Tuesday 9 August 2011

So....are we all doomed or what?


There is a heavy sense of depression hanging around this morning. Three days of rioting have left everyone sleepless and slack-jawed. What the hell is happening? Is this the end of all things? Even the number of jokes buzzing around social media are a barmoeter of just how shocked everybody feels.

For me, and my sleepless head, I have that vague but overhanging sense of doom. My immediate reaction is to leave London, leave Britain, leave the planet, change species, blow my brains out. That said, recently I have had mounting woman-fuelled worries that have led me to want to leave London, leave Britain, leave the planet, change species, blow my brains out...so I may not be the best Test rat for this experiment.

Of course, nobody knows quite why this is happening. Why it's escalating is clear: The police are unable to keep the peace, the country seems a free-for-all, looting is inevitable. The politicians and police commissioners are largely way out of step (most Tuscan villas don't get BBC News 24). Headmasterly cries of 'unacceptable' and 'thuggery' are impotent and pointless. It's like putting Mubarak on the naughty step. Even Dianne Abbott, who has barged her way to the front of most interviews is using the language of 'disenfranchisement' and 'without a stake' and 'coalition cuts' which, whilst absolutely valid, will doubtless be scorned in the fury of rightwing, reactionary polemic which will inevitably follow all this.

It's tempting to get righteous about this: either from a leftish 'blame society' view or a rightwing 'blame the parents/ knock some heads together' frame of mind. For many this will be seen as the proof of all those Daily Mail scare stories: of a society that has lost respect, can't feed itself properly, has no morals, is being ripped apart by immigration, doesn't know what it stands for. Or maybe it's a bit more simple and bit less gruesome than all that.

Most societies are kept in check by law enforcement. In a large, liberal city where the forces of community, family and deference can't possibly keep people in check, centralised authority is a necessary evil. People don't like it, of course. For all the crowing about 'community liasions' and 'partnerships' the police are basically there to stop people from doing exactly what they want. For some parts of society, this may seem to impinge more on their freedoms than others. When you remove that force, people will do as they please. It's happened a million times in a million different societies, regardless of the culture, institutions and nicetities in place. An Indian fruitseller outside my house said "It shouldn't happen in this country." But we find ourselves particularly suseptible here. A majority of the trouble has been the looting of large department stores, the seizure of material goods, which young people have been told and fervently believe in an age of base materialism, will improve their lives and confer status but, rather cruelly, have high price tags attached. So will the rioting stop once all the shops have been looted? Probably not. The gate is open, the cork is out, the lamp is ungenied, the bag de-catted, the large jar of cliches has spilt onto the floor. A lot of troubled, restless young people have tasted a sense of power and catharsis which they'll be reluctant to give up.

The immediate solution is to impose curfew, roll out the troops and break the momentum of the disorder. People who despair now will find, for the most part, that life soon returns to normal  at a frightening rate. Once the news crews find something else to talk about, it'll be like it never happened. In the relentless redevelopment of London, no one will notice a bit more plastic sheeting and scaffolding. For some of course, the scars might last longer.

With all the speculation, all the miles and miles of columns and blogs, what could put an end to the rioting, anarchy, social discontent, materialism, amoralism, opportunism, criminality, injustice is a good, undemocratic, British showering. Trainers get ruined, plasma screens fizzle out, and tracksuit bottoms get clammy and tough to demolish shop fronts in. The rain won't wash away the problems, or collate the intangibles, but it will make everyone stop, say "Bloody typical" and return to a proper sense of Britishness - the unifying character we all seek to stitch this nation together: All of the rampaging malice, none of the weather to make staying outside for long a good idea.

Saturday 4 June 2011

The Accidental Charity Cycle Ride Part Two

Me looking in peak condition the night before. I look like I've passed the 
difficult second album and moved onto the obsolete jazz odyssey 
self-published phase.


Any exercise I get is incidental. I'm not unfit, but I'm more of a larker than a lunger. Even when I go for a very occasional run, I take on the challenge rather like an initially reluctant but then quickly overenthusiastic Labrador. And rightly so perhaps. People don't expect a hairy man to be physically active. Very rarely I play football in the park and then stroll around with the football under my arm to try and look like George Best. Onlookers don't think I look like George Best. They think I look like a man who's stolen a football.


