Shovel, Spade and a Hand Grenade

Friday Nights on BBC1. 7.30pm was Top of the Pops. 8pm was Eastenders. And from 8.30 was Ground Force. 90 minutes of TV brilliance, topped off by Alan Titchmarsh sneaking into someones garden and letting Charlie Dimmock and Hagrid's older brother loose on the weeds. I'm sure it was meant to appeal to older people just settling into bed with a digestive and a brew, but I was hooked. God knows why. I think I was waiting for an episode where they built a rollercoaster in a pensioners garden. It never happened.

Today Daniel had to endure his own little episode of Ground Force, except this was no surprise. No old lady coming back to find her neglected pile of mud behind her house had been transformed into the gardens at Windsor Castle. Just me, Dad and a crack team of gardeners. Well, when I say crack, it was more like crackpot. There was no Tommy Walsh or that ginger lesbian. It was a 62 year old guy from Ireland and a lexically challenged teenage oaf.

Now I'm not one for manual labour. It's what slaves and criminals on community service do. I consider myself to be neither, therefore I refuse to pick up any kind of DIY item. However, this time was different. There was my Dad's sanity at stake. Mum guilt tripped me into helping Dad before 'he got tired, miserable, grumpy and probably topped himself'. At that point I was thinking how to spend the inevitable inheritance and decided my efforts would be better spent doing fuck all. But then a bottle of Disaronno was bought to the negotiating table, and that just made the deal, quite literally, a little bit sweeter.

So, donned in a pair of wellies and some old clothes that were clearly bought in my 'unfashionable phase', I rocked up onto the set of Ground Force to find the rest of my garden crew were stuttering to the point of collapse. They had after all been working since 8am and it was now 2 in the afternoon. The teenage oaf was callously shovelling dirt into a wheelbarrow (probably the most mentally taxing task he'd undertaken since trying to remove a lid from a can of spray paint). The Irish man was talking in totally inaudible mumbles. I thought for a moment he'd got a bit too into the Avatar spirit and had learnt Na'vi. Then I realised he just wanted a cup of tea and was speaking Irish. Some people... My poor old Dad was there as well, looking well and truly shattered. No matter, Daniel stepped in to help his poor old man...

...for about 3 and a half minutes, before I remembered I am in fact me, and cannot stand gardening or physical movement at weekends. I honestly don't know what the appeal is with a garden. My parents say 'ooooh you'll appreciate a nice garden with a few plants when you're older and greyer'. Fair enough, but this doesn't sound very much like me. There's not even a water feature in my garden, and you could tell it was going to be a good episode of Ground Force when the designers threw in a waterfall or fish pond for good measure. Unfortunately, the Irish man nor the teenage oaf had come to install water features, instead, they'd come to dig up the grass and relay some better grass.

At that point I gave up caring. The amount of mess everywhere (quite how Titchmarsh et ál manage to clear up in the 7 days too, which makes me seriously doubt the integrity of this pledge that they actually manage to finish in 7 days) for a simple replacement of grass. Honestly, I could have cleared the garden a damn sight quicker with a bottle of Smirnoff and a box of matches. Oh and what's the bane of any Ground Force episode? Rain. And boy did it rain today. It did the lovely topsoil no good whatsoever.

From today then, I've learnt several important lessons. The first is never ever attempt gardening. Just send a tape with a sob story to Alan Titchmarsh and pray. I know Ground Force isn't on anymore but I don't think Dimmock and Walsh are turning down work at the moment. The second rule is don't accept deals on the backing of free alcohol. No amount of Italian liqueur is going to make up for a day of chronic back ache and ruined hands.

And the final rule, never think you can emulate a TV programme. It's all witchcraft. Now, let's have a go at making my car a bit chavvier...

Daydream Believer

I'm sitting here in a quiet house. Parents have got to that stage where they're in bed earlier than most newborn children. Brother has college. It's just me, Macbook, and MTV Classic.

I really just feel like writing something. I don't know whether it's the sound of the keys pattering up and down that's therapeutic. I don't know whether it's because I'm not vein enough to say 'I love the sound of my own voice', therefore, I just transfer everything I feel I want to say onto this little blog.

MTV Classic. Schedule from 11pm to 1am on Wednesday night is Top 20 Monsters of Rock. I'm sitting here thinking, 'I wish I had a time machine'. Number 11 on the list is a live version of The Who's 'Wont Get Fooled Again'. It's not fair. I'd give up everything just to go back to the '70's to see them live. Hell, anyone want a kidney? Liver? Just take it all, as long as I can watch Daltrey and co. smash shit up.

