Tag: Humour

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
7 Reasons Flyers Are Awesome

1. Distraction. Intrigue people and make them miss the bus.

2. Revision. Particularly helpful if you’re studying for a degree in Star Wars at Southampton Solent University.

3. State The Obvious. Give people what you say you will and nothing else.

4. Logic. Don’t make promises you can’t get someone else to help you keep.

5. Gift. If someone you know has let you down, show you can turn the other cheek by getting them some seafood.

6. Cruelty. Got some pent-up frustration you need to get rid of? Take it out on this guy.

7. Community Spirit. Looking wintery outside? Do something fun together.

All images and more can be found on happyplace.com.

September 1, 2011
7 Reasons to be Glad That The Transfer Window Has Closed

Hurrah! It’s finally over! And here are seven reasons to be glad that it is.

1. There’ll Be More News. The 24 hour rolling football will finally stop and news stations and channels will carry actual news: Proper news; vital news; weighty news of great import, historical gravity and epoch-defining momentousness. For all we know, Beyonce could be pregnant and because of the transfer deadline day absolutely no one in the world will have heard about it. Also, Colonel Gaddafi could still be hiding in a tunnel somewhere, possibly in Libya. Literally anything could be happening out there and we wouldn’t know because of the seemingly endless saga of will he/won’t he buy him, will he/won’t he join them and David Ngog? Hahahahahahaha!!!! Let’s find out what’s happening in the world.

2. There’ll Be Less Bullshit, Rumour, Bullshit, Bullshit and Bullshit. There’s a saying in motor sport: When the flag drops, the bullshit stops, but there isn’t enough fabric in the world to make enough flags to stop all of the falsity, mendacity and unabashed calumny that makes up the speculation on transfer deadline day. And even if there were, there wouldn’t be enough seamstresses to sew them, poles to fly them from and this analogy stops here as it’s making the writing part of my head hurt. It seems that absolutely anyone can say absolutely anything and get it reported by ordinarily sensible yet temporarily scoop-frenzied news organisations (and Sky) on transfer deadline day. You would think there would be a limited number of Dan’s cousin’s osteopath’s brother’s friend Terrys that could possibly be at an airport terminal or a motorway service station to witness Sol Campbell (who by my reckoning is now at least eight thousand years old) heading off to one training ground or another, but apparently there aren’t. Dan’s cousin’s osteopath’s brother’s friend Terry achieves absolute omnipresence on transfer deadline day as does Yossi Benayoun who, according to Dan’s cousin’s osteopath’s brother’s friend Terry has now signed for at least six clubs and consumed twelve different flavours of Ginsters pasties at various motorway service stations across the land. And every word of this gets reported in every medium by every organisation reporting on the looming transfer deadline. Benjamin Disraeli said that there are“…lies, damned lies, and statistics”, but he never experienced a transfer deadline day. On transfer deadline day there are no statistics.

3. Arsenal Fans Will Seem Less Mad. If you’re of the opinion that Arsene Wenger has lost the plot in recent months with his bizarre refusal to sign any football player that is both over the age of twenty and has a spine, you could be seen to have a valid point. But Wenger’s reluctance to spend his football club’s money buying football players for their football team has made such blubbering wrecks of the supporters that Mr Wenger himself seems like the sanest man in the world (except David Dimbleby) in comparison to them. I’ve experienced this myself as, while I don’t support a Premier League club, I think that a strong and competitive Arsenal team is a lovely thing to watch and makes the Premier League competition far more exciting. Today I’ve frequently found myself foaming at the mouth and bellowing “Buy him! Buy him! Buy him!” This happens whenever Dan’s cousin’s osteopath’s brother’s friend Terry spots any footballer with at least one and a half working legs and the ability to grow even the sparsest of beards within a hundred mile radius of North London. The combination of Arsene Wenger’s parsimony and transfer deadline day have contrived to turn me into a babbling idiot (even more so than usual). It must be so much worse for those that actually care: Those poor people also have to bellow “Sell him! Sell him! Sell him!” whenever Nicklas Bendtner’s name is mentioned. It must be hell for them.

4. We’ll Rediscover Words. How often do you hear your own name said out loud? A couple of times a day? Ten times a day? It might be more if you’re gregarious or popular, I wouldn’t know. One thing I do know though, is that if your name is Scott Parker you’ll have heard it said out loud more often than anyone else in the entire history of humanity. Anyone that has watched a sport bulletin between May and September (that period we refer to ironically as “the summer”) this year will have heard the words Scott and Parker more times than they’ll have heard the words if, it, bit, but, the, a, dog and salamander combined. Oh, and and. Craig David has heard his name said out loud fewer times than Scott Parker has and he spends his entire life singing it at people.

