{August 17, 2009}   Monday hangovers

Usually my journey to work is the same as every other public transport commuter’s: the monotonous trudge to the bus stop, a frustrating wait for a bus that should’ve been here fifteen minutes ago, and then the familiar and routine drive to the office. Sometimes, though, the trip in is entertaining in ways you’d never expect, for the tiniest of reasons.

On Saturday night, as I was walking home from what was, in and of itself, a pretty bizarre night out, I came across a ginger-haired man passed out in the street in a pool of his own vomit. Several people just walked right by him before I found him, but I figured I might as well stop and see if he had any money in his wallet, or at least steal his shoes. He didn’t, and his shoes weren’t the right size, so instead I just called emergency services and waited with the drunkard until the cops arrived to bundle him into the back of a van. End of story?

Nah. Two days later (today), I get on the bus and lo-and-behold, who do I spy? It’s our poor ginger drunkard from Saturday night! And he looked pretty rough. But just to make it that bit more amusing, he had a Sterling t-shirt on, thus indicating he was a Sterling employee. And I was recently helping a friend write a complaints letter to some furniture company over an employee’s behaviour towards her while she was buying a sofa. It seems like these furniture salesmen in general might have a few social problems. They’re an unruly bunch.

So I’m on the bus, with the still-hungover Sterling employee sitting in front of me, and I look out the window. Outside is a middle-aged man, who also looks very rough (it would appear that everyone’s hungover today), trying to bite open a 10p ice pole he’d just bought. Now, who buys an ice pole at 8am? Well, I happen to know the answer to that question.

It was my birthday, I was a teenager. I went out with friends, got wasted, spent too much money and couldn’t afford to get the bus home. So myself and another guy slept in a flat doorway for the night, like proper vagrants, because another friend of ours declined to let us actually come inside. What are friends for, right? Anyway, we woke up in the morning, completely parched and still broke. We spent the best part of half an hour scouring the streets for spare or dropped change, checking phone boxes and gutters, and eventually managed to scrape together – yep, you guessed it: 10p. And so, dehydrated, throats aching, we went into a newsagent and bought ourselves a 10p ice pole, snapped it in half and sucked down some cola-flavoured bliss. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever been that relieved.

And so now, when I spy a rough-looking dude in the street, fumbling with a cheap-ass ice pole in the early hours of the day, I know exactly what it means. He’s hit hard times. I can relate. And it amuses me that I’m able to make that connection.

Okay, so maybe my journey into work still wasn’t exciting. But honestly, when you’ve been doing this sort of tedious routine for years and years, any distraction is welcome. So I’m just going to convince myself that this morning was exceptionally interesting, and post this blog on that note.


{July 21, 2009}   Writing

Creative writing talent falls into two very simple categories:

Will: If you write creatively, telling stories and what-not, statistically you’re generally a young male, between the age of 16 and 25. There’s a compulsion to do it; you have no real choice in the matter. It’s like a pressure in your head: if you don’t tell the story, it’s like it’ll either burst in your mind, or melt away before you can grip its potential. I think all decent creative writers have this sort of… compulsion, for lack of a better word, to tell tales. And if they’re not doing it, it’s like some sort of withdrawal. It itches at you until you cave in.

Time: And this one’s the clincher. In your teenage years you’ve all the time in the world, and if your will’s in it, you will write. But you will write garbage, largely, because you are inexperienced. This isn’t an insult, it’s just the way it is. Writers always say, you write about what you know. And at 19, you know fuck all compared to what you’ll know at 25. If you’re 19 and reading this, you’ll think I’m talking bullshit. But give it six years and revisit the point. You’ll see what I mean. The worst part about this is, as you gain your essential experience for writing and better relating to your fellow humans, society takes your free time away from you. Because now you’re in a full-time job, pouring your energy and time into making that job work out. You no longer have free time on your side, and you’ll lose that compulsion. It just ebbs out of you. It comes back, now and again, whenever you take a holiday that’s longer than a weekend, but ultimately you’ve lost your grip on your muse. Your muse can’t talk to you while you’re working, and it doesn’t have the energy to influence you over a mere weekend, most of which you’ll spend drunk or hungover.

And that’s writing. I always wished I could write more, write better, connect to people, tell stories you’d care about. But the construct of the working world has taken that from me, and now you can go fuck yourself. My stories stay in my head, unfinished and wanting.

