Must Be The Mustard

Google it! And why nobody knows jack shit any more.

2011-08-17T11:01:00.001+01:00

Whatsisname...

What is the name of the actor who always appears in the Coen brothers movies? Y’know… short guy… kinda resembles an actual caricature drawing of himself? Also, what was the name of that odd song the late Richard Harris sung, something about a cake being left out in the rain? Jeez , I can’t remember. If only I could find out the answer in the next 5 seconds or so…

Over the past year I have noticed a recurring phrase slip into the lexicon used by both friends and family, to the point where it is growing increasingly more frequent the more time I spend with them. Second to the champion phrase that is “Who would like another drink?”, “Google It!” keeps on popping into conversations where trivial details concerning the subject matter is either forgotten, not known, or temporarily obscured by the dark cloud of alcohol that consumes the brain on nights out. In my circle of friends, forgotten song titles are often cause for shouting “Google It!”, as are the names of forgotten actors, musical notation symbols, authors, countries of origin, years – the list has no end. With the proliferation of wireless portable devices such as Apple iPhones, iPads and Blackberrys though, it is possible to drive the dark clouds far away at the stroke of an LCD screen (or ‘push of a button’ for you luds out there). Gadgets like these come to the rescue when the gaps in our knowledge threaten to blight us on occasions such as this.

If she turns her fists towards
her face to look at her tattoos
it will read "leitGoog".

When the phrase is spoken, it is usually implied that the Googling would be done at a later date, so quite often the evening would end without anyone actually finding an answer. The chances of post-pub chat-recollection (P.P.C.R.) are severely diminished after six pints of London Pride, so we end up learning nothing whatsoever.

What is becomingly frighteningly clear is how much people now rely on instant answers from the internet, rather than our own brains. Where the calculator helped kill the skill of arithmetic in today’s generation, Google will slay the art of memory recall in the next. The aptitude of working out a sum or equation has given way to the quick, almost masturbatory self-gratification of bashing a few buttons until the answer is ejaculated on the LCD display. The human race didn’t evolve by wanking, and I am convinced that there is a major point made there which I will leave you to decipher.

To make matters worse, we don’t even plump for educated guesses any more. Let’s say that the exact year in which The Beatles released their seminal LP, Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band has escaped you. As you don’t know the answer you try to work it out, sprinkle a bit of logic or attempt to recall some fragment of information that your memory may have deposited many years ago, ready to be smashed in emergencies such as now. At least you are making a decent stab at the answer, just like working out a mathematical problem. This no longer happens because the gadget-guru amongst your group has already shone the answer in front of your face on his illuminated iPhone. “It’s 1967 mate, look… Googled it…”. “Oh, cheers.”

I am complicit in all of this, though, as I reach for the internet sometimes a bit too soon to get the answers I crave. As an aside, never attempt to get the answers to any health problems you may be experiencing via Google. If you do, you will most certainly self-diagnose cancer so please visit a doctor for a proper consultation. I often wonder how long before the NHS and the hot potato outfit that is Skype combine and deliver an online health service? Online consultancies where a GP can zoom into your testicles via a 3D webcam? I can imagine this happening in the next 10 or 15 years or so and, besides, it has been tried and tested. Leslie Grantham has been successfully using the service for years or so. But I digress.

The Internet

So, what becomes of all of this? Is the luxury of having a phone-a-friend lifeline on hand at all times the by-product of a generation that is constantly under attack from instant social media such as text messages, images, tweets, mobiles and holds the entire internet in the palm of its hand? Is the need to retain information becoming less important to people nowadays, as they know they can get the answer to anything at any time anyway? We don’t even need to remember passwords anymore as your computers browser intelligently remembers it for you. Knowing phone numbers off by heart now only stretches to the ten measly digits of your own mobile number, and even then the first two digits are universal. Tragically, some people don’t even know their own mobile number. In the days before mobiles I could recall the numbers of close friends, family and various fast-food joints for leisure. Now I wipe sweat from my brow with relief every time I successfully enter my four-digit credit card PIN number.

