Category: Posts

7 Reasons Fining The French Is The IRB’s Most Idiotic Decision Yet

Over the years I have written many 7 Reasons posts – you may have noticed. None, though, have been written with such ferocious anger as this. Sunday was an odd day for me. Possibly suffering the after effects of Rapture 2.0, I did something I have never done before. I supported the French. I couldn’t help it. They played the better rugby in the World Cup Final. They played all the rugby. But my mind was made up before the kick-off. My made was made up during the Haka. The French advanced on it! I love it when teams do that. So you see, from that moment on, I had to support the French. The thing is, though, I had expected that to be the end. The end of my fanciness for all things French. But it’s not. Because I found myself outraged on hearing the news that the prats – and I don’t use that word lightly – at the IRB had handed France a £2,500 fine. For walking! It is just one of a number of pathetic decisions by the IRB jobsworths, but it’s probably the worst. Here’s why:

1. Hypocrisy. I don’t know if the esteemed members of the IRB have ever watched the Haka, but I have. And, as someone who knows*, let me be the first to tell them it’s not exactly morris-dancing. Lacking as it does the necessary handkerchiefs. I have never studied the Haka in detail, but the common theme running through all variations appears to be murder. The murder of the opposition. That’s naughty. If they want to fine anyone, they should fine the Kiwis for repeated death threats.

2. Respect. The charge levied at the French is that they advanced beyond the halfway line and in doing so not only disobeyed IRB regulations but disrespected the Haka. This is just wrong on so many levels. For a start, I saw an arrow with Thierry Dusautoir at the head. Then his comrades formed a horizontal line next to him. Take from this what you will. Maybe you saw men walking. Or, maybe like me, you saw men walking. Walking is not disrespectful. Especially if, like the French, you all happen to be holding hands at the time. It was just the French saying we accept the challenge. All be it in terrifically camp fashion. It was brilliant.

3. McCaw. Richie has his admirers – Kiwi’s being one** – and his detractors – basically anyone who sees his all too regular infringements. But this isn’t about his on-field play. This is about his post-match interview. On being asked by former Kiwi wicket-keeper, Ian Smith, for his reaction to their victory, McCaw replied, “I’m absolutely shagged…”. Now, if anyone was bringing the game into disrepute, surely it is McCaw by saying this. He is supposed to be setting an example to millions of youngsters around the world. The only thing this will do is encourage youngsters to repeat his words. For a sport in which men readily put their hands up between other men’s legs, this isn’t ideal.

4. Spectacle. I love the Haka. I love all the war cries. I even have my own which I prepare before taking on the shower. What I love even than the Haka, though, are the responses. Maybe it’s the pride in me, maybe it’s the naivety, but I like to think if someone was saying they were going to chop my head off, I’d have the gumption to say ‘not if I get to you first’. As an Englishman I’d love to do a Cockerill. Don’t be immature. Not like that. I mean a Richard Cockerill. He went face to face with Norm Hewitt in ’97. Then there’s the Welsh response in 2008 and the Irish’s Willie Anderson-led response in 1989. It’s just brilliant viewing before the real battle starts. I can only presume the IRB are anti-spectator.

5. Young Man. While the Haka does contain throat-slitting references, no one can deny that it is also inspired by YMCA. Just look at the photo above. Everyone knows that as soon as YMCA filters through to the ear drums it is instinct to walk to to the dance floor. The IRB can’t fine for instinct.

6. Missing The Point. Now the IRB have an extra £2,500 to spend on their golfing day, perhaps they’d like to discuss some of the real issues in the game around the ninth tee. Perhaps they’d like to sort out the inconsistencies in refereeing decisions. Perhaps they’d like to encourage putting the ball in straight at scrum time. Perhaps they’d like to explain how Courtney Lawes got a two-match suspension for ‘kneeing’ Mario Ledesma and yet USA Eagles captain, Todd Clever, got away with a ridiculous off the ball shoulder charge and high tackling against Russia. Or is that just wishful thinking?

7. French Resistance. I have very little left to give. I’m writing a 7 Reasons piece in which I am pretty much defending the French. As anyone who read 7 Reasons To Invade France will know, this is a massive turnaround in my mindset. The IRB have done this. The IRB have made me feel sorry for the French. The IRB are the one’s telling me not to try and sell you a France Invasion t-shirt.*** Helmets.

*Boy Scout Camp Trip. Circa 1993.