{June 25, 2009}   Naysayers and fools

“Computers in the future may weigh no more than 1.5 tons.” –Popular
Mechanics, forecasting the relentless march of science, 1949

“I think there is a world market for maybe five computers.” –Thomas
Watson, chairman of IBM, 1943.

“I have traveled the length and breadth of this country and talked
with the best people, and I can assure you that data processing is a
fad that won’t last out the year.” –The editor in charge of business
books for Prentice Hall, 1957.

“But what … is it good for?” –Engineer at the Advanced Computing
Systems Division of IBM, 1968, commenting on the microchip.

“There is no reason anyone would want a computer in their home.” –Ken
Olson, president, chairman and founder of Digital Equipment Corp.,

“This ‘telephone’ has too many shortcomings to be seriously considered
as a means of communication. The device is inherently of no value to
us.” –Western Union internal memo, 1876.

“The wireless music box has no imaginable commercial value. Who
would pay for a message sent to nobody in particular?” –David Sarnoff’s
associates in response to his urgings for investment in the radio in
the 1920s.

“The concept is interesting and well-formed, but in order to earn
better than a ‘C,’ the idea must be feasible.” –A Yale University
management professor in response to Fred Smith’s paper proposing
reliable overnight delivery service. (Smith went on to found Federal
Express Corp.)

“640K ought to be enough for anybody.” — Bill Gates, 1981

“Who the hell wants to hear actors talk?” –H.M. Warner, Warner
Brothers, 1927.

“I’m just glad it’ll be Clark Gable who’s falling on his face and not
Gary Cooper.” –Gary Cooper on his decision not to take the leading
role in “Gone With The Wind.”

“A cookie store is a bad idea. Besides, the market research reports
say America likes crispy cookies, not soft and chewy cookies like you
make.”–Response to Debbi Fields’ idea of starting Mrs. Fields’

“We don’t like their sound, and guitar music is on the way out.”
–Decca Recording Co. rejecting the Beatles, 1962.

“Heavier-than-air flying machines are impossible.” –Lord Kelvin,
president, Royal Society, 1895.

“If I had thought about it, I wouldn’t have done the experiment. The
literature was full of examples that said you can’t do this.”
–Spencer Silver on the work that led to the unique adhesives for 3-M
“Post-It” Notepads.

“So we went to Atari and said, ‘Hey, we’ve got this amazing thing,
even built with some of your parts, and what do you think about
funding us? Or we’ ll give it to you. We just want to do it. Pay our
salary, we’ll come work for you.’ And they said, ‘No.’ So then we went
to Hewlett-Packard, and they said, ‘Hey, we don’t need you. You
haven’t got through college yet.'” –Apple Computer Inc. founder Steve
Jobs on attempts to get Atari and H-P interested in his and Steve
Wozniak’s personal computer.

“You want to have consistent and uniform muscle development across ll
of your muscles? It can’t be done. It’s just a fact of life. You just have to
accept inconsistent muscle development as an unalterable condition of
weight training.”
–Response to Arthur Jones, who solved the “unsolvable” problem by
inventing Nautilus.

“Drill for oil? You mean drill into the ground to try and find oil?
You’re crazy.” –Drillers who Edwin L. Drake tried to enlist to his
project to drill for oil in 1859.

“Stocks have reached what looks like a permanently high plateau.”
–Irving Fisher, Professor of Economics, Yale University, 1929.

“Airplanes are interesting toys but of no military value.” –Marechal
Ferdinand Foch, Professor of Strategy, Ecole Superieure de Guerre.

“Everything that can be invented has been invented.” –Charles H.
Duell,Commissioner, U.S. Office of Patents, 1899.

