February 21st, 2018.
Nursing and residential homes are fit to bursting as the age of mortality increases at an alarming rate. The elderly are suffering untold misery for years thanks to government policy experts say.
Following the criminalization of smoking and drinking in 2006, the population of elderly people has exploded. People are now living even longer than ever; to an average age of ninety six. Employees are working longer with the retirement age having been put up to seventy five for men and seventy for women. When once forced to stop working, pensioners now have very little money to live on following the collapse of leading private pension schemes.
The government came under fire ten years ago when the national pension pot finally ran out, although blame was difficult to apportion due to the new single party system. When Conservative and Labour policies became too similar to tell apart, the parties cut their losses and amalgamated in 2010. Nowadays, few ministers are able to be identified as being accountable for the disaster. In addition to this, the loss of the £20 billion in revenue generated annually by tobacco and alcohol sales was the final nail in the coffin of the National Health Service.
Prime Minister Victoria Beckham is set to unveil plans to encourage people to take out loans to support their elderly relatives and it is feared that some may even have to sell their homes if interest rates rise beyond the existing base rate of 25%.
Advisers are hurriedly being appointed to help, although critics slam the new system as ridiculous. "The majority of adults in this country are no longer able to think for themselves and they are just being herded around like sheep. Unfortunately for the government, whichever field the public are led to, the grass always appears to be greener in another one. As a result, fewer and fewer people have any money to speak of whilst politicians, land owners and insurance companies are getting richer and richer. And don't get me started on the bankers..." A spokesperson from The Poverty Action League said yesterday.
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
Voice of the People
The Surrey People's Militia have declared the village of Uppingham Major a No-Go Zone, it was revealed last night. Despite a recent "Zero-Tolerance" initiative, residents there are still openly dealing in stock and shares, flouting the new Anti-Wealth laws.
Trouble flared when officers from the Prohibited Substances unit raided a cottage which they suspected to be a local "Earl Grey" Den. Their suspicions were proved correct as, upon entering the property, they interrupted a "Tea-Party" in full swing. Unprepared for such an eventuality, the Militia Unit were driven back out into the lane as angry caffeine users quickly barricaded the 16th Century building, turning it into a fortress.
Back-up officers soon arrived from neighbouring towns, although by this time, the residents had marshalled their forces and a full scale riot ensued. Following a forty-eight hour running battle, the militia were overwhelmed and withdrew from the area.
We interviewed one of the residents by telephone early this morning and although she wished to remain anonymous, we can reveal that she has previous convictions for property developing. She told us this:
"We just wish to be left in peace - we are doing nothing wrong and are being victimized by the State! We are no longer willing to follow the ridiculous laws of this country, and as a result, we intend to set up our own monarchy. We now wish to be known as The Kingdom of Uppingham and intend to be self-governing. We are no longer prepared to tolerate these Republican oiks intruding into our private affairs. Further attempts to enter our village will be met with violence and extreme snobbery."
This reporter pressed for further information about their plans but was met with jeers, questions relating to his father's profession and derogatory comments with regard to qualifications and schooling.
The Surrey People's Militia also released a statement this morning, but we are unable to print it under the new Prevention of Political Embarrassment Act. We hope to bring you more news in tomorrow's edition.
Trouble flared when officers from the Prohibited Substances unit raided a cottage which they suspected to be a local "Earl Grey" Den. Their suspicions were proved correct as, upon entering the property, they interrupted a "Tea-Party" in full swing. Unprepared for such an eventuality, the Militia Unit were driven back out into the lane as angry caffeine users quickly barricaded the 16th Century building, turning it into a fortress.
Back-up officers soon arrived from neighbouring towns, although by this time, the residents had marshalled their forces and a full scale riot ensued. Following a forty-eight hour running battle, the militia were overwhelmed and withdrew from the area.
We interviewed one of the residents by telephone early this morning and although she wished to remain anonymous, we can reveal that she has previous convictions for property developing. She told us this:
"We just wish to be left in peace - we are doing nothing wrong and are being victimized by the State! We are no longer willing to follow the ridiculous laws of this country, and as a result, we intend to set up our own monarchy. We now wish to be known as The Kingdom of Uppingham and intend to be self-governing. We are no longer prepared to tolerate these Republican oiks intruding into our private affairs. Further attempts to enter our village will be met with violence and extreme snobbery."
This reporter pressed for further information about their plans but was met with jeers, questions relating to his father's profession and derogatory comments with regard to qualifications and schooling.
The Surrey People's Militia also released a statement this morning, but we are unable to print it under the new Prevention of Political Embarrassment Act. We hope to bring you more news in tomorrow's edition.
