XTREMISM in the shower

This is my shower gel. It is “Xtreme” shower gel.

As we all know, in the field of products the more “extreme” something is, the better it is – and if you can mis-spell “extreme” it is even more extreme, and therefore even better.

So while in the field of consumer goods extremism is a undeniably A Good Thing, it seems odd that we do not welcome it in other fields as well. Perhaps this is due to the fuddy-duddy spelling of "extreme" with a lower case "e" at the start. 

Al Qaeda, for example, could rebrand itself as Islam Xtreme to appeal more to the key 18-25 demographic. The EDL could try to break out of its C2/D/E ghetto by calling itself Xtreme Racist Halfwits.

Nevertheless, as I showered this morning, I must confess to being somewhat at a loss in seeking to discern in precisely what the xtremity of this gel consisted.

I did not get a sense of freefalling from a light aircraft. I did not feel as though I doing stunts on a BMX bike. I did not even feel as though I was pouring a can of drink into my mouth from a height of about 8 to 12 inches away to the sound of powerful rock guitar music. 

These are all recognisably xtreme sensations, but I was at a loss to detect the shower gel precipitating any of them within me.  

Then I looked at the “flavour” of the gel. As you can see, it purports to be made of – or at least to smell of – “Exhilarating Grapefruit, Amber and Cedarwood”.

I have never encountered grapefruit, amber and cedarwood in the flesh at the same time, so I can’t really say that to do so would not be exhilarating. When I have encountered them separately, however:

• The only time I have felt exhilaration in connection with a grapefruit was upon successfully dodging a thrown one.
• Amber – it is hard to think of a more inert substance than fossilized tree resin, and therefore one less likely to cause exhilaration, unless it has hidden qualities I am unaware of.
• All I know about cedarwood is that you should not stand underneath cedar trees during lightning storms. Having a tree fall to the ground around you in flames is probably quite exhilarating, but not in the sort of way one is keen to experience early each morning.

Upon calm reflection (after the exhilaration had ended), I wondered precisely what part the amber was playing in this recipe.

• Grapefruit – yes, I can smell that. It is citrusy.
• Cedarwood – errr...I am prepared to acknowledge that some wood smells and therefore that had I not the olfactory acuity of noseless dog (though I hasten to add, I do NOT smell terrible) that this may have been present in the rich bouquet offered up.
• Amber. What EXACTLY is amber supposed to smell of? The internet says that you can – theoretically – extract an oil from amber which smells (unsurprisingly) of pine. So far, so much my shower gel is making smell like a toilet bowl.

Maybe it is not contributing to the perfume? Perhaps I am supposed to be exfoliating with the preserved exoskeletons of prehistoric mosquitoes encased in the amber?

So, intrigued, I checked the ingredients to see what the amber is bringing to the party.

This is in English, you may be surprised to discover. What will probably not surprise you is to learn that this substance contains neither grapefruit, nor amber, nor cedarwood.

The question then remains: did they come up with the name first and try, subsequently, to make something that smelled of that? So what exactly was the amber adding? 

Or did they instead make the smell and then try to describe it? In which case, who smelled the amber?

I am going to ask the Avon lady next time I see her. 

The Kettle Kapacity Konundrum

“Life. Oh life. Oh liiiife. Oh life. Doo-doo-doo-doo.”

So sang Des’ree in her 1998 number 8 chart hit, “Life”.

I often think about those words when I consider the fundamental contingency and futility of our existence on this earth.

Just now, a kettle has reminded me of Des'ree's words of power. 

Why oh why do all kettles measure their capacity in terms of dainty little teacups?

Does anyone under the age of 70 routinely drink out of a small teacup? No! EVERYONE drinks out of a mug!

Why, Mr Tefal, Mr Rowenta, Mr Morphy Richards, do you use an obsolete unit of measurement, forcing me to do multiplications and divisions in my head in order to work out how much water I need to boil?

It drives me to despair, as I drink my afternoon half-mug of tea. 

But then when the darkness looks insurmountable, I remind myself of the profound message of hope provided by 5ive in their 1999 chart topper, “Keep on Movin’”:

“Sometimes I think that life has no meaning, but I know things will be alright in the end.”

The Best Barber in the World

It may come as a surprise to you to discover that the best barber in the world is situated in Greengates, Bradford.

And yet here is the proof: BEST BARBER IN THE WORLD.

This, I should point out, is at least the second version of this sign that has been displayed on this shop. The first version was just a banner – as you can see, the owner has decided to go for something a little more permanent.

Clearly, this was one of those “president for life” elections, after which all future polls were abolished - after all, if he really is the best, why vote again?

Having spent that much on the sign, I don’t think he plans on putting his record before the public again any time soon.

I drive past this shop most days, but it was not until this weekend just gone that I put my head into the hands of the best barber in the world.

He was alright – he met my five criteria admirably. £7 for a cut, parking outside (none of those pictured are my car, psychopathic readers!) and plenty of Daily Stars to read while I waited.

It is not, however, the boldness of his claim that impresses me most, but rather the carefully hedged wording.

