I heard on the news this morning that an employee at SeaWorld had been offed by one of the whales. If you ask me, it's about time.
I don't mean that in a harsh way - it is, afterall, a complete and utter tragedy - but I must admit that it would certainly make for an eventful day out. I mean, what's the alternative? Some namby-pamby dolphins dancing for a bunch of slack-jawed 8 year old bogey munchers? Boooooring. I'd much rather see some action!
There also seems to be a lot of confusion as to what to do with the whale. Some want to put it to death, some want to give it a fair trial, the Japanese want to harpoon it and a young Jason James Richter shouts "Let's free Willy!".
The thing that baffles me the most though is the shock people have expressed. "Gadzooks! A person killed by a whale at SeaWorld?! What is the world coming to?!".
Put it this way - if someone advertised their car as a fast car, I would expect it to be fast and if they told me that their girlfriend was a beautiful woman I would certainly expect that she would indeed be beautiful. Similarly, if someone says that this animal is a "killer whale"... I'll assume you can do the math.
Saturday 27 February 2010
Thursday 4 February 2010
Falling Victim To Airborne Buffoonery
The past 3 or so days I have spent in the city of Leicester, where unfortunatley I have witnessed first-hand the overpowering ineptitude of the British air travel system.
Time flies when you're having fun they say, and if that's true then I'm certain that sitting in an Airport terminal is about the least fun a human being could endure without losing the will to live.
If time does indeed fly whilst one is having fun,the fact that the arms on the clock seemed stickier than a Toyota's throttle was quite an indication of how I felt. 15 minutes became half an hour, half an hour became an hour and 10 minutes and so it went on.
In the end and by the time the plane finally arrived I had a beard to put Sophocles to shame and a temper akin to that of a menopausal grizzly bear. And that's not even the worst of it. Enter the air hostesses.
Most men jump for joy when they find out they're going to be jetting off on a plane, because on paper at least, flying in an aeroplane is everything a man could want. He gets to go in excess of 200mph, sit on his buttocks for hours on end doing sweet nothing and also, and perhaps most importantly, gets to ogle at attractive cabin crew.
However, these stewardesses were different. Traffic cone orange and reeking of mule sweat they were the Nadia Almada, the Burberry, the Dagenham of aeronautical hospitality and the absolute antithesis of everything air hostesses represent. I actually started to wonder where the airline recruited such (supposed) females and came up with the only logical conclusion that they hired directly from the back of the local sex-change clinic.
That said however, the trip itself was enjoyable and Leicester city was absolutley charming, albeit a slight culture shock to get to grips with. I had been told that it was the English city with the largest Indian population, but I honestly started to wonder whether it was actually the Indian city with the largest English population.
Perhaps I'd hopped on the plane to Dubai instead? And perhaps we'd picked up some kathoeys from Bangkok en route?
Time flies when you're having fun they say, and if that's true then I'm certain that sitting in an Airport terminal is about the least fun a human being could endure without losing the will to live.
If time does indeed fly whilst one is having fun,the fact that the arms on the clock seemed stickier than a Toyota's throttle was quite an indication of how I felt. 15 minutes became half an hour, half an hour became an hour and 10 minutes and so it went on.
In the end and by the time the plane finally arrived I had a beard to put Sophocles to shame and a temper akin to that of a menopausal grizzly bear. And that's not even the worst of it. Enter the air hostesses.
Most men jump for joy when they find out they're going to be jetting off on a plane, because on paper at least, flying in an aeroplane is everything a man could want. He gets to go in excess of 200mph, sit on his buttocks for hours on end doing sweet nothing and also, and perhaps most importantly, gets to ogle at attractive cabin crew.
However, these stewardesses were different. Traffic cone orange and reeking of mule sweat they were the Nadia Almada, the Burberry, the Dagenham of aeronautical hospitality and the absolute antithesis of everything air hostesses represent. I actually started to wonder where the airline recruited such (supposed) females and came up with the only logical conclusion that they hired directly from the back of the local sex-change clinic.
That said however, the trip itself was enjoyable and Leicester city was absolutley charming, albeit a slight culture shock to get to grips with. I had been told that it was the English city with the largest Indian population, but I honestly started to wonder whether it was actually the Indian city with the largest English population.