Sarcasm
Recently, while completing a market research questionnaire, I was asked to describe how a certain mobile phone company could meet my needs as a consumer. The task was to describe my perfect purchase in the form of a short story. As this was a slightly more imaginative question than most market researchers ask, I decided to give it my fullest attention.
I opened the packaging, which was minimal, and discovered, in order for the company to reduce its carbon footprint, there was no charger. Despite my previous handset being made by the same manufacturer, I was disappointed to discover that my old charger did not fit it. This caused me to jump into my 4x4 (there's no public transport where I live) and drive all the way into town to buy a brand new one. Which came in a whole new load of packaging. I was also shocked to note that the new charger cost nearly as much as a new phone.
When I got home however, I installed the software (which I was able to simply download from the phone manufacturer's website) on to my PC and was really pleased because I did not have to install any unnecessary drivers which would enable me to use my mobile handset as a modem (let's face it, that would be really pointless). The handset and PC "shook hands" straight away and transferring information between the two units was a dream. In fact, the PC and phone communicated straight away on every subsequent occasion I plugged it in. This was fantastic because it had never happened before with any other handset manufacturer.
I looked at my phone, which was sleek and durable, and smiled because I knew from the construction that it would last a really long time and I would probably get loads of girls if they saw I owned one. Just then, the phone rang - it was the manufacturer who realized that leaving the charger out of the box may appear to be a cynical marketing ploy, milking the green concept for all it's worth. They offered to refund the money I had spent on the new charger and make a huge donation to the most worthwhile charity in the world.
As I had managed to transfer all my music files to the new phone, in all formats - including those pesky iTunes ones and the DRM *.WMA ones, I sat back in my chair and listened to some songs whilst simultaneously saving some Microsfoft Word document files to the phone, ready to email to my publisher whilst on the train to my meeting.
Just as I finished completing the whole quick and easy transfer, a news bulletin flashed up on the screen of my handset (thanks to my always on 3G). It announced that George Bush had been using the same handset as mine and the low-level radiation had cured his insanity.
I opened the packaging, which was minimal, and discovered, in order for the company to reduce its carbon footprint, there was no charger. Despite my previous handset being made by the same manufacturer, I was disappointed to discover that my old charger did not fit it. This caused me to jump into my 4x4 (there's no public transport where I live) and drive all the way into town to buy a brand new one. Which came in a whole new load of packaging. I was also shocked to note that the new charger cost nearly as much as a new phone.
When I got home however, I installed the software (which I was able to simply download from the phone manufacturer's website) on to my PC and was really pleased because I did not have to install any unnecessary drivers which would enable me to use my mobile handset as a modem (let's face it, that would be really pointless). The handset and PC "shook hands" straight away and transferring information between the two units was a dream. In fact, the PC and phone communicated straight away on every subsequent occasion I plugged it in. This was fantastic because it had never happened before with any other handset manufacturer.
I looked at my phone, which was sleek and durable, and smiled because I knew from the construction that it would last a really long time and I would probably get loads of girls if they saw I owned one. Just then, the phone rang - it was the manufacturer who realized that leaving the charger out of the box may appear to be a cynical marketing ploy, milking the green concept for all it's worth. They offered to refund the money I had spent on the new charger and make a huge donation to the most worthwhile charity in the world.
As I had managed to transfer all my music files to the new phone, in all formats - including those pesky iTunes ones and the DRM *.WMA ones, I sat back in my chair and listened to some songs whilst simultaneously saving some Microsfoft Word document files to the phone, ready to email to my publisher whilst on the train to my meeting.
Just as I finished completing the whole quick and easy transfer, a news bulletin flashed up on the screen of my handset (thanks to my always on 3G). It announced that George Bush had been using the same handset as mine and the low-level radiation had cured his insanity.
Comprehension
The other day I had to go to the supermarket for to buy my daily bread, thus I found myself in Sainsbury’s at ten past eight in the morning. I needed bread and bread alone, so due to the impending rush-hour I wished, quite naturally, to make my purchase and leave as-soon-as-possible. Having swiftly completed my selection, I made straight for the Basket Only till (you may have these where you live – sort of like express lanes for busy shoppers who wish to effect minimal purchases: they’re slightly smaller cashier stations, situated under large signs clearly marked Basket Only or occasionally the less grammatically correct 10 Items or Less). So imagine my surprise when, upon joining the queue at the only open Basket Only till, I found myself in third place, behind a couple of women. Each with their own trolley.
