Tag: Piers Morgan

7 Reasons Not To Have A Staring Contest With The BBC One Ident Hippo

For one reason – which is why it doesn’t qualify for this site – I had to live pause the TV last night so that Claire and I could watch The Apprentice together. I paused the TV when the Hippo ident was showing. The exact point at which I paused is shown below. Knowing that I had at least fifteen minutes before I could press play, I had a choice. Start the ironing or have a staring contest with the hippo. I chose the latter. This is my story (of why it was a stupid idea).

1. Winning. From the moment I even contemplated staring at the hippo I knew I was going to lose. The only way I could have won is if we had had a power cut. (An unlikely scenario unless I was to attack the fuse box with a cucumber). And yet, despite being fully aware of the highly probable outcome, I still entered the battle. It was pointless, it was a waste of time and I was always going to finish second. Or last. Whichever didn’t come first really. For someone who enjoys winning it was a bizarre and futile decision that did me no favours. When the inevitable did happen a little bit of my aura had been destroyed. I’m was no longer the man I once was. So if you are ever tempted, don’t do it. You’ll never be the same again.

2. Distractions. A couple of minutes into the contest my phone rang. Now, even if I don’t answer my phone, I nearly always look at the display to see who I am going to ignore. It’s a habit. While on this occasion I was strong enough to ignore it, my mind was no longer on the job in hand. It was on who might be calling me. Was it Claire saying she’d be longer than she initially thought? Was it my Mum wondering where the rest of her Mother’s Day present was? Was it Marc wanting to sell me a baby? To this very minute I am not sure if my line of vision flinched towards my phone or not. It’s impossible to say. What I do know is, it did me no favours. When you are staring at a Hippo – especially a picture of one on the TV – you have to be in the zone and you have to stay in the zone. Distractions are zone killers.

3. Fish. I gave myself the benefit of the doubt. I told myself that my line of vision had not altered and so, if I was able, I may re-enter the zone. And, after a few minutes, that is what happened. I know this is what happened because my focus began to drift. The hippo was now a blurred hippo. And then the blurred hippo wasn’t a hippo at all. It was a fish. A fish in side-profile. A scary fish in side-profile. I mean this thing was ugly. It had a pair of lips Leslie Ash would have been proud of and a scaly body that reminded me of this. I am not sure this will work for you – in fact I am not sure I want it to work for you – but if you have a spare ten minutes just stare at the hippo above. If you’re unlucky the fish should appear across the lop of the hippo’s head. The lips appear in the hippo’s right eye if that helps.

4. Guilt. Having rid myself of visions of Piers Morgan and Leslie Ash’s illegitimate child, I then experienced severe pangs of guilt. The hippo was drowning. I had done that. I had paused the hippo and made him tread water. Twelve hours on I am pretty sure he wasn’t drowning at all. I am pretty sure this was pre-recorded footage and all I had done was paused its progress. But at the time, when you’ve been staring at a hippo for approximately thirteen minutes, that type of rational thought doesn’t enter your mind. You really do feel like a hippo murderer.

5. Terror. This is when you realise that the hippo is staring back at you. And he looks angry. Probably because you have made him tread-water for fifteen minutes. He also looks a bit like a crocodile with his nostrils protruding from the water. And that’s when you start panicking. Are you actually on BBC One? Are you sure you’re not watching – and recording – Animal Planet? Do you even have the Animal Planet channel? Is there even a channel called Animal Planet? So, yes. Staring at a hippo for too long makes you go mad. Really quite mad.

6. Visions. When Claire eventually arrived beside me on the sofa and gave me an opportunity to end my ordeal, I realised it wouldn’t be over for a little while longer. All the staring at a bright screen in an otherwise dark environment left me looking through those annoying colour blotches that you are only supposed to get when your eyes are closed. As one does in such circumstances I shut my eyes to try and get rid of them. This didn’t work. Instead I was faced with a vision of the hippo. In sort of a yellow and red mosaic. A mosaic that slowly began to disperse. Which is when I decided I was through and settled back to watch The Apprentice. With the occasional appearance from a fish.

7. Tea. I can barely bring myself to write the words. It went cold.

May 12, 2011
7 Reasons That The New Duvet Is Awful

At 7 Reasons (.org) we like to think of ourselves as lifestyle writers; authors of a self-help guide to modern living. But occasionally, something so calamitous occurs in one of our personal lives that we can think of nothing other than that event and are compelled to write about it, even though we’d rather be thinking and writing about something (anything) else. Such an event has occurred. In the past week, my wife purchased a new duvet. It is one of the worst things that could have happened. Here are 7 reasons why.

