Ebola outbreak: there is no hope for us if we cannot first overcome our striking arrogance

Seems to me, the favoured way of starting an article like this appears to be a harsh reality check presented by way of a difficult-to-fathom collection of numbers. In keeping with that, I could start with a series of shocking statistics about ebola related death rates. But I won’t. Aside from saying that the current death toll stands at something like 4,447, with as many as 10,000 people per-week likely to be infected in various places across the world very soon – whose figures do you trust? – I don’t really feel there is much point. The fact that the word outbreak is now openly being used in both the media and the medical community should tell us everything we need to know. Of course, the definition of outbreak varies depending on the thing that happens to be outbreaking, but in this case we’re talking about a disease that is more expansive in its reach than what medical experts believe to be normal or has historically been the case. Either way, over 8,000 people across our globe are believed to be harbouring this nasty, deadly virus, and there will be more deaths on the way very soon. We can play it cool and manipulate the figures as much as we like, but one aspect of the truth is difficult to argue with: if we were ever expecting ebola, we were looking the other way when it finally arrived. Now it’s here, it’s becoming obvious that if we do know what to do, we’re not in agreement about how to do it, or even if we should bother to at all. Lots of weighing-up is going on, yet some people’s scales are more wonky than others.

By today’s social media and Google-won’t-load-my-page-and-it’s-been-a-full-5-seconds-I’m-considering-going-to-another-network standards, ebola is, of course, nothing particularly new. The mysterious haemorrhagic fever first cropped up back in 1976, in what we now call the Democratic Republic of Congo. Ever since then, it’s more or less silently been wiping out unfortunate poor people who never stood even the remotest chance against ebola to begin with.

Then it came to the west, and people started to actually give a shit.

For me, the worst thing about something like this – aside from the obvious worst thing, which is that innocent people are losing their lives daily in a horrible virus atrocity that cannot be stopped – is just how much there is to think about. And it’s not like that information is forming an orderly queue, either. It seems each facet of it is vitally important for us to not only know right now, but act on, delegate and decide.

Do we start with worrying about closing borders? Or should we focus on a cure? Should we do both simultaneously? Equally, it would seem sensible to accept the fact that ebola is in full-flow and fight the symptoms, rather than just leaving people to rot in a room while we figure out how not to catch it – to accept that only by trying to help those who are sick can we truly understand the thing in its demolition-heavy active state. Keep looking, though, and you tend to see the same thing rearing its ugly head, time and time again: wherever your starting point is, not even the experts in ebola seem to really understand exactly how it can be transmitted. For me, while swiftly dodging the tricky subject of border closing, etc, this is a very good place to start.

Since the outbreak’s beginning, we’ve been told that ebola can do this or does do that. Not possibly, but more or less definitively. For example, it can’t be transmitted through the air – don’t be silly, it doesn’t have wings. It can be transmitted by direct contact, however…whatever that actually means. Aside from stating how ebola can be passed by infected bodily fluids, nobody is keen on specifics here. But in a world where every new day begins with a new contradiction – in the past few days those contradictions have become so striking and obvious and dominant that it is hard not to darkly laugh – it’s no longer possible to have an accurate idea of what we’re talking about. As I type these words, I wonder if ebola can be transmitted through layers of plastic, or if its next mutation will present in different, unexpected symptoms that are entirely invisible to all and utterly without any warning whatsoever.

One look on social media, and across the news, will tell you that steadfast limits have already been set for the ebola virus. In what can only be deemed an act of pure human arrogance and immense scientific indulgence, alleged experts who don’t even understand how precaution-taking-people are getting horribly ill are saying that deaths in the UK are possible but not likely (at the time of writing). Worse, it sounds a lot like these experts haven’t even seen the film Outbreak – if they had I think they’d be much more worried. This comes merely days after ebola claimed various people in other parts of the world where the exact same thing was also said to be true.

Then there’s the evolutionary standpoint, which is downright ugly. To say that viruses have the upper-hand on us would be something of a major understatement. And, in truth, it could – and very likely will, unless I’m being arrogant – genuinely be the thing that kills us all. Viruses don’t care much for limits, and they don’t really ever die, either. The best that can be hoped for a virus is that it will transfer to another less-fortunate species who will then have to deal with it for a few hundred – preferably thousand – years before passing it onto something we consider even less worth having around us. Who knows exactly how the hell ebola got here to the human population. The point is that our magnificent arrogance is standing like a massive brick wall between us and any kind of positive progress.

Nowadays, we are all ebola experts, and that saying could be taken a little more literally than I intended – thanks to the fact that, by the looks of it, the average non-expert person has about as much chance of recognising someone with ebola symptoms as a WHO professional. Not to devalue their (the experts in question) hard work and supreme understanding of what’s going on here, but only a few days ago people seemingly in-the-know were shouting adamant that someone with ebola could not get on a plane without being noticed as an obvious threat by those around them.

That was fine, and it sounded comforting for a while, but then we learned that a nurse had displayed signs of ebola just the day after getting off a flight to the United States. More alarmingly still, the authorities are now monitoring x amount of people who were on that flight for possible ebola symptoms. Thing is, with the influenza season now teetering upon us, it’s going to be tough to tell the difference without dragging each and every one into a booth and performing an awful lot of expensive blood-work.

One of the most irritating things about all this, for me, is that we have seen infections and viruses spread a million times before. Every year we all put as much distance as is possible between those who are sneezing all over the place, and many of us still fail miserably to not become targets. So, in theory, we should be well-practiced for this kind of outbreak, should we not? In a way, when you simplify things, ebola is like the common-cold but a million times worse. Look up the symptoms if you want. Or just watch the film Outbreak.

Finding the reality amongst all the carnage is proving to be more and more difficult as time goes on. Just how deadly is ebola? Just how much should we be worried? Locking down entire countries is a nice idea in theory, but are any of us actually prepared for the result of that? Surely a complete lockdown would be enormously damaging to our economy just as much as everyone else’s. A true, total lockdown might involve nobody coming in or out of an awful lot of countries for a very long period of time. It sounds over-dramatic to say it, but who would deliver the precious ebay goods that many of us constantly bid for, if it got to a stage where only health experts could go in and out? Stop trade and you don’t have much left aside from an awful lot of angry citizens and not much to do. Remember, the internet relies on international commerce. If we do have to stop the wheels turning, it may cripple us, and ebola will still be there to live another day when we re-open the borders. That’s the really aggravating thing about ebola, and the kind of miserable bastard illnesses it hangs around with: ebola, quite literally, has all the time in the world. In fact, it has much more. If the going gets tough and the world does finally explode into stardust, it’ll just transfer to the nearest piece of flying space rock and wait around for a billion years or so until it finds a suitable host. Perhaps one of the most freaky things about viruses is that they always find a host, yet care nothing for finding a host. Ebola, as far as I can see it, is just hanging around, waiting to drain the life out of anyone it comes into contact with and it doesn’t even know it. How do you combat an enemy who does not even know it’s the enemy…a brilliantly adaptable enemy that (probably) doesn’t have a brain and is infatuated with taking something whole and making it zero?

A partial lockdown may be preferable, but is that any better than no lockdown at all? In truth, is there such a thing as a partial lockdown? Or is that like having a partial wee? Try having a partial wee, I dare you. It’ll only end in tears when you walk away. Tears of more than one kind, I tell you that much.

Ebola is now a pop-culture phenomenon. The Jimmy Saville of infectious diseases, if you like. The way we perceive as humans means that we have no choice but to consider ebola a vast enemy that knows only too well what it is doing. Just like Cancer, and all the other horrible fuckers out there that routinely make the human race’s lives a collective misery, ebola is malevolent and knowing and lots of little angry people seen through a microscope and that’s the way we like it – yet if this is a fight, it’s like the hand of a God smacking-out a tiny, defenceless squirrel that was never the one to gather all the nuts. Thinking about ebola this way normalises it and makes it flawed (bringing a low IQ squirrel into it just ridicules the argument, but too late now…). Yet, so far, we haven’t detected too many flaws. That’s because ebola has been around for a very long time already, and it’s had about a million more years than us to evolve. So it doesn’t particularly do flaws, or so it strikes me. It’s a hard thing to remind ourselves of, but we will never catch it up, because by the time we catch up with where it is right now, or even where it was a hundred years ago, it’ll be so far ahead that we’ll be dead in the ground and turned into carbon.

I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s thinking it, but I personally don’t know what to do about all this ebola worry. And I feel like I should do something, seeing as we’re all in this together. One thing is for certain: I will not be volunteering to go and fight ebola. I make no apologises for that, either. I’m scared to death and I have plenty of first-world excuses, so don’t even try me.

So the real question is…what do any of us do? Should we riot and demand to know what the authorities know…if they do, in fact, know anything? Or is the fact that we are being protected actually good for us? Can any of us outside of a very few people actually handle the truth? What if this is the end? Is it good for us to really be aware of what we are fighting?

And about that – there’s a lot of talk about us getting over-excited. Over dramatic. It won’t be the end, it can’t be, we have this under control. That kind of thing.

Now, I hate to break it to these people, but it can be the end, and there probably isn’t a great deal we can do about it if it is. If it’s coming, it’s coming, and no amount of posting over-confident statements on The Guardian’s comments sections is going to change that fact. What’s probably better is to be grateful to and for all those people who have been – and are presently – volunteering to help keep this thing in-check. They are the ones bringing the wall down, even if only in mouse-sized pieces.

There is another side to all this that’s even more troubling, and so far I haven’t read much about it: ebola could just be the warm-up act. The half-decent-but-not-amazing support gig for something far more deadly and catchy and easily transmittable. If that’s the case, we can look forward to one hell of an encore. One we will not be here to see, think or feel about. There will be no refunds, so don’t even bother to ask.