Hold-on a minute (I can almost hear you interject) didn’t you say that you were at the Basket Only till? Well yes, I was, but it appears that what the sign actually means is:
This till is for busy customers with smaller items, numbering ten or fewer. Unless you feel it’s not busy. If, in your opinion, there is no sign of anyone in a hurry, please feel free to unload your weekly shop onto this deliberately under-sized conveyor belt and chat with the check-out girl who probably should have reminded you about the existence of the other, slightly more appropriately-sized tills which are situated just a few feet further away from the main doors. If, like you, the cashier only saw a geezer clutching a solitary loaf of bread, dressed in running-shorts with smoke drifting up from the soles of his trainers, she will have reached the same conclusion (thus increasing your righteousness by the power of infinity) that it probably doesn’t matter. By the way, in addition to this, should you happen to see another customer at the Basket Only till who is already in the process of unloading their over-filled trolley, that makes it doubly OK for you to do the same.
I suppose you think that’s over now because I’ve started a new paragraph. Oh no it isn’t. Closer inspection of the special, magical, practically-invisible, small-print revealed a further addendum:
If, out of your trolley-load of groceries, there are a couple of items for your friend Samantha, who’s coming for coffee later on, don’t forget there’ll be less chance of an argument over who paid for what if you settle-up for those items separately.
Now that would have been that, had it not been for the icing on the cake. It’s a pretty fancy cake already, you cry. I know, but what do you think happened next?
Around about the time she was printing-off the additional receipt for the second trolley wielding customer, the check-out girl seemed to work-out that maybe this minor abuse of the Basket Only / Express Checkout / 10 Items or Less system had impacted upon my ability to buy a loaf of bread and get home before the roads got really busy. She half-turned in my general direction and managed to say: “Sorry about this.”
Before I had a chance to respond, the woman in front of me said “Not to worry,” and without looking-up from the purse she was stuffing her change into, assured the cashier it was: “No problem at all.” At that point I did a physical, straight-out-of-a-cartoon, double-take while my predecessor calmly walked out to the car park (presumably to the 4x4 people carrier that she’d had to park across six Disabled spaces because it was “a bit tight” getting in).
Signs – who reads ‘em?
Hold-on a minute (I can almost hear you interject) didn’t you say that you were at the Basket Only till? Well yes, I was, but it appears that what the sign actually means is:
This till is for busy customers with smaller items, numbering ten or fewer. Unless you feel it’s not busy. If, in your opinion, there is no sign of anyone in a hurry, please feel free to unload your weekly shop onto this deliberately under-sized conveyor belt and chat with the check-out girl who probably should have reminded you about the existence of the other, slightly more appropriately-sized tills which are situated just a few feet further away from the main doors. If, like you, the cashier only saw a geezer clutching a solitary loaf of bread, dressed in running-shorts with smoke drifting up from the soles of his trainers, she will have reached the same conclusion (thus increasing your righteousness by the power of infinity) that it probably doesn’t matter. By the way, in addition to this, should you happen to see another customer at the Basket Only till who is already in the process of unloading their over-filled trolley, that makes it doubly OK for you to do the same.
I suppose you think that’s over now because I’ve started a new paragraph. Oh no it isn’t. Closer inspection of the special, magical, practically-invisible, small-print revealed a further addendum:
If, out of your trolley-load of groceries, there are a couple of items for your friend Samantha, who’s coming for coffee later on, don’t forget there’ll be less chance of an argument over who paid for what if you settle-up for those items separately.
Now that would have been that, had it not been for the icing on the cake. It’s a pretty fancy cake already, you cry. I know, but what do you think happened next?
Around about the time she was printing-off the additional receipt for the second trolley wielding customer, the check-out girl seemed to work-out that maybe this minor abuse of the Basket Only / Express Checkout / 10 Items or Less system had impacted upon my ability to buy a loaf of bread and get home before the roads got really busy. She half-turned in my general direction and managed to say: “Sorry about this.”
Before I had a chance to respond, the woman in front of me said “Not to worry,” and without looking-up from the purse she was stuffing her change into, assured the cashier it was: “No problem at all.” At that point I did a physical, straight-out-of-a-cartoon, double-take while my predecessor calmly walked out to the car park (presumably to the 4x4 people carrier that she’d had to park across six Disabled spaces because it was “a bit tight” getting in).
Signs – who reads ‘em?
Sunday, 21 February 2010
I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream for Sunscreen
OK, I've given-up smoking, I may as well give-up drinking (because that's clearly next on the government agenda), and I'm down to two cups of coffee a day. So what shall I spend all this spare money on? Well sunscreen of course.
According to advice, (and there's plenty of that coming my way from the moment I switch-on the TV news every morning) sunscreen should be applied every two hours. The recommended amount of sun cream per application is 25ml, but I’m not quite sure how we’re supposed to measure that out. Still, 25ml it is.
