Tag: 7 reasons

7 Reasons The Playground Is A Metaphor For Life

I’m sitting in the park. It’s August but it’s gloomy, dank and wet. There’s no one else around. The playground ahead of me is completely empty. I stare for a while. Thinking back to the days when it would have been acceptable for me to run over and jump on the swing. Then I realise something. I’m already on a swing. And a merry-go-round. And a see-saw. The playground ahead of me is just a metaphor for what we experience every day. Here’s why:

1. Swings. Back and forth, back and forth. Sometimes quick, sometimes slow. It’s just like commuting to and from work everyday. Or doing the school run. Sometimes we want it to speed up. To get us through the day. Sometimes we want it to slow down. So we can live the moment for longer. Most of all though, sometimes it makes us throw-up.

2. Slides. It takes time and effort to get to the top. For what? Just to slide straight back down to earth, on your backside, at twice the speed.

3. Merry-Go-Rounds. You go round and round and round in circles. Then you feel dizzy, have a lie down, get up and get back on. And we repeat this ridiculous lifestyle choice for eternity. We’re idiots.

4. See-Saw. Up and down, up and down. All while some git tries to make you fly off and smash your head on the concrete floor. Well, it was concrete in my time. It’s probably wood-chippings now. It’s health and safety gone mad.

5. Climbing-Frame. It doesn’t matter which route you take, the view from the top is always the same – usually some bloke with his tongue down your girlfriend’s throat behind the cricket pavilion.

6. Monkey Bars. You pull yourself up, you think you look cool and then your pants fall down. You lower yourself and realise your pride hurts only slightly more than your biceps.

7. Sand Pit. It’s pretty standard. You make your castle only for some twat to come along and kick it to smithereens. Good name for a 1960s band that, The Smithereens. I was so after my time.

September 14, 2011
7 Reasons That I Hate The Man At The Pub

It was all going so well. All I had to do was go to an unfamiliar pub and meet four friends that were there waiting for me. But there was a man at the pub who cocked it all up and made everything infuriatingly difficult. Here are seven reasons that I hate him.

1. The Man At The Pub Is In My Way. Exiting the bar with a pint in my hand and entering a narrow, dimly-lit anteroom with tables and stools situated haphazardly on either side of barely delineated central walkway I walked past a couple of tables and spotted my friends seated approximately two tables away, ahead of me and to the right. I moved toward them squeezing between the stools on the cluttered walkway. But there was a problem. There was a man also squeezing his way through the cluttered throng of drinkers, tables and stools in the opposite direction, heading toward me. Fairly soon he was in my way.

2. The Man At The Pub Moves In The Wrong Direction. As an Englishman I did what came naturally and stepped to my left as I approached him, in the knowledge that when he moved to his left, there would be sufficient room for us both to pass; assuming that we turned sideways, squeezed in and stopped breathing (because everyone stops breathing when performing this sort of manoeuvre, even though there is no earthly reason for doing so). But the man didn’t move to his left, he moved to mine (his right). He was still in my way.

3. The Man At The Pub Is Stupid. No, that’s uncharitable. He’s not necessarily stupid, I thought. Perhaps he hails from a country where they drive on the right. Perhaps he doesn’t drive. Perhaps he’s drunk; he does, after all, have a pint in his hand. I did what any other sensible person would do, given that he was to my left. I stepped to my right. But at the same moment that I moved to my right, he moved to his left. We had both moved but were both still blocking each other’s path. Bugger.

4. The Man At The Pub Is Still In My Way. Oh God, I inexplicably thought, to a being that I don’t believe in, this could go on all night. This could be one of those occasions where I and a random unwitting partner selected purely by proximity and happenstance perform the tentative and ungainly dance that I know as The Get-The-Hell-Out-Of-My-Way-And-Stop-Shuffling-From-Side-To-Side-In-Front-Of-Me-You-Simpering-Ninny. A blushing teenage girl and I once performed this dance on a narrow pavement outside of the Lewes branch of Waitrose for a full fifty seconds; replete with breezily uttered apologies, good-natured rolling-of-the-eyes, winsome shrugs and staccato bursts of nervous laughter. It was excruciating. I wanted to die. I wished the ground would open up and swallow me (which would actually have solved the problem). There was no way I was going to repeat that again. I resolved not to move any more this time. “Sorry”, I said to the man with the pint, instinctively, at the same time as he said “sorry” to me. Ah, I thought, he is English after all.

5. The Man At The Pub Is Mysterious. Then something else hit me. This man looked vaguely familiar. We regarded each other for a split-second, but I wasn’t quite sure who he was. It was one of those moments, when, in the back of your mind, you know that you know a person but for whatever reason – usually to do with seeing them outside of their usual context – you can’t quite place them. This was perplexing.