Initially, the team plan was to cycle to Paris. Everybody I told said "Wow". And then Will, whose birthday it was, said "What about Newton Abbott" and people said "Why?" so then we changed the destination back to Paris and people said "Wow" again, and then they looked me up and down and said "Really?"


 I was going to wear this, but had to remove it 
under the Obscene Publications Act.

My main concern on the Cycloteam (as we christened ourselves) journey was that I didn't look too shit. I knew that Will and Charlie had racers and knew about things like gears, and wheels, and pedals (bikes basically), while I have a squeaky mountain bike with a light gaffer-taped to the front of the handlebars which makes a noise like an upset mule when you break. (I know it's 'brake', but 'break is more apt.) I thus opted to borrow my brother's touring bike...which he purchased for one hundred quid from a man outside a pub. A superior choice. The amazing thing is that he actually agreed to loan me his bike, which is a bit like letting your only blonde haired child go and play at the sinister old bachelor's gingerbread council flat. However, there was a reluctant moment when he finally parted with his bike...


Ed O:
"I'll take good care of her. She – she won't get a scratch. All right?"

Pip SoLow:
"Right." [pause] "I got your promise now. Not a scratch."

Ed O:
"Can she do the Kessel Run in under 12 parsecs?"

Pip SoLow: 

"Eh?"


Marble Arch to the Devil's Punchbowl



View Day One: Marble Arch to the Devil's Punchbowl in a larger map

Once I'd shaken off the beery fumes and the souls of a hundred angry, Portuguese chickens from the night before (I'm not sure if the chickens were actually Portuguese, but twas the manner of their burial) I hotfooted it down to Marble Arch. 


Weirdly, everything was going strangely smoothly. I had stopped off at Halfords to buy some biking gloves (they made me feel like I was a cyber punk in a Cindi Lauper video...if that ever happened) and a stupidly expensive adapter for my phone charger (for some reason I now forget). By the time I got to Marble Arch, it was midday, blazing hot and, of course, neither Will and Charlie were there. Thus I 'took advantage' (i.e. paid too much) for a meal deal at Sainsburys and then sat on a bench forgetting that I was eating prawn cocktail crisps with my cycling gloves on. I had only learnt one thing: Heavy panniers on bikes are for cycling along with, not wheeling your bicycle around. Any time I stopped the bike when I wasn't on it, one of the panniers would make a break for the ground, making my whole bike topple over in a complex break-dancing move. (Or is it brake-dancing? Imagine that. You know. Bikes and err gangs of Halford and. Forget it.)




The Romans were great believers in augurs and omens. Apparently when lightning struck something, that was a bad thing. When eagles dropped lambs into laps that was a good thing. Except if it was the Ides of February during a religious festival or a Wednesday. It was all very confusing. Nevertheless, if Caesar's Legions had been bike-based, there's no way they would have invaded Gaul after a broken valve before they'd even left. Fortunately, the Cycloteam were made of sterner stuff and the Romans weren't actually bike based. Which is a damn shame as they made some smashing cycle paths.


After going "Ooh" and "aah" a bit after cycling through Richmond Park and passed Hampton Court, the countryside 'opened up' (as they say). It felt great to be at the rudder of a touring bike whipping along the open road. My legs were pumping, my head down, the wind at my back. Even the semi-digested prawn cocktail crisps were aiding my forward momentum through some pretty lethal propellant farts (NB: The whole trip was farty. This is because Charlie's bowels are the result of a Nazi research project to build a mobile gas chamber. That man can bring down whole flocks of migrating gannets with his projectile methane.) If it wasn't for my panniers, which kept trying to climb off my bike rack, we would have been flying. Things changed a little as we headed further into Surrey. So far everything I'd seen had been the typical tasteful yet grand Richmond/ Surrey display of "Ha ha! We're rich and you're not." Strangely though, as you head South, something happens...




