Is It Just Me or Is Everything Shit? (23 page)

It’s a hopeless and forlorn sort of concept, even before you consider their pre-supermarket life cycle: farmed in Colombia by sweated labor, backs to the sun and faces to the earth, wages—topped up with all the free toxic chemicals you can inhale—as pitiful as the blooms; all those wasted, wasted air miles to get them here. That’s an oppressive enough litany for coal or iron ore, but for a flower?

Simply of itself, it’s quite melancholic: supermarket flowers. In fact, we’re surprised somebody hasn’t written a sad song incorporating the gift of supermarket flowers as the potent signifier of an empty, artificial relationship. It could be called “Supermarket Flowers.”

If anyone now writes one, there’ll be no legal comeback from us. It’s the sadness we can’t bear. That’s all.

SURPRISE VISITS TO IRAQ

You would think Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki might not be in need of any more surprises, what with trying to govern Iraq and all. But in June 2006, George Bush met al-Maliki during a trip to Baghdad that had been kept secret from everyone, including al-Maliki. Visiting the U.S. embassy for a video teleconference with Bush, he instead found himself being greeted by the leader of the free world in person. Surprise!

In photographs, al-Maliki was squirming like someone forced to shake hands with the man now sleeping with his wife. This ambush, after all, proved that Bush needed no permission to enter his country—why, it’s practically America! A thought bubble above al-Maliki’s head might have said: “I wonder how you would take it if I entered your country unannounced. Would you freak? Oh, I rather think you would. I’ve got popularity issues enough here, without this doofus turning up.”

The Iraqis have probably learned by now to keep the snack cupboard well stocked, given the regularity of surprise visits from Western politicians. If it’s not Bush, it’s Condoleezza Rice or Dick Cheney or John McCain or some other representative of the forces that aren’t trying all that hard not to look like an occupation. Maybe after one too many of these visits, they will blow a fuse and burst: “Look, why don’t you just do it? If you like it here so much. You try running it. No? Really? Why not? You want to go home? Oh, really . . .”

Following the Bush visit, the Americans would soon surprise al-Maliki again. After the massacre at Haditha, which allegedly saw U.S. Marines responding to a casualty by killing twenty-four innocent civilians in cold blood, al-Maliki called the incident a “horrible crime,” adding that the occupying forces often showed “no respect for citizens, smashing civilian cars and killing on a suspicion or a hunch.” The U.S. response? White House Press Secretary Tony Snow said al-Maliki had been “misquoted.” The hapless prime minister must have been awestruck. He thought he had said something, but he hadn’t! Those crazy guys . . .

But his own government also has a couple of surprises in its arsenal: tens of thousands arrested with only 1.5% convicted of any crime; Finance Minister Bayan Jabr’s alleged links to Shi’a death squads (taking the whole Iron Chancellor thing a shade too far). Other occupation shockers: rising deaths from malnutrition and preventable diseases. Electricity and water supplies worse than before the invasion. Half the workforce unemployed with many gaining their sole source of income from selling U.S. Army base junk on the streets (which is a metaphor but also real—inspired!) . . . All things considered, the last thing on the average Iraqi’s shopping list is “more surprises.”

Perhaps the ultimate punch line to all this: Amid the notable non-rebuilding of the vast majority of Iraq, work on the new U.S. embassy is go, go, go! Building at the 104-acre complex on the banks of the Tigris (prime real estate many believe the United States never paid for), known locally as “George W’s palace” (features: the biggest swimming pool in Iraq, a state-of-the-art gym, cinema, numerous U.S. food-chain outlets), is officially a secret, but cranes filling the skyline give the game away. It’s like, you know, the Iraq War was this massive folly, and here’s an actual massive folly! (It’s a metaphor but it’s also real—again.)

Or maybe it will be put to good use, as George W’s palace! Seriously, maybe as a last surprise for the Iraqi populace, on his retirement from the presidency he will go and live among the people he has liberated from tyranny. Maybe between eating at the massive Pizza Hut and swimming in the biggest swimming pool in Iraq, he could go and stand next to the struggling Iraqi government as they try to quell the civil war, winking at them.

T

TELEVISION ON MOBILE PHONES

Far too small.