1. Light. It’s dark under the new duvet. Whether it’s actually dark or not. It’s so dark that the exterior of the duvet could be next to the sun, or next to something as dark as the sun is light (the unsun? The un? ). It wouldn’t matter. Because underneath the duvet, it is always pitch black: Unless I was to take a torch under there. Though possibly even then. There is nothing darker than being under the duvet, except for being inside Piers Morgan’s soul wearing a black hat, a bin liner and a pair of sunglasses. Though how you would find yourself in such a situation, I don’t know. It would be quite unfortunate.

2. Weight. The duvet is heavy. It’s heavier than…well…everything; and it’s definitely the heaviest thing I’ve ever been pinned to a bed by. It’s like an enormous weight is pressing down on me all the time I’m beneath it (which may be slimming, who knows?). When I tried to complain, what I said came out as gibberish because of the heavy weight pressing down on my face. But that didn’t matter, because…

3. Under The Duvet, No One Can Hear You Scream. There is no sound under the duvet. This is bad, as I like to listen to the radio while in bed – it prevents me from thinking, which is what usually gets me into trouble, so it’s quite essential – but the moment I put my head under the duvet, all sound stops. All of it. Which would be handy if I were in a room with James Blunt, but I’m not, I’m trapped in a room with my own thoughts. Which is much like being back in Piers Morgan’s soul again but I can wear what I like and there’s tiramisu.

4. Heat. It’s hot under the duvet. Hotter than anything. I have no idea exactly how many togs the thing contains, but I know this: Togs are hot, and the new duvet has bloody loads of them. I have actually broken into a sweat just by lying under the thing, not moving, in a cold, draughty house in the winter, when the temperature outside was -13. It was then that I decided the remedy to my overheating would be to lift the duvet to let some air underneath.

5. AAaaaaarrrrrrgggghhhh!!!!! And that turned out to be a sensation like being punched in the solar-plexus by an angry ‘roid-enhanced snowman. Twice. It turns out that there was at least a thirty degree difference between the temperature in the room and the micro-climate beneath the duvet. Still, at least my screams didn’t wake my wife, as my head was beneath the duvet and her head was above it, so she couldn’t hear them.

6. Time. Under the duvet, you have no inkling of what time it is. None, whatsoever. There’s just no way of telling. I can’t hear the radio, and there’s no way of telling that it’s time to get up (alarms, bin-men, toasters, a hungry cat etc), nor is there any daylight or any climactic indicators (it’s just always the temperature of boiling stuff). I could take a timepiece with me, but who wants to roll over on a clock in the bed, or get the bracelet of their watch caught in their hair and have to cut it loose? I don’t want to make that mistake again, thank you very much. Because doing that for a third time would make me look foolish.

7. Air. It is impossible to breathe under the duvet, which is a shame, as it’s something of a hobby of mine. No air penetrates the dense, heavy material that the duvet is constructed from (some sort of downy molten concrete?) and all air that was originally there is forced out by the sheer weight of the thing pressing down on the bed. I’m not sure if this lack of air counts as a vacuum, but the new duvet certainly sucks.*

*7 Reasons (.org) will return tomorrow but may not be back the following day as I may die a hideous death under the duvet of doom.

December 13, 2010
7 Reasons This Poster Frustrates Me So

1. It’s Quicker By Rail. I’m sure it was, 75 years ago. Sadly, given the fact that my last foray on a train took a good deal longer than it took Neil Armstrong to get to the moon, I would suggest times have changed. And not for the better. It’s frustrating that this poster would now have to say, ‘It’s Quicker By Rail (Unless You Meet A Cow)’.

2. It Oozes Frenchness. This isn’t my usual anti-France and all things French rant, in fact, it’s made me think of Grace Kelly. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, unless you happen to be writing this in front of your girlfriend. Now, I’ll be the first to acknowledge that Grace Kelly isn’t French – or at least a close second behind her – but in the film To Catch A Thief, she did spend an awful lot of time poncing around with Cary Grant on the French Riviera. And frustratingly, this picture reminds me of that poncing. And if there are two things I can’t stand, it’s poncing and the French. Together.

3. The Woman. While the man looks like he’s a man, the woman looks like a statue. It’s disappointing for those of us who take female equality so seriously. You would never find 7 Reasons being so vindictive. That’s why, at all times, 50% of us are strictly male lesbians.

4. Visit Scarborough. It looks quite nice in the poster. If I had been alive back in 1927, I may have got on the train. Unfortunately, having found a photo of its current state and transposed it over the poster, I can see that it hasn’t really changed much. Which is why I now have little option but to pay the £108.40 and take the 5 hour 40 minute journey (plus cows).

5. Chivalry. I am naïve. I believe it when the older generation say, ‘it wasn’t like this in my day’. They are usually talking about manners. Or sex. But that was the wrong club at the wrong time, so really it’s just manners. People used to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, though not necessarily at the same time, and men with walking sticks would most definitely offer them to women with bad backs. Sadly, though this poster indicates that in fact man couldn’t care less. Which means the older generation have lied to me. Either that or this woman is in fact a statue.

