Everyone Needs an Algonquin

We Don’t Need No Education—Oh, Really Now?

SW/AWW — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 05:20:15 +0000

I told you children were stupid.

New research shows that youngsters are leaving primary school unable to spell, add or do times tables. According to a survey, more than a quarter of children aged between 10 and 12 cannot add two simple sums together without a calculator.

Dullards!

This comes just a few days after students worldwide panicked because Wikipedia went black for one day. Young people tweeted “How will I do my homework now?” (and worse yet, many wrote “What’s going on with Wikipedia?” Google it, idiots!).

And therein lies the problem: laziness.

We didn’t have Spell Check when I was young. If we needed to know how to spell a word, we would across the room to the bookshelf and look it up in the dictionary (where, thoughtfully, the definition of said word was also available, free of charge). No children had calculators either; shopkeepers were banned from selling them to minors. Those who did manage to get a hold of one didn’t even consider using it for mathematical reasons (hint: 5318008). Why would they? There was no reason to: that’s when brains are for.

Young people today seem to have willingly resigned themselves to not having to do things—if a machine won’t do it for them, then it must not be that important. Sadly, this seems to include thinking; I guess that’s just too much hard work for them to bother with. This can’t bode well for the future.

If you’re a parent worried about your child’s abilities, here’s a simple test: restrict his or her use of machines for one week. Without a calculator, can he complete his algebra homework? Without a computer, can she write an essay? Without a refrigerator, can he keep his meat and milk products from spoiling? Without her dialysis machine, can she remove waste and excess water from her blood? If the answers are no, your child is too dependent on machines and very likely a dumbbell.

You have my deepest sympathies. If they’re still in primary school, you still have time. Schedule an appointment with their teachers to come up with an action plan. Otherwise, I’m afraid your children will be on the fast track to a career as a fast food worker, criminal or the Chancellor of the Exchequer. No one wants that.

Censored!

SW/AWW — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 00:00:51 +0000

On January 18, you may have been disappointed to see that this webpage had gone black.

Yes, my words—the words of Agatha Whitt-Wellington—were censored from my adoring public.

Why? Because I was participating in the largest online protest ever, to protest SOPA/PIPA, two bills in the US that could severely limit Internet freedom. While the vote on SOPA may have been temporarily delayed, it’s not gone even though President Obama has criticised it (surprising, eh? as you know how much Congress and the Senate value his take on things). I may joke about censorship, but if the Internet were censored how might the Arab Spring or the Occupy movement have been affected? Would I be rolling in cash proceeds from my extensive back catalog if the Internet were censored? I shudder to think. That’s why we all have to do something.

What you can do:

1. Cherish those on the Internet who use their freedom wisely.

2. Use your freedom wisely.

3. Never give away your freedom.

4. Talk to people about what’s going on.

5. Stand up and do something, whether you’re in the US or not.

Of course, I’d never deliberately offend anyone’s sensibilities on my website, nor would I break any laws, because with freedom comes responsibility. But I won’t stand by doing nothing when our freedom is in danger. I hope you won’t either.

How To Beat Blue Monday

SW/AWW — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 23:00:22 +0000

Today is Blue Monday, which is supposedly the most depressing day of the year. Of course, there is some logic to back up this claim. The formula is:

So, according to the science boffins (at Sky Travel, mind you), 16 January 2012 will be the most depressing day of this year. I was surprised that this year didn’t lead to a slightly different conclusion, what with the world predicted to end and all (which I would’ve assumed might lead to a slight dip in happiness levels), but whatever.

You know me, I never argue with science—especially when it’s used to advertise a Murdoch media organ—so I guess, facts is facts, and today we’re all depressed. Therefore, I’d like to offer a couple helpful suggestions to get you through.

You see what I've done here? It's called satire.

1. This year, Blue Monday is also Martin Luther King Jr Day in America. Perhaps it would cheer you up to remember how far we’ve come with eliminating racism and making it safe to peacefully protest.

2. Get some rest, eat right, take some exercise and remember that whatever is wrong in your life is no worse today than it will be tomorrow.

