Car-mic justice vs Bare flesh in the supermarket

GOOD THING: CAR-MIC JUSTICE
To the left is a picture of my car (well, not mine, but one very similar.) It's not big and it's not fast. Actually, it's the bane of my bank balance, and it seems to inspire aggession and stupid behaviour in other motorists - mostly men over 40. Drivers of BMWs, Mercs, Landrovers and other high-performance vehicles can't bear to be stuck behind a tiny car with the engine the size of a matchbox, and I'm frequently on the receiving end of idiotic motoring such as undertaking, overtaking on bends/hills etc. I'm not the world's greatest driver, but I drive within the law and can't help the fact that my car's a bit crap. And, occasionally, someone up there likes me; there's nothing better than getting one over on a stupid driver. Last week I was overtaken at high speed by a convertible on a small slip-road coming off a motorway (the driver gained all of 20 feet before having to stop at a junction.) I recognised the car slightly, but wasn't sure where from. Anyway, I continued on the short remainder of my journey home, taking a short-cut off the main road. I pulled into the lane of garages behind the flats I live in, and got out in order to open my garage door. It's a small road, and anyone who comes in behind you has to wait while you park - and who should come whizzing around the corner but the same grey convertible? My short-cut had meant that I had arrived home 30 seconds before him, and the look on his face was priceless. I made sure I was in no hurry to lever the garage door open, amble back to my car and start the engine - it's not often when the balance of karma (or carma - sorry!) is restored to small car-drivers!

BAD THING: BARE FLESH IN THE SUPERMARKET
Genuinely hot summers are a lovely thing, and the sight of unusual amounts of bare flesh is both inevitable and par-for-the-course. Men of all ages trundle around bare-chested, regardless of their physique, and women wear short skirts, hot-pants and plunging vest tops that are really only suitable for 14-year old models. But I think the line should be drawn when it comes to shops, supermarkets and cafes - no-one wants to buy their chickens and sausages surrounded by pasty/pillar-box red beer guts. Surely there's something unhygienic about it? Even if that's not the case, they should be quietly escorted from the shop until they can locate the rest of their clothing. The other thing is bare feet. It's one thing to drift in and out of your holiday resort bar without your shoes on, but while you're traipsing around Asda? Actually, I don't know why anyone would want to go barefoot in the supermarket or any other public space - call me paranoid, but aside from the obvious dirt factor, there must be germs just waiting to be picked up on the soles of feet. Ew. It's time for shops to enforce a dress code to save the rest of us from the kind of sights usually reserved for the beach.

American TV dramas vs Foot afflictions

GOOD THING: AMERICAN TV DRAMAS
I'm not going to make sweeping generalisations here, because I'm aware that we in the UK usually get the cream of the television shows produced by the US - and lord knows even some of that is a travesty. However, when it comes to high quality prime-time programmes, the BBC is left trailing in the wake of shows that have crossed the Atlantic - and ITV doesn't even make the starting grid. American drama series are big-budget and have high production-values, but this isn't what seals their success - the fact is, lots are incredibly well-written and well-acted. The X Files and The West Wing are two of my all-time favourites, but over the past few years I've also been hooked on The Shield, House, Desperate Housewives and Without a Trace. And now we have Big Love, which looks likely to join those hallowed ranks. Can you imagine the British equivalents? You could have a pair of Secret Service agents investigating UFO-sightings in the wilds of Cumbria, a series about the goings-on in 10 Downing Street (everyone would be much less witty and attractive, of course), or the darkly funny lives of a group of yummy mummies who live on the same street in Surrey. Mmmm, actually, I think I'll put a pitch together for Channel Five....

