The Dinner Party

It was around 3am on Sunday morning. The heating was on and there was an eerie silence outside; the kind of silence which is oddly quite the opposite. There was a faint hum caused by water rushing through the pipes, a sound of which I was blissfully unaware.  And yet, I was stressing out…

I was taking part in a celebrity version of Come Dine With Me. It was the first round, and I had drawn the short straw, meaning that I had the hosting duties for the evening. Twiddling my thumbs, of which I had four, I waited nervously for my guests to arrive. Thoughts rushed through my mind: “had I made enough of the Tom Collins mix? Did I remember to prepare the vegetarian alternative for one of my guests (all of whose identities remained secret)?” The table had been set, the starters were warming in the oven, and Susan Sarandon’s heavy metal opera Gareth and the Underworld, was playing at just the right volume.

A ring of the doorbell (I don’t have a doorbell) signalled the arrival of my first guest. After a deep and comforting exhalation of breath, I opened the door to greet the Sultan of Brunei, who very kindly offered me a bottle of Sauvingnon Blanc and a firm handshake. Given that I have absolutely no idea what the Sultan of Brunei looks like, he entered wearing a two piece bikini and startlingly impressive brown leather brogues. I eyed him up and down, placing him somewhere between 28 and 35 (he’s 64). “It must be the curly blonde locks which give him his youthful aura”, I pondered to myself as I showed him to the living room (he has slick black hair and a groomed beard). He went straight into my good books as a self-confessed Tom Collins fan, and my nerves were settled immediately as we clinked cocktail glasses and he commented on the quality of the crystal tumblers. To my dismay, they later turned into wooden bowls.

Within ten minutes of the Sultan’s arrival, the other two guests turned up, satisfying the seating arrangements. First through the threshold was the eponymous drummer of 1970s rock pop band Fleetwood Mac, Mick Fleetwood. He was shortly followed by Loretta, the illegitimate love child of my housemate Tom and former 400m hurdler and 1992 Olympic gold medallist, Sally Gunnell. The narrator (who was everpresent throughout the night’s frivolities) made a sarcastic comment about extra-marital affairs and the size of Loretta’s nose, and we laughed awkwardly on our way to the dining room. The Sultan removed one of his brogues and handed it to Fleetwood, who smiled politely before inserting it into his bottom. Each of the guests sat down at their respective places (Fleetwood with some difficulty) and I stood in the corner briefly, thinking that the evening could not have started better.

I served up the starter: asparagus and smoked salmon mini quiches (I have no idea how to make mini quiches), with an olive and feta salad. Rather inconveniently, my dining room kept turning into an escalator – the table cloth wa sucked into the mechanics – but the food remained intact and nobody seemed bothered by the change in dimension. Loretta and I sparked up a lively conversation based around the westward advance of rebel troops in Libya; Fleetwood and the Sultan seemed a tad disinterested but made a noble effort to contribute nonetheless. Disaster struck when Loretta’s hand slipped whilst using a salt shaker to symbolise the key oil town of Misrata; Fleetwood’s mini quiche was ruined and he retorted with an aggressive and vaguely anti-Semitic slur. Furthermore, Fleetwood seemed to be losing control of himself; I suspected it might have something to do with his unorthodox drug habits, but I decided that it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to enquire. I sensed that the atmosphere was at risk of completely deteriorating, and moved the conversation on to something a little more light-hearted.

After another round of drinks (gin and tonics for the Sultan and Loretta, and “four cigaretes in a blender” for Fleetwood and I retired to the kitchen to artistically prepare my main course. It was at this point of the proceedings that the guests were invited to the conservatory (I don’t have a conservatory) to offer their opinions of the night so far. Given that it was my dream, I was witness to all of the comments, and was shocked to discover that the Sultan was horrified by the dryness of my mini quiches and the olives, which were “lonely and quiet.” Slightly perturbed, I skulked back to the kitchen and regrouped; the main and dessert were the dealbreakers. It was do or die.