I suppose if you’re struggling today, you could always try to distract yourself until midnight. Snuggle up with a copy of The Sun or The Wall Street Journal, maybe watch a show on Fox or a film you’ve saved on Sky+. Rupert Murdoch’s going to get your money one way or another, so give in to Blue Monday and do as you’re told.

If You Have Hair, Let It Down Once In A While

SW/AWW — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 01:30:54 +0000

It’s a family tradition in the Whitt-Wellington clan to be the life of the party. It originated with my great grandmother’s second cousin, Daisy “Legs” Lewis, who was an original Giggle Girl in Trenton’s most famous variety show (prop. Dominic Suspenders). Ever since then, my ancestors—particularly the female of the species—have had themselves some fun.

Getting your kicks is essential to feeling fulfilled in life. I don’t doubt that some scientist at some university somewhere proved somehow that having fun is beneficial to the nervous system or clears up spots or something, but I’ve never been persuaded by mere scholarly evidence; I’ve seen this proven before my very eyes. Having fun keeps you fit and frolicsome.

Now “fun” is an extremely vague word: what’s fun to one person isn’t necessarily a ball of laughs for another. That’s why it’s important for each of us to invest a little time investigating what “rocks our boats.” You may read of my adventures and think, “I wish I could live her life, it looks like great fun,” and you, of course, would be right. But don’t go chasing after someone else’s good time. Never deny the things that you enjoy, whatever they be, even if they’re activities that someone with even the slightest bit of class would find as tiresome as all get out.

One night when you’re just teetering on the thin line between pleasantly intoxicated and bleeding bladdered, reflect on the times when you most enjoyed yourself. Write them down in a list (write legibly) and keep this paper in a safe place (I suggest pressing it between two pages in a dictionary). Once you’ve sobered up, resolve to do one item on the list at least once a fortnight. I can guarantee you that—whether you’re playing backgammon, going to the pictures, or attending a key party—you will feel as good as I look.

Hair of the Dog That Bit You

SW/AWW — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 23:00:46 +0000

Welcome to 2012!

If you’re feeling inspired and came here for some advice on resolutions, don’t be a fool. I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions and neither do you; you’re just pretending. What you’re describing as inspiration is guilt.

That’s the problem with most of us: we get confused about our feelings. We say we love our partners, but if we’d just look a little more closely, what we really feel is hate. We say our friendships are motivated by loyalty, but they’re not: it’s usually envy (how you may feel towards me) or pity (how I may feel towards you).

I’m guessing that a fair few of you are waking rather “hungover.” You probably would describe it as a headache or tummy upset, and I’ve no doubt you are ascribing it to the copious amounts of liquor you lapped up during last night’s celebrations and/or commiserations. Of course, alcohol can eff your body up good and proper, but what are you really feeling? Regret? Shame? Impregnated?

These are the symptoms no hangover cure can help you with. Fortunately, my insight into the true workings of the human body (including the mind) can. Follow these directions—to the letter—and you’ll feel better.

1. Look yourself in the face (you will probably need a mirror to do so).

2. Notice the regret in your eyes (indicated by a red tinge, drooping eyelids or dark circles).

3. Consider what caused that regret (this may be a specific event or just an acknowledgement of your general failure as a productive human being).

4. Notice the shame on your face (indicated by blotches on the skin, hickeys on the neck or the red itchiness around your mouth as an HSV-1 blister prepares to burst forth).

5. Consider what caused this shame (make a note to call for an STD/pregnancy test on Tuesday).

6. Comment aloud about how unattractive regret and shame look on you. If you live with someone, get them to tell you you’re hideous.

7. Drink one litre of freshly juiced kale, lemon and garlic (if items are not available—and they probably won’t be because you’re not one to plan ahead, are you—drink eight ounces of milk that has gone off—which I bet you’ve got at least a pint of in your fridge).

8. Vomit.

9. Splash cold water on your regret- and shame-stamped face.

10. Get into bed and think about things until you weep yourself to sleep.

I guarantee tomorrow you’ll wake up renewed and ready to change your life. Or at least your sheets.

