No Slow Train Coming

At some point yesterday afternoon, there was a landslide that covered a section of the East Coast Mainline between Stonehaven and Montrose.

As I understand things, ScotRail became aware of the problem around 4pm.

I arrived at Aberdeen railway station at 4.30pm, intending to catch my usual 4.41pm train home to Montrose. I was allowed to board the train as normal, and as usual it was fairly close to being full, with only a few seats free.

No announcement was made to tell passengers there was a delay until 4.50pm, and at that point we were informed that this was simply a delay.

At around 5.30pm we were told to get off the train as substitute buses would be running from Dundee onwards, and that separate buses would transfer passengers to Stonehaven, Montrose and Arbroath as required.

The announcements made over the station tannoy system were inaudible, leaving hundreds of passengers milling around the station concourse, joined each minute by new arrivals unaware of the problems.

Finally, all passengers bound for Edinburgh and Glasgow were urged to move outside (into the pishing rain) to queue for substitute buses. Everyone else was informed they should wait in the station.

Having waited until 6.30pm, I went out to seek further information. I asked a ScotRail employee whether any buses were running to Montrose, to be told "Oh, it's just left".

No announcement was made to the scores of passengers inside the station. There were still hundreds of people queuing on Guild Street in the rain, waiting for buses they were assured were "on the way".

I decided to stay in the queue, in case another Montrose-bound bus should appear unnanounced. While waiting, I got talking to the three people beside me, who were trying to get to Edinburgh.

At around 7.45pm, one of the women I was talking to set off to find more information. She returned around 8pm to inform me that a member of ScotRail staff was gathering a group of Montrose-bound passengers to travel in a taxi.

Thankfully, I managed to grab a space in the taxi, which left Aberdeen at 8pm, three-and-a-half hours after I had first arrived at the station, and I finally got home just after 9pm.

It is safe to say that I have never had the misfortune to deal with a company as disorganised, poorly managed and generally useless as ScotRail. At least three members of staff in Aberdeen station were truculent, moody and sarcastic when asked for information.

If the company is stripped of its operator's licence, it won't be a moment too soon.

Broken Household Appliance National Forest

Is nothing built to last any more?

In the past few days, the dishwasher at Dungroanin' has packed in, and this afternoon the Jockmobile refused to start after a hard day of sitting doing nothing in the Montrose railway station car park.

The car I can understand - it does a lot of miles and sheer wear and tear over its seven-year life span is obviously going to take its toll eventually. Hopefully replacement of the starter motor will be quick and comparitively cheap.

But the dishwasher is more irritating. I'm fairly certain it was installed when the house was built, which is around three years ago. Maybe I'm old fashioned, but I expect a £450 piece of equipment to last more than three years.

The same can be said of MP3 players - I'm now on my third Magic Tune Box, and I only acquired my first in late 2004.

We've become an unnecessarily wasteful society, where nothing is built for the long-term. If something breaks, it can often be cheaper to replace it than repair it.

In what world does that make sense?

God Is A Concept

Following my recent change from car-bound commuter drone to train-bound commuter drone, I've found myself given far more time to read books, and as a result I'm getting through an average of a book a week.

Yesterday, I finished The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins. It's a book that's currently in vogue, and it seems to be striking a chord with a sizeable portion of society (in Britain at least).

I don't believe in God. I find the very idea that there's a big bearded dude living in the sky and watching over us pretty laughable, when no evidence points towards His existence. The belief that He is supposed to have created the universe a few thousand years ago, in the face of huge amounts of evidence to the contrary, has never sat right with me, ever since I was old enough to form any views on the subject.

By all means, believe what you want to believe. If you think that God, Jesus, Allah, Buddah, Zeus, Thor or the Flying Spaghetti Monster exists, feel free. But don't feel for a second that your world view is the only truth, or that it should be taught as fact in schools.