Looking at the symptoms presented by ebola does not make for a very smiley picture, if that really needs to be said. The picture is, instead, extremely dark and very grim. People who get ebola usually die a horrible death which involves lots of blood leaving the body and lots of mess you can’t so much as go near without worrying about contracting the virus yourself. If there is something out there and it is more deadly than ebola, we had better wisen up, and quickly.

So, instead of speculating and turning the other way when we hear something we don’t like the sound of, I say we face up to it. I say we explore what’s being said and listen to every argument fully before we decide it’s invalid or misled – it may be just what saves us, or saves others. Maybe the authorities will listen if enough people question the status quo. Ultimately, in the grand scheme of things, we are running fast out of time to be arrogant and headstrong and thinking we know everything. Let’s get our bloody heads together. This one could just be a biggie.

Katie Piper: new life, new baby

Katie PiperYou meet someone in a bar, you smile, you laugh, you fall in love. It is perfect and effortless, the way things ought to be. Then, one day, you’re walking down the street and, completely out of nowhere, your entire body feels like it’s on fire. You’re not sure what’s going on, exactly, but the feeling is so strange and terrible – so otherworldly, unfamiliar and desperate – that you know it’s bad. You realise you are in serious trouble. In fact, when you wake up, you realise you might die, and that’s just the beginning. There is so much more to overcome.

Many know Katie Piper as the ever-smiling TV presenter and former model. The face of numerous documentaries. Many more will know her as the acid-attack victim and subsequent creator of the Katie Piper Foundation. The woman who courted an over-zealous Facebook fan, without knowledge of his sinister past.

Back in February 2008, Katie was living a normal life with the same common concerns of many people her own age. She was doing well on her path to success in the world of digital media, and thrived on the new challenges she was being given.  In March, all that changed when Katie’s ex-boyfriend Daniel Lynch hired someone to carry out a vicious attack. The guy who threw the sulphuric acid at Katie went by the name of Stefan Sylvestre. Both men, unsurprisingly, are now serving life sentences in jail.

Acid attacks, horribly and surprisingly for some, are actually not that uncommon. The savaging effect of sulphuric acid – which has been used for metal cleaning, the production of explosives and fertilizers, amongst many other things – makes it the perfect weapon…if your goal is to destroy somebody’s facial features, confidence, self-believe and entire soul. And with acid attacks, burns are far from the only concern. Because acid corrodes skin so effectively, it leaves open the possibility of secondary problems: infection, cardiac arrest, multiple organ issues. The list goes on and on, and is compounded by the fact that skin is the largest organ of the human body.

Having followed Katie’s recovery with a reasonable degree of attention over the years – a recovery which has been all but dominated by a string of complex surgeries, including that which was needed to restore her eye-sight – I found myself smiling as I turned my computer on this morning and scanned the news. For today, Katie got the chance to do something she once would have thought impossible: to show her new baby off to the world, with a great big smile on her face. Belle is her name, and she was born on the 14th March, 2014.

Amongst spiralling concerns about the welfare of the Earth and as-yet unknown technological inventions which look set to make our current social media enterprises look weak by comparison, great things await Belle. Belle will get to grow up and see her mother truly happy, in a world where unthinkable medical progress can now make a real difference to not just physical wellbeing, but emotional wellbeing also. Thanks to the pioneering work of Mr Mohammed Jawad – the leading reconstructive plastic surgeon at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, London, who was instrumental in Katie’s successful recovery – there is now hope for burn victims which simply did not exist before. This is a tremendous thing for any of the approximate 1,500 people who are affected globally every year (statistic courtesy of Acid Survivors Trust International).

All this is something which is particularly poignant right now, just two days after 22-year-old Mary Konye was jailed for 12 years. Naomi Oni, once a friend of Ms Konye, suffered serious burns to her chest and face when Miss Konye decided to throw acid in her face. All because of an alleged comment she made about her friend being ugly.

What’s to come from Katie? I’m looking forward to seeing more. Katie Piper is an inspiration, so, if you have the inclination, feel free to click the above link and see what she’s doing at her foundation.


Because it’s better than Splash! and Take Me Out put together: The Undateables – Series 3, Episode 1


This is supposed to be Mary from the show. Sorry Mary, it’s 00:47 am and I’m tired and I really need to go to bed. I’m not sure which part of your face/body I’ve done a crapper job of, but rest assured that you won’t be the last victim of my mouse-pad ventures. Best wishes, Chris. PS it’s now 00:50 am — I spent another couple of minutes on your chin. I hope it shows.

When I started seeing the TV adverts for Series 3 of The Undateables – the Channel 4 show which arguably can claim to be the first of its kind – it actually took me somewhat by surprise. Given the show’s popularity, which exploded all over Twitter and made everyone an instant expert on who should and should not be allowed to enter the perilous world of dating, I shouldn’t have been surprised, yet there it was. Concerned was another thing I was feeling. As the adverts grew less mysterious about the show’s new cast, and those classic moments-to-come began to reveal themselves, I wondered: can Series 3 give us anything we haven’t already seen? Anyone who has visited this blog before will know I’ve always been a big fan of the show, but irrelevant of this, 3 series is starting to push it. However good you are, you’re always going to have to bring something new. Not an easy thing to do – particularly when the format is one which works so well and doesn’t require changing.

Then again, perhaps that’s being unfair. The very reason why I rated the show so much to begin with was the fact that it went places that TV previously had never dared to before. Maybe 3 series isn’t actually that much for a show about dating and disabilities? I began to think. Not to mention the fact that there exists many different kinds of disabilities and really, we’ve barely even scratched the surface.

So, I was decided: in truth, The Undateables has infinite appeal. Especially when you consider that despite the previous series’ success, of these things, there is so much more to be said.

Predictably, as today’s first episode of the series grew near, I started to get excited about it all over again. I remembered how touching the first 2 series had been, and recalled the many conversations – both online and off (also known as real life, of course) – I’d had with people who’d watched the show. Smiling and wondering exactly what was in store, I careered down the M11 at speed earlier today, even once taking our Renault Clio 1.3 into the fast lane, where it has no right to be. Half-an-hour later there I was, sat in front of the TV eating the remains of the Thorntons white-chocolate snowman that my lovely girlfriend had bought me for Christmas. I had my hot chocolate and had, obviously, ensured that anyone in the house knew not to disturb me for the next hour or so. Then the show started, the introduction began to play, and…well, the first thing I noted was the updated music. This panicked me for a second – if they’ve messed with the music, what else have they messed with? – but I soon calmed down. I was more than ready.

Daniel was first up. All 6 foot 4 of Daniel, with some outgoing eyebrows and a love of song-writing. We heard that Daniel was from East Sussex – causing me to say out-loud “I bet anything he’s from Brighton” – and that he was one of those people who buys DVDs at every opportunity. Autism was Daniel’s issue, and mum Carol explained it as only a mother could do when she likened her son’s condition to someone inside his head, cutting up random words from a newspaper and splurging them forward randomly at every opportunity. I liked Carol immediately. Clearly she was going to do whatever it took to help her son. Romantic and sweet, Daniel signed up with a dating agency. The man was ready to hit the streets and had two great role models to inspire him: his parents. Sometimes it seems like every older couple I know have been married at least 33 years and it’s no big deal, but still, you have to admit, it’s a bloody long time.

44-year-old Mary, from London, appeared next on the screen. Single for 4-and-a-half years, Mary’s love life had been made difficult by her genetically acquired Achondroplasia – a kind of dwarfism that affects about 1 in 25,000 births across all races and genders. Much as that was true, I couldn’t help but struggle with seeing why she had never been able to find love. Really? Mary came across as sweet, funny, interesting and entertaining. Saying that, if you’re going to be brutally honest about disability then jokes will be inevitable also. I could already see Mary’s 4 gold medals at the World Dwarf Games being a source of much amusement that would surely go viral. Then again, I could also see a thousand people retaliating and saying Stick It Up Your Arse, so I wasn’t too bothered.

Before it was 29-year-old Hayley’s turn to appear on-screen, there was some fantastic news for Daniel: Stars in the Sky dating agency had found a match for him, and it was the by now recognisable Lydia who gave him the good news. Holly was the girl who was interested, and Daniel went ape-shit with excitement, which made for great TV. And who could blame him? If you know someone with autism, you’ll be aware of how difficult it can be for those with the condition to read other people’s emotions and feelings. Daniel’s parents were overjoyed too. The show was once again coming into its own. I mean, I’d nearly eaten my chocolate snowman and had barely even noticed.

Back to Hayley. A nursery nurse from rural Herefordshire, Hayley rode on to the screen a-top one of those big scary horse creatures (I can’t see me ever not feeling this way about these). Within just a handful of seconds we learned a couple of important things. The first was that Hayley has Apert Syndrome – a genetic condition which causes distinctive features attributed to bone-growth, and something which Wikipedia beats me hands-down in a game of how-much-do-you-know. The second was that she had, amazingly, managed to get through the entire Fifty Shades trilogy. Of which I have precisely no comment (other than Like I can say anything…I’ve just gone and read all The Hunger Games books and I am 33!).

Hearing that Hayley used to go out wearing headphones so she couldn’t hear the cruel comments being said about her made me die a little death inside, it’s true. I soon put that right though. In my head I walked down the street next to Hayley eating lots of raw garlic, breathing the horrendous fumes into the path of these cruel silly muppets. That showed ’em, I can tell you.

“Not all the male population are nasty, Hayley,” I said to the TV. Then I regained my focus.

You had to admire Hayley. Or, if you’re a silly billy who’s yet to watch The Undateables on 4OD – should you really be reading my blog?! – you have to admire her. I mean, imagine growing up with a younger sister who beats you to every single bloody milestone there is in life, including starting a family? As gracious and kind and thoughtful as Amanda was about her sister’s dating issues on-camera, that’s got to be difficult. Yet Hayley was only ever very positive. A wonderful character trait indeed. If there is any justice in the world, Hayley has to find some love.

