Is the TV becoming a 'bane' in the neck

Many a time I've heard adults describe someone or something as 'the bane of my life'. People who have experienced whatever it is one too many times over the years and, whether they are exaggerating or not, they see fit to exclaim that this 'bane' is in some way ruining their life.

In the past, I've never seen fit to use the expression myself. It has always made me smile.

I mean that has to be something big, if not mega, if it's to consume enough of your thoughts for you to compare it with the total length of time you have been alive.


Today, however, I finally worked out what the bane of my life may turn out to be - the television.


I'm not saying that TV is bad and should be made to face the wall - that would make it a radio - but I am coming to the conclusion it is the least uselful of my daily diversions.

For instance, when listening to music I always listen to the words and ideas, trying to understand what the writer's emotions and motives.

Then there's the Internet, which it could be said I waste an obscene amount of time on. However, after the daily news, sport and music websites have been checked, then the remainder of time online is usually spent chatting to friends, so there is a degree of sociability still present.

But with Television I have this nasty habit of getting up in the morning or coming home from work, flicking it on and getting on with cooking dinner or organising the evening.

Don't get me wrong, telly is great if used properly. An hour or so escaping in your favourite soap or drama, a documentary that may expand your knowledge or an update of worldy happenings are all valid uses.

After an hour or so, though, my mind goes into shutdown. I mean, in all honesty, I don't really care about who's eating in Tony Hutchinson's dodgy restaurant this week or who's sandwiches Ian Beale is spitting in.

Sure the pretty colours are nice to look at, and having somebody talking continually is very reassuring but all it provides are ready made thoughts, it doesn't stimulate your imagination, you ability to question or your concentration.


Basically, it makes you purely recactive, rather than proactive. And this must surely have a knock-on effect on everyday life.

Already, over the last few days, watching less television has seen my creative output increase significantly as I feel to a degree that I am literally 'waking up'. Ideas are flowing again and self-processed thoughts are cranking round my weary mind cogs.

Whether or not it television will be 'the bane of my life' is yet to be seen. But i'm coming to the conclusion that these so-called banes only take root if people allow them to and that you can actually avoid them in entirety by sticking to a strict regime of variety.

And maybe switching the telly off is a good place to start.

Summer Festivals? Edinburgh wins by a Royal Mile

“How is that not funny? That’s my best joke.” says comedian Alex Maple as his favourite gag, like all his others tonight, crashes silently over a stone-cold audience.

Mr Maple must have done something right over the past 12 months, as he has been rewarded with a 24-date run in Edinburgh charging ten quid a ticket - but I didn’t find his joke funny. And the thirty or so other people in the venue agreed with me.

In fact, with fifteen minutes left he is already offering free tickets for the following night and dancing embarrassing jigs at the audience’s command. Tough crowd. We did not take him up on his offer of a free show, so whether or not the next night was an improvement is a mystery.

The thing about the Edinburgh Fringe festival is that nothing else matters. It doesn’t matter how good or bad a show is, how much or little you paid or what you came to see. What matters is that you are there, along with millions of others, performers and punters, contributing to a feel-good atmosphere unlike anything else anywhere in the world.

At the Fringe, you’ll see the most highly strung stress heads happily brave an hour-long queue in the rain, and the laziest of layabouts will think nothing of walking two miles across town to catch a comic then traipse twenty minutes back the other way to meet their mates immediately after.

Most tellingly, you’ll never hear the expression “there’s nothing for me”, as the festival can be whatever you want it to be. That could be a tranquil family walking holiday, climbing Arthur’s seat to idly watch the thronging thousands scrambling over loose change and lost tickets in the city below.

Or it could be a wild weekend of drunken debauchery, laughing as worse-for-wear celebrities fall off barstools whilst trying to keep a low profile, or cringing as desperate D-listers flaunt their faces for some much-needed exposure.

Whether it’s mentioned above, or somewhere in-between, what’s certain is that within hours of arriving in the city centre you’ll have heard a few passing mentions to of a show or production that might grab your attention.

