whatsnotontv

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2010-07-15T10:20:00.000-07:00

www.whatsnotontv.wordpress.com

Sorry blogspot, this is shameless.

Erotic fiction for the pre-menopausal, and mid-life crisis males.

2010-05-25T16:12:00.000-07:00

What if Jeremy Clarkson wrote for Mills and Boon?

Mills & Boon is an institution of literary erotica, providing endless romantic excitement for the post-menopausal (largely widowed) female audience; and is thus equally as amusing for the curious male page-flickers. From the Mills & Boon gems that I have perused in various charity shops, it is the polite synonyms for sex organs that prove the funniest items. They include: 'rod', 'her sex', and my favourite; 'the junction of her thighs'. Many well known authors have appeared in the Guardian articles list, and many are worthy of a paragraph in the finest Mills & Boon title. Imagine though, if a stalwart of macho journalism such as Jeremy Clarkson was to dip into a spot of erotic fiction?

The audience is certainly ready and waiting; droves of young car enthusiasts who regularly tune into Top Gear and read Clarkson's Times column I'm sure would love to hear his authoritative take on male sexuality. One can only imagine how his end of sentence exaggerations would translate to seductive hooks; "and surprisingly, after my initial burst of speed, I just keep going. And going. And going!!" Or: "on the exterior I'm just another frumpy old man, but underneath the bonnet I've got stamina, and the high-end performance to match!! " All 'high-end' puns aside, just how would a Clarkson erotic scene read? What follows is my vision.

Jeremy Clarkson - 'My Bonnet or Yours?'

Ten minutes previously he had come to a smooth stop at the corner of her road, she purred, "I want you on the back seat." He was primed, and he let her know it by turning his hips to face her, his muscular forearm moving to bridge the head rest of the brown trim leather heated seats. She surreptitiously caught a glance of his denim protrusion and handled the leather gear stick to indicate as such. He stared down with intent as she moved her hand suggestively down the tan leather shaft to the modest but more than adequate five speed manual base. They clambered through the hull of the three door Aston Martin DB5 to the seats in the rear where surely he would enter her within minutes. He removed her jeans whilst she pulled the blouse over her exquisite body work, revealing her pert breasts. Her nipples were anticipating his caress. He obliged to run his hand over her skin which glinted enticingly in the dim light, like the waxed finish of their sleek, steel grey carriage.

Their bodies now entwined in determined rhythm the condensation licked the windows, and the Aston rocked steady. To anyone else traveling along this quiet lane the passion erupting from the interior was obvious, but he feared not interruption. This symphony of muscle, flesh and sweat had all the synchronicity of the finest engine; emitting steam, screeches, and groans their purposeful limbs motioned systematically to produce a harmony befitting the wildest dreams of the greatest of engineers. And then came the din, the climax had subsided as quickly as it had arrived and he pulled away from her. The fine leather upholstery that had screeched underneath their bodies was now wet, and the tinted rear windows ran with the their breath.

He had only ten minutes to return her to the house she shared with her boyfriend, and despite his lethargy, his feet were duly sharp upon the pedals. She was sprawled on the passenger seat, her head tilted back lazily as he reached an exhilarating 100 mph on the dual carriage way. The roar of the engine echoed his overwhelming feeling of superiority as he drew up to the place where they would part ways; and where her partner would return soon, completely unaware of the performance of unrivaled masculinity exercised upon her in this most prized classic of British cars. Bond would be proud.

(Exert from Jeremy Clarkson - 'My Bonnet or Yours?' {HotRod Publishers 2010})

Follow me @jamesbmitchell

Engerland Engerland Engerland

2010-05-18T16:10:00.000-07:00

Daub yourself like the above and bathe clean in lager; for the World Cup is here.

The eve of the 2010 World Cup is upon us. In England a cacophony of media coverage and tabloid pull-outs are set to conjure excitement bordering on delirium; all time high lager sales, an unprecedented amount of sick days, patriotism spilling over into xenophobia, and flags. Endless flags.

