage and a glass of tap water in front of them, then maybe you could seduce them using pick up lines centred around James' very sensible hydration system. I imagine in that instance it would work incredibly well actually. They'd see you coming over and she'd start whispering to her friends “oh my god, is he... keeping hydrated by purchasing an equal measure of water with every alcoholic beverage? I've never been so turned on in my life. We could probably have sex in the morning too we'd be feeling so fresh and clear-headed. Of course we would have to go to the bathroom first and urinate for about 10 minutes each, having essentially just drank a bath-tub full of liquid.”

But unless you can find such women, buying water with every beer would just be a hindrance. I mean instead of calling it “The Ultimate Student Cookbook” they should probably call it “The Ultimate Student COCKBLOCK” (pun intended). And it wouldn't just hinder you when trying to pick up birds (birds! Tits! Football!), it would also just be a nuisance to carry around two pints full of liquid around with you. What if you had to catch something? What if somebody threw you a packet of crisps or some fruit? What if you were standing there, pint in each hand, and somebody said “here catch this” without looking and threw a tennis ball at you? It would either hit you in the face, which would of course be irritating, or you would have to dodge out of the way while probably spilling some of the two pints of liquid that you are carrying around.

You may have noticed that I am not persuaded by James' argument that a pint of water with every beer is like some sort of watery woman magnet; I am still of the opinion that women like bad boys.

Speaking of which, ladies, I'll have you know I can drink at least three pints of beer before needing a glass of water. Don't act like you're not impressed.

Training a dog isn't mission impossible

I didn't watch this year's Britain's Got Talent, but nonetheless it still managed to annoy me. This is because the competition wasn't won by one of the 60 million or so human beings currently living in the United Kingdom, but by a small dog named Pudsey (WHICH IS A BEAR'S NAME. STUPID BITCH). When this dog isn't busy eating it's own shit it is miraculously able to climb on things with a ludicrously dressed woman to the sound of the Mission Impossible theme song. That's right, it was able to climb on top of things, in the manner in which it's trainer desired. It's talent is basically obedience.

First of all I have a problem with obedience being a classified as a talent; mainly because it isn't a talent. Obedience takes no skill whatsoever. I could be obedient if there was such a person to be obedient to and a reason to be obedient for. If I was in the final of Britain's Got Talent and somebody told me to be really obedient for five minutes I think I could manage it. Of course I would have to hump someone's leg and shit somewhere really inappropriate first. But I could do it; it would be easy. In fact you could go as far as saying that blind obedience is more of an impairment than a talent. If you willingly subjugate yourself to the whims of random dog-trainers then you never know what could happen. They might make you take part in a ridiculous dance routine to the theme song of an average Tom Cruise film.

Do you know what would be a better talent? Disobedience. The ability to stand up for what you believe in; the ability to resist the oppressive grasps of teenage control freaks armed with dog treats and a dangerous lack of self-awareness; the ability to say no to badly dressed women and Simon Cowell's flat head.

I know a lot of people may say “but David, it's a dog. Have you ever tried to get a dog to climb on things?” And the answer is no. No I haven't. But I imagine if I tried for long enough, using techniques learned from dog-trainers more competent than myself then I might be able to succeed in getting him to climb on top of a step or a small footstool at the very least. Perhaps after a few weeks I could get him to climb on top of a desk or a large chair.

The thing is: dogs can be trained to do things that you don't expect ordinary dogs to be able to do. But the reason one doesn't expect such behaviour from ordinary dogs is because dogs are rubbish and lack the basic abilities that humans (or even most monkeys) can perform with ease.

But with enough training dogs can do mad things. We've seen that now. There have been many dog acts on television whereby dogs jump on things or walk on their hind legs (just like humans but worse!), and we just need to accept that they can be trained to do surprising things. So now that you have made that mental leap; now that you have managed to process that information; now that the realisation of the capabilities of dogs and their trainers has migrated from your short-term to your long-term memory, consider this: what is there left to be excited by in a dog act?

