Tuesday, 9 July 2013

Daily Mail caught outraging public decency

No one does hypocrisy like The Daily Mail. Read avidly by around four million of Britain's most dismally fearful and deluded people, the newspaper which once trumpeted its support for Hitler, Mussolini and Oswald Moseley has more recently perfected a uniquely open approach to committing the very sins for which it condemns the various objects of its hatred. 

The Mail, for example, finds space for writers who (rightly) deplore the sexualisation of children by marketers, advertisers, television, etc. while at the same time running articles which variously describe an EIGHT-year old CHILD as a leggy beauty* and creepily salivate over teenage girls billed as looking all grown up.

Today, on a somewhat related note, the grubby tabloid's website is running a report which names a doctor caught using his iPhone to capture video footage of women's legs and breasts in Trafalgar Square - with the story positioned next to the site's infamous Femail sidebar, which provides links to all of the Mail's most prurient content. Said sidebar this morning included items such as these:


So, if you're anchored to the spinning moral compass of the Daily Mail, it's not OK to use your mobile phone to capture footage of the bodies of women in public places without the women's knowledge or permission. But it is OK to buy pictures from someone who uses a long lens and a good camera to capture pictures of the bodies of women in public places without the women's knowledge or permission. 

* The term "leggy beauty" seems to have been removed from the article in question since it was published - but outraged comments below the piece still refer to the offending phrase

Sunday, 7 July 2013

Bingo: just for Tyler's mum?

While relentlessly butting into your consciousness in order to sell you things you don't need (and would be better off without), the advertisers select from a menu of tricks. Such ruses include: cajoling you into jumping onto a bandwagon lest you feel the shame of being left out; offering glittering generalities which appear to make strong claims but in fact dodge legal troubles by claiming nothing (Healthy-LOOKING hair? MAY reduce the APPEARANCE of wrinkles by UP TO sixty percent?); creating a sense of false urgency in order to make you worry about a vanishing opportunity to buy the useless piece of crap being sold to you; appealing to a plain folks notion that the pointless geegaw in question is for people like you.

The last of these tricks would appear to take a bit of thought. Would you really use it to promote something seen as aspirational? Surely if the status symbol being sold is a luxury item that requires you to spend money you don't actually have in order to impress people you don't actually like, then any people seen enjoying the banal glow of brief satisfaction which it confers ought to be presented not as people like you but as people you'd like to be: wealthier, more attractive, more sophisticated, better dressed, taller, slimmer, fitter and with better hair and teeth. You're stupid, you see? Easily suggestible. Somewhere inside your fearful little brain is a combination of chemical reactions which has you believe (only until you've actually made the purchase) that if you buy that watch, car or handbag then you will somehow be suffused with all those markers of ease, success and confidence.

But luxuries aside, the plain folks thing works for all sorts of goods and services. Yes, that old duffer wittering on about pottering in the garden with the grandkids and not leaving any funeral expenses for your loved ones to deal with.... that's you, that is. That busy mum stocking up on fish fingers that even fussy eaters will agree to ingest without tears and tantrums... that's you, that is. On and on. They know into which part of the demographics filing system their product is being forced. They know that the consumerbots in that segment have been programmed to buy certain clothes, haircuts, houses and kitchens. So that tells them what kind of lifestyle to represent on screen when using that plain folks trope. Oh look, that carefully programmed brain of yours says, that thing is used by people who are just like me. If I buy it I will neither be looked down at as some sort of chav nor laughed at for having ideas above my station.

Look at the gambling addiction industry, for example. As it continues to normalise the transfer of hard-earned salaries onto the balance sheets of giant gaming corporations, the various forms of the vice are associated with the various target demographics. Simple stuff: betting on football is male, matey, blokey and one suspects that the word banter is never far from the mind of the "creative" types at the ad agency. Online bingo, meanwhile, is natually sold to women. Specifically, it is sold to working class women. Cheeky Bingo, for example, show an animated world of modest terraced housing and use a chirpy northern accent in their voice-over. Jackpotjoy not only use loveable Cockney Babs Windsor but also draw on her Carry On past by dressing her in a historical costume and having her cackle at the odd double entendre.

What, then, to make of this effort on behalf of BingoPort? These women don't live in small terraced houses in the north of England! They're not married to plasterers, van drivers or whatnot! They don't have children named Tyler or Charmaine! Look at them! They wear scarves and pearls! They drive Chelsea tractors! They don't play bingo!!!