Back with Mary, she was dreaming of the day when she’d be with her new man, who doesn’t give a toss about what people say. Mary had, by now, joined Flame Introductions, who’d come round to take her photo and get it up online. A keen footballer and lover of keeping fit, Mary was after a bloke with a bit of confidence about him, who also likes a bit of sport every now and again. Luckily for Mary, good things were about to happen.

Then we were back with Daniel, who was undergoing the borderline questionable activity of practising dating with his very own mother Carol (sorry, Carol). Not that there was anything questionable about Carol’s standards and knowledge of etiquette. Carol was determined to show her son how a woman ought to be treated, and considering how tough he was finding it, I thought Daniel was doing pretty damn well.

I could go on forever about the rest of the show, and if you scroll down the page you’ll see that I more or less do. But still, there’s so much to bang on about. That bit when Mary’s eyes lit-up as Jet appeared on the screen…the five-foot-eleven personal trainer who seemed to have been created directly from Mary’s imagination. Of course, from that moment on all I could think about was the hit TV show Gladiators, but I didn’t mind one bit (I really loved that show. Wolf was my idol!).

And what about when Daniel agreed to go on a date with Holly, without seeing her photo first? That was mighty impressive (at this point we were also told Daniel came from Brighton, and I said “I knew it all along!”).

What wasn’t good was when Daniel and Holly really really struggled to make conversation in the café. That wasn’t good at all – ah, it was cringe! Until it was good, of course, and conversation started to flow and things rapidly improved. Fortunately for Daniel, coming from Brighton very much saved the day. Daniel even blew Holly a kiss and Holly gladly accepted it. For the first time, I could see romance in the air.

One month on for Hayley, I had the feeling that, intentionally or otherwise, she was being a little bit left out of the show. Then the phone only went and rang, didn’t it! The agency had a match and his name was the best name ever – Chris. Coffee was soon to be on the horizon…seeing Hayley thrilled may me feel thrilled too. It was like the first time I saw Gladiators, only without me being told off for swearing when Wolf appeared. My God I wanted to be that man.

What can I say about Mary’s date that a million other people haven’t already thought? Having seen this Jet personal trainer character on the screen and everything he was supposed to be, I’d thought of him as the male equivalent of one of those Spam email Russian brides I see in my Inbox once a year (sorry Mary!). Yet in reality, the man was alright. Better than alright, actually. Oh, go on then, he was good! Crap at ice skating mind you, but otherwise a decent fella. Seeing Jet all nervous as he waited for Mary to arrive was a nice turn of events. It couldn’t compare to the moment when Mary made absolutely no secret of checking out Jet’s crotch live on TV, of course, but it was still good.

Anyway, you know and I know that if Jet entered an ice skating competition, bad things would be said. Unless it was in a parallel dimension where being on your arse is considered a good thing. If it exists, I hope to one day go there.

Who gives a shit, though? Fact was, Mary and Jet had serious chemistry together. Laughing and joking, Mary said she couldn’t have asked for a better date. Well done Jet.

One week on from When Daniel Met Holly, Holly was almost like a brand-new person. Holly talked about watching films in bed endlessly, and her love of eating breakfast in bed. She talked a lot about bed really, which can surely only be promising. Daniel was the gentleman the entire time, and although he was quite hurt when Holly refused to have any kind of physical contact at the end of their date – how exactly does a person reject a hug from the ever loveable Daniel? – things were to soon turn around.

It was the day of Hayley’s date, and Hayley, well, she had the big-time nerves.

Chris turns up, and within mere seconds the two are locked in intense competition…in a bowling alley,of all places. All I kept thinking about as I watched this was how I’d once seen a couple arguing like fuck in a bowling alley. I mean really going for it – people holding them both back like wild dogs, that kind of thing. If I remember rightly, it ended with the guy being ejected and some kind of scrap which made for really fun rumours at school the next day. Granted, there was a good chance that they’d carried their relationship difficulties into the alley, and that bowling wasn’t the sole catalyst for the girl’s awful screaming, but still, bowling could do bizarre and sinister things to people. I just hoped these Undateables people knew what on Earth they were doing…

Turned out they did. There was to be no violence or mud-slinging, as you know, and afterwards they sat down to have a good old-fashioned chat together. This chat included one of the World’s greatest awkward silences, but I needn’t have worried. It all turned around in the end, and soon Chris and Hayley were laughing. It even made me think a bit differently about English bowling alleys. Not to mention Chris said he’d had a cheeseburger with Eddie The Eagle Edwards, and Hayley said she’d met not only Princess Diana, but Tony Blair too (personally I thought Chris trumped it when he said he’d spoken to Boycie from Only Fools and Horses, but that’s just me).

Chris said they should see about doing it again, and my big soppy heart melted, it did.

A week after Mary and Jet’s first hot date, things were considerably hotter. Hot like when you burn yourself on the oven and you have to hold your hand under cold water for a full 2 minutes or else you get a nasty burn. Yes. That kind of hot. Not only did Jet confess to having texted Mary every day, but they’d been speaking too. Holy shit! I love this show.

It wasn’t all over with Holly and Daniel either. They might not have set the world on fire like Mary and Jet, but they were hanging out at least. Holly even had some big wellies on and was smiling loads. Great news for Daniel, who’d always seemed like a really nice bloke.

As we saw an exclusive preview of next week’s episode, I thought again, for what felt like the millionth time: If they’re OK with all this, why shouldn’t we be?




How to sell yourself

PLEASE NOTE: the following post contains some swearing, in places where I found it necessary. If you’re offended by swearing and would rather not subject your mind to such things, then I strongly suggest you a) stay inside the house for quite some time until the novelty wears off for everyone (the novelty of swearing, not the novelty of you staying inside the house for years, although that is very novel) and b) do not read this post past this paragraph. If you are offended by swearing and read this post past this paragraph anyway, even though that’s a very silly thing to do, then you email me to tell me I shouldn’t have published this post, then I’m not going to respond to your email. Or I might, but I’ll probably swear.

Nowadays, everything you write has a double-meaning, and even a simple blog post about marketing and selling yourself can be misinterpreted, making you wish you’d been born in a time when sarcasm was a novelty, rather than an epidemic. So, just to be crystal clear, if your profession is prostitute then reading this post is unlikely to explain to you why you can’t get any work (I say unlikely, but the internet is a very big place and all kinds of people seem to end up here — someone found it the other day by typing in the unfortunate phrase manky penis, for example — so, who knows, you just might be a veteran hooker whose starting out selling baked-goods and giving up the game, in which case you may find some helpful tips below, maybe). If you’re in any other business, though, the following might be of interest.

This blog is about the mistakes that people make when trying to sell themselves professionally. There I go again. What I mean is, it’s about people who are offering a service – wait! – and are going door-to-door with leaflets. Or people who are selling online. Or selling anywhere, for that matter.

Because, just to the right of my keyboard as I type this is yet another flyer from a tree services company. Allow me to explain…

Fuck me is the first expression that comes to mind. Yes, I swore in words and I don’t even care — the mark of a true blogger, writing on his personal blog where, for once, he is also the editor (and no, I don’t swear when I am writing for other people, with the exception of when they say it’s appropriate or necessary, which is not very often). I use this expression here not to try and shock, but because, very simply, it’s the best and most accurate expression to be used. Like I’m sure many atheist and even naughty religious freelancers do, I say the words Fuck Me probably half-a-dozen times a day, for a wide variety of reasons. No jokes, please, and let’s not be smutty — I’m talking about when something annoys me, and only those two words together seem to do. One of those reasons might be when our dog snatches my Birthday card off the table and chews it into un-recognition, and I only discover this when it’s much too late, and I can hardly blame her, can I, because it was all my fault for leaving it there, and the other reasons, well, you know: you forget something critically important which then triggers a chain of annoying events which delay you further and make your work day one hour longer. Or you over-cook your pasta. Things like that.

Anyway, today I said that expression for the first time when a man appeared outside my ground-floor office window. He had that curiously vague way about him where he was there for a purpose, and so rang the front-door bell, but didn’t seem to be sure of what that purpose really was. From my chair, looking in the mirror to the right and above my desk, I could see that he was wearing a dark green and yellow all-in-one suit, which then gave the game away. When he rang the bell again, I said the aforementioned phrase-of-despair once more. I knew as I went to the door that I was about to be confronted by a man who was selling tree-pruning, lopping and various other services. Which, as I will explain, was irritating.


If you’re going to try and be amusing, at least use spellcheck first. Otherwise you’ll be amusing and look like an absolute idiot

On marketing websites and in numerous other places, both online and off, the mythical they say you have just seconds to catch the attention of someone you are trying to sell to. The man I opened the door to looked uncomfortable or indifferent and had clearly taken this advice to heart: within mere seconds of my opening the door he was facing away from me, not really looking at me, and then he opened his mouth and said “you need any trees cutting.” Lacking any question mark, it took me a second or two to realise he was actually trying to sell me something. That maybe, just maybe, he had a mortgage to pay and this was what he did to pay it (unbelievable as that seemed at the time). The problem was…that was his fourth or fifth or six mistake, so by the time I saw him holding the leaflet out, I wasn’t interested, I was feeling a little bit grim towards door-to-door humanity. Not that I was interested before that, I mean – as I told the guy, we only had 3 trees out the back and every single week 3 or 4 companies vied to cut them or lop them, whatever the hell that actually means – but I was especially not interested now. In fact, I felt a bit offended. Yeah, I was never going to take the leaflet, and yeah, he was the worst person to send out to sell anything to anyone door-to-door ever, but it would at least have been nice if he’d not looked at me like I had I’M A MASSIVE RAPIST! tattooed across my forehead.