**My fiancee being another. I am yet to work out why.

***Nice link work.

October 25, 2011
7 Reasons To Refer To Ourselves In The Third Person

What’s the worst thing that you can do during a conversation with anyone? Well okay, there are probably many things that spring to mind, but up at the top of the list, somewhere between murder and suddenly removing your trousers is referring to yourself in the third person, which is an abominable thing to do. But is it? What if we all did it? It might not necessarily be the worst thing that could happen. Here are seven reasons why.

1. It Would Lessen The Impact. What’s your first reaction to hearing someone refer to himself in the third person? That’s right: Shock. On encountering anyone structuring a sentence in this manner the encountee is usually flabbergasted, dumbstruck, stupefied and not a little appalled. Self-doubt can even feature: Wait! Did he just refer to himself in the third person? Surely not. If we all referred to ourselves in the third person, it would come as less of a shock.

2. It Would De-stigmatise It. Once (or if) you recover from the resultant shock and self doubt that arises from an encounter with someone that refers to himself in the third person (Craig David Listener Syndrome, to use the correct medical term) there’s another reaction: He did! What a egomaniacal pillock! What a pompous pudding head! What an numb-skulled narcissistic nitwit! If we all referred to ourselves in the third person, we wouldn’t draw this unkind – though perfectly reasonable – conclusion about the few people that do this now.

3. It Would Be Useful. I have a deep-seated social flaw (other than the ability to make hostile idiots furious by writing about some meal deal). I can’t remember names. Well, actually, I can remember some names, though usually not the ones of anyone I’m conversing with at the time, or if I do it’s invariably the wrong one. For six years I referred to my nieces as Natalie and The Ginger One, but it turns out that I was wrong there too. It was Nadia, not Natalie. Imagine how brilliant it would be if everyone used their own name in conversation, as no one would ever forget another name again. It would be even better than name badges, which – to people that can’t remember names and feel uncomfortable about their inability to remember them – are just a cruel trick:

“Have you forgotten my name again, Marc?”

“No…er…Joanne, I was just…staring at your breast.”

If we all referred to ourselves in the third person, this would stop.

4. It Would Prick Pomposity. And pompous pricks need their pomposity pricked. It’s safe to say that if he had had to utter the sentence “Muammar bin Mohammad bin Abdussalam bi Humayd bin Abu Manyar bin Humayd bin Nayil al Fuhsi Gaddafi needs to visit the little boys room” every time he had needed to use the toilet he would have soon tired of it and renamed himself Kevin or something equally simple. Ever heard of a tyrant called Kevin? No. If we all referred to ourselves in the third person, there’d be less self-aggrandisement and egomania.

5. It Would Improve The Internet. One of the absolute best things about the internet is Youtube, where you can see or hear just about anything (so long as it doesn’t contain anything that Sony BMG have even breathed near). But what’s the worst thing about Youtube? Yes, the seemingly boundless trolling and abuse. The blinkered partisanship and casual racism. Having to refer to oneself in the third person would change all this. Comments like “Chad Thompson says that you should get back in the kitchen and make me a sandwich” would soon put a stop to that odious meme. Or, if not, they would soon be followed by “Chad Thompson’s Mom says Chad Thompson is grounded and can’t use the internet for two weeks. Chad Thompson’s Mom says that Chad Thompson’s Mom won’t be going to the kitchen to make Chad Thompson a sandwich any time soon. Chad Thompson’s Mom says that Chad Thompson can go to the kitchen and make Chad Thompson’s Mom a sandwich.” If we all referred to ourselves in the third person, there’d be less nastiness. Or more sandwiches.

6. It Would Be A Guide To Pronunciation. Are you unable to pronounce simple names? Do you find it hard to enunciate even the simplest and most commonly-heard monikers? In that case, hello BBC Radio 5Live’s Stephen Nolan, welcome to 7 Reasons! Oh, and help is at hand. Now that your callers will have to pronounce their own names when proffering an opinion you’ll soon learn that Marc is not pronounced mork, Will is not pronounced well and Siobhan is actually pronounced…no…no one knows the answer to that, but if we all referred to ourselves in the third person we’d find out.

7. It Would Be Good For Me. I have a two syllable name. Or, to be quite clear, two names of one syllable each. This would mean that in any conversation I’d spend very little time saying my own name and more time saying the important, fascinating and scintillating things about…er…er…tiramisu and cats and stuff? Well, whatever, at least I’d know who I was saying them to. That would be a start.

