FTFV: How to shop for Christmas; a sensible method vs. my own

By the time you read this, I'll be on holiday. Go me! Without internet. So I won't be able to write or publish anything. But because I am an alleged professional, I am using my awesome powers of scheduling posts I present to you, from my Facebook vault, an old note comparing and contrasting Christmas shopping habits: something we're going to have to look into soon anyway. Sure, Halloween hasn't even started yet, but if I go by shop stock, a Christmas article has been overdue for about a month now. This article been edited slightly from the original (mainly corrections and removing personal references) but is nevertheless the same. It was originally written in December 2009.

How to shop for Christmas; a sensible method vs. my own 

I am not particularly incensed at this moment, making for poor rants. I blame the green tea I've recently taken up. Before I write out an funny angry tirade on employment, I mellow out, and the resulting first draft of my rant is in fact three pages of juvenile cursing that I don't feel like finishing. So in the interim of me running out of green tea, I have written a handy dandy guide to Christmas shopping. And because that alone would be frankly condescending to all you intelligent people, who would totally not walk into the shower wearing glasses (twice in two days now) I have contrasted that with my actual method of Christmas shopping.

Sensible method: Use the internet

You use the internet and get it done. There. You finished. Skip to the end.

My method: Do not use the internet

Click around pointless for a couple of hours and realise that you have in fact ordered a bunch of crap for yourself, and reached level 136 on Mafia Wars. Sigh wearily when you realise that your sisters want nothing from iwantoneofthose, only you do. Take sword from it's place beside your computer, in preparation for interaction with people. Eww.

If this first step is not an option (most likely because you live in a post-apocalyptic world with no internet) then you must take my method of actual human interaction. I pity you.

Sensible method: Preparation

Resist the urge to go charging out, debit card a-blazin'. Formulate a list of things to buy for everyone you care enough about/see regularly enough to be unable to ignore/people you desire to have sex with, or continue to have sex with. If you do not have a specific present in mind write down some quick notes of their likes as you will get stumped later. Appoint the places you wish to shop, ideally areas where you can get everything at once.

My method: Go

Just fucking go already. It's what, 9.00AM? Fuck. Whatever. Wallet. Check. Sword. Check. Gone. I'll wait for the bus and fuck fuck fuck forgot my jeans oh sweet lord no my keys are in my jeans and I closed the door already. It's cold outside.

Arriving at your destination, now it is time to explore.

Sensible method: Shop around

Don't buy anything yet. Whatever you want, doubtless over shops sells, and because of the recession making shops bust faster then a Catholic priest in a (Edit: Joke too soon. Also, eww.) There is serious competition out there. While we're not shopping on the internet, it's still crashed shop prices. If they don't have it on stock, maybe someone else will. Why are there two Waterstones in Chelmsford anyway? (2012 Edit: Not any more!)

My method: Stop caring

You have it. Great. What am I humming? Dammit. It's that 'Domino's' song. Fucking Radio 1. That's it. I'm smacking my head against the wall until I forget it. Fuck. Off. Stupid. Song. Ow. Okay. Feelin' wooooozy. I taste... blue? No. That's blood. Okay. Got it out. And maybe some childhood memories, fuck it. Probably weren't any good anyway.

It is now time to purchase your gifts.

Sensible method: Organise the order of your purchases

Start with the least heavy, and work your way through, or the most direct route out. High popularity items should also take precedence, as well as gifts on sale.

My method: Wander aimlessly

Why the fuck did I come here with no idea what to buy? I HAVE WALKED FOR HOURS. I am checking each bloody shop in turn. I'm in a shoe shop. Why? Keep walking, something may just leap out. Hey, when people notice the blood on my face, they avoid me, and give me space. Nice. Point to me. Ohh. Chocolate. Good backup choice. They are... they are... little chocolate penis? Huh? Where am I? Shit... I'm in Ann Summers ABORT ABORT. Why have I only managed to buy one present, the heavy one? And what's this bag? Tonight's vegetables? WHY AM I CARRYING THAT? Maybe mum would laugh at the chocolate penis.

