Monday, December 30, 2013

Minging


The British and Americans agree on most things and on a whole the similarities outweigh the differences.

When our cousins from over the Atlantic start to break away we generally hum and haw but eventually concede the point and adopt whatever new thing they have invented or telly show they are exporting. 

The special relationship will always be maintained and who cares if we have to invent acronyms like WMD to keep it that way.

Obesity, regime change, hot tubs, Miller Lite, Dodge RAM trucks, self-proclaimed greatest nation on earth status to name but a few of the things the British have gleefully welcomed into our green and pleasant land. We have managed so far to resist the temptation to adopt bad spelling and then there is the obvious word and overused comedy routine differences; Fanny, Rubber, Pants.

Sticking with words for a second. I am probably biased but I do think British slang is so much more versatile than its American equivalent. I am basing this on the diet of American shows I have been fed since I was a small child and my infrequent trips over there so am also most likely wrong.

Take vagina as a good example. Now don’t worry I am not going to use the vocabulary version of a WMD, the C word, here. I do also believe it’s a common noun either side of the Atlantic.

It’s also a word which should only ever be used as a word of last resort.

Please don’t dilute it by adding it to your everyday lexicon.
The C word is a word I want to keep in my armoury and on the few occasions I do use it I expect it to have the impact it should have. Situations like two drunken men staggering down the street, one hugs the other and says ‘come here ya daft c**tya’ shouldn’t happen.

This is wrong, not because the C word has been used, in this case as a term of endearment, but because it is depriving the rest of us from using it properly.

When Richard Gere turns to Lisa Blount towards the end of An Officer and a Gentleman and calmly but firmly calls her a C**t, its powerful. Its strong. It makes you sit up. You understand what he’s feeling. You understand he had no choice to use it. This is it being used in the correct context.

Anyway I won’t be using that word here - that would definitely be inappropriate.

But back to vagina. It’s an antiseptic word, like haemorrhoids or renal. Words which should stay locked up tight in a doctor’s cupboard alongside the catheters and adult nappies.

In American English, as I understand it, there are only three ways to describe a vagina; the C word, pus*y and of course the medicinal Vagina.

In British English there are loads, the three shared ones and then hundreds of homemade ones. Probably.

If I had to have a favourite, then it would be ‘Minge’.

Not because it’s a nice sounding word, more that it’s one of the more perfect words out there. I guess its a derivation of Minger, meaning very ugly. i.e. ‘She’s a minger mate’. It could also be derived from the more general ‘Minging’ i.e. ‘wouldn’t go there, that toilet is minging’.

Even if you have never heard the word Minging I bet you would be off in search of a bush rather than find out how accurate it was.

The same goes for Minge and now that you know the meanings of Minging and Minger it’s not a huge leap to understand Minge if you hadn’t worked it out already. Yes it’s a bit distasteful but is perfect in the context of describing ‘that’ if it is infact a minge rather than, say, a pus*y.

I like all of the regional dialects. I like that in such a small country they tend to overlap and interbreed so, for example, it becomes perfectly normal for a Glaswegian weegie to use Cockney rhyming slang. People from Norfolk are a bit weird though.

One of the more confusing differences between the home of the free and the other 300+ equally as free countries in the world are numbers.

Now you would think, on the face of it, given their binary nature, should never be different. In fact the differences are vast. Just within the uneasy ménage e trois of the UK, the US and France there are huge differences.

For example let’s look at the next ‘big’ number which comes after a Trillion. Contrary to popular belief this is not a Gazillion, that’s a made up word apparently (yes really). It’s real name is a Quadrillion.

Or is it?

In American numbers it is but in British numbers the number ten with fifteen zeros after is has the perfectly understandable and logical name ‘Thousand Million’. The French version is called a ‘Billiard’ – don’t ask me why, you need to ask a Frenchman.

And the differences keep on coming. 

Actually the only number which all three agree on is the Million.
Currency differences aside if you are a millionaire in the San Francisco, you would be one in Hull as well and you would also be one in Paris. There are no similarities though once we leave million behind.