BAD THING: FOOT AFFLICTIONS

I'm not sure how anyone can have a foot fetish. I don't have any particular aversion to feet, but from those that I've observed, they're really not very attractive - and what's more, they are vulnerable to all kinds of painful and/or unsightly afflictions. To start with there are bunions, and I do have a chip on my shoulder about this, because I've been unlucky enough to inherit this charming condition from my mum. I used to laugh at her oddly-shaped feet and nobbly big-toe joint - until I started to develop the same problem. So far it's just the one foot, but hey, I'm only in my mid-twenties, so there's plenty of time for the other foot to catch up. Apart from being painful, they make it virtually impossible to wear either formal shoes (too uncomfortable) or sandals (who wants to see feet worthy of The Elephant Man?) If it's not bunions it's more transitory problems like veruccas or athlete's foot, and I've had the misfortune to have both. The veruccas I had a few years ago were incredibly stubborn, and after trying every over-the-counter and doctor-presribed treatment, I had to resort to virtually gouging the little bastards out of my foot. Satisfactory result, though. Blisters are also really, really unpleasant, and there are some types of footwear that are almost guaranteed to cause them. Those footwear are, of course, the ones you wear for activities where you really don't want painful feet - e.g. walking boots, football boots/running shoes. I think that by the time I'm middle-aged I will probably have collected the complete set of foot complaints - bring on the corns, warts and calluses!

Student holidays vs Tiny dogs

GOOD THING: STUDENT HOLIDAYS...
...a.k.a. when the students go home and normal people can reclaim their neighbourhood. If you've read earlier entries in this blog, you may have gathered that I live in a suburb that is over-run with posh, objectionable students. Anybody who says students live in poverty just need to come here for a day and have a look at the fine selection of sports cars and toffs sporting Jimmy Choos. But I ramble. What I really want to celebrate here is the all-too-brief hiatus we normal folk get between the end of June and the middle of September, when the students pack up their novelty furniture and stolen traffic signs and bugger off back to Hampshire and Surrey. Oh the bliss. The streets are free of dinner-jacket-attired buffoons stumbling into the gutter, the locals can actually find a place to park and you don't have to weave your way around Bethany and Esme who are shopping for asparagus in Tesco. In fact, probably the only people here who aren't happy to see the students go home for the summer are Starbucks. Business must plummet at this time of year as, regardless of the time of day/year, there are always students taking a break from studying and going in search of a banana-caramel Frappuccino. Perhaps I shouldn't be judgmental though; I was a student in the city that is probably the worst in the UK if you happen to be a non-student. The population of Cambridge goes down by something ridiculous like 30,000 when term ends (and it's not that big to start with) - but unfortunately for the handful of poor 'townies', as soon as the rugger-buggers go home...the tourists arrive.

BAD THING: TINY DOGS

Where does one start on this subject? Tiny dogs (or 'toy' dogs to give them their proper dog show monicker) are just completely wrong. From a the perspective of other dogs, for a start; I mean, what does a collie or labrador think when it sees a minute shihtzu or a Llasa-Apso? It must be laughing it's teeth out. They're easy prey for other dogs to chase and harass, and not just dogs - a cat could turn around and have a go at them, probably even a sparrow. The dog itself must be embarrassed by its stature too, and the fact that their obvious 'cute factor' means that they're condemned to a lifetime of bows in their hair, and novelty dress-up costumes. (This, of course, is amusing for passers-by - my fiance and I cracked up when we saw some intensely-coiffed poodles recently.) Perhaps because their lives are so rotten, tiny dogs often seem to be very spiteful, yappy things, which take great pleasure in going for the ankles of passing strangers. And the unfair thing is that you're not allowed to drop-kick them - it apparently doesn't go down well with owners. But certain celebrities have a lot to answer for too. It seems inexplicable, but for some reason lots of airheads are following the lead (ha ha!) of 'celebrities' like Paris Hilton and, oh yes, Geri Halliwell. Both women claim to not go anywhere without their stupid handbag-sized mutts (though Old Spice now has baby Bluebell to occupy her), and I've noticed a trend in other women - mainly blondes, I'm afraid - who are doing the same. I think it's time for the tiny dogs to start a revolution and bite the well-manicured hand that feeds them...

