Business venture naming nightmare of the day...

Take one gargantuan Russian oil company. Merge it with one of West Africa's most powerful energy providers. What do you get? Click here to find out.


AC

Murraymania / Andymonium / Go away, please

Rack another one up for the guest contributors. Today it's Henry Birkbeck's turn. Henry runs a small business customising and painting shoes through his website leshouvre.com. Instead of setting up a petulant, moany website complaining about the world, Henry has done something cool, creative and hopefully profitable with his internet connection. Not that I'm jealous or anything. Regardless I'm not sure I can overstate how frickin cool his custom shoe designs are. Like 'em? Well order a pair of unique, one-of-a-kind, hand painted, individually designed shoes here. Mention you came from Hot Rant and Henry will give you 25% off. Anyway he's taken a break from being annoyingly cool to write up a little rant on the topic of Andy Murray:

Wimbledon – the ol’ SW19. Those currently employed (as well as those who just think tennis is a shit sport) could be forgiven for not being up-to-date on the latest from the All England Club, but given that I watch a lot of daytime TV at the moment, it’s fairly inescapable. This year is perhaps the most exciting in recent memory because Andy Murray, the very embodiment of home-grown Scottish British talent, may almost sort of slightly perhaps have a shot at the Gentlemen’s Singles title. Maybe. And boy, do we like those odds.

It’s not Murray himself who annoys me – he may be a surly, wiry haired Scotsman, but he seems decent enough. No, what gets to me is the press; the relentless broken record that is the British media. At least Henmania was generally tempered by an undercurrent of realisation that Tiger Tim was about as dangerous as a house cat in the Rajasthan jungle; his eyes desperately pleading for approval as he clenched his skinny fist in a futile display of faux agression before again getting whupped. But the general attitude towards this year’s ('Murray's year!' (c) British press, 2009) tournament is borderline ridiculous.

Plain and simply: Britain is not very good at tennis. There once was a man called Fred Perry. Sure, he was great. He won lots. He was British. Unfortunately for us, the last time he won Wimbledon was in 1936. As in, 73 years ago. And no British man has won since. And I know that’s a long time, and we’re all desperately hoping for a Brit to reclaim the men’s title, but seriously, chill out.

Murray has never won a Grand Slam. Yes, he just won Queen’s, but he has a much better track record in smaller tournaments. Yes, he got to the finals of the US Open last September, but in my opinion that was largely a fluke, and he still got pummelled by Federer, who last time I checked, was pretty bloody good. Again, I’ve got nothing against Murray, but I cannot stand the unnecessary hullabaloo that the press is making about his significance.

Case in point: Federer’s pre-Wimbledon 2009 interview with the BBC, in which they ask him (a) “do you expect to play Andy Murray in the final?” and (b) “why do you think Andy Murray has such a good record against you?” Clearly displeased by what he’s been asked, Federer delicately points out that though good, Murray played him when he had back problems and mononucleosis. In other words, he basically said: “I am better, bitch”.

Perhaps these feelings of anger bubbling inside me are not anti-British sentiments, but instead illustrative of my very Britishness: maybe this stuff gets to me because I know Murray probably won’t win, because Brits never win anything (except Olympic cycling), and I’m just trying to be pragmatic and setting myself up for failure. There is also a lot to be said for the rapidly declining British trait of not making a fuss about things. But ultimately, who cares? Really, I just wish Murray was asked more questions like those asked by Jonathan Ross when he interviewed him last summer. My personal favourite: “Are there people, who, because they look a bit funny, it’s hard to play them?” Now that’s what I call sports journalism.
Henry Birkbeck - Le Shouvre: Custom Hand-Painted Shoe Designs

Tragedy update

Hot Rant is sad to hear of the demise, hot on the heels of Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson, of the US equivalent of Cillit Bang's Barry Scott, Billy Mays.