I'm not against the Bible being examined as a historical document, and its stories discussed - but in the same way that Greek, Roman, Norse or Egyptian myths and legends are studied - as a means of learning how primitive people understood the world around them.

But if you believe that the Bible is literally the word of God, you're living in cloud cuckoo land.

Perhaps even more inexcusable than the teaching of religion in schools is the weight of influence that religion has on society and politics. Church leaders are still afforded the opportunity to speak directly to the government and to have a say on key policies.

Why? Is it the sheer weight of numbers? According to the 2001 census, less than half of British people believe in a God, yet about 72% told the census that they were Christian. It is believed that 66% of the population have no actual connection to any religion or church, despite what they tend to write down on official forms.

Around 80% of the British population, or 50 million people, are adults old enough to choose their own religion and have a say on which shower of useless bastards runs the country. If less than half of them is Christian, that leaves us with, at most, 25 million people, and probably less. So far, so acceptable. Connected groups of people should have political representation. But the fact that these people share a belief in a non-existant God shouldn't count for more than the societies they live in, their political views and their socio-political needs and wants.

And grouping people together, then giving them the ear of government, because of a shared belief in something is a laughable notion anyway. To date, 4.3 million people have bought Oasis' second album (What's The Story) Morning Glory. Should the 4.3 million people be represented in government due to their sheer weight of numbers? Around 8 million people regularly watch EastEnders - shouldn't their views as a group be conveyed to Gordon Brown?

It's a tad unfortunate that many of this country's, and indeed the world's, finest buildings and artworks were built by and are owned by religious institutions. Hypocritically, Mrs Wife and I were married in a church, by a Church of Scotland minister. But my reasoning was that it was preferable to marry in a picturesque church than a hotel function suite, and to be married by a man I knew better as a member of a local sports club and from social events than I did as minister, rather than by a civil servant who was a stranger to me.

I don't think my argument is coming out in a terribly coherent fashion - Richard Dawkins argues his points with much greater clarity and with more authority than I could ever muster. I heartily recommend The God Delusion to all who feel that God is maybe about as likely to exist as virgin birth, walking on water and raising the dead. And I also recommend checking out Dawkins' website.

Holiday? What Holiday?

It seems that Aberdeen is the most heathen city in Scotland, if not the world.

Whilst everyone else in this rainy corner of the world gets an extra two days off this weekend to celebrate the death of a bearded magician 2,000-odd years ago, Aberdeen is a rule unto itself.

No Easter holiday for the Granite City. No siree. Everyone is expected to be present and correct (or at the very least, present) on both Good Friday and Easter Monday.

Shame on you Aberdeen Public Holiday Deciders. What the hell (pardon the seasonal blasphemy) is the reason for Aberdeen's non-participation in the holiday?

Why is my company's Norwegian office closed for A WHOLE WEEK, when we poor Scots are subject to normal days of office-bound tedium?

It may be fair comment that, in the absence of Jocklings with whom to roll Easter eggs, I'd probably only spend a long weekend eating chocolate versions of the same and hot cross buns, and watching whatever Disney movie is foisted upon us.

But that's beside the point. I would be very grateful, oh Aberdeen Public Holiday Deciders, if, in your infinite wisdom, you could make some attempt to align the holidays in this grey and cold city with those elsewhere in the country - even 40 miles south, where Mrs Wife is afforded the normal holidays as celebrated by EVERY OTHER PART OF THE UK.

Changing Times

Just as all good things must come to an end, so must all semi-good things.

After a fortnight away from the office, I have returned, the bandages removed from my toes and my butchered feet confined within shoes for the first time since they were sliced and diced by the surgeon's skilled hands.

Undertaking the morning commute for the first time in two weeks meant getting up at 6.15am.
I've said it before, but 6.15am is an ungodly hour to be up and about, even for those of us who don't believe in God.