October 24, 2011
7 Reasons To Revisit Movember

If you knew me or read 7 Reasons (or indeed both) this time two years ago, you will know that I was preparing my face for Movember. After a year off in 2010 – so that I didn’t scare the future mother-in-law – I have decided to have another go. In a little over a week I am going for glory. Here’s why:

1. Colour. The first thing you’ll notice from the above is that the 2009 edition of my Movember ‘tache was somewhat ginger – with assorted whispy grey bits. It wasn’t pleasant and saw me stay exclusively in my room for the final week. 730 days on though and surely the pigments have matured? I need to know.

2. Engineering. The design I went for last time was something of a bespoke handlebar. A small handlebar for a ginger bike. I can’t honestly say that it did much for my then otherwise burgeoning sex appeal. This Movemeber I need to find out whether I can bring sexy back. I suspect I can. As long as I’m just in my pants.

3. Growth. If you think the above was precision trimmed everyday, you’d be wrong. The handlebar in question was never touched. It just grew and grew and grew. Slowly and slowly and slowly. In hindsight I actually think my follicles got bored around the second Wednesday and gave up. I need to know that can now grow something worthwhile. Something that will enable me to call myself a real man.

4. Brotherly Love. My brother is nearly two and a half years younger than me, but he can grow a beard. And a moustache. Sometimes together. Not only does this break the rules of brotherhood (a younger sibling must never make his elder look unmanly), but it also means he is better than me at something. And as all those with younger brothers can testify, this is not a pleasant or indeed acceptable situation. As such I must grow a mo this Movember to show that – normally – I don’t have facial hair out of choice, not inability.

5. Food. I like to think I’m a pretty good eater. I’ve certainly always found that I have good food to mouth coordination. Obviously there are some foods, however, that are slightly tricky to eat. Biscuits for example. Despite the speed at which I get them to my mouth, I always find a few crumbs on my t-shirt or the sofa. The crumbs that fall from the base of the biscuit, well a mo can’t do much about those, but the crumbs that fly up from the top of the biscuit as you bite into it, well they could be caught in my moustache. Perfect for a late-afternoon snack.

6. Excuse. B*Witched said ‘blame it on the weatherman’, this month I’ll blame it on the moustache. November is the kind of month when I am at my clumsy best. I am bound to knock over a plant or drop keys down a drain or accidentally steal a baby. They are not things the clean shaven version of me does. Well, apart from the plant thing. That’s just standard. Stealing babies though, is something I certainly don’t do. But, if for some strange reason I find myself charging through the North Downs will a baby, you’ll know why.

7. Massage. I know it makes me sound like a bit of a tart, but I do like a head massage. Especially when I don’t have to give myself one. Coincidentally they work wonders when I am trying to think of seven reasons. Must be a stress thing. Anyway, if the massage goes to where the hair is, maybe I’ll get a top lip massage too?*

*Oh. Apparently I won’t.

October 20, 2011
7 Reasons To Wear A Traffic Cone On Your Head

This post needs no introduction, so I won’t write one. Apart from this bit obviously. Not that you needed to bother reading it. Right, on with the reasons.

Duke Of Wellington With Cone by Mr Cumbo

1. Hideout. If you’ve just bottled someone in a nightclub by mistake, the chances are you are going to be beaten up and/or arrested unless you get out of there quickly. Your best option is to run to the nearest set of roadworks, pop a traffic cone on your head and crouch. You’ll blend in perfectly.

2. Pointers. If you are a really short teacher or an astronomer, you may find yourself needing to point upwards for long, extended periods. Anyone would struggle with this, which is why popping a cone on your head is the perfect solution. Not only will you be pointing up on a constant basis, you will also have two hands with which to haul yourself up onto the desk so those at the back of the class can see you. You can also pretend to be an alien. That could be fun.

3. Safety. In my youth I used to go out drinking with friends. More often than not one English Breakfast led to an Earl Grey and then an Assam. Of course under such circumstances I almost certainly missed the last bus home. That meant I had to walk. Living out of town meant walking along dark, country lanes. On more than one occasion was I caught like a rabbit in the headlights. If only I had thought, I could have popped a traffic cone on my head and I’d have been spotted miles off. Instead of my usual avoidance tactic which involved diving into the nearest hedge. Mind you, given the amount of tea I had had to drink, it proved a relief in more than one way.

