The 4x4 Conflict Scale

I’ve previously suggested that the service a 4x4 is being pressed into is a fairly good indication of the level of conflict, or lack thereof, in a particular location.

It’s a theory I’m developing (as I drink/write this) and I’m fairly sure it’s just a refined version of a wider picture.  If the most sophisticated vehicle in your village is the bicycle that the district nurse uses for her visits, then there is probably going to be little to distract you from your everyday life of goat herding and plotting how to get the fuck out of this place.  If your experience of automobiles is a Morris Minor Traveller then either you live in Halcyon, are a Vicar, or restore classic cars, or all three.  If, like some in the Commonwealth when the Queen used to cruise her dominion on Britannia, your first experience of a car was a Rolls Royce with a lady wearing a crown sitting in the back then yes, everything after this is going to be a disappointment.

4x4s.  If you live in the country, they are a good idea.  If you live in the city, you are obviously worried (some would say unnecessarily) about being charged by a rhino in the Waitrose car park.

Half tracks and tanks.  Remember the days when all we had to worry about was being charged by a rhino in the Waitrose car park?

It occurs to me though that 4x4s are actually a pretty good indication of how peaceful or otherwise a location might be.

The 4x4 Conflict scale

1.  Pristine Landie in a Waitrose car park.  All is well, owner will hesitate to move it for fear of having to find such a good parking space ever again.

2.  Filthy ancient Defender used as all purpose farm vehicle.  All is well.

3.  Ancient pickup with half an inch of loam, some building supplies and two dogs in the back.  All is well.  Also, fishing invite imminent.

4.  4x4 on school run, double parked, morning.  Could be trouble if mummy gets stressed.

5.  4x4 on school run, afternoon.  Could be big trouble if mummy has been drinking at lunch, or if that bitch Jointy parps her horn one more time and I think Simon is fucking his secretary and it’s all so fucking, fucking intolerable.

6.  Pristine Land Rover on a shoot.  Trouble for the other guns, owner may not know what he is doing and possibly got his money, and his invite, because of his proficiency with a shotgun in other circumstances.

7.  Filthy Land Rover on a shoot, back of Landie looks like two working gundogs live there.  They do.  No trouble at all, unless you are a game bird.

8.  BMW 4x4.  Drug dealer.  Beware.

9.  Convoy of 4x4s heading towards the airport at speed.  The President-For-Life is fleeing the country.  So is the contents of the Treasury.  Beware rebels/freedom fighters/glorious liberators.

10.  Pickup with two hound dogs in the back and a bumper sticker expressing forthright opinions about race/religion/abortion or showing support for FOX news.  Fuck!

11.  White 4x4 with UN written on side.  Fuck!  Fuck!  Also, alien invasion!

12.  Red pickup with a heavy machine gun welded into position in the back, manned by teenage boys not in uniform, one sporting a Manchester United shirt, parked near a Land Rover with BBC on the side, both taking fire from an abandoned cement factory nearby.  There goes the neighbourhood, and probably the country.  Bloody Civil War.

Finally.

13.  Like 12, but the kid’s wearing a Chelsea shirt.  Worse.  Failed State.

Some attach importance to what they drive.  Back in the day if you said ‘penis extension’ to somebody they would think you were making a comment about a man owning a sports car, whereas now the internet has ruined the ability for us to feel superior to a man who own a Porche.

Certainly we have the proliferation of metal boxes with wheels to thank for ‘Top Gear’, a show that started out reviewing cars but ended up as, essentially, a 60 minute long aftershave commercial, if every episode had concluded with Clarkson shoving a bottle into the camera and shouting ‘Bloke!  For men!’.

English eccentrics - Car Pets

There’s a certain sort of person who keeps soft toys on their bed.  These people are called children.

Anyone else with a stuffed toy on their bed is to be approached with caution for a number of reasons.  In ascending order of things you have to worry about; least sinister is that the soft toy is a container for something, such as a sex aid or recreational drugs, and is owned by a person unfamiliar with the concept of draws, or the socially acceptable receptacle for contraband, a hollowed-out book (why else do they issue Clarkson in hardback?).  Or it could be some sort of surveillance device, which is OK if it’s owned by the adult who will shortly be using it to keep an eye on the nanny, the cleaner or her cheating dirtbag husband, or by somebody who has their own website, less OK if it was a gift from somebody.  Worst case scenario, it’s a soft toy purchased and owned by an adult, who has given it a name.

