I loved Scumbag more than I can describe, though, in a way, I just have.  So I was pleased to see traffic over the last year pick up; search and stuff, which came a bit late to the party, and hadn’t really kicked off when the site was active.  For some time, and particularly now, when the world’s press are convinced that Kim Jong Il is dead and North and South Korea are going to war, a couple of posts, and particularly pictures become rather popular.  I’m referring to this one in particular of Kim Jong Il.  It’s being viewed at a rapidly increasing rate every day – which on one hand is great, but on the other hand is a shame as there really aren’t any jokes in there.  If I’d stopped to think about it I could have put that zinger I’ve been saving about the DPRK being all crappy and broken down, and, well you can fill in the gaps.

Anyway, it’s made me think about starting this thing back up again.  Besides prescription drugs and drawing Kawaii pictures of sushi with a face I’ve probably got enough resources to start trawling through the rot and writing a bit.  Will consider this.

Anyway, I suppose there is something that has been praying on my mind for a while, and that’s anti-banker sentiment.  Yea yea, so they have huge bonuses, sometimes they can sound a bit wanky, and yea, they in part contributed to the financial crisis.  But ask any self-assured bank-basher and they can’t give you a reason exactly why these pinstriped super-villains are so deserving of condemnation.  The almost sickeningly predictable result is tax!  Yay, tax fixing everything!  No, wait, aren’t we usually really angry at how much we get taxed?  Oh, no, wait it’s the bankers.  They can afford it.  Compared to me.  But when I get taxed, compared to the poorest and most disadvantaged people in my country, not to mention the world, maybe I can afford it too, but that Sky subscription isn’t going to pay itself, you know?  And so, our feeling of collective yet ultimately ironic indignation has culminated in a campaign for the “Robin Hood Tax”.  Where *the fuck* can I start with this.  You know what, I’ll just say this, because when it comes down to it, this is all people really care about.  There’s a tax on all speculative transactions the banks make: derivatives, currency, etc.  Prices rise as markets adjust or surcharges are made to the end consumer.  Your pension will be worth less.  Your holidays will cost more.  Commodities will cost more.  You’ll have less money in your pocket, just like if you’d been taxed yourself.  Not to mention the fact that it’ll be yet more damage to the UK’s standing as a financial centre, that at it’s height contributed 1/3 of our GDP.  Yay!  Robin Hood, Robin Hood!

Sorry, blacked out there.  Anyway, back to fluffy nonsense like, I don’t know, the Brit Awards or something.  Can’t wait to see Michelle Gayle, or the big Beddingfield duet, or Mr Hudson pricking around like some albino talent-vacuum.  Am I more or less on the money?  I once was at an MTV casting and mentioned “The big Beddingfield duet” with lashings of irony and mock-enthusiasm and the production assistant looked at me like I was mentally ill.  Can’t imagine why they didn’t hire me*.

*NB Principally because I was crap in nearly all respects.

Pretty sure I stole the Beddingfield thing anyway.  The consummate professional…

Since we’ve last spoken I’ve developed a sinister obsession with what I shall now call “kitchen heroin”.  Seemingly innocuous, but potent enough to default even the most materially contented human being to a total junkie.  Not even a good, glamorous, artistic junkie.  A pathetic consumer of espresso cups, garlic crushers; all that stuff.  And that’s me.  Mugging my own great grandmother for pennies to get my hands on an Alessi milk jug in the shape of a banana.

Anyway, Happy Christmas, blah blah blah.  Hope it’s been good and your bowels aren’t completely immolated from the onslaught.  A quick tip to avoiding gastric stress is to develop an addiction, not to kitchen heroin, but to something similar to actual heroin.  Bang, and your appetite is gone.  Seasons greetings.

So yea, it’s for a journey that nobody will ever conceivably take – Newquay, in Cornwall to Kyle of Lochalsh, in the Scottish Highlands, and it’s first class, but we’re a tiny island.  And it gives me a rather easy shot, if I ever needed one, at trains in Britain.  In fact I won’t even do that, I’m going to show you something I wrote, with no destination at all (for the article) when I was on a train whilst I was an uppity student.  It doesn’t really mean anything in particular, but it pretty much sums up the utter contempt I have for trains.  On a serious note, I miss you guys.  Feel free to catch up with me on twitter here.

As I sit here in possibly the most soul-crushing vehicle on earth, the locomotive, I ponder that in such an unconscionably woeful environment, I could happily become a psychopath. My train is the 21:00 from London King’s Cross to Durham, a journey that I have made many times, and consistently found bafflingly shit. But wait, salvation is here, from whom you ask, but National Express! Phew. GNER has proven to be simply too crappy, and the route has been taken over by those synonymous with coaches, the second most baiting and skull-numbingly banal way of travel I can think of. Before, dear reader, you launch into the alternatives: the aeroplane, the automobile, I get it ok? I am a willing sacrifice on the altar of self-abuse. I, like everyone else, buy into the notion that it’s “easier” to travel long-distance by train. The fact is that it is not; I am still herded around, queue for everything, jostle for my seat and drag my luggage everywhere. Nor is it cheaper. Nor is it anymore enjoyable; a cramped cattle truck, the price paid for such a privilege warranting Fabergé coffee cups.

