The Sin of Envy…and Some Other Sins {Ceri's Column}

Man alive, that green-eyed monster is an awfully selective beast. He lives just above my cerebellum, right next door to the gnomes that run my conscience and sense of shame. He occasionally feeds on the gnomes and wotsits but mostly on the painfully huge talents of others.

There’s many a person who turns me a grassy hue when I consider their ability or achievements. Seth “I created, voice and often write for my own selection of massively successful animated sitcoms that is watched by millions worldwide” MacFarlane is one. Matthew “So yeah my voice is kind of samey in my songs but I seem to shit innovative modern rock classics without any need for laxative AND play my axe better than anyone in the rockesphere right now” Bellamy is another. Rick “Holy shit I’m lucky that everyone is Rick Rolling each other or I’d have probably stuck my head in the oven a loooong time ago” Astley is not one.

There are a few people around who don’t stir the beast in my bonce. For some reason, Eddie Izzard and Robert DeNiro don’t. I admire them, I wish I possessed a trillionth of their respective talents but I don’t envy them. They’re…too good.

Robert Plant – Too good

Bill Hicks – (was) Too good

That bloke on E4…y’know, the voice-over dude – Too good

Richard Dawkins – a fundamentalist atheist and painfully over-exposed pop “philosopher” who’s stunning lack of logic, understanding of the basic tenets of Religious language and an annoyingly snappy dresser….shit I’m well off course here.

What the hell was my point?

Oh yes…uh…Usain Bolt – Too good. Yeah, that’ll do.

The Whisky and The Unknown {Ceri's Column}

Sceptical losers like me are amongst the most easily frightened of folk. I mean, when you don’t immediately “believe” in every little unexplained or unexplored phenomena that you hear about, it is horrifying when it comes and slaps you in the gob…basically, I’m a bit of a wuss. I mean, your mind can play tricks on you. Not nasty, put-a-turd-in-my-car’s-air-conditioner sort of a trick. Annoyingly scary tricks.

Right, let’s get on with it! Submitted for your approval, the case of Mr. C. Phillips and a slit in the fabric of time. I think.

I’m an avid reader of the Fortean Times (a top quality publication, read it!). I’m an enjoyer of all things macabre and outlandish.

I was getting rather drunk in one of my favourite haunts in Swansea. I’d just finished regaling a fellow Fortean with factoids regarding a spooky cluster of events that occurred prior to the 9/11 attacks, (nothing “paranormal”, just statistical anomalies), and listened to tales of his grandmother’s apparent sixth-sense. So the evening had already acquired an air of the bizarre. I departed the bar with thoughts of faces appearing in smoke clouds dramatic peaks in miscarriages of male babies and Mike’s gran whirling around in my impressionable young mind. Then, out of the corner of my now very bleary eye, I spied the strangest of events.

A young lady, ready for a classic night of debauchery on Wind Street, (Swansea’s famed, puke-washed drinking centre) sauntered past me in full French maid’s garb. “Got a light?” she asked. I obliged and she walked off into the distance. Thirty seconds later, an IDENTICAL girl (in the same clothing, same height, face etc), sauntered past. “Got a light?” she asked. “No fucking way!” I exclaimed. She gave me a decidedly disgruntled look, murmured an expletive and walked off.

SHITTING HELL! I was a bit scared. Had I just witnessed a case of inter-dimensional mingling or even seen a real-life doppelganger headed to assassinate the other…or something? I sat aghast in my cab home, wondering how exactly to word my letter to the “It happened to me…” column of the Fortean Times. Surely I could get it into the September Issue?!

Then a thought struck me…well, a one word thought struck me.

 Twins.

Fucking twins. Buggering bloody balls!

Eight glasses of Laphroaig and a few tall tales and I became a “believer”. Man, the human mind can be complex. 

Or I’m thicker than Chupacabra shit.

by Ceri Phillips

Team Name Shame {Ceri's Column}

Sports team’s nicknames are very funny, very rarely cool and totally unnecessary. I am a huge rugby fan but supporting my local team has become, since the change of system from domestic to regional rugby, very very difficult. I love our jerseys. I love our stadium. I love our branding. I hate our name.

The Ospreys.

What a shitty name. As far as seabirds go, they’re a bit dull. Quite pretty and live nowhere near Wales. And we named our team after them. Yawn. It doesn’t even have any historical reason. It’s just shite.

