My issues with Bizspeak

Anyone who has read George Orwell’s 1984 will be familiar with newspeak.

In a bid to crush free thinking and creativity the IngSoc party - the government of the dystopian Orwellian future - erase words from the English language to create a stunted charmless functional new lexicon.

Those who are yet to read the novel but have spent anytime working in an office, will still be familiar with Bizspeak.

To sound intelligent businessmen and women invent, twist or change the meaning of existing words to create a corporate langauge of jargon filled unintelligible bollocks which makes normal people curl thier toes in pure cringeworthiness.

The Bizspeak top 5

Synergy

Meaning two forces working together. Used as team name in The Apprentice every season. The word is not actually new, it’s Ancient Greek, but has been seized by corporates. Usually used just after a merger and right again before most of the new people - who fail to synergise - get the boot.

Value-add

Apparently when providing a service, it is not only the service itself which is important. It is also the value added by said service. Used by companies who are too crap to provide the service promised in the first place.

Touchbase

Apparently “lets touchbase” is Bizspeak for “let’s have a meeting”. Often said using microphone headsets, grinning stupidly and leaning back in an wheeled office chair. Also has to be said loud enough for the rest of the office to hear. Why touchbase without anyone else knowing?

Moving forward

This one is a staple of salesfolk. Quite why you cannot simply say ‘the future’ when you are selling toner remains a mystery.

Skill-set

A skill-set is always discussed when a new person joins a firm and simply means skills, or in most cases, the number of lies told on a CV. “His/her skill set is in synergy with what we need at this company, after we touched base last week we had to offer them the job due to their value add”.

Bunch of fives: Five things that ruin Facebook

Using Facebook is like the social networking equivalent of meeting an ex after a messy break-up. Parts of it are so good you wondered how you ever lived without it, but most of it makes you wonder why you ever fancied it in the first place.

The Facebook break-up

Breaking up with someone on the phone is bad, breaking up with someone via text is worse, breaking up with someone on Facebook is unforgiveable.

The cry for attention

Leigh Jackson is... having the worst day ever.

Who cares? If you need to vent go and call a friend. Having 30 people replying to status updates to check on your sanity won’t make you feel any better. Having no-one reply is fail.

Unusual friend requests

I never spoke to you in high school. Why would I speak to you now?

Shit games

Vampire bite, Bear Hug, Farmville… the list is endless! Play shit games in your time, without sending me endless wall posts with top scores.

The Facebook poke

If you can’t be bothered to exercise your fingers and type someone a message reconsider your friendship.

The dress code short straw

There is often talk of the differences in norms and values between the sexes but the dress code has to be at the forefront of the stakes of injustice.

As a man I can grudgingly admit that there are some advantages to owning a penis, inlcuding guilt free sleeping around and the ability to urinate standing-up.

But I would consider trading both for more leniency when it comes to sensible business wear.

Men, either in the office, at a party or a wedding reception, have a lack of serious options for meeting those two hard to define words – smart casual.

Jeans won’t get the job done, and there is never a suitable occasion for formal shorts. Which leaves one option – the trusty shirt and trouser combo.

The more flamboyant can dress it up with a tank-top, jumper or maybe even a loosened tie but we are seriously bereft of options.

The fairer sex, on the other hand, have more choice than is proper and decent. Their sheer breadth of shoes says it all – all we have is black, brown, laces or loafers.

Don’t get me wrong - I am definitely pro choice. It’s the abuse to the system that this freedom of choice allows which must no longer go unchallenged.

As men have been stuck in the uncomfortable trousers and their stuffy shirts for as long as I can remember, fashion conscious women have been blurring the smart casual line for years.

Leggings are replacing trousers, boots are walking in the place of shoes and skirts are begin to work their way further and further up the leg.

But it is acceptable because it looks good. Very good in most cases!

So this not a plea for a return to strict Amish style office wear for women, it is just a simple plea for fairness, equal rights and egalitarianism.

And, of course, to be able to dress like a scruff at all times. What does smart casual mean anyway?

