Category: iRant

Dear Orange

Thank you so much.

Thank you for giving me a gift box of (apparently) 60 quids’ worth of Stuff I Did Not Ask For And Do Not Need. Especially the yo-yo and the neon stickers of Nintendo controls and ghetto blasters. (Tip for your marketing team: You might want to do some sort of survey of your customers’ average age next time.) And thank you also for the many little bags full of little cards advertising Orange extras I already know about thanks to you pestering me by text all the time. And finally, thank you for the ugly headphones, which I can’t even use with my new phone as you’ve been considerate enough not to include an adaptor. So basically, thanks for a whole bin bag full of pormotional rubbish, and for the pleasure of carrying it all home in a ridiculously oversized box during Tube rush hour.

I really, really appreciate it.

I would have appreicated it even more if I had been sold my new Tocco Lite at the price at which it was actually advertised in your shop, rather than being offered a phone for £79 and then, after spending half my lunch break going through all the paperwork and stuff, being informed just as I was about to pay, that actually the price had gone up to £89 this morning. Which, apparently, nobody in your lovely Fleet Street store bothered to check before or while offering me said phone at the old price.

But never mind. At least you’ve made up for it all with a big box of useless things.

…and a bag of live ducks, please. Not.

Found this picture on the National Geographic Magazine website.

Yep, that’s live ducks. Crammed into a plastic bag – for ‘easy transport’.

Revolting.

A couple of years ago my dad found two tiny little baby ducks paddling in our pool. We could hear the mother calling them from the woods next to our house, but she wouldn’t come out. When it got dark, we gave up the search for her and I looked after the two little ones overnight. They kept trying to communicate with their reflections in my wardrobe mirror and I had to lay streets of loo roll all across my room because they shat everywhere. They kept me awake quacking in their little box next to my bed all night, and when I finally gave in and took them out at dawn, they fell asleep in my hands, nibbling at my fingers in their sleep. In the morning they had a bath in my grandparents’ rainwater fountain. When we took them to the river to set them free, they wriggled out of my hands, plunged into the water and swam off with another duck mother and her chicks. I sat at the river bank crying for hours.

Maybe I’ll just add the bag of ducks to my list of reasons for being a vegetarian. Because, frankly, I’m sick of people ridiculing me for not eating meat anymore because of the squirrel kebabs.

London Christmas lights cheat

Christmas lights. All over Oxford Street.

Have I somehow dropped out of the general timeline? Because in my world it’s not Christmas. It’s not even December. It’s the first week of fucking November. I mean, come on. The Halloween pumpkins aren’t even done rotting yet!

And then, they’re not even real Christmas lights. They’re fucking sparkly advertising screens for A Christmas Carol. I know Christmas is all about selling stuff, and then selling a little more stuff. But shouldn’t at least the Christmas lights be, like, sacred? Just a little?

Or maybe it’s just little, naive me, from my little small town full of 100% Christmas-y, non-commercial Christmas lights. (In December. Where they belong.)

Talk about selling your soul to Disney. Ur doin it rite, London.

Every time you buy a Pet Shop Boys CD, a rescue shelter puppy dies. (Seriously. Ask Peta.)

The word “absurd” has reached a new dimension of meaning today. Also forever changed have the words “ridiculous” and “ludicrous”.

Animal rights organisation Peta has asked the Pet Shop Boys to change their name. For the sake of shelter dogs. Or pet shop dogs. Or pets generally – I can’t exactly remember which as my mind was too busy jumping back and forth between variations of LOL and WTF while I was reading the Times article.

(Yes, I’m reading Times Online again after a temporary boycot following the Michelle Obama fake lashes investigation.)

So, Peta thinks the Pet Shop Boys should change their name, which they chose for themselves more than 20 years ago, and which has pretty much become a household name in the music scene. Apparently, that rather random band name does not comply with political correctness. In the universe of pets, that is. And maybe also in the universe of complete numpties.

The politically correct name suggested for the Pet Shop Boys by Peta is – and you might want to hold on to your desk for this one – the Rescue Shelter Boys.

And here we pause for a moment to let you finish ROFLing, catch your breath and climb back on your chair.

Yes, they’re serious.

Peta reckons that listening to the Rescue Shelter Boys instead of the Pet Shop Boys will make people stop buying bred pets in shops and get their puppies and kittens from – you guessed it – rescue shelters instead.

Now. Nothing wrong with Peta’s good intentions here. We all know the devastating consequences of breeding on the health and general well-being of all sorts of dog breeds. And birds don’t belong into cages. And so on. In short, pet shops are bad. I’d go with that any time. I got my dog from a rescue shelter in Greece. The poor pup had been through five years of neglect, abuse and disease, and yet she’s the loveliest, cuddliest, most loyal dog you could possibly imagine. My money, and my pets, will never cross the counter of a pet shop.

But I seriously doubt that a pop band’s name will in any way influence anyone’s pet buying habits. People who like bred cats or dogs will buy ridiculously overpriced bred cats or dogs no matter what the Pet Shop Boys call themselves. I even doubt that name has ever led anyone to think of actual pets. Anyone but Peta, that is.