I mean, Sweet Jesus (hmmm, I should probably rethink my choice of exclamations if I don't believe in God), why do we force ourselves to get up and commute to work when it's still dark?
Wouldn't life be so much easier if we just had a four-hour working day? No early morning or early evening travelling, no waking up long before the cocks have crowed, and no more forcing ourselves to stay awake at our desks.

A four-hour working day without a break. 11am until 3pm. Batter through the work in the time it should really take and be home or in the pub by 5pm.

Well, when I'm Supreme Uber-Leader and Commander of All Earth, that'll be the new rule. Prepare yourselves.

Ad-vanced Warfare

Mike, a friend of mine so good that he employed both myself and Eric at the same time, sent me this link to Cracked.com's "If Banner Ads Were Forced To Tell The Truth" competition.

And, is is the way of useless shite on the worldwide interweb, it got me thinking.

How do these sites stay afloat? Surely there can't be that many idiots walking this little blue planet?

But, after a moment's thought, the question kinda got flipped around - "Why aren't there more sites fleecing gullible mugs?"

As I was replying to Mike's email, an advert at the top of my Hotmail window flashed up urging me to claim my free £10 whilst playing Deal or No Deal for £405,000 - a jackpot which rose by a penny every second.

Surely anyone with half a brain can realise that:

1) Companies do not achieve success through giving everyone on the internet free tenners.

2) Companies do not achieve success through giving away £405,000 to idiots on the internet.

3) A jackpot that rose by a penny EVERY SECOND would rise by £1 every 100 seconds, or 60p a minute. 60p a minute = £3.60 an hour = £86.40 a day = £604.80 a week. A jackpot rising by more than £600 a week, in a game people pay for free. Does anyone see any potential problems with that? Such as the source of this wonderful bounty?

And yet, I have absolutely no doubt that there are idiots out there clicking the advert every single second in the hope of brightening their weekend to the tune of four hundred grand.

Presumably, to feature within an advert within Hotmail, the company behind the advert can't be short of a bob or two, and must be (comparitively) legitimate.

But if you're stupid enough to click on a link that says "Free Britney Sex Tape" - well, you deserve the spyware, don't you?

I think I should go and take some painkillers for my toes now.

Rage Against The Machine

As a small update to the post below, it seems that my rant against the Touch'n'Fresh advert has been read by at least three people within SC Johnson (a family company).

Shortly after I posted my diatribe, someone arrived at this humble outpost of the worldwide interweb having searched for SC Johnson on Google.

Then, having been directed to my outburst on the ludicrousness of the advert, this person emailed it to at least two other people. All of these people looked at my post from internet accounts registered in Wisconsin. And one of the IP addresses traced back to SC Johnson.

So, I'm guessing that SC Johnson has an office, perhaps a headquarters, in Wisconsin. And that at least three of its employees have read my rant.

Which begs the question - have I done enough to get the advert pulled from television?

Let's hope so.

Not So Fresh

Maybe it's symptomatic of the fact that I'm prematurely turning into a Grumpy Old Man, but recently, I've found myself arguing with the television.

Well, not so much arguing. Basically, something will happen or be said on screen that I don't agree with, and I will loudly and vociferously state my opinion as to why this doesn't agree with my own perfectly-formed world view.

It doesn't matter what the programme is - the news, soap operas, even kids' TV. But recently, I've been most irritated by the advertisement for Glade Touch'n'Fresh, a handy bathroom-based air freshener for those days when opening the window isn't enough to dispel those bowel-based aromas.

The whole advert, from start to finish, irritates me. I urge you to watch it before reading the rant below, so you can understand my fury.



Watched it? OK, let the critique begin:

1) I know we live in a multi-cultural society, but I would imagine the number of caucasian mothers who give birth to oriental children is still relatively small. But I'm willing to let this one slide as part of my vision of a world untroubled by the colour of someone's skin.

2) The little oriental boy is a voice-thrower of world-class standard. He manages to speak in such a way that his mouth movements bear no relation to the words he's speaking. Hey SC Johnson (a family company), if you can't even be arsed to film new adverts for this country, don't bother dubbing them badly then showing them over here.