Both feet in the rugby camp

Like the third round of the FA Cup and the Ashes test series, the Six Nation’s Rugby is one of those marquee sporting events that I have to mark on the sporting calendar.

But only because I want to avoid it.

I have a curious aversion to the game - and that is not fair on the game itself. As a sport, rugby can be intense, exciting and dramatic. It's the fans I don’t like.

Perhaps that is harsh because the majority of fans are great – especially the Irish, the Welsh and Scots . It’s just the England supporters that boil my blood.

But it’s not all of them. Like the England football fans, where a minority are unbearable, there is a small group of national rugby fans who are so cringeworthy that I can only look at them through the cracks of my fingers.

And what it boils down to is whether you are in the rugby or the 'ruggers' camp. I know where I stand.

It’s the Toff Tofington crowd that I can't abide, the fans who proudly sing Swing Low Sweet Chariot without knowing its roots in slavery and cling to the Calcutta Cup oblivious to its nod to the dark days of imperlaism.

Every rugby fan knows at least one supporter who fits the indetikit.

They are the fans who go to the pub in their replica shirts with upturned collars and loafers and loathe football for its “common” roots.

They pedal the myth that rugby is for thugs but played by gentleman, despite the spear tackling, the eye gouging and the arse poking in the scrum.

They treat rugby like a mark of class. A badge of exclusivity that separates the middle class wheat from the working class chaff.

At least you can watch football down the local, away from the hooray Henrys and Henriettas who are trying to seize the game for themselves.

I will be watching the weekend games but purely from the safety of my own home.

Then I’ll hold my breath before I have to go through it all again next year.

Trying to defend the indefensible

My housemate and I have been friends for more than 20 years and on the way to the tube station last week, via memory lane, the topic of conversation turned to childhood.

We started talking about living with our parents, the things we used to annoy them and their, often failed, attempts at trying to rein us in.

All the standard fare got a mention. The ‘wait until your father gets home’, the grounding (usually lasting for just a few hours) and the often underrated, and now frowned upon, slap.

Then out of nowhere, he said: “Did you ever get accused of showing off?”

It was something I had long forgotten and brought back vivid memories of the hundreds of occasions when my Mum, trying to get me to stop acting up when we had company, would level the immortal accusation.

“All the time,” I said. “And it always worked!”

And it did. The words could make the most unruly teenager stop in their tracks and rack their brains for the best response.

But there isn’t one. And therein was its power.

What could you say that wouldn’t make things worse? Denying that you were showing off always made it look as if you were being nonchalant about showing off – thus making you look even more like a show off.

And admitting to it made you look arrogant. It was like saying “I am showing off. And what of it?”

There was even the schoolmate version. If your mates ever needed to bring you down a peg or two they could accuse you of fancying someone – the least appealing the better because whatever you said just made things worse.

It’s the golden ticket of controlling behaviour – I just wish there was an adult equivalent.

The telephone voice

The majority of people I have spoken to in the past few days will probably have forgotten the sound of my voice already.

It’s nothing personal – I don’t stutter, I don’t have a serious lisp and I don’t squeak. My voice is that of a bog standard man, with a Luton dialect and a spattering of slang.

But all bets are off if you call me in the office.

People who have spoken to me on my work number would certainly remember my high-pitched, overly-eloquent, trying-to-sound-important-but-failing tones.

Anyone who wants evidence of this need only call the office after 6pm to behold my business answerphone message in all its glory.

Admittedly, at first I thought it was just me. Then I was able to listen closely to my colleagues and knew I was in good company.

Even my contacts at other companies do it.

One lady I met sounded like Kathy Burke when I met her face-to-face, which was particularly funny as I mistook her for Joanna Lumley when she phoned me the day before.

But what is the reason for the plummy, over the top, wordy way of speaking to business contacts when most people talk to their mates they are just their usual foul-mouthed, inarticulate selves?

What is it about the office phone that turns Len Goodman into Stephen Fry?