I would like to say us Brits have got it right but I can’t.

When the Americans come up with the tongue twisting ‘Nonagintillion’ we go one better with a utterly undecipherable ‘Thousand quinquaquadragintillion’. At least we had the good grace to add Thousand before it but it doesn’t really help much. The French just drop the thousand and add ‘illiard’ to the end of most of them.

Just as an aside, adding ‘ard’ to the end of anything doesn’t add to its attractiveness. It will take some persuasion for me to play a game of Billiards. I like playing snooker, but Billiards sound horribly dull. Lard, well need I go on? It’s just not a good way to end a word.

My favourite number name if I had to pick one is the Googolplex. Not because of its name but because of what it represents. A googolplex is a number starting with 1 and ends with as many zeros as you can write before your hand gets tired. This was the brainchild of Milton Sirotta the 9year old nephew of the American mathematician Edward Kasner(ard). Its simplicity is its beauty, just don’t try measuring anything against it.

So my googolplex I would estimate to be somewhere in the region of a very British Thousand Octodecillion. My 4 year old son's would be maybe a British billion or an American Trillion. Stephen Hawkins’s would be 1.

I like the idea of a googolplex even if from a mathematical standpoint its reliability is somewhat shaky. I like it because it speaks to the meaningless nature of such numbers. What is the point of having a name for a number with 336 zeros after it? (Sesquinquagintillion). And if you have to have a name, which I dispute, why not give it one you can actually pronounce.

But given such large numbers have no place in the real world why bother giving them names at all. If you need such a number, say if you feel the need to calculate the weight of a particularly aggressive planet eating black hole, what’s the added value of giving the resulting number a name. You are after all weighing black holes, can’t you just be happy with that?

Also whatever the resulting number is, who cares? ‘Really, a thousand quinquaoctogintillion kilos? Wow, that is heavy….(long embarrassing pause) ......anyway did you see the game on the telly last night? No? Too busy weighing everything huh? Right I'll be off then’

Or how about simply saying it’s just heavy, or for added impact if you must try adding ‘very’ a few times and be done. Would work for me.

When it comes to actual banknotes and even in periods of super hyperinflation these numbers are still unnecessary. Upon gaining independence one US Dollar would buy you 0.8 of the newly created Zimbabwean Dollar. By 2006 with inflation standing at 11,000% one Dollar could buy you 688 trillion.

Even in such extreme situations it’s still going to be sometime before it becomes necessary to start figuring out how to pronounce or print Trestrigintillion.

I think numbers, like language will continue to be different wherever you are.

I am ok that the American Billion is now fairly well accepted as the global rule. This has been done out of necessity rather than for any other reason. Given Billion is a number which does exists in the real world there needed to be some common logic otherwise things could go wrong very easily and by eye-watering degrees as well.

I accept the French will never cease to keep adding ‘ard’ to the end of things so long as they accept this makes them a nation of Dull(ards).

I accept we Brits will continue to adopt everything American apart from the more clever things like language and numbers. 

I am happy to see Dodge RAM trucks struggling to park in an NCP multi-story car park. I am content to think about sitting in a hot tub in the rain. I don’t mind my backside growing a little wider but I will never bring myself to drink a bottle of Miller Lite.

Cos its minging.


Sunday, December 15, 2013

Pheromones


There are lots of things I don’t know or understand.

Conventional wisdom says that the older you are, the wiser you are. And I have come to the conclusion this is  false. 
It’s a white lie to temper the pain of getting older and realising you are no longer able to go out on the ran-dan for two nights consecutively.

What seems to be happening is the older I get the more stuff I look into and the more I look into the more I don’t understand. If I was less inquisitive I might be able to master the topics I have already struggled with but just when I seem to get to grips with something like, say, quantum physics. Another comes along, like Pheromones.

Now before you jump up and say you understand Pheromones, please read the following:

It is believed that mammals detect pheromones through an organ in the nose called the VNO (Vomeronasal Organ), and connects to the hypothalamus in the brain. The VNO in humans consists of just pits that probably do not do anything. If humans do respond to hormones, most likely they use their normal olfactory system.