6. The Man At The Pub Is Confused. I noticed that my friends – who were frustratingly still ahead of me and to the right, as the man and I were going nowhere, were all looking at me – two were pointing – and roaring with laughter. They were hysterical. I failed to see how two grown men trying to get out of each other’s way in a pub was quite that funny, but then I noticed something quite odd. Although my friends were seated ahead of me and to the right, the sound of their laughter was coming from behind me and to the right. I turned to face the sound. My friends were sitting there. I turned back to face the man blocking my path. Then I realised why he looked familiar. He was me. I was the man in my way.

7. The Man At The Pub Is A Laughing Stock. It turned out that some bright spark had come up with the brilliant idea of covering the entire back wall of a small, dimly lit room with a mirror to make it appear lighter and airier and the customers appear stupider. As I turned and walked toward the table where my friends were still laughing uproariously, the sniggering barmaid was busy collecting glasses there. Feeling rather embarrassed and wishing to downplay the act of foolishness that I was slowly realising I would never, ever be allowed to forget I sought a crumb of comfort from her. “That must happen all the time,” I stated blithely to her. “No.” She replied rather haughtily, “that’s never happened before”. With that, she turned away and walked out of the room, back to the bar, from where we could hear her sobs of laughter for many minutes. The evening didn’t go well. Still, as long as I don’t write about it, no one else will ever know. Oh. Bugger.

September 13, 2011
7 Reasons To Go Out Into The Wind

If you’re in Britain at all which, in 7 Reasons terms, is statistically likely, you can’t have failed to notice that it’s extraordinarily, astonishingly, epically windy outside at the moment. But the wind isn’t a bad thing. In fact, going out into the wind could well be the best thing for you. Here are seven reasons why.

I shall probably have nightmares featuring this image.

1. You’ll Have More Time. Have you any idea how much of your life is spent drying your hair? Absolutely loads. You’d probably find it amounts to years, if you were to spend even more time adding it all up. But you can save all that time. If you go outside into the wind, you’ll have drier hair. You hair will not only dry quickly, but it’s so windy out there that it will possibly remain dry forever. It’ll be drier than a salty desert; drier than a dry martini that has evaporated in the sun; drier than a Mormon in a towel; drier than fire (though hopefully not the same colour). If you go outside right now, you’ll never, ever need to dry your hair again. That’s like being given the gift of time.

2. You’ll Be More Beautiful. Competing cosmetics brands spend billions of pounds, dollars, euros, ringgits, zlotys and yen trying to convince us their product is the best for us. One of the things that they all agree on though, is that exfoliating is the key to naturally beautiful skin. If you go out into the wind right now, you’ll find that exfoliation is free. You’ll find that the wind is so strong that layers of dead skin are blown clean away from your face, leaving you both ruddy and beautiful. You’ll be ruddy beautiful. You might find that so many layers of skin are blown away that you’re left with your original baby-skin which, as we all know, is the softest, most lovely thing in the world outside of a gin distillery. And it’s free.

3. You’ll Be Sexier. What’s the universally acknowledged sexiest moment in film? No, it’s not the scene where Meg Ryan gets excited about sandwiches (unless you’re a weirdo, a pervert or are very hungry), it’s the scene from the The Seven Year Itch where, gently wafted by a breeze emanating from a subway grate, Marilyn Monroe’s dress billows upward revealing something hitherto unimagined by unsuspecting filmgoers. Women have legs! This is the universally acknowledged most sensual moment in the history of cinema. Similarly, if you go out into the wind in a dress you’ll find that it will billow, ripple and balloon too. The wind’s so strong at the moment that it’ll probably blow clean over your head. Just by doing the maths you can tell that an incident that reveals that much more flesh and structural garments will make you many times sexier than Marilyn Monroe in the sexiest cinema moment ever. You’ll be the sexiest woman in the world, even if you’re a man. If you want to be sexy, you need the wind.

4. You’ll Be Healthier. What’s the key to health? Exercise. Want exercise? Go outside right now. I went out into the garden earlier and soon found myself vaulting over a wall and giving chase to a garden ornament belonging to my son that had been suddenly taken by the wind and was skittering down the street. After a sprinting for many, many yards past several startled neighbours and a wild-eyed dog I caught up with it and trapped it with my foot. As I returned to my garden with the turquoise windmill spinning wildly in my hand I knew I was fitter for the unexpected exercise. I looked like an idiot, but you can’t have everything.

5. You’ll Be Wealthier. There are untold riches just waiting for you out there in the wind. Want to profit from this literal windfall? Here’s how: Firstly, go out into your garden and make sure that everything you own outside in the wind is secure. Secondly, go inside and wait. When the wind stops blowing, you’ll find that you have all sorts of new treasure. You’ll have bags, you’ll have paper stuff, you’ll have new plants, you’ll probably have a dress and a turquoise windmill. You’ll have booty! Absolutely anything could turn up. It’s like a free lucky dip or a meteorological tombola. A windswept sweepstake. A gale lottery. Weather bingo!