That's right. Garden gnomes. Everywhere. Like Terracotta Warriors of the Suburbs. Like the tribal totem poles of the Native Americans, the garden gnome says "Welcome to suburbia...that's right. We've relocated it in glorious Surrey countryside? Why? Well, Croydon got too full." Somehow a prime bit of Surrey land round East Horsley suddenly becomes Essex: Crappy 1970s bungalows, mock Tudor houses, 500 year old pubs gutted and turned into a Harvesters. It's a no-man's land. It's a fucking crime. There should be a mock olde worlde sign up: "Abandon Taste All Ye Who Enter here." Even though it's the middle of the countryside, people who live in the area have to pretend they live in the countryside without actually knowing how to. They all have individually named houses that sounds like they have been made up by a committee of Japanese computer programmers: 'Hay Meadows', 'The Farlings', 'Green Hills', 'Ye Newe Builde Unauthenticke Coachinge Housee'. The old suburban notion of a rural idyll is so strongly held that it has been supplanted onto the actual countryside!


"Wouldn't it be great to live on the countryside? We like to think of '7 The Butterflies' as out little piece of countryside."
"But you live in the countryside."
"Oh, we'd love to, but it's so hard to get property."
"But you do."
"Who's up for the Harvester? Methinks an olde Englishe foaming tankard of John Smiths forsooth."


It's like an American businessman buying Windsor Castle, leveling it, and then rebuilding it to look like Cinderella Castle. Don't smirk. It'll happen.


In England, there is one golden rule: Good area? Good pub. East Horsley. Shitty area deserving of...


Apparently, the building in the background is 
where they refuel their Shire Horses.

I don't need to great detail about the 'Duke of Wellington'. If you like an old pub destroyed by fruit machines, Sky Sports memorabilia; if you like your selection of ales to be like dusty, flat lucozade; if you like your food in a basket with a side salad which resembles green packaging material then this is the place for you. Over the blaring racket of commercial radio, one of the barmaids served someone four cheese pizzas, even though they'd  actually asked for a four-cheese pizza!

"We don't do a four-cheese pizza"
"Yes you do."
"Where? Where on the menu does it say that?"
"There."
"Oh yeah."


My fork handle was broken, but I decided not to bring it up.

English country pubs are one of my very greatest loves. The fact that this was the first pub stop on our tour was heartbreaking. For me, the very existence of this place felt as tasteless and sacrilegious as opening a rib house in Mecca. So, after a couple more pints of brown puddle and a quick cry, we were back on the road. Charlie seemed happy with his bean burger, which subsequently caused the plastic chair he was sitting on to melt under his gaseous onslaught. Incidentally, Charlie is a vegetarian. Vegetarians make compost smells. Meat eaters have decomposing animal sweat. Life on earth is pretty grim whichever way you look at it.


Around the 8th hour of cycling, my legs started to give way. Obviously they had previously been tired, but only warning shot tired. Now they were much more like "Right, look, listen, this is getting silly now. So can we just bloody stop it, okay?" Fortunately, we were approaching the Youth Hostel in an area called the Devil's Punchbowl - which sounds rather like a venereal disease but is actually just a wooded hollow (wahey) in the Surrey countryside. I've noticed that whenever there's a very slight anomaly in the countryside, it's blamed on the 'Devil'.


"Ere, Syrus. Moi Nokia's not gettin none reception, loik."
"That'll be the Devil's no network coverage."


In case you're interested though...
http://www.bbc.co.uk/england/sevenwonders/south/devils_punchbowl/


"The Punchbowl has a long history and tradition. Legend has it that the devil spent his time tormenting the god Thor by pelting him with enormous handfuls of earth, leaving the great bowl that visitors can see today."


It's not really torment is it? It's more ASBO. Given that the devil is supposed to 'torment' people in hell. If all it amounts to is having a brown snowball thrown at you I reckon I'm going to pop off now and covet me an ass. Funnily enough, the BBC are very keen to point out that this isn't what actually happened...


"In reality the large depression was created by erosion"


All right then. Killjoys.


After finding our strange little Youth Hostel at the very bottom of the Punchbowl, we went out to a curry house in Hindhead. The only thing worth saying about that is that cycling for 9 hours a day makes liquid, any liquid, tastes like fucking nectar. Imagine being aged 7 on a hot day coming back after school and gunning squash by the beaker. Drinking so hard and fast that breathing becomes a secondary concern. That's how good it tastes. 