You have bought your gifts. Go home.

Sensible method: Go home.

I can't exactly stretch this one out.

My method: Fuck this noise.

Next time, it's the internet. And preparation. Gah. I'm done. DONE. DEE. OHH. ENN. EEE. You know what? The people who I missed, and didn't get gifts for? FUCK THEM. I never liked them much anyway. I mean, I was willing to go into this... this... maelstrom of people to buy them some cheap trivial crap to be swiftly forgotten or Ebayed. If they truly knew me, they should feel honoured that I would at least make the attempt for them. Going home. Oh hell, there's more of them! Get out my way. Get out my way. Why did you stop walking... in the middle of the pavement? Please get out my way. Stop pushing. Stop pushing. I SAID GET OUT OF MY... Oh bollocks. I pinned a bloke down and bit out his jugular vein. Again. Jesus, that's why I brought the sword after last year. And the year before that. So that I didn't have to pick bits of skin out my teeth tonight. Gross. Urgh. Well, small blessings; dramatic trauma plus face disfiguring blood does not a good witness statement make. Mental note; buy mouthwash.

You are now done. Prepare to bask in the love of you friends and family, or the rather burly arms of Dave 'The Spooner' at the police station.

Book review: Terry Pratchett's Dodger

When we look at the news today it's all Saville scandal this and Turkey trouble that, so this week let's have something a little different as we review a much appreciated distraction to all this bollocks: Terry Pratchett's new book, Dodger.

Let's see it we can get my shitty camera working...

My god, that is a shitty picture

So Dodger is another foray by Pratchett outside the Discworld series. However this book will lead many readers into familiar territory as Dodger is the story of a young scavenger getting increasingly involved in a big crime in Dickensian London. Very literally Dickensian London in fact as Charles Dickens turn up in it.

Quick synopsis without spoilers: we follow our main character called Dodger. He is a scavenger, particularly of the sewer kind, known locally as a tosher. Witnessing a brutal crime, Dodger intercedes the good old fashioned way (...which is another phrase for 'heavy application of a crowbar in a not originally intended for manner.') His good deed is in turn discovered, and Dodger finds himself not able to walk away to continue his fate as another tosher marching to an early grave, but drawn to using all his street smarts and wit to investigate, reveal and prevent a much bigger crime. Along the way he's assisted by not only the aforementioned Charles Dickens, but from his mentor and incredibly awesome Solomon, their pervasively smelly dog Onan, and a whole slew of other historical figures.

Of course, a character in it's own right is the Dickensian city of London herself. As obvious Discworld comparisons is obvious, let's get them out the way here. Readers of Discworld will definitely be on happy ground here as Pratchett has been writing about old age London for ages with Ankh-Morpork and there's a definite comfortableness with Pratchett writing here. In fact, once or twice I noted something that I felt I had read to a previous effect in earlier works – comments about angels and their similarities to that what was said in Going Postal stood out to me, for example. While I liked spotting those match ups for some that may be a step too far, but to get to that point I imagine you would have to read a lot of Pratchett whilst not enjoying it and why would you do that to yourself? 

Unless you're me who read the entire Da Vinci Code in a fit of rage, but hell, I stopped at that book.

Paragraphs are happily spent building vast tracts of imaginary land and time – while enjoyable, stylistically here Pratchett's writing is a little heavier than Discworld as it's heavily littered not just with detailed loving descriptions of the city but also with researched slang. Those footnotes we all know and love appear not so much to inject further humour but almost Pratchett going, 'Right, crap, I just realised you probably haven't researched this time and place as much as I have. No worries, I'll explain here. God, isn't this era great to write about?' While a couple of paragraphs had me spinning my eyes in pure vocabulary shock it was just my own experience expecting a easier read more akin to his previous work and me reading quickly like a bandit rather than slowing down. I found myself appreciating the several historical figures that popped up in another light as it helped me ground the story away from Ankh-Morpork because at times I found myself expecting Death to turn up.