But we got off lightly. Stateside, where there is more of a tradition of calling your beloved team something shit, there are a 5 of the best names that just made me piss. With laughter. Not literally. Ugh. Here they are:

  1. Abilene Christian Wildcats – The notion of a wildcat worshipping Jesus and co really made me chuckle. Plus the good people who support this College football team have to endure this illogical beast as the emblem of their team. That also made me laugh a bit.
  1. San Francisco 49ers – This famous American football team’s name has a very curious derivation. Named for the thousands of prospectors who, in 1849, rushed for the gold supposedly lying about in the sandy ground of California. So, you could say, the San Francisco “Went 400 miles westwards to find nothing but dust, caught cholera and got my foot blown off by dynamite”ers.
  1. Brooklyn Bridegrooms (19th century baseball team)/Columbia College Fighting Koalas – Joint winners of Ceri’s Least threatening team name.
  1. Chicago Fire – Seems Ok? Pretty cool? Nope, because in 1871 there was a Chicago fire. The GREAT Chicago fire. Killed thousands. So way to go, Chicago Fire FC of the MLS. Let’s see if we ever see a London Blitz or Chernobyl Nuclear Disasters?
  1. Edmonton Oilers – This Canadian hockey team can only really keep this name for a few years. Soon they’ll be the Edmonton “Remember when there was oil?”-ers.

Something About Eleanor Rigby {Carl Packman}

Douglas Coupland, the author of Generation X: Tales for an Accelerated Culture and populariser of the word McJob – to mean unskilled work, product of the transformation from industrial to postindustrial labour – suffered loneliness when he was a young man, influencing his later novel Eleanor Rigby.

He once spoke of his lonely experiences in the Melbourne broadsheet The Age:

If they told us in school that there was this weird thing you were going to experience the moment you turn 20, that would have been a great service. It might be just a North American thing but you always have to smile for the camera and give it your best. Negative emotions, or inevitable emotions, never get discussed.

His book, as those of sound musical mind will know, is named after a song by The Beatles about an old woman who dies lonely, and whose funeral is only attended by a priest called Father Mackenzie, who may or may not be based on a real ‘Father’ Tommy Mackenzie.

Oddly enough, Rigby herself existed, and is buried in a graveyard in Liverpool where Lennon and McCartney used to spend their bored days.

The Beatles anthology, the name of a documentary series of three albums and a book about the band, mentions that McCartney ended up not thinking that it was all a coincidence, but rather that Rigby was hanging around in his unconscious.

If the story is to be believed, one day, on his own, at a piano, the first line of the song just came to McCartney:

The first few bars just came to me, and I got this name in my head… ‘Daisy Hawkins picks up the rice in the church’. I don’t know why. I couldn’t think of much more so I put it away for a day.

On Tuesday, the Daily Mail published an article about how children in the age of web 2.0 – the social networking class – “are twice as likely to feel lonely as those over 55.” The article cites the Mental Health Foundation as saying that the modern world is making the young more vulnerable. This quote is not in quotation marks, but a quote by Dr Andrew McCulloch, chief executive of the foundation, is in quotes. He says: ‘The internet is not a root cause of loneliness but it can exacerbate the problem.’

Typical Mail. They provide an analysis of what the foundation have said first which ends up contradicting the quote they use by the chief executive of the foundation.

Dr McCulloch’s point is of course the one to listen to, at least half of his point is; that the internet is not the cause of loneliness, but it might make the problem worse. But then, if you’re lonely, what will help? How can we really tell if the internet is not helping the loneliness of a lonely person? Sounds like guesswork to me.

The internet might not help (Help! I need somebody Help! Not just anybody Help! I need someone Helllllllp! – as John Lennon once said) but what exactly do we have to prove that it might exacerbate the problem? Nothing.

But even so, doesn’t the song Eleanor Rigby teach us something about modern kids and loneliness; namely that when Lennon and McCartney were kids they would hang around graveyards, and become consumed by names on graves who forever more linger in their unconsciousnesses. Lonely or not, kids today ought to count themselves lucky they have internet porn and pac-man to play with rather than creepy, haunted carcass parks.

But also, most importantly, the song Eleanor Rigby was written when McCartney was alone on a piano. To be alone is one of the few pleasures left in the modern world, where hell is other people more than it has ever been.

by Carl Packman

You can read more of Carl’s thoughts and articles on his blog Raincoat Optimism.

