This blog may break down due to snow.

There’s a true menace at work; something that is bringing our once proud nation to its knees.
Planes grounded, cars left stranded strewn across motorways, people staggering across roads shouting deliriously ‘BUS, BUS.’

Before you leave your home after reading this, best sneak a look out of the curtains. Don’t linger too long. It could blind you. Just one look and you’ll know. Know if you're safe from the dreaded ... SNOW.

If you dare step outside, beware. There beasties lie. Cars skid down ungritted roads, crashing into everything they come even remotely close to; other cars, garden walls, pensioners. Buildings explode in the distance and wolves appear and start to howl.

Despite all the snow teenagers can only find ice and rubble to make ball shapes from. Icy brick balls that break teeth, windows, skulls.

When snow scatters over the UK it’s like a haze of LSD over the country. Mania ensues. People talk about the weather as if Armageddon is on the way.
“Have you heard? Snow is coming tonight?”
“SNOW, SNOW? We’d best get to Tesco, fill up with petrol, get food in.”

Radio broadcasts are interrupted every half an hour, special snow TV shows are made and websites are plastered with flash banners warning us of the impending danger of the slightly frozen water falling from the sky.

Yet we’re hardly a snowy nation. We only have 9 natural ski fields. France, Germany, Norway, Sweden, South Korea, Canada and New Zealand are just some of the nations that have far more annual snowfall than we do. All of them have snowfall every year, just like we do. Yet we seem to be the only nation that have trouble predicting that after over 200 years of records and snow in near enough every year, that it might happen again next year.

In 200 years time global warming will shift the Gulf Stream and mean Britain will have similar weather to other countries on the same latitude; Canada, Denmark and Russia. That means 4 month winters that start cold, get colder, drop lots of snow, freeze the snow, drop more on top of it and then snow just a little more.

Schools will have winters off, people will start to hibernate and cars will have to be fitted with padded bumpers.

Snow hung around on roads for days last year because we, an island nation surrounded by salty sea water, ran out of salt. Next year we there’ll be a mass culling of sheep because we run out of grass. Plans for solar power will be scrapped because we run out of sunlight.

Having said all that. I get to go home early from work, so can't complain.

Next week’s blog may be cancelled due to the weather.

I'll Put You Through To The Right Blog; Please Stay On The Line

Building the Great Wall of China, Putting Man on the Moon, Eating 59 Hot Dogs in 12 minutes; all incredible achievements, but all outshone by my efforts this week to close my bank account.

Banks are phenomenally efficient when it comes to taking money from customers. I missed a payment on my credit card once. Within a week I’d been emailed, called, received a letter, a carrier pigeon, a visit from a knife wielding ninja who threatened that my ‘time would come’ if I didn’t clear my monthly minimum repayment of £2.41; anything to get the cash.

It seems strange then that when I tried to contact my bank because I was owed cash and wished to dispense with their services, they were nowhere to be found. Every link on the website just lead to ways to pay them cash. The FAQs were listed like so:

How do I pay you cash?

Where do I click to pay you money?

I owe you a fortune due to your ludicrous and unethical interest rates, where do I go to pay an amount that will be dwarfed by the monthly fee you'll put on top?

And so on. I scrolled down but with no luck. There were no answers relating to anything other than paying in money, borrowing more money or setting up new accounts. At the end it read:

“If your question has not been answered please ring this number:” All in big font, all easy enough to follow. What I didn’t see was the font that read “your calls will be charged at our premium rate, unless you call from a mobile, in which case we’ll just roll a handful of dice and that’s how many pounds you’ll owe us.”
I’ve been kind enough to enlarge it for you: “your calls will be charged at our premium rate, unless you call from a mobile, in which case we’ll just roll a handful of dice and that’s how many pounds you’ll owe us.”

Had I known that it would cost more than the funds in my account to withdraw, then perhaps I wouldn’t have bothered, but I picked up my mobile, dialled the numbers and entered a numerical labyrinth of Minotaurian proportions. The phone rang twice before switching to an automated response. I’m not entirely sure why they leave in the two rings. Are we supposed to believe the responder is a real person?

The toneless robot on the other end barked orders at me far too quickly for me to remember what I should do. FOR ISSUES WITH CARDS PRESS ONE NOW BUT FOR BALANCE INQUIRIES IT’S TWO AND NUMBER INFORMATION PRESS FOUR BUT NOT IF YOU WANT TO SPEAK TO ANOTHER MACHINE THEN PRESS FIFTY THREE GO GO GO.

I panicked and just pressed numbers at random. It must have done something because there was a long beeeeeeep and then it rang twice before being answered by another robot.
“You’re in a queue, but your custom and money is very important to us, so please do stay on the line.”
Greensleeves played. “You’re in a queue, but your custom and money is very important to us, so please do stay on the line.”
Greensleeves played some more. This ordeal was repeated for 10 minutes before I was finally put through to Jim.