We had never heard of him before today, but a quick glance at his output revealed that he invested his advertising pitches with an intense, ranting, messianic quality sorely lacking in these parts since Scott (rumoured to be a RADA-trained actor - a rumour ignored by us) in his heyday.

Take it away Billy;



AC

Uri Geller

The recent untimely death of the King of Pop has, amongst other unfortunate consequences, led to Uri Geller stealthily bending himself back into the public eye. Having switched on BBC News 24 to find out if Jackson was indeed dead, I was immediately confronted with the voice of the Israeli savant / psychic repeatedly stating "I can't comment on that" when faced with the question: "When did you last speak to Michael?" Pray tell, Uri. You were perfectly content to discuss your friend potentially being alive or dead live on the air as the news unfolded, but to discuss when you had last telephoned each other would obviously have been a severe breach of privacy? I suspect the real reason may well have been that even Wacko Jacko got fed up with the incessant pestering and pseudo-spiritual mutterings of this self proclaimed paranormalist. His presence so annoyed me that I spent much of the night wishing that his middle name was Nate. Childish.


Geller's resurfacing has once again raised the troubling question of what the hell his profession actually is. A cursory Google confirmed that "Uri Geller is most famous for his claim to be able to bend spoons and keys with his mind." This claim has always baffled me. Firstly, if you had psychic abilities to be able to move and bend objects with your mind, why on earth would you simply focus on keys and spoons? Surely this man could become an international force for peace and good by bending guns so they couldn't fire, blunting criminal's knives or even just fixing people's glasses when they got a bit bent.

This raises the very real possibility that his powers really do only extend to spoons and keys, which if you ask me is a little bit rubbish. I am struggling to see any use for these skills, except maybe for when you bend a spoon by putting it in really hard ice cream. Even then I fear his super-exclusive mind bending skills could be undercut in the market place by some enterprising labourers willing to just use their hands. To my uber-bitter unemployed graduate mind it all seems a bit unfair that he has forged a career centering around ruining metal implements that are otherwise quite useful. Then again I am trying to sell myself to employers on the basis of my in depth knowledge of Early Modern state building . So touche Uri... touche


A visit to Uri's website is quite a treat. Immediately unsettling is his cautious pronouncement: "This website could change your life for the better". Not will, but could. Furthermore, if you know someone who is learning to speak English as a second language it would be interesting to see what they make of sentences such as: "Spoon bending is just the tip of the iceberg!" It seems pretty pointless to go into the details of why Uri Geller does not actually possess psychic powers but lets just say that claiming to have made a Scottish international miss a penalty is about as impressive as me waving my hands at the sun and then claiming the credit for it setting.

But back to more pressing matters. In a show of remarkable attention-seeking in such a sensitive time, Geller,

in an interview with Channel 4 News ... admitted hypnotising the late pop star to question him about the child abuse allegations that dogged his final years. Geller stated that although he knew questioning Jackson under hypnosis was unethical, hearing him deny the accusations while in a trance confirmed innocence in his eyes.*

Well thanks, Uri. I hope that the next mega pop star to shuffle off this mortal coil has the foresight to pal up with a mystical maverick who actually has a job title - spiritualist medium, pehaps?

FC and AC

*The Independent, Fri 26 June 2009

Textbook rant

If you've seen it, watch it again.

If you haven't seen it, you're in for a treat.

"Do you understand? Do you understand?"



AC

Bear Grylls

Time for another contribution now. This hot, hot rant comes courtesy of filmmaker, raconteur and renowned cottager Fish Stock. Take it away, Ed!

Question:

Why is Bear Grylls a wanker?

Answer:

First of all his name is actually Edward Michael Grylls. Surely anyone who changes their name to “Bear” is a wanker. Almost as big a wanker as the late Conservative politician, Sir Michael Grylls, Bear’s father who was knighted in 1992, having lied two years earlier to the committee on members’ interests on the number and amounts of Ian Greer’s payments to him during the Cash for Questions scandal. Interestingly Michael Grylls managed to avoid notoriety unlike former Tory trade minister Neil Hamilton, who married Grylls’ secretary, Christine…

But I digress…

Recently aired on Channel 4 were repeats of Born Survivor.