Curb Your Enthusiasm vs Christian rock

GOOD THING: CURB YOUR ENTHUSIASM

The UK produces The Office; the US throws Arrested Development back across the pond. The UK makes Extras, and the US gives us Curb Your Enthusiasm. America gives us its fair share of rubbish, unfunny comedies (Everybody Loves Raymond, Will & Grace etc), but then redeems itself by coming up with comedy as incredible as Curb Your Enthusiasm. Well, Larry David came up with it. In fact, he is Curb Your Enthusiasm. I'm ashamed to say that I came to this programme very late (about 6 years late), but I intend to make up for it fully. It's one of those programmes which, if you like that sort of bizarre, spare, unflinching comedy, grabs you from the very first episode and won't let you go. Putting yourself at the centre of such a comedy is a very brave thing to do, especially as we're never actually sure to what degree David is playing a 'fictionalised' version of himself. His character, if you can call him that, gets himself into the most horrendous, socially-mortifying situations with remarkable ease. It's like watching a car-crash in show motion, but it's totally compelling because it's so horribly believable. I also had assumed that the actress who plays David's wife Cheryl was actually his wife, so realistic is their portrayal of middle-aged matrimony. It's also interesting to see the weird and unusual types who hover on the periphery of showbusiness and inhabit the world of a screenwriter.

BAD THING: CHRISTIAN ROCK
I have absolutely nothing against Christians whatsoever; I come from a family of them, and have every respect for people choosing to follow a religion. However, when Christianity and rock music collide, some very bad things tend to happen. Crimes are committed left, right and centre. The picture above is of Delirious?, the only Christian rock band I have had the dubious pleasure of seeing live in concert. To be fair, they weren't that bad, but there seems something slightly dishonest about Christians getting into rock music. I wouldn't go so far as to say that rock 'n' roll is the devil's domain, but it seems a bit wrong for Christians to be spreading their message through guitar-driven music - and we're not talking about acoustic guitars with rainbow straps. Delirious? are one of the few bands to break into the mainstream and make their mark on the charts (if only briefly), but there also bands like P.O.D., who masquerade as rap/alternative metal while bringing the gospel to the people. In fact, lots of nu-metallers took their CDs back to shops in disgust when they found out that there was religious connotation. The same religion whose followers (well, some of them) burn the records of certain rock artists should not be dipping their toes in the same river (of Hades.) Some of them are quite blatant in their band names, which at least gives people a heads-up. e.g. Out of Eden, The Crucified, but then there are plenty of others who slyly give their bands quite ordinary rock names. The fact is, that real rock fans just don't buy it, and - like riding in the back of a car, and wearing socks with sandals - some things will never, ever be cool.

Puns vs Bad casting

GOOD THING: PUNS
Forget parody, irony and satire - when it comes to humour, the simple pun is king. I'm a sucker for any joke that involves punning, however stupid and childish. For example: "A man walked into a bar...ouch!", and...well, now I have to think of them I can't come up with any decent examples, but you get the picture. My mum's favourite joke is the one that asks "What do you call a man with custard in one ear and jelly in the other?" (A trifle deaf, of course.) I aso have a soft spot for shops and businesses with cheesily humourous names, my current favourite being the gift shop on Edinburgh's Royal Mile called Thistle Do Nicely. Hairdressers are of course the chief offenders when it comes to punning names, and there is an apparently endless number of them; take your pick from Curl Up & Dye, Hair Today Gone Tomorrow, Bangs for the Memories, Streaks Ahead, The Cutting Edge etc. Genius. A very good book on the subject (for people with nothing to do in their evenings) is Shop Horror by Guy Swillingham, which contains such brilliant entries as It's Curtains for You (a curtain shop, obviously), Brief Moments (undies), Battersea Cods Home (chippy), Junk & Disorderly, The Prawnbrokers, Vinyl Frontier, Cliptomania (another hairdresser) and - possibly my favourite - the deceptively simple Wok This Way. Anyone who is feeling down about life only needs to spend an afternoon pun-spotting to change their outlook (though it may lead to an obsession that requires expensive treatment...)