Perhaps I'd hopped on the plane to Dubai instead? And perhaps we'd picked up some kathoeys from Bangkok en route?
Monday 1 February 2010
Chivalry Is Dead. Blame The Women.
This past weekend one of my close friends said to me, "Chivalry's certainly dead these days isn't it? It's the bloody women that killed it too,". I did a doubletake, my eyes bulged and steam literally cascaded from my ears.
I was shocked. I was outraged. I was mortified. Most of all though, I felt robbed - not robbed emotionally by this grotesquely un-PC comment - but robbed because I'd been saying this for years.
The reason for this, is that only the other day I was walking down the street (with aforementioned friend) late at night when a woman in her mid-30's came stumbling out of the local flophouse and doddered into the middle of the path of oncoming traffic.
Being the noble and pure of heart cavalier that I am, I went to offer her assistance only to be met with an endless string of horrible profanities and a barrage of fists worthy of Bruce Lee.
Apparently these days if you lend a helpful hand to any female unlucky enough to stray across your path you're a sex pest.
Now, when it comes to sweeping generalisations (as I'm sure you're by now aware) I tend to be the Mack-Daddy. All Germans are humourless, anyone who listens to the Village People is a homosexual and if you wear a shell suit you're more likely than not to rob me.
My writing is however a mixture of observation and slight cynicism all gelled together with a pinch - or perhaps more a bucket - of salt. I am of course completely aware that the majority of generalisations are all tosh.
For instance, I know an incredibly funny German, I listen to Village People and have largely retained my heterosexuality, and nobody round these parts in trackies will rob you. Just call your mother names and stuff fireworks up your cat's bum.
It's exactly these generalisations that have led to the death of chivalry and the subsequent labeling of all men as sexual deviants by women, who have become so obsessed with casting off the chains of practical domestic slavery in days-gone-by that their spouses are now treated as walking, talking, money-earning sex toys.
To an extent though, we all need generalisations, because if we didn't have them life would tick by very slowly - points would never be made, anecdotes would take two years and comedy would inevitably die. "How many blondes does it take to screw in a lightbulb? According to recent survey it takes on average 1.2547 blonde females to screw in a lightbulb!". Ba-dum tish indeed.
I was shocked. I was outraged. I was mortified. Most of all though, I felt robbed - not robbed emotionally by this grotesquely un-PC comment - but robbed because I'd been saying this for years.
The reason for this, is that only the other day I was walking down the street (with aforementioned friend) late at night when a woman in her mid-30's came stumbling out of the local flophouse and doddered into the middle of the path of oncoming traffic.
Being the noble and pure of heart cavalier that I am, I went to offer her assistance only to be met with an endless string of horrible profanities and a barrage of fists worthy of Bruce Lee.
Apparently these days if you lend a helpful hand to any female unlucky enough to stray across your path you're a sex pest.
Now, when it comes to sweeping generalisations (as I'm sure you're by now aware) I tend to be the Mack-Daddy. All Germans are humourless, anyone who listens to the Village People is a homosexual and if you wear a shell suit you're more likely than not to rob me.
My writing is however a mixture of observation and slight cynicism all gelled together with a pinch - or perhaps more a bucket - of salt. I am of course completely aware that the majority of generalisations are all tosh.
For instance, I know an incredibly funny German, I listen to Village People and have largely retained my heterosexuality, and nobody round these parts in trackies will rob you. Just call your mother names and stuff fireworks up your cat's bum.
It's exactly these generalisations that have led to the death of chivalry and the subsequent labeling of all men as sexual deviants by women, who have become so obsessed with casting off the chains of practical domestic slavery in days-gone-by that their spouses are now treated as walking, talking, money-earning sex toys.
To an extent though, we all need generalisations, because if we didn't have them life would tick by very slowly - points would never be made, anecdotes would take two years and comedy would inevitably die. "How many blondes does it take to screw in a lightbulb? According to recent survey it takes on average 1.2547 blonde females to screw in a lightbulb!". Ba-dum tish indeed.
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