One Way Ticket to Mars?

This afternoon, whilst I was supposed to be marking essays, I found myself reading this article on the Mars One project http://www.theguardian.com/science/2014/jan/19/mars-one-project-human-colony . 

I love the idea of visiting space, and when I win more than £6.70 on Euromillions I fully intend to buy myself a ticket on one of those Virgin Galactic flights. 

But the Mars trip has one major drawback. The article says that the four volunteers will be given a ‘one-way ticket’ to the Red Planet. Then it shows them smiling, doing domestic chores and looking all well-adjusted and normal. One woman casually says: ‘The majority of my communication with my family is by phone or text anyway, so I'm used to having them at a distance.’ What? How mad do you have to be to say goodbye to everyone you know and head off into space for the rest of your life? How are these people passing any kind of psychological test? Surely anyone that emotionally detached is likely to chop everyone else in the colony into tiny pieces then listen to Beethoven and drink tea as though nothing has happened?

A new licence test for teachers? What about a televised one for politicians?

Labour have announced that when they find a leader charismatic enough to win an election, sometime near 2050, they will introduce a licence system for teachers. Tristram Hunt (careful) is planning for teachers to be reviewed by a Royal College of Teaching to ensure that they are still all bright-eyed and enthusiastic, despite having been kicked around in the dust and left for dead by the Tories.

Seems fair, I guess, if you think that it will make any kind of difference, which is unlikely. What I was more struck by when reading the news was the idea that politicians, not teachers, should be put through regular licence renewals, mostly because it would make good television.

Part 1: Fitness. No one likes watching hugely overweight political figures squeezing their bloated bodies into the back seat of chauffeured cars. Let’s get them running. Over an assault course. With a shark pool underneath. Fail to complete in the time? Enjoy working in Burger King.

Part 2: The lie test. Bring in some of that fancy FBI equipment, rig them up, add some kind of electric shock penalty to boost ratings, then ask simple questions like ‘do you actually give a toss about the general public or are you just on some mad power trip?’ Bzzzt.

Part 3: Personality. Send them to the pub for a few beers. The task is simple. Have a chat, buy a few drinks, try not to upset anyone by being condescending or patronising. Easy? I doubt it. Imagine the great television as Cameron and Gove attempt being all chummy and cool before upsetting everyone and ending the night cowering beneath a table, hiding from a barrage of bottles and cold chips.

The Politicians’ Annual Licence Review Show. I think the title still needs some work.

My New Year's Resolution: To Eat More Desserts

My New Year’s resolution is to eat more desserts. It’s brilliantly attainable. I’ve had other resolutions in the past that have been far too challenging:

2009 – Go to the gym. Failed. Exercise is tough and should be reserved for experts who don’t injure themselves pulling their trainers on.

2012 – Write a book in a year. Failed. I spent the year writing stuff then deleting it. In fact I deleted stuff I had written in other years too. I ended the year on a negative word count.

2013 – Attempt some kind of diet, like the 5:2 whatever. Failed. I find it hard to remember I’m on a diet. Halfway through a pizza I get a niggling feeling that something’s wrong, but by the time I recollect the whole diet thing I’ve finished it off, had a few beers and got stuck into some Ben and Jerry’s.

However, during 2014, my eating more desserts plan is certain to be a glorious success. I might start small with some tinned peaches and custard. By March I hope to be enjoying regular chocolate tarts and trifles. As autumn kicks in I will be ending my evening meal by demolishing towers of profiteroles or eating tiramisu with my hands. 

At last a New Year’s resolution I can keep and one that can only end in happiness. Who’s with me?

I Make Shopping Look Difficult

This morning I thought I would head into town to buy some very simple items. My list included: toothpaste, deodorant, ice lollies and two 5mm screws. Stupidly, I’d forgotten that the post-Christmas sales meant that everyone else within twenty miles would also be shopping, which is fine, except I instantly crumble in crowds and forget how to do the most basic tasks.

My first interaction went like this:

Me: Sorry. I parked pretty wonky. My wife normally does it. Can you get in your car ok?

Some Man: Humph, it is a bit crooked.

Me: Right. I would move it, if you weren’t such a miserable git.

The last bit is not actually true. I used the remnants of my Christmas spirit to smile politely and graciously move my car so that my new friend, who watched with disdain, didn’t have to break his spine manoeuvring himself into his driving seat.

Next, I entered through the exit to a furniture store, mostly because I wasn’t concentrating and was functioning through a caffeine low.

Large lady with moustache: Erm, that’s actually the exit.

Me: Sorry. Today’s not going so well.

Large lady with moustache: Tut.

Feeling rather cross and patronised, I went to inspect the electric drill section, only for a man in a bomber jacket to stand directly in front of me. Not slightly to the side, or leaning in to view items, but directly in front, so that I had to move back to avoid some unwanted body-to-body contact.

Seven minutes into shopping, and without having made any purchases, I wished I’d stayed at home and shopped on Amazon. I’m all for saving the high street, but shopping online is brilliant. No one criticises the way you’re sat on the sofa, tells you that you’re browsing incorrectly or blocks your screen and stands so close that you feel horribly violated. Bring on the future when I can sit and watch my shopping drone cause chaos as I park it directly on top of anyone who looks irritating.

Tomorrow I need bread. I might take a very large and ill-disciplined dog with me. Shame I’m allergic.

Apocalypse

Sometimes I look forward to the apocalypse. It’s probably because I spend a lot of time reading The Walking Dead late at night and it’s warped my sensibilities. The emptiness. The desolation. The terror. It all seems so appealing after a day of Christmas shopping.

However, I’m worried that when it does happen, somehow the experience will be ruined by social media. Imagine our first responses as a zombie plague erupts. Facebook updates: ‘Party cancelled. Zombies at door. Lol.’ Twitter: #eatingmyfaceoff. Snapchat: a final and desperate bombardment of indecent exposure. I will probably write a stupid blog about it.  

And then the actual media will get stuck in. Our final days of television viewing before the technological meltdown will be filled with idiocy. Nelson Mandela’s death brought every megalomaniac and narcissist who had ever been within a continent of the great man into the media spotlight to proclaim that they had led him merrily on a dance to freedom.  As the world ends, our politicians will have one last chance to show how brilliant they are. David Cameron can tell us what a terrible tragedy it all is, but also that it was definitely not his fault, and that actually we should be blaming the previous government, who put the economic policies in place to encourage viral outbreaks. Michael Gove can blame teachers, but obviously not himself, because he went to Eton. 

As an indication that wiping humanity out is most likely a good thing, we can watch interviews with minor celebrities who are struggling to say the word apocalypse, but hope it doesn’t spoil the next series of Strictly. My final image as undead hands scrape at the door might be Louis Walsh spouting about Boyzone, because he didn’t understand the question, so he’s just taking one last shot at self-promotion. Horrible.