6. You’ll Be Wiser. Remember the Aesop fable about the sun and the wind having a bet to see if they could make a man remove his cloak and the wind failing abjectly at this task? No? Go outside with a cloak on then and see if you want to take it off. That’s practical learning. Plus you might be able to use it to fly.

7. You’ll Feel Better. What do Scandinavian types do to cheer themselves up when their favourite elk dies or they find that their new wardrobe has one bolt missing and the instructions have apparently been translated into gibberish? They get into the sauna and beat themselves with twigs and leaves. No one knows why they do this*, but they claim that it makes them feel good. So imagine how great you’ll feel when you go outside and stand next to a tree. At the moment, you’ll be beaten black and blue by all manner of twigs and leaves swirling round in the air at improbable speeds. You’ll be battered into happiness, buffeted into joy, knocked about into light-heartedness and marmalised into merriment. You’ll feel better than you ever have in your life. Go outside right now, it’ll be the best thing you’ve ever done! Oh, and can you pick up something for my dinner while you’re out there? I’m staying in.

*Okay, someone probably does.

September 12, 2011
Guest Post: 7 Reasons Why Facebook Is The Worst Thing To Happen To You

Today’s 7 Reasons guest post is brought to you by Jon Potter who works for Anicca Solutions, an online marketing agency. There are, according to Facebook, over 500 million people in the world with a Facebook account. That’s rather a lot. So many, in fact, you’d struggle to fit them in…anywhere. Even a Death Star or Tardis may have to admit defeat to that kind of number. So, you might say, a stupidly large number of people use Facebook, it must be pretty good, right? Wrong. Here are seven reasons why Facebook is the worst thing to ever happen to 500 million people.

1. Facebook Means Everyone Can See You. In A Creepy Way. Remember that weirdo you went on one date with and then never saw again? The one who kept a bottle of chloroform in their car and you assumed went to prison? Well, unless you’ve trawled through the complicated privacy settings on your Facebook account, they’re probably stalking you right now from their prison cell. Not a pleasant thought. But wait, it gets worse. Not only can they stalk you, but they can probably stalk your friends too. And your family. Yes folks, Facebook makes horror movies look more like documentary footage. Sure, everyone thinks they’re the plucky one who survives the entire film, but with 500 million other contenders out there, you’re almost certainly that nameless extra who dies at the beginning before the titles.

2. Facebook Sells Your Data. This has been said before and it might be a bit of a cheap shot. But, when it boils down to it, Facebook only exists in order to sell advertising based on the data you put in. They tell users ‘Facebook helps you connect and share with the people in your life.’ But you can detect a bit of sarcasm in that when you read their message to advertisers: ‘People treat Facebook as an authentic part of their lives, so you can be sure you are connecting with real people with real interest in your products.’

3. Facebook Does Not Obey The King. In 1968, the wise shaman of popular music, Elvis Presley, issued a stirring call for ‘a little less conversation, a little more action please’. The people ignored his call (though they dug his funky music) and he issued it again, from beyond the grave, in 2001. Facebook would do well to listen. By providing a stream of news items, wall posts, status updates and comments, Facebook gives users conversations in a way never seen before. Facebook demands conversation above all else. Facebook does not want you going outside, it does not want you going to see your friends, it does not want you talking to them on the phone. Facebook wants you at home, alone, ‘chatting’ over its instant messaging service, commenting on your friends’ updates, writing on their walls. This way lies idle madness. Listen to the King, go out and see your friends. Add some action to your conversation and talk over a game of soccer or a trip to the cinema.* Go forth and be social in a way which Facebook cannot comprehend. Stick it to the machine.

4. Facebook Is Like A Horrible Drug Addiction That Steals Your Face. No, not because it sucks up your time (which it does), or because you can’t stop checking your newsfeed (which you can’t), or because you find yourself still logging on at 3 in the morning the night before your big job interview (which you do). No, Facebook is like a horrible drug addiction because, no matter how hard you try, you can never leave. You may think you have left Facebook. You may not have gone near the site in years. But somewhere, deep within the Facebook system, there is your face. And next to your face is your name. And next to that, are all the thousands of other details you put on your profile in the first place. Y’see, like Hotel California, you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave. Facebook will horde your details and won’t let you delete them. Even if you ask really nicely. No, really. You’re in there forever, baby.

5. Facebook Takes The Fun Out Of Having Friends. Imagine you didn’t know every microscopic detail of your friends’ lives. Imagine you didn’t know, for example, that Kevin ate noodles for lunch, Sandra watched the entire Godfather trilogy back to back last night, and Michael thinks Woody Allen is the best director since Edison built the first film studio. Imagine that you then go out for dinner with Kevin, Sandra, and Michael and you say ‘hey, what have you guys been up to?’ Imagine the surprise and delight you experience when you hear about their lives and you don’t know it already. This is the surprise and delight that Facebook is stealing from you. Shame on you, Facebook, shame on you.