BAD THING: BAD CASTING
I probably watch more TV than I should, and one thing that has really begun to get on my nerves is bad casting decisions. By this I mean that the actors chosen to portray certain characters are just totally inappropriate in some way, and therefore completely distract from the show or film they're in. This falls into several categories, most of which can be illustrated by Neighbours, which I'm ashamed to say I am somewhat of an aficionado of. The first is related to age of the characters/actors. For example, casting someone as a parent when they are clearly only about 5 years older than their screen child (this happens all the time in Hollywood too - Sean Connery as Harrison Ford's dad can be forgiven; Angelina Jolie as Colin Farrell's mum can't) - in Neighbours, Max's father looked more like his brother, and looked especially young compared to the woman who portrayed his supposed ex-wife. Again in that giant of daytime TV, Steph Scully is clearly about 35 in real life, but portraying someone about 26 - which means that her onscreen mum, at about 45, looks far too young. Similarly, in Desperate Housewives, a flashback to 8 years ago should have seen Susan's 14-year old daughter shown at 6 years old. So why did they cast a child of about 3?! It bugs me, because it's so damn easy to avoid. Another crime relates to the looks of supposed on-screen family members, i.e. when they don't look like they could possibly be genetically related (and come on, we viewers shouldn't have to suspend our disbelief to that extent!) Perhaps my favorite example is Denzel Washington and Keanu Reeves playing brothers (albeit half-brothers) in Much Ado About Nothing, but this sort of thing happens all the time. Often it's because programme makers demand that the younger actors in particular be incredibly hot, despite what their on-screen parents look like. Again, back to Neighbours, where the three blonde and attractive Scully sisters and their handsome son Jack somehow sprung from the loins of dowdy Lyn and plain-ugly Joe. If casting agents are really that desperate, perhaps I could give them a hand?

Barbecues vs Fake female football fans

GOOD THING: BARBECUES
I thought I would be topical with my latest additions to the blog, and focus on two of summer's big phenomena. Who doesn't love a barbecue? Even vegetarians love a barbecue, as demonstrated by my fiance, who is trying to persuade anyone he knows with a grill and a garden to have one. Obviously, chowing down on Quorn sausages and burgers isn't quite the same thing - especially as you don't get that lovely, and slightly dangerous, pink bit in the middle of your meat. Whenever this happens (usually when dad is in charge of the grill), it's time to consult your mum as to whether it's safe to eat. With the combination of charcoal, accelerant and raw meat, it's a wonder there aren't many more deaths from barbecue-related food-poisoning. Anyway, the great things about barbecues are that they bring everyone together and they are associated with long, balmy summer evenings - about as rare as hen's teeth in this country. If your dad is barbecuing, the evening begins with half an hour of swearing and adding more fire-lighters. About 93% of regular meals taste better than barbecued food (often chargrilled to with an inch of their life), but this is completely beside the point. It's a great feeling to have a blackened sausage and a kebab that fell in the ash placed on your plate alongside the obligatory salad. Cue generous globs of ketchup to combat the taste of charcoal. It's also fun when your barbecue stays lit long enough for you to bake bananas or toast marshmallows, two-thirds of which end up dropping unceremoniously into the ashes. This is the point where you dust the ash off and offer it to an unsuspecting family member. The perfect end to a British summer evening.