The weird thing was that, at this point, even after telling him we didn’t and wouldn’t need any of his company’s services – politely and accurately, mind you – I was still willing to give the man a second chance. I thought If he can tell me why we should have one of our 3 trees lopped or pruned or chopped down, I might say Yes, just for the hell of it. I’d have been happy with anything, really. “Because two trees is the optimum number of trees to have in a back garden,” would have done it, I reckon, but “you need to because your trees may be diseased with a dangerous alien bacteria that may well get inside your lungs and kill you within days,” would have really done the trick.

Not that I should be condoning that kind of illegal behaviour from tree service companies. It’s just, well, I wanted the guy to liven up and at least seem like he had a passion for something, even if it was being illegal.

So I looked at him. Come on, I thought. Seriously. Now’s your chance. Besides that, I’ve got children’s toys to write about so I haven’t got all bloody day. Do something. Make this worth my time.

What happened next was marginally offensive, looking at this from a marketing and sales point-of-view. Instead of telling me one good reason why we ought to even consider using them in the future, he just stared at me blankly. And tried to pass me the leaflet. No words came out of his mouth. I suppose when you’ve handed over about ten-thousand leaflets or flyers, your hand just does this without you knowing. Obviously I didn’t take it. If the bloke can’t even give me one good vocal reason why I ought to consider him or his firm, then I’m not going to waste my bloody time hanging about on my own cold door-step. Fact!

So that was his second major mistake, or maybe his tenth or nineteenth, I’d lost count of these by now: if you’re going to sell anything at all to anybody, no matter what it is, you need to speak the hell up. You don’t need to shout or be a weirdo, but you do need to actually care about what you are doing. If you don’t, nobody else will. With one exception: if you were to suddenly break down and fall on the ground and start moaning “woe is me! I hate my job! I want to become a dentist! I will become a dentist!” I might start to care a bit. Because at least that’d be something. When you’re selling, even desperation and crying and tragic sadness is better than nothing, you know.

That was almost the end of the shockingly-inept-tree-services-man-incident, but later, going back to the door to see if there was any post – which there wasn’t – I was to be proven wrong about the man. Yes he’d been clueless, but there, caught in the letter-box, was a white leaflet with green lettering. “You…you sneaky tree service man!” I said. “Well, it worked. I am going to bloody well read it.”

And read it I did. Being a copywriter and freelance writer, what I held in my hands here was nothing less than amateur gold. There I stood, braving the draught of the open door-way, gazing at the leaflet flyer thing, and actually, if I am honest, it was quite good. It definitely hadn’t been professionally conceived or written, but that didn’t matter, because there were quite a few things about the leaflet that really got it right. They’d used thick-ish card, for instance, and the quality was alright, too.

The first main thing was the typeface. I could read it easily. That’s absolutely crucial but still something some people manage to totally fuck up. If you start out with a typeface or font that nobody can read and even the person who invented it truly doesn’t know what it meant when they had the idea for it, this is very bad (hello to you wingdings). Bold and green, it was alright. The only issue was the number of different fonts that had been used, which made it look a bit confusing. I counted five in all, which, in my opinion, if that’s worth anything, was at least 3 too many.

Something else the tree people had got right – and this they usually didn’t, I’d seen enough to know – was the amount of white space. There was a fair bit of it between the lines and the words and it worked quite well. The use of logos and pictures was also under control, which made a nice change. From a design point-of-view, you do want to show that you’re creative, but at the same time, you don’t want to come across as a child who can’t draw for shit and who really loves trees.

There were two more things which immediately stood out. The first was the 10% DISCOUNT THIS MONTH across the middle of the flyer. This was in white writing on the same formulaic dark green background and did stand out. Additionally, the phone numbers were in bold white on dark green and there was even a 24 HOUR EMERGENCY CALLOUT NUMBER, along with street name of the business. Not bad. I was semi-impressed.

But it wasn’t all good. And this isn’t just me being picky. In fact, the eagle-eyed among you may already have picked the following up.

First up, although it said 10% DISCOUNT THIS MONTH, it didn’t state the actual month or year concerned. A minor thing, really, but in 4 months time when we finally decide that one of our 3 trees badly needs lopping – I’l have Googled what it means by then, maybe – I don’t want to call up whoever it is — there was also no name on the card — and be told that they were only doing it in December 2012. By then, I may have got confused about time, thanks to the crazy world of children’s toys I write about. By then, I may think that the leaflet had only recently come through the door. All that could have been avoided if they’d printed the month that the discount was valid for. That’s another thing to make note of: if you want people to buy from you, make it easy. As easy and simple as you possibly can.

Next up, we have the 24 HOUR EMERGENCY CALLOUT NUMBER, which I thought was a nice touch. Only problem is, I know precisely jack shit about trees and emergencies, so having it really didn’t help me much, and spun me into a kind of crazy daydream. So when I read this, I thought What, I should call them if a tree attacks me? which I assume wasn’t the response they were after. If they’d have given me a firm example of a tree-based emergency then it would have saved me panicking about being attacked by trees, such as in the film Evil Dead when a young woman is raped by a particularly savage one. Ugh. This is a common trap that businesses fall into, of course. They assume that everyone who reads their advert is as clued-up as them, and this inevitably leads to confusion. Just don’t do it.

The last thing which really could have been avoided was mucking-up the address. OK, they’d printed the street number and name, but they hadn’t put the town or the city where the firm was based. I couldn’t tell from the mobile or free phone number where they were located, either. Obviously, if I ever found out what a real tree emergency was then I’d like to know how long it’s going to take them to come and help me out. By then I could have been molested by numerous kinds of trees. You just never know, do you?

I’d love to say that this was all the flyer got wrong, but there were one or two more things. Obviously. Let’s focus on one: the bit that said Book Your Trees In For A Makeover NOW!

A makeover? I thought. Sorry…you mean, a makeover?! As in…an actual makeover? No. Just no.

I couldn’t help it, could I? I knew nothing of trees or lopping, so it was perfectly reasonable to imagine one of our 3 trees sitting in a kind of tree salon, having it’s branches done. It’s leaves waxed. It’s roots polished. This vision conjured-up a sensation of unsettling tree perversion which the flyer hadn’t prepared me for. And with that I was decided: this new fad of giving trees makeovers might be the next big thing, but I wasn’t going to allow any of our 3 trees to be subjected to it.

I still have no idea what the hell a Tree Makeover is. If they’d just given me an example of what this might entail then I’d never have had such a horrifying vision where the tree at the end of the garden was crying and feeling left-out because all the other trees in the village had had makeovers and she hadn’t. It really wasn’t nice.

So there we have it: if you don’t have a clue about writing or designing a leaflet, flyer or poster, do some research first. It makes sense. Not only will it give your customers a much better idea of what they can expect from using your services, but you’ll actually get people ringing you up and wanting to spend real money — instead of reading your leaflet, writing a blog post about it and then chucking it in the bin.

Obama’s Back In: A Big Relief, A Bit Like That Time When…

There was once a time when I did something very, very stupid, but also a bit brave, too. Actually, that gets me thinking…in truth, there was many-a-time when I did something very stupid and a bit brave – there was that time I got chased across a field by a rampaging stag, which stands out a lot, and then there was that other time when I dropped a customer’s photographic film in a toilet which contained all the pictures from his daughter’s wedding day, which is also  noteworthy (although it’s probably more cmind-bendingly stupid than it is brave) – but I have selected this specific one for its sheer stereotypical manliness which I know some readers will relate to. It’s the time I almost got into a fight with a National Express driver. Oh, happy days.

I had a very early flight to Cologne, Germany, and the coach I needed to get on was leaving from Cambridge at 6am. I’m not the kind of person who likes to be awake before 8am – I’m lying, I’m a late-night-person so if I had it my way I’d never get up until 10 – so this was a horrible experience filled with dread and doom and all the things you might get if you had a sexy nightmare with Ann Widdecombe in it (so I am told). And it was to get even worse, too, because as I got out of the taxi at 5:45am and saw the massive queue for the coach I was getting, I knew we were all in trouble. More trouble than a sexy nightmare with Ann Widdecombe at its centre, hard as that is to believe.

To begin with, I stood about with my great big annoying rucksack on, hoping that somehow, the number of people would seem less and the coach’s front doors would open, all of us filtering on in single-file and leaving for the airport on-time. Maybe some people could go up on the roof if they had to, because that would make sense, under the circumstances. But as minutes began to pass, that soon became an obvious impossibility, and it also dawned on me that they would not let us up on the roof: even more people were arriving to get the coach — travelling maniacs hoping to just appear and buy a ticket, too! — and all of them had that same expression on their face…one of knowing that they were doomed, but not wanting to admit that fact. Credit where credit is due, though, they were doing a fine job of deceiving themselves, which was quite impressive under the circumstances.

By the time 6am struck, though, I was ready to admit that fact 100%, even if the driver wasn’t. He was standing around looking at everyone in a vague kind of a way, smoking a fag and generally acting as though he could see a much smaller queue of people than was really there (I call it a queue…it was, by now, more a huge swarming mass of people). The driver was exactly the sort of man that if you saw him as an extra in, say, the original version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, it’d put you in a foul mood for days to come and you would never really know why. That, on top of the Ann Widdecombe thing — no pun intended — could really tip a person over the edge

Then the driver, five-foot-nine, overweight and indifferent-looking, with faded forearm tattoos, said, in a voice that had never heard of Customer Service, “people who bought a ticket online are getting priority. All those people on first.” I had bought mine from the ticket station, which you’d think would give me as much right to travel on a National Express coach as anyone, but apparently not.

Which meant that, in plain language, I was fucked.