Or is bingo now about to cross the class divide which for ages wasn't supposed to exist but which now so very obviously can be seen not only to exist but to continue to be a major source of preoccupation for the English?

Thursday, 20 June 2013

LET'S MOVE ON

Perhaps your awareness of the late George Carlin is limited to his withering commentaries on the illusion of choice and freedom afforded to those of us living in supposedly democratic countries. Stuff like his wonderfully efficient three-minute deconstruction of the American Dream, perhaps. If that's the case, and if you buy the huge, doorstop-like tome that is the omnibus of his collected writings, then you may be in for a bit of a surprise. Granted, you will find, dotted around its 890 pages, Carlin's thoughts on the politicians, the corporations, the bullshit wars and all that. But these bits are massively outnumbered by more whimsical musings on the changing use of language. Over and over (and sometimes repetitiously), Carlin amuses himself by wondering at the origins of some idiomatic phrase or by poking fun at those who employ pretentious, ponderous or trendy modes of speech.

This blog could easily be full of that stuff. Because I am one of those people who really notices how things are said. One of those people who infers way too much from someone's choice of words, someone's intonation, someone's accent. Open your mouth in my vicinity and I'll be weighing you up, sifting through your data and deciding in which pigeon hole you are fated to remain pretty much for ever. I was like this anyway, even as a younger man. But a degree in linguistics made me so much worse. Sociolinguistics. Psycholinguistics. Pragmatics. Semantics. Discourse analysis. All that shit. I'm processing your every word, your every syllable through these filters. You've barely introduced yourself and I've decided who you are, what your dad did for a living, where your grandparents are buried, who you vote for and how wrong you are about everything you've ever thought about. But I keep it to myself, of course. Because if I didn't, you'd think I was even more of a dick than you already do. Hence this line of musing being largely absent from this is my england. I want it to take a bit longer for you to decide you don't like me, OK?

But dipping in and out of Carlin's giant repository of assertions and assumptions for the last few weeks (I read a few pages over breakfast, in the bath or when taking a dump) has had its effect. I can no longer resist the urge to join the late George in his picking at the stitches of the speech which invades our minds every day.

So I want to take issue with a phrase which can be heard at almost any meeting one might attend in the course of the working day at that white collar job of yours. I want to talk about why it's used and about the baleful effect it has on your chances of achieving anything useful.

So you're called to one of those regular project meetings. Six or so people who usually work in different parts of the same large building, all doing jobs so specialised that, during a dinner party, each of them would struggle to explain neatly what it is that he or she does for a living.  You're one of them. Your job is just a mysterious little piece of an increasingly arcane and abstract puzzle. Anyway, I digress. There you are, then, all together. You do different things but for now you're all spending part of your time working on the same project. So you need project meetings like this one. You have to talk about the project's various milestones, deliverables, KPIs and all that. Yes, it's impossible to describe this meeting without lapsing into business bullshit bingo. But we'll leave all those objectionable terms aside for today. Instead, we're going to have a look at that one particular phrase which crops up several times during this meeting and every other meeting.

There are, say, six items on today's agenda. Each of them represents a piece of work on which everyone must be clear if you're all going to proceed without working at cross purposes for the four weeks between now and the next project meeting. If you fail to arrive at a real joint understanding now, mistakes will be made, money will be wasted, tempers will get raised and blame will be apportioned. You're not going to get all these people in the room for another month so this is golden time. This is your chance to avoid expensive and annoying fuck-ups. Don't waste that chance. 

Six agenda items, then. One hour set aside for the meeting. The meeting room booked for just that hour, with another group of people waiting impatiently outside, ready to eject your group the moment that your hour has elapsed. So that means each agenda item gets ten minutes, right?

Well the first two items are easy. Everyone understands them and everyone agrees on what needs to be done, how and by whom. Then along comes item three and it starts to go wrong. One person in the room has done some additional research and has to report that the matter at hand is more complicated than anticipated and that the previously agreed approach to it is going to need to reconsidered. Questions are fired back and forth and opinions seem to vary about whether the guy pointing out the problems is just being difficult. Some of the others probably think he's just trying to sound important and make a name for himself as a bit of a thinker. Anyway, some way into this disagreement, somebody notices that almost twenty minutes have been spent discussing just this one point. So here come those baleful words. Let's move on, someone says. We'll have to move on.