Luckily, they all lapped up the main course: butterflied monkfish fillets with a green bean stew and roasted new potatoes. It was absolutely divine. Loretta in particular cleared her plate with contented ease, mentioning that the monkfish tasted like “little bunches of grapes and also heaven.” Things only got better with the dessert; I’d chosen a chocolate fondue, which I had thought would stimulate conversation. A nice social dessert for everyone. Perfect. The Sultan hadn’t really been getting involved (I think it was partly to do with the language barrier) and I had banked on this being an epiphany moment for him. I couldn’t have been more right. Despite the fact that, to my horror, the marshmallows turned into oven fries and the tails of orphaned ferrets, all four of us finished the fondue with time to spare for after-dinner activities.

I had planned on some musical entertainment; the guests hadn’t seen my grand piano yet, and I’d confessed during our early small talk that I had a certain Oklahoma number in mind. He took the bait and led Loretta through to the music room, where we were all shocked to see Fleetwood doing lines of soil off of the mantlepiece. Dragging him away screaming, he wrestled free and removed the Sultan’s left brogue, striking me in the chest. With an unexpected jolt, I awoke in a cold sweat with the faint drones of Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’ ringing in my ears and a very respectable 25/30 to my name.

The Life of Luxor-y

After wrestling with Dexter – raging…employee of Thrifty Car Rentals - on the cliff-edge of sanity, I managed to finalise the rental car booking for our upcoming road trip to the Western United States. The whole haunting experience had mercilessly hoovered my desire to deal with any other part of the planning process right out of me. That, and the dissertation dealine was looming, and as much as African American slaves would have given for some air conditioning and a reclining driver’s seat, I got the feeling that more important issues were at stake.

And so the trip excitement was put on a decidedly historical hiatus. Until a few days ago, that is. Deadline now out of the way, I was in the mood again. Accommodation this time; with the Luxor Hotel and Casino having already been exposed as the preferred choice by the whistleblower of the expedition, I set to work probing the ins and outs.

From my experience of a previous trip to Las Vegas, I should have known what was coming. Its ubiquitous nickname Sin City implies a mixture of urban normalcy and vice, but the truth is, city just isn’t a strange enough term. That being said, the general tone of the name gives a better idea of what one’s experience is likely to be. Vegas is luxury, trash, extravagance, tack, billionaires and dime-stores, put in a blender. The jewel-encrusted faeces-like syrup which emerges is then put on the bottom shelf of the desert at full blast. Croupiers, gamblers, working girls and the occasional salamander are then left to feast upon the roasted American oxymoron. And so, given my entirely confusing memory of the place, what I dug up on the Luxor was hardly surprising, if not worryingly expected.

Of the world’s twenty five largest hotels, the Las Vegas strip is home to nineteen. Nineteen. The Luxor is in at number five, with 4,500 rooms. It cost $375 million to build, a pot which was raised using “petty cash” from the Circus Circus Enterprises 1990 Christmas leftover fund. My mind wandered to glittery images of the Circus Circus christmas party; bellboys in Versace suits, laughing maniacally as Bugati Veyrons are flung from oversized crackers. Donald Trump weeps as he watches from the outside, too lowly to be allowed in. Madness.

All this spending was made all the less impressive, however, when I discovered that the 30-storey pyramid began its infancy by sinking into the Mojave desert. Needless to say, the bellboys’ three-pieces were cashed in to give it a lifesaving leg-up. Indeed, the pyramid idea was something that the owners were more than keen to invest in; architecturally stunning, the Luxor is one of the highlights of the Strip. It’s a post-modern Alexandrian heist, using the same (albeit computerised) technical nouse as the Egyptian slaves themselves. One travel website was, however, a little too eager to assure readers that the Luxor was not, shall we say, an exact replica:

“The walls of the hotel are not, as some tourists expect, made entirely from limestone, as are the Pyramids of Giza. Indeed, the hotel is hollow, leaving space for casino tables and hotel rooms.”

“As some tourists expect”? The shocked look of Norweigen newlyweds as they’re told they won’t have to dig out their accomodation for the weekend. The clang of suitcases filled with now useless pick-axes and trowels as they hit the lobby floor.

The author of Ghost in my Suitcase, a supernatural travel agency, argues that the design of the hotel has led to some unexplainined goings on. He quotes Frenchman Monsieur Bovis, a fairly eccentric scholar who discovered that the pyramidal shape was perfect for “keeping food fresher, tenderising meat, and possibly increasing sexual ability.” No need to pack my meat tenderiser then. So to speak…

In addition to all its refridgerating wonder, pyramids are supposedly well-suited to the mummification process, a theory tested by our Monsieur Bovis, who mummified his dead cat in a small-scale model of the Luxor hotel. I’ve been told not to be overwhelmed by fear if I hear the pitter patter of Tigger’s tiny paws during the night; she’s quite harmless, but will retaliate if attacked.