Hearing this, the queue was instantly split into two polarized groups: group 1 consisted of baffled people who knew that if this was true, they were all in a great deal of trouble, and group 2 consisted of the people that group 1 utterly detested. Group 2 was also largely made-up of Italian and Spanish foreign students, which helped me to hate them even more, seeing as not one single student had been able to shut up from the moment I got out of the taxi. Don’t get me wrong though, normally I love them, even if they can’t queue for shit and easily speak several languages.

Ten minutes later, with the coach already a few minutes late now, the numerous smug people of group 2 were sat comfortably in the coach, looking out and no doubt feeling content in the knowledge that they were going to catch their flight. Conversely, group 1, me included, were standing there in the dark and the cold wearing annoying big rucksacks, wondering what the bloody hell was going on. The curious thing, for me, was that not one person with an online ticket — also known as a flimsy piece of un-ticket-like A4 paper — had voiced any real concern to the obvious fact that was making me feel a terrible sense of doom. People looked annoyed and bemused, but nobody was saying anything about how ridiculous this all was, so, without exaggerating how brave I was feeling – at least I’m going to try hard not to – I said, “this is bullshit, what about us? What the hell are we supposed to do?” The bluntness in my voice combined with the eerie white-middle-class-Cambridge-quietness perfectly to produce quite an effect: one very angry driver looking straight at me and aware of seemingly nobody else.

“Don’t you swear at me!” he said, and he really meant it. He quite clearly wasn’t even middle-class.

“Ah, but I will swear,” I said. “Why don’t you call headquarters and get them to sort out another coach?” In my head I said even more, so it’s a good job I had the good sense to keep my big mouth shut.

At this, the driver made his way towards me and appeared a bit calmer, only he wasn’t calmer, was he? No, it was an illusion, and he was actually angrier — it was obvious from the way he looked like he actually wanted to drown me with his bare hands right there and then in the nearest shallow puddle (the shallower the better, his malevolent eyebrows seemed to suggest). “There’s nothing I can do,” he said, pointing at the coach. “You can see there ain’t enough space on-board.”

Some people had now started calling taxis. Others had, presumably, resigned themselves to being late or missing their flights. I’d have called a taxi had I had more money, but I didn’t, so I wasn’t about to. All was not good.

“There’s nothing you can do…” I started going on, sort of looking about me for support, then wondering why the hell I’d bothered, seeing as everyone seemed pathetic and feeble and like they didn’t want trouble, the outrageous bloody fascist-supporting wimps who should’ve been ashamed of themselves (and now very well might). “…There is and you will, or else I’m going to report you…” I pointlessly looked for his name-badge again. “…Mr National Express coach driver!”

By now, the nameless angry man driver was standing a few feet away, looking menacing. Under the remnants of light coming from the nearby lamp-post, he said, in appropriate menacing tone: “Swear at me again and see what happens. Go on, I dare you.” Human beings are amazing. With one glance, he motioned to the back of the coach and made a step towards me, clearly signifying the international language of I want a fight behind this coach, now.

“Fine by me,” I said, “but this won’t be the end of it. There’s quite a few witnesses standing around who I’m sure will be happy to make a statement if you try and assault me.”

Ha! How I now laugh. There wasn’t one single person nearby who I’d have counted on to tie their own shoelaces, let alone back me up in a court of law against a National Express Vigilante Driver who’d gone right off the rails.

I’d love to say there was cheering and, as the driver’s brain actually started to work — he gave in and said I could get on the coach — people patted me on the back and cheered stuff like “You’re amazing!” and “Here’s 500 English pounds for being such a legend!”. In fact that didn’t happen. I didn’t even get 5 English pounds, which you’d thought I might’ve. What actually happened was people looked at me with sinister eyes, presumably annoyed that I was getting on the queue and many of them wouldn’t be, even though they should have been spending too much energy on being ashamed of themselves to do just that. Not that I felt guilty in the slightest. Actually, I’ve never felt so right and like something was worth a fight in my whole entire life. My only regret as I think of all this now is that I didn’t make a complaint to National Express. Had I done, who knows? I may have won a 20-hour round-trip to London or Liverpool, or something. With National Express, the possibilities for spending many hours in a coach environment are virtually endless.

And that feeling of relief, of almost-doom, of things turning themselves around, was precisely how I felt when I woke up this morning and heard — or rather saw, on my mobile’s screen — the news that Barack Obama had been re-elected, winning by a comfortable margin against Mitt Romney. I was in bed at the time, needing a wee badly, and this was just the news I needed. In fact, it was almost as good as having the wee itself.

Chris Versus Tesco’s: Part 1

If you’re considering reading all of this post, you may want to put an hour or two aside…and make sure you’ve got painkillers in the house.

It all started off so innocently.

On Friday 28th September, 2012, I sent the following short email to Tesco’s faceless, far-away Customer Service team. If writing it made me feel about a hundred-years-old, hitting Send made me feel absolutely ancient, almost as if I’d become the decrepit maths teacher from my childhood who I thoroughly despised. Agh:

Hello there,

I really like shopping at Tesco’s but sadly I have a complaint about your own-brand herring fillets in oil. Would it be possible for you to tell me how to complain? I have a longer letter which I’d like to send you.

Hope you can help me. Thanks,


…and, amazingly, hideously early on monday morning (today, as I publish this blog, in fact) my mobile rang with one of those mysterious unknown numbers that I never dare to answer. I was lying in bed asleep at the time, dreaming something bizarre, feeling pretty bloody awful with a sore-throat and cold, wondering who the hell had the sheer audacity to ring me in the middle of the night (it turned out it wasn’t the middle of the night, it was actually 10am). It was only when I woke up later that I found I had a message from a dedicated Tesco Customer Service employee called Tony, saying he wanted to discuss my complaint in more detail. More…detail? I was shell-shocked. Dumbfounded, you might say: you hear about people complaining and no response ever coming back. I’d never anticipated that my email would even be read, let alone considered important enough to return a call.

Things didn’t stop there. Once I’d dragged myself out of bed and worked out which was the right end of my toothbrush, I found this automated email in my Inbox:

Thank you for contacting Tesco Customer Service.

One of our team will be in touch with a personal response to your query shortly, however if you have told us that you do not need a response, we will ensure that we take appropriate action on your request.

Kind regards

Tesco Customer Service Team

Tony was real! Here it was:proof that I hadn’t imagined it after all…Tesco really did take complaints seriously, and they wanted to help me with mine. I couldn’t believe my luck. Which was good, because I’d already written my letter of complaint and hopefully soon I’d have somewhere to send it to.

For a while, I forgot all about Tony and his wanting to chat with me about my complaint. I got on with all the usual work stuff. Until, at around mid-day, my phone rang again. Unknown number. I picked it up and it was Tony.

Tony was extravagantly Welsh and made no attempt to disguise it. I liked that. It hit me instantly…I saw visions of people moving out of his way, slightly fearful and admiring of just how Welsh he was. As is usual for me, entering into a conversation with a total stranger, there then came that slightly awkward sparring as we both spoke at the same time. Soon, though, Tony was asking me to explain my complaint in more detail and anxiously awaiting my response. I considered the letter I had written the day before and just how long it was, then I told Tony that I couldn’t talk because I had a sore throat — I really did — and asked him if I could email the letter to him instead. He said Yes. He also said that it wouldn’t be a waste of time. He’d do his best to help me out, and if I could send the tin then that’d be very useful, because he’d be able to use that to track-down the people who made it (I couldn’t, sadly, because I’d chucked it out. Who keeps fish tins? Er, yes..probably someone who complains about fish tins…).

The main thing was, I’d got Tony on my side!

What follows is my complaint, in full. It started out as a serious complaint, but I can never stay serious for very long, so it quickly became something else. And when I said longer letter in my first email, I actually meant 7 pages of letter…

The Letter

Dear Tesco Customer Service Representative (or Tony, who kindly called me back to discuss my complaint – good work, I definitely didn’t expect that so soon. Actually, let’s be honest: I didn’t expect it at all. No offense, it’s just I didn’t think a complaint about own-brand herring fillets would be exactly top-of-the-list…),

Life, eh? One minute you’re writing about sharks and the strangest sex toys money can buy – I’m a freelance writer, and believe it or not but this is one of the less strange things I’ve had to write about – and the next you’re writing to a Tesco Customer Service Representative to make a complaint. Mental!

Now I’ve had a bit of time, I think I’m ready to really start this email. At first I thought: I suppose I could just launch into a massive angry rant about the nightmare that unfolded this evening as a result of Tesco’s supreme fish-related incompetence [more on the specifics of that soon] but I think I’ve decided against that. I mean…you’ve seen all that before, and really, what would be the point? I’m sure you’ve had enough of them. So instead, I have decided to tell you the story of the event that took place. By doing that, I hope that I’ll take you on a journey into the heart of darkness. I know it sounds dramatic, but if you like fish as much as I do, I’m sure you’ll know what I mean.

My nan always used to say “you only have to touch fish and you stink of it!” and to be honest, she’s right. Fish is always a risky eating-option, and my nan, with her keen sense of smell and understanding of right-and-wrong, has always known that fact. And tins of fish are even worse, aren’t they? The way the lid flicks up and sprays fishy juices everywhere?…I mean, you never hear of people taking a bath for charity in fish-oil or fish-brine, do you? No. Never. Because even saving hundreds or thousands of lives isn’t worth the consequence of doing that. Let’s avoid exactly what that consequence might be and move on instead. I’m not trying to make you feel sick, honest.

The complaint I refer to is made about the incident that took place in my kitchen today, this evening, just a couple of hours ago: September 29th, 2012. A day like any other – actually it wasn’t but I’m on a roll and I can’t be arsed to delete that last sentence. It was not a day like any other, as my pregnant sister Natalie arrived this morning, and we only see her every so often. And it’s OK, don’t worry, I’m not going to try and make you feel guilty about the company you work ruining my evening. In truth, the company you work for only ruined about half of my evening. Usually it’s The One Show or someone calling up to talk about solar panels, so at least it makes a nice change.

