Train To Complain

Ofcom recently censured Channel 4 after a Hollyoaks episode aired, pre-watershed, that depicted a character dying after a fight. The character, Simon Walker, was left reeling by a kick that hit him like a train, before being hit by a train. Despite the intentionally distressing nature of the scene, only one complaint was received, the rest of the show’s audience no doubt struggling to notice the difference between the character before and after his death. I watched 12 minutes of one episode before I realised the TV was turned off. Ofcom have not, as yet, responded to my complaint that the remaining characters remain alive.

Of course, I’m being intentionally flippant. I couldn’t do what the actors of Hollyoaks do; read a Hollyoaks script aloud in front of people.

It’s hard to know when to complain and how to approach making a complaint. I worked as a waiter in a restaurant for a number of years, and I’ve been an avid consumer for as long as I’ve had money (I’m 29 now, so, let’s see… yes, three years...), so I know a thing or two about the giving and receiving of complaints.

And yet I can’t bring myself to actually make one. When my food is delivered to my placemat with all the pomp and ceremony befitting a beef burger with onion ring, bacon, cheese, relish and side of fries thin chips, only for it to be lukewarm; I sigh with the resigned air of a man powerless to stop his blood pressure rising without even taking a bite. I curse inwardly, but outwardly bemoan the burden under which the understaffed kitchen team had slaved in order to produce the meal, however substandard.

I’ve faced the banshee like objections of a woman who thought a sultana in her scone was a stone. I smiled, fawned and apologised. I refunded, distracted and withdrew. It was a slightly crispy sultana, and I acted like President Assad at a UN security council cocktail party. And even though I would likely get the same reaction, were I to complain myself, I still can’t bring myself to do it.

I have no idea what “compensation culture” could be. I’m probably the only person that could legitimately claim back on mis-sold payment protection insurance, but I’ll never know. By contrast, my girlfriend once complained to her energy supplier when she found a spider in the gas meter box, outside her house. They told her to call the RSPCA.

It could be the old-fashioned English reserve that Hugh Grant made so famous in his many films, and when picking up prostitutes, presumably. I have loads of that stereotypical reserve. I have huge reserves of reserve, like Africa, but where the antelope smoke carved wooden pipes with bemonocled cheetahs, and lions sip Earl Grey with zebras.

Perhaps I should practise. If you work in the retail industry in Bristol, beware the extremely pedantic consumer about to cross your path. At the merest sign of a less than

enthusiastic welcome, or service that would be more usually associated with a kebab shop, expect a drama more hard-hitting than a Hollyoaks omnibus.

If so, apologies. You can always complain.

You Gotta Do, What You Gotta Do

I found myself watching Katy Perry’s Part of Me. Not the part I’d hoped, instead, her life story up to her 29th year. The soaring heights of a sell-out tour and whirlwind romance with foul-thoughted, bo-ho lothario, Russell Brand, and the stifling lows of continuing on a sell-out tour while her marriage split, rather predictably, asunder. To say it was a rollercoaster ride, would seriously undermine Alton Towers’ marketing strategy. In her magnum opus, Firework, Perry asks us if we, “ever feel like a plastic bag, drifting through the wind, wanting to start again?”

No.

The next day, my girlfriend and I had planned to visit the site of the Bristol Balloon Fiesta, and by sheer coincidence, the darn thing was on at the same time. We left the house on Saturday evening, hoping to reach Ashton Court in time for the famous nightglow. For the uninitiated, the nightglow sees the illumination of barely coordinated bags of hot air for the purposes of entertainment, a bit like Prime Minister’s Questions. I didn’t want to go, but I had to out of some misguided sense of duty.

Today, I had a nosebleed that lasted for almost half an hour. I felt like a depressed celebrity, but with the life leaking out of my nose, while I hid in a toilet so nobody could see my secret shame. I usually have very good bodily control, I can count the times I’ve lost control of my urethral sphincter on two hands, my anal sphincter just once. I should make it clear I had eaten some dodgy mussels, it wasn’t like I’d just got sloppy. It was a grim day, I had to print new business cards.

That last example was truly tenuous, misleading even. But my point is, I very rarely, if ever, do something I don’t want to unless I have a good reason. Whether it’s because of my friends and family, out of some form of duty, or just because my body says it’s time, there is still a reason.

So, when a politician pushes green issues with one hand, and backs the relentless hunt for mainland gas supplies with the other, I mean, fracking hell Dave! I’m not necessarily for or against its use or extraction, it’s the two-faced hypocrisy.

Someone thought it was a good idea to have vans roam the home counties asking illegal immigrants to go home. Someone genuinely thinks this is the right thing to do. In my view, these vans could be better used. When I’m out, having had a few too many drinks, I could use a gentle reminder that a warm bed awaits me at home. “LEE, YOU’RE DRUNK,” the sign would patronise appropriately, “GO HOME BEFORE YOU DO SOMETHING YOU REGRET. AND NO, YOU DON’T WANT A KEBAB.”