It struck me last week just how much English people like to remind other English people that they are more proud to be English than them, or remind their foreign neighbours whose country this is, right? Perhaps this is just a cynical account of what is really an admirable pride, but their is something about English flags flapping in the English wind that I don't quite understand. More specifically, flags on the cars and porches of suburban English dwellings. It is fair to say that the average English home is not an English embassy; and likewise the average car is not a English chariot (or similar military vehicle that invokes images of Englands 'glory years'.) People of England, with this in mind: don't dress them so.

Until recently I would pass the chariot of a UKIP member on my daily walk to work (I imagine this person envisaged their Renault Espace as an essential publicity behemoth in the campaign to free the UK from the tyrannical grip of Europe.) I resisted the temptation to leave a flyer for a Polish restaurant under the wiperblade and wait furtively nearby to gauge the reaction by the driver upon discovery. Or better still, to ask an Eastern European car washer from the local Tesco car park to loiter around the car at 17:00 and ask the driver if he would like his car cleaned. Cleaned of its filthy associations that is.

If it wasn't for the fact that I'm in the USA for the duration of the World Cup I would be reluctant to adorn my car with an English flag because of the inevitable presumption that would follow me, namely that I am a xenophobic, bigotted twat. The same applies to porches and second story windows; 'An Englishmen's home is his castle' is a metaphor lost on some of the Sun reading, Carling guzzling trogladites of this nation. Taken to its grim, literal conclusion it becomes a house decoration second only in bad taste to Christmas lights. It's a shame, but perhaps it is just my housekeeping snobbery rather than a widely held sentiment that is inducing this association between zenophobic stereotypes and 'flag users'.*

Having said all this, come June I will be in a bar in California, with my England shirt on, repeatedly chanting 'Rooney', and pumping my fist every time England put a goal past the USA (this latter comment is an example of a presumptuousness only exhibited to such a degree by English sport fans.) Throughout the tournament I will undoubtedly border on unreasonable feelings of patriotism to the point of hatred of whoever Englands opponents are. I will leave every game I've watched (or more likely endured), with my heart filled with pride, with visions of English fields, flag adorned Vauxhall Astras and Pukka Pies. I will have in my head a perfect tabloid front page image, and I will love it.

*A good friend of mine, who is in no way the afore mentioned stereotype, recently stood atop Mount Snowdown with his English flag; this being an entirely acceptable context for a flag to make an appearance.

Mind the Gap Year

2010-05-11T15:38:00.000-07:00

"...It was amaaaazing. you have to go!"

No I don't. I will not die, go blind, or become a zenophobic hermit by not going travelling. Travelling of course now means going to at least one of the three essential gap year destinations; Australia, South America, and South East Asia (meaning Thailand, but South East Asia sounds more cultured). One of these destinationa will suffice to be regarded as 'travelling', but you will always be an almost of the intrepid globe trotter club. Two is admirable, you are 33% more cultured than the almost. Three and you are one of the elite; you were mugged at least once, the tan marks of your surfer adorements acquired in 'Oz' were almost permanently etched on your skin, and your flip-flops were glued to your feet until at least the end of your first year of trapsing around campus 'hanging out your arse'.

It is not that I am bitter about not going travelling (by travelling I mean subscribing to all of the above.) It is more that I feel like I've actually done it because of the amount of photo albums and slideshows I've endured. I hold it against no-one for travelling and 'finding themselves', I just resent the notion that it is something everyone should do, like vote (an example of a genuine imperative I fully welcome being thrown at me.) Perhaps I need to go to understand it? Needless to say I admire greatly those who volunteer abroad on gap years and at any other time, and would never cast cynicism on their charitable endeavours. It is the indulgence of the hedonistic travels that I despair of, and mainly because I know that I will soon be party to this phenomena upon which I pour much tongue-in-cheek scorn.