Journalism notes, Napier University, circa 2005

Daniel is wondering why he came to this class.
Morven wishes she was dead.
Check Paula – she’s still in touch with us kids.
Of course she is. I like Paula. Oh, ProPlus. What does the “Pro” mean?
Professional. Professional… plus! Like Superman. Look, I know how to revise. This class is useless!
I don’t… but I just want to get out and REVISE now: it makes me feel bad about the amount of work I’ve done. In fact, I don’t want to go and revise – I want DEATH. Death and a bonny funeral.
You can have that in ~50 years.
But suicide is painless.
> Pest <- This part’s for you, Ruth.
> You’re a fucking nuisance, Fearon. But I love you.
Hmm, maybe. But then you’d go to HELL. And I hear HELL is painful.
I can’t go to Hell: I’m Jewish. Look at the preppy girls in the row in front of Beaver: they dress up and make so much effort! You can tell they’re not journalists.
I can only see the backs of their heads. Many a pony tail.
High ponytails. The clothes, oh the Jane Norman clothes! I don’t know these girls but I hate them. It’s like ‘classy’ Aberdonian slag chic. I bet they’re lovely people, though – pah.
I can only see Hair Gel Kangol Kid, and he vaguely displeases me.
I really dislike the trendy publishing students. I broke a nail. Chewing it is fun.
I still have a huge bump on my forehead. It feels tumour-tastic.
But you’ve always had it, right? If it hasn’t killed you in 20 years, chances are it won’t.

Nah, this is a post-black eye development.
Oh, I thought it was just your denty skull.
Nein. But I am developing more facial irregularities than an angry Predator.
So we should “smear cold mud on ourselves; that is what we like!”
Well, you don’t have to, but I’m seriously considering one of those facial mud-packs.
Don’t get one of the ones that heats up – evil.
What is this talk of self-heating mud? Witch!
*scary music from the omen*
Jessie looks like such a beatnik today.

I’m too sexy for this lecture.
Silence is sexy. Paula should bear that in mind…
I think she’s one of those people who loves the sound of her own voice.
She likes to idealise herself as young, hip, studenty, girlie and chatty… she’s not loud, she’s FUN and down with the kidz!
One of us, one of us, one of us…!
Come and play with us Paula, for ever and ever and ever.
I wish a wave of blood would smack her in the face right now.
Here’s GARY!
All work and no play makes Gary miss his Playstation. All work and no play makes Gary miss his Playstation.
He has one console.

Journalism notes, Napier University, circa 2006

[We had a Chinese lecturer, who was almost impossible to understand.]

You’re to blame for this hell, Christopher.
No I’m not. But I will get us out, in a blaze of glory.
Dare I place my trust in you again? And… hang on, what’s he saying now? What the fuck is ‘piecemeal’?
It’s a small section of a meal, say, the salad. Trust me and you won’t be killed by this guy.
‘Murder control is probably due to our economic insufficiency’? The man’s insane. What do salads even have to do with any of this?!
They have everything to do with this. I’m bored, shall I throw something at Jesse?
I’ll only be disappointed if you don’t.
Uh oh, lot of pressure now. I might wimp out. We leaving at half time?
Do you really have to ask? Look at my face.
I dunno. Well, I’m certainly going, you can stay!
‘Regulate spastics by controlling murders’ – this man is pure evil.
He’s a son-of-a-bitch! Hold me back. He wants racial purity, no defects, he must die.
This lecture is a ‘completely mess’.
My brain just improded.
25 MINUTES! Jesus.
Lol, find something to do. Draw a portrait of me.
I’m going to take your picture. Act natural.
>    Ruth, stop being such a nerd.
>    Aha! Even as you passed me this note I grew nerdier still. Leaving at 5pm?
>    Duh.
>    Meeing Irish Andy somewhere. You guys in?
>    I’m broke.
>    I’ll buy you a fucking round then, alright?
>    You might have to lend me some money for the bus as well… 🙂
>    For fuck’s sake. Ok.
Another 13 minutes and he claims our souls.
I’m saying my prayers. I have 3p if you want?
I have no use for your pennies.
Poo poo.
>    Ok, Ruth, where are you meeting this fellow cult member? This Irish?
>    A pub.
TEST YOUR MIGHT: Dare you leave before the break, Mr Cage?
I’m frightened… he might chase us. Looks kinda Billy Wizz-ish.
The Chinese can teleport, you know. It’s true. I saw it once.
I know, he’ll appear on the bus and murder us media-stylee.
That makes me a saaad student. 😦
Aww, cheer up. Think of happy thoughts.
Like not being here?
Indeed. Not being here + beer + that fella dead.
FATALITY – Liu Kang – Flawless Victory! Let’s get the fuck outta here.

{March 23, 2009}   Important issues

I was walking through the supermarket today when I thought “shit, I’ve got a stone in my shoe”, right? A problem we’ve all faced, I’m sure. What do you do? Take of your shoe right there and tip the offending item right out into the aisle, and expose the masses to your odious foot, or just put up with it until you’re all secluded and safe?

