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.
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