My guilty fear is that come June I will be spending a month in California, to be documented via geogaphically informative facebook statuses; 'not being gay but it was beautiful'~backdrop profile pictures, and of course the endless photo albums thrust under mildly interested friends faces despite them already having seen them all online, when I return. I am at least sure enough of my self to know that at least I won't try and estimate how many nights "I wasn't smashed!!". I will however, undoubtedly return to tell everyone that they must 'go travelling', despite only having been on what is essentially a longer than usual holiday. My excursion may not even count as 'travelling', I assume a certain amount of months must be spent abroad? And a certain amount of cultures and languages must be largely ignored in favour of Westernised piss-ups on beaches, interspersed with token visits to moss covered temples and picturesque waterfalls?

The saving grace will be that although I'm not retracing the footsteps of the vast majority of gap year travellers, I am just shamelessly immersing myself in perhaps the one culture most similar to Britains (or vice versa.) With this being so many of my experiences won't be of great amazement to my family and friends, and as such they won't suffer greatly when I recall 'this time when I was travelling...'. This is of course a highly irrelevant post given the developments in Westminster today, but I couldn't think of anything particularly insightful to write about the political furore and our new Prime Minister David Cameron. Other than that between him, Nick Clegg, and Michael Gove there is the makings of a remarkably Thunderbirds looking governement taking shape, if shape be the right word.

The Lure of London

2010-05-05T12:18:00.000-07:00

Shining happy people commuting.

London; I can take it or leave it. Some people can't take it, and leave it. For others though it is the default post graduation calling; the extortionate rent, transport and social expenses will never quell the dreams of those who seek their latte laden careers there. Living in the London 'satellite' town of Basingstoke, there is an aura around the place. It is akin to an ancient walled city overlooking the surrounding peasant village, a bastion of fortune and status guarded against further over population by hopeful career seekers like myself.

The mystique is somewhat broken by those lucky few who regularly pass the city gates by South West Trains or the M3, and who report that the commute ' really is a killer'. But never the less, if you make it to London, secure a job, and regularly socialise in gastropubs with colleagues on a Friday evening (perhaps afternoon if you have the kudos of an early Friday finish), then you've made it. You can return to your former town, and now former life, to regale these tales of urban living like no other. The £5 pints that you 'actually don't mind because it's continental beer and the bar plays trip-hop', liberal office dress codes and 'creative days' (rumour has it one sits around on beanbags perusing youtube for marketing light bulb moments), will undoubtedly merit much excitement amongst those you left behind in the sub 1M population settlements.

It all seems too good to be true, but perhaps this is just because I've never worked a day in London in my life. Perhaps I will become all of the afore illustrated cliches when the opportunity arises, and I will shudder at my former skeptical observations like an aristocratic romantic who had written off his now lover as unworthy plebeian trash. Perhaps the longing in me has manifest itself as curious, bordering on cynical, disregard for the 'London life'.

It may well however be the case that I enter into London life and remain largely intact. I might cherish the rare eye contact, or even the almost extinct conversation, on public transport. I might let someone pass on the tube doors. I might well then leave London, to the bemusement of the younger hopefuls yet to make it there, to another dwelling to report that it was too expensive and wasn't all it was cracked up to be (meaning that despite the suit, you were just photocopying and fetching coffee for the CEO). But I do know this; if I ever enter a country pub, order a g&t and ask if there are any marinated olives, I will know that I've become that identikit urban bighead who conjures rolled eyes amongst all their friends outside the M25, and ultimately deserves a slap.

The Generalness Election

2010-04-30T15:29:00.000-07:00

Apathy, Inspiration, and a vague relationship between the two.

What do you write about when nothing really happens to you? Like many I lead a happy, but politically uneventful life, when will I be called a precocious snot or similar by a public figure? When will I get a chance to thump Nick Griffin? When you leave university you are reliably informed that the world is your oyster, but middle class complacency and aspirational apathy condemn many to the mundane temp cycle and ‘living for the weekend’. So when you work for a medium sized Finance company, where only the post Christmas party rumours and an occasional email leak cause any excitement, what inspiration is there to blog about? I’m not Holden Caulfield; I’ve come to accept that now. In the week I flirt with stealing stationary and on the weekend I obsess over my fantasy football score (79 last gameweek). Politics at least is providing some relief from apathy on the whole.