Well, I bore the pain for about twenty minutes until I made it to the car park. There, I took off my shoe and pulled out what was not a stone. It was a shard of metal. It looked like a tiny, flattened girder, about four inches long. What the fuck was it? I don’t know. How did it get in my shoe? It’s a mystery.

This is all a metaphor for life, by the way. If you didn’t pick up on that by now you’re stupid.

{February 25, 2009}   The old lady

So I’m standing in line at my local convenience store, right? And this old lady comes in and joins the queue behind me, yeah? Fairly normal, no big deal.

Except two things are unique about this situation:

1) I am currently in the throes of what I like to call “the nicotine rage”, which is basically like having a three-day temper tantrum. My temper’s on a hair-trigger fuse and the slightest thing can enrage me. I remember becoming genuinely furious yesterday about how persistently boring a colleague was being by discussing the route she takes into work every day. At the point this story takes place, I’m somewhere like 48 hours into quitting and very easily annoyed.

2) The old lady is about to vomit on my shoe.

*extinguishes cigarette*

{February 19, 2009}   Revolt Against Penis Envy

Here’s some shit to read.

Revolt Against Penis Envy: By Boyd Rice
(Revolt Against Penis Envy)
Contributing Toward an Understanding of Male/Female Harmony

In man and woman, two kinds of history are fighting for power. In the
masculine being, there is a certain contradiction; he is this man, yet
he is something else besides, which woman neither understands nor
admits, which she feels as robbery and violence upon that which to her
is holiest. This secret and fundamental war of the sexes has gone on
ever since there were sexes, and will continue-silent, bitter,
unforgiving, pitiless…

– Oswald Spengler, The Decline of the West

In the sixties, talk of a “war between the sexes” was very popular. In
point of fact, what was being described was not a war at all, merely
the recognition of a change in the balance that had previously existed
between the two sexes. The grip of man’s domination was loosening, and
women rushed forward to take advantage of the situation. The natural
relationship which had hitherto existed between man and woman was put
under increasing strain by the shift in balance and was rapidly
evolving into an ever-more-adversarial coalition.

But war?

War is the variety of violence which one traditionally resorts to when
all other means of asserting his dominance have been exhausted. There
was no war between the sexes in the sixties simply because man had
long since ceased to assert his dominance by any means. It is
precisely this male backsliding which gave rise to the tension which
was misconstrued as war, and which has grown steadily worse until
today. Perhaps a war will be necessary to bridge the abyss across
which the sexes stare mistrustingly at each other.

– Harry P. Ness

Woman is a temple… built over a sewer.

– Anonymous

At one time, all was right with the world. It was lorded over by men
who imposed their will by force. Women kept their mouths shut,
underlings knew their place, and those who opposed the prevailing
order had their heads cut off. So far, so good. In this bygone Golden
Age, sadistic values determined the quality of life. Sadistic values
are exclusively male values, values predicated not upon baseless
intellectual abstractions or wishful thinking, but upon hard
biological truths.

One such truth involves testosterone, the hormone responsible for
shaping the male character. It lies at the root of man’s aggression
and domination and has consequently played the key role in shaping
mankind’s history.

And the history of mankind is, quite simply, the history of man. It is
the story of his creativity and his daring. It is the story of his
strength, his courage, and his invention. Every great idea, great
empire, or great undertaking has been the byproduct of man and man
alone. History’s great epochs are those in which male domination and
male force reigned supreme.

Just as testosterone ordained man’s preeminent role as creator and
master of world history, woman’s position was likewise decided by her
hormonal predisposition. Estrogen lies at the center of the feminine
character, and it is this hormone, says science, that is responsible
for woman’s overabundance of emotion and apparent lack of logic. This
primary biological difference is the basis of what is commonly
referred to as sexual differentiation.

Woman is quick to embrace the concept of sexual/hormonal
differentiation when she can use it to her advantage – to explain, for
instance, why men are such brutes. But when the same criteria are
applied to explain her own shortcomings, she dismisses it as a cruel
construct invented by man to discredit her. She is far more
comfortable with feelings than with facts. Facts, in her opinion, are
made by man in the image of man, to be used against her, to keep her
down. When confronted by the cold reality of facts, woman’s emotions
fly into a tizzy, and her emotions have no origin in the intellect, or
in instinct, or in any sort of observation or deductive reasoning.
They are instead a primordial amalgam of overblown hopes and fears,
childish fantasies carried to absurd extremes.