By this point I was sitting in the corner of my room, rocking back and forth with miaows purring through my veins. In a bid to regain my composure (and my testicles), I decided to look for entertainment and leisure opportunities. “Anything but CATS”, I thought. I was in luck. Of course, it’s Vegas; the choice is as varied as it is incredibly weird. That’s the thing about the place. It’s consciously ridiculous, and it wants you to embrace it as such. Las Vegas is the ultimate example of self-parody; it’s a place which invites, nay, forces you to mock it. Without doing so, the stay is undoubtedly bleak. The motto “what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” quite literally applies to those who dare to take it seriously. There’s a big, bad desert out there for spat out party-poopers to crisp in the Nevada sunshine.

After a little window-shopping, I found the Luxor’s main attractions. Four swimming pools, Nurture spa, 29 retail stores and the intriuging “Party Pit”. Spirits lifted, I read on. And then the headline event. I shivered and retreated into the foetal position:

“Now showing 314 nights of the year! Menopause: The Musical! With foot-stomping hits like HRT: Why Won’t You Love Me? and Drippin’ and Droppin’, you’re stay in the Luxor is bound to be the highlight of your mid-life crisis!”

I kid you not. Grief-stricken, I cried myself to a sleep filled with holiday nightmares. As the Las Vegas Strip faded out of view, I found myself in a dark room, being serenaded by the menopausal Queens of Spades and Hearts, singing Good Vibrations.

Remember The Alamo

There’s a well-known romanticism associated with the road trip, particularly the American one. Hollywood has a love affair with the road trip movie; Thelma & Louise, Easy Rider, Rain Man: they’re all classics, and cannot fail but give you the urge to pop on your headscarf and go on the run from the law. As part of planning for a proposed summer road trip in the US with a group of friends, I took it upon myself to do a bit of car rental research. I was tremendously excited about the whole thing; in my commitment to the role, I may or may not have pretended to be slightly autistic for a few minutes. Come on, it was either him or Tom Cruise, and he thinks he’s an immortal alien spiritual being, trapped on planet Earth in the body of an actor.

I started by doing a bit of research for the main rental companies. And that’s when it got a bit weird. Amidst the household names (Hertz, Alamo, Avis etc.), I Googled across Dodge-y Dealings and Rent-a-Wreck before deciding to stick to the big guns. Unfortunately, after reaching a number of dead-ends due to my unwillingness to give out personal details in order to get a quote (name, email, number of pets, inside leg measurement etc.), I U-turned to the telephone in order to speed things up a bit. A few punched buttons later, and I was transferred to Dexter at Thrifty Car Rentals. And that’s when it got a bit weirder.

After the initial 18 minutes of formalities, we had established that Dexter was a Virgo and that I wanted to go to Las Vegas. He was a nice enough fellow; and as someone who has spent many a working hour following a telephone script, I completely empathised with him. But the sheer number of questions. I was actually quite relieved that he took some of the pressure off me by talking about his step-mother’s orange grove, but the novelty wore off fairly quickly. All I wanted was for him to say “Mr Sarandon, your car will cost you $XYZ; have a lovely day and a terrific journey. By the way, could I just say how dashing you look on the telephone this afternoon.” Alas, the price never came. When a sharp intake of breath pierced through the receiver, I knew Dexter was approaching the insurance section:

Impending. Doom.

“Alrighty sir, let’s talk about your coverage. And before you answer, no I don’t mean whether you’re wearing PJs or not!” (Did I mention Dexter was ever-so-slightly camp?)”

“Yes, well I’d like the standard package please”, I replied, assertively. Nip this one in the bud.

“Ooooooo I’ll bet you would!” (Did I mention?) he drawled. “No, seriously, what we’ve got for you is the premium package, which includes all of your essentials, as well as the HAC and the RSVP.”

RSVP? Had I unwittingly invited him on this road trip? I enquired:

“Oh that’s the Roadside Snake Venom Protection, sir. It covers you in case of attack from any of the Mojave Desert’s most dangerous critters. Y’all never know when they’re gonna getcha.”