No matter how many things a dog climbs on or how many legs it manages to walk on, the simple fact of the matter is that they are still not as good as humans. They haven't developed language, they have made very few tangible scientific advancements and they are less acquainted with the arts than a Coventry bus driver (those public service providing philistines). They haven't even developed the most rudimentary of bodily waste disposal procedures, and instead they rely on humans (a more capable species) to pick up said waste for them. To suggest that a dog is not only equal to humans, but more talented than every single human being in the whole of the United Kingdom is ridiculous.

If a dog was successfully trained to sing like Pavarotti or play guitar like Hendrix, then I might start to be impressed. But such talents are reserved for a more advanced species. The lowering of expectations for dogs is a reflection of the uselessness of the animals. If I went on Britain's Got Talent, being a human male I expect the judges would want me to actually have a talent in order to progress through the competition. If I got down on all fours and crawled about to the Mission Impossible theme song people would think I was an idiot.  

So the next time you see a dog act on a talent show and you find it impressive, ask yourself: is it really impressive, or is it a small furry animal climbing on things and occasionally walking on the same amount of legs as a far more amazing species?

Videos of my face

Hello gang. I thought I would upload some of my recent videos in one post so that you can watch them all. If you enjoy them you should subscribe, although I probably am going to force them down your throat on this blog/twitter anyway. It's really important that you watch them from oldest to newest, as there is a finely woven narrative that runs throughout them (the NARRATIVE OF LIFE).

Here I explain my ethical and emotional issues with Bryan Adams' 80s pop classic, Summer of 79:

Here's an open letter to the rogue bread thief:

Here's me putting my GCSE in Fine Art to good use in an instructional arts and crafts video about drawing pirates:

Just how much can you learn about the economy from the price of Freddos?

Here's me talking about apples and other fruit:

And here's my very first vlog:

In case you hadn't realised, you were meant to start at the bottom of this post and watch upwards. If you haven't done that I'm afraid you've ruined the experience, and you will never get that chance back again. To be honest if you've managed to get through all of the videos without getting bored or distracted by a plastic bag or something, then I'm flattered. 

Tesco Everyday Value

I don't know if you've noticed but the Tesco Value range has been replaced by Tesco Everyday Value. It's not special any more, that sort of value just comes along every day. There's no sense of panic now. It's not like Sainsbury's Basics. You can't go without the basics can you? It's not like Waitrose Essentials. You can't go without the essentials can you? They're essential aren't they? It's not like the Asda Smart Price range. You wouldn't go without those would you? You'd be an idiot to pay any other price, regardless of whether or not it was more expensive. But Tesco Everyday Value. Well, that sort of value just comes along every day.

“Shall we buy this?”

“What is it?”

“It's a bit of ham. It says it's Tesco Everyday Value.”

“Well... we can just get it another day can't we. It's Tesco Everyday Value. I imagine we could come back any day within a reasonable time frame and we could still buy it for a similar price. It would be a different ham, obviously, but it would basically be the same ham at the same price. It's the sort of value you get every day.”

“But I quite fancy some ham now.”

“Yeah but there's no rush. We can get that sort of value every day.”

“How about today?”

“Well... you don't need to jump the gun do you?”

“What?”

“You don't want to false start.”

“Yeah but-”

“Look, if you were running in the 100 metre sprint final at the Olympics, would you start running before the gun went off?”

“I don't really see how that's relevant.”

“Don't jump the gun, is all I'm saying. Of course you'd like to go before the gun went off because you'd get a head start. You're forty-five and a bit overweight after all; you could probably do with the head start. But you can't jump the gun, you'd get disqualified.”

“But we're just buying some ham, it's got nothing to do with running.”

“Yeah but it's a metaphor isn't it? Don't jump the gun and buy the ham today because, well... it's Tesco Everyday Value isn't it? It's the kind of value that comes along every day.”

“But if you're running a race you can't just start running at a random moment. You don't want to jump the gun, that's a given. But you don't want to run a long time after the gun has gone off, because then everyone else would have started running. In fact there's a very specific time when you need to start running, and that is more or less the exact moment that the gun is fired.”

“Yeah well it's just a metaphor.”