TENNIS PARENTS

Human fetuses can’t play tennis (not even if it’s twins: where would they get the racquets from?). So parents who decide their unborn child is going to be a tennis star have to be some kind of freaky freaking freak-nutter freaking freaks.

Richard Williams, father of Venus and Serena, consulted psychiatrists about the best way to bring up children destined for sporting stardom. Possibly quite sensible, given their early promise on the tennis court. Except he did it before they were born. Freaky freaking freak-nutter freaking freak.

Melanie Molitor, mother of Martina Hingis, was so determined her unborn child would be a tennis star that she named her after Martina Navratilova. Still, that’s better than calling her Boris. Or Goran. Or Pat Cash (Pat Cash Hingis—that’s a shit name). Anyway, aged four, Martina was playing in tennis tournaments—as opposed to, say, with LEGOs.

So keen was Damir Dokic—father of Jelena—on dominating his daughter that he has found it very hard to let go. The right-wing nationalist Serbian ex-boxer made a name for himself by getting expelled from matches for hurling Serbian abuse at officials (which puts your own dad’s “embarrassing” sweater in perspective). Perhaps wisely, his daughter expressed her gratitude by dumping him as manager and moving to a different country. He responded: “She left us. We don’t need her . . . She did things that she was not supposed to.”

And why tennis, anyway, which is shit? Why not mold your children to do something useful—like perfecting nuclear fusion, or playing the drums like Animal out of the Muppets? And those freaks who “hothouse” their kids into genius mathematicians are no better. Hothouses are for growing tomatoes in. Is that what you want your child to be: a tomato? Freaky freaking freak-nutter freaking freaks.

We believe the children are the future. Teach them well and let them lead the way; show them all the beauty they possess inside. Let the children’s laughter remind us how we used to be. Actually, come to think of it, that’s not us—that’s Whitney Houston. Same difference.

TESTING CHILDREN TO MAKE THEM CLEVER

Tests used to be a way of seeing whether children were learning stuff rather than, say, just picking their noses and flicking it. Nowadays, children learn stuff so they can pass tests, so everyone can see that they are good at passing tests. If the first is the horse pulling the cart, the second is more like the cart pulling the horse and then making it take a test.

Children are now made to take tests on the morning they enter school. Then, in the afternoon, they are made to take a test on what they have learned from that morning’s test. Get that sandbox out of here! What do you think this is: fun? Or maybe we could test them on their sandbox abilities . . .

It’s a testing situation. One that has intriguing ramifications for the nation’s psyche. Critics of this education system point out that this cram-based learning fails to instill in children any “reading stamina” for whole books. Reading a book from cover to cover? No chance. Not even a short one. (They were fine with turning over the paper, but . . .)

TICKETING HOTLINES

“The bill for your $25.50 ticket comes to $46.99.” “Great.”

TOAST, OVERPRICED

There’s a lot of overpriced toast out there. Watch out.

TOY CARS

Are aspirational these days. They’re all big Mercedes and Audi TTs. Visit any toy shop looking to gift up a little person and you’ll find all the household names in the die-cast mini motor universe—Matchbox, Siku, Hot Wheels—wholly obsessed with premium automobiles.

There’s seemingly a ban on ordinary cars—the sort most people drive, the sort most children might ever see. No Civics or Yarises or Focuses or Kias—or even any Saabs or Lexi (that’s the plural of Lexus, by the way). Toyota Prius? Not on your happy ass. The message: “Hey, I know you think he’s good, but sorry, kid, your dad’s a loser.”

You’ll be falling over huge delivery trucks branded with
DHL
or
UPS
logos, but searching high and low for an ambulance. You can still get fire engines—except they have to be either 40 feet long with 18 retractable ladders and called Flame Tamer, or have
TURBO
written down the side.

What next? Conservatories for dollhouses? Marbles made out of actual marble? My Little Gated Community? Doctors and Nurses could become Senior HMO Manager and Drug Company Rep. Simon Says: “Swarovski Rocks!”

TRAILERS FOR PROGRAMS THAT ARE ON TV NOW

An ad for a program advertising the fact that said program is on “next” or even “now”—that is, as soon as this trailer and the announcer announcing that the program is starting get out of the way, the program will start.

Surely trailers should trail programs that will be on in the future, rather than those that are on in the present. We don’t think of that as a complicated point.

