A Small Act Of Genteel Domestic Terrorism.

I recently found myself wandering the streets of Coventry once more in a vain attempt to pass the time. I avoided the cream cake emporium due to the unforseen circumstances i found myself in on my previous visit. I didn't think enough time had elapsed for my fuzzy CCTV photo to have been taken down from the 'Troublesome Customers' noticeboard, next to the 'Shoplifters / Vagabonds / Wanted' noticeboard in the staff room. Having had a shave and a haircut, returning me to my Tom Cruise good looks, i may have got away with it, but i didn't want to take the risk.

Since it wasn't Christmas and no family Birthdays were on the immediate horizon, i wandered the shop fronts in search of something, anything, to occupy my idle mind. Following a very agreeable coffee in a nice Italian coffee shop in the city centre that had no children in it, i was bored and as we all know, boredom leads to terrible, terrible acts... For i am now a wanted man.

I looked around. Clothes shops... No. Mobile Phone shops...No. I stared at the bland row upon row of shiny outlets owned by the Multi-National conglomerate corporation of  'Same Shit Different Logo Ltd,' with headquarters based in the tax free Virgin Islands and a CEO based in a £30m London town house in Belgravia with a holiday home in the Bahamas. I wondered just where it all went wrong for them... My inner Che Guevara surfaced and recoiled at the decadent west.

I wondered why the Inland Revenue and Her Majesties Customs and Excise negotiate tax agreements of a few millions, based on an income of Billions, whilst at the same time sending Bailiffs to recover small benefits over-payments to families who can't afford to repay. I wondered why we tolerate the fact that more and more food banks are required in this so called affluent nation. Day centres for the disabled and the vulnerable, the old and the poor, closing for the lack of funds.

A small act of domestic defiance and protest was in order. Nothing to trouble the Secret Service you understand, i don't want to end up in Guantanamo being force fed water through a blanket with a cattle prod up my jacksie, no thank you.

I hatched my dastardly plan. 'I am a domestic terrorist genius,' i thought to myself, but without the added heavy armaments, lethal attitude towards my fellow man, a balaclava or the actual terrorising of the general public, i'm not a lunatic.

I walked into a well known retail outlet that sells cheaply made items from poorly paid third world children and sells them at a massive mark-up price and then keeps the tax free profits. You know the type. My heart began to race, a trickle of sweat formed on my brow wondering if Kiefer Sutherland was about to jump from the trouser rack (waist sizes 32 to 38) and torture me using a biro, a CIA business card and a coat hanger, whilst simultaneously downloading the shop schematics to his PDA. (Keifer, they are called 'blueprints' you tit.)

I banished all thoughts from my mind... The time was now... Should i fail, i hoped my small cell of fellow urban Guerrillas would remember me for what i was about to do, until i remembered i haven't any fellow members. I was an army of one.

I deftly swapped the price tags from an expensive suit with that of a cheaper, logo'd pair of trousers... Not once, but twice.

My plan was a simple one. As far as i'm aware, UK law states that the marked price on an item is what it should be sold for, so i figure the next customer will bag a bargain and the store will lose around £16.38p. That's £16.38p back into the hands of the public where it belongs. Having set the trap, i left. As an added act of defiance against the state and it's greedy money masters, i left without calling the Police with a code-worded warning message. I'm sorry, but i'm trying to start a revolution here y'know.

Anyway, that'll teach 'em. With a few more acts such as this, i reckon i could deprive Mr Moneybags, CEO of the Same Shit Different Logo Company, of quite a few poolside gin and tonics. As such, with my new secret urban Guerrilla identity, my next post will come from my secret cave hidden in the Surrey hills, just outside of the M25 near Dorking.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter, and has just given away his identity... Bugger.

Magicians... A Bunch Of Chancers.

I've been watching the telly again. Yes, yes, I know. I'm always watching the telly or lurking in public places in search of more juicy blog posts about the foibles of being out and about with the unpredictable British public. I just can't help myself.

This time however, I was watching a magician turning tricks on a busy public road to passers by who had slack jaws and a penchant for going "No way man..!" when something surprising happens. In other words, easy prey.