Well, Peta got me to think about it now. But their suggestion has made me think more along the lines of “are you guys fucking kidding?” than of anything relating to animals.

They’re not kidding, by the way. And neither are they kidding with their campaign to turn fish into Sea Kittens to make them more likeable (and less appetizing). I can’t quite shake off the impression, though, that Peta’s Sea Kittens might fail to appeal to anyone above nursery age.

Just to round up. Peta = good. I’m all for ethical treatment of animals. I mean, I gave up sushi and chicken fajitas for squirrel’s sake (and I’m sticking with it). And I still can’t read about the slaughter of baby seals in Canada without bursting into tears. Well, you get the picture. That said, I really don’t think Peta is doing itself a favour, in terms of being taken seriously or getting people to support it, with petitions à la Rescue Shop Boys (or Sea Kittens, for that matter).

Although I have to admit I’m a little curious what name change they would suggest for Fury In The Slaughterhouse.

Bliss On The Free Range Farm, anyone?

Who the F cares why Michelle Obama is wearing fake lashes and what The Times has to say about it?

In an utterly amazing instance of investigative journalism, Times Online has dedicated an article to the question why Michelle Obama is wearing false eyelashes.

I only made it halfway through their analysis, because my heart was sinking rapidly along with my respect and passion for journalism – the profession to which I have dedicated my future, pretty much all my money, and endless months of hard training.

I’m by no means an expert, but let me humbly offer my own answer to this internationally significant question: Why is Michelle Obama wearing false eyelashes?

Well. JUST BECAUSE.

Because just like some people wear make-up, and some wear mascara, so some people sometimes, or always, or occasionally, wear fake lashes. Big deal. Let’s investigate. Let’s dedicate a news story to it. And let’s throw a sack of random scandal-scented phrases like “D-list celebrities”, “drag-act divas” and “unapologetically fake” at it, too, to make the whole affair sound a little more tacky and report-worthy.

And let’s not forget to stir in a handful of subtle promotional references (read: stuff half of the article with unapologetically blatant product placement, plus online shopping links for your convenience).

Okay, I’ve read the whole article now. Not so much for its, uhm, “news value” as for the sake of a proper rant.

And now you’ll have to excuse me. I need to catch up on the news.

And would you keep your hands off your kids, too, thank you.

I had just more or less recovered fromt he sqirrel slaughter shock when I stumbled across the following bit of news: A man from Plymouth got himself in a bit of trouble with the police when he spanked his son on the bum for running off in the park. Now he demands an apology from the police for arresting him and examining the seven-year-old boy. Or, as you will, for doing their job after somebody who had seen him hit the kid filed a complaint.

Pretty outrageous thing for the police to do. How dare they.

Also, quite bold of the bystander to observe what may well have been an indicator of child abuse and not have the decency to turn away and keep their nose out of family matters, and leave the father to use the (however questionable) disciplinary measures of his choice in the privacy of a public park.

You may think a bit of spanking won’t do any harm to a kid. But even if the father only went for a mild(ish) punishment, how is a worried observer supposed to know? How can we be sure of the child’s safety after seeing such a scene if nobody intervenes? In this case, the boy was not injured and the bystander was said to have misinterpreted the situation. But if you see someone hit their child, where do you draw the line? A smack in the face? A bruised arm? A broken spine?

When Baby P died the nation all but cried “gallows” for those who should have seen the danger and failed to intervene. And now some concerned citizen and a bunch of officers with a sense of duty check a suspicious situation to make sure the kid is alright, and they have to apologize.

Dear father, if you don’t want to be treated like a child abuse suspect, you might want to consider not hitting your son in public.

Or, on a more general note – how about just keeping your hands off your kids anyway?

Keep your bloody forks off the squirrels!

Okay, so the Sunday Times told me yesterday that celebrity chef Heston Blumenthal will be cooking squirrel on TV.

No way, I thought. This can’t be true.

But it’s in the Times, so I’m sort of inclined to believe it.

And then there are Simon and Caroline Spiller, who landed a hit with a squirrel barbecue dish at their restaurant and, riding the wave of squirrel slaughter success, founded a company called Squirrel Direct that sells, well, squirrel meat. Oh, and a few weeks ago they introduced their new squirrel kebab, which could also be called quite a hit, selling 40 times in the first 90 minutes.

Still not entirely convinced of the truth of this story, I made the mistake to consult my old friend Google. And within seconds I stumbled across more squirrel delicacy and some pretty disturbing pictures.

How sick is that?!

But then, I shouldn’t really be that surprised, considering that I have a dad who likes to treat himself with a kangaroo or crocodile steak every now and then. Which always results in the same discussion.

“Well, it doesn’t really matter what animal you eat, does it?”

But! Kangaroo!

“Well, it’s not really any different from eating a chicken, is it?”

But! Squirrel?

In fact, he’s right. I’m a vegetarian now.