As for the living cast; Dodger is a protagonist I'm built to love. He's a man who'll be great through confrontations using smarts and wit, yet if worst comes to worst he'll back it up with a swift kick to the nadgers and a swing of a crowbar. A valiant scoundrel, a... you know, if I keep going on about him I'll get mushy. I love me a well written scoundrel with quick wits yet the brains of an absolute bastard at times. 

Of course, next in line we have Solomon, who should be in every book ever. A craftsman who's been in and subsequently out at great speed of nearly every country on the planet, who regularly talks to God in such a way that he makes very clear he not only expects a response, but it better damn well be the reply he's looking for or to hell with you, buddy. I also love Solomon. At the end of the book Pratchett wrote about some of the research going into this book – a habit I noticed him starting with The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents and I implore him to continue doing so as it's truly fascinating – that Solomon was a creation at first to make sure Dodger turned into a character not hampered by malnutrition and terrible hygiene; but since that start he became the character that I most wanted to get to know more. Hell, I would buy a book all about his earlier exploits. 

Now there are other characters; Simplicity, the newly named woman rescued by Dodger doesn't nearly get enough screen time - but she is recovering from a horrific beating so it's to be expected she has to sit out a lot and recover. What we do get to see of her is a cunning mind, able to aptly play situations by knowing when to play the fool and when to push, but she's sidelined for a lot save for some charming scenes with Dodger. Without going too much into the myriad of side characters (it's Pratchett, okay, there's a lot of them and they're greatly distinctive regardless how long they'll be in the book for) I'll pick Mrs Scruples as one of my favourites. Once again, we have a character that seemed nasty but was revealed into something else – I noticed the same trick in I Shall Wear Midnight and I remember being annoyed that my character I enjoyed hating was not a one-note villain but a complicated, fearful human being with depth... before hanging my head in shame of realising I was pissy because I wanted a one-note to despise and whoops, great writer coming through here boy, got places to be, better plot and people to write you could ever dream up boy! Charles Dickens is great fun to be around, full of mischief and sparkle. Between Doctor Who and this I wonder if he ever realised how beloved he'd become in recent media not just for his work but as fictionalised representation of himself? Other side characters of note are also that – fictionalised representation of real world people and I won't spoil their introduction because the historian in me went giddy when another big name rolled around that we got to interact with. Needless to say, Pratchett does a wonderful job by the end of the book of making you want to start Googling these names.

My gushing aside, how did it hold up? Well, let's be honest here. I am biased as all fuck. I love me some Pratchett, and am a vicious collector of his Guard's series, and am expanding into his Witches series after coming in from the back end from the Aching novels, and I am desperately awaiting a third Moist novel. So I can assure you that if you like those previous stories you'll like this. If you're not a Discworld fan some of the silliness has been muted for some darker overtones – some, not all, but it's still an enjoyable read. If you cannot stand Ye Olde English slang and descriptions more then a few words long before it smacking of purple prose to you... yeah, you probably won't enjoy this. But once again, I'm one biased motherfucker who loves him some Pratchett so you should get this. It's all good.

Now that I've done a swimmingly good review for free maybe Pratchett will repay me by writing the next Moist book you dick.

Purchasing information:

Dodger is out in all good book stores now. I got my copy with £8 off at Waterstones, (where they're selling £30 super special awesome sauce edition that there was no way I was shelling out for. It's also available on ebook from many places.

Political suicide - we can only hope

So this week we go striding past politics straight into controversy! Yay!