A pack of cards, sleight of hand and a posing magician inevitably leads to the question "Is this your card..?" So let's just stop it there and ask yourself a question...

You're in a public street with a magician, a pack of cards and a film crew... What on earth did you think was going to happen..? Of course it's going to be your card. There's no way on this little Earth that it's not going to be your card. Magic is just a load of old bollocks for the feeble of mind... So here's an idea:

The next time a man in a top hat and cape, followed by a film crew stop you in the street and ask you to pick a card, any card, play along until the very end. ( I should point out that it is just as likely these days that the street magicians are dressed in baggy jeans, sneakers and a hoody... Do not be alarmed. ) Either way, when the card is revealed and the inevitable question is asked of you, stare blankly at the magician and say with considerable gusto...

"Well, you fucked that up didn't you..?" Smile, then be on your way without looking back to see the deflated, yet confused street magician going through his pockets to see where he went wrong... It'll be a hoot. You won't make it onto the telly, but it'll be a hoot, and you can go home with a warm fuzzy feeling inside.

Don't give these 'magician' chancers the oxygen of publicity, that's what I say. Oh, and if you're going to practice 'magic' get yourself a top hat and cape, because nobody trusts a hoodie and i'm just as likely to mistake you for a street thief and treat you to a display of the Queensbury Rules.

Chancers... And another thing, stick to the local variety theatre stage and stop doing magic on public pavements. People start to rubber neck and you block the way, stopping those of us shopping for spam and hobnobs from going about our lawful business.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

An Unexpected Evening Of Light Entertainment From Glastonbury...

"Can you turn the amp down a bit on that Lute..?" Said William Shakespeare famously to one of the two gentlemen of Verona, during the battle scene in A Mid Summer Nights Dream... And I can sympathise with him.

I've often thought about the type of people who go to rock concerts, music festivals and the like. You see there I was, watching 'Murder She Wrote' on the telly with a cup of tea and a hobnob, when I inadvertently sat on the remote and turned over to some godforsaken teenage 'music' channel.

"Hellloooo Glastonbury..!!" Yelled an inappropriately dressed, tattooed young lady from the stage.

"Whhooooo..!!" Came the reply from thousands of youngsters who were quite obviously out well past time on a school night.

"Whhoooo..!" They shouted again, having lost the ability to say anything remotely coherent.

"Here's one you all know..." Shouted the scantily clad lady on stage, as she started to 'sing' in what only be described as 'not singing.'

"Whhoooo..!!" Screamed the crowd as they obviously recognised the 'tune' and started to sing along whilst bouncing their heads in time to the 'music.'

I began to think that the singer was being rather presumptuous about the song being one that we all knew. I had never heard of it before, and it certainly doesn't appear in my collection of vinyl LP's and singles. I know, I checked. I also checked my small collection of these new fangled CD's... Nothing. But then I stopped listening to popular music when 'The Jam' split up and the Army cut all my hair off, gave me a rifle and pointed me in the general direction of the Soviets... Just for fun.

Another "Whhoooo..!!" blasted out from the telly, bringing me out of my Cold War memories as the singer shouted out to nobody in particular... "Are you ready to rock..?"

I should say so. At probably a few hundred pounds a ticket, I would most certainly be 'ready to rock' but only if I could bring a deck chair, my own spam sandwiches and a flask of something warming against the chill. Oh, and a place at the back, near the car park next to the beer tent.

Bloody noise... And if those kids aren't back home by 10pm, they should all be grounded for a month. That'll learn 'em.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

My Personal Revolution Against 'The Man.' This Is Just The Beginning.

I am not a man to worry about what others think of me. I consider myself a decent sort, approachable and honest of intent. I don't want to deftly remove cash from your account whilst selling you crap, nor beat you to within an inch of your life because you happen to disagree with me on a few issues.

I get through life pretty easily with minimal fuss and avoidance of confrontation. Until that is, confrontation comes my way. You only have to turn on the news to discover the vast array of confrontation that is currently ongoing around the world due to religion, politics, shady business deals and common thievery of resources on an epic scale. I am but one man with one vote, therefore small fry in the minds of those that seek to control.