This was outrageous. Thrifty were taking me for a ride (no pun intended. Unless you found it funny, in which case, I’ll take it). “And the HAC?” I asked.

“Hitchhiker Attack Cover, sir.”

Thelma cocked her pistol.

I politely told Dexter to forget about the unnecessary extras, and after a fair chunk of insistence, I managed to persuade him that the standard coverage was the one for me. From then on, we made some progress. Ten minutes later and we had established that I was an Aries and Dexter’s step-mother had just signed a lucrative deal with Tropicana. I mentioned the type of car I was looking for, and with the faint sound of rapid typing, I sensed the finish line was close. Dexter had other ideas:

“OK, sir; now I know your preferred choice of vehicle is the Economy class, but I’m here to tell y’all today that we here at Thrifty can give ya an extra special deal on our Convertible or Amphibious ranges.”

“No, thank you, the Economy will be jus…hang on a second, Amphibious?”

Turns out that for an extra $150 I could have booked the Chevrolet Pacific, an offshoot of the Aveo which apparently does up to 80 miles in marshland and/or the ocean. Tempted though I was to make the holiday a voyage, I decided to keep my wheels firmly on the ground and declined. Dexter seemed to understand, explaining that if I’d gone for it, he would have been forced to include an additional insurance policy; the Waiver for Accidental Vehicle Ebb, or WAVE.

The rest of the conversation was pleasant enough, although Dexter was getting rather friendly. He subtly hinted that he was free during the last week of July, and though I can’t be sure, I’d venture to say that he offered me a 15% discount for the “privilege” of letting him come along. I put him down gently, explaining that we already had a full carload, to which he muttered something about there being another way.

Eventually he gave me the quote, and after hearing it, I even considered the discount. As I thanked him for his service and hung up, a strange image crept into my head of myself and four friends coasting down the highway, drinking freshly squeezed orange juice, with Dexter on rollerblades following behind, holding onto a tow rope.

The Homecoming “King”

I was a thirteen year old devout Evertonian standing in the Lower Gwladys Street Stand (or as we like to call it, “The Cauldron”), and time slowed down.  The moment Wayne Rooney peeled away to celebrate his game-winning wondergoal against Arsenal imprinted itself upon the sports portion of my brain (which occupies a fair chunk), wiping clean almost a decade of utterly horrendous football memories at Goodison Park. This slightly thinner Shrek, with mere bumfluff for a beard, had sent 40,000 of us into overdrive, and had revealed himself as the new hero of Blue Merseyside. It was ecstasy.

Less than two years later, the name we were all supposed to remember was removed from Royal Blue and ironed onto Red Shirts instead. The ultimate hero to villain story. Sales of voodoo dolls at the Everton Megastore shot up 1459% in the run-up to Christmas that year. I bought two; one for myself and one for the bathroom… In all seriousness however, the transfer of an idol to a hated sporting rival (can “rival” be used appropriately if they’re widely successful and we’re distinctly average?) was a huge deal for me at the time, and I still pray for his untimely lack of form/incineration before each game. Sports fans latch on to individuals; it’s a lot easier for us to digest the idea that one person can make a huge difference than to hope that all of the cogs in your mid-table machine will suddenly move in tandem and spit out league titles with a Germanic mechanical whirr. It doesn’t matter if it’s football, rugby or crown green boules, or whether it’s England, Australia or Lamberhead Green Working Mens’ Club. It all works in the same way.

Jumping across the pond, the NBA is gearing up for the most anticipated game of the season. It’s not because the two best teams are playing, it’s not because it’s a local derby, and it’s not because it’s a “winner takes all” decider. It’s because of one man: LeBron James.

LeBron, or “The King”, is Cleveland’s Wayne Rooney. Signed as the top draft pick and given a seven-year contract with his hometown team, James was instantly written into Cleveland Cavaliers folklore, before he’d stepped on the hardwood. Overnight, he transformed the team from a perennial basement-dweller into a genuine title threat. Cleveland as a city, much like Everton as a club, doesn’t really have a knack for bringing home the silverware; the last Cleveland sports franchise to win a major championship was 1964, when the Browns won the Super Bowl. So the 1995 F.A. Cup doesn’t seem so far away now, eh?