Hindhead itself isn't up to much. We went to a pub. It was a Saturday night. The party people of Hindhead were there: a group of lads drinking shots and bullying each other in the name of mateship, a small group of roll up smoking alternative types, a middle aged couple and an R&B combo playing to no one but acting like they were tearing the place up. Hindhead: a large depression created by total erosion of fun.

Monday 18 April 2011

The Accidental Charity Cycle Ride Part One

Be prepared not to laugh. Be prepared for pain. After making a stupid mistake whilst booking my Eurostar ticket, the company refused to correct it or cancel the ticket. Therefore I had little choice other than to write them an email...

(CODE: Middle-age and ruffled feathers are creeping up on me.)

==================================================

Your question (Ed O'Meara) 29/03/2011 05.42 PM Dear Eurostar

After booking this ticket, I realised that I had made a mistake in the booking and called immediately to get this corrected. I was told that I could not make any change at all which makes this ticket void without refund. If I want to make the correct trip I need to pay for another ticket!

Is this correct? No other company has such a policy. I understand that changing a ticket two weeks after booking is a major problem, but 1 minute after booking? This seems hugely strange.

Please let me know as soon as possible.

Many thanks

Ed O'Meara

==================================================

Subject Eurostar Booking Reference: RROANT Content Email on behalf of Eurostar from (Isabelle, Eurostar.com Support) 30/03/2011 11.27 AM Dear Mr O'Meara

Thank you for your e mail,

You have read and agreed to the terms and conditions of your tickets. You also went through at least 5 pages confirming the dates and times of your booking. I am really sorry you still feel unhappy about our decision not to change your booking but we have to obey to the terms and conditions of your tickets.

Kind Regards,

Isabelle, Eurostar.com Support

================================================

Dear Isabelle

If I didn't noticed the mistake initially, cycling through another 5 pages or the same thing wouldn't alert me! As you know, because people regularly buy online they are:

1) Liable to make the odd mistake
2) So used to the process that they skip through the stages as fast as possible.

I'm sure that if you buy a product from Amazon, you do exactly the same thing. Of course, the difference being that if you make a mistake on Amazon, you can correct it even after purchase! No other company does what you do! It is not a model of e-commerce that will prove popular or sustainable. There is a huge difference between making an error in booking a ticket, realising it, and trying to get it sorted immediately as opposed to changing plans some time after.

Given these facts, it seems laughable that Eurostar have set up a system which punishes human error without any recourse to correction. I want a Eurostar ticket, I want to go from Paris to London on the 30th. I don't want to pay twice for it! Is that unreasonable? No.

I am cycling to Paris for charity, and was planning to take the Eurostar back (because I have my bicycle). Your company's policy strikes me as something far less than charitable.

Terms & Conditions are all very well, but they are long and generally standardised. The fact is that 6 months ago a friend who made a similar mistake buying from your site had his ticket changed free of charge without any quibble. When was this extremely sensible and customer-friendly policy changed to cause as much grief to the customer as possible? When were you planning to make the policy change clear? Which bunch of humorless middle managers took the decision to change it in the first place?

If the operator wanted to help me with a few clicks of his mouse, he could have done. Rather than bothering about unfair and petty rules, he could have used his human discretion. It would have cost your company nothing to correct an honest mistake. It cost me a great deal more than that and has made me extremely annoyed with your company.

I understand that you're only doing your jobs as directed, but your company policy is grotesquely stupid and far, far removed from any real idea of customer service or basic common sense.

None of this is personal and I don't bear you the least bit of malice.

Hope you have a wonderful rest of day.

Thank you for taking the time to reply to my email,

Ed O'Meara

================================================================================

Email on behalf of Eurostar from (Isabelle, Eurostar.com Support) 31/03/2011 08.51 AM

Dear Mr O'Meara

I really understand the point you are making. We used to be quite "flexible" in changing fixed tickets but a lot of people took advantage of... it and phoned regularly to change non-flexible tickets expecting us to do it for free because we had done it in the past which is not fair on passengers who are paying more for a semi or fully flexible ticket.