As reactions to external realities, her emotions make no apparent
sense. Only when recognized as the byproduct of an overwhelming
internal reality-that of estrogen-do her emotions and perceptions
finally begin to become comprehensible.

In a once – glorious past, woman was a creature without rights, a
second – class citizen. In some places, she wasn’t considered a
citizen at all – she was property. She was part cook, part whore, part
servant, and all child. So what has changed to put woman on an equal
footing with man, deserving of the same rights and privileges? Has
woman herself changed? Decidedly not. Not in temperament, character,
or ability. She is the same creature she has always been, with the sad
addition of some rather unflattering conceits.

It is not woman’s advancement in the realm of character which has
facilitated her upward mobility – rather, it is man’s loss of
character. She has gained ground only because he has lost ground. And
why has he lost ground? Because the white male has been bamboozled. He
has been shamed into submission and made to feel guilty about his
aggression and his will-to-power. But are not aggression and the will-
to-power part and parcel of his character, stamped upon his soul by
nature itself? Are they not in fact the very things which once
ordained his greatness?

Modern woman would have us believe that she has been oppressed by
countless centuries of male domination. Can this be true? She would
have us believe that her standing was the outcome of some arbitrary
bit of whimsy, concocted spitefully by man and imposed maliciously
(unfairly!) upon woman.

Was woman forcibly held back by the superior strength and intellect of
man, or was she simply in an “inferior” position due to some lack of
those qualities within herself? Was it man who chose a second class
existence for woman, or was it, in fact, nature? Man sought only to
act in accordance with the reality dictated by nature’s wisdom.

Woman, in her bitterness, blamed man for the position in which she
found herself. This was surely his doing. He had cruelly cheated her
out of all that was rightfully hers. The cad! Allowing her emotions to
run wild (as usual), woman blamed man for all the world’s ills,
attacking male values at every opportunity. Ironically, it was the
collapse and disappearance of male values which permitted woman’s rise
to begin with. The “domination” which she so fervently attacked had,
for all intents and purposes, long since vanished from public life.
The positive, aggressive male values behind every step of upward
evolution have been superseded by a soft and passive female ethic.

What can be done to subdue the sickly sway of feminine values? How can
we silence the interminable whining of feminism’s sob sisters? In a
nutshell: Woman must be put back in her place. Man’s great error was
to put woman on a pedestal, when she is far more at ease on her knees-
where she belongs. The only way to subdue feminine values is by
subduing the female herself. Woman must be reacquainted with truth and
force. She must be reacquainted with truth through force.

Since woman is above all an emotional creature, appeals to her
“intellect” are worthless. She must be shown in no uncertain terms the
absolute nature of the master/slave relationship endemic to the sexes.
What plainer way to demonstrate this relationship than the simple act
of rape? This primary act reveals beyond a reasonable doubt certain
irrefutable verities: Man is taller, woman is smaller. Man is strong,
woman is weak. Man is master, woman is not.

The ritual we now call marriage originated as abduction, rape, and
enslavement. In those happy-go-lucky days, one’s rights were not mere
abstractions based on legislation, but rather the outcome of what
could be imposed by physical force alone. Force was recognized as
truth in action, and the outcome of force was acknowledged as justice.
Although this principle has been widely disavowed, it’s truth is as
absolute now as it ever was.

And the only truth a woman is capable of understanding is that which
she can feel wholly within the depths of her childlike emotions. At
one time, those emotions could be swayed by the sweet notion of
romance, but her envy has long since destroyed that. These days, the
only way to restore balance between the sexes is by fear and pain.
Fear commands respect, and pain demands understanding (read:

Rape is the act by which fear and pain are united in love. It is the
triumph of harmony through oppression.

Rape teaches balance, the natural balance of man=above/woman=below.
This balance is a lesson which woman must learn, and only man can
teach her.