Whether we will see an eventual decline in the mental ability of the young and general knowledge eradicated, it is hard to say. When new technology comes along it is easy to blame it for the supposed ills of today’s society, but in this case there may to a case to answer. As I was writing the title for this piece I wondered where the term ‘jack shit’ came from. I think I will save you the trouble… I've Googled It!

To ‘check box’ or ‘not to check box’, that is the question…

2011-02-25T13:53:00.013Z

As a fan of frugality and free stuff, I often spend my spare moments online entering competitions and free draws to win holidays or gizmos & gadgets. First I type in my name, email address and mobile number and then it is time to answer the question which will determine if I stand a chance at winning. Usually the question is a patronising simple one such as "Who lives at 10 Downing Street?" or “Which is the correct spelling for diarrhea? Is it a) diarrhea b) chrisrea or c) platypus“. Once the correct answer is checked you would have thought that it was plain sailing from there. Wrong! What follows next is the most indecipherable, mind-boggling and potentially booby-trapped test of all…

“Please do not uncheck this box if you wouldn’t like us not to pass your contact details to a third party or not."

I can confidently say that every single one of you would have come a cropper with this intentionally perplexing riddle at some stage of your internet life and tentatively uncheck the box assuming your inbox will be safe from emails offering dating services and free online bets. To make it even more perilous you often find two of these Mensa challenges clumped together, the second one deviating from the first ever so slightly:

“Please do not check this box if you would like us not to contact you with offers or promotions via email.“

You are now faced with the uncomfortable dilemma of submitting your entry with one of the two boxes unchecked, the unsymmetrical submission bringing out the OCD in you. Doubt will be gnawing away at you as you consider your entry…you click SUBMIT.

Nervously you refresh your inbox, expecting a flurry of penis-enhancing pills and promotional codes for low market restaurants to be emailed to you, confirming your dumb failure to crack the test.
After waiting and waiting an email pops into your inbox… You breathe a sigh of relief as you glance at it. Fortunately, it is not of the spam variety. Unfortunately, your sigh quickly turns into one of crushing disappointment. You have won blue suede shoes for life! Oh well, something ventured…

“Breads Etcetera” – Clapham High Street, London - Food Review

2010-10-20T13:07:00.000+01:00

Walking the length and breadth of Clapham High Street it is hard escape number of eateries willing to relinquish you from your quest for a hearty breakfast on a Saturday morning. As everybody knows, the percieved quality of a breakfast can vary hugely due to the amount of alcohol consumed the previous night. The most wretched full English can taste Michelin-starred when consumed with toxins still paddling in the bloodstream. This morning I was free from said poisons and ready to part with my money in exchange for breakfast at “Breads Etcetera”, an award-winning artisan bread bakers who have entered the café market with this little gem in the heart of Clapham.

A good sign for any food joint is the presence of a queue for a table and “Breads Etcetera” had two small groups of people waiting patiently outside. The door is manned by a member of staff who also stands behind their pavement stall which displays a full selection of their freshly baked sourdough bread and cakes. The wait for a table was only a matter of minutes and the minor exodus meant we were ushered into the cramped surroundings of the premises.

The first thing you notice is the close proximity with which you sit next to other diners. Also noticeable was the sound level of the contemporary music being played, it was definitely peaking over the threshold of ‘background music’ which did add a buzzy, hustle-bustle vibe to the place.

On your table you cannot help but be charmed when you see a retro-2 slice toaster gracing the middle of every table, the menu encourages you to slice your own bread and make toast (or ‘DIY’ as they delightfully put it) from their selection of their breads. The varieties on offer include wholemeal, white, six-seed and olive and herb. The preserves and spreads are also plentiful from rhubarb & ginger jam to Nutella and Veggiemite, the veggiemite perhaps giving away a clue to it's owners origin.

The menu offered nearly every breakfast you could want including unlimited ‘DIY’ toast, Swedish, English or simply build your own from all of the breakfast components on offer. I decided to go straight for the jugular and ordered the most expensive on the menu, the Full Aussie Breakfast.