Is it a need to feel comfortable among colleagues and contacts? Is it to impress others? Or do we all secretly want to sound posh. And do posh sounding people use more slang and drop their ‘t’s when speaking on the office phone?

My conclusion is that I don’t know. It’s a complete mystery to me.

All I know is that it won’t stop!

Black to the future

I can’t help looking at the escapades of Doc and Marty with great envy.

Ok, so I haven’t yet invented the flux capacitor and I haven’t figured out how to generate 1.2 giggawatts of power but my attempts at time travel have been doomed to failure since the day I was born.

I would like a go at surfing the time continuium but as a black man the chances of me enjoying a flying DeLorean are slim.

I reckon I, and most other ethnic people, would enjoy the future – especially with Barack Obama around to shape it.

But how would we fare in the past?

McFly was able to go back 1885 and 1985 relatively unfettered. Granted, his modern clothes looked stupid but that would be the least of my problems.

The 16th to the 19th centuries are out immediately, as is the American Deep South during most of the 20th century (to be fair I wouldn’t visit during the present day) and I would stick out a mile as a serf in feudal England.

I don’t often feel the need to issue advice but if I was ever asked I would respond as follows: always be polite, treasure your friends and never, under any circumstances, travel faster than 88 mph.

The results may not be as exciting as they seem.

Childen in need... of a drink?

Looking back fondly on our teenage years, we all remember being turfed out or refused service at a pub, bar or some kind other drinking establishment.

Memories of sending my tallest friend (measuring a jaw-dropping 6’3 at just 15) into our local off-license to buy as many bottles of Hooch and WKD as we could carry still bring a smile to my face.

And while the pimpled faced youth of today remain unwelcome in places for adults, there has been a emerging trend in even younger pub patrons... toddlers.

I don’t remember it becoming acceptable, welcome or fashionable but there seems to be an explosion of parents smuggling their very young children into bars.

I was with my sister in a pub a couple of Sundays ago and we were almost outnumbered by the little people.

Children were skipping around, toddlers were sitting in high chairs mashing their fists into food and parents were looking on admiringly wherever I turned.

And this was in the middle of the night.

Not having children myself, I’m not in a position to say what is good parenting and what isn’t but it seemed unfair to both the other drinkers and – ironically- the children themselves.

As an adult, the pub hasn’t managed to retain any of its mystique. Literally they are places that just serve alcohol – usually at rip off rates.

So, simply put – for a child – the pub is boring. Which was probably the reason why everyone under five feet tall was engaged in a game of tag.

And like all the other drinkers, I had to mind my ps and qs. No rude jokes, no swearing and no objectifying the opposite sex.

It seemed a tad selfish of the parents to me – the pub is clearly a place not meant for the under 18’s let alone the under 5s.

Maybe pubs should have special areas for children... or maybe parents should leave the young ‘uns at home and let us joyless, childless folk pickle our livers in peace.

Forced sisterhood?

A million comedians have told a million jokes about the subtle and not so subtle differences between the two sexes.

Men are competitive, aggressive and forthright, while women are sensitive, intuitive and caring.

And for the most part a lot of it is utter nonsense and overblown stereotype.

Who doesn’t know (and love) aggressive members of the fairer sex and how many women adore sensitive men?

The only thing that always makes me, and probably millions of other men, laugh is the idea of sisterhood.

What is it about girl power? How are sisters doing it for themselves? And what does 'you go girl' actually mean?

Ironically, It's all a load of bollocks.

How many women tell their friends they are well dressed but then tell everyone how awful they look when there back is turned?

How many woman mercilessly insult another women and then smile enthusiastically and hug and kiss them when they turn up at their local?

How many women praise each other on their looks, weight and body shape until they get into a particularly nasty argument?

Men too can be cutting and cruel…but too each other’s faces.

Most importantly, we don’t form cliques and pretend to like each other just because we have matching genitalia.

It’s silly to think that all women should get along just because they are women.