Do you really understand Pheromones?

If you do please explain to me what a hypothalamus is or what the olfactory system is? Or for that matter what are the pits they refer to; arm, lava, money? And finally please note the use of the word ‘if’ in the paragraph above. If is a seldom used word in science. If you see ‘if’ written in a scientific paper, it generally means they don’t know either.

I don’t understand Pheromones and I would challenge anyone to say they do. Unless you are a Pheromone scientist that is, if such a thing exists, then I might believe you.

I might ask you why though.

Christmas and the madness which goes on at this time of year is another older and un-wiser subject of mine. I think I have blogged till I am blue in the face on this subject so I wont. 

Christmas is safe this time round.

Naturally though at this time of the year thoughts also turn to what we might or might not have achieved in the previous year and what we are resolving to definitely, definitely, do or stop doing during the next year. Definitely.

Let me just get past Christmas and then I will definitely eat less, definitely stop smoking, read more, study to become a doctor, stop having illicit thoughts about Amanda from purchasing or whatever dirty shameful thing it is you want to change.

All good stuff if it ever happens.

I myself prefer to depend on more tried and tested methods of determining what I am going to be doing tomorrow, the day after and so on.

I read my horoscope.

Now (I’m holding my hand up) before you say anything just hear me out.

Were the Greeks stupid?

I’m not talking about the current tax avoiding, ask Germany to bail them out and then complain when they do, dinner plate and economy breaking, version.
Not them, no.

I’m talking about the Greeks from ancient times. The ones who gave us Hippocrates, Leonidas, Archimedes, Plato, Aristotle, Socrates and, I might add, Astronomy.

They also gave us Astrology.

Astrology was a collateral byproduct from figuring out how the planets moved in relation to each other and what happens when you sit in the bath so yes, the ancient Greeks also gave us our daily horoscopes.

So if you believe that the volume of water displaced must be equal to the volume of the object submerged why not that you might meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger tomorrow?

My horoscope from Astrology.com for today tells me this:
What a relief! Your energy is returning, especially regarding affairs of the heart. Today you'll be freed from the bonds of doubt about your judgment. With you, self-doubt is an especially touchy subject. You're miserable when your confidence is gone. The energy flow has been re-established, although it may take you a few days to fully recover from the ordeal of recent weeks

And from CafeAstrology.com it tells me:
Prepare for the possibility of adjusting your plans today, dear Cancer, as wires can get crossed and plans can turn around, although it's likely only a temporary situation. Energy levels are not at their best right now. In fact, it can be difficult knowing what your next step will be, so aim to go with the flow, or take extra time to yourself if the flow is not very comfortable. Haste makes waste today, particularly with family and home matters, as well as in love.

I interpret this as my energy is returning. Or its not. I need to go with the flow because next steps are not clear. I also need to be careful rushing into something.

And here in lies the problem with horoscopes.

I don’t really check my horoscope just in case you were wondering. Aside from, that is, the weeks of intense and heavy research I have conducted for this blog.
No. I do what everyone else does and resolve to do something on the 31st

I also, like everyone else, break it two days later as the painful, sober, withdrawal infested cold light of the new year cuts through the party fog.

The problem with Horoscopes is they are just rubbish. Vague, contradictory and rubbish.

Oh and of course they are utterly made up.

They have as much probability of being correct as have fortune cookies, those stupid love heart sweets, a smelly gypsy with a snow globe in front of her or me for that matter.

I therefore give you my Horoscope for whatever day you end up reading this;

Sagittarius
Venus is in equinox soon and the aura from this celestial event will be affecting your mood. If not, its because you have managed to circumvent the negative ying waves. Don’t throw money away today as it will seriously affect your finances.

Leo
A disturbing warp has occurred in the moon-galaxy of your zodiac. Don’t worry, your energy levels will return with the ebb and flow of Taurus. Do not sleep with him/her tonight! You/she will get pregnant! And the baby will be really ugly - have a glass of milk and an early night.