As I say, I avoid confrontation but it sometimes has a nasty habit of seeking me out. Take yesterday for example. All I wanted was to stop for a coffee, rest a while and then move on. It would seem however that now you have to pay for the privilege of spending your own money. Everywhere you stop the car, you have to pay 'the man.' Well I don't want to pay 'the man.' Not any more.

Why should I pay 'the man' 80p for 30 minutes parking so that I can go and spend £2.65p for a coffee that takes me five minutes to get, therefore costing me a grand total of £3.45p for the whole experience? Lets say I wanted to buy a 50p newspaper a little later on in a different high street. 60p to park, for local councils are nothing if not inconsistent in pricing, plus 50p for the paper, £1.10p in total. That means I have to spend £1.40p to spend £3.15p.

Now I could, if I were the sort, not pay the parking charges in the hope of getting away with it. Nip in, nip out and drive away with the maniacal laughter of a seasoned super criminal, and no one is any the wiser. I am however, not the sort to get away with it. I never am. Trust me, the moment I walked out of sight would be the moment the parking attendant would discover my illegal transgression and hit me with a £60.00 charge for my impertinence against the system of 'the man.' (£30.00 if paid within 14 days.)

I don't want to pay £63.45p for a cup of coffee, (£33.45 if paid within 14 days) not even one where the coffee bean has passed through the digestive system of the lesser African jungle stoat. So I poke my coins into the slot of misery and pay 'the man.'

Well no more. Not only do I resent paying global business £2.65p for a coffee, I also resent paying 'the man' his slice of the pie. I have devised an ingenious plan to get my own back, thereby saving me a not inconsiderable sum of money in the process, and contributing to the demise of the high street.

I've bought a flask. 3 mugs of lovely hot java, made to my own recipe and without the corporate bollocks of sustainable, forest friendly, fair price marketing so beloved of the corporate suit. No more the comfortable seats, the choccy-Mocha-capo with hazelnut syrup and people watching on the local tree lined boulevards. No more.

I can now park in a condom, dog shit and litter strewn, council controlled roadside layby of my own choice, whilst at the same time, lifting two fingers to the parking charges of town centres. That my friends, is the sweet sweet smell of success, and of getting one over on 'the man.'

That'll show 'em.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

Ass Hattery In A Disabled Bay.

I've just encountered a Dick splash, Ass Hat, and all round fuck witted moron. And I'm not saying that because he drives an overpowered, low profile tyred, BMW with privacy windows.

I'm not even saying it because he got out of the car and proceeded to have a conversation with someone on his blue toothed phone, loudly, so even I knew that sales were better than expected, Jeff in the Audit division is a tosser and that yet again, he's going to be late home.

His cheap shiny suit gave me good laugh, so it wasn't that. No, the reason I am calling him a dick splash, ass hatted, fuck witted moron is that he parked in a disabled bay when there were plenty of other parking bays behind him and next to him.

Clearly, this is a man on a mission. A goal to be achieved, targets to hit and a boss to suck up to. He is a focussed man. Nothing will get in his way.

He is also not disabled. He did not display a blue disabled parking badge.

So, in time honoured English fashion, with a sense of good nature and fair play, I waited for him to go to the store. I then parked my van behind him, got out and left. I am writing this as I sit with a coffee and ample time until my next working appointment.

He's probably late for his. In the words of the great Sergeant Major Williams from it ain't half hot mum... (If you are old enough to remember it..)

"Oh dear, how sad, never mind."

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

Elizabethan insults I shall use more often...

Listening to the spotty, slack jawed, baggy trousered youth of today, you could be forgiven that the English language has, how can I put this... 'Gone shizzlin' gangsta blud, innit..?' Yes my dear boy... That's 'Bitchin.'

Forgive me kind gentle reader, i am sorry to have shocked you with such profane language, uttered by street guttersnipes outside your local off licence. Mind you, offensive profanities are not the reserve of today's ineffectual youths in hoods, my word no...

In my life's quest for flowery language, there can be no other verbal insults as good and effective as the Shakespearean Elizabethan of yesteryear, and youths in hoods would be well advised to pick up on this. For example, you may be outside your local purveyor of fine ready rubbed shag to be accosted thusly...

'Oi... Battyboi... Gizza dolla or I slice you innit...'