The exception to the soft toy prohibition is if the soft toy was a gift from a boyfriend either purchased as a token of affection ‘to keep you company when I am not here’ (Translation: ‘I don’t trust you, you skank’, or won at a fun fair through a game of skill although, frankly, if you can win a soft toy at a fun fair, the thing deserves to go in the trophy cabinet in the chap’s front room, not sit on a pillow.

The sort of person who keeps a soft toy in their car is a different class of nutter entirely.

Again, the only acceptable owner of a soft toy resident in a car is a child.  Such soft toys are not only useful for playing games with and sleeping with or resting one’s head on, but are jolly useful for striking a sibling.  Warning: such toys quickly achieve character which, if not offset by frequent laundering, can develop into personality.

Adults keep soft toys in cars because…fuck knows.  If they are a bloke and don’t have children, it’s probably because they are a peado.  If they are a woman, it’s probably because they have run out of space on their bed.  Again, acceptable uses include a bear-cam to keep an eye on the chauffeur, or as a head rest on a long journey, or a short journey back from the pub, but otherwise you have to wonder.

Having said all that, the sight of car pets makes me smile, and I have been known when travelling in a car with car pets to put on an impromptu puppet show.

Top tip: always remember that the driver, who has the power to screech to a halt and order you out of the car, will have great affection for her car pets and is unlikely to find any one-act play that concludes in frenzied furry sexual congress accompanied by hoots and grunts nearly as amusing as you do.

Fatties and tatties

Summer is suddenly upon us. Not just any summer either, this is the summer of the Jubilee and of the Olympics. These events have gone from being some sort of vague, distant, slightly routine disruptingly annoying event on the horizon to being, well, here an now, without any apparent lead-up period, which is why everyone has panic bought bunting. I'm not kidding, the whole country is swaddled in red white and blue - its almost worth invading somewhere because the decorations for the victory celebrations are already in place.

One of the reasons why summer has suddenly sprung upon us like a flasher from a hedge is that since the instigation of the hosepipe ban it's been raining so constantly that getting those two pandas for the zoo looked less like a way to secure tourism and more like a sensible precaution while the construction of an ark was completed.

In a country with a healthy Celtic population (except for those living in Glasgow) the return of the sun after a drizzly winter, that lasted until fucking May, has unsurprisingly been met with ritual. Goats and virgins breath a sigh of relief as the ritual in question is less about disembowlment and more about disrobing, as the British greet the reappearance of the sun by slipping into something that doesn't cover them up enough.

The first sunny weekend of the year is the one for the national audit of fatties and tattles, that is, who has put on weight over the summer but has still squeezed into, and in some cases is being squeezed out of, last summer's clothes, and who has got themselves a new tattoo or two during those long winter nights.

In terms of fat, it's good to see that at least one sun ritual persists, as it looks like the legacy of those pyramid loving coca munching sun worshiping psychopaths the Aztecs is kept alive by young maidens apparently gorging on toblerone all winter.

In terms of tattoos it's interesting to track the developments of fashions as new tats get their first airing. There are, of course, some classic tats, such as the small oriental symbol that a young woman has in a discreet spot and you usually only find out that she's got a tramp stamp when it's too late, that is, when she's taken her top off and you will now have to be polite about a symbol you suspect she does not realise features on the label of a popular brand of soy sauce.

Also popular are the names of loved ones and family members along the inside of arms in a font that the wearer calls classy, the Tatoo artist called copperplate and the owners of the coca-cola logo call 'tm'. This is replacing the former trend of Sanskrit tats which largely fell in popularity because the wearers habitually forgot what the tat actually read and were panicked into saying it was their hotmail password.

For men this year, large and swirly Celtic tattoos seem to be the order of the day. Big blotches of black that first appear in outline form, and largely stay that way. Because a lot of blokes appear to be walking round with the outline of the patterns traced thinly on their arms, as if they go to the tattoo parlour first to get the outline drawn and then any subsequent visits, should they be drunk or stupid enough to make any, are a sort of tattooing by numbers. Judging from the number of fellows wandering around with an outline but no thick, black, heavy colouring in, the first experience of the needle has been enough to persuade them that another six sessions of intermittent fainting and vomiting in a chair while the girl with the pierced lip on reception sniggers at you is not how they want to spend their weekends.

As for this year's trend, I predict union flags and Olympic rings for the blokes and for the girls - beloved children's teevee characters so that in future, when she slips her top off, you will have to both be polite, and remain interested, when confronted with Postman Pat as a black and white tat.