5. We’ll Be Less Baffled. My wife knows less about football than I know about the female orgasm. Of the sea otter. And when she turned to me today and wearily asked “Why do they always leave it until the last minute?” I loftily dismissed her amateur enquiry and, in a knowledgeable and not un-patronising tone replied, “It’s because…”. That’s as far as I got. Because when the transfer window is open from the end of the previous season until the end of August, it’s absolutely barmy to be trying to buy a player (that the selling club usually need to replace) minutes before the window shuts. The buying club won’t find a bargain as the seller will be far more reluctant to sell them at that time and they won’t get a pre-season to help them settle into the squad. There is no level on which leaving buying a footballer until the last minute makes any sense. Unless it’s the same level on which Jedward are entertaining and Nando’s is a desirable place to go for dinner, in which case it makes all the sense in the world. More probably. All of the sense everywhere. Even the sense in the cupboard under the stairs and the sense that has dropped out of your trouser pockets and fallen down the back of the sofa. Am I still making sense? No? There, that’s how much sense leaving it until the last minute makes.

6. We Will All Be Safe. It’s okay. Really, it’s alright now. We can all breathe a deep sigh of relief and relax as we’re all perfectly safe now. Though it does seem that their strategy is to buy absolutely everyone in the world, there are rules and regulations to deal with that sort of thing and if you haven’t already been purchased by Manchester City (something that is worth checking), you won’t have to worry until January. I’ve spent much of the last month absolutely terrified that I’m going to get signed and dragged off to Manchester to play football in the rain, but I seem to have escaped. My five month old son (who can nearly stand up unaided) seems to have slipped the net too. We got off lightly, as it seems that they’ve even resorted to raiding hospitals to find players to sign.

7. Football Will Be About Football. Remember when football was about football? That wondrous, gilded, golden-age when football wasn’t about finance, negotiation, and acquisition? When it was about sport and not business? Now that the window’s slammed firmly shut, those of us that want to see business (and who amongst us doesn’t find watching a meeting utterly thrilling?*) can watch Dragon’s Den or The Apprentice and those of us that like football can watch football which is a sport, not a bunch of self-centred prima-donnas making utter cocks of themselves for our entertainment. Oh, it turns out that it is. Still, it’ll be nice change from all of the business. Until it all starts again in three months. Bugger.

*Yes, it’s me.

August 31, 2011
7 (+2) Reasons Nine Of Connie Stevens Sixteen Reasons Are Ridiculous

Unsurprisingly for someone who has been in pursuit of reasons every other day for the past two years, occasionally, just occasionally, it’s a bit tricky. You spend hours on Google hunting for inspiration and then, just when you find something with potential, you realise Marc wrote about it last November. All this lead me to discovering a music video on YouTube by someone I had never heard of. And it goes something like this.

I can’t say I’ll be downloading this song anytime soon and I know about as much about Connie Stevens now as I did when I pressed play, but that’s okay. All I need to know is right in front of me. Connie Stevens is wrong. Sixteen reasons? How ridiculous. It clearly should be seven. And for those who are good at maths that means nine reasons are wrong. Yes. Today is bonus reason day.

1. (One) The Way You Hold My Hand. Has anyone, ever, in the history of the world, decided, “Wow! That’s good use of the thumb! This one is definitely a keeper.”? I thought not.

2. (Two) Your Laughing Eyes. What does this even mean? Is it someone who blinks a lot? You just wouldn’t love someone because of that. You wouldn’t.

(Three) The Way You Understand.

3. (Four) Your Secret Sighs. What’s the difference between a normal sigh and a secret sigh? And if it’s a secret how does she know about it? Hardly the kind of thing one would keep looked in a drawer.

4. (Five) The Way You Comb Your Hair. Again, randomness bordering on the weird. Surely a more appropriate reason would be what your hair looks like. Unless you use a hedgehog there really is nothing special about the way one combs their hair. Stupid.

(Six) Your Freckled Nose.

(Seven) The Way You Say You Care.

5. (Eight) Your Crazy Clothes. No. Just no. No one loves anyone who wears crazy clothes. Jimmy Saville? Eighty-four, still single and still wearing tracksuits. Lady Gaga? Twenty-five, blonde, loaded and single.

6. (Nine) Snuggling In The Car. Who the hell snuggles in a car? Dogging in a service station car park maybe, but not snuggling. It just doesn’t happen.

7. (Ten) Your Wish Upon A Star. I don’t need to be a physicist to tell you that it is simply impossible to place a wish upon a star. In fact, it is impossible to place a wish anywhere. On top of the fridge. In a drawer. Down the back of the 7 Reasons sofa. You can’t do it. What Connie really means is, “I love you when I’m drunk, lying on the road and starring at the moon”.

8. (Eleven) Whispering On The Phone. Sounds dodgy to me. Is Connie listening to her lover whispering on the phone to her or is she listening to her lover whispering on the phone to someone else? Either way, it’s stupid. Just speak up. No one wants to keep saying pardon every few seconds.

(Twelve) Your Kiss When We’re Alone.

(Thirteen) The Way You Thrill My Heart.

9. (Fourteen) Your Voice So Neat. Not a phrase I am familiar with. Perhaps that’s because I have never had the misfortune of meeting anyone with a messy voice though.

(Fifteen) You Say We’ll Never Part.

(Sixteen) Your Love’s Complete.

August 30, 2011