Taurus
Alcohol and cake have taken their toll. Do not worry though, the plutonium rays from a recent Klingon retrograde will sort out your balance and you will be back to your normal happy self before you know it. If you are depressed, fat and an alcoholic – don’t drink or eat any more cake mind. Klingons cant help you. Try dieting, therapy and the AA.

Cancer
This is my star sign so tomorrow will be great. You will wake up in perfect harmony with the normally destructive Babylon waves and your body will feel perfectly equipped to deal with whatever the day has in store. You will also look great and be a great lover.

Libra
Don’t bother. Its gonna be bad whatever you do.

Gemini
If you share the house with a Libra, get the hell out. If you are with a Cancer, get back into bed with him/her, they are on fire. If you have neither go out and find a Cancer but be careful of mistaking a Leo for a Cancer. There will be consequences from such a mistake.

Virgo, Scorpio, Capricorn, Aquarius and Pisces
Whatever, a bit like Sagittarius

Aries
With a full moon equinox happening within the next twelve months anything could happen. Be a nice person, don’t pee in the shower or wear pink shirts if you are a guy.

And so on.

Its easy to do horoscopes. I could do twelve a day no problem. I might even put more effort into it if pushed.

What I don’t understand is why so many people actually read this stuff. As a bit of light-hearted fun yes but whole industries have grown up around this. Facebook and the rest of the internet is chock full of it. Newspapers are filled with this pseudo rubbish.

Astrology is fake, Pheromones are fake, quantum physics, as I have discovered, are also probably made up. 

Or maybe its just me.

Maybe as I get older and supposedly wiser I am just content to understand what I understand and everything else I will just drop into a box labelled ‘made up nonsense’. I’ve recently dropped Minecraft into that box along with Pheromones and now horoscopes.

It’s a big and growing box and this is what scares me. I’m terrified when the day arrives that I drop ‘Music or the youth of today’ into that box.

I therefore resolve in 2014 to start taking an interest in my thirteen year old son’s musical preferences. I will strive to become hip (again) next year. I will learn how to build badly pixelated stuff in a fake world with a rubbish looking axe. I will also sign up to a daily Facebook horoscope feed.

In short I will do anything to rid myself of the sudden liking I have for collecting fridge magnets, general aging and the realisation that my 43 years of collected wisdom is fairly useless.

I might even buy a motorbike.

Saturday, November 9, 2013

Planet Stanford


With a few hours to kill before my flight to London departed and not wanting to kick my heels around San Francisco airport I took the decision on the spur of the moment get off 101 and take a look at Stanford University.

I had heard rumours about an alternate, parallel world existing and wanted to see if they were actually true.

On planet Stanford apparently only the rich, beautiful and super smart are allowed in and I wanted to see it for myself.

Almost immediately after leaving the highway it was confirmed to me. I found myself driving up a tree lined road surrounded by manicured lawns and bubbling fountains. Ahead of me sat a low rise Spanish hacienda, squat, resplendent and seriously wealthy.

The Californian sun glinted through the leaves. The birds sang songs that only happy well fed and groomed birds can. Most birds sound desperate. Sodden Scottish crows are fucking miserable. 

A Stanford sparrow could lead a bel-canto opera.

I parked my car in a pristine carpark on campus and climbed out dressed appropriately for 15hours of travel; 7 year old shorts, t-shirt and flip flops.

On the greenest grass you have ever seen sturdy handsome young men threw small rugby balls between them. Studious pretty bespectacled young women sat cross legged under pine trees reading poetry and groups of teenagers quietly debated 17th century Hungarian politics.

Even the air was cleaner. It was as if the dirt and grime of Highway 101 only a 5minute drive away couldn’t break through the invisible force field protecting the Stanford idyll.

I stood a safe distance away. I was still jet lagged, smoking and drinking polystyrene coffee.

I was hiding.

No one smokes on planet Stanford and the few who looked in my direction gave me the sort of look normally reserved for lepers with child fiddling tendencies.