The power of word-of-mouth has never been so potent. A new show can live or die by the reputation it gathers in the many temporary drinking holes and as artisans, actors, locals and lager louts gather to exchange recommendations and plan their next move.

We made a beeline for new show The Hotel, directed by man-from-the-Magners-advert Mark Watson. The reason being, apart from the fact that his stand up show bowled us over last year, that last week’s tenants in our rented flat had put his at the top of a list of must-see shows stuck to the fridge door.

The show itself is a bizarre depiction of a hotel struggling to keep its head above water as its owner drinks himself into an early grave. It’s Fawlty Towers meets The Brittas Empire at The Office. Not so much a sit-down-and-watch theatre production, the audience enter the hotel itself, take their room key and are free to explore and chat to the staff as the story unfolds around them over the next hour.

Up and down the famous Royal Mile jugglers, acrobats and magicians ply their trade drawing hundreds of interested onlookers to watch as they turn ping pong balls into melons, touch the back of their head with their heels or risk life and limb catching knives on their chin.

These folk make a living showing off and know how to hold a crowd, they are often as funny as some of the bigger shows and, despite not demanding any fee, they always put their heart into performing and are usually worth a couple of quid.

Our other highlights included a Dutch comedy collective and a two-man Harry Potter anthology but the soul of the festival cannot really be understood from the anecdotes of others - whilst famous landmarks may ensure the festival always has the same glorious backdrop, the smaller details are all your own.

The biggest man in the world is before me - but he is not after me

Walking up the steps to the top deck of the bus, I always hope that the front seats are free - especially when it's sunny. 

The reason being that the front window is so big it fills my field of vision and tricks my otherwise sensible brain to believe I'm alone and soaring between the trees and rooftops over the unfortunate grounded fools below. 

This blatant act of escapism is paramount to my enjoyment of a working day. With even one row of heads bobbing side to side between me and my peaceful bus-journey nirvana the illusion is shattered.

Lucky for me, today there is a free seat. Unlucky for me, the spare space is across the way from the biggest, most threatening-looking man on the planet. Forget Charles Bronson or Mike Tyson, this guy makes them look like candy floss; a bald-headed bruiser, bull-browed and shaped like a brick. 

He is sat down. But still, through his demolition-ball skull,  wiry hints of growing hair shave curly shards of plastic away from the bus roof.  I sit down. He doesn't notice.

There is no known reason this man should want to kill me – although he has clearly killed before – but i really don't want to give him the idea. But in an attempt not to annoy the man-mountain, I succeed in doing nothing else.

I glance continually over, my constant shuffling clearly unsettling him. I tell myself to just look forward  and concentrate on flying over my surroundings, all calm and serene. Not going to happen. One false move and this guy will surely twist my head off and put it with whoever else is in his big black bag. 

One more peek over and I seal my fate. He is looking straight at me. I smile. He doesn't. 

Then it occurs to me that a man of his size is not proud of it. He lives his life stuck in the body of a giant, frustrated and outcast. And now he thinks I'm laughing at him. 

Sure enough he stands up, curling his back over as his head gouges a deep groove in the roof. He towers over me. I try to mind my own business.

Sure enough the guy heads down the stairs and gets off the bus. Now I'm at work, ruing the fact that due to my own silly preconceptions, I took the bus to work - when I could have flown.

ABBA-holics Anonymous

I'm a boy. And I hate musicals.

There, that was easy, and that was the supposed hard bit - admitting I have a problem. Well there it is. I despise musicals.

I can't stand the fact that one minute characters are having a deep and meaningful conversation only for all concerned to burst into spontaneous sing-song a split second later.

A number of times per week I have my enjoyment of television ruined by a film, an advert or even the bloody Simpsons descending into tunular verse.

From what I could always tell, musicals are just one of those old-fashioned arts that I don't understand; much like cubism, or jazz. And as far as i'm concerned, musicals are one thing that history can keep for itself.

Yet here I am, on a Tuesday evening, after my weekly football (the most macho of activities) has been cancelled, and I'm sat watching Mamma Mia. Worse still, and this is the hardest part yet, it's actually pretty good.