And then Kurt appeared. I can't quite remember how I was before I'd heard 'Smells Like Teen Spirit'. Obviously I was half the human being who'd heard Nirvana. It makes me wonder what'd it would have been like to have been an angry teen living in the Seattle area at the beginning of the Nineties. I make no bones about it, grunge music from that era is my all-time favourite type of music, I just wished I could have been around to see bands like Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, Smashing Pumpkins etc. in their prime.

I do honestly believe I was born in the wrong country at the wrong time. Watching Britain go through an awful state of music. We're relying on one-hit grimey rappers, a woman named after a Queen song who'd think a plant pot would make a good dress, half-cocked Indie bands and a random singer '+ David Guetta' to fill up our charts. I've given up all hope. If only I'd been an American teen on the West Coast in the nineties. Then I wouldn't have to write this incredibly boring blog post with just me wallowing in self pity. About music. Powerful thing this MTV...

Oh, I've written most of this listening to the Glee Soundtrack. The word hypocrite comes to mind.

You Heard It Here First

It's that time of the year again, where miscreants come from all over Britain to stand in front of Simon Cowell and be told 'you're a talentless idiot, but we're going to let you humiliate yourself in the name of ratings and a nice sponsorship deal with Dominoes Pizza.'

Yes Britain's Got Talent is back on the box. Its ITV's way of making people feel just that little bit better about themselves, by throwing goblins and all sorts of other creatures on stage while Ant & Dec prance around backstage like hyperactive children after a bag of Tangfastics. It's such shite telly. It's as predictable and clichéd as a romcom and in the end, no ones a winner, because all their money goes towards Amanda Holden's new nose (I swear she's got so many they must be interchangeable).

But not so fast. And the end of this gloriously shallow and hate-filled tunnel, there is a light at the end. Granted, it's just light coming through some cracks in the ceiling of the tunnel, but it's light nevertheless. I hate the fact the winners of this damn show have been singer, dancer, dance troupe. Piers Morgan constantly witters on about finding 'variety', and yet all the good acts never make it. In the first series, my favourite act was this guy. When he petered out in the semi-finals, I was devastated.

I love how everyone always says 'it's always been my dream to perform at the Royal Variety, since I was a kid...' I don't know about you, but I'd never heard of this magical show till I was about 13. What 6 year old didn't want to be a Power Ranger, and instead, wanted to run around on stage in front of Queen Lizzy? Exactly, no one.

Now I'll be honest, I've hardly watched the damn programme this year. I know shock horror, send me to the gallows. But, I did have a little gander last Saturday, and I'm sorry, but if this act doesn't make it to the final, I'll have lost all faith in humanity.

Fatherhood & Pitchforks

I returned home on Saturday afternoon hoping for a nice relaxing two weeks of the Lord's finest 'sweet f.a.' Not much to ask seeing as how I haven't really had a break since Christmas; I'm starting to think this 'work' lark is getting too much for my lil' head to deal with.

Now I know what you're thinking, the word 'hoping' clearly signifies that Daniel's two weeks will NOT be relaxing. And you'd be one hundred percent correct. I returned home to find my Dad had become the middle-class freedom fighter equivalent of Joanna Lumley.

Quite a lot gets my Dad riled. Being bought up in the East End of London for starters can't have inspired much faith in humanity. I've lost count how many times he's told me about how he used to be 'the angel child' while his younger sister skipped school and his younger brother held lifelong ambitions to be 'a dustman, because you don't start work till the afternoon'.

He also has the most pessimistic job in the world. A risk assessor for an insurance firm. To you and me, all he does all day is sit and think 'what could go wrong'. And when you work for an insurance company that deals in everything from the British Airways fleet to mineshafts in America, that's a lot stuff to 'go wrong'.

It's not so much a 'glass half empty' philosophy that my Dad holds, more like a glass shattered into a million pieces with the contents all over the coffee table.

So, you can imagine he wasn't best pleased when the council (Rochford Council in Essex for all you aliens) decided to submit plans to build about 100 cheap houses in the lovely green belt land opposite our house. Our house which my Dad has spent about a year decorating and getting it to his worryingly high standards after we bought it. And the one condition we bought the house on? That no development would ever take place on that land...

In some ways it's a kind of laughable series of events, but then again it's also quite worrying. These plans are the first steps in an absolutely massive property development scheme to take place over the next 10/15 years in Rochford and Ashingdon. The likelihood is much of the green space that my Dad loves (and hence why we bought a house here) is going to be filled with shite low-rent housing. Essentially, it'll be like having legal travellers.

So. What does this have to do with my 2 week break? Well, my Dad (after owning a councillor at a recent planning meeting) has been 'elected' by the residents on my road (possibly the most casual elections ever) to lead this campaign against the council. Brilliant, now I have Nelson Mandela for a father, leading some middle class 'rebels' against the council to keep them from building on areas where pheasants congregate.