Picture the scene: I’m in my kitchen (it’s fairly modern, with a fancy, black, very shiny oven-and-hobs thing that looks like what Michael Knight from old-but-legendary US TV series Knightrider might have had in his kitchen) and in my head my thoughts go I quite fancy herrings! OK, so the exclamation mark probably didn’t happen, but half-exclamation-marks don’t exist, do they? So I can hardly use one of them. (I checked. I’m pretty sure I have my facts straight here.) The point is still the same, though: I was reasonably excited about opening the tin. Not nearly as excited as a hyperactive rollercoaster-loving teenager on his way to Alton Towers, of course – or somewhere else really full of rollercoasters, if you like – but excited all the same. I know this specifically because if I’d just been content then I’d have walked into the kitchen normally, and nobody would have known what was running through my mind. Instead, I walked through the kitchen and passed my dog and my dog, Jojo, gave me a certain kind of glance…I know that glance well, I’ll tell you. It said There’s something a bit different about the way you’re moving. (I was going to make out just then that my dog is clever enough to know when I am excited about eating tinned-fish purely through mind-reading alone, but then I decided against it, as I thought it’d make me look ridiculous.)

Now picture this: it’s a bearded, 31-year-old man arriving at his pantry, and the folding-door is closed (actually it’s his parents’ pantry, as this bearded 31-year-old-man is, sadly, one of the economically-challenged generation and at this juncture in his life it makes sense to save his money for a bit before he totally chucks it all away in a kind of yes-I-have-my-independence-back! kind of a way). Now, as if you’re a really high-quality camera that can move any way it pleases, a bit like that alien-camera-snake thing that appears in that terrible remake of War of the Worlds featuring Tom Cruise of Top Gun fame, you see me open the folding pantry doors and turn slightly to the left. It’s a small pantry, so don’t turn me too much or you’ll make me knock loads of stuff of the shelves, or bang my head.

This is fun, isn’t it? Being an impossibly-intelligent-alien-camera thing? Get used to it, buddy! It’s now that you see my eyes sort of light-up, as I catch sight of something on the shelf. I’ve always thought that that’s an absolutely terrible way to describe someone being excited, but in this case I’m making an exception (I always said I wouldn’t, but then…I said the same about wasting my life away writing a letter of complaint that I was sure would almost certainly never be answered and possibly even read!). Yes, you see my eyes light-up…and as I take the TESCO HERRING FILLETS in Oil off the shelf, something else happens. Use your imagination, if you like. You’ve seen Harry Potter, haven’t you? I haven’t, but I assume there’s loads of magic in it, and stuff. So imagine that. Imagine this is what Dizzy Rascal might describe as a mad-special-moment. Not that I can see Dizzy Rascal ever rapping about TESCO HERRING FILLETS in Oil, but you never know, right? I mean, David Cameron got into government and I once managed to go an entire year without being poo’d-on by a pigeon, so anything can happen. And Mitt Romney somehow ended up with the opportunity to become the next US President, so let’s be honest, it probably will.

How cool, Dizzy Rascal rapping about tinned-fish! Ah…that’s making me feel all optimistic…

But enough of that. I need to get a grip, and hard. Optimism, right now, is my enemy. I’m going to be as nice as I can about making this complaint to you, but I simply can’t be holding back on how unsettling the whole event was. And to be honest, that’d be doing Tesco no favours. Or you, for that matter. If we ever want Tesco to produce tins of TESCO HERRING FILLETS in Oil that people can properly open without needing to sit and write an email that gives them a dead-arse and threatens bum-sores, then we need to work together on this thing. Come on, please, just keep reading, and I’ll do my best to let you go home soon. If you’re still feeling downtrodden, consider this: If you find yourself wanting to throw yourself out of the window, or something equally drastic, just to get away from this email, then just imagine Dizzy Rascal rapping about tinned-fish. Just don’t let Mitt Romney anywhere near that vision…he’d probably try and sell your own day-dream back to you or something, which really would create a long-term, haunting, debilitating nightmare! Like Nike never said, just don’t do it.

Now it’s time to get away from the pantry. At this point in the journey, let’s move on in time by ten-minutes. It’s not important what I got up to in those ten minutes – if you really want to know I was putting some tea-tree cream on the top of my dog’s paw, which she turned her nose up at, as she hates me for doing it because she doesn’t like the taste of the cream and she wants to get at the raw wound beneath it which we’re trying to speed-up healing so we don’t have to take her to the vet, where we will be ripped-off – all you need to know is that I am now at the sink and I’m trying to open my tin of TESCO HERRING FILLETS in Oil (see photo 1, attached).

And you’d really think it’d be easy. As a race we’ve been to the Moon, apparently – I don’t believe that, but to each his/her own – and we’ve managed to make oven chips that are nowhere near as good as chip-shop chips, but they’re acceptable, just about. OK, so pedal-bins never work and the world is in big trouble, but we’ve conquered most of the easy things. What I am trying to say is this: we’ve basically done quite well as a race. We could do better by not ruining the planet, but come on now, let’s give credit where credit’s due and remember things like The Crystal Maze and Toblerone.

Woops. Sorry for mentioning Toblerone…I’m assuming that’s probably not too helpful if you’re a big fan of chocolate and the nearest one is a mile away.

Now, where was I…

Ah, here: I said most of the easy things. One thing Tesco really haven’t conquered is making tins of fish that you can actually open without very nearly seriously hurting yourself. Allow me to explain in detail…

You may have guessed this was coming, but this, sadly, is not the first time I’ve been forced to enter into a surreal and ludicrous duel with a small tin of impenetrable fish (the tin was impenetrable. Once I finally got it open I found the fish perfectly penetrable…please don’t take that sentence out of context and bandy it round the office, thus both nullifying my complaint and making me out to be some kind of fish-based-pervert). I say forced because once I start something, I like to finish it – however high the stakes or easier it would be to just not bother and admit defeat instead. For example, just yesterday my friends and I sat in a pub where there was a crab-apple tree. Looking for something to do and feeling a bit creative, we got the great idea of spending ages trying to crush the small apple with our hands, purely for the hell of it. It was much more fun and worthwhile than it may sound and not at all sad, I assure you. It was also surprisingly addictive – not to mention almost impossible and so frustrating that it soon had all of us angrily trying any way we could to smash the thing open (the only rule was you couldn’t use your nails or stamp on it with your feet). Try it. You’ll find that you can’t allow yourself to be beaten by a miniature apple, I guarantee! Actually don’t try it. It’s ridiculously addictive, and it really makes your hands hurt. To be honest, I can still feel some pain in my left arm, although I like that, as it’s a nice reminder of all my effort.

So the point is, I just wasn’t having this. Being beaten by a tin of fish. As if! There I stood at the sink, desperately pulling and prodding at the ring, which threatened to cut into my finger. In my mind, there was a war of common-sense taking place and I was powerless to stop it. The adult part of me said that this was highly dangerous – I could slip and cut myself wide-open on the tin, and I could even bleed to death, which would, frankly, be embarrassing – but the testosterone-fuelled teenager in me said Balls to this, I’m doing it. If I have to kill myself getting this nasty little bastard open, then that’s exactly what I’ll have to do!

Like always – except when doing adult things which would be a disaster if my teenage-self took over – the teenage part of me won. So on I went, with all my might. Or as much might as I had remaining, which I estimate at by now around 96%. Not one part of me doubted that I could achieve it. Not one part of me told me to turn back and head towards safety.

Until I reached the tinned-fish-wall. When I hit that, I knew about it, I’ll tell you. It happened fast, before I even had time to register the change. One moment I’d never been more sure of myself…the next, I was giving in. Broken. Not accepting defeat gracefully, but fighting it like an old dying man, too weak to put his hands up, too sad to be bothered to press the emergency button around his neck, the only thing standing between him and certain death…

My, that was depressing! Let’s get back on track.

The feeling of sadness and sorrow didn’t last long: soon I had moved onto a new feeling…a hollow pissed-off one of bewilderment and tragedy. Shakespearian tragedy, or maybe Downton Abbey tragedy, but who knows, I don’t, I can’t stand bloody period dramas. And unbelievably, this sensation of impending doom and failure was somehow worse. I thought I’d be better off, now I was in control again, but in fact, the stakes just seemed to be rising. It was the hunger driving me, I knew, and it would not stop.

Fortunately, I believe I’m a man of tactics and strategy. You may not think that to look at my bedroom – or my desk on a Monday morning, agh! – but I am. And so it was that I formed one. Damn you, fish tin, I thought. I am not done yet! To the draw beneath the cutlery I went, where I removed the tin-opening tool and took it to the offending tin of fish. I was going to have the last laugh…not only that, either. I was going to mutilate that tin in the process!

To start with, I thought I was going great-guns, as granddad sometimes says. But this great-guns-confidence was quickly shattered. I soon found myself fighting a continued losing battle (see pictures 2 and 3)…the tool slipping on the surface of the metal…the little metal wheel going round and round while the device went absolutely nowhere. That gruesome fish-juice stuff I mentioned before? It now served as the perfect lubricant to prevent me from maintaining a decent grip.

Slow progress…

This was when it hit me again.

For a few seconds I almost did it: contemplated chucking the tin out and just having sardines instead. Then I came to my senses. Balls to that! I thought, before managing to calm myself and consider something new. It’s sad, I’m ashamed to admit it, but I really did think Chris, blue sky thinking, think outside the box.

If I was a less optimistic person, I’d say “kill me now.”

