COME ALIVE. UNSUBSCRIBE

 

"I am no longer interested (not that I was in the first place)"

The joy of unsubscribing. Checking one’s emails is a tricky proposition these days. Wading through the dross and intrusive messages asking you about car accidents, savings, shoes, health, pet care… the list is endless. “Why are they sending me this stuff” my internal voice asks. I neither know not nor can I remember ever having expressed an interest in the majority of topics that land in my inbox, but somehow, I am on the receiving end.

It's the dreaded subscription. And it appears as if subscription is no longer a choice but something that happens automatically when clicking on any number of websites.

Having had just about enough I embarked on an unsubscribe journey. Separating the wheat from the chaff, getting rid of the time wasters and chancers and generally de cluttering. It’s cathartic I can tell you.

I long ago reduced all physical mail to the extent that I receive maybe two letters a week, if that, and both the recycling bin and my peace of mind have benefitted from this. I fundamentally don’t want anyone contacting me unless they are known to me. Those that knock at my door without good reason beware. If I want to find out about a religion I will do so, If I want to hear about an offer, I will seek it out, If I want to donate to a charity I will make arrangements. I don’t need to stand with an uninvited visitor at my threshold trying to engage me in, what is essentially, salesmanship.

And that is what the subscription email is, an unwanted visitor trying to get you to part with your hard-earned cash. So, take my advice and unsubscribe, unsubscribe with extreme prejudice, unsubscribe with gusto. You will feel lighter, you will feel spiritually elevated…perhaps that last statement is going a bit far, but once you unsubscribe your email life will never be the same. Maybe I should go door to door and spread the good news!

EAU DE OH NO

 

  sniff sniff who's there?

Oud. It seems to be the must smell of the year. I don't like the smell of Oud, I find it makes my olfactory senses shudder, and in a London full of odours it's another pervasive interloper to contend with.

The unwashed. These days we have a number of Pound shops, corner shops and discount street stalls where the purchase of deodorant is very affordable and therefore I see no reason to have rampant body odour, but if it were only that simple. The way in which some people reek can only be attributable to never washing, either body or clothes.

Incense. Whoever thought that the pong of burning incense was in any way enjoyable must have had a knock on the head from a plummeting over ripe coconut that resulted in them losing their sense of smell. Once inhaled it reminds one of apathy, it is the smell of ennui.

It's not just the everyday scents that assault ones nostrils. Ladies and gentlemen I give you Truffles! The aroma of burning tyres, the overpowering  pungency from an adjacent restaurant table that results in having to hang one's coat in the garden overnight to get rid of the melted rubber residual pong.

Let us not forget that one smell that is unavoidable it seems; Marijuana/Weed/Puff/Skunk, I don't know what the eponymous kids on the street call it these days but its musky tone is everywhere it seems. Wafting from bedroom windows, balconies and worst of all clinging to the garments of the heavy user like a cloud of ennui. It's as ubiquitous as the smell of fireworks in November as common as the smell of damp leaves as rampant as the smell of vapes.

One of the few benefits of Covid was the availability of masks, this allows us to have at least some protection from these assaults on olfaction. I may take to wearing one again when I am out and about. Or alternatively I could search Amazon for a second hand gas mask

HO HO AND INDEED HO!

 

And so, this is Christmas, apparently. The season to be jolly is upon us once more dear friends, once more. This is not going to be a, as many of you would naturally expect a curmudgeonly post by any means; there are enough Scrooge’s around to supply that. On the contrary I am going to praise Yuletide.

Something about this year has got me all aglow. Maybe because it doesn’t feel like we are saturated with festive fare popping up in all forms of media televisual and social. Yes, there are the predictable eau de parfum and après rasage commercials proliferating; all of which seem to be identical to whatever was conjured up by the creative marketing minds over the last few years, but they are easily fast forwarded through.

Black Friday and Cyber Monday have reared their heads once more but rather than seeing it as a cynical excuse to get customers to PayPal their way into debt, these present opportunities to get a discount on those jeans you wanted whilst picking up a bargain for your “precocious” niece’s Christmas box.

“What about Christmas songs?” you say? It’s not all Mariah Carey and Slade you know. I’ve managed to rekindle some enthusiasm for those Christmas records of bygone days. I’m enjoying the Ze Records A Christmas Record long player which features an eclectic mix on artists with interpretations of X-Mas melodies, alongside the A Very Special Christmas albums that were produced to raise money for the special Olympics and feature Christmas songs by Madonna, Run DMC, Eurythmics, Boyz II Men, Aretha Franklin, Luther Vandros, Macy Grey, Patti Smith, Stevie Nicks  U2 among others. 