So Jeremy Hunt is back in the news again. For those not in the know, he's the UK's Health Minister. With his track record of success, we can confidently predict the death of nearly every person in the UK by 2015. Which is one way to attempt to solve our unemployment figures, I guess. Anyway, he's back in the news for wanting to reduce the time available for abortions from 24 weeks to 12 weeks.

Now, you know you've entered crazy land when even the tabloids don't follow you, and they hate women. If they're not slut-shaming, publishing nip-slips or vomiting in disgust over a woman putting on a half pound (the fat heaving bitch!) they're betraying their own women journos. Anyone remember that woman who women hated because she was so beautiful -which was interesting because her publisher took great delight in picking the worst photo they could find of her before throwing her under the bus. Of course, most are calling for the reduction of abortion time limits because of... I dunno? Sluts? Misrepresenting scientific evidence? Whatever.

This whole debate to me is, in a word, odd. Odder still that Jeremy, bless his cotton socks, claims this 12 weeks is backed by scientific evidence. Huh. You see, what made me write about this subject today is that I remember a little while ago (okay, fine 4 years ago, but I still remember it) our parliament was debating changing parts of the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Bill, and one part specifically was the abortion time limit. Now the reason we have it currently set at 24 weeks is based on survival rates. In a nutshell, babies born before 24 weeks have such a small rate of survival as to be deemed statistically insignificant. In May 2008, it was debated whether this should be changed as since the Bill's original creation back in 1990 infant survival rates before 24 weeks had increased. Now here's the important point: yes, there was an increase, but once again, a statistically insignificant one. Oh, and deep joy, every tabloid focused on the word 'increase' rather than the prerequisite 'insignificant.' So it strikes me, if back in 2008 we had many, many, MANY qualified medical professionals telling MPs that survival rates were crap all before 24 weeks and that should be the limit, did medical science explode forward since then? Have we had an utter revolution of medicine that has completely passed me by? Please tell me we invented super power serum. Ah, no. No real change. So Jeremy Hunt is, once again, speaking out of his arse. It begs the question: is he an idiot, or deliberately masquerading his personal view as a 'scientific' one?

Look, this is very simply about publicly stating an opinion on abortion. If you want to, there are two questions to answer. First, determine if you have a medical opinion or a personal one. So...

Are you a medical professional?

If yes, you are allowed have a medical opinion on abortion. Congratulations! That view is enforced by peer-reviewed science, and is subject to change according to improvements in technology, treatment and medicine.

But what if you don't have a medical qualification, but have a personal view? Well, next question to ask yourself is...

Do you (or have you ever had) a uterus?

If yes, go nuts. Say what you want. I ain't stepping to that.

(Unless, you know, you're trying to restrict other women's access to one should they need it, like Nadine Dorries, you heartless shit of a human being. I mean, have your own opinion, but have the right one. Which is mine. Uh. Wait.)

If you don't have a uterus, well congratulations fuckwit! You, along with me, have no opinion! Nope! Not one! What you get is a pre-approved one I have right there somewhere... where is it... ah, here it is:

“In my opinion a woman has the right to choose and have the ability to receive an abortion in an appropriate medical facility when required according to law.”

And. That. Is. It. Basically, no uterus, no fucking opinion. I am aware this actually renders this whole article moot according to my own logic but some people need to listen. This simple rule keeps the J-Hunt away (unless he keeps a uterus in his desk like Jack the bloody Ripper) and also handily keeps the Catholic church at bay as well; which has shown time and time again it has no fucking business butting in on this topic. If you must have an opinion, keep it the fuck to yourself. I ain't even capable of getting an abortion, so where would I get off assuming I have the right to tell women to only use their bodies as I command? With no medical qualification?

Look, I get that this is a hot button topic. At the end of the day I am not going to discuss whether it's ending a life or not here; it's my blog, and I'll cowardly duck out of subjects I don't think I could adequately express myself on. I will say that no woman who ever opts for an abortion is unaware of that debate. If you seriously think many women enter in to this with a light heart, I'm sorry, but you have to do some major re-evaluating of your life. And this 24 week limit? It's not the end all – abortions can happen beyond that limit if the continuation of the pregnancy holds serious risk to the mother. And if you actually think that the death of both mother and foetus is a better result than an abortion then... then there are no words. No. I don't understand you. I don't want to.