Women should take a leaf out of the manual and just admit that they are envious of their better looking rivals, be honest enough to tell each other when they look crap or open enough to tell someone a dickhead when the situation warrants it.

In some respects women really do need to man up.

Casual smokers

Not content with being unhealthy I am also slowly smoking myself into an early grave.

Unlike some smokers I picked up the habit fairly late and the moment I came to terms with smoking I felt stupid.

Not because smoking is inherently bad for you (or that it makes you a social leper) but because I used to be a preachy non-smoker.

And there is little worse than that...except for a casual smoker.

The transition from non-smoker to lung blackener is gradual process.

Now I am out of the smoking closet, have left the self denial behind and come to terms with it, it is impossible not to look back at myself and cringe.

Like looking back at old photos of yourself with once fashionable clothes or stupid hair there is nothing more embrassing than the phases of being a a smoker.

And it’s all because the phases between becoming an adolescent smoker and an adlt smoker are so annoying.

Fellow smokers, have you noticed that when non-smokers tell you how badly you are killing your lungs, casual smoker remain strangely quiet and never mention the fact that they smoke?

And casual smokers only smoke, or so they claim, socially – when they are having a drink.

But by far the worst is that they hunt in groups. And then they bum your cigarettes – never before has a pack of ten so quickly turned into a pack of two.

Casual smokers have a little smoker inside them struggling, scratching and clawing their way out desperate to blacken their lungs.

Either let the little bastard run free – or have the will be to commit an act of violence him.

Whatever you decide go and buy your own!

Racial profiling

As sure as an Englishman will always acknowledge a fellow Brit abroad, minority groups do much of the same here in the UK.

As a black person I often acknowledge other black people when I see them in public. Usually a nod of the head followed by us both muttering “alright” quietly and then going our separate ways.

It is not just black phenomenon either, I have seen my Asian friends do the same thing. In fact it is not even strictly a racial thing. If I see other Arsenal fans I will nod and mutter at them too.

It works particularly well when you are in a place where you are less likely to find people of the same background. It worked much better when I lived in Preston compared to where I live now in East London.

Some of my friends think it is strange and perhaps even racist. But it’s just a bit of fun… or so I used to think.

It seems that people are racially profiling me to make me do shit for them.

This phenomenon, which I call getting ‘blacked’ (insert your own racial term where appropriate), occurs when people try to use your colour as a flimsy pretext to get you do something for them.

I am always getting ‘blacked’ by the guy who sells The Nation newspaper, I constantly get ‘blacked’ by a tramp I see on Oxford Street and the 1,000 yard is useless against the charity guys who ‘black’ me almost on a daily basis.

And some people actually fall for it. Some guys hand over money and give up time on the basis of it.

Not me though – I’ve decided to walk with my head down from now on.

Beggars and choosers

There’s an old saying – which I think is British – that perfectly sums up our collective attitude to gratitude…beggars can’t be choosers.

Personally, I think it’s pretty apt. If you’re in need all donations should be gratefully received but apparently not everyone shares my views.

I found this out to my peril on Friday night. I’m out in Soho with my housemate, my colleagues and some of their buddies and we’re standing outside a pub.

The weekend’s finally come out of hiding and we’re in high spirits; smoking and drinking and laughing.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see a homeless woman ambling towards us.

I immediately begin to look solemn (for some reason I think it’s disrespectful to look too happy in front of the destitute) and begin rooting around my pocket for loose change.

I always try and give money to the homeless – not because I’m charity minded but because I believe in Karma – but being on the breadline myself there is only so much I can give.

So the homeless woman, seeing that I’m feeling charitable, come and stands next to our group with an old coffee cup in her hand and extends it in my direction.

My hand is in my pocket looking for a suitable donation, and the first coin my hand settles on is a five pence piece.

I smile at the homeless lard, feeling the warm glow that only comes form helping your fellow man, and place the coin in the cup.

She smile back....until she looks down and notices the denomination of the coin I’ve handed over.

Angrily, and with a look of utter disdain on her face, she empties the cup in my hand - which only had my shiny coin in it in the first place - and rages off.

