About to log out, I hit the "Next Blog" button instead. As you'll know, the result was that I was fed a succession of randomly selected blogs. Oh, the places that impulse can take a chap.
I browsed rapidly through 20 or 30 blogs, my heart sinking a little further with each new page. I would hazard that four of every five was proclaiming the author's Christian beliefs. Worse, more than one author was expressing pity for those who fail to share their superstitions.
Yes, superstitions. There is no "God" and it is supremely arrogant to assert otherwise. How dare you tell me that your spiritual beliefs are correct and that most of the world's people, who believe something else, are all wrong? Please, whatever your particular flavour of Christianity, don't wave your "evidence" at me. I really can't be bothered to respond with the wealth of equally convincing "evidence" that underpins the beliefs of Muslims, Sikhs, Buddhists and all the rest.
Were I ever sentenced to having to wield executive power, I'd outlaw the teaching of religions. All religions.
In science, "I don't know," is always an acceptable answer to any question. That's why scientists conduct experiments. Religion - any religion - is the invented answer to, "Who am I and where do I come from?" Simply, people don't like not knowing the answer to spiritual questions and have an emotional need to deny that our existence is without purpose. Hence, "God" - or gods.
The aspect of organised religion that most irks me is the stunning hypocrisy of most of its adherents. Don't tell me that you're a Christian if you have a bank account. Is saving for your own future really more important than helping less fortunate individuals? Your car is five years old? If you sold it and bought a ten-year-old model, how many of the world's starving could you feed with the change? Unless all of your personal possessions are both absolutely essential and the cheapest possible options, don't tell me that you're a Christian, because I'll call you a liar. You're a Christian, but you're wearing a cheap Timex? Buying the cheapest watch, instead, would have allowed you to do some good for other people, you hypocrite.
Don't start me on the subject of people sleeping rough in the streets of Rome while Benedict, whose bed is warm and comfortable, heads one of the world's most powerful and wealthiest organisations and is surrounded by unnecessary, expensive ornamentation. If the Vatican liquidated all of its global assets and used the proceeds for charitable relief, poverty would become history overnight.
OK, rant over, let's find out if anyone is listening.
Wednesday 16 December 2009
Don't ask me to weep
I hear that my stalker is now unemployed, although the details are sketchy. I'm not even going to shed crocodile tears, because I've been holding back one or two things from these pages. Let's just say that it's likely that his job disappearing was a direct consequence of his own stupidity and obstinacy. Although not a colleague, and certainly not a friend, his application of those same qualities was beginning to threaten my own continuing employment. If you don't understand, it doesn't matter. If you do know who and what I'm talking about, it's about time you stopped hiding in the bushes to spy on me, you sneaky...
Ah, what the heck... I'm in marketing, so my job is never going to be safe.
I just wish that my job security weren't so dependent upon factors beyond my influence, particularly the performance of other people. I recall all too well how, a dozen or so years ago, a client fired my then employer because they'd finally realised that the advertising was dreadfully amateur and not delivering results. To avoid the embarrassment of continuing meetings with the agency, they cancelled the PR as well. As I'd just spent the months since my joining on turning around a dismal PR history by hugely boosting the quality and quantity of the coverage, I was somewhat unimpressed.
Another former agency was fired by a client, after a couple of years of unquestioned excellence. On - very belatedly - hearing the news (a story in itself), I persuaded their most senior folks to turn the firm cancellation into an invitation to re-pitch. What could I do, I asked, to maximise the likelihood of our success. The answer was a wince. Then, looking me straight in the eyes, the company founder was succinct: "Don't bring X." As this referred to the MD/proprietor, I was left in a quandary; I sought the advice of somebody who knew her well and he confirmed that it would be most unwise even to pass on this information to her. Fortunately, the re-pitch invitation was withdrawn, due to her sending a succession of abusive communications to the erstwhile client. I still have the far-from-cheap and absolutely perfectly targeted farewell/thanks present they sent me. Within weeks, I resigned.
Hey ho.
Ah, what the heck... I'm in marketing, so my job is never going to be safe.
I just wish that my job security weren't so dependent upon factors beyond my influence, particularly the performance of other people. I recall all too well how, a dozen or so years ago, a client fired my then employer because they'd finally realised that the advertising was dreadfully amateur and not delivering results. To avoid the embarrassment of continuing meetings with the agency, they cancelled the PR as well. As I'd just spent the months since my joining on turning around a dismal PR history by hugely boosting the quality and quantity of the coverage, I was somewhat unimpressed.