The story is ridiculous, the sun is always shining, people young and old are skipping along wooden jetties and diving into shallow blue sea... in truth it couldn't be more sickening - yet something just works.

Maybe it's because the music of ABBA has never seemed so at home. Maybe it's because seeing James Bond break into harmonies makes me cooler than him. Maybe it's because the football season has finished and the good weather is turning me gay. Surely not, because everybody in the film is so disgustingly good looking I'm even starting to fancy Meryl Streep. (Apologies to Miss Streep... and to Katie!)

Or maybe, and this is the last Maybe, it is because it is so unashamedly soppy, ridiculous and enjoyable, that watching it provides some pathetic sort of catharsis. It doesn't make you want to cry or change or be somebody better - it's just fun.

So, whilst I'm far from healed, I stand by my opinion that the Sound Of Music and Annie and Joseph etc etc are all crap, I am willing to make a small concession...

I'm a boy - and I hate (most) musicals.

From Club World to death row for the price of a morning paper

Club Class? Surely not.

I turn to the helpful airport lady, charged with assisting hapless, out-of-practice travellers like me with the new self-service check-in machines.

"I'm meant to be in Premium Economy," I state, "I can't afford an upgrade."

"No, no," she assures me, "That's all booked and paid for - just go straight to the front of the queue to the Club Class counter to drop off your bags."

What a stroke of luck, I've never travelled first class, let alone Club Class but, before I start to revel in my new status as the undisputed King of Blag, I realise that surely in plimsoles, jeans and a 7-Up t-shirt I'm not quite dressed for the occasion.

Worries

In fact, I'm going to stick out like a sore thumb. I can see it now. I'll not be allowed on if I can't attach my complimentary cufflinks.

Who am I kidding? Cufflinks will be the last of my worries, the only reason somebody this casual can afford to travel like this is through a life of crime. They'll see it a mile off. I'll be arrested before take off and strip searched by Big Momma while the rest of Cufflink class looks on.

I've probably had murder evidence attached to my person and will become the victim of some elaborate stich-up, so that the criminal mastermind stuck in economy can be upgraded, while I go down in history as the Cufflink Killer.

By the time I'm airside, I have worried myself from the airport to death row, so I head off for some Garfunkelfodder to mull over the situation and bring myself back down to earth.

Gadget

With some much-needed food inside me I know I'm being ridiculous. But I still want to fit in. I can't afford a suit, or a shirt. And if I opt for some sort of posh gadget, that will only exacerbate my criminal potential.

Bang, then it hits me, the perfect Club class accessory, the one thing I can carry on to the plane in plain view to instantly mark me as a business mover and shaker - the Daily Telegraph.

Genius, the airline staff will see me and think ' he flies club class but dresses down, how down to earth'.

"No cufflinks today, sir?"

And I'll have some witty response ready to make them smile coyly, little knowing they're in the presence of the Great Pretender.

Arriving at WHSmith I run into my first problem - The Daily Telegraph is being given away free with every bottle of water. I consider changing my choice of broadsheet, but I really need some water as well.

I arrive at the departure lounge to find every single other waiting person carrying a bottle of water in one hand and a Daily Telegraph in the other. To add to this, there are piles of the paper discarded on the seats, in the corners and strewn across the floor.

Symbol

In one cruel moment my perfect status symbol is no longer fit for even the riff raff. They only use it to get water, an animalistic instinct - a primitive thought process if you ask me, almost monkey-like.

I decide that people have no idea of a status symbol when they see it, and that by keeping hold of my Daily Telegraph I will demand much more respect than by casting it aside for somebody to clean up - as long as I hide my free bottle of water!

Boarding the plane, I am dumbstruck. Club class far outweighs my expectations. Fully reclining seats, storage space, Champagne, privacy screen, foot rests and a set of electrical controls to rival even the pilot.

The dress code, however, is strikingly casual. Some passengers more casual than me and not a cufflink in sight. Clearly I had nothing to worry about and could have relaxed and enjoyed the airport entertainment.