4. Unblemished. Despite leaving my adolescence in the 1990s, I still find spots sprouting whenever they bloody well feel like it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not the acne-ridden four-eyed geek I used to be, but waking up to discover a whitehead in the middle of your forehead isn’t exactly the best start to the day. Over the years my body became immune to all the spot relieving treatments I attacked it with, so these days I have to use a different tactic. Sometimes it’s a fringe, but when my hair is too short for that, it’s a traffic cone. It covers the blemish up beautifully.

5. Fun Of The Fair. Walk around any fairground with a traffic cone on your head and you will almost certainly collect dozens of hoops. It’s instinctive. See a cone, try and get your hoop over it. You may get the odd whack in the face for your trouble, but you will definitely pick up hoops. Then you can go to the stall of your choice, have twenty-five free goes at trying to win a cuddly toy or a goldfish in a Tesco bag and then start again. It’s a cheap day out which is particularly useful if you’re a a bit chavvy and have eight children to keep entertained.

6. On Loan. Given the amount of idiots who steal traffic cones and take them back to their halls of residence, is it really any wonder why road works take so long to complete? It’s health and safety. If there aren’t enough cones, you’re not allowed to dig. Which is why you should offer you cone wearing services to them. Just go up to them in their morning/afternoon/all-day tea break and say you’ll happily stand in the road for a few hours. Not only will you earn a little extra cash, they’ll even pop you on the back of the truck and give you a free lift home. Well, to the depot anyway.

7. Likeable. A favourite pastime of people all over the world – as demonstrated by the above photo – is putting a traffic cone on a statue’s head. Instantly the statue becomes far more interesting. More people stand and point and smile. More people take photos of it than they would if it was sans cone. So my advice to you is to live by this example. If you’re not naturally likeable, put a cone on your head.

October 17, 2011
7 Reasons To Buy A Buttock

Hello! That probably isn’t a title you were expecting to see today, and it wasn’t one I was expecting to write either, but life has just thrown something so amazing and unexpected at me that I feel compelled to share it with you. The BBC has reported that there’s a buttock for sale. That’s right. A buttock! Here are seven reasons to buy it.

1. It’s Not Just Any Buttock. It’s Saddam Hussein’s! You can own a part of a tyrant’s tush; a dictator’s derriere; a bully’s bum; an autocrat’s anus; a totalitarian’s tail. It’s half of Saddam Hussein’s bottom!

2. It’s Got An Amazing History. I’m certain that there are very few people in the world that haven’t seen the footage of Saddam Hussein’s statue being toppled in Firdos Square by US Marines. Well, it’s a part of that statue! A part of the arse of that statue! Half, in fact. It was collected by former SAS soldier, Nigel Ely, who was working with a TV crew at the time. According to the BBC:

Finding the bronze statue face-down, the ex-serviceman enlisted the help of a marine armed with a crowbar and a sledgehammer to cut out half of the despot’s backside.

Genius! With the entire back of this historic statue to choose from Mr Ely selected half of the bum as a souvenir. And he got an American to help him. “What!? You want me to help you remove half the statue’s ass? Sure, why not?” As if being asked to remove a tyrant’s butt-cheek was an everyday occurence in the marines. Perhaps it is.

3. It’s In Derby. Ever been to Derby? Yes? Well now there’s something to do there! And it’s buying a backside at an auction. Saddam Hussein? You can go to Derby and bid on his ass.

4. It’s For Charity. Proceeds from the sale of 50% of Saddam Hussein’s posterior will go towards helping injured ex-service-personnel from the UK and the US, so whoever purchases it will actually be doing something worthy. I can confidently state that money for a great cause will be the best thing that’s ever come out of Saddam Hussein’s bottom.

5. It’s Made Of Bronze! Bronze! So the winning bidder won’t be invited to sell it during every commercial break and at every other new shop on the high street. It’ll also be highly resistant to saltwater corrosion. If they so desire, the lucky purchaser can melt it down and make something else from it. A bust, perhaps, or a porthole.

6. It’s Unique (Almost). It’s not guaranteed to be absolutely unique as, unless there’s something surprising about Saddam Hussein’s anatomy that I’m not privy to, there’s potentially another buttock out there. But that could prove lucrative as they’d be worth far more as a pair. I have no idea how you’d find the other one, but tracking it down could be a great hobby for someone. I don’t reccomend using a search engine though, as I imagine that googling “Saddam Hussein’s arse” will probably bring you to this website in the future. As if we didn’t get enough weirdos. We’ve had “where is dangling place” and “how to read on the toilet” in the last half hour. And I’m loathe to mention the “horse sex tube”. Bugger.