Another former agency was fired by a client, after a couple of years of unquestioned excellence. On - very belatedly - hearing the news (a story in itself), I persuaded their most senior folks to turn the firm cancellation into an invitation to re-pitch. What could I do, I asked, to maximise the likelihood of our success. The answer was a wince. Then, looking me straight in the eyes, the company founder was succinct: "Don't bring X." As this referred to the MD/proprietor, I was left in a quandary; I sought the advice of somebody who knew her well and he confirmed that it would be most unwise even to pass on this information to her. Fortunately, the re-pitch invitation was withdrawn, due to her sending a succession of abusive communications to the erstwhile client. I still have the far-from-cheap and absolutely perfectly targeted farewell/thanks present they sent me. Within weeks, I resigned.
Hey ho.
Thursday 10 December 2009
Reconsidering atheism
Today marks the second anniversary of my joining my current employer. It's always good to feel valued, trusted and appreciated.
Being a key member of a team is not, of course, something that one should ever take for granted. Things can change.
I am reminded of the words of Charles de Gaulle: "The graveyards are full of indispensable men."
Being a key member of a team is not, of course, something that one should ever take for granted. Things can change.
I am reminded of the words of Charles de Gaulle: "The graveyards are full of indispensable men."
Confessing
I've been a very naughty boy.
Since my last posting, I've been enjoying the occasional quiet chuckle at the thought of my stalker hunched grimly over the keyboard in a determined trawl through cyberspace to find out what I've been saying about them. Just how long would it take, I've been wondering, before they realise that the aforementioned "other blog" doesn't actually exist?
Since my last posting, I've been enjoying the occasional quiet chuckle at the thought of my stalker hunched grimly over the keyboard in a determined trawl through cyberspace to find out what I've been saying about them. Just how long would it take, I've been wondering, before they realise that the aforementioned "other blog" doesn't actually exist?
Wednesday 9 December 2009
Does this mean I've finally made it?
Move over, Mel Gibson et al, and make room for me to join you - I've acquired my very own stalker!
Stop laughing, you lot, I'm serious.
I've learned that there is an individual lurking in the cybershadows and hanging on my every word. They haven't added me to their "following" list or commented on any of my posts, presumably to retain their anonymity. This is no figment of my imagination, however, as they have made clear through a mutual acquaintance that I'm under constant scrutiny. As they would know that this would be rapidly passed on to me, I'd have thought that rather undermines any attempt at concealment, but...
If anybody really cares to know more, do check my other blog to find the identity of my stalker - and, with no punches pulled, what I really think about this.
A stalker, ye gods! Gosh, isn't it exciting?
Stop laughing, you lot, I'm serious.
I've learned that there is an individual lurking in the cybershadows and hanging on my every word. They haven't added me to their "following" list or commented on any of my posts, presumably to retain their anonymity. This is no figment of my imagination, however, as they have made clear through a mutual acquaintance that I'm under constant scrutiny. As they would know that this would be rapidly passed on to me, I'd have thought that rather undermines any attempt at concealment, but...
If anybody really cares to know more, do check my other blog to find the identity of my stalker - and, with no punches pulled, what I really think about this.
A stalker, ye gods! Gosh, isn't it exciting?
Tuesday 8 December 2009
Names, numbers
As the folk of Wootton Bassett ready themselves to honour another cortege, it seems that a milestone is passing. We all know that a soldier of the Royal Anglians has become the 100th British fatality in Afghanistan during this year. In due course, we shall hear his name. We have, though, moved beyond names and into numbers.
At the moment, the tally stands at 237 of our people lost since 2002; the first of these, as only the regiment now remembers, was also a Royal Anglian.
The longer the campaign continues, the higher the toll, the more possible that we at home shall become anaesthetised and allow ourselves to regard the numbers as just that. These were people.They volunteered, for whatever motives, to serve their country in whatever ways our political masters deemed appropriate. We can assume that, when accepting the risks, these public servants were not financially motivated.
Meanwhile...
It was ever thus.
At the moment, the tally stands at 237 of our people lost since 2002; the first of these, as only the regiment now remembers, was also a Royal Anglian.
The longer the campaign continues, the higher the toll, the more possible that we at home shall become anaesthetised and allow ourselves to regard the numbers as just that. These were people.They volunteered, for whatever motives, to serve their country in whatever ways our political masters deemed appropriate. We can assume that, when accepting the risks, these public servants were not financially motivated.
Meanwhile...
It was ever thus.
Monday 7 December 2009
Snakes and ladders
Saturday afternoon found me picking my way between puddles with very little on my agenda, too many hours in which to do it and limited resources. Then, I struck lucky. I don't know where Heaven is, but its waiting room may be in Croydon.