And yet, the price has increased again. For the eight percent increase, I can find nothing emeritus of it. My current journey surprised. To fete the arrival of National Express, I am treated to a worse train than I had ever experienced under GNER. Its age is incalculable; beige kitsch seemingly transcends time. Now of course, this could be a one off, but nonetheless, I find it baffling that they can do the equivalent of turning something already terrible, into the travel equivalent of Halfords. But it is reassuringly consistent – seats so close together I am practically mounting my neighbour, legroom fit for a stoat, and zero luggage space; so overflowing with luggage was a carriage on my southward journey to London that a lady got trapped in the loo. Frankly she’d have been better off staying there. One hears periodic threats on journeys from the staff that if luggage is not removed from an emergency route, (if there’s a crash we’re all fucked anyway) it will be dumped on the platform of the next stop. Two years ago one of the offending pieces of luggage was mine, and when I attempted, very politely (remember Iain, they’re only “doing their job”), to explain that it was occupying the only available square inches of the train carriage, and that POWs had better luggage provisions, I was treated as if I had just told her I was a sex offender.

The staff are a major gripe of mine. Now I fully appreciate that any length of time on the misery express would make me into a complete fuckwit also, but still. The main offenders are those who are charged with checking tickets. Not only are they invariably impolite, I am invariably a complete cretin, and have either forgotten my Railcard, missed my train, or am sat in the wrong seat. All my fault. However not once have they cut me any slack, especially when I have forgotten my Young Persons Railcard, and been slapped with a massive ticket purchase, usually £120. Not only that, but they smirk as a meekly attempt to wriggle out of it, citing late connecting trains (which is sometimes true), and appealing to their cold hearts and iron fists. This is a frequent occurrence; I am coming to the conclusion that I have something of a sadomasochistic tendency.

I won’t even rant about the train food (har har har old train sandwiches aren’t they rubbish har har). The single most depressing thing about my journey is the palpable feeling of collective despair among fellow passengers; the darting eyes, the perpetual shuffling in seats, the same people walking up and down all journey, and the feeling that we’ve all been suckered. Again.

Normal programming will resume next week on monday.  Why not treat yourself for the remainder of the week.  I don’t know, go outside or something.

Made of grade-1 titanium, resin, and neodymium (is that a real material?), this Intelligent Design Bluetooth mouse is $1200.  I literally can’t care at all enough to crack wise about it.  It’s not going to change the world.  But, you know, no harm was done either.  Because usually to get in the mood for a snarky post I have to discharge all my feelings of love and compassion by tickling a kitten to death.  Back garden’s looking mighty full about now.  More here.

This is truly fantastic.  Featuring 42-inch LCD TVs and car batteries, these working iPhone Halloween costumes come from two dudes called Reko and John.  Everything in this video makes me smile, from the Euro House soundtrack to the acute self-awareness of the two that this may well be both the very most and least cool thing they’ll ever do.

This thing packs in-arm storage for treats and a stainless-steel holder for a water bowl.  Available in movie-house velvet, mohair, silk, suede and leather, it costs from $1,695 to $1,995.  Do you know what else dogs love about cinema?  The movies of Sarah Jessica Parker.  *Reaches for high five*  HAYOOOOOO!

Via Bornrich

1.  Poker was responsible for President Nixon.  During World War II, Nixon won $6000 playing poker in his first months in the Navy. His winnings were used to fund his first campaign for congress.  After that, well, the rest is history.

2.  Poker was responsible for the invention of the sandwich.  John Montague, Earl of Sandwich, loved to gamble.  So reluctant was he to divert his attention towards anything other than poker (like eating) that he instructed his servants to bring him meat between two slices of bread so he could eat with one hand and play cards with the other.

3.  The kings in the deck are real kings.  In the deck, the king of spades represents David, King of Israel, the king of Clubs represents Alexander the Great, King of Macedonia, the king of Hearts is Charlemagne, King of France, and the king of Diamonds is Caesar Augustus, Emperor of Rome.

4.  In 1492, When Columbus landed in America, the first thing that his men did, was pluck wide leaves from trees, mark them with images, and play cards.

5.  The suits in playing cards actually mean something.  They supposedly represent the four classes of men: Spades represent nobility, Diamonds represent merchants, Clubs represent peasants, and Hearts the clergy.  Though nobility is a little optimistic when considering poker tactics, merchants are perhaps understandable, clergy has no place at the poker table, however, peasants?  Perhaps if you’ve had a bad game…

So there you have it.  Some pretty interesting facts there.  Most crazy for me I think is that Nixon one – who would have thought that being so good at poker would have triggered a chain of events leading up to Watergate – though I suppose when you consider the need to keep tabs on your opponents and worry about what you’re giving away it isn’t so surprising!