“Hi, I’m Jim, you’re through to accounts.”
“I’d like to close my account please.”
“Ah, you’re in the wrong department, you need payments. I’ll put you through.”

I went through greensleeves again, but this time Miriam greeted me.

“Hi, I’m Miriam, you’re through to payments.”
“I’d like to close my account please.”
“Ah, you’re in the wrong department, you need ‘give us cash’. I’ll put you through.”

This went on for hours, weeks even, until my phone switched off because there wouldn’t be enough money in the world to pay my bill.

I’m thinking of opening a restaurant in the same manner. You pay on arrival. You’re seated and told your food will be with you shortly. You wait an hour to the sound of greensleeves before going to complain. There you have pay £5 to join a queue to tell a staff member called Mick you’re unhappy. He’ll charge you another fiver to tell you you’re in the wrong queue and you need to speak to Alice in accounts. All the while I’ll sit in my office and eat all the food myself before deciding at the end of business hours I’ve not had quite enough food so I’ll award myself a food ‘bonus.’

Sounds unrealistic yes, but if all the restaurants in England did it, then we might be onto something.

Lest We Forget

A poppy can lay dormant for years in soil, only for it to flourish when the earth is churned over. That’s why fields upon fields of poppies could be seen in France and Belgium after the World Wars. That’s why it stands for the memories of those who laid down their lives for us; those who churned the soil of fascism so freedom could bloom.

Jon Snow, the channel 4 newsreader has once again refused to wear one on air this year, saying he refuses to bow to ‘poppy fascism.’ A tragicomic image comes to mind of poppies marching on gardens, refusing to allow other flowers to bloom and shooting on sight all bees that work for any other plants.

He says that he doesn’t wear any symbol on air, pointing out that he doesn’t wear charity bands or black ties to mourn even those related to him. He is only interested in his journalistic impartiality. It’s a brave stance. However, it’s a stance he’s only able to take because of those who laid down their lives in such numbers so many years ago.

I wear pink on pink days, black for funerals and I wore a yellow band when my father was fighting cancer. There are more causes to support than colours. Wristbands have gone from plain, to multicoloured to pin badges. There’s even a Livestrong clothing range. Soon you’ll able to drive an animal rights car and live in an apartment that supports the fight against MS.

They’re all valuable causes, and Jon Snow is right when he says supporting one opens the floodgates to all. It conjures up the image of the news being presented by a giant slinky of multi coloured bands with a voice emerging from the top; ‘and the NASDAQ came down 3 points today.’

But a poppy means more. It means that we have the right to support any cause we choose to without reproach. It means I can write this blog, you can read this blog and people can write comments underneath; all without fear of being dragged away in the night.

In fairness to Snow, he has a job that does require impartiality, and he wears a poppy off air. For Abercrombie and Fitch and Bodycare UK there’s no excuse. Both companies banned their employees from wearing poppies simply because it isn’t part of their uniform. Do employees have to wear company approved underpants, socks, hair?

Why is it that some people seem so averse to celebrate their ancestors? Maybe it’s because we don’t make a big deal of it. Korea, USA, Australia and New Zealand all have national holidays to celebrate those who have died defending their nation. We just have bank holidays, and banks steal all our money.

A national holiday would give people the proper time to reflect on the bravery of those who have walked the extra mile for the most constructive or destructive of things, of that which is the hardest to sell; an ideal.

Over the next two days, if you walk past a poppy stall and debate whether to buy one, do you have time? Just remember 70 years ago, people just like you had no debate. 1,700,000 Brits laid down their lives over 9 brutal years. That number is too big to comprehend. Put simply, somebody British died every 3 minutes over both wars. That’s about the time it’ll take for you to buy and put on your poppy.

Christmas Is Coming, The Goose Is Not Yet Born

It’s November today, unless you’re reading this in the published form Lewis’ greatest blogs in the middle of July. Then it’s not November, but chances are the issue will be the same whatever the time: Christmas.

I should love Christmas. What’s not to like? People buy you stuff, you buy them things you’d like in return, maybe in the hope they won’t like it and just leave it hanging around for you to take home. There’s good TV. You can eat too much, drink too much and any inappropriate comments towards family will blamed on the rum content in the Christmas pudding and forgotten by the time the New Year comes in.

I get carried away by the excitement of it all and end up splurging vast quantities of cash on incredibly wasteful pre Christmas presents for myself. ‘Tis the season; I deserve an ivory carved back stretcher to go with my gold plated truffle chocolates.’ That’s fine when there’s 3 weeks of build up. My bank account can just about survive the onslaught.