6. Facebook Is Going To Lose Your Identity. Earlier this year, the Sony Playstation Network was hacked and lots of customers’ details stolen. Facebook is, to hackers after personal information, the mother ship. How much do you trust Facebook’s security? More or less than you trusted Sony’s? Yeah, thought so.

7. Facebook Causes Anxiety. Yes, it’s true. A recent report from psychologists at Edinburgh Napier University found that ‘there is a significant minority of users who experience considerable Facebook-related anxiety, with only very modest or tenuous rewards.’ Pressure stems from deleting unwanted contacts, pressure to be entertaining and inventive, or fears over using the correct etiquette for different ‘friends’. The question is, though, can you leave the site? Not only do Facebook keep your details, but according to the study, ‘Like gambling, Facebook keeps users in a neurotic limbo, not knowing whether they should hang on in there just in case they miss out on something good.’

*Don’t talk over the film. No one likes that.

September 10, 2011
7 Reasons Not To Have A Conversation With Someone You Think You Know, But Don’t

I have half-an-hour to go before my meeting so I take cover just outside Liverpool Street Station. I’m not alone. Despite the rain we’re a hearty brollyless bunch. A man quips about it being a good job the Evening Standard is now free. We laugh. Probably for a bit too long. A woman decides she’d prefer to get wet. The space she leaves is immediately filled by a man. A man about my age. A man who I end up performing a double-take toward. “I know him!” I think to myself, “That’s.. erm.. that’s Tom!”

1. Introduction. I move towards Tom. He hasn’t seen me yet. I wonder if I should jab him in the ribs or tickle him, then I decide probably not. We hadn’t seen each other for years and even when we did frequent The Mitre in Fulham our relationship never reached rib-jabbing levels. Instead I manoeuvre into his vision and say, “Hello!”

“Hi,” he says back, a little less excitedly than I had hoped.

“Been a while, huh?” I say, lifting my eyebrows in the process as if to add weight to my observational skills.

“Urm, yeah,” he replies, adding lack of interest to his already unexcitable bearing.

2. Awkward Situation One. I get the feeling that Tom doesn’t really want to talk to me. Maybe he has an interview. Maybe he still reckons I owe him for a pint. I rack my brains. I was always good at paying for my round. In fact, I think Tom owes me. I can’t be sure so I decide to let it go. And anyway, I have more pressing matters. Like working out what to do now. It would look weird if I just walked away wouldn’t it? I decide to try and bring him out of his shell.

3. Small Talk. “You still living in the place?” I ask.

“Er.. yeah.”

“Still with Harriet?”

“Who?”

“Harriet? You still with her?”

“I don’t know anyone called Harriet,” he replies. And for the first time he looks directly at me. I freeze.

4. Awkward Situation Two. This isn’t Tom! I don’t know this bloke at all! He doesn’t even look anything like Tom now. What the hell must he be thinking? What the hell am I going to do now? Do I just apologise and move back to my spot? Do I leg it?

5. Weirdness. Then something really odd happens. He doesn’t make his excuses and walk away. He doesn’t just completely ignore me. He doesn’t ask me who I am. Instead he asks me a question. A question I have to ask him to repeat. Twice.

“Do you mean Hannah?”

Do I mean Hannah? Do I? I don’t know. I mean, I do know. I know I don’t mean Hannah. I know I mean Harriet. But this looks like an escape route. A small ray of light down a dark tunnel. I decide to take it.

“Hannah! Yes, not Harriet, I mean Hannah! How is she?”

6. Awkward Situation Three. “Ah, didn’t you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“She died.”

Oh. Bloody hell.

7. Goodbye. If you’ve never been in the situation where you’ve introduced yourself to a stranger only to be told that the stranger’s girlfriend is now dead, I urge you to avoid it. It is quite frankly the worst situation I have ever found myself in. And that includes my next-door neighbour’s garden when I was nine. It took me well over a decade before I was able to look at naked women again. (Mind you that wasn’t down to a lack of effort on my part). I didn’t quite know what to say. I think I just stared at Tom opened mouthed. I couldn’t quite believe it. I suspect we were only stood there for a few seconds not saying anything, but it could have been ten minutes. It’s all something of a blur. I could not quite believe how I had managed to find myself in this situation.

“Anyway,” began ‘Tom’, “I’m going to be late. Sorry just to burden you with that news. Give me a call. We’ll go for a beer.”

He held out his hand. I shook it.

“Yeah, that would be good,” I said, as he began to walk away. “Take care.”

And with that he was gone. I couldn’t call him. I couldn’t go for a beer with him. I didn’t have his number. I had no idea who he was. All I knew is he was a bloke who had once lost someone called Hannah. I headed off towards my meeting feeling a profound sense of sadness. It started raining harder. I held my Evening Standard above my head.

September 9, 2011
7 Reasons To Watch The Rugby World Cup

Here we go then. After four years of waiting England are finally about to bring the Webb Ellis Trophy home again. Don’t worry though, if you are of another nationality, there are still reasons to watch.