I wrote this article now because of a question I'm not getting an answer to: Why is this shit still coming up? Seriously. It has been nuts recently. This crap. Legitimate rape bullshit. Women called sluts for campaigning for birth control to be available on insurance. It's... it's... are we getting worse? I know that society is not a linear progression towards awesome but, wow, does it seem like we're sliding back on women here. Since racism isn't cool any more we switched to misogyny instead? Or are we noticing this shit more when before we didn't question it? Are we seeing the last members of a generation of men who believe they have the right to dictate their beliefs to others?

For the most part, I'm not massively worried about Hunt suddenly slashing time limits. Davy Cameron doesn't agree with him, which is usually a good indication of a Tory MP gone too crazy (or is Boris Johnson, or both.) BUT. He has voted to reduce the time limit to 20 weeks – once again, I repeat, with no medical backing, so it's not a great indication that it'll stick. I mean, sure, you may have your own feelings about this topic, but it worries me when people decide that their feelings have more weight than all the opinions of the people in the British Medical Association, the British Association of Perinatal Medicine, the Faculty of Sexual and Reproductive Healthcare, the Royal College of Nursing and the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists and finally the British Medical Journal because it seems to me that they'd know better.

Just a hunch.

Now excuse me. I've just read what I've written and I must go hide, because quite frankly the anti-choice side terrifies me, and I fear for my safety.

Laters!

I'm not weird, I'm norma... no, actually, hmm. Yeah.

Well it's a new week and what better time to talk about some new politics and to hell with that. Let's switch subjects to one that's very dear to my heart: me. I'm super important. Also amusing. Maybe not to everyone else, but my unique brands of stupidity does tickle my own funny bone, which is good, because laughter suppresses the pain of the open bleeding wounds my stupidity often results in.

Incidentally, still no pictures. I know. If getting a programme to function correctly was akin to a wrestling match, GIMP would have me face down sucking mat as it jumps up and down on my spine. Useless piece of junk. You do get what you pay for!

So anyway, recently I had a moment of clarity. That little moment of clarity when you realize that not only do you in truth, regardless of denial, have a hobby, but a hobby so strong it turned into an obsession a while back. An obsession that also is by wider society standards, a wee bit unusual. Okay, maybe not a very small moment of clarity, but a highly efficient one.

It all started in a fairly mundane fashion. I had neglected to pay any attention during laundry and now my faithful battered penknife had ended up in the wash. No damage, but it definitely needed an oiling and a bit of maintenance. Figuring at the time that hey, whilst I've got the polishes out, let's have a go over the weapon collection.

So I have a weapon collection. Or I thought I did. It turns out I have a weapon arsenal. Sweet lord, I could equip a couple small armies here and pit them together to fight for my own amusement. I could overthrow a poorly supplied country. I had so many there's no physical way I could ever child-proof this place.

Somewhere down the line, as my sofa disappeared under a growing pile of machetes, warhammers, axes and swords, I realized I had unwittingly become That Guy. You know the one. When the news flashes up about a horrible crime and as they lead a suspect away, jumper hastily thrown over his face, a newscaster breathlessly reports that they found in this freak loner's house twenty-seven flails, thirteen katanas, six shotguns and three pistols with ivory grips and you'll think 'Fuck me, he's a nutter, he's guilty of whatever the media's making a big deal of this week.' I am one girlfriend walking out of my crazy and I am That Guy. It worries me.