Not so Hidden Gems {Ceri's Column}

By Ceri Phillips

Every once in a while I stumble upon something wonderful. Well, to be more accurate, I walk along quite briskly, late for a meeting and then, on stopping for a moment, usually to tie a shoelace or spit out some gum, realize where I am or where I seem to be or around or about to experience and it turns out to be something wonderful. But my opener has more zing…the fuck was I writing? Ah yes, the last time I happened upon something wonderful was a week or so ago in good old London, (oh, for those of you who don’t know, London is a quiet, unassuming city near Slough). I was busy shopping for a few essential items in Covent Garden; essential items like root beer, American chocolate bars and impractical yet highly fashionable boots when KABLOOM! Thunder. I hate the frigging rain so I took cover in the first shop I could see. A place selling frozen yogurt.

Now, I am not the biggest fan of most frozen desserts apart from ice cream and I must concede that I am a total ice cream Nazi. Anything less than orgasmic ice cream is spat across the restaurant/parlour/funeral home into the coffin (sorry Aunty Em). Most other frozen desserts are gimmicky bollocks or pretentious “palate cleansers” used to add on £7.50 or more to your bill. Frozen yogurt is just not my thing. Plus, this place is called “Snog”. The name made me remember awkwardly tongue-poking braced acne sufferers in the corner of some dingy disco…when I was a teen, I hasten to add.

However, this particular vendor of iced cow juice is so fucking extraordinary that I will not only go again and again, I’m buying some god damned shares in the business!


Seriously now, this place rocked my tiny mind. First off, the fact that green tea frozen yogurt is available here wooed me past my initial pessimism. My girlfriend suggested I try a smaller size, pointing to a gluttonous child sitting with a “Medium” that should be called an “Oh fuck I need some stomach staples, Mum.”  After you pick a size and which flavour yogurt (plain, green tea, or a rather stunning dark chocolate) you get to pick toppings and sauces. I got an original flavour with white chocolate stars and a shot of espresso on top.

Sweet shit! My taste buds have barely recovered! I swear I heard a tiny muffled “Oi! This tastes like shite” emanating from the end of my tongue last time I ate some Ben and Jerry’s. Must have been the LSD.
The best thing about this chance discovery was exactly that; it was a total fluke. If I’d been told about this place by a trillion trendy Hoxtonites and urged to “pop in when I have a mo” (or however the fuck they’d phrase it), I would have enjoyed my experience. I would have thought “yeah, this is nice”. But finding it myself, as if I were customer numero Uno and therefore “special”, amplified the pleasure.
So next time you’re walking from one tube station to another or (if you don’t live in London) from one…uh…taxi rank to another…please stop and look at the shops and cafes around you. You may just discover a not so hidden gem.

Ceri Phillips is a young writer and actor currently playing Ollie in BBC’s Coming of Age. He’s also creating comedy forhis sketch group ‘Le 122’.

Dear DONOVAN: Why do birds

Meet DONOVAN. The unforgiving, cynical, potty mouthed agony uncle. No one knows why his name’s always in caps, maybe he shouts it for emphasis.

** Disclaimer: The views, colourful language and opinions expressed in this article are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Frostmagazine.com **

Dear DONOVAN,

I was pooed on by a bird. Why do people always say it’s lucky if a bird poos on you…?

Chris from Waterford

Chris,

I hope you are referring to the feathered type and not Two girls One cup!

…or some hooker with a dodgy stomach who has convinced you out of embarrassment that “it’s all the rage in Holland!”

I have no idea why, and refuse to look it up on Wikipedia as it’s a waste of my time and yours to do so!

I can only imagine they mean that it’s lucky it missed your eyes or mouth!

And In what other situation would that be an acceptable thing to say?

If you worked in a zoo and a ruddy great elephant or hippo dropped a big on one you, your mates wouldn’t say that’s lucky would they?

They would just laugh; so would everyone else watching; maybe even film it and stick it on YouTube! and then not speak to you for a few days.

So stop this stupid superstitious tradition and have the fucking guts to say “that’s soo fuckin funny mate how unlucky was that!!!!”

If it was really all that lucky you’d get flocks of businessmen, homeless people and fellers holding lottery tickets lying on the ground in Trafalgar square having spiked bird seed with chilly powder waiting to be shat upon!

Then masturbating themselves into their own oblivion saying I’m so fucking lucky!!! check out my goggles.

While I’m at it, what the hell is so lucky about a rabbits foot?? It wasn’t lucky for the poor rabbit!

Chris you remind me of a much younger me, before the sexual abuse and eczema!

don’t let these silly people get to you.

I’m sending you a DONOVAN mug and at least 3 strands of my pubes (Framed).

God bless you young man.