Was he voted the best barber in the world by his customers, whom he describing as loyal?

Or was it only the loyal customers who voted him best barber in the world – with the sign a coded rebuke to those disloyal customers who voted for someone else?

On Anger

HULK SUBLIMATE!

People often think I am unemotional, but in this they are mistaken. I am in fact a very emotional person, whose complex and varied inner states express themselves outwardly only in limited forms.  

That is to say, no matter what is happening to me and how I feel, I express myself more or less uniformly somewhere on the spectrum between boredom and rage.

In the same way that a power station turns coal into heat, which turns water into steam, which turns the rotation of a turbine into electricity (or something like that), so my constitution reliably metastasises every stimulus into one or another form of annoyance.

This is an exaggeration of course (you IDIOT) but it contains an element of truth. To have a furious side is quite restrictive, given that it is socially unacceptable EVER to be angry.

Generally, I get around this by the trusty old British standby of irony. You may have noticed this strategy in play on this very blog – I rant and rave, sneer scathingly, belittle and threaten others, but I don’t mean it.

Or do I?

I used to love irony. It felt so clever saying one thing and meaning another. Now I just want to say what I mean – but it’s practically impossible. People would think I was mad. Not because the things I want to say are mad (well, not all of them) but because there are things you just don’t say directly.

Like – oh, I don’t know...for example – that one thinks that another is an idiot, upon whom one has spent quite enough time already trying to explain simple things.

Having always to say this indirectly and in a way that doesn’t upset the other actually makes me even angrier.
 

Do you ever just want to get a sledgehammer and smash everything around you like the Hulk?

I do. Quite often.

And the fact that I can’t do that – because (i) everything around me belongs to me and I’d have to replace it, (ii) I’d get fired from my job, (iii) other people would be upset and/or (iv) the law – is quite irritating.

Can you perhaps see my problem?

What are people in our civilised society supposed to do with all the pent-up rage and aggression that our civilised society causes in them?

Play squash, get ulcers and have strokes?

Calm down dear

Everything around us is arranged to maximise annoyance value and minimise opportunities for legitimately releasing the pressure.

 Just phone up your gas supplier – it’s not the person on the end of the phone’s fault. You can’t get angry with them.

THIS IS NOT A COINCIDENCE!

The insincere pre-recorded apology for your train being late?

THIS IS NOT A COINCIDENCE!

By the way, none of the above is true. I’m being ironic.

LOL. 

Waiting...

A few days ago, I spent eight hours waiting.

I was waiting for the words of a wise man – a very busy wise man, who walked past me and glanced at me several times during that eight long long hours.

Eventually, the wise man came to me, poked me, muttered a few trite words – which I could have told him some eight hours earlier – and sent me on my way.

Can you guess where I was?

An NHS hospital ward of course. Long story, but basically some stitches I had got a week earlier fell out, so I went to A&E.

Always a depressing experience among the sick and the lame, this was only brightened by the presence of a terrified researcher from the Discovery Channel asking the various inmates if they were there by virtue of an “amusing mishap” and if so, whether they wished to be featured on a programme called “Bizarre ER”.

I don’t think she found anybody whose symptoms or circumstances were funny, or who wanted the world to perceive them as such.

Had I simply been battered in a drunken brawl, I would have been stitched back up and sent on my way – but because this was a “post operative complication” I was sent upstairs to the surgery ward after about an hour.

And that was when my ordeal really began.

I arrived at 12.45pm – I left at around 9pm. In that time, I was continually assured that the “senior doctor” would be there any moment and that without his say-so, nobody could do anything. In that time I was given (i) two cups of coffee and (ii) a sandwich, at 7.30pm when I went and told the nurses I thought I was going to pass out.

I am convinced I left that hospital in a much worse state of health than I arrived in. I was certainly in a much worse mood.

Now, I could take this opportunity to blast the NHS, but why bother? I don’t want a better NHS – I just want to never have to use it again. It would be nice if doctors treated patients like human beings rather than infected gobbets of blood-flecked mucus and hair they have found smeared on a door handle, but I guess you have to pay cash for that.

No, dear friends – it is the waiting I want to talk about.

I hate waiting anyway. I value my time and I value other people’s time, so I always try to minimise the time anyone spends waiting for me, and I like that courtesy to be reciprocated. I take being kept waiting (unnecessarily) by someone as an explicit statement that they believe their time is more valuable than mine – and I take that as an insult.

But if you know that what you are waiting for is not going to turn up for, say, 30 minutes, an hour, eight hours – then that is a different matter. You can do something with that time. You know what is going on and you are in possession of yourself.

It is the imminent anticipation of something being always about to happen right now, that makes waiting unbearable. You daren’t do anything else, in case you miss it or – god forbid – keep them waiting for you.

Waiting is boring, and being bored is an affront to life. We have only so much time in this life. To waste it by choice is stupid, but at least it’s your own decision. To have it wasted by others is an offence.

That eight hours I spent in a dingy little cubicle being ignored has taught me the value of time and the evil of boredom.