Ultimately, the title eluded LeBron and the Cavs, though he was still revered for his almost superhuman efforts in bringing them oh-so-close, oh-so-many times. At the start of July, LeBron, eligible for free agency, decided to move teams and signed a multiyear, lucrative contract with the Miami Heat, throwing the Cavaliers back into the basement and the Heat into the limelight as pre-season favourites for the Larry O’Brien trophy. Tonight, he’s returning to Cleveland for the first time with his new team for the ultimate grudge match. Expect some fireworks.

The NBA front office is undoubtedly sitting on tenterhooks, waiting for tomorrow morning when they can sigh and say “it’s all over.” To say the atmosphere is going to be hostile would be akin to saying that the voodoo doll in my bathroom was put on the window sill as mere decoration. No-one really knows what the fallout will be when the pressure cooker goes off, but you can be sure that Cleveland fans won’t turn off the hob until LeBron is on the plane and out of Ohio. The free throws, jump shots and technical fouls will very much play second fiddle tonight, to a homecoming King who left the city that embraced him. Fans will be hoping that James steps off the floor wearing a crown of thorns.

All this may seem (and has done to many of the game’s top commentators) to be a crying shame: that the sporting event is far from the talking point pre-game, and will be far from the talking point post-game. I staunchly disagree. I say, give the fans the chance to heckle and boo and chant. As long as the safety of those present tonight isn’t jeopardised, then let them at him. And it’s not about picking sides. In many ways, I can understand LeBron’s decision to leave Cleveland behind. After all, carrying the hopes of a city on one’s shoulders for seven years is a heavy cross to bear. Teaming up with the other components of the new Big Three (Dwayne Wade and Chris Bosh) not only gives James the opportunity to win the championship he so dearly craves – and deserves, but also gives him a Simon of Cyrene (or two) to help him carry his team there. What I take issue with is the way he went about his “Decision” to leave.

By “Decision”, I mean the three hour-long nationally-broadcasted media showcase, at the end of which LeBron announced his intentions to millions. It made a mockery of the sport and of his supposed allegiance to his hometown. This self-promotional, entertainment debacle culminating in his leaving Cleveland behind means that LeBron James will never be welcome at the Q Arena, and rightly so. There are ways to leave a sports team, even if it’s for a rival. Take Wayne Rooney’s case for example: a press conference proclaiming his undying love for his childhood team, and explaining his reasons behind leaving as being based on the sensible conclusion that the team could benefit more from the transfer money that from his staying at the club – GOOD. Leaving without said press conference and returning to kiss the opposition badge in front of The Cauldron mere months later – BAD. LeBron’s case is similar. He professes to perform his usual pre-game introduction in Cleveland tonight, and by that, I mean that he will strut to centre-court and raise his hands up in the air, Messiah-like, whilst smoke machines purr misty praise all around him. BAD.

Of course, in the search for the higher ground in such situations, the hometown front office needs to act with a little restraint, if only just to take the moral highground in order to pour fuel on the traitor before the fans light the touchpaper. Dan Gilbert, the Cavs General Manager, did no such thing, with a hastily-written open letter released on the night of The Decision, in which he called LeBron a “narcissistic…coward.” If anything, it gave James the justification for leaving; rather than deserting a loving family, he was escaping a petty, childish master. Those in positions of responsibility should maintain their professionalism and leave the cheap jibes to those who buy tickets every week because of the passion they have for the game.

After all, the reason we pay to watch sports is to enjoy a spectacle, no matter what form that spectacle may present itself in. The Cleveland fans have a right to express their anger, and a right to make LeBron James feel unwelcome in their current, and his former, home. After paying his wages for seven years, it’s the first step to a rebate.

So if you’re in the Cleveland area this Christmas, buy shares in voodoo dolls . And sell shares in loo roll…

The Belarussian Scissor Crisis

I always liked getting haircuts. It’s quite a cathartic experience; sitting there whilst some young sprightly lady chops the mess out of your life and makes it clean, rigid, organised again. I find myself walking out of the salon with a renewed sense of order; no longer am I burdened by the trouble-making locks which twist in the wind to form an analogy of my life, flicking in and out of my ear, whispering “Knock knock. Who’s there? Conor. Conor who? Conor’s really shit.” Bloody fringe and its sultry remarks.