1. The Perennials. Yes, I’m talking about New Zealand. Favourites for the fifth tournament in a row and justifiably so. The Kiwis are very good and every other team out there is quite frankly abysmal. Add into the mix that they are also hosts then the odds of 8/13 still seem quite generous. To an uneducated supporter that is. Everyone else knows that New Zealand will not win. They are chokers. Defeated in the 1995 final, the 1999 and 2003 semi-finals and the 2007 quarter-finals. They are the Netherlands of the rugby world. So much natural talent and yet so little mental toughness. The draw has been kind to them this year, they play their nemeses France in the group stage meaning they’ll win that one. A quarter-final against Argentina won’t provide too many difficulties, but then they come up against the Aussies – who, after losing to Ireland in the group stages, knock South Africa out in the quarters. And the Aussies win that one. Because they know how.

2. The Group Of Death. If there is such a thing as the group of death in this World Cup, it’s group D. Neither Wales nor South Africa will find it easy against Samoa or Fiji and while South Africa’s experience should help them through, Wales may be heading home early. Which is obviously a shame because New Zealand is full of sheep.

3. The Minnows. That’s right, I’m talking about Scotland. They should be entertaining to watch. For a neutral anyway. For a Scot there’ll be a dispiriting draw against Romania, two horrendous defeats to Argentina and Georgia and then a two-point win against England. Just because that’s all the Scots care about. And because Hape will be playing for England instead of the suspended Tulagi – who head-butted one touch-judge, two cheerleaders and a supporters coach during the game against Argentina.

4. Sleep Deprivation. The time difference means all of us who fine-tuned the art of staying awake all night followed by a half-arsed day at work during The Ashes, get to do it all over again. The first game between the hosts and Tonga is really just a warm-up. The fun starts on Saturday morning. The first of four games kicks off at 2am. There are no forty-minute lunch breaks to sleep through. No rain-delays to give you an excuse to go to bed. Just rugby, rugby, rugby. But that’s great because being deprived of sleep is wonderful. It puts you in a trance-like state through which you do all the jobs you hate without even realising. It really should be available on the National Health.

5. Commentary. With no Ortis Deley presenting, we have to look to the commentators for tongue-twisters. And, in particular, the unlucky sole who pulled the short straw and will find themselves in Auckland on 25th September commentating on Fiji v Samoa. If you know your Waqaniburotu, Murimurivalu and Koyamaiboles from your Treviranus, Poluleuligaga and Tagicakibaus then I suggest you give ITV a call. You’ll almost certainly be put on stand-by. For the rest of us, this has drinking game written all over it. For every mispronunciation, it’s two fingers. You’ll be wrecked by 6am.

6. The Unexpected. Last year ITV performed quite a coup. They got Francois Pienaar to join their line-up for the Football World Cup. Yes, the rugby legend Francois Pienaar. One assumes this was because the World Cup was being hosted in South Africa. So this begs the question, which Kiwi football star have they lined up to offer expert analysis on the scrum? That’s right, it’s Blackburn defender and current Kiwi captain, Ryan Nelson. I expect.

Blackburn’s Ryan Nelson Will Be In ITV’s Analysis Truck For The Rugby World Cup

7. The Alternative. Well that would be to listen to it. On, wait for it, TalkSport. Yes, that’s right, TalkSport! They have exclusive rights which means no Ian Robertson this year. They do have a decent commentary team with John Taylor and Brian Moore in the ranks, but my problem is that they’ll keep interrupting the matches to tell us that Nick Barmby has rejoined Spurs on a free and some twat from a van-hire company will repeatedly tell they’re the best in Canvey Island. I don’t want to know! Then we’ll probably have Jon Gaunt doing a rugby phone-in with Nick Griffin. It’s not going to be pretty. Watch it on TV instead. Watch it on a real channel. Watch it on… oh… erm… it’s on ITV again.

September 8, 2011
7 Reasons The Zoo Is My Habitat

Last week I did something I hadn’t done since I was a boy. I went to the zoo. I’m not going to lie, I immediately felt at home. Here’s why:

Zoolympics Challlenge 1: Stick Your Head Through A Set Of Shark Dentures And Look Sexy

1. Playground. As I may have expressed before, I am a boy trapped in a man’s body. Though whose it is, I am yet to establish. I have never grown up and I don’t intend to. I like being silly. Silly is good. I also like swinging from things while being silly. I saw monkeys at the zoo. They were being silly. And swinging. And picking their noses. It looked awesome. Well, maybe not the picking the nose bit. That made me a little bit sick. But the silliness and the swinging was definitely for me. I want to do that.

2. Sleep. Generally, after I’ve had a day of being silly and swinging around the clothes line, I like to have a sleep. Unfortunately I am prevented in this pursuit by one of two things. Either Claire arrives home or, as sometimes happens, Claire is already at home. Such appearances from my future wife make it very hard to sleep when there are important things to do such as make dinner, plan weddings* or – and the notion still makes me shiver – talk. At the zoo, there was silliness, swinging and sleeping. A whole lot of sleeping.