7. It’ll Be In Your House! Or perhaps your garden. Wherever you choose to keep it though, it’ll be the greatest talking point of all time. “May I use your bathroom?” “Sure, it’s the door over there, just next to Saddam Hussein’s buttock.” “Where did you plant the begonia?” “By Saddam Hussein’s arse.” Seriously, who wouldn’t want this in their home?

October 12, 2011
7 Reasons To Smile At A Stranger

The other week I came across a nice little campaign from a New York City-based good karma deliverer. Going by the name of Urban Muser, he/she is leaving notes in subway stations and on trains encouraging people to smile at strangers. And then other people, from all over the world, are doing it too. It’s a lovely idea, simply but effectively executed. We should smile at strangers more. Here’s why:

Smile At A Stranger by Kim Tackett

1. Love. It’s easily done. You’re sitting on the bus and bham! your future wife/husband sits in the seat opposite you. You don’t know them. You’ve never seen them before in your life, but something deep down in your loins says this is the one for you. So, what do you do? Do you carry on reading the paper and hope they come over and ravish you right then and there or do you take matters into your own hands? All you have to do is catch their eye and smile at them. The chances are they’ll immediately turn away, but don’t fret this is natural instinct. They’ll turn back. And when they do, smile again. If they smile back, you’re in. If they don’t, never mind. Just make sure you get off at the next stop. You don’t want to be accused of stalking.

2. Opinions. Maybe you’ve just had a session in the dentist’s chair and now want an opinion on your freshly cleaned pearly whites. Smile at someone. If they whip out their sunglasses you’ll know your dentist has done a good job. If they ask you if you’d like to borrow a bit of dental floss, you know you’ve just been ripped off.

3. Cracked It. Have you noticed that people find chimpanzees and monkeys cute? This can’t be because they pick both their noses and bottoms. That’s disgusting. It must be because they have a cheeky smile. So the next time someone catches you with your hand down your pants just smile at them. They’ll immediately fall for you.

4. Annoy. If someone is annoying you, don’t fire the staple-gun at their head again, smile at them. And don’t stop. Get in their face and smile at them. Even when they ask you what you’re smiling at, don’t stop. Don’t even speak. Just keep smiling. I guarantee that within two minutes they will be far more hacked off with you than you were with them. Especially if you follow them into the toilets and peer over the cubicle door.

5. Intrigue. Just go and sit in a cafe and smile at your fellow coffee drinkers. They’ll wonder what on earth you are smiling at. They’ll be intrigued by you. Are you coming on to them? Are you a spy? Do they have froth on their top lip? Just don’t smile at the girl with the big boyfriend. Especially if you are with your own girlfriend.

6. Reactions. When I was a schoolboy, I was cool. Whenever I went off to another school in the minibus to play rugby or cricket or hockey or other posh-boy sports (like chess), I used to smile and wave at random people as we passed by. In wasn’t a casual smile and wave though, this was a smile and wave that screamed, ‘Hello! I know you!’. The double-takes were priceless. In the minibus I was heralded a genius. Though when in France I accompanied it with a “Salut!” and a boy on a bike very nearly killed himself under a lorry. So you’ve go to choose your moments wisely. An you can do too much. So my advice is don’t do the French shouting to start with. Or the waving. Build it up over a period of time. To begin with, just smile as you walk past someone. A smile that says, ‘I know you!’. You’ll enjoy it, I promise. One day, if you’re lucky, you might become cool too.

7. Contagious. Smiling, like laughing, is contagious. According to the Guinness World Record website, there is no world-record for the number of people smiling at once. (Though, incidentally, I have just set it with the grand total of one). Therefore, why not try and set one. Smile at as many strangers as you can and hope that they smile enough to catch someone else’s eye. Then they’ll smile and the cycle will begin. Eventually everyone in the world will be smiling. And that’s a world record that can’t be broken. Here’s a picture of Jon and Marc smiling to get you started.

October 11, 2011
7 Reasons To Celebrate Leif Ericson

In two days time the population of the USA will gather together and celebrate the life of Leif Ericson. Or at least those of whom who have recently been on wikipedia shall. October 9th is Leif Ericson Day. Now Leif, for those of you not in the know, was a Norse explorer. And there are many reasons he should be celebrated. Not just in the USA, but the world over. Here are just seven.