Settling into my pod with a stupid big grin I prepare to make the most of my eight-hour upgrade that I could not afford in a million years. But first, one final insult as the stewardess approaches:

"Good morning and welcome to British Airways Club World," she smiles, "can I interest you in a complimentary Daily Telegraph?"

Buried alive in my bus-journey book

Every day, i get the bus to work. That's not strictly true. Not every day. I do not work every day. And the days when I'm not working, I do not get the bus to work as there would be no point. But at least four days a week, usually six, I get the bus to work.

Recently, however, i've been concerned that I could be doing more with my bus journeys. Read a book, write a blog, or even learn something - music theory or a new language. But in practice, I forget the book, pen or pad of paper that I need, and end up playing silly games with myself to pass the time.

You know the sort of things people do, maybe not always on the bus, but to stave off boredom whenever it creeps in. I'll shut my eyes and try to guess what corner I'm at five minutes later. For some reason I always open my eyes early - I have no idea why I would cheat at this, as it is of no benefit to me.

Another favourite is to imagine the lives of the people around me. For example, does the woman two rows in front go home to watch Come Dine With Me with a talking dog? Or does the man at the back deflate when he isn't needed in my field of vision. Collapsing into a box until next time I pass by.

With all this in mind, on Saturday I took a book for the bus journey. Slam by Nick Hornby - worth a read so far. It's about a young lad who... it's not important what the book is about. All you need know is I took a book to read on the bus.

Anyway, I boarded the busy bus, made my way upstairs and, as soon as it hit traffic, I buried myself in the book... never again.

19 pages later, I looked up. The previously bustling bus was totally empty and the previously busy roads were deserted.

Could it be that, whilst I'd been reading, some other-worldly force had wiped all life off the planet? Had Pig Flu mutated dramatically over 20 minutes? Was I cursed to live out the rest of my days riding this blasted bus route? For a split second, I was terrified.

It is obvious that while I concentrated on reading, I didn't notice people filter off the bus, and it makes sense that a business park would be free of traffic on the weekends. But if being engrossed in a book means losing all sense of awareness and reason, then maybe it is better suited to sometime other than a bus journey.

Needless to say, next week i'll think twice before packing anything other than a packed lunch in my bag for work.

It's been a while...

The title says it all really. Just as I was getting into the idea of blogging; writing down my daily beefs or shouldered chips, I ended my year-long relationship with the Internet, before I could even sign up to twitter. Don't worry, it was an amicable split, and now we're reunited - but make no mistake, I had to make the first phone call.

Obviously it would have been too simple to write all my ideas from the past two months into a blank work document and upload it now, so I just stored some things in my working memory and forgot others. Again, it matters little because doubtless they'll be remembered during future writings and humorously affect whatever I'm thinking at that time - whenever that may be.

Summing up eight weeks is going to be difficult, especially with the way my mind works - you know the drill, forever lost in a world of tangents, frequently ambling down a thoughtual cul-de-sac only to turn round at the end with no idea how i got there - much like now.

Hmm.

Ah, yeah, summing up the last eight weeks is not going to be easy when so much is going on in the today. Firstly, there's the swine flu or pig flu, or whatever jokey bacon/pork nickname you've already devised. I read today that normal flu kills up to 500,000 people per year, pig flu has so far managed a few hundred, and now the Government has ordered masks, so i'm sure we'll be fine.

Today also taught me that scientists have developed a flourescent dog (no joke!), with luminous red paws. For the record, I know that flourescent and luminous are technically different, but I don't care, the point remains the same.. it is not something a dog needs to be. Not unless it's for Paris Hilton, or a lollipop lady.

This morning had me worrying why the Lion, the King of the Jungle, lives in the savannahs (nowhere near the jungle)... did he move out? Fail to pay his jungle tax? Or was he framed for murder by the monkeys?

Do monkeys even live in the jungle? I toyed with typing "elephants" instead of monkeys, but i'm pretty sure they don't live in the jungle either. In fact, in one and a half paragraphs I've ruined the Jungle Book for myself and that was never the intention.