3. Talk. As previously indicated, I’m not a big fan of talking. I absolutely loathe small-talk. And, as for big-talk, I would rather do a naked lap of St. Andrews. (The football ground, not the golf course. My embarrassment does not need enhancing by the cold Scottish winds). It’s not that I’m uninterested in what you have to say, it’s more that The Tremeloes said Silence Is Golden and I have never stopped listening to them. The thing I noticed at the zoo was that animals don’t talk. Not even a little bit. They make weird noises occasionally – which is nice – but there’s no talking. And no animals asking other animals to talk to them either. Which means more time for silliness, swinging and sleeping. They’ve got it sorted.

4. Feeding. Some of the animals are fed upwards of four times a day. And I’m not talking about snacks here, I am talking proper meals. Four proper meals. Each day. That’s my kind of feeding.

5. Chores. With the exception of the ants who seemingly work all day and all night carrying bits of leaf over logs, non of the animals at the zoo have to work. Or go to school. Or get the shopping in. Or iron their trousers. (In fact, many of the animals I saw were naked). Animals, from what I have seen, don’t do any of the boring stuff at all. They’ve never had to write essays on Pride & Prejudice. They’ve never had to stand in a queue at the bank. They’ve never experienced an episode of Time Team. Their work-life balance is perfect. No work, all life. And life, as I’m sure we can all agree, is for living. It is not for spending in Barclays.

6. Vanity. It’s an alarming statistic, but if I was to walk down the entire length of Regent Street ten times in a row, only on seven of those would someone stop and take a photo of me. For someone who fancies themselves quite as much as I do and does their very best to live up to the meaning of their name – Gift Of God – it’s rather upsetting when someone just walks past without even so much as a raise of the eyebrow. In the zoo though, everyone would be taking photos of me. I’d probably even appear on postcards and desktop backgrounds and t-shirts. And that is the way it should be.

7. Olympic Qualities. As I was walking around the zoo I was challenged to a number of Olympic contests. The Zoolympics they called it. A name that made me chuckle uncontrollably for at least twenty-two seconds. From what I experienced the Zoolympics were designed to belittle me. In less than three hours I discovered that my reaction time was slower than the Blue Dart Frog, my wingspan was shorter than the Wandering Albatros and my backside wasn’t as stripy as Okapi. Which all leads me to believe that if I want to win Gold at anything, anytime soon, I need to move to the zoo to be pumped full of whichever Performance Enhancing Drugs the zookeepers have access to. I felt stupid being outwitted by a frog. Really, really stupid. But at least I beat my Dad.

*You do only have one wedding don’t you? It’s just that having booked both the church and the reception venue there is apparently so much still to do. How? I would like to know how?

September 7, 2011
7 Reasons Modern Cluedo Is Murder

I’m not really paying too much attention as Rob sets up the game. I’m too busy hitting my phone against my knee in an attempt to try and make the Eurosport app work.

“Who do you want to be?” he asks.

“Colonel Mustard,” I reply. I’m always Colonel Mustard.

“You’ll have to be Jack Mustard.”

“Pardon?”

“There’s no Colonel Mustard anymore. It’s Jack Mustard.”

I get up and move to the table. I look at the scene in front of me. Oh crikey! Oh blimey! Oh deary, deary me! Cluedo has changed! I don’t like it. I haven’t even started playing yet, but I instinctively know I don’t like it.

1. The Characters. They’ve all changed. They’ve all been… modernised! Colonel Mustard is now Jack Mustard. A former football player come pundit. Think Jamie Redknapp. I don’t want to play Cluedo as Jamie Redknapp. But what are the other options? Kasandra Scarlett, an egotistical ‘actress’. Think Kerry Katona. I don’t want to play as her either. Then we have Diane White, a former child-star still waiting for her moment of fame. Then there’s Jacob Green, the former white reverend turned black cool dude. Eleanor Peacock isn’t much better. She’s the wealthy daughter of a former politician. Presumably one who is in prison following the expenses scandal. Finally we have Victor Plum, a video game designer and self-made millionaire. And they’re all tits.

2. The Weapons. Rope? Check. Candlestick? Check. Dagger? Sort of. It’s now a knife. Revolver? Check. Lead Pipe? No check. It’s now a baseball bat. A baseball bat?! If you’re going to update it at least make it a cricket bat! Spanner? No check. It’s now a dumbbell. And we have new weapons too. There’s some poison, an axe and a trophy. Which no doubt belongs to Jack ‘Wholegrain’ Mustard. Probably his ‘Knob Of The Year’ award.

3. The Rooms. Can I read a book in the conservatory? No I can’t. That’s because Kasandra has had the builders in and replaced it with a spa. Also out is the ball room, the cellar, the billiard room, the library, the study and the lounge. Replacing them in the Chigwell manor is a patio, a pool, a theatre, a living room, an observatory and a guest house.