Let's do the math (as our American cousins would say): a 200ml bottle of SPF 20 sun protection seems to cost around £5. Nice and easy, that's eight applications. Eight applications each protecting me for two hours equates to sixteen hours in the sun. Bargain, I hear you say. Uh-huh, except of course, if you actually work outdoors; then it's two days-worth. That's around £55 per month if you stay indoors at the weekend. If you go out and get some fresh-air and exercise on those days too (don’t forget your healthy lifestyle), you can add another twenty quid and multiply that by the number of people in your family.
Mind you, it's not all bad news for outdoor workers: if they follow some of the other advice I’ve seen, they need to go to lunch between eleven o’clock and three, to get out of the sun altogether: somewhere shady; a pub for instance. Which is why, I imagine, the incidence of skin-cancer amongst builders must be very low.
To add insult to injury, I'm told that even on overcast days it's still very important to maintain a sun protection regime. UVB is apparently very good at penetrating cloud-cover. Then again, I guess the constant re-application of sun cream will give me something to do whilst I'm sat on the roof of my house waiting to be helecoptered away by Air-Sea Rescue. Maybe I should just buy a life-raft with a built-in foil-lined tent; I'll undertake a cost / benefit analysis later: cancel contents insurance, buy boat.
Obviously, nobody wants skin-cancer and, short of getting into an argument about global warming, there is nobody to blame for UV radiation except the sun. My gripe is this: firstly, I don’t need it rammed down my throat first-thing every morning, especially when it’s pouring with rain outside; secondly, and call me cynical if you will, the only message that comes-over loud and clear is: if you want real protection, don’t buy the cheap stuff! Value Sunscreen? You may as well coat yourself in lard and lay naked on a sun bed for a week.
Maybe if we didn’t all feel the need to always get the absolute “best” product that money can buy (or as it’s sometimes known, the most expensive), personal debt in this country might not be at the trillion pounds it is today.
That’s why this summer; you'll find me jogging around the garden, dressed from head to toe in water-proofs and hat with a 4" brim, wielding my newly-patented umbrasol. Crikey, I nearly forgot my UV400 specs, sorry, eyewear. I was going to go to Spain but I can't afford it since I spent all my money on sun protection. Mind you, as soon as my patent comes through, I'll be selling my umbrasols for £50 each: any takers?
According to advice, (and there's plenty of that coming my way from the moment I switch-on the TV news every morning) sunscreen should be applied every two hours. The recommended amount of sun cream per application is 25ml, but I’m not quite sure how we’re supposed to measure that out. Still, 25ml it is.
Let's do the math (as our American cousins would say): a 200ml bottle of SPF 20 sun protection seems to cost around £5. Nice and easy, that's eight applications. Eight applications each protecting me for two hours equates to sixteen hours in the sun. Bargain, I hear you say. Uh-huh, except of course, if you actually work outdoors; then it's two days-worth. That's around £55 per month if you stay indoors at the weekend. If you go out and get some fresh-air and exercise on those days too (don’t forget your healthy lifestyle), you can add another twenty quid and multiply that by the number of people in your family.
Mind you, it's not all bad news for outdoor workers: if they follow some of the other advice I’ve seen, they need to go to lunch between eleven o’clock and three, to get out of the sun altogether: somewhere shady; a pub for instance. Which is why, I imagine, the incidence of skin-cancer amongst builders must be very low.
To add insult to injury, I'm told that even on overcast days it's still very important to maintain a sun protection regime. UVB is apparently very good at penetrating cloud-cover. Then again, I guess the constant re-application of sun cream will give me something to do whilst I'm sat on the roof of my house waiting to be helecoptered away by Air-Sea Rescue. Maybe I should just buy a life-raft with a built-in foil-lined tent; I'll undertake a cost / benefit analysis later: cancel contents insurance, buy boat.
Obviously, nobody wants skin-cancer and, short of getting into an argument about global warming, there is nobody to blame for UV radiation except the sun. My gripe is this: firstly, I don’t need it rammed down my throat first-thing every morning, especially when it’s pouring with rain outside; secondly, and call me cynical if you will, the only message that comes-over loud and clear is: if you want real protection, don’t buy the cheap stuff! Value Sunscreen? You may as well coat yourself in lard and lay naked on a sun bed for a week.
Maybe if we didn’t all feel the need to always get the absolute “best” product that money can buy (or as it’s sometimes known, the most expensive), personal debt in this country might not be at the trillion pounds it is today.