Four-seat booths with Formica-topped tables, bearing traditilonal condiments and tip-to-pour spouted sugar jars. Uniformly T-shirted waitresses who would regard Kate Moss as a snack. Good coffee, sold cheaply and served in the largest of mugs. Images of Elvis everywhere, leavened by the occasional Hepburn and Monroe. The world's least lifelike but certainly lifesize mannequin, resembling nobody, but clearly intended to be the aforementioned late rocker. So far, so what. All pleasingly kitsch, but not necessarily worth a visit other than to escape the showers.
They play taped music. Real, proper, old-fashioned music. I stayed until I was ejected as the last lingering customer, returning on Sunday. It's surprising how long a coffee can last, when one puts one's mind to it. The most recent waxing dated from 1970, with most having been around for at least four decades. From rockabilly to doo-wop, from surf to pure pop.
In case I've not made myself clear, I liked Sara's Diner. I shall return.
Four-seat booths with Formica-topped tables, bearing traditilonal condiments and tip-to-pour spouted sugar jars. Uniformly T-shirted waitresses who would regard Kate Moss as a snack. Good coffee, sold cheaply and served in the largest of mugs. Images of Elvis everywhere, leavened by the occasional Hepburn and Monroe. The world's least lifelike but certainly lifesize mannequin, resembling nobody, but clearly intended to be the aforementioned late rocker. So far, so what. All pleasingly kitsch, but not necessarily worth a visit other than to escape the showers.
They play taped music. Real, proper, old-fashioned music. I stayed until I was ejected as the last lingering customer, returning on Sunday. It's surprising how long a coffee can last, when one puts one's mind to it. The most recent waxing dated from 1970, with most having been around for at least four decades. From rockabilly to doo-wop, from surf to pure pop.
In case I've not made myself clear, I liked Sara's Diner. I shall return.
Thursday 3 December 2009
The meaning of "service"
Lately, I have been embroiled in a frustrating dialogue with a company called ... well, maybe I'll identify it at some future point. Suffice it to say, for now, that this organisation claims to have served more than one million consumers to their complete satisfaction. Its raison d'être is the repair of white goods.
Only since it failed to satisfy me have I discovered the wealth of web sites upon which there is ample evidence that I am not the first to be rendered less than fully gruntled by its inability to fulfill its promises.
This lack of service, from a service organisation, has been exacerbated by its apparent reluctance to communicate either internally or with the customer. Having spent a couple of decades working in communications, I am not impressed. Those readers who know me will be unsurprised at my willingness to escalate; I now await further contact from somebody rejoicing in the title of "Director of Warranty Services." As yesterday morning's promise to, "respond by close of play today," turned out to mean an 18:16 email, I'm hardly holding my breath.
Watch this space.
Only since it failed to satisfy me have I discovered the wealth of web sites upon which there is ample evidence that I am not the first to be rendered less than fully gruntled by its inability to fulfill its promises.
This lack of service, from a service organisation, has been exacerbated by its apparent reluctance to communicate either internally or with the customer. Having spent a couple of decades working in communications, I am not impressed. Those readers who know me will be unsurprised at my willingness to escalate; I now await further contact from somebody rejoicing in the title of "Director of Warranty Services." As yesterday morning's promise to, "respond by close of play today," turned out to mean an 18:16 email, I'm hardly holding my breath.
Watch this space.
Tuesday 1 December 2009
It can't be December yet and I'm only 21
The season to be jolly is now bearing down upon us ever more obviously. December 2009, already? I demand a recount. There remain but 30 days during which I may protest truthfully that I shall not reach 50 until next year. Ye gods.
Monday 30 November 2009
Hush now, Jock
It has come to my attention that today is the feast day of St. Andrew, patron saint of Scotland. This will probably be marked in northern parts by much revelry and nationalist braying from chaps in plaid skirting, ungrateful for the endless subsidies from the civilised south.
Let's be quite clear about this. Braveheart was a travesty, not a documentary. Scotland is not a country in its own right, but is merely a province which we regard with the same affectionate tolerance one affords a wayward toddler. Before it was taken under our wing, it spent centuries achieving nothing of note, sitting back in jealous awe as the English conquered the world.
So, Hamish McHaggis, hush your bleating. Scotland is not a real country and hasn't been a nation state for more than 350 years. Get over it.
Let's be quite clear about this. Braveheart was a travesty, not a documentary. Scotland is not a country in its own right, but is merely a province which we regard with the same affectionate tolerance one affords a wayward toddler. Before it was taken under our wing, it spent centuries achieving nothing of note, sitting back in jealous awe as the English conquered the world.
So, Hamish McHaggis, hush your bleating. Scotland is not a real country and hasn't been a nation state for more than 350 years. Get over it.