1. Columbus Mark I. While history tells us that is was the Genoese (Italian) Christopher Columbus who first discovered America, Sir Alan Sugar’s newest Apprentice Tom Pellereau will tell us that it was the British Columbus. And that he liked his pies. Both, though, are wrong. It was actually Leif Ericson who first set foot in was is now commonly known as Newfoundland some 500 years before. Only he didn’t really mention it too much and so no one really went to settle there. Apart from his sister. Who was killed by Indians. Basically, thanks to Leif, the world is 500 years behind where it could have been.

2. Father. Of all the fathers you could have, Eric The Red probably isn’t the one you would choose. He looked like Mick Hucknell in a helmet. And Leif had to live with that. For a short time.

3. Second Father. Who knows, perhaps Leif did call his father ‘Eric The Simply Red’. Something must have happened because when Leif reached the age of eight he was packed off to live with another man. That’s kind of weird. Even in today’s liberal society. So one can only applaud Leif for sticking it out for four years. Though, it must be stressed, that could just be a myth. Perhaps he didn’t have to stick it out at all. Either way, as we’ll discover later on, it had no effect on his sexual orientation.

4. Achievement. Most sixteen year old boys these days are locked in their rooms playing Call Of Duty or spending a little quality time with a copy of the M&S lingerie catalogue. Leif didn’t have such luxuries so he went out and found his own entertainment. Including capturing polar bears. Now, we’ve discussed the issues with regards to dating a polar bear in a previous post. And that was based on the assumption that you were going to be nothing but hospitable to the creature. So one can only conclude that capturing a polar bear increases those issues one-hundred fold. Still, he did it and he made a name for himself. Not a bad feat for the son of a ginger.

5. Lad. As previously indicated, Leif was not affected by his four year living arrangement with a strange old man and he came out of that house as hetrasexual as when he entered. In fact, he was a bit of a lad. On the first voyage that he captained, he was forced to land in the Hebrides. It was the Ibiza of the day. No sooner had he dropped anchor, he had also dropped his trousers. In front of the Lord’s daughter, Thorgunna. I don’t wish to sound vulgar here, but they had sex for a month. And they only stopped for lunch. Not that surprisingly Thorgunna – who had thawed Leif’s gun for the final time – announced she was pregnant. Leif then legged it back to his ship and set sail. You are probably questioning why we should be celebrating this? As you should. It’s deplorable behaviour. Well the thing is Thorgunna gave birth to a son, Thorgils. And when he was old enough he went to seek out Leif and Leif accepted him as his son. Which, for a viking who had by that time discovered grapes, set a fine example we would all do well to follow.

6. Nature. We seldom have days when we sit down and celebrate leaves. And that’s a little bit wrong. There are many shapes and colours out there and yet we take them for granted. Bemoaning their appearance all over the garden in autumn and their lack of visibility in winter. Now I am not proposing that we suddenly start celebrating leaves. How can you? It would be fake. What I suggest we do is celebrate the nearest thing to it. Leif. Then we can build up to a Maple or something. I don’t know really. In was just a thought. And I’m writing this before I think.

7. Vessel. Yes, Leif Ericson has a ferry named after him! The MV Leif Ericson cruises the route between North Sydney and Port aux Basques. (That’s the North Sydney in Canada obviously). I think this must be the one and only time a ferry has been named after someone that the vast majority of the world’s six billion either haven’t heard of or are completely apathetic towards. Let’s change this. He’s got a day and a ferry behind him, now he needs the world.

October 7, 2011
7 Reasons Ian Dury’s ‘Reasons To Be Cheerful: Part 3’ Is Unreasonable: Part 3

After months of trying, we have finally reached the third and final part of the lyrical assassination of Ian Dury. If you haven’t read Part 1 and Part 2, now would be a good time to start. Otherwise you just won’t feel this post. Know what I’m saying? Right, here’s a really big photo of Ian Dury. Enjoy.

1. A Bit Of Grin And Bear It. Given the rather perverted nature of previous lyrics in this song (I point you in the direction of ‘Fanny Smith and Willie’) I doubt very much that Dury is suggesting you should be happy about the stiff upper lip trait that we Brits display so proudly. I suspect this line is, in fact, advocating the dry humping of a black bear. Which is not something I can find myself either trying or condoning. Even if it does make the bear smile.

2. A Bit Of Come And Share It. No bloody chance! What is Dury supposing one shares? Tea? Biscuits? The 7 Reasons sofa? All are deplorable. Capitalism, that’s what we should be cheerful about. All for one and all for me.