“Yeah but my point is that my craving for this bit of ham is like that gun being fired at the start of the race. Basically, we need to buy the ham now, because the perfect time to buy ham is when you have a craving for a bit of ham.”

“Yeah but it's Tesco Everyday Value though isn't it? It's the sort of value you can get every day.”

“YES BUT MY FUCKING CRAVINGS FOR HAM DON'T COME EVERY FUCKING DAY DO THEY? CAN WE JUST BUY THE FUCKING HAM?”

“Jesus, I never knew you liked ham so much.”

“I DON'T. I JUST WANTED TO EAT A BIT OF HAM, IN A SANDWICH, MAYBE WITH SOME CHEESE, BUT DEFINITELY WITHOUT YOUR FUCKING BULLSHIT.”

“Okay okay. We'll get the ham. Calm down.”

“Thank you.”

“But we could have bought it any day at all.”

“...”

“Do you know why?”

“No.”

“BECAUSE IT'S TESCO EVERYDAY VALUE!”

“I hate you.”

Swimming to save us from tedium

As those of you who are white, middle-class and living in predominantly white, middle-class areas of Britain will know, last Saturday there was the Oxford-Cambridge Boat race. The rowers for the boat race trained six hours a day for six days a week. It's exploitation. We've taken muscular men from foreign countries that don't really understand what they're being trained to do, and we've tricked them into thinking it means something. I can just picture the scene now: dozens of men on rowing machines as ageing former-heroes of the rowing world whip them from behind.

“Please sir, you jus' say why you make me does this, ye?”

“No Xavier,” he says as he whips him for his insolence. “I ask the questions here. You're going to have to pull that imaginary oar back and forth for another hour now because of that.”

“But sir, me has wife and childrens back home, six hours a day is too many. I need see my babies, no?”

“Listen Xavier,” he says as he whips him again for bringing his personal life into the gym. “If you win this race, you will earn fame and riches throughout the land. Everybody will remember you, Xavier Mendez, as one of the eight men who won a rowing race. Everyone remembers rowers. Just think of Steve Redgrave, and... well... and Steve Redgrave dammit. Most people know his name.”

“Actually sir, back in Mexico Steve Redgrave not big name in most household.”

“Just be quiet and push the imaginary oar! You don't get a choice in this,” he says as he whips him again for sharing how Steve Redgrave doesn't really fit into the Mexican cultural frame of reference.

That is undoubtedly exactly how rowing works. Why else would anybody train for thirty-six hours a week when they could be taking drugs, having sex with prostitutes, getting drunk, going to the cinema to see a good film, listening to a decent album (or maybe not even a decent one, just one that other people have said “oh my god this album is terrible” and you finally get round to listening to it and yeah, it was terrible, and now you have something to talk about), seeing a friend, lying on the sofa watching T.V. and scratching your balls, sitting on the floor and doing nothing, lying on a patch of soil and doing nothing, eating some unpleasant food, like some rotten fruit or stale bread, being insulted by someone for whom you have a lot of respect, stubbing your toe on a door, eating a shard of glass, getting punched in the face by your childhood hero or rubbing your genitals against a cheese grater for thirty-six hours a week. All would be at least marginally more pleasant and worthwhile.

As you can see, rowing is not really 'my kind of thing,' and hence I find a three mile boat race between two universities which I am not smart enough to go to slightly boring. That's right I said it, I think the Great Oxford-Cambridge Boat Race is slightly boring. I don't know why, but watching two boats run parallel against each other for a quarter of an hour, followed by interviews with rowers about rowing, doesn't really get my blood pumping. Which is why I was delighted when a man in a rubber suit managed to add a bit of controversy to the whole thing. It raised so many questions! Questions like, “I wonder why that man has decided to go swimming on a cold day in April? Why has he chosen to go swimming in the Thames at all? Is he not aware that muscular academics in rowing boats are trying to come through here? Is it a desperate proposal of marriage for Oxford's female cox? Did he see her warming up (for sitting down? Ha!), decide immediately that she was The One, run a couple of miles to get safely ahead of the boats and swim out across to meet her, shouting proclamations of love and promising his eternal devotion?”