4. The Cards. Apart from having a make-over, there are new cards. Intrigue cards. The name, sadly, defies their being. The Intrigue cards are formed of two kinds. Keepers and Clocks. Draw a Keeper card and you get to look at another player’s cards. Draw a Clock card and you might be killed off by the murder. If this happens you are out of the game. What’s wrong with that you may ask? Well quite a lot. I got killed off on my second go. Which meant Rob had no option but to make an accusation. He was wrong. Game over in four minutes.

5. The Name. It’s not even called Cluedo anymore. It’s called Cluedo: Discover The Secrets. Has there ever been a more unnecessary sub-name in the history of board gaming? Actually, in gaming full-stop? No, scrap that. Has there ever been a more unnecessary sub-name? Ever.

6. The Design. I won’t lie to you, it’s gone to tackville. The simplicity, charm and vintage style of the original has been thrown into the bin of class to be replaced by smug looks and bright colours. It’s abhorrent. It’s vulgar. It’s vomit-inducing. It’s enough to make Professor’s Plums shrivel.

7. The Result. I lost. I had never lost a game of ‘traditional’ Cluedo in my life. I was family champion year after year after year. I was so good that whenever I asked school mates if they wanted a game at break-time they would immediately say no and call me a ‘freak’. Yes, I was so good that they had to resort to petty name calling and writing false accusations about me on the toilet wall. This modern version killed me. Again and again and again. I will not be playing it again. Again.

September 5, 2011
Guest Post: 7 Reasons Why Gadgets Can Kill You

Today we welcome Danny Ashton to the 7 Reasons sofa. Danny is a self-confessed gadget fanatic who writes about Android Tablets at his blog. So who better then to tell us that gadgets are going to kill us? Exactly. No one. Once you’ve read today’s post do head over to Danny’s blog or feel free to chat to him about gadgets over email.

If you’re a gadget freak, you may want to watch out, because your gadgets can sometimes get you into serious trouble. I hope you enjoy reading this fun list of dangerous gadgets, just as long as you don’t read it on your new tablet PC whilst trying to cross the road…

1. United Nuclear Magnets. If you want powerful magnets, then what you need is a United Nuclear Magnet. These aren’t your average flimsy fridge magnets. No, these are so strong they can actually break your arm or crush your hand. Their website even states that they cannot be shipped by air because they will interfere with the aircraft’s navigational equipment. Ideal if you enjoy squashing things. Just make sure it’s not your own head.

2. Wicked Strong Laser Pointers. Made in China, these hand-held lasers are so powerful they can light a match from 10 feet away. It’s not quite clear what these lasers have been invented for, but rest assured they are certainly not toys for playing Star Wars with your little brother.

3. Ball-bearing Boot Travel Suits. This bizarre form of transport involves not just wearing special boots, but an entire suit. By looking at the picture (above), it appears the suit comes with a weird face mask which looks like some kind of modern version of a fencing mask. The main body of the suit resembles a black and white version of what the Pet Shop Boys were wearing in the video to their 1993 hit Go West. And as for the boots, don’t even get me started! Ball-bearing boots? Ball-bearing boots??? Boots with ball-bearings on the bottom of them? WHY???

4. Tunnel Taxis. Okay, so this one is perhaps a bit big to really be called a gadget because it’s actually a type of vehicle. Another Chinese invention, it consists of a large bus with a gap down the middle of it to enable cyclists to ride through. This is all very well if the bus is stationary and the cyclist just quickly rides through and out the other side. But what happens if some crazy cyclist tries to cycle through it while it’s moving, and then the bus driver decides to change lanes. Maybe all the roads in China are straight? I don’t know I’ve never been there.

5. Cell Phones. Although the jury still seems to be out on the whole “cell phones give you cancer” issue, they can still get you into all kinds of trouble, including:

Accidentally texting “right now, I’m thinking about your lovely soft thighs” to your brother instead of your girlfriend.

Walking head-first into a lamp-post while posting “I just ate a sandwich” to your Facebook page.

Falling into a ditch whilst laughing at a video someone sent you of a cat playing the piano. Yes, we’ve all done it. Don’t pretend it hasn’t happened to you.

6. MP3 Players. Although great for whiling away dull hours in traffic jams on public transport, MP3 players can indeed also be a hazard. I mean, it’s all very well you doing some freaky dancing to The Birdie Song as you walk down the street, but if you don’t see that the fat guy in a diaper from Jackass has just come round the corner being chased by Wee Man, you could end up squashed.

7. Satellite Navigation Systems. Satellite navigation systems are fine if they take you step-by-step along the quickest route from San Francisco to Los Angeles; but it’s no good if that’s the same day it decides it’s going to have a short circuit and cause you to end up on the edge of Area 51, having accidentally just driven over the sign which says “DO NOT ENTER” and also probably something about trespassers will be abducted by aliens or whatever. Or if you live in the UK, you might end up in field, surrounded by angry cows. Either way, it’s not good.