On being insulted in this manner, a gentleman of sobriety and self worth such as myself would be inclined to flatten the cream faced loon with a blow worthy of inclusion in the Queensbury rules. However, quick wit is the key here, and the manifestation of your superior breeding and well read mind should prevail over mere thuggery. Your riposte should be rapier like...

'You Scullion, You Rampallion, You Fustilarion... I shall tickle your catastrophe. indeed Sir, A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen, as you are toss'd with.'

Write that down. Learn it. It may save your life one day. I'm sure that a reply such as this would so confuse the poor little tyke. He may say something like... 'Say whaaat..?' That is the moment of your destiny, as you would have plenty of time to make your lightening like escape on foot to the nearest office of the constabulary, as is your duty as a citizen.

Mind how you go...

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

Aisle Blockers.

I'm not talking of people in churches, stopping people from getting married, no. You know who you are, you utter bastards. Yes you, you and the other people you are talking to in the biscuit aisle of our local supermarket.

You stand there, as if nobody else exists, talking about the kids, the school run, and the price of fish. You are standing there with your shopping trolleys, three abreast, thereby blocking my advance from the cheese counter to the fig roll shelf. (I know they are not strictly speaking biscuits, but bear with me ).

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I apologise for ramming my trolley into your ankles, thereby interrupting your story that would command high fees on the after dinner speaking circuit. However you must admit that by standing and yammering on in the middle of a supermarket aisle is just a tad tedious to the likes of us who like to get in, shop and get out.

Did I say I apologise for ramming your ankles with my trolley..? I did..? What I meant to say was fuck you.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

Politicians...

Just a thought...

Politicians... Tell us again your plans to fix the economy.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

You're where..?

I just made a phone call to a colleague. It went something like this...

Me: Hi... Just thought I'd give you a call to give you the heads up on something you may be interested in..

Him: Oh, OK, is it happening in the next week or so..?

Me: Yes, in the next few days. Why..?

Him: Well, it's just that I'm on a beach in Trinidad at the moment... And I....

Me: Click...

Bastard. The utter bastard. Here I am sitting on the M4 in misery and rain thinking I am doing someone a favour, and all the while he's been on a beach in Trinidad and Tobago chugging Pena Coladas like they are going out of fashion.

Again, I reiterate... The utter bastard.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

The Coffee Shop Creche.

I would just like to reiterate the fact that i am a tolerant, likeable and approachable sort of chap. Having said that, there are times when all i want to do is give someone a good, hard slap.

Take this morning for instance. I entered a coffee shop with intent to have a medium latte, a toasted panini and 20 to 30 minutes rest. Maybe even read my Kindle and take in an article or two for purposes of worldly education.

I ensconced myself on a particularly comfortable single seat at a small table, not wishing to take up the freely available 3 seater sofa that looked far more amenable for my weary body to sink into. See..? I'm not the sort to take up 3 spaces whilst reading a broadsheet newspaper for 2 hours whilst making my coffee last all day, with a smug look on my face that says.. 'I was here first, i got the sofa all to myself, so fuck you..'

Anyway, having just sat down, my quiet reading was rudely interrupted by 3 mums in their early thirties, trailing baby buggies, shopping and an air of superiority. The two kids that accompanied them were obviously free range. They shouted a lot. they squealed and spilled juice on the floor.

I imagine they were called Benjamin and Rupert. I wouldn't know because during their play time in the coffee shop not once did their mothers even attempt to calm them down, ask them to stop squealing and shouting and generally being little shits. They talked to each other about soft furnishings and how their holidays were going to pan out this year in Tuscany or some such crap.

Then... The as yet unseen baby woke up. It was obviously also in training for the highest pitched kiddie squeal competition. Mummy ignored it. My blood pressure was rising. Just as i was about to rise, Jackie Chan stylee, delivering a kick to the head, she picked up the small ball of screeching flesh. She smelled it's bottom...

'Ohh... has little baby poo-poohed..?' Oh for fuck's sake.

Free range Benjamin or Rupert bumped past my table making my coffee wobble. I gave the child a good hard stare with a look that says that i'm about to rip your legs off... only it was wearing trendy dungarees which would have made it technically difficult. I looked at Mummy, with her trendy scarf. My mind wondered just how long it would take to choke a fully grown adult woman with a trendy scarf. She didn't admonish the child probably fearing that doing so may inhibit his creative inner self, scarring for life the adorable little darling.