As part of one of my “life admin” weeks (which tend to happen once every few months) a good while ago now, I headed into town to a salon I’d never visited before, in order to show the comedy pilus who was boss. I strode inside, the picture of chaos. A couple of stylists turned to examine my presence, and I’m pretty sure one of them thought I’d stepped through the wrong door on my way to the homeless shelter. The elements, needless to say, had sent my hair into overdrive. Nonetheless, Lida, the unfortunate soul chosen at random to work on me, kept her nerve and sat me down.

As soon as the blades were out, I felt a surge of renewal. “Is this how Lazarus felt?”, I asked to myself (or was it out loud?). Did Lazarus even get his hair cut? If not, he didn’t know what he was missing. I felt great, and decided to get the conversation flowing with the veritable Lida. It started off slowly, but eventually we got going. Turns out she was originally from Belarus, and had students living next door to her. I bagged both of those as conversation topics, and rolled with them. As soon as I’d coaxed her into asking my what I studied, we stepped into second gear. An exchange I’ve heard countless times:

“York’s lovely isn’t it? Very nice city. Bit cold though.”

“Yeah, I love studying here. The History course is really interesting.”

“History? Oh, well then, York’s perfect for you isn’t it? Very historical city. So you’ll be able to tell me all about the Vikings then?”

“Nope, Mexican revolutionaries. Can I interest you in Pancho Villa?”

We were on a roll. The afternoon was whizzing by at a pace only matched by that of the growing pile of hair on the floor. It was wonderful to watch. We went from York, to the Cold War (bit of a tense moment when I mentioned Stalin in a sentence and she froze her stare and lifted her scissors), to holidays, to different types of gin, to the appropriateness of stick insects as pets. In no time at all, she had finished, and sent me on my way, a more chiselled, smiling gent. A friend for life? Perhaps.

**

I went back to Lida a couple of months later, confident that our friendship would be renewed. Again, she sat me down, and I waited with baited breath for her to say, “so Conor, how are you? Did you have a nice time in America?” My heart sank to my knees when she instead quipped, “Are you a student?”

She didn’t remember me. I was baffled. We’d been all smiles, and it was all for nought. I was left in an extremely difficult situation. Should I correct her mistake now and remind her of our (seemingly) blossoming connection, or should I just go with it, and have the same conversation again? I chose the latter, not wanting to embarrass her, nor reveal myself as the entirely forgettable protagonist. We talked about History, and York, and different types of stick insect, and the appropriateness of gin as pets. I felt sick.

And then I laid out a lifeline. “Do you think Belarus will do well in Eurovision this year?”

She smelled a rat.

Her eyes looked me up and down. Belarussian cogs turned and toiled. She took a few cautionary snips, trying to unlock something. She put her scissors down, and placed her hands on my hair.

“Have I cut your hair before?”

Boom. Penny. Dropped. I acknowledged her intial error, and waited for her response. And then, something which made the hair on the floor stand on end:

“Yes, I thought I recognised your hair from somewhere…” And then she ran her hands, slowly, through my hair, fixing her stare upon me. I was terrified. “How far was the door? How far away were the bloody scissors? Did we point any missiles at Belarus during the 60s?” Lida composed herself and finished the job, throughout which time I envisaged a shrine in Lida’s living room, dimly lit, with a lock of my hair framed on the wall.

The Tomb of the Unknown Fringe.

I got out of there as quickly as possible.

**

I’ve no idea why, but I went back last week. Call it curiously, call it madness. The fact was, this crazy woman could bloody well cut hair. I walked in, smiled, sat down, and waited to see which direction it would go.

“Are you a student?”

Sigh. I played along for a few minutes, but my frustration got the better of me.

“Are you heading back to Belarus at all this Christmas?”

She froze again. “Have I cut your hair before?”

This time, I got there first. I fixed a dark stare upon her, and clasped my hands together, Dr. Evil-style. “No. I know that voice from somewhere though…”

She was terrified. “How far was the door? How far away were the scissors? Did we point any missiles at the UK during the 60s?”