I peered into their chino and polo shirt filled perfect lives. I was a voyeur and stayed only for the time it took to smoke one cigarette.  I felt so out of place it was unsettling.

Stomping out the cigarette on the pristine tarmac I climbed back into my budget hire car and re-joined the dust, dirt and strip malls of 101.

Planet Stanford offered me nothing other than confirming its existence and making me feel grubby, poor and unhealthy.

But I’m not that unhealthy or even that grubby. I might have been skint in comparison but really I’m just a normal person with pretty much average everything.

Looking back on that moment now I can see it for what it was.

Those twatty, cheesy, happy clappy, arm and hammer, cleverer than you will ever be kids were the freaks, not me. So there that’s that.

As I grew up everyone I knew, who happened to think they were in a position to give me advice, would tell me fitting in wasn’t the way to go.

Stand out from the crowd. 
Don’t be a sheep. 
Lemmings are the stupid ones.
If Colin jumped off the bridge would you do the same?

Well no. I wouldn’t jump off the bridge but I might laugh with him at a drawing he just did of a penis on Shirley’s school jotter.  

I couldn’t then, and still can’t for that matter see the parallel that was always drawn between me getting into trouble by joining in with someone else’s silly prank and jumping to a horrible icy watery death. But they were the grown ups so they must know best.

So the wise advice I received was to not follow the crowd and make my own, unique way in the world. 

Sage advice indeed but it never really took into account the most immediate real world issues which in doing so this would have presented me:
  • People who stood out got punched, bullied and ended up with penises drawn on their school books.
  • People who stood out generally had no friends.
  • People who stood out generally were poor and had toast breath.

So I didn’t. I did my utmost to blend into the middle and kept saying no I wouldn’t jump off the bridge whilst staring at my shoes.

I hid behind the crowd clutching onto the median pole and watched from a safe distance as other less fortunate ones got wedgied. It was a survival technique which served me well.

But of course in the long run, the spekky kid with permanent marker water vole whiskers drawn onto his face ends up as David Bowie. The poor kid with a plastic Tesco’s school bag ends up as Morrissey or Jon Bon Jovi. 
They are the ones who end up with more girls and money than they can handle. And this is how it should be. The world is doing the right thing when this happens.

Its Karma working properly.

Getting lost in the crowd isn’t so bad either though. If I was an Impala sauntering through the savannah I would make sure I was in the middle. It’s a guarantee of safety. The odd weird one jumping around doing handstands to impress the girls on the periphery might look cooler. He might even get more interest from the girl Impalas (Impala-esses?)  but I guarantee I will be having the last laugh as a pride of lions chew on his ears.

In my world I know it means I will never be the first to find Eldorado but it does mean I will survive long enough to visit it some time later as a tourist. And with a handy audio guide rather than a nasty dose of malaria.

How all this is linked to the beautiful freakish people of Stanford I honestly don’t know. On one hand I was trying to make them out to be the oddballs and on the other they seem to be the epitome of what is considered in khaki wearing American wholesome and good looking.

I guess it’s all relative, in Stanford I stood out. I was the odd one out just waiting to have my head shoved down a toilet. In another environment I am as invisible as they come.

So my advice for what it’s worth is to blend in.

Only stand out if you are absolutely firmly 100% confident of your ground. Be bloody sure there are no lions around before you start your front leg hopping show. Make sure you can actually sing before climbing on the x-factor stage and be really sure of your peeing ability before challenging John ‘Pneumatic’ McPhee to a highest up the wall competition.

Be quiet, keep your head down and don’t shout a lot.

You might not get groupies, drugs or the attention of a bunch of in-season Impalas but that’s ok, you will also survive. Leave the rest to the Sid Viciouses, Jim Morrisons, Kurt Cobains or Indiana Joneses of this world.

They are better at it, much better looking and you can always watch them on telly or read about them in the newspaper from the safety of a warm comfortable magnolia life.

Or, ignore everything I have just said. Stand out, be seriously cool and have a lot of fun.

Just don’t do a header off a bridge because Colin did. 

That would be stupid.