I wondered whether i could get away with a sly little kick to it's shins. Would trendy mummy notice if i drop kicked little Benjamin through the window? I discounted the idea for i am as i said, a tolerant, likeable and approachable sort of chap. My article went unread. I didn't want my coffee and the relaxing half hour break was in tatters.

What irked me is that i had paid good money, not just for the coffee and toasted panini, but for the ambience, the atmosphere of cafe culture.

I did not pay to sit in a creche of screaming, free range, shit smelling, snot nosed mini Ruperts. I like children, really i do. I used to be one. I however was taught the importance of behaviour in a social setting.

One day, i'm gonna really hurt someone.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

Waterstones... Do you want my money or what..?

Shopping for stuff on the high street is bad enough for any self respecting bloke with a love of wasting time on other small matters, like having a life, watching telly and drinking fine ales. So it is bloody annoying when a well known high street retailer says that they will be having a big launch of a new product that i wanted to have a look at, and then fail to deliver.

Now i don't want to mention any names here Waterstones, but when you say that on a certain date you will have said gadgets on show, the very least you should do is, well, have them on show. Especially when you have been saying that you will have them on show for bloody months using big posters and suchlike, and i have travelled to a big shop, far away, especially to look at them with a view to buying one.

I didn't buy one from your store because i couldn't satisfy myself that it was what i wanted. So i looked at another model that was on show. I played with it, i felt it's gadgetyness, clicked the buttons and admired it's design. I wanted one. Now.

Imagine my surprise then when i queued to spend my hard earned cash to buy said gadget, to be told that there were not any in stock. So, let me get this straight Waterstones, the gadget i came to see that you had promised would be here, was not, and the gadget that i wanted, the one that was displayed.. for sale.. was not in stock.

Fine then... I shall spend my hard earned cash elsewhere. Fools.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

A Small Matter Of Manners.

Being a comedy fan, i read, listen and watch a fair amount of offerings from different comedians, writers and artists from all over the comedy world. Sometimes, i even write articles and interact online with some of my favourite comedians and websites.

On the Chortle website, they invite articles for publication from all writers, professional or otherwise, to contribute to their 'correspondents' page about all things comedy. So i did. That was a while ago, and since then i have heard nothing from them. Not even an email back to say thanks, but no thanks, you are a shit writer. So i say to any publisher out there, if you invite writers and contributors to your website, the very least you can do is respond with a note, one way or another. I would have linked to the Chortle website, but seeing as they can't be arsed, neither can i.

This is the article i wrote:

TITLE: Finding the podcast edge.
 
Being a tech head, i find most of my comedy fixes on the internet. That's not to say that i don't watch the TV or listen to the radio, but as a comedy fan who travels a lot, spending most of my time at the wheel watching life speed past at 70 mph, i listen to podcasts, finding my funnies where i can.

Mostly, these are found on Radio 4. Friday night comedy, Comedy of the week, The news quiz et al. However, i usually find myself working or unable to listen at the correct times, so the podcast of these programmes are especially useful. As funny as they are, i find myself listening to the same people, trotting out the same satirical jokes, but to a different political storyline that happens to be running that week. To be honest, it's getting a tad dull.

Newsjack, the all too short running series, woke me up a little to new writing talent. One line specialists, thirty second sketches and the like written by new talent with a new (ish) take on current affairs, but even that freshness can sometimes fall into the mundane satire of throwing bottles from the back of the room toward whatever political entity happens to make the news that week.

Yesterday, for the first time in a long while, i was listening to the news quiz from Radio 4. i had stacked up two or three episodes onto my player for a long journey i was making. Being a particularly dull journey, i wanted the laughs to keep me going. About a third of the way through the second episode, i switched it off. I wasn't laughing. The political point scoring by holier than thou comics and commentators just got too tedious to listen to. I had heard it all before, just in a different context.

TV could be said to be doing much the same. Mock the week being a particular culprit with the same comics, doing the same jokes, throwing the same bottles toward the same people. I find myself not laughing as much as i used to. The freshness has gone. The edgy, free thinking comics seem to have been replaced by the circuit comics who mostly try to outdo each other in the right on stakes.