Bath City 1, Forest Green Rovers 2
It was a game of two halves and we had a mountain to climb but the boys done well and give it 110 per cent. It's a funny old game though and everyone is as sick as a parrot.
Friday 27 November 2009
Politics
As I sat bemused by Question Time on BBC1 last night, a weekly routine, the performance - and that's certainly the mot juste - of Lord Falconer prompted the mental re-working of a one-liner that was doing the rounds about 25 years ago. Then, it referred to the limited understanding of computers among those charged with selling them. Anyway...
Q: What's the difference between a member of the British Cabinet and a used car salesman?
A: A used car salesman knows when he's telling lies.
Meanwhile, the Chilcot enquiry rumbles along. We're supposed to be impressed by the staged leaking, a drip at a time, of snippets of 'new' information. This is, one assumes, intended to engender public belief in the fairness of the proceedings. We all know, of course, that Tony Bliar (sic) and his cronies will not be held to account.
Don't misunderstand me. I was in favour of taking out Hussein, although it should have been done the first time we bloodied his nose. I simply resent being patronised with obvious lies about our reasons for setting the tanks to roll. Some of us knew that this was a war intended to secure a significant contribution to the West's oil supplies and had no problem with that from the outset. I write, of course, as a former soldier who served in that region.
The lack of any coherent exit strategy concerns me, as it continues to concern me about Viet Nam. Sorry, I meant Afghanistan, but it's a forgiveable confusion. As ever, Question Time was followed by This Week, during which Michael Portillo cut to the very nub by saying that our position can be summarised in two short sentences: "We won't win. We can't leave."
And so to work.
Q: What's the difference between a member of the British Cabinet and a used car salesman?
A: A used car salesman knows when he's telling lies.
Meanwhile, the Chilcot enquiry rumbles along. We're supposed to be impressed by the staged leaking, a drip at a time, of snippets of 'new' information. This is, one assumes, intended to engender public belief in the fairness of the proceedings. We all know, of course, that Tony Bliar (sic) and his cronies will not be held to account.
Don't misunderstand me. I was in favour of taking out Hussein, although it should have been done the first time we bloodied his nose. I simply resent being patronised with obvious lies about our reasons for setting the tanks to roll. Some of us knew that this was a war intended to secure a significant contribution to the West's oil supplies and had no problem with that from the outset. I write, of course, as a former soldier who served in that region.
The lack of any coherent exit strategy concerns me, as it continues to concern me about Viet Nam. Sorry, I meant Afghanistan, but it's a forgiveable confusion. As ever, Question Time was followed by This Week, during which Michael Portillo cut to the very nub by saying that our position can be summarised in two short sentences: "We won't win. We can't leave."
And so to work.
Wednesday 25 November 2009
Be not misled
My last post concerned the subject of football - or, for readers in the USA, soccer. I am indisputably male and therefore, by definition, have usually-dormant Neanderthal tendencies, but my enjoyment of watching football (rugby, baseball etc.) should not be taken as an indication that I have an IQ below room temperature.
As they would say in Croydon, I is well brainy, innit.
As they would say in Croydon, I is well brainy, innit.
Tears on Merseyside
So, the mighty Liverpool FC have failed again.
Oh, how we all weep. Not. Much more of this and they may have to start learning some humility, however unlikely that may seem. I'm so old that I remember when they used to win championships.
Meanwhile, we are now within 100 hours of the ultimate footballing machine, Bath City FC, taking on the upstart Forest Green Rovers for the prize of a place in the draw for the Third Round of the FA Cup. Come on, you stripes!
Oh, how we all weep. Not. Much more of this and they may have to start learning some humility, however unlikely that may seem. I'm so old that I remember when they used to win championships.
Meanwhile, we are now within 100 hours of the ultimate footballing machine, Bath City FC, taking on the upstart Forest Green Rovers for the prize of a place in the draw for the Third Round of the FA Cup. Come on, you stripes!
Tuesday 24 November 2009
Tiles and tiling, anyone?
One thing I have noticed, in skimming through a variety of blogs, is that it's not uncommon for a blog to be created and then, after the creation of the initial post, simply left to rot.
So, here is a second posting.
Finally, a request... Can anyone recommend any good blogs, ezines, sites etc. which deal with the subject of wall and floor tiling?
So, here is a second posting.
Finally, a request... Can anyone recommend any good blogs, ezines, sites etc. which deal with the subject of wall and floor tiling?
Losing my virginity
No, don't get excited, I'm only teasing. The title refers to the fact that, while I have contributed to the blogs of others, this represents the first dipping of my toe into the water as a blog creator.
So, is there anyone out there and, if so, on what topic(s) would you like me to blog?
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