Life is full of twists and turns, isn’t it? Well, such is the case, a new twist came now. This new tactic was a good one. Ohhhhh, it was gooood. Spurred on by the previous evening’s crab-apple overthrowing – we finally managed to crush it to death after all 5 of us had had about three good-goes each, and my goodness was there a celebration to be had – I knew that there was strength in numbers. “Dad,” I called through, into the lounge, and unsurprisingly he didn’t immediately look up as he’s a big antiques-TV-show-dork and one of these awful shows was in full throw on the TV, “I need your help. I’ve got a situation in here.”

He still didn’t look up. There was no time to waste. I entered the lounge and touched him gently on the shoulder, so as not to shock him out of his antique-viewing-trance. “Dad,” I said. “Come and help me with this. I really need to eat!”

Upon hearing this, I witnessed dad’s consciousness first rouse and then shake itself from the things of old and David Dickinson’s terrible tan (actually this man just looked a lot like David – I have no idea who he was). Up he got, asking me what I needed his help for, and so it was that we entered the kitchen.

In that kitchen, on that day, we were two men, and everything else went out the window: two men with a common cause. Two men possessed by justice for fish lovers. This wasn’t just about my situation, oh no: this was about something that presumably many thousands of us had had to deal with and would be tortured by in the future, too. I think you’ll agree that global suffering is not too big a word for it. And my dad doesn’t even really like fish…how about that? This was how important opening that damn tin quickly became to the pair of us. It had to be done, and we would not stop until we achieved it (though to begin with dad wasn’t aware of the seriousness or gravity of the situation. He just thought, rather naively, that we were trying to open a tin of fish).

A single tin of unassuming fish. You’d think that two grown men – one of them a sprightly 31-year-old, the other almost a pensioner, sorry dad but it’s true – could overcome any kind of obstacle a tin of fish might throw at them. Yet with two of us going at it, events unexpectedly took a turn for the worst: as dad held on tight to the left-hand-side (see picture 4), and I struggled once more to turn the wheel thing and force the stubborn device along the edge of the tin, progress was frustratingly slow. It was almost as if some supernatural power – the ghost of a poltergeist who despised fish-lovers, as logic insists – wanted the tin to remain closed. Forever.

Dad and I, mid-total-nightmare

Well, hell to the supernatural force, I thought, although I didn’t say it, as I didn’t want to throw dad’s concentration off, just in case something miraculous might happen and the bloody tin-opener might actually start to work now, it can’t end like this. There must be another way.

For the next few seconds, I considered every possibility under the sun. I thought about somehow tying the tin-lid to dad’s car via a rope, him driving away, tearing it free…I thought about using a chisel and a hammer and just forcing the damn thing open (I decided against that. I knew I’d go at it too hard and the fish would go flying everywhere and our dog, Jojo, would come along right at the time I was about to pick it up and scoff it selfishly). Out of pure and simple desperation, I even thought about somehow using Jojo’s powerful sharp teeth to gnaw through the lid. The vision seemed so simple and easy: Jojo with her mouth wide-open, knowing what had to be done, me crouched down, turning the tin as she expertly executed the manoeuvre, her dog-ish brain – actually she’s a bitch, but bitch-ish just sounds weird – not even thinking for a moment about wanting to devour the fish.

Except as logic and reason – and those TV documentaries about people being arrested for cruelty to dogs – would permit, this last idea wasn’t the best course of action. Also, I’d have to put Jojo into a kind of chemically-induced trance before she’d be docile enough to cooperate. Quickly, then, knowing that the longer this went on, the less chance there was we’d make it – like scaling Everest before the storm comes, I suppose – dad and I got back to the task in-hand. Off we went again, with renewed vigour and intense determination.

This time things were different. Just like watching a crap film sober and then watching that exact same crap film totally hammered – not that I’d know, as I have a medical condition which means I can’t drink alcohol, and no, I am not a recovering alcoholic! – this time, things seemed much better. It was like being in another dimension…one where you can actually open a tin of TESCO HERRING FILLETS in Oil without having to later sit for 3 hours and write an excruciatingly long letter of complaint to a Tesco Customer Service Representative who almost certainly has now stopped reading and, if he or she is still reading, is probably either a) falling asleep or b) so looking forward to home-time that they by now do not give a monkey’s about anything else.

The tin was opening.

The tin was opening.

I repeat: the bloody tin was actually opening!

It felt like leaving virginity behind, or punching a bully in the face! (I never did that, punched a bully, I mean, but I imagined it enough times as a youth that I surely had a reasonable idea of how it must feel.)

Dad and I, we were doing it: he was clutching the tin for dear life and there was me, forcing the tin-opener round, really throwing my weight into it. As the climax happened – the both of us wanting it so badly over, but at the same time, me not quite wanting it over because it had been such a journey – and the fish juice went flying everywhere, the lid finally started to begrudgingly lift away (see pictures 5 & 6). And it was then, with one last wrestle (see picture 7) that the tin gave way and for the first time in half-an-hour, I saw fish without obstruction, or metal. Plain naked herrings, begging to be eaten…

Fish-hell, finally defeated!

After that life quickly returned to a much less surreal way of being. Happy and content with my big plate of fish – I hope you won’t be offended if you’re a fish-lover, but I also opened a tin of sardines and put them on top of the herrings, a tin which was a billion-times more easy to open, I might add (see picture 9) – I seasoned it with salt and pepper, sat down in front of the TV, and finally enjoyed my meal. The really sad part of it is that it was over in less than five-minutes. I felt like I had both honoured my herrings and insulted them by scoffing them like some kind of bearded, fish-obsessed monster.

There, it’s done. I have said it – all I could ever need to say. Or at least all I can bring myself to write tonight without becoming that fish-obsessed monster I just mentioned (the rest of it must stay with me, inside). This letter is almost over. I sense my work is nearly done.

What am I hoping will come out of me sending you this letter? A free supply of herrings in oil that I can actually open for the rest of all time? Maybe, maybe…I won’t lie, the very thought is brutal in its attraction. Or perhaps something else…global fame as the man who finally made herrings easy to eat like the way the man who invented Cat’s Eyes made billions of people crash into each other much less? I can’t say that isn’t one hell of a thought. But really, of this question I’m not entirely sure – this was only meant to be a quick note, yet here I am, having written this gigantic seven-page essay, and still needing to write a little more. I suppose I am hoping you will consider what you think is best, dear Tesco Customer Service Representative, or Tony – after all, surely we have now somehow…bonded? The very least, I suppose, is that you can find it in your heart to take this letter as far up the chain of management as you feel capable of doing without losing your job or becoming the laughing-stock of the entire store. That you’ll take this to someone who can genuinely help to change the ways of the TESCO HERRING FILLETS in Oil tin (see picture 8 for the remains of the tin, which should aid you in your quest). That in the future, because of my actions and your actions too, all our actions, all of us, together, thousands of people of all origins and creeds and colours won’t have to suffer like so many people so surely have.

Thank you for reading my letter of complaint, dear Tesco Customer Service Representative, or Tony. May all go well for you. And remember: I am but a man who loves his fish, and all I seek is the justice we all deserve.

Yours sincerely,

Chris Pink

Ps after writing this letter, I emailed Tesco Customer Service to get things moving. I’m pleased to say that the very next day, a nice bloke by the name of Tony – maybe you’re reading this, Tony? – called me very early in the morning to discuss my issue and see if he could help. Actually it wasn’t very early in the morning, it just felt like it, as I felt dreadful with a cold and was still asleep at 10am. Tony listened to my herring woes with interest, and I wish I could have explained more but it was hurting my throat, so I asked him if I could send an email instead (this is it). He said I could reply to the email he had sent me. This was very satisfying – as I explained before, I’d never expected things to move this fast! If you have a Compliments Department, please let me know the address and I’ll send another letter through. I’d be happy to.

Note: you (Tony) asked me if I could send the offending tin back to you, so you could trace the supplier who manufactured it…except the only thing is, I’ve gone and thrown it out, haven’t I? So I can’t, is the thing. Hopefully the photos will give you a clue instead.

The End

More soon, if Tesco can be bothered to get back to me…




The Greatest Newspaper On Earth? (OK, So Probably Not. I just Liked The Title.)

I’ve never really been an obsessive, favourite ‘paper kind of person. From what I know of the world, I’ve learned that that kind of thing doesn’t happen until you reach a certain age where you can’t leave the bed without wearing slippers, your hair goes very grey, you start obsessing over old repeats of the X Files and the government finally get to you. But I could be mistaken. Don’t get me wrong, though – if I could only pick one single newspaper to take to a desert island with me, it wouldn’t be the Daily Mail. The Guardian would win that battle every time – mainly because it has much less bright and colourful pictures of Jedward than the other ‘papers, and I despise the pair of ’em. Those are the very last 2 people I’d want to be reminded of while being hopelessly marooned (although I could be wrong there and my plan might backfire. Burning pictures of celebrities could create some colourful and vibrant flames, which would be both a) a welcome substitute for masses of helpful psychedelic drugs or b) a good distraction from the impending doom of drought, hunger and going totally mad while longing for a pair of ice-skates or a basketball like lucky Tom Hanks found in Castaway).

High drama

Heading down to Cornwall 10 days ago I had no idea I was about to stumble upon a brand-new paper I’d never so much as heard of…a paper which would prove to be something of an enigma and source of real entertainment…a paper with content so riveting that even the tedious parts of it were so intriguing that we just couldn’t take our eyes off it.

I’d first glimpsed the Cornish Guardian on the first evening we arrived in Par. It was sitting there unassumingly in the corner of the newsagent’s with some suitably Cornish-style headline, and for some reason I didn’t buy it. I can’t remember what the headline was but I’m certain it involved fishermen somewhere along the line, being all friendly and bearded and stereotypical, as we know they always are.