I look at my drinking buddies no utterly bemused and they look back barely containing their amusement.

I guess beggars can be choosers.

PDA (Public Displays of Affection)

Being single – and I’m sure other singletons agree – that there is nothing worse than PDA.

Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with holding hands on the street. A cuddle in the park is also fine in my books. Even kissing on the tube is alright.

But dry humping near Oxford Circus station at rush hour is enough to make anyone feel queasy.

I’m leaving work with my colleague and as we round the corner to the tube station the resident homeless fella (which I have nicknamed Rufus – I don’t know why…he kind of looks like a Rufus) is leaning against the wall opposite.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see that his hips are thrusting but as he’s usually drunk at this time I just blame on Stella.

But on closer inspection his girlfriend (who I call Jane. Don’t ask) has her legs wrapped his waist and is enthusiastically bucking up against him.

All this at 5.30pm on a weekday – what’s more no-else seems to mind, or perhaps care, as they continue their daily dash out of the City.

My colleague, who was also been looking on chuckles and says “Jealous?”

I don’t even dignify it with a response.

Just an average European nation

British sport officially died in London on November 25th 1953.

Prior to England’s football match with Hungary they had not lost a match against a team outside the British Isles at Wembley since 1901.

The visitors won 6-3 and, after such a loss, you would have thought that the misplaced belief of England’s tactical and physical superiority would have died that day too.

But it didn’t. More than 50 years on the ‘Rule Britannia’ mentality still lives on – and it is rife in almost all sports.

If we really that great we would surely have more than one football and one rugby world title to show for it.

And with the Olympic games just days away there is talk of Britain bringing home a record medal haul.

Aside from the talents of Colin Jackson, Sally Gunnell and Linford Christie there has been very few world class British athletes to shout about in the last 15 years.

Like most people I’m sick of pretending to be interested in rowing or the ‘brave’ efforts of Paula Radcliffe – who will probably quit again if she can’t make the podium.

For the first time in half a century let’s be honest about our prospects.

We won’t win the World cup.

We won’t win the Ashes

And we won’t bring home a sackful of gold medals.

It’s about time we accepted our true place in the sporting world as an average European nation and not a global superpower.

The non-awaited return of the world’s least read blog

Those of you who thought that I had given up on blogging due to popular demand were sadly mistaken.

I have not grown tired of ranting or having a pop at the US – I just moved house and have been without the internet.

And now I’m back online I’m ready to take aim at things that have been annoying me in my absence – namely parents with pushchairs.

Ok, you’ve got children! We get it! It doesn’t mean that you can run your prams into the back of my legs when I’m trying to get into work.

Also, I’m trying to get out of the way - so don’t tut and roll your eyes when I don’t move at the speed the of light when you wnat to get past.

But the worst is pushchairs at rush hour. Unless you need to move your children during 9am or 5pm teach them to walk. What’s wrong with travelling between the hours of 10 and 4 anyway – everyone’s a winner.

Glad I go that off my chest.

People watching (Amusing things that you’ve missed in my absence)

My estate agent revealing that his hand was bandaged because a cat bit him.

A tourist with a cigarette asking a confused native if he had any ‘fire’ on him.

An angry mother in a Chinatown cake shop threatening to beat her hyperactive children ‘in every way possible’ (you had to be there!)

A man tiptoeing on a chair to fix an air conditioning unit and saying to his colleague ‘safety first’.

A grown woman crossing her arms and stomping her feet at her disobedient husband in Asda – and him promptly walking in the opposite direction pretending not to know her.

Rant of the week: Cultural aspirations

There is something that can be said for people who are comfortable enough within themselves to take real pride in their cultural influences.

One of the most interesting things about living in a multi-racial, multi-faith Britain is the different foods, music and entertainment we are exposed to.

However, it seems that there are some who are almost ashamed of their likes and dislikes, who aspire to attain a "high-culture".

And conversely some interests are frowned as "low-culture", and it is these things that some will try and distance themselves from for fear of ridicule.