6. It’s Joe. This man is Joe Scarborough. He’s the host of Morning Joe on MSNBC. In a past life he was also a politician. The only reason I know this is because I found numerous pictures of him while searching for a photo for Reason 4. Rather frustratingly, forever more, I will hold this useless piece of information about Joe Scarborough in my mind. No doubt at the expense of some fascinating fact about sausages.

7. The Man. He reminds me of Piers Morgan. And I’m not sure why. Which means it’s doubly frustrating. And as doubly frustrating things tend to do, they will no doubt occupy my mind for the rest of the day. Which in turn, of course, means I will be dreaming about Piers bloody Morgan tonight. Thank you BBC News Magazine. Not what I call a public service.

August 10, 2010
7 Reasons That Size is Important

Whether you’re a cricketer, a despot, a politician or a git; size matters. Here are 7 reasons why.

1. Geoffrey Boycott. If Geoff Boycott had used a bat this size, no bowler would ever have taken his wicket. Carrying the large bat would also have caused him to move more slowly, meaning that there would have been fewer instances of him running team-mates out. The obdurate Boycott would have been so effective with the larger bat that, having started this match in 1979, he would probably still be batting now. With a score of about thirty runs.

2. David Cameron. I have shrunk David Cameron and his relative size in this picture is a more accurate representation of the UKs importance in the world order. It serves him right for belittling war heroes on his recent trip to the USA: He caused me to agree with the Daily Mail! This is his punishment.

3. My Cat. If my cat were this size then he would terrorize the city of York, wreaking untold havoc, death and destruction on the population by falling asleep on them about once every ten minutes. He is quite useless. And fortunately quite small.

4. Piers Morgan. If Piers Morgan’s head were…oh…Piers Morgan’s head is this size. Pretend you haven’t seen it. I know I will.

5. Umbrellas. If umbrellas were this small then they would be ineffective, and people would soon realise that having wet hair isn’t the end of the world. Golf umbrellas would no longer block entire streets and incidences of tall people being poked in the eye by the damned things would plummet, causing me to shout less at short people, making the world a more peaceful and harmonious place.

6. Hitler’s Hand. If Hitler’s hand had been this size, the strain brought about by all of the saluting would have caused him to bring about a rapid demilitarisation of Nazi Germany, which would have given him the time to set more peaceful goals and to consider important questions, such as: Why do the British think that one of my testicles is in the Albert Hall? What does my moustache really say about me? Why does Himmler’s hat have a triangle embedded in it?

7. Indiana Jones’s Hat. If Indiana Jones had worn a hat this size then Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull would never have been made, as he would barely have made it past the opening scenes of Raiders of the Lost Ark and, even if he had, would never have escaped the large boulder thing in the middle of the film. If I had worn a hat this size to see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, my viewing experience would have been immeasurably improved, as would that of the couple behind me.

*I got all the way to the end without saying penis. Yay!

July 23, 2010
7 Reasons To Love The Letter B

1. B is for Brilliance. Don’t take this website as evidence. Take a look here and here. It is all around us. Brilliance is good. Without it we’d be distinctly average. And no one wants that.

2. B is for Britain. Yes, I am biased (and not just because I feel the need to be given the subject of this post), but Britain is the best country in the world. It has history. Spectacular geography. Culture. Art. Morris dancing. Cheese rolling. Test Match Special. Marks & Spencer. Gardens. The Archers. Castles. Cornish Pasties. Colin Firth. Allotments. And me.

3. B is for Brown. No, not Gordon. Sauce. Brown Sauce is great. Brown Sauce doesn’t need Piers Morgan to make it look good.

4. B is for Beauty. Life is beautiful. People like looking at beautiful things. People are beautiful. People like looking at beautiful people. I like looking at pictures of Sandra Bullock.

5. B is for Baths. At the 7 Reasons HQ, the bath is rarely sans person. (Though unlike the 7 Reasons sofa it is never occupied by more than one person at a time). A bath is relaxing. A bath is stimulating. A bath is a place of discovery. Just ask Archimedes. If he hadn’t jumped into the bath on that glorious day in 240BC, we wouldn’t have submarines.

6. B is for the Beach Boys. Just to show that while I am biased towards my country I am not xenophobic, I am going to ignore The Beatles – a pretty good band – and head stateside to find the best. Not only were The Beach Boys brilliant exponents when it came to creating the 2:30 pop song, they also created the masterpiece that is Pet Sounds. One of – if not the – greatest albums ever made.

7. B is for Buses. Without buses we wouldn’t have seen Holiday on the Buses. Or Summer Holiday. We would also have forgotten about Darren Day five years before we eventually did.

*See here for 7 Reasons To Love The Letter A.

February 18, 2010