Pockets

The hot weather has led to a change in the way that people are dressing themselves. A week or so ago, it was essentially wellingtons and sou'westers, now, with the sun out, there is a rush to display as much pillar-box red flesh as possible.

The change in the weather has resulted in a staggering display of age-inappropriate clothing. Not quite grown men in romper suits, although I understand that this is a regular fixture in the swankier dungeons of the better class of knocking shop, but rather blokes dressed like toddlers, and toddlers dissed like grown-ups.

Children are being dressed like grown-ups to protect them from the harmful effects of the sun, possibly by parents who have seen one to many 'Twilight' films. That is; a 'Twilight' film. The reality is that it is easier to force a reluctant toddler into long trousers, a long sleeved shirt and a hat with a kopi than it is to force a toddler into a thin film of sun cream. Children generally, but toddlers in particular, have an aversion to sun cream which defies logic. Usually the little sods are all about getting themselves covered in all sorts of noxious goo that has to be bleached or, in extreme circumstances, burned out of their clothes, scrubbed from their bodies or cut from their hair. But one whiff of the Factor 15 and they take off like cats who have heard that Terry the Brutal Cat Fucker is back in town.

If you catch them, then actually applying the stuff is even more of a chore, as you are basically attempting to grease up a twisting, turning little ball of annoyed limbs. Essentially, one has to employ the same sort of holds that those Turkish wrestlers who cover themselves with oil and use sport as an excuse for slight of hand covert public buggery use when securing an opponent, with the handicap that you can't apply a choke hold. For long.

And when you do manage to slap some protection on, the child usually instantly conquers their fear of the sea and charges for the surf, leaping into the water and leaving nothing but a small slick of sunscreen and a sense of resentment as hot as the weather.

The infantilisation of men's wardrobes is down to one garment - the cargo short. The cargo short is now the single most popular item of clothing worn by men, because it means that they finally have a pair of trousers with enough pockets to carry all the crap that men consider so essential.

In the 1950s books about schoolboys made much of the TARDIS like ability for a boy's shorts to hold many items, such as a grubby handkerchief, a shilling to make a phone call, or to bribe the maid to administer a relaxing tit-wank, a catapult, and a frog, alive or dead depending upon the requirements of the plot. This of course, was in the days when it was wholesome to take an interest in the contents of a boy's shorts, before catholic priests gave that sort of thing a bad name.

Now, when an average chap leaves the house without enduring a panic attack, he will require at least his mobile, iPod, wallet, keys, hip flask, hankerchief, plastic bag to avoid being ripped off if he does any grocery shopping and probably at least three other items that I am far too uncool to know about, Kindle? Some form of bus pass? Whatever, the point is that cargo shorts give a bloke the opportunity to store all of that crap and have it within easy reach, even if it does require a bit of thought to ensure that the right item goes in the right pocket and one does not sit down to a sickening crunch and a bad case of 'Nokia-arse'.

The alternative to looking like a schoolboy is to look like a schoolgirl. I am referring, of course, to the 'man-bag'. Worn over the shoulder on a long strap one may as well complete the outfit with a tee shirt that reads 'look everyone, I have an iPad I must carry bloody everywhere'.

Vogue -part 2

Ever since I saw the film ‘The September Issue’, I’ve wanted to pick up an issue of Vogue.

‘The September Issue’ is a documentary about putting together the September issue (duh!) of American Vogue. It’s like ‘The devil wears prada’ but impossibly more glamorous, cruel and wonderful and it left me thinking that with a few more perfectionists, the Earth would be a better place, or a smoking cinder.

Essentially the editor of the magazine has to try and crush the defiance of lots of creative people while simultaneously bringing out the very qualities that make them creative. The whole place is like a beehive – full of poison, manufacturing something sweet and everyone serving the queen.

Favourite scene? The model wolfing down a tart. I have no love for any woman who is an anodyne waif…but the second she attacked that jam tart with gusto…bloody ding dong, you’re telling me she’s beautiful and real too? (And has access to free food? I mean it’s free right, and she could bring it home and it’s not like she’s going to eat all of it.)

Deal time…when they launch the 1,000 page issue – I’ll buy it. If only because I want to see what the writing is like. If they can firehose money on photo shoots then they should emulate Playboy in terms of writing. If Mailer and Hemingway used to write for Playboy, why aren’t Amis, Ford and Coe write for Vogue.