When did it become so important to have a passion for the theatre and foreign movies, when what you really want to do is watch a big budget blockbuster.

Why has it become fashionable to deny a liking for mainstream pop music, or rap and garage, and pretend to like more underground, off-the-wall music?

Is it necessary to fake an interest in fine wine and foreign cheese, when all you really want is a bit of English mature cheddar and a can of Carlsberg?

Are you opinions less valid because you read The Daily Mirror rather than The Guardian?

And who decides which cultural influences are more valid than others? Should I really like Shakespeare more than Tarantino because I am told to? Or should I just admit that Pulp Fiction is better than Othello and not care what people think?

To me it seems odd that some people are so intent at being 'classy' that they seem to disregard their true cultural habits, to become something their not.

When in reality perhaps we should just be content in liking what we like and not what we are told we should like.

Rant of the week: Casual xenophobia

Whoever said hooliganism was the English disease had obviously never heard the good folk from ol’ Blighty talking about the French...

Or the Germans, the Italians, the Australians and those fortunates from the other colonies - just what is it with the English and casual xenophobia?

It’s bizarre to think that the utterance of the odd sly comment about race, religion and gender are all frowned upon but taking someone to task about their country of origin is deemed perfectly acceptable and in most situations considered funny.

Anyone who has born in England, like I was, was raised on a diet of Englishman, Irishman and Scotsman jokes, the crude observations on foreign motoring of Jeremy Clarkson and the historical nationalistic misconceptions of Blackadder.

Everyone form these shores knows the old adages about Scots being tight with money, Irishmen being stupid, anyone from the Mediterranean being greasy and Austrlians being criminals.

The real question is that while we taunt the krauts with two World Wars and one World Cup are we making fatal mistakes?

Are we breeding the divine right of an Englishman into future generations? Mocking other countries for age old conflicts that will soon die form memory?

Maybe as a nation we suffer form illusions of grandeur.

Britain was once had a ‘great’ empire with a naval fleet the envy of the world but while the influence of the small island has died it seems in many ways the infernal arrogance still lives on.

Casual xenophobia is surely the national disease - perhaps this is the reason nationalistic slurs just roll of our tongues.

Rant of the week: Pedants

There is nothing wrong with striving for accuracy, after all if something is worth doing, then it was worth doing right.

And there is nothing wrong with correcting mistakes - if it is done in the right spirit.

However, putting someone right isn’t about humiliation. Pointing out a simple mistake in an attempt to be witty is the trademark move of the pedant.

But who cares if Nike is pronounced Niekey, who is bothered whether the line ‘Play it again Sam’ is actually uttered in Casablanca and why can‘t I just refer to myself as me rather than I?

If you know what I mean, then why correct me?

Is there anything more irritating than those who love being technically correct?

Rant of the week: Tube paper readers

At the best of the times using the tube network means leaving your manners on the platform.

It’s a curious place where usual British codes of conduct are left by the wayside oftening resulting in chaos.

The underground killed chivalry; young men refuse to give up seats for old ladies and women in pushchairs are shoved aside by businessmen trying to get on at Canada Water.

But this week I noticed a new breed of tube commuter - the paper reader.

Seemingly innocuous the paper ready keeps quiet and rarely peers over the top of the Financial Times to even be noticed.

However, their pattern of behaviour changes dramatically as the train gets busier.

Despite not having enough room to take my hands out of my pockets on the Jubilee Line this week, optimistic newspaper readers have been trying to maintain their habits.

And it was bloody annoying.

I stood in front of one woman who tutted, sighed and moaned every time the train lurched and I brushed against her copy of The Metro.

At one point the train stopped and I knocked the paper clean out of her hand and almost failed to stifle a chuckle as she didn’t even have the room to bend over and pick it up again.

From Monday, I’m going to make it my mission to nudge any idiot who thinks that they have the space to read a broadsheet on a packed train.

And when they react with Superman eye lasers - I’ll pretend it wasn't me.