When the government announced plans to effectively privatise the NHS, I could think of no positive outcome, no silver lining. I can’t even imagine that someone thinks there is a greater good in play here, this can only be icy cool, calculated greed. There is no, “Well I don’t want to do it, but in the end we’ll all be better off.” Borderline sociopathic.

It’s enough to give you a bad back, eh Dave?

Flight Of Fantasy

I took my seat next to a window, set to travel to the Emerald Isle, at the behest of my lord and master. I rubbed at my sleep sodden eyes, clutching my copy of Game Of Thrones, the world spinning about me as real life blurred with fantasy fiction. This is my account of the journey.

I stared uncomfortably ahead as a man and woman, foreign merchants by their garb, took their seats next to mine and continued their obnoxiously loud conversation. Although they didn’t speak the common tongue, presumably they talked of splayed elbows given the accompanying actions and the bruises that later blossomed around my ribs.

A serving maid with hair of golden silk stood before me, glassy eyed like the dead returned to life, risen none too fresh from the barrow. She wore the blue and yellow crest of her house and spoke with the accent of one of the free cities in the east.

“Magazine?” she enquired with the feigned enthusiasm of a young squire asked to muck out a stables with her bare hands. I shook my head and she shuffled despondently onwards.

A booming voice commanded my attention, sounding as if a man shouted only inches above my head. I looked up, wide eyed, to see a speaker only inches above my head. What sorcery? I thought. Is he clairvoyant? He speaks of the weather in the Emerald Isle before we have reached our destination, at which point I will been well acquainted with the weather, being able to experience it first hand. Damn the gods, it’s raining and I had not the foresight to wear a cloak.

The sorcerer’s voice trailed off as a sound like the roar of twin dragons cut the air. The dead eyed servant and her associates began waving their arms, each one in time with the other, as if bewitched by the sorcerer’s commands. My fellow passengers watched on, equally enthralled.

Images had been scribed into the seat in front of me, seemingly depicting the scene of a dragon attack; a man crawling on all fours through the smoke filled carriage, wearing the same armour donned by the enchanted servants. The armour, I surmised, must protect against a dragon’s fire. Plus it had a whistle.

I clutched despairingly at my arm rests as the carriage leapt into the air, but my surprise soon gave way to annoyance. A babe fresh from the mother’s teat, screamed inconsolably not far from my seat. I reached for my dirk, eager to silence the poor wretch, but remembered that it had been confiscated by security. What kind of noble travelled unarmed to a foreign land. My protests had been greeted with a raised eyebrow and stifled laughter.

I wondered if this was what it was like to ride a dragon, as I looked upon the clouds below. Did the dragonriders of old buy scratch cards and smokeless cigarettes? I can only assume, yes.

The carriage landed. Ah! A welcome worthy of nobility, I thought, as the blast of a fanfare heralded the arrival of our carriage to the Emerald Isle.

Probably The Best Blog Post In The World

I can’t think for myself. My life has been invaded unseen by the ruthless marketeer, intent on poisoning my mind with ideas of how I should spend the meagre pittance that remains after the tax man has kicked me square in the fiscal ghoulies.

You can’t go into a hardware store without the “JML man” haranguing you about products, like the loud-mouth offspring of Barry Scott and the guy that announced the prizes on Bruce’s Price Is Right. No, I don’t want a blanket that you can wear like clothes. I already have a blanket. And clothes.

But it’s not the delivery of advertisements that bothers me. Nor the sometimes astronomical budgets involved. I even allow the opportunistic cynicism of some campaigns to wash over me. It’s the people around me and their frantic and willing adoption of the freshly minted catchphrases.

Menial tasks are punctuated with the inaccurately accented “Simples”. The only thing “priceless” concerning my Mastercard is that it could only ever be employed to purchase goods that are without price. Finally, the admission that one is “confused dot com” should be met with the same reaction more usually associated with a zombie attack, specifically the steady-handed application of shovel to skull.

I suppose technically, Ronseal does do exactly what it says on the tin, though with an appropriately monosyllabic Neanderthal quality, as if it does what it says on the tin, but only when used in an unventilated room. “Me. Stain. Wood. Wood stain.”

With marketing saturation levels exceeding that of a typical male teenager’s dirty washing basket, you can be forgiven for relying on the cliché for inspiration. I recently found myself wishing to publicly express my affection towards my girlfriend but without the prison sentence associated with public nudity. I wanted to do something nice. Everybody loves nice, or so I’m told.