Whatever his reasons, it made the race far more exciting, which is an inherently valuable thing. But fans of the Boat Race weren't congratulating the man but condemning him. For the first time ever people actually had something to say about the Boat Race other than “Hey, did you acknowledge the difference in speed between those two boats? Wowzer.” And that's a bad thing apparently.

I don't know, maybe I'm a bit out of touch with the contemporary rowing scene (the 1920s had the most exciting rowing scene if you ask me. Personally, if I was to go on Mastermind, my specialist subject would probably be “Cambridge and Oxford rowers of the 1920s,” but alas I think I'm just not cut out for the newfangled rowing of the 21^st century). All I know is that when the next Boat Race comes along I will be watching just in case a man gets his head cut off with an oar on live television. You don't want to miss out on that sort of thing. 

Like women? Like music? Hate Chris Brown.

Hello. Today I'm trying to become more relevant by blogging about popular culture. I am therefore going to talk about a song that was released almost a year and a half ago. I know what you're thinking: but he only posted that retrospective analysis of Cressida Dick less than two months ago! How does he manage to stay on top of the ephemeral nature of current affairs? Well, the truth is I actually have a team of bloggers and joke writers working around the clock in order to ensure that I have important things to say about very pertinent issues, like an old Chris Brown song (in my defence you still hear it in clubs). Fans of Chris Brown's music may want to stop reading this now, I genuinely don't want to belittle the music tastes of any of my friends.

Although I'm not sure fans of Chris Brown's music are capable of reading (I told you you should have stopped there).

It's easy to dismiss Chris Brown's music as banal, mindless, repetitive, unoriginal, boring and meaningless drivel, but I'm willing to look at Chris Brown's music from a professional, objective perspective. Even if the malicious, woman-beating, mentally ill (come on he must be) 'musician' does not deserve my fair-minded dissection of his popular faecal matter. I am too good to him I know. Chris Brown, if you are reading this: there's no need to thank me; an anonymous cash donation will suffice.

You may have noticed that I have alluded to the fact he beats women. It was subtle but it is there. I'm sure you all know about the fact he physically harmed his ex-girlfriend Rihanna after an argument. Maybe it is unfair of me to use the plural term 'women.' I do not know the exact number of women that he has beaten, and if he has only beaten the one then I'm sorry, but I have no moral or ethical issues with slandering Chris Brown. I think that would be a pretty poor defence to put forward anyway: “yes, we'd like to take David McIver to court because he has misrepresented the number of women that our client Chris Brown has beaten on an online blog that receives about a dozen views per week.”

One could argue that this one incident of domestic abuse alone should rid him of any manufactured success in our pop charts; and one would be right. The argument should end there really, but it doesn't. It turns out that fans of Chris Brown love domestic abuse, and hence he continues to see his name in the UK music charts. I assume these charts are painted on some sort of wall somewhere in London, and teenagers gather round the wall chanting the names of their favourite 'artists' and throwing money at the charts until the person(s) of their choice makes it to the top of the pops, hence becoming 'King of the Charts' and winning Reggie Yates and Ferne Cotton as butlers for the week.

So if we disregard his violence against women as playful antics, (because when has violence ever hurt anyone?) we must instead turn to his music for analysis, which in many ways is far worse than domestic abuse (and worse than many other violent crimes too. I'm unable to pinpoint his exact place on the scale of terrible psychopathic atrocities, but I think his music lies somewhere between paedophilia and genocide.)

One song of his that is particularly fertile ground for analysis is something that goes by the name of “Yeah 3x.” Firstly, the name of this song is problematic. By incorporating a mathematical symbol in place of words he has created a song title with no clear way of saying it. Is it pronounced 'Yeah Three-Ex?' which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. Or is it pronounced 'Yeah Three Times?' which is not so much a title so much as a rough guide to the words that will be appearing in the song and their respective frequency, but also begs the question, why not just call the song 'Yeah Three Times?' It gives the exact same message as 'Yeah 3x,' while at the same time being a more aesthetically pleasing song title to read and eliminating all confusion. It's almost as if he has a certain level of self-awareness about himself and is trying to create a song title with ambiguous pronunciation possibilities in order to pose some sort of subversive artistic statement. Except of course he is an idiot, and you can't make art out of shit. Unless of course you are Piero Manzoni, who, despite being an Italian man that made a living out of shitting in a can, still has more self-awareness and artistic credibility than Chris Brown.