Scrooge I Am Not

SW/AWW — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 15:00:56 +0000

As expected, the excitement of this special day has softened all anger I felt about Christopher’s alcohol-fueled shenanigans of evening last. For, as Charles Dickens wrote in the immortal The Muppet Christmas Carol, “He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but lived upon the Total Abstinence Principle, ever afterwards; and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God Bless Us, Every One!”

‘Twas The Night Before Christmas

SW/AWW — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 20:36:17 +0000

Twas the night before Christmas, when into the house
Creeped little drunk Christopher, the Yuletide souse.
The Alka Seltzer was left right next to the Aga,
In hopes he would grab it instead of some lager.

Miss Agatha was nestled all snug in her bed,
Dreams of an incident-free Christmas danced in her head,
Though she quite certain it was too much to ask,
When she discovered that Christopher had taken her flask.

When in the kitchen there arose such a clatter,
She sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
She put on her slippers and her silk dressing gown,
Nipped out of the bedroom and headed straight down.

The amber of the streetlamp flooded the room
As she entered the kitchen, filling with gloom.
When, what to her wondering eyes did she spy,
But a little-too-merry boy, starting to cry.

Though he had promised this year to abstain,
She instantly thought, “Here we go again.”
He claimed to be sorry right down to his core,
Though he was interrupted when he fell to the floor.

Oh Stella! Oh, WKD! Oh, Malibu and Coke!
You’ve turned Christopher’s promises into a joke.
The night before Christmas is a time to deck halls,
But he’s pissed away, pissed away, pissed away all!

I hope your Christmas Eve did not include what has now become a tradition round here, a young man coming in intoxicated and spewing what are clearly the issues he has with his mother onto me. For once I’d like to fall asleep on Christmas Eve, dreaming of sugarplums, rather than questioning my level of tolerance that allows this pisshead to live in my home.

If you prefer the traditional version, enjoy and Happy Christmas to all.

The World Is A Stage, But The Play Is Badly Cast; This One Won’t Be

SW/AWW — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 02:39:05 +0000

Very exciting news! After much negotiation, the local Amateur Dramatic Society has finally secured the rights to the story of my life. Auditions for this much-anticipated production will be in mid-February, so you’re welcome, aspiring actors, for the thoughtful heads up from me. You’ve now got eight weeks to prepare for the role of a lifetime.

MAJOR ROLES TO BE CAST:

Agatha Whitt-Wellington: witty, gorgeous, sophisticated, ageless, seductive but not distasteful

Mother: brash, loud, unsupportive (complete plucking of eyebrows required)

Father: non-speaking role

Granny “Boots” Wellington: trouser-wearing

Headmaster: diminutive, unaware of how to behave in the presence of genius

Daphne d’Ebriété: elderly, wise, drunk in all scenes

Rupert Stanley Quim: elderly, stumpy, confused

Baron Von Schwarzen Wurst: debonair, accent of unknown origin

HRH Prince William: pre-hair loss

Christopher: good-looking, dependent (some nudity required)

Alice Wintergarden: jealous but ultimately harmless

MINOR ROLES TO BE CAST:

Lovers #1-45

Admirers #1-22

Arresting Officers #1-4

Doctor

Jeremy Irons

Competition will be tough: this is an important production and an incredible opportunity to be a part of the life of an amazing woman (that’s not vanity but the words of the judge who ruled on the intellectual property rights case).

After the holidays, I may be willing to give interviews to actors who would like to “get inside my head.” These will be by appointment-only; interested young men should send photographs and be prepared to run lines, if you know what I mean.

Service With A Smile

SW/AWW — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 19:56:02 +0000

No doubt this month you’ve been faced with a queue of some sort. Perhaps you were posting your holiday cards or getting a flu shot or purchasing a gift for a person you admire (note: my ring size is 4.5). You were probably annoyed by having to wait and when you finally got service, you were expecting a little compassion from the person behind the counter. After all, you’re a busy, important person and your time is valuable. If a service provider makes you wait, the least they can do is apologise, right?