Within twenty minutes the breakfast was served. This is when the lack of space becomes a slight annoyance as the table is not big enough to hold everything you’ve ordered. I was not alone in perching various jars and sauces beside me or on my lap. The Full Aussie comprised of one large pork sausage, 2 rashers of griddled bacon, a choice of eggs (scrambled), home-made baked beans and wild mushrooms. For the antipodean twist a slice of minute steak is lavished atop the dish. The quality of the food is excellent, the sausage in particular being meaty and with a spicy black-pepper kick. The home-made baked beans suffered from an unavoidable comparison to a rather famous baked bean brand, but at least they were less harmful than Heinz which have a tendency to taint every item on the plate it comes into contact with.

All of this was washed down with a refreshing glass of orange juice, 100% freshly squeezed, and a well-made café latte. The quantity of the breakfast was also very generous, especially with the unlimited toast, but be prepared to bypass lunch and move straight on to dinner if you go for the Aussie special. With hindsight, the shriek of “I like your style!” from the waitress when I ordered definitely had an air of novelty to it. Memories of the “Ole 96er” steak trying to be consumed (gristle and all) by John Candy in the movie The Great Outdoors did spring to mind at one point during the meal.

Placed at the higher end of the breakfast market, be prepared to pay above the normal for a breakfast at Breads Etcetera. The DIY toast is £5.15, although that is unlimited, and at the top of the scale was the full Aussie special for £12.95. It is cash only and service is included in the bill. Be expected to pay around £15-£17 per person for food, juice and a coffee.

Breads Etcetera, 127 Clapham High Street, Clapham, London, SW4 7SS

How can you improve on the McDonalds Big Breakfast?

2010-09-27T11:20:00.007+01:00

The train pulled into Eastbourne Terminus with just 20 minutes of the McDonalds breakfast menu remaining. The decision to eat there was born from a need to suppress the hangover which was now encroaching on my consciousness – the previous evening’s excesses rendering my stomach unfulfilled with only alcoholic lubrication and my mind eager to be stimulated by the undeniable junkie high which only chains such as these can deliver. Saying that, I had walked a good 15-20 yards past the golden arches before commiting a U-turn and pushing the doors wide open; the lure of the sea and high-pitched cry of seagulls to blame for this momentary lapse in concentration. I was now entering the artificially cold and familiar surroundings of America’s second most controversial export after it's army. The unique McOily smell that hits you as you walk in, which is duplicated in every single one of their premises across the globe, was now circulating in my lungs and would soon be running parallel with the blood which coarses through my ever tightening veins.

Once in, I thought I’d take a trip down memory lane and purchase the ‘McDonalds Big Breakfast’. I used to eat this once or twice a week back in my college days before the tedium of morning lectures. Then, you could also smoke in McDonalds. This is something now which, like smoking on buses, is so inconceivable I’m sure I must have dreamt it. After stubbing out my cigarette in one of those disposible mini tin-foil ashtrays I would always order The Big Breakfast, something which I did on this cold morning in Eastbourne.

The breakfast consisted of McScrambled egg, a McSausage slice and a halved McButtered McMuffin bun served with a sick-but-silky cup of scolding hot chocolate. I recommend a couple of McHash Browns too, a crucial supplement as the meal itself, unlike the photo's above the counter which you salivatate over when making you mind up what to have, is disappointingly small in real life. This is something shared with all of the McDonalds range. What really has the ability, though, to set the Big Breakfast’ apart from all of the other breakfast-menu fillers was the addition of something so deliciously simple it makes people who come into contact with the idea it makes them feel temporarily numb. McCurry Sauce. How the request of a tiny tub of sauce caused such vociferous condemnation from both my partner and the 16-year old girl serving is beyond me. Try before you deny, I say.