Move on? But we haven't sorted this out! We haven't sorted out this important question, and experience teaches us that a failure to do so now will lead to future misunderstandings and to bigger problems. So let's not move on. Let's keep talking and let's sort it out. No, no, someone objects. Let's move on.

Ah, there it is: "Let's move on". Looked at one way, this phrase, which you'll hear at almost every meeting you ever attend, is just good time management: keep the pace up, be efficient.  Your boss probably read that in some book on management and now treats it as the eleventh commandment: Thou Shalt Move On. But looked at another way, it's just a shorter way of saying "no one wants to think about this because we're all too stupid, too scared of looking stupid, too short-sighted, too disinclined to spend time on anything which isn't easy and lalalalalalalalalaI'mnotlistening."

So you all move on. Perhaps you even "park" the difficult matter under discussion, the idea being that it will be "revisited" at some undefined point in the future. But it doesn't get revisited and, just as you thought, the six people in the room clear off back to their individual desks and tasks, basing their work on entirely different understandings of an unresolved problem. Bigger problems do, of course, arise.

A few months later, the most senior person who was present in that meeting is at another meeting with a number of his peers on the management team. They are discussing the poor state of the company's finances and the impatience of the sociopaths who own the business. Talk turns to rationalisation, to restructuring and right-sizing. They start to talk about who will be ejected into a shitty jobs market in the middle of the summer when no one is hiring. The guy who was in your project meeting thinks about the people who work for him. Who to get rid of? Who don't we like? So he thinks about all the problems which resulted from that failure to spend enough time talking about something complicated and important. He thinks about who might be culpable.... and you know who he decides to get rid of? Well, it must be the idiot who kept mindlessly intoning "let's move on, let's move on", right? No! If that was your guess then you really don't understand business or people or anything about today's workplace. The guy who's going to get his P45 is the one who was insistent on discussing the thorny problem properly and arriving at a universally understood agreement. It has to be him. Why? Because he's too negative and because he's not a team player.

If you think this makes sense then you will go far in business. If you're wondering how any of this can possibly be right then you're just not the sort of person who we're looking for. You just won't fit the ethos of our dynamic, lean, efficient, customer-centric, relentlessly relevant organisation. So fuck you.

Wednesday, 5 June 2013

and now back to Bill and Susanna in the studio


DISCLAIMER (OR SOMETHING):
(I did not take this photo. I don't know who did, or where it was taken. I found it somehow and now can't work out where. You know when you're sort of zipping through Tumblr and you open an image in a new browser tab and later you're all like where did I actually find that? Especially if you've had a drink or something. Well, that. Exactly that. If anyone knows who I should be crediting for the pic and/or the bit of graffiti then go ahead and let me know.)

Sunday, 26 May 2013

MARKETING, PRODUCT DEVELOPMENT AND COST

"Life is cheap, never forget it. Corporations make marketing decisions by weighing the cost of being sued for your death against the cost of making the product safer. Your life is a factor in cost-effectiveness."

George Carlin

Wednesday, 8 May 2013

Mbia fined, QPR mugged off

On Monday, tweets from the Twitter account of QPR's Stéphane Mbia seemed to indicate that the player was keen on a return to Olympique de Marseille and that he was stupid enough to say so via such a public channel. This was followed by press reports to the effect that Mbia's account had been hacked. Then came a further tweet from Mbia's account to the effect that the account had not been hacked. Right now (Wednesday lunchtime), this latter remark remains on the player's timeline. As promised, QPR have investigated the matter and taken action. This just in from the club's press man:


So we are to believe that even now, Mbia cannot log into his supposedly hacked account and remove the remarks written by some third party? Well, I know what we would have said at school on hearing such an obviously false story: CHINNY RECKON. BENNY BULLSHIT. FANTASY ISLAND.

What's really happened, then, is that the idiot Mbia, caught out like a naughty child, refuses to do the decent thing and admit what he's done. So the club has to give him his deserved rap on the knuckles but pretend it's for allowing his account to be hacked rather than for his real offence (i.e. mugging the club off by announcing publicly that he wants to return to his beloved l'OM). Ridiculous. Farcical. Only at fucking QPR.