I am reluctant to slide into self-indulgent irony laden prose about the frustration of apathy and subsequent lack of inspiration and, but here goes. A housemate of mine from University often quoted, where politics was concerned, that “apathy is the glove into which evils slips its hand”. I’m not completely apathetic about politics, the television has seen to that. I’m now fully informed. Evil can keep its hand out of my ideological glove thank you very much. I was plonked on the sofa for the debates; I am ‘in the loop’. But it is hard to get inspired by British politics; it is even harder to muscle in on the internet discussion armed only with a cynicism adopted to hide ignorance. Perhaps this blog would get read if I posed as a galvanising BNP blogger then revealed, after gaining numerous internet followers, that I was a bisexual, ‘ethnic’, foreign national, benefit claiming illegal immigrant with paedophilic tendencies. I imagine the short lived increase in internet attention and, like a Goth in school, even fondly picture the abuse. Hits is hits.

The election debates have at least provided a talking point; giving the impression of shaking a largely politically apathetic nation into a new state of awareness. Tabloid readers won’t be reading Machiavelli, Aldous Huxley or Orwell any time soon but at least they now know who the Liberal Democrats are. The majority of the public sat around waiting for the next debate to wholly inform them of the state of the election race and who would potentially make them richer. In the mean time of course they did little to further their interest. Some even watched the post debate discussions. That way the pretty graphs could give them statistical ammunition for them to pose to their colleagues as the unassuming political scientist of the office. Some still hold that “ALL politicians are liars, but ya kno the BNP do have it right about immigration…” While there is no hope for some, at least a square eyed nation can’t avoid politics, in its arguably shallow form, for much longer. How the tables have turned, it seems it is now looked down upon to be uninformed. If only because it shows you had intended to tune into a soap only to stumble upon “three blokes talking about tax and that.”

But what is left to say about Bigotgate and the debates, when you are just one of the droves of internet bloggers contributing to an already overpopulated discussion? Well David Cameron does look more like his own Madame Tussauds model than he looks like his actual self. That Gordon Browns jaw drops more times a minute than his votes did in Rochdale that fateful night of Bigotgate. And despite the fact that every time he opens his mouth, raises his eyebrows and opens his hands, I expect Nick Clegg to ask “have you had an accident at home or in the work place that wasn’t your fault…” he’ll probably get many a sheepishly submitted vote from a curious few who want to see what he would do if he actually got in.

Snow, Ash & Blame

2010-04-21T12:58:00.000-07:00

Where dwells the Volcano stirring monster?

It's getting boring this ash cloud. The tabloids are waiting for someone to die. The broadsheets are waiting to see if any of the three amigos will spin the incident in the upcoming debate. The majority of the British public of course are waiting for the blame to fall neatly at someone, anyone's, feet.

This latest episode of 'apocalyptic' weather is more than likely a Zeitgeist-esque conspiracy by a splinter group of climate change activists undertaken to provoke European leaders into action on global warming. If not it must be the result of female promiscuity, as one Iranian cleric has deduced. Failing these it must simply be an act of nature whose consequences for Brits abroad, is simply inconvenient. Inconvenience, however is a bitter pill for the British to swallow.

Rewind a few months and British soil was paralysed by snow. In my home town of Basingstoke there was well documented outrage by many residents at the lack of grit bins during the snow storm that engulfed the country. What was overlooked by these outraged taxpayers was both the rapidity and amount of snow fall which would have been completely unpredictable six months previous, where any plans for said required grit bins would have needed to be implemented. As was the expenditure. Imagine the outrage at a local council pumping £800,000 in to grit bins in case of largely unlikely, freak weather conditions. The desire for their stern faced, arms crossed figures in the local newspaper is what I imagine was the true source of their 'outrage'.