What I particularly liked about the documentary was the obvious passion that everyone had for the subject. But let’s not think that this is isolated to the world of fashion. Among the many magazines at the news stand are modelling magazines, not magazines with models being skinny women but rather the models being 00 scale. That’s right ‘Model Village World’, the rest of us might think that it’s ridiculous but these people have a passion for documenting an unobtainable beauty, like a 1950s perfect chocolate box English village (complete with sleeping cats and sleeping murder) but it’s less furiously ridiculous than seven pages of a glossy magazine devoted to the snood. Scale modelling. Remove the ‘scale’ and is there any difference? Come to think of it is there any difference even if you leave in the ‘scale’ – the models in Vogue are size 0 (if not scale 00) and real women are, what, size 16?

In establishing the fashion model industry we have created a breed of people who would otherwise perish in the wild or have to serially shag Premiership footballers.

Vogue - part 1

Like many men, I have never looked inside an edition of Vogue.

Not even American Vogue because, apparently, there are many international editions and like McDonalds trying to appease the local market by introducing the McBlubber (Iceland), the McAntelope (Namibia) and the McSpitinyourbunyourcapitilistdog (N.Korea) each has its own take on fashion. American Vogue I imagine as glitzy and dizzy, like a cheerleader just about to stop vomiting because she has drunk too much and starting to vomit through an eating disorder. European Vogue has lots of little black dresses (apart from Italian Vogue, which has lots of big black dresses as worn by your mamma). Japanese Vogue probably has some totally weird manga shit happening and British Vogue is, basically, printed on tweed.

Not that I’m a stranger to a woman’s magazine. Oh no! I remember well one time at an ex-girlfriend’s place, chuckling to myself as I leafed through her Cosmo and noting that she had scored very low on the ‘are you ready for a relationship with somebody who still insists on playing Dungeons and Dragons with his mates one night a week’ quiz.

The next week, suddenly single, it wasn’t so bloody funny.

There are two reasons to love women’s magazines, the first is the personality quizzes (and the first question should always be ‘if you think this quiz will help you get through life, you need a) a dirty martini…NOW! b) a ride on a fairground ride, of any type, but one that pulls more Gs than NASA rate as safe is recommended and c) self-esteem). The second reason is scent strips.

Ever wondered why women always smell so good?

Men smell of the world. At least that part of the world that appears to be inhabited by rutting animals, scared animals, scared rutting animals, industry, steam engines, athletics, locker rooms, discount soap, teenage angst, laundry, fried food and, my own particular scent, a heady mixture of Star Wars and tears.

Women smell like…well…you know men are always doing that thing when they shove their nose in their loved one’s hair and just…inhale…the way that women do with laundry? Well, it’s not because we’ve got this thing for shampoo and it’s not because we’re weird (unless he’s a stranger). It’s because we can’t believe a human could smell that good.

I mean, if you saw a flying saucer having a space battle with a swarm of cyborg dolphins, on fire, you’d stare, no? That’s how alien the concept of smelling good is to men.

If we can drag enough of that smell into ourselves then maybe we can somehow purify ourselves – like that time you thought you could cure that hangover by sticking a garden hose in your mouth and trying to flush you hangover out of your pours through pressure (thank you, Harry Harrison for putting that thought in my head, ever since I’ve been soooooooooo tempted to see if it works).

But women’s magazines give some of the secret away and that secret is…scent strips! That’s right – scent strips. That stuff you buy your girlfriend or wife once in a while to make them smell purty, apparently they have people on magazine production lines spraying that stuff on pages and then gumming them shut at the factory, like camp umpa lumpas.

Christ, imagine that for a job – the guy that spritzes the scent strip? How long would it be before you wondered if that CCTV camera was a dummy and if it was time to do something fun, yet evil?

But that’s why women smell so good. An average woman buys what, forty or fifty glossy magazines a week? (She must do; I go to the news stand and there are THOUSANDS of the f**king things, so somebody must be buying them). So they have all of these scent strips. OK, so you start with some in the knicker draw, then the sock draw, then the…er, whatever draw (do women have things in draws, most of the women I know keep stuff on the floor or, judging by the errands I run, at the dry cleaners). But then you have more of them so; handbag, glasses case, anorak hood, purse, ipod keepie thingie, pockets, desk draw, gym locker, composter, CD case that was supposed to contain the original cast recording of ‘Oliver’, I mean, WTF! and, my personal favourite…sellotaped to me.

So that’s why women beguile. They smell nice because they surround themselves with strips of paper impregnated with musk. That, and they are made of sugar and spice and all things nice. Which I guess means bacon?