Let us delve into the frightening body of this song shall we? Let me present you with a verse or a chorus or something, I don't know I'm not a musician:

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, girl, I wanna

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I wanna see you tonight

Yeah, yeah, yeah, girl, I gotta

(Yeah, yeah, yeah)

I gotta, I gotta, I gotta see you tonight.”

Now, seeing as Chris Brown has demonstrated such enthusiasm for maths in the naming of his song, I thought I should approach the criticism of his song through mathematical analysis. Not many people these days approach musical criticism from a strictly mathematical perspective. I guess my methods are just to radical for 'The Man.' Maybe that's why I'm not a music journalist. (I can think of no other reasons.)

Anyway, in this chorus there are a total of thirty-two words. Out of these words, the word 'yeah' is used a whopping twelve times. A massive 37.5% of the chorus therefore is just the word 'yeah.' I'm not even totally sure if it is being used as a slang term for a positive affirmation, or if Chris Brown is just treating it as a random syllable in order to give his listeners more sound for their money. But the maths does not stop there. Out of this thirty-two word chorus, only eight unique words are used (yeah, girl, I, wanna, see, you, tonight, and gotta.) The chorus is therefore 25% unique words, and 75% repetition of words. They are shit words too. I'm not even sure I should be validating the existence of the words 'gotta' and 'wanna,' as I am unsure as to whether or not I could find them in the Oxford English Dictionary. When Samuel Johnson completed the first English dictionary in 1755 I am pretty sure he didn't envision the lazy bastardisation of 'want to' into 'wanna' being accepted by future lexicographers. Perhaps Chris Brown hates Samuel Johnson as well as women, and if Samuel Johnson were alive today Chris Brown would endeavour to fight him. Although he probably wouldn't because Samuel Johnson, being a man, poses too much of a danger to Chris Brown, who is timid about entering into fights with less than a 90% (yes more maths!) chance of success.

Also, despite the fact that Chris Brown uses only eight words, (and that's being kind) it is still too many words to portray the message of his chorus. I don't like to extract a single meaning from poetry as I feel this is almost always a reductive method of literary criticism, but I feel that we lose absolutely nothing from the song if we say that the chorus could be summed up with the words “Chris wants to see you tonight” (presumably so he can beat you). Those words, in perfect grammar, adequately sum up what Chris Brown took thirty-two words to say. And look, I've done it in six words, which is two less unique words than his version, and a massive twenty-six less words in total. To think people say mathematically dissecting pop songs is a waste of time!

What can we deduce from Chris Brown inability to use more than eight original words in a thirty-two word chorus? Well firstly, that Chris Brown hates Samuel Johnson, his fans, poets, poetry, all writers, eminent literary scholars, teachers, university professors, lexicographers, people's virginal eardrums, Rihanna, Rihanna's friends and family, all women in general, The Beatles, Bob Dylan, The Smiths, The Velvet Underground, The Rolling Stones, The Beach Boys, The Talking Heads, The Stone Roses, the past hundred years of innovative pop music, choruses that consist of more than 25% unique words and any suggestion of a successful pop song so much as pretending to grasp at any shred of artistic credibility, among many other things that I don't have time to name (I'm obviously a very busy man). You can just make them up yourself if you want to. Think of something nice. Are you thinking of it? Chris Brown hates it. Your thought didn't contain enough domestic abuse for his liking. (Unless of course you are a fan of Chris Brown, in which case you probably were thinking about domestic abuse, and Chris Brown liked it.)

The second thing we can deduce from the song, is that in the attempt to manufacture a commercially successful pop song, terms such as 'innovation,' 'creativity' and 'poetry' are ugly words that get in the way of things like money, profit-margins and money.

And that is my incredibly obvious message for you all today.