And it's her damn fault. I know when this started. We'd taken a trip out and I spied in the window of a military surplus shop a ninjato. Now, I don't really like ninjatos as the historian in me (that strictly speaking, he's in me as I am one) sighs and rolls his eyes because they have no historical lineage; they're a fake weapon made up about ninjas that was all pretty much made up in the '80s. But it was sharp and pointy and looked seriously menacing. And the conversation in my head went thus:

Me: WANT.

Logic. Oh hell nawh. No. No. Noooo. You'll have your own fingers off in seconds.

Me: WANT.

Logic. Seconds, I say. Why do you even need a sword?

Historian: And that one? Contemporary sources make clear that far from...

Me: QUIET. WANT.

Frugality: May I put in here?

Logic: Please. Make him see sense.

Frugality: It's actually very cheap, and a glance over suggests surprisingly well built and durable. I don't think we could go wrong here.

Logic: Wha...?

Historian: Grudgingly I must add it's a full tang at least, not liable to snap off at the hilt whilst chopping of aforementioned fingers.

Me: GIMMIE.

Logic: NO. WE ARE NOT DOING THIS. I APPEAL TO A HIGHER AUTHORITY.

At this point I turned to my girlfriend and said, 'I want to buy that,' knowing full well she'll tell me to stop acting like a man-child and do something productive with my worthless life. That's one of the many benefits of being part of a couple: the ability to out-source rational decisions. But then she told me it looked cool and that was a great idea and...

Logic: Oh for fuck's sake. She's enabled him now.

Me: I ALSO WANT THE THROWING KNIVES AND THE CROSSBOW.

Libido: She said it was cool! Get them all and maybe somehow somewhy it'll lead to sex inexplicably!

Me: SOUNDS LIKE A PLAN!

Logic: Dear god...

… we get to today where I have to stash a bunch of the nastier weapons under the bed out of a very sensible precaution to not arm any burglars with my best equipment. Where today I have to keep very up to date with the Dangerous Weapons Act to make sure nothing I own falls afoul of it. Where today I have to look up specialized targets as crossbows have such a greater penetration factor than arrows that no local archery club will allow their usage. Where today I'm still with my wonderful girlfriend who occasionally has to put up with me unfairly and arbitrarily assigning blame where it does not belong.

I remember a comedian back in the day saying something along the lines of 'the internet is the only place I know of where you ask for goat porn and it asks you back, “What sort of goat?”' It's the same thing with these dangerous weapons cluttering up the apartment. They have rules. No display pieces; always battle ready. No katanas; they were so over-hyped in the 90s / 00s I could not give less of a fuck. Short weapons only; sooner or later I know I will be tempted to experimentally swing one around when left alone and I do not want to have to explain why we've suddenly gained holes in the wall. And like all good obsessions, these rules are iffy at the edges. Sure, I won't get display pieces. But other people do and weeeeell, they're display pieces. They must be displayed! Sure short weapons only. Also his longsword. And a keep looking at this traditional two-handed Scottish claymore... But no katanas. Fuck that.

So I sat there, and time slipped away as each and every weapon got a good looking over. Check handle for damage. Check metals for rust. Use wire wool and brushes on any found. Polish and oil metals and leather. Check over sheathe. Re sheathe weapon. Place down and grab the next. Repeat. Again. And again. And again. All the while lamenting to myself that yes, in a shuffling-style zombie apocalypse scenario I may be the most well armed person in fifty miles, in actual reality this sheer amount of stop actually makes me rather weird. And someone that society would not entirely unfairly rather have an eye or two kept on.

But you don't need to worry about me. I could argue as a sane, upstanding member of this little club we call society that I'm no threat, but please. Let me argue pragmatics here. I spend a whole evening going over weapons that quite clearly I have no idea how to use that were stored properly and have never, ever been used or tested. A whole damn evening, and that was them in prime condition. If I did want to actually use them, that evening would turn into a whole damn week. I'm a lazy idiot with a collection he can't operate properly. Believe me. You're safe from me.

Besides, I'm way overdue to trip and impale myself on one of these things anyway.