The only way to teach subjugation is through hands on oppression. And
woman must learn subjugation. The only way to teach submission is
through active domination. And woman must learn submission. She must
be brought down to her natural kneeling position. She must be returned
to the bottom, where she’s happiest. Only then may man be happy once

If it takes war to reinstate this happiness, then let there be war.
Not a war between the sexes, but a war of the sexes, against the
pernicious doctrine of sexual equality. And if the chief weapon in
this war is rape, then let there be rape. Let there be triumphant male
force riding roughshod over woman and her values. Let there be brutal
male force instructing and enlightening woman in absolute terms. Each
rape is but a battle in a war. And each battle won is but a link in a
glorious chain – a chain which will one day be used to keep woman in
her naturally ordained place – beneath man.

But enough of talk. The time for words is over. The time for action
has come. Now is the time to rise up. Now is the time to go forth. Now
is the time to educate. Now is the time to subjugate. Now is the time
to dominate. Now is the time to rape. Now is the time to rape. Now is
the time to rape. Let the Revolt Against Penis Envy commence. Go
forth! Rise up! Rape! Rape! Rape!

Long live oppression!

Long live love!

Long live rape!

It’s just past midnight, and in approximately eight hours, I will show up to work dishevelled and exhausted (because that’s what I do every Monday). But it’ll be different from every other Monday, because tomorrow I have to help my colleague with her filing. Here is a list of some things off the top of my head that I would actually prefer to do other than her filing:

1. Kiss a scorpion.

2. Eat a live budgie.

3. Watch Twilight.

4. Jam a paperclip in my eye.

5. Run naked through the streets of Tillydrone.

6. Undergo rectal surgery.

7. Clone myself and then fight to the death.

8. Be reincarnated as Mother Theresa.

9. Run through a minefield wearing clogs.

10. Place my balls on a set mouse trap.

11. Watch every episode of The Mighty Boosh.

12. Have sex with a corpse.

The only reason I’m doing her filing over anything from that list is because unfortunately it’s not my choice. I don’t have that option, Although it isn’t my job, I have to pick up for my colleague’s slack or the whole world will descend into chaos. Maybe if she didn’t spend half the time on Marks & Spencer’s website or on the phone to her friends/family I wouldn’t have to do her filing, but that’s a fool’s dream. When you’re a pro-skiver like me, you learn to divvy up the amount of time you spend slacking so that you don’t actually fall behind on the work you’re supposed to be doing. Maybe I’ll suggest a few tips to her. Or maybe I’ll just take a scorpion to work tomorrow and make out with it until it stings my face and I get to go to hospital and thus avoid all the fucking filing.

Anyone know where I can get a scorpion this time of night?

I was at work the other day and I noticed that a coworker had a strange colour of nail polish on her fingernails. I don’t usually notice trivial aesthetic details like these; like when a chick colours her hair from a dark shade of brown to a slightly lighter shade of brown. Sorry I didn’t notice, I guess I forgot to bring in my booklet of hair-colour swatches today to compare. But my colleague’s fingernails caught my attention because they weren’t quite red, but they weren’t quite black either. They were a sort of muddy red. To me, it looked like she’d smeared congealed blood over her fingernails. Perhaps she moonlights as a serial killer. I have made a mental note not to go to any more work functions that take place after dark. I’m not taking any chances with a woman who favours Congealed Blood as her preferred nail polish colour. That’s just asking for trouble.

But this leads me nicely into what I wanted to talk about, and that’s that putting on nail polish is just one of many things women do that I have never understood. I guess they do it so the ends of their fingers match their top or their eyes or something, whatever. But what’s even worse is when they paint their toenails. Why? Why do you do this? Here’s a tip for everyone in the world: there is nothing you can do to make your feet look good. A foot is a foot, and a foot will always be ugly. Unless you’re a deviant and you pleasure yourself at the sight of a foot (and if you are, and you’re reading this, just end yourself), then you should be of the opinion that a foot is pretty much on the same level of attractiveness as a scrotum.



There is nothing you can do to make a foot attractive. Putting nail polish on them just draws attention to something that’s pretty unsightly in the first place. Stop doing it. You don’t see men wrapping their ballsacks in ribbons and dipping them in paint, so knock that shit off.


{January 11, 2009}   Yeah so

The people you work with are just people you were just thrown together with. I mean, you don’t know them, it wasn’t your choice. And yet you spend more time with them than you do your friends and your family. But probably all you’ve got in common is the fact that you walk around on the same bit of carpet for eight hours a day.

et cetera