When I walked through the local shopping centre last Monday (25^th October) my heart sank. Christmas lights already. I couldn’t help it. A manic smile slowly started to form. Jingle bells began to be whistled. My hand reached for my wallet. Only 60 shopping days until Christmas, must ... buy ... crap.

Now I’m open and exposed. Everywhere is decorated; there’s no escape. Even the websites have festive trims. I’m like a heroin addict walking a world full of giant smack filled needles that I can just drop onto any time I like. I kid myself, that by using a card and not money it doesn’t count. But of course it does and I always end up spending the first week after New Year’s sobbing at my overdraft and eating Tesco value baked beans for every meal.

The Americans have thought this through. They have thanksgiving at the end of November. A nationwide family gathering where presents aren’t exchanged and cards aren’t bought. Everybody wins but the turkey. A staggering 46 millions turkeys get eaten in the USA each year at Thanksgiving. It’s a feathered genocide; 2 words I can’t imagine putting next to each other in many other contexts. It’s also the biggest evidence so far against evolution. Surely if the birds could evolve they’d have started migrating in October by now?

This mass consumption of gobblers means that people only start to think of Christmas when December arrives, and so none of the joy is lost.

By the time Christmas arrives here I’m all Christmassed out. Cracking and eating nuts has lost its novelty value, can’t stand the sight of tinsel, I’ll punch you in the face if you offer me another mince pie.

Each year Christmas seems to creep further and further back. Soon I’ll be eating Stollen in June, next year putting the tree up in March, to the point where I’ll be out buying things in December for the Christmas the year after.

Anyway, I must dash, there’s only 75,318 minutes left until the big day.

Can Being Right Ever Be Wrong?

If I offered to pay a young member of your family all their tuition fees, but only if I could drown their cat, would you take it? It’s only a moggie. Got him from a rescue centre didn’t you? He’d have been put down if you hadn’t stepped in. He owes you; time for him to pay back his dues –help little Sarah through her BA at Lancaster. And he’s 4 years old – that’s 193 in cat years. He’s had a good life.

There’s a chance you’d take it. Especially now Universities are allowed to charge what they want for admission. Next open day you attend there’ll be a price list handed out at the start:

1 year before quitting £4,500
2:2 £22,000
2:1 £35,000
First class £1,000,000 or suck off the Dean

It might seem a strange offer, but the world is full of people hiding bad things in good offers. Take Operation Christmas Child. On the surface they look great. They send presents out to poor children. Like modern day Robin Hoods, but the rich are consenting because they feel terribly guilty.

What’s not to love? Well the service is provided by Samaritan’s Purse, an evangelical Christian group, whose leader, Franklin Graham has said that Islam is an evil and wicked religion. They’re also rather homophobic with their ex leader, and current leader’s father Billy Graham saying that all homosexuals should be castrated. Not sure what happens to lesbians. Maybe he doesn’t mind them as long as they film it.

The shoe boxes are targeted at Muslim countries, and are asked to not be sealed as they are checked before sending out. There have been a number of reports of evangelical literature being put in the boxes, and children being made to hold prayer groups before being given their gifts.

The majority of receiving children don’t celebrate Christmas. I wonder if the poverty stricken children of Aboriginal Australians will be receiving toy trucks and a card saying ‘Happy Hanukkah’ any time soon.

Does it even matter? When I was a child if somebody told me I could have a box of toys, but I had to renounce Satan first I’d be up dancing his evil spirit out of my soul. I’d say anything you like.
‘Monkeys and carrots are evil and must be stoned to death with marmite pebbles. Now give me the Xbox.’
Doesn’t mean I’ll be picketing abortion centres any time soon.

I can’t help thinking they’re targeting the wrong audience. Going to the furthest flung parts of the world to tell impoverished children who don’t speak English and don’t celebrate Christmas that homosexuality is a sin seems a lot of effort for little reward. It’s hardly as if they can donate back to Samaritan’s Purse.

People across Europe despise Franklin Graham and reject his views. That’s the target audience. European students. You can convince a student of anything, and they’re suckers for free gifts. Go to a University, start offering free toasters and novelty underpants and within minutes you’ll have an army marching round chanting ISLAM SUCKS, DOWN WITH GAYS.

Now if you'll excuse me. I'm volunteering for a charity that puts hand grenades in Easter Eggs.

If you would like to make a donation to Lewis’ angry students campaign, just leave a comment at the end of your article with your bank details.

Chugg Off

On the occasional sunny days that Oldham offers me I like to wander into town to take my lunch. Despite walking through Oldham, it’s generally a pleasurable experience. I get to poke about in the market stall, ask the people in the pound stores how much everything is and if all that gets too much, I can sit on the one bench not covered in gum and bird shit just outside the court house and watch the comers and goers; this helps me feel smug and self satisfied about my middle class place in the world.