The first morning in Par, I woke up and went back down there, hoping to find a similarly enchanting newspaper waiting for me. But what I found was a dire shock – this headline was different: it seemed to have been hijacked by some sinister Daily Mail reporter…and it read Sex abuser ‘to face jail term.’ in big bold letters. Luckily, just underneath this there was another story which read Calls to reconsider incinerator to be ignored. That was much more like it. OK, so it wasn’t about the phenomenon of Cornish fudge, which was what I was hoping for, but it certainly evened things up a bit. I have always thought of Cornwall as mysterious and intriguing, so this thing about the incinerator fitted the bill perfectly and did the region proud. I wanted to know more, and that’s a sentence about incinerators that I don’t write every day.

For one reason or another – which is a polite way of saying “I can’t be arsed to explain all of what we did that first day, but it was lovely and the company I was with was great and it couldn’t have been better” – I didn’t look again at the Cornish Guardian, or even open it, until later that night. It was very early in the morning and we couldn’t sleep, so out it came. My thinking: it would bore us to tears. Within moments, we’d both be out cold.

We weren’t expecting much – my girlfriend and I were both knackered and a late-night/early-morning traipse through the local Guardian was more of a joke than anything. Neither of us expected to find anything actually of interest. But how wrong we were! On so many levels…

The first sign of promising things to come, or at least something more than a total waste of time and a small amount of money, came on page 3 — don’t jump to any conclusions about Cornish babes, now — with the matter-of-fact headline Raw sewage in high street. Firstly, tired and feeling high on life, the journalist who’d written the piece seemed to have a highly amusing name — she was called Charlotte Lowe, which, at 3am, sounded a lot like Loo and was mildly amusing (sorry Charlotte, what can I say, we were tired and everything seemed funny. If it makes it any better, believe me: I know how it feels to have a name children love to mock…). Secondly, next to the story which we were yet to read was a photo of a woman holding her hand over her mouth in a ooo-[pause]-stinks-like-shiiiiit! fashion, standing next to the offending drain at the side of a road. And it got better. Below the picture was the brash caption SEWAGE STENCH. We knew at this moment that the Cornish Guardian was not about to hold back. If they could turn a seemingly mundane sewage-related story into a thing of great intrigue, we had to ask ourselves: what could they do with a big news story?

Turning over the page, we weren’t prepared or ready for the quality of endless mundane stories which were to come – mundane clearly being something which the Cornish Guardian was an expert at covering (which was a good thing, as it was now clear that this was the only thing it was covering). Page 4 brought the news Jeff’s five-month fight to empty bins still not won, and talked excitedly about a small-business owner battling the local authorities in a domestic Lord of The Rings style affair. Dull as it was, there was something about the way the newspaper put these stories together which was totally fascinating. This one had a photo of Jeff Oliver standing next to an unmistakably full bin with the amusing caption RUBBISH SERVICE. Reading that, it was impossible not to imagine the Cornish Guardian journalists all eating fish and combing their beards while patting each other on the back and talking in a language that even the Cornish locals of far and wide would be hard-pressed to understand.

Moving on to the next few pages, I wish I could say this theme of riveting mundane news continued, but alas it wasn’t to be. It turned out there was an end to it. By the time we reached page 9 we were both fearing the worst: that all there was from here on out was the typical sad stuff that you’d find in other papers. Oh, Cornwall, why did you have to do it?

But page 10 more than made up for the lacklustre intermission! Just at the time when we thought it was all over came a story entitled ‘Wicked’ launderette of the west causes a spin.

Hold on for this one.

The first thing that caught our eye with this story was the picture, which showed a young blonde woman in flip-flops sat on some launderette-style washing machines, leaning towards camera, kissing a massive blow-up frog. Reading the article out-loud, the Cornish Guardian really came into its own, describing a revamped Mevagissey launderette called, ingeniously, Granny Boswell’s Wash House. Not just any launderette, oh no! Cast that thought from your mind right now. This was a launderette which had attracted nothing but controversy from residents ever since it opened…a launderette with sinister under-tones, not to mention Sky TV, as well as a mysterious thing baffling the locals which went by the name of Wi-fi. Along with spiders, toads, and a full-sized witch with broomstick.

At the start of the article, it seemed like a joke. This was just the Cornish Guardian having a laugh, we thought – the sinister under-tones were probably just a ploy to make readers smile while reading in the shop and not go and by the Daily Sport or rent one of the newsagent’s DVDs, which were surprisingly good. Once further in, though, it seemed obvious that we had underestimated Cornwall’s strange, curious appetite for the macabre and the bizarre…soon, it was becoming clear that a man by the name of Carl Harris was at the core of the controversy. Controversy which nobody was laughing at – apart from presumably us, Carl, the launderette staff and all the readers of the ‘paper.

The story went like this: Carl had recently refurbished the launderette, in a bid to modernise it so people actually wanted to wash and dry their clothes within it, thus turning a profit. A sound reason to refurbish, you’d think. Carl clearly wasn’t thick as pigshit. But the way Carl had gone about this had been anything but sound, according to a legion of angry residents…no sooner had Carl hoisted the menacing witch-with-broomstick up for all to see than the letters of complaints had come flooded in. One, which was penned by a group of naysaying local residents who must surely have accidentally consumed fish poisoned with massive amounts of whisky, said how they accused him of “conjuring dark forces in the guise of a pathetic Disneyland launderette.” The contrast of funny and weird in that sentence alone kept us laughing and joking for about 15 minutes, but it was merely the backdrop of humour/ultra-serious-vendetta to what came next.

No criminal is safe!

What came next? A mesmerizing piece of Cornish journalism. It turned out that originally, Carl Harris had wanted to turn the building into a series of holiday apartments, but that a series of supernatural and seemingly inexplicable events – including a drill moving and doors opening and closing on their own accord – had made him change his mind. Carl’s first decision following the events was to hire a paranormal investigator, which he swiftly did. And what the investigator found was troubling: that the old launderette was and had been home to spirits, including a malevolent one by the name of Anne Boswell — also known as Granny Boswell. Anyone else would have sold-up to people without a clue about the hauntings and got the hell out of there and bought somewhere less haunted, surely. But not this Carl Harris – he decided to make fun of the spirits and turn their home into a place where they’d never get a wink of sleep, as well as name the place after the evil demon, in a bid to make friends. You had to hand it to Carl: when it came to facing up to dark forces, he really did so with style and flair. If I could drink alcohol without instantly poisoning myself, Carl might be the first person I’d have a drink with. Next to Granny Boswell in a séance — I’d love to get her take on this.

About the launch, launderette assistant Alice Rouvrais said “Rituals over the laundry and crucifixions out the back will not be happening.”

You have to love the Cornish Guardian.

If we thought we’d had a laugh already, turning over to page 12 changed things forever. This section of the paper was called Around the courts – otherwise known as The victimization of local people engaged in petty crime.

The first person to fall under the paper’s mighty sword was a butcher who’d been banned for driving. I’m not sure what the significance of him being a butcher and drunk is, really – do butchers generally drink and drive more than, say, fishmongers? – but the piece made him out to be a real villain. A man easily on-par with the crimes of another now-infamous local man, who appeared in the next story: Solicitor drove into motorbike. A story about a solicitor who drove into a motorbike, causing a series of Stephen-King-esque harrowing consequences. You can’t say they don’t do diversity.

Next up, without meaning to sound completely sarcastic, we had Magistrate warns man – surely…a magistrate doing exactly what he was employed to do, no? – and Absolute discharge, a story which we didn’t read, but assumed might have something to do with an incontinent or terrified horse on a local country road. By now we were firmly in the Cornish Guardian‘s ruthless grasp.

There were too many other stories to talk about, but some of which were Switched price tags – a tale of a clever unemployed youth showing real common-sense and enterprise, switching goods worth £11.96 for goods actually worth just £5 – and Drunk and disorderly, in which a 16-year-old boy was said to have acted like a very naughty boy. The actual article went like this: REGRET was expressed by a 16-year-old boy from the St. Austell [the next big town 4-miles from where we were] area who admitted being drunk and disorderly when he appeared before Bodmin Youth Court on Monday. “I regret everything about it,” the poor young bastard told the court. The only thing missing from the story was a comprehensive account of what happened when the boy arrived home, where he was swiftly put over his mother’s knee and spanked quite hard (and then made to eat fish?).

I wasn’t going to list the other crimes, but now I can’t resist it: a boy damaged some cars by running on top of them carelessly, a man from Bude stole a laptop computer while on bail and was remanded in custody, and two men jointly masterminded the theft of a generic 32-inch plasma TV from Sainsbury’s in Bodmin on June 7th. Hardly CSI New York, but at least you can’t say the Cornish Guardian doesn’t sit back and ignore the plight of the common people.

All these stories, though, paled in comparison to our number-one-favourite. Man grew cannabis was the title of this beauty, and in it, a Mr P Flint — I’m not printing his full name, as I don’t want to create further employment issues should P Flint decide to move this way — a local petty drug-lord of some esteem, was finally taught his lesson. His crime? Producing some cannabis and possessing a few amphetamines and bits of cannabis resin. For this he was not only victimized and made unemployable in the entire Cornish and West Country regions for the rest of all time, but he also had to pay £250, plus £85 costs and a £15 surchage (presumably just for the hell of it). As if getting busted in a period of record economic uncertainty isn’t enough already, poor P Flint was also forced to share the Around the courts page with an advertisement for PENRICE [COLLEGE] OPEN EVENING, where a series of disturbingly generic school-children look out smugly at the world, while above them the statistics boast of 67% 5 or more A* to C grades including both English and Maths.

Oh…P Flint…we don’t all hate you, honest. Good luck with all your future job searches.

Note: the reputation of Cornish people, fishermen or locals was not intended to be tarnished in this blog post, even if it seemingly was.