I'm not going to take relationship advice from you, the faceless reader. I’m not even sure how you give advice without a face. I know the basics. Don’t let the sun go down on an unfinished crossword, or sudoku... or something. I’m useless at gifts though. When one wants to avoid clichéd gifts or over-sentimental pap, where does one go for inspiration?

I have great ideas for gifts at all times when I don’t immediately need to purchase one, but when the time arrives, my mushy, slushy grey matter only retains the slightest hint of the memory of the original idea. The idea becomes homeopathic.

I was forced to think on my feet. I bought flowers.

Clearly I, the faceful author, am in no place to give advice on thoughtful gifts. I need to liberate myself from the marketeer’s yoke. Ignore the adverts. Shun the billboards. Little by little, my thoughts will, once again, become my own. Because as we all know, every little helps.

Bristol Fashion

I am not what one would call a fashionable gentleman. I struggle to translate what I see on other people into what I wear. I lack fashion sense, as Iain Duncan Smith lacks a sense of empathy.

But I think I know what I want. I see other people wearing clothes I like and I think, “That looks nice. I’m far too reserved to ask where that came from." Hastily assembled plans to relieve that person of their clothes are rejected, due to the likelihood of embarrassing nudity for one or both parties.

Perhaps the problem is linked to my self-confidence. My milkshake fails to bring anyone to the yard. They feign lactose intolerance and back away. I'm left wondering why I even bothered bring dairy products to a yard. Someone should tell Kelis that there are better media for wholesale milkshake distribution. Supermarkets, for instance.

"I don't want to be completely dependent," My brain told itself, displaying an increasingly alarming proclivity toward insanity, "I'll go shopping on my own and prove I can return with material products."

I found myself wandering around Cabot Circus at five to eleven on Sunday morning. Nothing was open. Loose huddles of ovine, would-be retailees congregated by metallic shutters, waiting to be shepherded inside. I wandered aimlessly, affecting the purposeful walk of a man that knows exactly where he wishes to be.

As the shops opened, I pushed shirts and their coat hangers along clothing rails and searched through neat stacks of trousers, but without conviction. Usually, ruining the neat stacks of clothing is one of the only true pleasures that exist, which is why Primark looks like it should be a place of fun, despite the reality.

I phoned my girlfriend. She hesitantly, but politely agreed with me that the selection on offer was probably very poor; that I should use the opportunity to gather ideas for when we could shop together. By noon, I had purchased two blu-ray box sets. Sat, with a coffee in hand, I contemplated my utter uselessness and hopeless dependence.

Perhaps being dependent on someone isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Iain Duncan Smith might think that about welfare recipients, if he could feel empathy.

One To Avoid

My girlfriend played a cruel and heartless joke on me. A joke that was both humiliating and cunning in equal measure. Without warning, my girlfriend sent me a link to an article in The Sun. How was I to know? It was so innocently presented.  A kind of "Oh, take a look at what I found" levity that should never be associated with such a heinous act.

Worse, the article was about me. I am apparently top of a list of blokes to avoid. Me. Lee.

I am "most likely to try it on" on a first date. I shouldn't be too offended really, I don't get through many dates, unless I'm constipated. I'm ahead of Steve, Kevin and Darren. Darren! I can't imagine anyone more likely to stick his tongue down one's throat, without invitation, than Darren. Darren, I ask you. According to a spokesperson for the study, women would “avoid [me] at all costs on nights out”. All these years I’ve been unable to sleep with women I’ve only just met because of my name. Nothing to do with them at all. It’s an anagram of “eel”, which probably has something to do with it. Phallic.

The main crux of the article was really about shoehorning in a picture of an attractive woman - in this case Kelly Brook - as it had simultaneously been discovered that “Kelly” was the name of the most easy girls. You know, like, to have sex with and stuff. Kelly beat off (don’t snigger) competition from Carly and Lisa, the article’s author incredulous that “Essex girl favourites” didn’t even feature on the list. Because women from Essex sleep around. And all have the same names. It’s science. The author didn’t provide a source but I’m sure there’s a study.

But what good is that knowledge to me. Were I to meet a Kelly, with the obvious design of sleeping with her (I am Lee after all), hearing my name would cause instantaneous revulsion. No amount of explaining how our inclinations so perfectly match, statistically, would tempt her to my well-worn mattress.

Of course, I don’t believe that a Kelly, or Tanya, or Michelle would be any more likely to sleep around than anyone else, despite the probable scientific robustness of the poll. I’m not even sure women really avoid me on nights out. I met my girlfriend on a night. And we were both out. And I told her my name, probably even my real one. She demanded I take her on a date to Nandos, so she could eat a whole chicken, but there was no expectation of sex from either party.

So perhaps I shouldn’t worry. In the future the only person I’ll avoid, based solely on his name, would be the author of the article.