September 3, 2011
7 Reasons That This is the Worst Survey of All Time

Readers of 7 Reasons, I’m breathless with excitement. I’ve discovered something amazing. While reading this fine article to research something else, I found, in four short paragraphs in the middle, an account of an astonishingly inept survey.

The survey was conducted in the 1930s by the Mass Observation organisation and set out to quantify how many people were having sex on Blackpool beach during the month of August. They conducted their research – in a rather hapless manner – by hanging about on the beach at night looking for people having sex. During the research they managed to spectacularly and hilariously cock up their own figures. Here are seven reasons that it’s the worst survey of all time.

1. The Premise. You can call me suspicious (I won’t answer to it though) but isn’t the premise a bit fishy? I smell a rat; which is a rodent that smells of fish. It’s like someone at the Mass Observation unit suddenly said – possibly during a meeting at a pub – “I’ve got a great idea chaps, let’s all go to Blackpool and observe people having sex on the beach.” And everyone drunkenly agreed to it as a terrific idea and an utterly laudable use of their time and resources. What no one seems to have said is “But wait. Isn’t that dogging?” Because that’s what watching people having sex in a public place is. This makes their observation lack credibility. This makes it look less like a serious study and more like an excursion for perverts.

2. The Results. The results are also a little suspicious. During their study into how many people were having sex on the beach during August in Blackpool, they recorded a mere four couples having sex on the beach. Now, perhaps times have changed and things are a little more liberal in Blackpool these days but there are bus stops in Blackpool where more people are having sex than that in the middle of the afternoon. And on the beach at any given time, there are usually at least nine people attempting to have sex with a donkey. The results seem not to accurately reflect the environment that was being surveyed.

3. The Personnel. The credibility of this survey was further undermined because – and this makes it officially one of my favourite surveys ever – one of the people that the Mass Observation researchers observed having sex on the beach was another Mass Observation researcher. This brilliant incident of the hunter becoming the hunted; the ogler becoming the ogled and the peeper becoming the peepee has catapulted what was already the second least credible survey of all time (after my important research into how much tiramisu you can fit into a 6’2” man with an M in his name in a Yorkshire kitchen in December*) into first place in a race of its own.

4. The Results Are Skewed. The discovery of the researcher having sex means that, according to the Mass Observation survey, 12.5% of all people having sex on Blackpool beach during the month of August are Mass Observation researchers. Now I don’t wish to appear cynical, but if I was say…let me see…in charge of a rather unglamorous unit that generated statistics on everyday life and I was having a recruitment drive to swell the ranks of nerds that I needed to count things, what better way to glamourise it? Move over rock stars (whatever they are); move over Errol Flynn and Clark Gable; Mass Observation researchers are unabashed rampant sex beasts and brazen cocksmen and not the stammering bespectacled tweed-wearers that you previously supposed them to be. If you want to have relations with ladies in hats, join the Mass Observation unit and become a statistician. I’d imagine that brilliantined brown shoe wearers would be queuing round the block to join. On bicycles, probably.

5. The Results Are Confusing. But Wait! What if he was having sex alone? After all, if he’s the voyeuristic chap that suggested going to Blackpool in the first place, that’s entirely probable. That would make him 14% of all people having sex on Blackpool beach during the month of August! That would really be something to boast about. But that raises further questions. If you’re having sex alone while watching someone else are you having sex alone? Do you have to count the other person or people? What if he has some sort of weird fetish and is having sex alone while watching a tram or looking at a picture of Stanley Baldwin? Would that mean that former Conservative Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin was 12.5% of all people having sex on Blackpool beach in August? Should you count all of the passengers on the tram? The computations are mind-boggling.

6. It Might Be Illegal. By and large, Mass Observation researchers were amateur volunteers (and deviants apparently), but the Mass Observation organisation accepted donations and funds from book advances, so it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that the researchers were being paid to do this and it’s highly likely that they were receiving money for expenses. This raises another question. What do you call someone that gets paid when having sex? That’s right, a prostitute. So, not only has this researcher royally messed up the statistics (and given me a headache) he’s committed an act of prostitution while he was working at the beach.

7. It Gets Worse. The Mass Observation organisation have – in the act of giving money to a prostitute – become a kerb crawler. That’s the sort of label that makes the organisation that have produced the least credible survey of all time look – incredibly – less credible than they already seemed (which was not at all). This survey looks like an excuse for voyeurism, depicts Blackpool in unbelievable terms, skews its own findings by engaging in a sexual act on a beach, raises statistical questions that caused me to consider sex with a tram and the organisation that made it might have sullied their reputation by giving money to a hooker. If there has been a less credible survey ever made I’d love to see it.

*The survey’s finding: Bloody loads.

September 2, 2011