Christmas shopping an issue? No. Frankly I spend so little time in shops that I have little contact with shoppers and at this time of year the delivery man (or woman) is King (or Queen) so that when I do venture forth it is not so much of an issue. In small doses crowds of consumers is not an issue especially as a shopping trip at this time of the year is the perfect excuse to get ensconced in the pub. I like a pub at Christmas, correction, I love a pub at Christmas. The tempo of an afternoon down a good British boozer at this time of year is an ideal way to fritter away half the day. People are happier for a start, and the smell of mulled wine, although I am not a fan of the taste, is evocative and welcoming. If there is an open fire, then Bingo! I’ll have a pint and keep them coming.

I'm not sure that this thawing of my cynicism is a conscious decision but, I'm feeling pretty, pretty, pretty, good about Christmas 2025.

CONSUMER OR CATTLE?

 

A night at the Emirates: Arsenal V Brentford

A cold night in North London and an arrangement top meet up with friends for a pre match pint, but to enjoy the pre match drink one has to navigate door staff to whom you have to prove you’re an Arsenal supporter.

When you reach the ground you are herded like cattle through turnstiles after having a body search.

Once in the ground one is treated to a selection of overpriced refreshments and of course any alcohol you do buy (in plastic glasses) you have to drink before going to your seat. Speaking of seats, they are basic and give little room to manoeuvre. My seats were perfectly situated to see the back of a cameraman  and his assistant who sat in my sight line which made for a frustrating viewing experience. But it got worse as whenever Arsenal staged an attack the cameraman stood up and blocked even more of the view.

A half time toilet break was  a urine soaked  wade to the urinals following a long queue.

What struck me was that, for a premium price point the contempt in which the “consumer” is held is completely skewed.

Now I’m not talking about luxury, VIP treatment, just equitable treatment. The supporter being of  value commensurate to the cost of admission .

I can think of no other sport, theatre, opera, ballet, cinema or performance art where the customer is so devalued. Perhaps pop concerts, but as I don’t attend them I can’t vouch for that.

My take away is that I may have to remove myself from the experience. This brings me no joy, but I assume that when one turns up week after week one gets used to it.

It seems that my only alternative is to win the lottery and buy a premium ticket or a box. That’s not me feeling entitled but feeling that we are all entitled to be treated correctly as, without us the club is nothing.

The thing that saddens me most, but also bolsters my conclusion is that going to the Arsenal is mostly about meeting friends. Good people. Honest people. People that you can talk to about the Arsenal and those talks lead to other conversations about all manner of things.

I think that the lesson I’ve learned is that the social aspect is of more value than the game experience, in as much as in the first, respect and having a good time is a major factor and in the former one feels that a lack of respect for fans diminishes the enjoyment of the game

GIVE US THIS DAY OUR DAILY CRACK

It’s not easy living with pigeons. I’m talking about Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds here. A flock of them have taken up residence on the local roundabout. They are fed by members of the public who either can’t or won’t read the signs that are displayed alerting them to the fact that feeding the pigeons is bad for the pigeons, attracts rats and is a general hazard/inconvenience for everybody. The signs also clearly state that it is an offence to do so.

I see the would-be bird-lovers daily with their loaves of Aldi bread standing among the throng of avians with looks of derangement on their faces, almost as if they are struggling to deal with the winged masses that they are inviting. 

Of course, there is no one to stop them, no one to enforce the law and prevent the spread of vermin and excrement as there are no police on the streets. They are tucked up in their patrol cars waiting to engage in a high-speed pursuit to get the old adrenaline going.

The pigeon infestation and those that promote it are a metaphor for a bigger social ill, Crack. Yes, the eponymous drug that has taken London by storm. Addicts are rife at the moment in my neck of the woods. Easily spotted by their Olympic level speed as they scuttle along to get their fix. Their caved in faces missing teeth are also a dead give-away as is their tendency to be skeletal.

They can be seen fixing in doorways and benches, they clutter up the place and recite the ubiquitous mantra “got any spare change”.

I stopped to speak to four of them hunkered down in a doorway next to the supermarket and asked them about their lifestyle. One of them told me to “F*ck Off!”, one was too out of it to respond, one uttered incoherent gibberish and the fourth actually engaged and made some valid points.

Like the pigeons they are attracted to the area as the have a choice of commuters going about their daily routine, to ask to simply give them money. They have a weekly Soup kitchen, and the dealers make use of the ample parking to meet the demand.

And, like the pigeon feeders, there are no police officers around to intervene, move them along or indeed arrest the dealers.

So, Pigeons and Crack Heads do what they do unabated. The pigeon feeders’ actions encourage rats, and the addicts encourage drug dealers. The Pigeons won’t leave as long as they are getting a free meal, and the addicts won’t move on as long as they get sufficient small change to cover their costs.

That’s supply and demand I suppose. I wish they would all simply fly away