If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

The Textual Revolution, Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Punctuation Creatures

I remember the first really important text message I sent to a girl. I was 16 and was still getting familiar with the workings of my phone, and with the boundaries of acceptable social conduct. I don’t mind telling you that it took me about half an hour to construct this particular text message, which ended up being very simple and uninspiring (“Hey, how r u? Wat r u up 2 2nite? Watching University Challenge, its well rubbish! Xx). Thinking back, my inexperience in the world of texting is clear to see, as is the reason why that first text, and (upon closer scrutinisation of the “suppressed memory” folder in my mind) the dozens of others that followed, were met with such an angst-inducing lack of enthusiasm.

Five years later, things have changed a bit. Not that I’m some sort of texting dynamo or anything; believe me, I’m still very much toying with those social conduct boundaries. But I’ve made some adjustments. For a start, the numbers have been replaced with the appropriate letters, and I’ve cut down on the reverse snobbery that led me down that path of Paxman-betrayal all those texts ago. The same text now would have made a note of how much I was actually enjoying University Challenge and all its intellectual nutrition. Texting, however, is a crucial social machine, and one which deserve more scrutiny. From the capital letters to the colons to the signature finish, each element of a text is examinable and can tell you more than you might think. We should rid ourselves of the thought that it’s impossible to convey tone through texting; if anything, it’s where the real emotions reveal themselves; the full spectrum of human sentiment splayed out as pixels on our LCD screens.

Firstly, the ubiquitous “kisses” issue. Regional differences aside (on a recent trip to America, I was confronted by a good friend about this: “Do you actually want to kiss me? Twice? Cos I think we might have a problem if you do…”), the number of kisses at the end of a text can make or break a textual conversation. The one thing I would ask for, as a human being just trying to get by, is consistency. Please, take a moment to think about the consequences of being an inconsistent kisser. I don’t care if it’s one, or two, or three, but for all concerned parties, stick to what you’re good at. The last thing anyone needs is the proverbial “three kisser” changing tact suddenly and shooting blind with a “one kiss.” I’ll be completely honest; that’s worse than a kick in the teeth. If you’re used to getting the good old-fashioned two kisses, then you’ll know something’s seriously wrong if you’re (without warning) targeted with a no kiss, full stop, slap around the face. In this case, you might want to check your sent messages folder for evidence of a mishap on your own part. I urge you, think about your actions. The power of the kiss at the end of the text is weighty and far-reaching. For the love of Nokia, let’s keep things simple.

Where things start to get hazy are with smileys (or lack thereof). It’s a psychological minefield. Colons and parentheses get banded around like loose change nowadays, and we need to be aware of their usage. To a reader, they’re incredibly useful; a simple colon-close bracket is enough to transform a text from being irritated in tone to being perfectly content. Take these two examples:

“I’m not up to much tonight, think I’ll just stay in on my own and watch a film.”
“I’m not up to much tonight, think I’ll just stay in on my own and watch a film ”

Without the smiley, the reader could never know that the sender was actually perfectly happy with staying in by his or herself. Panic could ensue, and that’s how you end up losing a toe.

Of course, it gets more complicated than the old colon-close bracket. The stock of smileys on my phone range from the dangerous and devilish colon @, which is the visual equivalent of saying “Stay away from me, I’m very red in the face and am growling and want you to keep your distance ahhhhhhhhhhhh!” Or there’s the wonderfully flirtatious colon p which, used in the right circumstance, is the 21st century version of ordering oysters for a starter on your first date and giving the recipient that look which says “yeaaaahhhhh these are an aphrodisiac…” If there is a less subtle invitation to tomfoolery, then I’ve certainly not found it. There’s the slightly excessive/verging on creepy “colon d”, which can overwhelm people; you couldn’t possibly have a smile that shape in real life. Or the “semi-colon close-bracket”, a feisty display or cheekiness designed only to induce the colon p in the reply. No-one wants to be the first to bring out the colon p. But it has to be someone. That’s the tragedy.

Anyway, enough of all this nonsense about breeding punctuation creatures. It’s all a load of rubbish, I’m sure. In reality, you’re free to bombard your recipient with inconsistent sprays of kisses, and throw them colon d curveballs like you’re the happiest person in the world. I’m sure it doesn’t really mean anything. Of course, we could all just talk to people, reverting back to the days of yore, where people would just be blunt about things:
“I’m the happiest person alive. Fancy some tomfoolery? If you decline my face will go red and I’ll start growling…”

Hung Like A Parliament

On a May morning in 1997, I sat cross-legged in my bedroom and packed my schoolbag. My dad knocked on my door and popped his head inside, and told me that “we’ve got a new Prime Minister”, before departing for work. And there I was, an 8 year-old, 5-stone, lanky whippersnapper, left to mull over the news.