Such an accompaniment does not compute with the vast majority of the McDonalds community. I can assure you that mixing the sweet curry sauce with the scrambled egg turns the yellow polystyrine-like inedible blobs into a tasty, exotic, eggy-Eastern delight. I never give it a second thought. I suspect that people will have to actually experience it to wake-up to what they have been missing out on; it is like Rick Wakeman – before you actually listen to ‘The Myths and Legends of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table’, your gut instinct is to think of him as a bit of a preposterous cock. With this last thought in mind I knew I had to share the breakfast with my partner, otherwise she’d be forever repulsed by my the idea. I would have the last laugh when I tenderly pass the fork, lovingly topped with this Indian-American alliance, to her to taste. Let the sweet’n'spicy eggy food-bomb infiltrate her taste buds, the explosive taste sensation giving way to the realisation that McDonalds breakfasts… no, ALL breakfasts would never be the same again…

She thought it was absolutely disgusting and spat it out. To be honest, it wasn’t as good as I remembered and I understand Rick Wakeman is still a bit of a preposterous cock.

We'll Meet Again - The Libertines live at the HMV Forum 25/08/10 – First Reunion Show

2010-08-25T10:01:00.019+01:00

The boys in the band.

As a successful ballot entrant, it was with an air of smugness that I made my way through the crowds gathering outside the HMV Forum for tonights pre-Reading, Libertines reunion show. A number of young libertines held sheets of A4 with hastily scrawled pleas of how much they were willing to pay for a ticket. “Massive Libertines Fan Will Pay £100 for One Ticket” read one, the black ink weeping from the lined paper as the heavy rain diluted the wretched note without mercy. Was I tempted to capitulate to any capitalist tendencies for a 200% return on my investment? My decision not to buckle was totally vindicated after witnessing an 80 minute lust-laden Libertines set, a show you simply cannot put a price on.

The lights dimmed at around nine o'clock and by this time the venue was on tenterhooks. The two large screens straddling the stage flickered into life and began to reminisce with the crowd, sharing images and memories from the band's heyday. It was hard not to go dewy-eyed as the memories of yesteryear were washed ashore to the sound of Vera Lynn’s ‘We’ll Meet Again’, the perfect accompaniment to the lovingly compiled photo montage. As Vera took a bow to whoops and cheers, the back curtain dropped to the floor and unveiled the classic red/black ‘Up the Bracket’ backdrop bringing the crowd to united state of paralysis; it was now the time for their heroes to grace the same stage for the first time in 5 years. The quartet took to their positions and devoid of sentiment stormed into ‘Horrorshow’, performed with all the restraint and grace of a runaway train. Man, how we have missed The Libertines.

A rollicking ‘Boys In The Band’ followed and the atonement of ‘Can’t Stand Me Now’, watching Carl & Pete share the same microphone purge from their souls the ill-feeling which brought the band to an untimely demise in 2005. The cathartic performance was just one fine moment during a gig brimming with them. The only low moment was Carl's choice of skimpy black vest which he sported for the majority of the show.

‘Don’t Look Back Into The Sun’ retained all the vibrancy of the summer of 2003 from which it was borne and the crescendo ‘Campaign of Hate’ reached showed that without Gary Powell's timekeeping Pete & Carl’s guitar-duals would likely career off course after just ten seconds of trademark frenetic strumming.

The Libertines pulled off one of those great live-show tricks of beginning to play a slower and lesser-loved song before ending it after a few bars and bursting into one their greatest – the museful ‘Radio America’ brusquely extinguished by the volatile ‘Up The Bracket’. It can now officially report that crowd had gone totally mental.

By the time ‘What a Waster’ was over, most of the crowd were racking their brains as to what songs they hadn’t played yet. The band had put their back catalogue into a blender and blitzed it for 80 adrenaline & sweat-laden minutes. Fooled into thinking the finishing end was at hand, ‘I Get Along’ completed the show with a suitable maniacal charge.

When the band gave in to the inevitable group hug there was a momentous cheer and I doubt there was a dry-eye in the house. As a warm-up for Reading/Leeds festival in the next couple of weeks, this show would have done the band no end of good and will whet the appetites for the lucky festival goers who will witness the Libertines return. Will this pave the way for a proper tour? It is a huge possibility in these tour-for-cash orientated times. Whether a much wanted third album will be on the cards is another matter with both Pete & Carl involved in their respective solo careers. The gig certainly had an air of unfinished business about it, especially with the sad and shoddy manner of the bands split amidst tales of burglary, drug-use and prison sentences. Was this an ending fitting for the start?