Monday 13 June 2011

Stop! Step away from the bubble...


If there is one thing that makes the working week more bearable, it’s my noise cancelling headphones.

My Ultimate Ears SuperFi 5vi’s deliver a crisp rich sound directly into my head, providing a clear mid-range and delivery of bass that you simply wouldn’t expect from in-ears. Whether its dance music when running, angry rock music, audiobooks or podcasts these are by far and away the best (and, coincidentally at £50 the most expensive) headphones my iPhone has ever been hooked up to.

To be honest, that’s not difficult as the bundled white buds from Apple are frankly terrible, my Skullcandy Full Metal Jackets died in less than a month and my 3 pairs of Sennheiser MM50ip’s each lasted only a little longer than that.

However, the quality of the sound is not the reason I love them. In fact, for the length of time that they worked for, I have loved all of my noise cancellers equally. See, it’s the noise cancelling part that really matters. It lets me shut myself off from the outside world and exist in my own little bubble.

For years, I survived with standard Apple white buds. This was until I moved desks in my first job to sit between the two office loudspeakers. As a half-arsed attempt at keeping their identities a secret, let’s call them Mrs. Chew and Mrs. Ribery.

There’s a Mrs. Chew in every office. More than happy to forcefully impart an opinion on absolutely everything and everyone. More often than not any opinion imparted would be voted against by supermajority or better. A hypochondriac with a compulsion to share every gory detail. All of this at a volume that could drown out the fire alarm drill.

And then there’s Mrs. Ribery. I am still not sure if she is technically a Miss, but at a certain age I tend to refer to all ladies as Mrs. Employed for her ridiculous language skills (fluent in more than 10 languages), this lady sure could talk. Constantly. Without breath. For Days.

To add further annoyance, Mrs. Ribery had somehow wangled her way to convincing the powers that be that a 9 month working year was a good idea. I would certainly agree that the 3 summer months were blissful, if only it weren’t for the months directly before and after this annual sabbatical. The month before, the yapping would commence but the month after was the real killer, and it got worse every year.

I have noticed that as a lady gets older, years of sunbathing can leave skin somewhat leathery, almost crispy. Imagine, if you will, that you were to coat a half inflated balloon with old, dry leather. What would the surface of this balloon look like if you were to re-inflate this balloon on an annual basis? (Following a gradual deflation over the previous year)

Trust me, you wouldn’t want to see it. However, I am not so lucky – I remain haunted to this day by two of these (freshly inflated) coated balloons dangling over my desk as their owner rabbited on about the previous 3 months.

Alone, one of these two ladies (Mrs. Ribery and Mrs. Chew, not the balloons) could be bearable. Together, not so much. Then I discovered the bubble. Armed with Last.FM, some shiny new Sennheisers and a can do attitude I erected my capsule of personal space. Amazingly, not only did I no longer hear either of them, but the sagging twins stopped a-visiting due to the clear “leave me alone” body language. Result.

Secondly, a shorter one this time. I live in London. Public transport in London is one of the most unpleasant things anyone can ever experience. However, stick on some headphones and ignore everyone else and you can pretend its not happening. OK, you may still end up being pressed nose-first into the armpit of a gorilla reminiscent of a larger, hairier cousin of Stavros flatly but at least you can be listening to Whitesnake while you’re doing it.

Finally, these 2 small balls of ear-filling goodness can be your first, last and only line of defence against the worst scum of the universe. That’s right. Chuggers.

I hate charity muggers with a passion (or “Street Fundraisers” for the PC amongst you).  And here’s why:

Most charity muggers are paid on an hourly basis (although some are paid on commission).  They can be paid up to, or more than £12 an hour to do their thing. Think about it. 5 days a week. 8 hours a day. 52 weeks a year. £12 an hour.

These scumbags are stealing up to £24,960 per year from the charities you want to give money to.

That’s more than a new teacher (paid from £21,588 outside of London) and a new doctor (Foundation Year 1 = £22,412). Clearly something is not quite right.

Yes. They will argue that after the charities have paid the initial commission (the Chugger Pimps are all paid on commission) the charities will make money they wouldn’t do otherwise, which they may well do. But I’m pretty sure that if you give me a week with the “marketing budget” assigned by charities to chuggers I could get you a much better and more immediate return.

Stopping my tirade for a second. You have to give credit to some of the chuggers. If they are smart enough to work out that a £25k salary for wandering around outside with no performance related criteria to be judged upon is a fairly good return for very little effort, then fair play to them.

Irritatingly, however, most of these people enter into this world as a result of a jumped up self-reverential ideology that they possess the power to deliver rectal sunshine to the rest of the world.  They couldn’t possibly compromise their morals and get a “real job” - this would just feed the evil capitalist beast. Heck no, they must act like Sir Robin Hood and steal from these rich and give to the poor (after the poor have first paid them, handsomly, for their galant service).

Dining out on tales of how their “chosen path” leaves them similar in moral stature to Ghandi, they are not forced to realise that their pierced lips, dreadlocks, outrageous facial hair, sandals and constant aroma of [insert one from: marijuana, body odour, hemp or Lynx Voodoo] make them virtually unemployable in the real world. You’ll see this as a recurring theme in my writing, but again, here is an instance where we as society have stopped natural selection running its course.

So, I spent a while thinking about the optimal strategy to get rid of chuggers. I am currently split between two options.

One. Stand there and talk to the chugger for as long as is humanly possible. The whole day would be ideal. In the best case scenario, the chugger is on commission so will not make any money. At worst, the chugger’s pimp is being paid on commission so will not make any money. They will, however, still have to pay the chugger so will be losing money and eventually starve. After distracting the chugger for as long as possible, inform them with a smug grin that you will now be going to donate online. Donate online if feeling rich.