This morning then, I've had to deliver lots of lovely leaflets through people's letterboxes (because people are so happy to see strangers knocking at their door asking for support at the moment) and it reminded me why I never wanted to be a paperboy. People can't buy normal letterboxes anymore, where it's one flap and you just whack the paper in and walk off. Nope, people seem to be buying the shark equivalent of letterboxes. I had more scratches and cuts on my hand than a reclusive teenager. And then the dogs. One letterbox was on the floor practically, so their sorry excuse for a dog (it was basically a fluffy rat) could have a go at postman. Honestly, buy a real pet and use the shitty little dog as a toy or a doorstop.

No pitchforks, no burning torches, no effigies on fire. Just some middle class residents expressing their anger through leaflets and expressing displeasure across the trellised fences. But my god I hope the campaign works. The last thing I need when I come home from Medway in Kent is to find more kids attired in stuff from JD Sports' bargain bin on my driveway...

Braindead *Insert Witty Title Here*

Guess who's back with a brand new rap?

Well, not really new. But just back, after what can only be described as the busiest most hectic few weeks of my life. Uni work, uni work, uni work, work experience, social life. I've been busier than a man using Photoshop charged with making the new Tory campaign posters look pretty.

So yeah work experience. I've been at the Kent Messenger newspaper for a week now and it has absolutely flown by. Took me a few days to get the hang of things (picking up the phone for the first time saying 'Kent Messenger, good morning' was a terrifying and surreal experience) and it doesn't help I've been spoilt by Uni. Nice new computers, decent camera equipment, reasonable deadlines...I'm not going to complain ever again. For a newspaper that covers the whole of Kent, I was a little surprised to find only 4 reporters, 2 news editors and an editor. The amount of work these people is unreasonable to say the least. I've gone through more press releases than a shredder, trying to get 200 words into 20. It's been chaos.

But fun. Very good fun. Day one was spent at an old people's home, where the smell followed me all day. We were doing a voxpop on the election, finding out which political party had amassed the 'grey vote' as the sub editors politely put in the headline. I was at my happiest when a dotty old lady told me 'the first person to kick out all the immigrants, I'll vote for'. It was like looking at a more cenial, older and feminine version of myself.

Tuesday was rather boring. Found out about a 16-year old yoof from Maidstone who'd uploaded a video showing how to kick a football which had attracted 1,000's of views (the internet is FULL of any old shit that people will watch). I think it's the first time a story has appeared in a Kent newspaper about a 16-year old that hasn't mentioned the words: 'sambuca', 'fire', 'rape' or 'Walther PPK', so it's a nice little bit of publicity for all.

Spent Wednesday morning at a sleepy little village just outside Maidstone. Gordon Brown was there the week before, Liam Fox (Shadow Defence Secretary) was there Tuesday to announce to Tory manifesto, and then lil' ol' me showed up the day after. I'd hoped to strut around the pubs, saying 'Daniel May, Kent Messenger' and return to the office with a notebook full of quotes and stun the editors with an article (the word 'twat' comes to mind...). Unfortunately, nobody told me they were shooting a sequel to '28 Days Later' in Aylesford (the little village). Because that's what it was. Empty. As fuck. No matter, got some quotes. Then in the afternoon, Maidstone had a powercut. So I ran around the town centre finding out what had happened (the response 'the lights have gone out' made my day) and managed to get a story on the website. Things were going well.

Thursday was a little more subdued. I logged onto Facebook for the first time that week in the office. Just to check I hadn't missed anything. In the afternoon I went to a fashion show (I know, 'bout time my area of expertise was recognised). It was once again full of old girls (I swear they're following me) and most of the models were shop employees (i.e. more old women). But it was great fun. I got free flapjack so I wasn't complaining.

So yeah, there's a little chronological report into my week. Hopefully next week I'll get to go to a car crash or house fire or something. I won't leave the office until I've had to give an eyewitness testimony to the police.

Leader's debate yesterday. I shuffled my rear into the perfectly formed ass-groove on my chair and stuffed my face with chicken as the leaders had a good ol' fashioned scuffle. Clegg did very well, but then no one's really paid much attention to him before. It's like a novelty at the moment. He out-Cameroned Cameron, in the sense he was big, confident and very well spoken. Gordon Brown just looked a creature from the cantina scene in Star Wars. His attempts at jokes were dire, the man has about as much comic timing as roadkill.It'll be interesting to see how Clegg stands up in the debate over foreign policy, seeing as his credentials in this area are way behind those possessed by Cameron and Brown. For these two, last night was a warmup. Get through debate numero uno without any hiccups and get a feel for how it's going to go down. It'll be an interesting few weeks.