3. Yellow Socks. Debatable. To test this assertion we asked 2,500 people if yellow socks made them cheerful. The results are as follows: One person said, “It depends.” Another commented that the prefer, “green socks with sheep on”. One simply said, “no”. Other responses ranged from, “not even slightly” to, “I’m not sure” and, “what shade of yellow?” Upon answering the query I was left without a reply. 2,494 people failed to respond. So, I think we can safely say that people are not cheered by yellow socks. They are totally apathetic to them.

4. Too Short To Be Haughty. To be condescendingly proud is one of lifes all too irregular joys. Looking down on someone who isn’t worthy enough to lick the cherry-blossom off your boots gives one a sense of upmost superiority and I defy anyway who is not thrilled by such a sensation. As such, being short sucks.

5. Too Nutty To Be Naughty. A Snickers bar quite comfortably dispels this myth. It is both nutty and naughty. But is it ‘too nutty’ you ask? No it’s not. Not once have I ever been allowed a Snickers bar instead of an apple because it contained a level of nuttiness that took it above and beyond the range in which it would readily be described as ‘naughty’ and into a range described as ‘healthy’.* A Snickers, no matter how much nut content is possesses, will always be a naughty snack.

6. Going On 40. Was this a seventies thing? The last time I knew people were dreading turning thirty, not excited awaiting their forties. As for me, I’m still excited about my sixteenth.

7. No Electric Shocks. Everyone needs an electric shock occasionally. Just to remind them they’re alive. And the fuse box is still in working order.

*This is officially the longest sentence ever used in a 7 Reasons post. It is also the most confusing. I am still struggling to work out what I mean and I wrote it. Basically Snickers are great. And Ian Dury was wrong to suggest otherwise. Though he called them Marathon bars.

October 5, 2011
7 Reasons Not To Have An Argument With A Cactus

As anyone who has ever crossed an inanimate object will know, you can rarely win. And as for a cactus, well you can never win. Ever. Ever, ever, ever. It’s like a rule.

1. Pain. Let’s start with the basics. Cacti hurt. Get physical with one and it’ll prick you, get verbal with it and it will blank you. A cactus is indestructible. You can never win.

2. Madness. If you do decide to persist with the Steve Waugh mental disintegration tactic you will go mad. It won’t snap. It won’t wilt under the pressure. It will just stand there, Rahul Dravid-like, and make you look like a complete numb nuts. Your only option will be to out live every single person on the planet. Only that way will people never know that you lost the one-sided argument. You can never win.

3. Arnie. No, this is not a strange fact about Arnold Schwarzenger and his collection of cacti. It is simply a philosophy shared by both a cactus and the Terminator. It’ll be back. Always. You can attack it with a saw, try and drown it in molten aluminium, urinate on it, whatever. The simple truth is that it will always come back. It’ll grow again. It’ll break out of its metal shell. It’ll thrive in your urea. The cacti will never die. You can never win.

4. Terminator 2. Say you do take a junior hacksaw to it – or a pair of jeans falls down from where they are hanging, knocks the cactus off the table and causes the impact with the floor to snap it in half – not only will the cactus regrow, you’ll then have to deal with the cactus owner. And if the owner received the cactus from her grandparents some ten years ago and has been growing it without any problems since, you may just wish you were arguing with a cactus at the Chelsea Flower Show. You can never win.

5. Appearances. As anyone who has met Marc can testify, the image of him on the 7 Reasons sofa defies just how big his feet actually are. In other words, appearances can be deceptive. The small, furry looking cacti may look small and furry, but they’re not. They’re like packs of Persil. Small, but mighty. You can never win.

6. Keep Your Friends Close, But Your Enemies Closer. As demonstrated above, some cacti have friends. It is clear what has happened here. Some bright spark has thought about taking a cactus out with their car. (As in they tried to destroy it with their car, not they were taking it for a ride down to the local shops). Big mistake! Suddenly, out of no where, he’s surround by dozens of FOCers (that’s Friends Of Cacti). One sets you on fire and the other uproots said cactus and runs after you determined to turn you into a porcupine. You can never win.

7. Be Cruel To Be Kind. In my experience, arguing with the cactus did little to help me but did an immense amount of good for the cactus. All it needed was for the cactus owner to see me growling at the thing and a small watering-can was thrust into my hand. “If you’re going to stand there all day then you can water it. And when you’ve finished that you can do the others.” See, you can never win.