The London Evening Standard of Tuesday 20th April reported that Boris Johnson's parents were amongst the few lucky ones brought home by our boys on the high seas. "I suppose the government is trying to do its best and keep the spirit of Dunkirk alive" surmised Mr Johnson. It seems that where as the inconvenienced Briton will moan, the relieved Briton will insist upon drawing tenuous colonial or military history analogies serving only to trivialise further what is nothing more than an inconvenient situation, not a disaster.

From snow to volcanic ash clouds, what next? Presumably an oil tanker is due to contaminate our waters, or termites chew through Britain's telephone infastructure forcing internet perverts back to the streets, further aligning the psyche of Britain with the visions of Chris Morris.

A temping offer

2010-04-21T11:30:00.000-07:00

Medium latte extra shot, extra hot: the drink of choice for the 00temp.

I enjoy work, but it is one of our nations most moaned about pastimes. Long hours, bad managers and office politics, the list is endless. However none of these really concern me at present as I am one of those somewhat liberated office workers; a temp.

For many the temp holds an underdog status; the temp is the downtrodden and overlooked pack horse of the office. The temp is charged with menial and monotonous tasks, but is hollowly praised by his seniors for his perfect execution of the photocopies. The temp is dispensable with no sentiment or expense spared; the temp receives no novelty mug or hastily signed card, and he most certainly does not say goodbye to his colleagues with a night in the local Wetherspoons the Friday of his leaving. No, the temp leaves, much like he entered, quietly through the main reception where the secretary has only just managed to remember their name. The temp may not even bother to sign out; sometimes he gets away with keeping his security card, a small but satisfying victory. The temp is a status to be relished though, perhaps only for a time, like a student. The temp may not enjoy many of the benefits of permanent employment, but for the astute temp the perks are obvious. The working day has its natural breaks; lunch, coffee, cigarette breaks for some, and the toilet.

Lunch is scheduled, and due to law is safeguarded, but for the temp who has time wasting on their mind it is not quite enough. The opportunity for leaving the office for the safety of a franchised coffee outlet is certainly appealing. However there is the risk of having to sit with a colleague, or worse be seen by someone you know. I say this because I always feel like a pratt sat with a copy of the guardian and a latte, as if they were props intended to communicate the fact that I am not wearing a suit simply because I work in Next or Moss Bros. This coincidentally is something that infuriates myself and others with whom I have shared this frustration; (roughly) 18 year old males with fake tans and glued hair strutting round in suits as if their wallet is weighing them down, constantly on the phone. You work in a suit shop in Basingstoke, you are not stockbrokers so stop acting like one. Your suit was a staff discounted item that you are obliged to wear, and just because your shoes clop it doesn't mean they are real Italian leather worthy of a Corleone.

Making hot drinks for colleagues is good, but people soon see through the temps generosity and ‘4 minute brewing time’ tea aficionado bravado to the time waster beneath. Those colleagues who consistently offer hot drinks, drink instant coffee (considerably quicker to prepare than tea), or drink canned brand are a constant thorn in the side of the temp who often deploys the hot beverage strategy.

Cigarette breaks are easily monitored, if not shared, by the office manager and so aren’t such a safe bet. Everyone knows how long a cigarette lasts, and so dragging it out is liable to blow your cover. However the UK smoking ban means that often the smoking area is further away than the fire exit, so for the smoker temp this is perhaps a worthy component of the time waster diary.

The toilet however ranks as many temps favourite time killer, or to be more specific; the fictional poo does. The fictional poo is a safe bet for the seriously bored temp. No one can really question the temps time on the toilet as they don’t know them, or their diet, well enough. If the frequency and length of visits does become conspicuous rumours will abound that the temp either enjoys a high fibre diet “but that would result in frequent but short visits”, or constipation “but that would result in infrequent, lengthy visits”. Rest assured however as no discerning colleague, save perhaps another temp competing for permanent employment, will enquire as to the state of the temp’s bowels. So enjoy the freedom and security of the cold white porcelain, it might also be the most productive thing you do as a temp.