Our policy got stricter since March 1st, this is why we can't make any changes on fixed tickets without a valid reason.

However, as you are cycling for charity, and if it's not too late, I am ready to make an exchange on your booking with fare difference only to pay. Please call us back on 08448 224 777 and ask for me.

Kind Regards,

Isabelle, Eurostar.com Support


VICTORY!!!


After examining my consciense, I found a nagging point. It seems that you can't say you're going to do something for charity (even as a lie) and then not.

It's like curing cancer and then being so caught up in the Hello Magazine home shoot and The One Show interviews, that you forget to release the cure. So...

www.justgiving.com/Ed-O-Meara/

*COUGH*

Thursday 24 February 2011

Ed O'Meara - Literally Literary Reviewer...

What Every Man Thinks About Apart From Sex by Shed Simove

Consider Dante's Inferno, Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, Bronte's Jane Eyre, Brown's Da Vinci Code. All earthshattering classics, all genre defining masterworks, all towering obelisks of human civilisation. Well, except for the Da Vinci Code, which (nevertheless) can be utiilised practically without any serious buttock rashes or chafing.

However within all these magnum opi, these very pillars of literary triumph, there lie scarcely perceivable weaknesses; fine fault lines of plot, continutity, character or dialogue that threaten to undermine the entire work. Those moments when Dante's muse abandoned him, Bronte was distracted by a housefly or when Chaucer quoth: "Sod this for a game of dead Frenchman jenga. I'm going down yonder tavern for a cheeky mead." And so, such imperfections, such shortcomings, such flaws have plagued artists since time immemorial.

But not so in the work of Sheridan "Shed" Simove. For within these pages lie not only one of the greatest insights into the human condition ever committed to page, but something more fundamentally important. For this is the first and only literary and academic work which is ENTIRELY WITHOUT FLAW. There are no plotholes, no clumsy dialogue, no errors of judgement, grammar or logic. By the very nature of the work, its perfection is indisputable. All this can be immediately proven beyond discussion with one central concept:

Because this manuscript is entirely empty, not a single word is out of place.

This is the only work that, with only one edition, can be understood by every language in the world, every creed, colour, culture. Every disposition of human existence: from the bedazzling heights of the learned scholar to the animal-like gruntings of the illiterate X-Factor contestant.

Truly then, this work has the power and the destiny to unite humanity. Or if not humanity, then at least manity (by which I mean males, rather than manatees.)


Click image to view on Amazon

Tuesday 1 February 2011

Diluted Squash

Sportswear-clad kids who hang around in front of shopping precincts get a lot of stick from the police. They could avoid suspicion of wrongdoing by carrying around squash rackets. Then passing police would think, "Look at that large group of young squash enthusiasts enjoying a pre-game cider." Sports equipment generally helps your image, with the exception of baseball bats. They just make you look scarier. Sometimes it’s very subtle. A bag of golf clubs makes you look like a sportsman. A single golf club makes you look like a psychopath. Chav kids could do worse than hiring themselves a caddy.

My flatmate’s from Ethiopia. He’s a big, black bloke with dreadlocks. He looks like a rasta but he’s not much of a rasta. Last night we got stoned and listened to Dire Straites.

I was getting squash coaching in a cafĂ©. The guy was explaining techniques to me. “Treat your squash racket like an extension of your arm” he said. Then I spilt my coffee.

Caddy required

Monday 31 January 2011

Would you smash it?

Richard Keys has been fired for asking "Would you smash it?" and mentioning that Jamie Reknapp would "hang out the back of it" whilst putting his feet up on the desk. 'It' being a female's vagina and 'smash' meaning to forcifully make love. Of course in the footballing fraternity, rape is as much part of the game as halftime oranges, but even there his comments have caused upset.

If I was Richard Keys' PR people I'd explain that he was totally taken out of context. SMASH being an acronym for "sensual massage and super hugs". If that failed I would say that Richie boy was only guilty of one crime: product placement. 'Smash' referring, of course, to the instant mashed potato mix popular in the 80s. "Would you smash it?" was merely a new campaign slogan. "I hear Louise Redknapp makes nice sausages and gravy. Would YOU smash it?"