And finally, quick update on my Créme Egg count. I started with 138, I've had a bloody good munch on them. I'll count them later. Don't expect there to be more than 60 left.

I 'Aint Gonna Work On Maggie's Farm No More

I spend an unholy amount of time on Facebook. In someways I feel ashamed, but then I look out onto the streets of Gillingham and think: 'apart from mugging old women, there's not much else to do out there'. So I 'like' another set of stupid photos and waste away my evenings achieving nothing but turning my eyes slowly more square.

I suppose the other thing I could be doing (work doesn't count) is playing video games. And sorry for stating the obvio

us, but my they've changed. Not just graphically o

r how many different plastic instruments you can flog to the masses, but how we play video games. In some ways, I bet everyone thought we could get away with simply making games prettier and prettier and all would be well. Clearly not. I'm going to head back to Facebook to explain why.

If you replied to the question 'What did you do at the weekend?' with 'Instead of going out I watered some carrots and sheered some sheep', people would have thought you were some backwards inbred recluse. Unfortunately, around 80 million people worldwide give this same response, and they don't even have to break out the chequered wellies to have this riveting weekend.

Yes, FarmVille. God knows how Zynga (the publisher and developer of the game) thought that by letting people having their own 16x16 grid where they could plant fruit and veg, it'd turn a massive proportion of web users into something equivalent to a violent heroin addict.

The thing is though, this unbelievably simple game has got a bigger audience than Twitter. And most of the players are not just casual, half-interested folk. The nature of the way FarmVille is played means that people keep going back to it like a prostitute will keep going back to Soho. I (ashamedly) use to play FarmVille, way back in June last year when it was a fairly new and novel idea. Unfortunately, if you wanted to progress anywhere in the game, you had to structure your life around it. Crops would harvest and die in realtime, and as a result, if you were out when your lovely new pumpkins had grown, the likelihood was by the time you sat back down at your computer, they would have wilted and died. Because of this 'harvest or die' style, it led to conversations where a friend would say 'we have to leave by *insert time here* otherwise my wheat'll die and then I would have wasted 4 days growing them'.

I don't really know why I'm bothering to explain the concept of FarmVille because by the sounds of it, anyone with an internet connection has harvested some virtual crops. The thing that's interesting though, that whilst games developers pour millions of Pounds into creating super complex and pretty games for the home consoles, a game that looks like it was created in a time when dinosaurs roamed the Earth is the one that has pulled in the most players. It's not clever, it's simple gameplay and it's graphically very poor. Yet somehow, it has caused my sodding Facebook 'news feed' to become full of FarmVille updates, and I'm not impressed.

It has also meant that I receive a ludicrous amount of gifts to accept on Facebook. I keep getting offered a free chicken for the farm I don't even have by some girl. I think it would be nicer if the girl got off Facebook, got a real chicken and cooked it, then offered to me. I'd be much happier then.

Do You Want Fries With That Qualification?

Ladies and gentlemen. Tonight is a night to celebrate. Tonight, we honour the commitment and hard work that your sons and daughters have put in over the past two weeks. We've had nothing but praise for them, and I like them all to come up to the stage one by one to collect their awards. Without further or do, I'd like to present all of these wonderful boys and girls, their Level 2 BTEC in working at McDonalds.

In my head, this is roughly how I'd think an award ceremony would go at a particularly shit school where kids are awarded for not setting the teacher alight every term. Well, now these miscreants have the chance to leave with maybe the odd-qualification, as ol' Ronald McDonald has stepped into the British education system armed with a hamburger and a shit-load of easy qualifications.

You see, in exchange for working for 10 days at a McDonalds restaraunt, teenagers can now get a level 2 BTEC qualification in 'Work Skills'. Essentially, it's the equivalent of a B or C at GCSE, or what I used to call 'hard work'.

According to Edexcel (the exam board who run the qualification), the experience will help to build 'team working skills' and improve teenagers communication. N0w I don't know another generation who can chat quite as much as ours. The last thing a teenager who spends all day on their phone, Facebook and MSN is to be taught how to communicate at work. And what team working skills can you possibly hope to achieve from working behind the counter at McDonalds? The only thing I can possibly think of is which nationality of employee is on fries duty and which is on adding human fluids to the burgers.

I am not at all impressed by this. I worked bloody hard for my GCSEs and for exam boards to be handing them out like fucking Happy Meal toys is taking the piss. What happened to a bit of social elitism i.e. the people that work the hardest get the rewards. Lets face it, the kids who are going to be taking this qualification are going to be the ones flipping burgers anyway, so essentially these 2 weeks are just practice. I'm waiting for the day when AQA start giving out A-Levels to people who busk...