Of course, the real importance behind the Labour landslide in 1997 was lost on me, but that didn’t matter; all I cared about was knowing that I had been a (secondary) witness to something really important. Ever since I’d openly dismissed my dad’s chances of gaining the nomination for the Labour Party leadership in 1994 on the grounds that “they’ll probably pick someone important instead, Dad”, I felt that at least a grounded understanding of what was going on in politics would help me to understand the bigger picture. And so, with an “important” man at the helm, my political education began.

Fast forwarding to last week, I lay, semi-comatose in my bedroom, a 21 year-old, 10-stone lanky whippersnapper with a substantial hangover, wondering what post-election news was to greet me with a knock on the door. On this occasion, however, my bloodshot eyes had already been opened to every possibility, plausible or not, through the ridiculously extensive election coverage available to me, and to us all, on television and in particular, the Internet. I did not need my dad’s quietly contented words of wisdom to reveal the unknown; a generation on, I was a victim of the supposed “X-Factorisation” of politics. 24-hour news, American-style television debates, Facebook group invites; the list could go on. Politics was unavoidable; not a bad thing in my world (in fact, quite the contrary), but all the same, something of which I had begun to feel slightly weary.

During the campaign, I had very much enjoyed the leadership debates. Regardless of their content, which was something I had never intended to pay all that much attention to given the lack of polarisation amongst all three main parties, I found myself fascinated by tactics, presentation and political spin at its very obvious . The very fact that “I agree with Nick” transformed in a mere seven days into “I disagree with Nick” highlighted to me that I was in fact watching three programmed machines at work. Like Jason Bourne in the fabled franchise, there were cracks in the machinery; malfunctions were evident, but in the main, these made-up, colour coordinated androids knew exactly what they were doing, right down to the last hand gesture. The UK had taken far too long to introduce these debates, but the belated opportunity to see in HD the superficiality of the political engine was one to relish. It was Nixon without makeup versus wide eyed Kennedy in 1960; the style of politics exposed, with the main protagonists trying desperately to drown the others’ style out with the bagpipe drone of partisan policy.
Whatever commentators say about the “dumbing down” of politics through 21st century electioneering methods, I think there’s much to be said about a campaign which excited the entire nation, rather than its Question Time-viewing, Radio 4-listening, Broadsheet Comment Section-reading minority. Ignoring Facebook Group invites such as “Gordon Brown is secretly Bulbasaur” and “Can this sprout get more fans than David Cameron?”, I realised that interest in this election was moving away from politics, but not necessarily in a bad way. If voters become more confident in a leader based on style, not substance, then so be it. The stability (or lack thereof) of the world economy and political system relies more so than ever before on confidence. In a world of speculation, and in a country where the three main party leaders can all be found kissing babies on the centre ground of the political spectrum, why shouldn’t we think about leadership styles, and presentation, and arm gestures?

As much as technology has enhanced the UK’s enjoyment of the election campaign, I’m more than happy, however, to leave it all at the polling station. Unfortunately, BBC’s 24 hour news broadcasts have not allowed me to do so, and instead I find myself wrapped in a monotonous newsreel, David Dimbleby’s 17-hour election night stint choking me slowly. I can’t read the normal news online anymore without being bombarded with updates about where Nick Clegg’s car is, and how many packets of crisps David Cameron bought from Sainsbury’s in Kensington yesterday afternoon. One such newsflash came up on my screen just a few minutes ago, and read:

“Gordon Brown and Lord Mandelson have just left Number 10 – destination unknown.”

5 seconds of my life I fear I will never get back.

Still, I only have myself to blame. The “close window” button is only a click away. But maybe, in a horrible way, I want to know it all. Maybe I want to know not just how many packets of crisps David Cameron bought, but which flavours. Is he a Roast Chicken man? He could be the next leader of our country, this is important! Alas, I should probably wrap things up here. After all, my eye’s been off the ticker for a few minutes, and I’ve just heard news that David Dimbleby’s fallen asleep. Prepare for the whole establishment to come crashing down.