Born Survivor saw Bear wandering around what may as well be Epping Forest, looking for discarded sandwiches to stave off the hunger when one of the 4-man camera team he travels with thought, for realism’s sake, not to invite him to dinner at the hotel the crew are staying at. Whilst you and I, and hopefully everyone else must realise that the locations are no more exotic than Windsor Great Park, we’re led to believe that Bear instead braves the Alps one week, and the fjords the next.

One particular episode of this insult to Ray Mears’ hallowed name sees Bear stalking purposefully through the swamps of the Everglades in Florida. Completely isolated in this most dangerous of habitats (bar of course the camera crew and rescue team hovering overhead in the Lynx) he’s forced to confront the local fauna by engaging in hand-to-hand combat with, er, some minnows, a handful of grubs, a baby frog and a turtle that looks uncannily like Dan Akroyd’s face in Coneheads.

The camera never actually shows anything that might qualify as a dangerous creature but Bear, not worried by this lack of drama, decides to add some of his own – by shimmying up a tree when he sees in the distance... bubbles. That’s right. Bubbles. He and the crew then turn tail and run/splash/trip in a most undignified manner, to the sound of Bear screeching “we’re too close! We’re too close!” To what Bear? A flatulent beaver?


When it comes to survival techniques, however, Bear is highly accomplished. “Lost” in this most forbidding of terrain, he needs to find higher ground. But fear not! Bear has a solution! He ties his shoelaces together and shins up a tree with all the charm and grace of Gordon Brown smiling on Youtube. “I’ll be able to get a glimpse of some pine trees,” he tells us, which is good “because they grow on dry ground”. He gets to the top, and shins back dejected. “I couldn’t see any” Oh, right.

Bear is a man who appears to hold the weight of the world on his shoulders as his furrowed expression shows us. He is clearly in danger every time he hears the breeze rustling through the trees, something he learned during his years at Eton. “The swamps are so forbidding. Anything could be lurking in the water”, he tells us, wading past some crisp packets and a shopping trolley.

Seeing the crisp packets has obviously made Bear hungry. The Everglades episode shows Bear taking a knife to a turtle and appearing subsequently with his T-shirt drenched in the unfortunate reptile’s blood. Later in the series we are blessed with an image of Bear snaking through a field of long grass (I believe they’re in Shrivenham) with a stick. Suddenly he jumps up letting loose a blood curdling scream as he hurls said stick ’somewhere’ into the grass from no less than 3 different camera angles. He dives in like a bored dog after his stick, presumably trying to alleviate himself from the mind crushing dullness that programming like this propagates, subsequently emerging with what can only be described as the still body of a young Elk, which our intrepid explorer promptly begins to hack at with that bit on a Swiss army knife for getting stones out of horses’ hooves…

Thankyou for the magic Mr Grylls.

But wait. Bear, old boy, I do believe you’ve led us astray! Although the title of your laudably egotistical programme is in fact “Bear Grylls: Born Survivor” one must look at the credits for a further insight into the production of this sham of a mockery of a mockery of a sham. My thanks instead should be directed to Kris Thoemke who is honoured on the credits as “Survival Expert” with Bear down only as “Presenter”…

Clown. Fish Stock

Micro ramble of the day

What a great combination of two of my favorite pastimes, and one that works to surprising effect. This is pretty much a representation of what would happen if you compressed my whole university experience into five minutes. A particular favorite line is: "let these snakes bite you for a little bit and they will make it all better." Medicine really did used to be mental. Although after reading Ben Goldacre's Bad Science, our whole feeling of superiority towards old medicinal techniques may be somewhat undermined by the fact that homeopathy is now taught in numerous universities. I'm going to put it out there that if you are a homeopath, or spend lots of money on homeopathy, then frankly, you are an idiot. FC