I’m afraid I am unable to back you up on this one. As you know, I greatly admire manners and would love to be greeted with a smile by everyone who serves me. However, I also believe in keeping things in perspective.

Just for a moment, consider that person who is serving you. How’s their day going? While standing in line waiting to buy something is a pain, standing at the till ringing up other people’s purchases isn’t a barrel of laughs, you know. Of course, they’re probably being paid to do so (though undoubtedly not very well), but is pretending their life revolves around you and your happiness part of their job description? If in the end, you got my ring (I hope you remembered I prefer baguette rather than pear-shaped), the transaction’s been successful whether or not the clerk smiled at you or wished you a merry Christmas.

The run-up to December 25 can be stressful. If you can, make a smile part of all your public interactions. But if you don’t get one in return, try to be understanding. After all, it can be very tiring autographing book after book, and even the most sophisticated of authoresses can sometimes become frustrated. I’m sorry I kicked your child’s shin, but you got your book and isn’t that what you actually came out for?

Let’s Talk About . . . Freedom of Speech

SW/AWW — Sat, 03 Dec 2011 17:24:19 +0000

When I was about aged nine, each Tuesday, I would kiss my parents goodnight, climb under the covers of my bed, and take out the transistor radio secreted in my bedside cabinet. With the earphone in my left ear (in those days, we were satisfied with just the one), I waited patiently for my clock to chime midnight for that heralded the beginning of my favourite radio series—a locally produced lecture series called “Let’s Talk About . . .” There would be a few seconds of theme tune and then the voice of Dr. Langley Crispier, whom I imagined was most certainly greying at the temples in that most distinguished way many scholars do, would say “Let’s Talk About” followed by the most deliciously exciting pause before announcing the topic of that week’s episode. There was no way of knowing in advance what would be discussed. What made the anticipation so palpable was the fact that, after those few seconds of silence, that man could have said anything.

Except, of course, he couldn’t have said anything. He couldn’t have said “Let’s Talk About Barack Obama’s Presidency,” because this was long before Obama even dreamt of such a thing. He couldn’t have said “Let’s Talk About Emetophilia,” because that would have been too disgusting to hear about at that late hour. He couldn’t have said “Let’s Talk the Bomb That Will Be Hitting Our Town in Three Minutes,” because that would have caused total panic. He couldn’t have said “Let’s Talk About the Policy of Adding Poison to the Food Served at Tim’s Cafe,” because that would have been slanderous (and anyway Tim’s Cafe was a major sponsor of the show and the food there was delectable). Despite America’s laws protecting free speech, Dr. Crispier was not totally free to choose the topic for that night’s speech.

This why I feel compelled to punch in the face those who defend the obnoxious shite that is spewed by the likes of Jeremy Clarkson, David Irving and Ann Coulter with the phrase “Well, it’s a free country and we have free speech.” I don’t stoop to violence, of course, but goodness me, I sometimes want to.

The first problem involves the word free, which can mean “without cost.” Do you think Jeremy Clarkson would be willing to post a rebuttal here for free? I’ve a feeling I’d have to provide him with a rather large cheque for the privilege of publishing his “free” speech. But cost does not always refer to dollar signs. Ask a parent whose gay son committed suicide because of bullying or a worker whose rights are abused because his employer is non-union. The old chestnut “You can’t yell Fire! in a movie house” is true because people could get hurt. Words that perpetuate ignorance and hate may be without cost to Jeremy Clarkson, but someone is paying the price for them everyday.

Ultimately this is what is most important about free speech. Freedom works best when it’s coupled with responsibility. The greatest gift that language offers us is its ability to change the world. I so admire those who use that gift wisely.

I am not arguing for changing laws protecting free speech. But with freedom comes responsibility. If an injured fox were lying in my driveway, I technically have the freedom to run over it with my motorcar. Despite this freedom, I would not because it would be cruel, stupid and messy. It would not be the right thing to do.

But Jeremy Clarkson would run over the fox. And then the BBC would pay him thousands of pounds to talk about it on a television show. And if people were offended, the Sun newspaper would accuse them of wanting censorship.

And that makes me want to vomit (and not in a sexy way).