BAD THINGS: FAKE FEMALE FOOTBALL FANS
Ah, the World Cup. England flags fluttering from every fixed point in the country, grown men falling drunkenly in the street - and the unsavoury appearance of The Fake Female Football Fan. It's easy to recognise this species; they sport an England shirt (child-size - wouldn't be seen dead in anything baggy unshapely) with their denim mini-skirt, have a bottle of blue WKD in their hand and wiggle along in an infuriating manner to the various chants from their male counterparts. You may also see them wearing one of those crap high street shop England tops, produced by the likes of Next, Primark, Top Shop etc. Half the time these tops sport a saying such as 'Show us your balls' or 'England's Top Scorer', which should give you license to drive a right-footed volley straight at them. These girls are likely to call football 'footie' (see the offending pic, above) and talk about which of the England players they fancy the most - something that their male friends ignore or roll their eyes about in response. Deservedly so. It's not unusual to hear them ask asinine questions about the colour of the teams' strips, David Beckham's tattoos and whether Joe and Ashley Cole are brothers like the Nevilles (not really - I made that one up, but I wouldn't put it past some of them.) In the same breath, I would also like to defend the many women out there who are genuine football fans, who are devoted to their local and national teams and who can explain the offside rule very succinctly. It's a safe bet that they won't be drinking blue WKD and talking about Michael Owen's legs.

Radio 2 vs Posers at the gym

GOOD THING: RADIO 2

Until I was 19 I was finding it difficult to be faithful to a radio station. I dabbled with the shouty wannabe-cool of Radio 1 and the tepid offerings of Tyneside station, Metro FM. Then, once at university in Cambridge, I dipped a toe into Q103 FM, home of the crap X Fools mini-series and adverts for Cambridge Tow-Bars and the Cambridge Bed Centre. It was my corridor-buddy, Karen, who introduced me to the delights of Radio 2, of which she was already an avid listener. I scoffed at first, dismissing it as a station of dad-rock and MOR guff, but now I wouldn't be without it - all the radios I own are tuned to Radio 2, and anyone who changes the dial risks losing a finger. I'm in the privileged position of being able to listen to the radio most of the time at work, so it's like having a friend with you all day. There's a comforting predictability about the daytime weekday programmes; getting dressed and driving to work with Terry Wogan, arriving at my desk just as Ken Bruce takes over, listening to Jeremy Vine bait the Great British public with contentious issues over lunch, followed by Steve Wright in the Afternoon (although, actually, the less said about that the better.) God help anyone who rings the office during Pop Master or Ask Elvis. But Radio 2 isn't just the home of cosy AOR. Okay, so acts like Peter Gabriel, Bachman Turner Overdrive and Sniff 'n' the Tears do make unusually frequent appearances, but it also gives airtime to some great new music and produces the best music documentaries for radio around. In fact, one of the best things is that brings the generations together; it allows dads to reference the coolest new bands, and introduces the younger folks to the best that previous generations had to offer. In fact, Radio 2 could be the perfect radio station - well, as soon as they sack Sarah Kennedy and her cat-bothering ways, and give Stuart Maconie a regular daily show...

BAD THING: POSERS AT THE GYM
Going to the gym is an unsavoury business at the best of times, and one that requires the willpower of someone on the Atkins Diet ("give me some carbs!") What makes it worse is that - unless you're lucky enough to frequent a women-only gym - at any time of the day or night you're likely to be in company of the species known as The Gym Poser. You know the type. They're usually dressed in a combination of the following: tight fell-running trousers, cycling shorts, those tiny vests that hang low at the front and give a grotesque view of man-cleavage, and sweaty grey t-shirt. The distinct downside of exercising near one of these creatures is the fact that they're likely to shed their sweat onto you (I've had it happen) and you have to listen to their OTT grunting as they brace themselves to lift weights, and self-satisfied exhalations when they succeed. There's one man in particular at my gym who just about personifies arrogance. For a start his top half looks as though it's been inflated with a bicycle pump, which is in direct comedy contrast to his tiny legs. He never does any cardio-vascular workout, prefering instead to do a circuit of the weights machines, which he considers to be his rightful domain. In fact, when I've been using the weights (on the lowest setting possible) and pause for more than 3 seconds, he's been known to ask me to move so he can continue his circuit. My response to that was to growl that I would only be 5 minutes. Gyms tend to have women-only sessions, and time slots specifically for senior citizens, but I propose that they have big blocks of time that are entirely Poser-Free.