The main reason I cherish these days of splendour so much is that they’re so few and far between, so it was with joy in my heart when I trotted out of the office yesterday to spend 60 minutes of avoiding vomit, drunken maniacs and potty mouthed youths.

I walked up the high street not caring about the man with the lopsided beard asking me if I’d like to see his smelly bishop.

Then it happened. It loomed into view like a teacher coming into the class room as you’re mid white board graffiti. I froze. Mistake. They pounced on my weakness. It was a chugger. A charity mugger. They show no mercy.

For my American readers a chugger is one of those folks with a clip board full of pictures of puppies looking sad or children quietly sobbing. They wear a t-shirt for the charity they work for and generally some kooky accessories that make them look cool and worth talking to. They’re not, so don’t.

The conversation with a chugger usually goes like this.

“Hello Sir. You look like a generous kind of guy. My kind of guy. Your shoes are cooooool. Mind if I stop you for a minute to have a quick chat about my charity that helps middle aged women in Nantwich that have limited access to good Rioja?”
“Yes I do mind. Fuck off!”

Or rather I want to say that, but instead I just crumble like Cheshire cheese into a serving of meekness; ready for them to take advantage of. I mutter something along the lines of ‘no thank you, I don’t have time, please, I want to buy my lunch.’ But then they show me a picture of dying baby seals.

“See what happens when this 50 year old accountant’s assistant doesn’t have a nice glass of Bordeaux to help her through her meaningless existence? SEE WHAT HAPPENS?”
“YES, yes, I see. Please sobbing, please no more, take my money.”

And so I sign up and promptly cancel the direct debit. Promptly in this case meaning 4 months later, just in case they notice and send somebody round to my house with pictures of a shop selling kittens for drowning.

They’re masters at making you feel horribly guilty and that your life won’t be worth living unless you sign up to give £2 a month. Yet that feeling should be the other way round. Chuggers make £7 an hour for their part in this spreading of depression. That means that if you donate for a full year you’ll pay for a chugger to be on the streets for a full 3 ½ hours until a penny of your money goes to the charity.

This scam is just a transfer of money from your account to the account of another so they can stand about persuading people to keep the cycle going.

At this rate more people will be chuggers than aren’t and they’ll start fighting each other for your cash. Chuggers will climb down your chimney, claw at your windows. All the while saying could I just show you this?

So next time a chugger shows you their guilt book tell them you’ll consider their offer, and if, after consideration, you still want to donate, then you’ll access their website and donate there.

With enough of us doing it, maybe they’ll get the picture and chugg off.

Meta blogging

In China 4 in 5 people have written a blog. That’s 7 trillion blogs. Is there really that much to write about? Is life in the People’s Republic so eventful that even when the blog count reached 10 figures a marketing assistant in Xi-an still thought I love Chairman Mao very much, the world must know of this?

As more and more blogs get put out, fewer and fewer people ever actually get read. It’s like trying to tell a great anecdote at a party. The more people turn up, the more people chip in with their own stories, trying to steal the limelight away from you. As you reach the danger point of the story; the part where it’s horribly boring, but essential to the crafting of the tale, people start to lose focus. There are so many other people to listen to. People with short stories; stories told using just 3 words; stories that are just a look. But you can’t do that. You need to take your listeners on a journey of facts, context and characterisation. It all needs to be just right, but nobody listens, so you take a gun and point it at the ceiling.

BANG. I have a story, it’s really funny and you’re all going to listen.

Soon blogs will attack other blogs. You’ll be reading that piece about conceptual art involving cheese and armpit hair, when another blog throws a grenade in and kills it. You’re left with an article from Marc, from Ebbsfleet, telling you how he just like, so doesn’t get why parents drive estate cars. When I’m older I’m going to be a cool dad, drive a 2 seater and strap my kid to the roof. You don’t want to read on, but you know he’s still armed. Who knows what kind of viruses he could send your way. I heard about a computer that can bite your fingers if you type things it doesn’t like.

What’s the solution? How can a good blog find an audience? A friend of mine has experimented with his blogging. He’s blogging about blogging. Now I’ve mentioned him, I’m blogging about somebody blogging about blogging. Technically this blog is about blogging too. Blogging about blogging about blogging about blogging. I’ll have to stop; my computer has started to grow teeth.

Everybody tries to outdo each other with their topics. Blogs about travel, but travel with a fish strapped to their face. Food, but only food that can be snorted. Political inside information written by the Downing Street rat.

Maybe the way forward is boring blogging. Bogging. I have a chair. It’s wooden and made from pine. My USB is blue and I’ve lost the lid. I went to Spain on holiday. It was hot.

Bored? Write about a blog about it. This one is finished; blog done.