Two. Counter chug. Carry a big sign saying “don’t pay the chugger” and encourage the chugees to donate directly instead. Surely by now, most people susceptible to chugging have been chugged so all you are really doing by stopping any new customers is simply speeding up the natural process of starvation (and saving each new intake of grads and school leavers let loose in the city from funding future chugging). Donate online if feeling rich.

I think both these strategies are equally valid and can lead to the end of chugging (whilst keeping the money flowing to the charities). Sadly, I don’t have enough time (and am frankly too lazy) to put any of these strategies into practice. I just stick my headphones on, enter my bubble, and ignore them.

Friday 3 June 2011

München Meinen Truncheon

As a nation, we simply do not like ze Germans. With the war well before the time of most of us (and most of our parents) I struggle to believe that that this is the real reason why.

I have spent a fair bit of time trying to work out why and, quite aptly, the four reasons I can think of closely resemble a pair of secret policemen – SS SS

Sunbeds – clichéd reference to the blunt efficiency of the Germans. I would say more a reason for annoyance than dislike

Sport – from Football to Tennis to F1, ze German’s consistently hand our medium-rare backsides to us in sporting situations. Let’s face it, our British politeness means that we are, essentially, a nation of chokers. Ze Germans, conversely are used to winning so end up winning

Seriousness – entertainingly, there has been a full on academic study of why the Brits and the Germans have a level of mutual distrust – have a read of this:

-LINK-

For the lazy, it boils down to small-talk – whereas we use small talk to “provide a social function” – i.e. make people feel good – our German counterparts see this is an unnecessary waste of time, and in some cases, insincere small talk is seen as tantamount to lying. Imagine a life without unneeded chat. Certainly more efficient but much less entertaining.

Sarcasm – I would like to take this opportunity to thank our very own Hugh Laurie for finally bringing sarcasm across the Atlantic through the medium of medical drama. Having honed his craft in arguably the greatest example of quintessential British satire – Blackadder – Dr House finally taught the Amercian public that insults and sarcasm are in fact the highest form of wit. Sadly, the common perception is that our Germanic friends are yet to follow the same path.

Last month, I went to Munich, and I have come to understand where the distrust, resentment and oft time dislike of the Germans come from. Compared to all other European nations, the Germans are more like the British than anyone else. Reserved, fanatical about sport and fuelled primarily by lager there is more than a passing resemblance between our nations. The reason for the distrust comes from the fact that in areas we pride ourselves on (and others that we don’t), the Germans are simply better than us. Munich was one of the best European cities I have ever visited.

Let’s take a simple example – one of the best inventions I have ever seen. The Beercycle.

Strolling through a beautiful park in a beautiful city we heard a noise, singing. Not real singing, but man singing. The noise got louder and before we knew it we were overtaken by a man on a bike. However, this was not just any bike. Behind the “driver” was a beer keg. Behind this beer keg was a 12 person dining table surround by the requisite 12 people drinking from the aforementioned keg. Under the table, these folk were helping with the peddling.

-LINK-

This thing was genius.

Yesterday, back home in London, I went for a beer in the city. Imagine if you can Bishopsgate at rush hour – it’s not a pretty sight by any means. But lo and behold – not one, but two Beercycles passed us by (sandwiched between two double decker busses). But no, these were British beercycles, no keg of beer (drink cycling – how dare you even consider such a thing), no table – just a handrail to hold on to. Worst. Imitation. Ever.

1-0  Germany.

I have lived in London for almost 6 years now and I love it. However, the 2 best times of the year are between Christmas and New Year and the Easter long weekend.

At these glorious times of year, somewhere between one third and half of “Londoners” bugger off to where they were born and raised (often, me included – big up Reading). Suddenly, there are seats on the tube, there is space to walk and London has the right number of people in it.

Imagine these idyllic times of year, then imagine that every road looks like The Mall leading up to Buckingham palace. Welcome to Munich. 2-0.

OK, there are examples where stereotypical German efficiency can go too far…

On our trip, we happened to pass a large white statue outside an office. Quite cool, but thought nothing more of it.


Until this – LINK

In that very building, a German office party epitomised both German efficiency and the “functional” approach to problem solving. Again, for those too lazy to read, a number of “pros” were hired to satisfy certain urges of the salesmen of this organisation.

Just to be clear, in my opinion this is completely wrong and immoral. But my god was it well executed.

Ladies were awarded coloured wrist bands – one colour for waiting staff indicated “don’t touch”, one colour for the plebs and one special colour for the finest of all the ladies who were reserved for the board and presented as a reward to only the best salespeople (interesting alternative to stock options as a bonus plan). But wait. There’s more. Following each “use” a lady was stamped on the forearm – similarly to a Café Nero loyalty card. I can just picture the attendees of the event methodically trading off the diminishing returns of multiple “uses” against the physical attractiveness of the item in question. Sheer madness.

Finally, I would like to come back to sarcasm. The common perception that Germany and sarcasm do not mix is quite frankly not true. Some of the finest exponents of dead pan satire that I have ever met have heralded from the Rhineland. Deliberately paying tribute to the robotic stereotype, I have witnessed truly breathtaking dead pan delivery of discourse so scathing and full to the brim with acrimony that I have had to stop myself applauding in slack-jawed amazement. Not to name names, but BF, TS, DG – I salute you.

Thinking back to the depraved debauchery that occurred behind that white statue, I can rest assured – or at least imagine – that the phrase “München meinen truncheon” was used more than once. And that the ladies were stamped accordingly.