TRENDS IN INTERIOR DESIGN

Interiors magazines tell you that September is the month to:

• Decorate the walls with bird motifs.

• Discover the beauty of stained glass.

• Use summer’s harvest produce to make jellies and chutneys.

No, it’s not. It’s the month to go to work/school/college, eat toast, drink too much, forget to do stuff, and watch some TV. Rather like October. And November.

What do you mean you haven’t repainted the whole house yet this week? Didn’t you know that “warm, vibrant, and lively, orange is set to become next season’s hottest color”? Meaning that having a stylish house actually means having an orange house.

Until, that is, six months down the line when—with your house barely free of the smell of orange paint—the same homes mag wags its shitty little finger at you and says, “Sophisticated, mellow, and organic, sage green is set to become next season’s hottest color.”

What shall I do with my orange carpet? Burn the bastard in the street as punishment for it not being sage? My house looks like a fucking Tang commercial.

“New looks for table linen”? Shove them up your ass.

DONALD TRUMP

The Apprentice
supremo Donald Trump—and this is true—claims he grows those amazing trademark eyebrows
on purpose.
They are alpha-male stag antlers designed to intimidate opponents in negotiations. Okay, but what about the stupid hair?

Big Don has a holiday Web site called—and this is equally true—www.gotrump.com. He also has a property Web site called www.pumptrump.org. Okay, he hasn’t. But GoTrump is real. In fact, we’d highly recommend listening to Trump’s welcome speech on the home page, where he shouts at you like an evangelical car salesman pumped up on sales after a sales seminar at a power-selling away-day: “There’s nobody better—there’s nobody even close.”

Advanced megalomania—that definitely puts us in the holiday mood. Although we would be even more enthusiastic if they had animated the eyebrows.

T-SHIRTS, INSANELY EXPENSIVE

The turnover for T-shirts in the U.S. economy is now greater than for all other commodities combined—including food and oil. This is due to the strategy of charging fuckloads of money for them, even though, at the end of the day, they’re only T-shirts that cost approximately jack squat to produce.

Not long ago, one could reasonably be expected to be an outcast from society for wearing a
JOURNEY
T-shirt. Not anymore, though—not now that they cost $70. What about a fake-aged
AC
/
DC
T-shirt—a brand-new T-shirt that looks like a faded 1980s tour T-shirt? A mere $69. Or maybe a fake-aged
THE FINAL COUNTDOWN BY EUROPE
T-shirt—a tad more expensive at $75 (because it’s about 8.7% more ironic).

Some of these desirable items are produced by a company called, ahem, Buddhist Punk. An iron law of insanely expensive T-shirt making states that your company must have a silly name—a bit, you know, funky. (See
Funky
, the Word, as Applied to Anything Except a Musical Genre
.) Top marks here must go to the company Maharishi. Christ, if you’re chump enough to give them seventy bucks, you can’t say they weren’t advertising the fact they could see you coming. You couldn’t give a much bigger clue short of calling your company Faker. Or Snake-Oil. Or Skank.

Oh, but they’ve probably been also “customized” (someone has added a bad print of Hong Kong Phooey or Al Pacino as Scarface). Or even “deconstructed”—that is, with seams on the outside, or bits of material added to, you know, consider the workings of your T-shirt and unpack its very, erm, T-shirtness. “Deconstructed” T-shirts are the very apex of T-shirt design and are always—always—the work of major designers. M-A-J-O-R. People who don’t just design T-shirts but also do, you know, trousers, maybe even coats.

Please understand that these T-shirts are very expensive—anywhere up to $200—because it takes a major talent to do this and only a major talent. Or a monkey. For fuck’s sake.

TV BULLIES

Television is only entertaining when we’re watching someone else’s lifestyle being torn to shreds with the brutal, yet oddly humane, efficiency of Orwell’s chief interrogator O’Brien.

The main draw of TV’s top-rated show,
American Idol,
is watching judge Simon Cowell tear the contestants a new asshole when their Bryan Adams cover doesn’t live up to Cowell’s high standards. Sounding like a less friendly version of Waldorf or Statler from the Muppets, every week he drops cruel bon mots like, “If you would be singing like this two thousand years ago, people would have stoned you.” And all of that is still nicer than his weekly gay bashing of possibly-not-gay Ryan Seacrest.