Tangent alert. Anyway, this morning is as far as my aforementioned poor memory will currently reach but, now with some of the mindular undergrowth out of the way, next time I write I may be able to see the wood for the trees.

Oh, it's just hit me, the original point of typing was this...

Bought Frank Hamilton's EP on a whim. Brilliant.

Maybe I'm better equipped for Twitter.

Big Ideas? Or Does James May Just Have Well-Trained Ears?

Flicking through freeview this evening, I stumbled across an episode of James May's Big Ideas. As the show gradually harnessed my ever-wavering concentration, May's confrontation with a hi-tech robot, capable of learning new words and making simple judgements, led him to ask if artificial intelligence would ever be capable of creativity.

To test this, he played two pieces of classical music on piano. One written by world-famous composer Ludwig Van Beethoven, the other produced by a computer, but in the style of the German symphonist.

May's argument was that the computer-penned piece was not "creative" as it had imitated previous patterns, randomly regenerating them to form a new score, whereas the real Beethoven piece contained emotion to which we can relate - to me however, both pieces sounded on a par (with the generated piece edging it in my opinion).

This got me to thinking, is there really emotion in music itself, or is it more to do with the emotion that we as individuals attach to it?

For instance, I know that Beethoven's most famous works were created in spite of his deafness, a remarkable achievement, instantly making the music more impressive to my untrained ears.

Again, fans of any musician who was brought up into poverty, has overcome illness or dealt with massive bereavement probably hang to his or her every word, whereas those unaware of the background story may listen and continue unaffected.

In fact, if you told me that James May's computer-generated symphony had been written by a blind 16-year-old boy as his father uttered his dying words beside him in the family home, then I would probably be fooled into finding the piece very emotive.

Maybe this is the future of pop music? Artifically produced music with a false background story to give it human interest. Maybe it's the present and we just don't know it.

Either way, having turned my mind inside out over-thinking the situation, I'm coming to conclusion that James May only included the segment on his programme to show that not only does he have an obscene knowledge of motor cars, a job to die for and a full head of hair, but he can also play the bloody piano.

A Headache The Size Of Europe

In my case, the finger of blame for a headache can usually be pointed squarely at the previous night and can be righted with an Aspirin and a fry-up. 

But this week, it was neither grape, grain, nor a bang on the brain which knocked me for six, but a five-minute segment of the evening news concentrating on the disadvantages of a British move into Europe. 

I could never claim to have an in-depth knowledge of this subject, as any articles read or information imparted always seems loaded with bias from one political extreme or the other, therefore I take it with a pinch of salt.

But traditionally, I have always been a supporter of the EU as a community in which members can share knowledge and expertise, learn from each others' mistakes and drive towards ambitions by competing to achieve common goals (lower carbon emissions, strong trade links etc)

The basis for this opinion comes partly from my understanding of a single European currency as the opportunity for a number of economies, some stronger and some weaker, to work together, helping each other out when a member runs into trouble.

However, if this was the root of my favourable stance towards the EU, then Thursday's news has hoisted me well and truly back up onto the fence by reminding me that along with a single currency, the objective of the EU is to have common laws for farming, policing and more.

This, to me, indicates a lack of logic bearing in mind just how delicately each different country must have tailored their farming and policing methods to suit their own climate, culture and traditions. 

Surely forcing sunny Spain to adhere to the same farming conventions as snowy Sweden will only result in the meltdown of one or other's crop cycle? And would applying the same policing to both laid-back Latinos and booze-fuelled Britons not result in one side of the coin descending into widespread carnage? 

As previously mentioned, I have never been a leading light on the subject, but thought I knew where my loyalties lay. 

Whilst I stand by the fact that the EU has the potential to bring our continent together both politically and socially, it now seems that a united Europe (essentially a socialist ideal) is becoming evermore nationalist in its outlook. Is it in danger of undercutting the very democratic values for which it originally stood? 

My answer: I don't know... But I do know I need an Aspirin.