That’s why this summer; you'll find me jogging around the garden, dressed from head to toe in water-proofs and hat with a 4" brim, wielding my newly-patented umbrasol. Crikey, I nearly forgot my UV400 specs, sorry, eyewear. I was going to go to Spain but I can't afford it since I spent all my money on sun protection. Mind you, as soon as my patent comes through, I'll be selling my umbrasols for £50 each: any takers?
Synchronicity and Simon Pegg
(or Popular Things I Missed While Getting Old)
11:52, Jan 24th 2010 – Simon Pegg tweeted a link (http://bit.ly/22se5w) to a video clip. I watched this clip. It featured people shooting each other, one after the other. Six in all. The background music was someone singing “mmm… whatch say…” through a Vocoder / harmoniser, over and over and over again. All-in-all, it should be very irritating. Should have been, but wasn’t. I’m guessing this is just one of the reasons Simon Pegg is making money from what he does.
Within the following week, my other half starts looking up songs she’s heard on the radio in the car. I ask her which ones – somehow she manages to describe “…mmm… whatcha say…” sung through a harmoniser.
What a coincidence! That sounds just like the music in the background of a video clip Simon Pegg sent me. And the other 178’335 people who follow him on Twitter. We ascertained this tune is, somewhat bizarrely, entitled “Whatcha Say” and is by a bloke called Jason Derulo. I decided I quite liked the tune.
Jan 31st 2010 – The Grammys take place in America. Probably Los Angeles – I don’t know because the whole thing passed me by.
Feb 5th 2010, probably about 09:00, because that’s the sort of time they usually have famous people on. A singer / songwriter called Imogen Heap was interviewed on BBC Breakfast. I was quite pleased because I’d heard of her although I couldn’t think of a single song she had done. It transpired Imogen had won a Grammy, not five days earlier. That’s jolly well done, I thought.
It transpired that Miss Heap is not particularly popular (perhaps in terms of chart success more than anything else) in her home country. She is, however, very well-known in America. Apparently, her music has been used a lot in film and TV over there and, in particular, was the track used in a very important scene in a show called “The O.C.”. I have vaguely heard of “The O.C.” but largely it has passed me by. The song in question is called “Hide and Seek”.
Well, guess what, they played a clip of this very well know track and it’s Imogen Heap singing “…mmm…whatcha say…” into a harmoniser.
What a total flipping coincidence! So it wasn’t by Jason Derulo at all. It is by a woman I’d heard of, yet not heard. But it didn’t seem fair to penalise Mr Derulo for coming second, so I bought both records. When I say records, I mean downloads.
Now I keep listening to “Hide and Seek” and I’m totally in love with it. Clearly I am way behind the rest of the world, especially America, but I attribute this to being middle-aged. It subsequently occurred to me that perhaps the video clip link, made available by Mr Pegg, had more significance than I first thought. Struck by this chain of coincidences, I did some research on the internet.
It seems the clip I watched was a parody of a season finale of a show called “The O.C.” – even more shocking was the news that this video clip was something of an internet sensation at the time. To be more specific, the time was April 14th 2007.
I dunno, you turn your back for a second and all this stuff happens while you’re not looking…
I consoled myself with the fact that Simon Pegg is clearly younger than me and had probably been to the big America for filming-type purposes where he was no doubt exposed to such media.
Then I thought, well just how much younger than me is Simon Pegg – after all, he has been around a long time now – he served his apprenticeship under Mr Coogan, starred in a (very funny and under-rated) sit-com about some Hippies (by Graham Linehan and Arthur Mathews) and got to play Kate Ashfield’s boyfriend in some film about dead people who aren’t actually dead. I could go on. I probably should mention he wrote some stuff too.
So I Googled him and…great, Simon Pegg is a mere two years younger than me. In fact it’s his birthday very soon, according to the Wikipedia anyway (so it must be true). So happy birthday for Sunday Simon. It’s a big one isn’t it? Yes, ha ha, now you’ll know the pain I’ve been in for the last twenty-four months.
So I’ve thus far calculated that I’m still a year out when it comes to being “in-the-know” (2010 minus two years equals 2008 and I need to get to 2007). Then it struck me – of course. Pegg lives in the big London. This will doubtless put him in touch, or at least closer proximity, with other people “in-the-know”.
That must be the answer; living in London reduces middle-age trend-ignorance by a whole year.
I think that’s why I wrote this. I’m not sure now.
Yes, the other question – what made Simon Pegg tweet a link to a three-year-old video clip? Did he know Imogen Heap was up for a Grammy? Did he secretly know she was going to win? And what about this Jason Derulo geezer? Where did he come from? Why now?
And well done to Imogen Heap for the Grammy. I know who you are now and I’ve bought one of your records. Sorry, downloaded one of your tracks.
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