September 29, 2011
7 Reasons That This Is The Worst Present Ever

Okay, 7 Reasons readers. It’s September, so there’s only one thing we can possibly write about today. That’s right, Christmas. Because – strange as it may seem – there are people out there that are actually planning their Christmas and buying presents right now. I, of course, will be leaving my shopping until the last possible moment, as usual, but I feel I should issue a cautionary tale to those of you that may be contemplating buying presents. For, if it prevents anyone else having an experience quite like this one, I feel I will have done the world a great service. This may make me appear to be an ungrateful man and a bad brother but that’s okay, because I’m an ungrateful man and a bad brother. So, present-buyers: Don’t buy this! Here are seven reasons that it’s the worst present ever. I have obscured the name of the sender to protect her identity.

This is not the actual gift. This is a far more tastefully coloured version of it.

1. It Created Expectation. It was Christmas morning. My wife and I had finished the croissants and were sipping our second glasses of bucks fizz while, in the background, Frank Sinatra gently exhorted us to have ourselves a merry little Christmas. It was time to open the presents. My wife pulled the many gifts out from under the tree and divided them into four piles: presents for her; presents for me; presents for us and presents for the cat (the largest pile). We took it in turns to unwrap them (and to help the cat) and fairly soon the floor was a gaudy collage of discarded paper. Then it was my turn again. It was a small, rectangular present. It was tastefully wrapped and surprisingly weighty. A glance at the tag revealed that it was a gift from my s*ster. “Who’s it from?” my wife asked. “It’s from my only s*ster.” I replied. Expectantly, I tore the paper away, to reveal a narrow blue gift box about six inches long. Wow! This looks great, I thought as I unwrapped the box. Then I opened it.

2. My Eyes! My life prior to opening the box had been a poor preparation for that moment. My life had been one of carefully and tastefully matched colours and textures. Of aesthetical sobriety and decorousness. I was fundamentally ill-equipped for the spectre that cruelly and aggressively assaulted my retinas. What greeted me was the sight of a glass object consisting of a conical frosted glass stem tapering up toward a rounded top that was made up of most of the colours in the world – minus all of the nice ones and the ones that go together – encased in glass that was partially frosted and liberally spattered with gold leaf. It was the single most hideous thing that I have ever seen. And I’ve seen the Lidl in Scunthorpe.

3. It Caused Bafflement. What is it? What is this glassy-horror? Why has my s*ster sent me this? Why is it covered in gold leaf? Is the glass frosted to obscure the thing, like a toilet window? Why does it have a stem? Why does it have a bulb? Why does it have a rim? What the buggery-bollocks is this thing?! “What is it, darling?” My wife enquired.

4. It Caused Speculation. Putting all aesthetic squeamishness aside, I coolly regarded the gaudy object in as objective a manner as I could. It had a tapering stem. It had a bulb at the end. It was simultaneously shiny and frosted. It was a myriad of lurid colours and was festooned with gold leaf. “It’s…it’s…(got it!)…Liberace’s butt-plug!”

5. It Caused…The Pause. “Don’t be silly,” my wife said, snatching Liberace’s butt-plug from me to regard it more closely. “It’s…(there then followed a long pause. A pregnant pause so long it seemed that an elephant could have been brought from conception to gestation during it. In fact, it was merely a pause of several minutes)…a wine-stopper!” “A what?” I enquired. “It’s a wine-stopper. It stops wine.”

6. It Caused Incredulity. It does what?! Of all the things one could conceivably want to stop why in the hell would anyone pick wine?! I like wine. Why not send a gift that stops something more objectionable, like fascism or tennis? Wine is fun! Sending something that stops it is like giving the gift of abstinence. For Christmas!

7. It Caused Me To Lie On The Telephone. “Thanks for the…um…thing.”

“We got it in South Africa.”

“It’s…come a long way.”

“It took us ages to choose that one.”

“Really?”

“Yes. There were so many different coloured ones. Have you used it yet?”

“No, but I will.”

And that was a lie. Until now! Because now – five years later – I’ve finally found a use for it, even if it is as a cautionary tale. A gentle reminder for 7 Reasons readers to choose their Christmas presents carefully. And, even if you don’t, you could at least get it in a colour that matches the recipient’s loft because that’s where it is. Or rather, where it was, because earlier today when I went up there to relive the horror and to photograph it in all its sickening hideousness for you, the reader, I discovered that it had disappeared. My investigations have revealed that it may have been placed in a charity bag by my w*fe during some sort of cull-of-the-horrid. With some irony, it may well have been a bag from the RNIB. I can only offer our apologies to them.

*For fans of gifts like this, this is the place to find them.

September 28, 2011