Tuesday, 7 May 2013

more on (moron?) Mbia

Perhaps this is a feeling entirely alien to the kind of thick-skinned sociopaths writing for our nation's tabloids, but some of us can sometimes feel a bit uncomfortable when really laying into the subject of some particularly angry piece of writing. Yesterday, for example, this is my england featured a particularly heated piece about what appeared to be the moronically insensitive behaviour of QPR's Stéphane Mbia. The Twitter account of the error-prone Cameroonian had issued remarks indicating that the player wished to leave Loftus Road and head back to Marseille. 

Having dashed off a piece written in haste and in anger, the reason for feeling uncomfortable here was the lurking fear of having somehow been taken in. What if Mbia's Twitter account had been hacked? What if the player's feelings for our club and respect for our fans were, in fact, unimpeachable? After all, this is the guy who picks out some deserving-looking kid to receive the gift of a shirt at the end of many matches. This is the fellow in whom some fans feel they have seen a hard-working exception to the general disinterestedness of the Rangers team. Oops? Shame-faced retraction of angry blog post needed?

Well, that started to look possible when The Guardian's Dominic Fifield claimed his 'paper had had contact with Mbia:
Yet Mbia, when asked to explain that follow-up, claimed he had not written the messages. "I do not know how this happened but someone must have got hold of my login and password because I did not write these things," he said when contacted by the Guardian. "This was not me. I did not write the tweets, and I have made people at the club aware of that. I saw the messages this morning and spoke with the club about them, but now I see there are more appearing in my name."
In light of this, it's hard to explain the latest from Mbia's Twitter, written just this morning:

Translation: "I want to deny the rumours of hacking on my Twitter account."


Some people might want to contend that this latest message also comes from a malicious hacker. But that's hardly likely, is it? It doesn't take long to reestablish control of a hacked Twitter account. So if Mbia's account had been compromised, the player would, surely, by now have had time to delete the offending tweets, write his own clarification and worked with the QPR media team to untangle this messy situation.

So the feeling here is that not only did Mbia write the original messages but he must have also lied to journalists at The Guardian and then decided to revert to the uncomfortable truth. So it's looking rather as if that as well as being a pretty useless player and a shamefully disrespectful twat, the (hopefully soon-to-be former) Rangers man is a rather confused person. A bit of a nutter, it seems. What are the chances of another club wanting to part with good money for such obviously damaged goods? It's a worry. Add it to the QPR worry pile.

Monday, 6 May 2013

Stéphane Mbia: MORON

Writing about QPR this season has been a pretty dispiriting business. This accounts for the lack of Rangers-related output here at this is my england over the last few months. Many a depressing game has been attended but not been written about. It's just been no fun at all. That said, some sort of bitter rant is on the cards and will doubtless appear here before too long.

In the meantime, yet another piece of dismal social media misuse on the part of one of our players cannot pass without brief comment. Here (in a since deleted tweet) is Stéphane Mbia making it clear that he'd like to return to Olympique de Marseille:


Surely it is be hoped that he gets his wish. Why should we remain saddled with players who are too fucking stupid to be subtle about having no regard for our club? It's not even as if Mbia is much of a player anyway. All that money just to totter around like a daddy longlegs on roller-skates, giving away game-changing free kicks and rolling around like a play-acting tart when an opponent breathes on him? No thanks. With any luck, we've seen the last of this waster in a hooped shirt. If not, perhaps anyone reading this might want to give him an appropriately warm reception at the next couple of fixtures - fixtures rendered meaningless by the ineptitude and gutlessness of Mbia and his pals.

Friday, 3 May 2013

that OCD cleanathon thing...

... it gets a grip of some people, doesn't it? on their hands and knees at all hours, scrubbing the floor, polishing the banisters, removing every speck of dust from every stick furniture. OUT DAMNED SPOT. RUB, DON'T BLOT. and all that. some kind of obsession. cleanliness is all. the devil is in the dirt. well, as far back as March, there were signs that this nervous condition was gripping our man stu (the mischief-making stickers and stencils maestro of Camden). further proof of this can now be seen on stu's rectangle of choice. all he bangs on about these days is clean this and clean that. the poor chap's been driven to distraction by the destruction of his art. now he's expressing this frustration via the medium of dirty van (complete with CLEAN ME finger daubs):