3) Where does the little oriental boy find a piece of paper and pen? And instead of drawing a crude picture of the empty air freshener container, why doesn't he just tell his mum that the air freshener is empty? Does he draw the picture whilst sitting on the pan, or does he use the hard surface offered by the floor? Does he then waddle across the room, pants and trousers around his ankles, to post the magically-procured drawing underneath the door? Then waddle back in the same fashion before his mother returns with the refill? If he's gone all that way, why not just open the door and hand her the piece of paper (or just say "Where do you keep the air freshener?)

You see - I'm practically incandescent with rage already, just from a 21-second advert for a product I'll never buy.

I need to go and lie down.

Words of Wisdom

Thought for the Day:

"It's better to be silent and thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt."

Back To Work

6.15am is an ungodly hour of the day to get up, especially in winter, and double especially after a two-week holiday.

Waking up and going to work when it's dark, cold and wet is the ideal way to ruin a good day.

I just can't understand those people who, having won twenty million quid on the lottery, announce: "But I won't be quitting my job, I just love it so much".

Unless you're a rock'n'roll star, professional footballer, Playboy photographer or porn star, why would ANYONE continue working if they didn't have to?

You get up at the crack of, or well before, dawn. Spend eight hours in a shitty office doing something boring with a bunch of people doing equally boring stuff, go home again in the same dark and shitty weather, and pay tax on it all.

I'm only 27, but I'd retire tomorrow if it was financially viable. I've suggested this to Mither and Mrs Wife in the past, and they both claim I'd be bored.

Nonsense. I'd have a whale of a time, doing what I want when I want. I'd write a novel eventually, I'm sure I'd manage to squeeze one out over 40 years. I'd play a lot of computer games and read a lot of books and watch a lot of movies and listen to a lot of music.

The first day back at work ALWAYS sucks.....

Red Card

Xmas cards. What is the point?

You spend hours writing your own name over and over again, then licking so many envelopes that saliva is but a bitter, parched memory.

Then you spend the same amount of time trying to find people's addresses, rummaging through out-of-date address books and sending text messages to which people don't reply.

And for what purpose? So that you can cripple the British postal service by forcing postmen and women to trudge through the coldest weeks of the year weighed down by vast piles of dead trees. Then, when this forest of cardboard is delivered, you look at it once before letting it sit gathering dust on a shelf before it jumps down the back of the sideboard the first time someone opens a door.

Can you tell I just spent a couple of hours writing my Xmas cards?

Ronson Rant

I don't often call for musicians to be shot for crimes against music.

Sorry, that's a lie - I REGULARLY call for musicians to be shot for crimes against music.

In a world where I was king, Gareth Gates, Westlife and Aqua would all have bitten the dust years back.

But now I'm putting a bounty on the head of Mark Ronson.

If I have to listen to that abomination of a Zutons cover once more, I may be tempted to remove my own frontal lobe with a spoon.

Amy Winehouse's solo version of the same song - fine. She's a bit of a fuck up (like Graham Norton is a bit camp), with the maddest hair I've ever seen outside a 1980s metal band, but she can fairly sing.

But Mark Ronson's faux-Northern Soul horns and beats REALLY annoy me, for reasons I can't entirely fathom.

As for the horrific version of The Smiths' Stop Me that preceded the current single - it's the musical equivalent of slaughtering sacred cows on a temple's doorstep.

My hatred of Ronson was hammered home over the weekend when he appeared on both Soccer AM and that shite cookery programme presented by Tim Lovejoy. He could barely be bothered to show even the slightest interest whilst on either show.

If you don't want to promote your abysmal record, don't subject us to your mumbled nonsense. Hearing the story of how exciting it was to DJ at the Cruise-Holmes wedding twice in as many days was barely bearable. Just finish now Ronson, and spare us the sacrilege of further miserable covers.