So i find myself searching for something. The trouble was, i didn't know what i was searching for. iTunes provided me with radio shows dressed up as comedy shows. American podcasters are just a little too American for my tastes, although 'Sick and wrong' is a strong contender for a permanent place on my podcast list. Hint: It does what the title says. It does however, make me laugh.

In the last few weeks though, a comic has caught my eye. Not because he is new and fresh, but because he pushes out so much comic material that as a podcast listener, i was unable to avoid him.

You all (should) know Richard Herring. I caught one of his Warming Up podcasts a few days ago, and have since found myself downloading more and more of his comedy shows. The Edinburgh fringe podcasts, As it occurs to me, and the Leicester Square podcast are mostly a joy to listen to. His routines don't always hit the mark, but i have realised that in his search for better routines and comedy, he is taking bigger risks and different avenues in the hope of making me laugh. Mostly, he hits the mark.

Richard pops up on the TV and radio from time to time. Most people will associate him with Stuart Lee and assume that the Herring half of Lee and Herring has fallen by the wayside. Not a bit of it. It turns out that Richard has been working away furiously in the background producing some comedy gems in the form of podcasts and one man shows that are a delight to listen to.

This is one comedy podcast listener who is glad to have rediscovered him.

Is podcasting the future for comics? Probably not, as TV or radio is the pinnacle of making it in their line of business. But let it not be said that podcasts are a wasteland of unheard of comedy and comics. It could be that it is the very place for established comedians to try out something new. Try out a different avenue or satirical stance. To be fresh, to reinvigorate a routine and try it out online before taking it to the airwaves.

There is one podcast listener out here who is desperate to hear it.

Paul Martin tweets at @ukcameraman  

Old Fashioned Service.

I walk up to the counter of the local petrol station and offer the surly, callow youth my hard earned cash for the fuel at pump number 4. A fresh, crisp £20 pound note, to pay for the fresh, crisp 10 Litres of petrol.

Callow youth: "Would you like some chocolate? Only one pound a bar..?"

Me: "No, thank you very much."

Callow youth: "Coffee, Tea...?"

Me: (Sigh) "No, thank you very much."

Callow youth: "Anything else for you...?"

Me: " PETROL..! ALL I WANTED WAS THE BLEEDING PETROL..!! I don't want a half pound bar of fruit and nut, a choco Latte Frappe, or Lapsang fucking Suchong in a flimsy cardboard cup. PETROL..! That is all i wanted. Did i ask for anything else..? I would have collected it on my way in or asked you for it before offering you my cash, wouldn't i... WOULDN'T I..?"

That's what i wanted to scream at the spotty faced young whelk at the counter anyway. Today's counter staff of the forecourt variety are now instructed by their bosses to try and sell any old pap from the 'nearing the sell by date' box to every customer who passes in front of them. Even if i come in every day, they ask me the same bloody questions, trying to sell me the same bloody things.

One day... One day, i'm going to really hurt someone.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter. 

For Starters, I'm Just Pissed Off... At Everything.

There is a time in every man's life when we realise we are getting older, grumpier and more pissed off at the world than we ever could have imagined back in the halcyon days of our misspent youth. Not much got in the way of what we wanted to do, except our parents of course. You know, those guardians of our morals, language and time. A swift slap to the back of the head from your Father made you realise that something you had done was amiss and that said infraction of the rules should not be repeated, on pain of being sent to bed with no supper and a cauliflower ear.

Things have changed somewhat. Today's misspent youth carries on into a misspent adulthood with an attitude that carries over from the misspent youth. Trousers revealing the crack of a thirty somethings arse is not a pleasant sight. Tattoos covering vast swathes of skin along with piercings that would make an Amazonian tribesman blush seem to be the norm... and that's just the Women.

All sorts of things conspire in the current climate to make me angry, annoyed and darn well pissed off. So i have decided to open this blog as a dumping ground for all of the machinations that sometimes occupy my thoughts on a daily basis. I hope you enjoy, inwardly digest and maybe even learn something...

If not... You can fuck off.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.