So, after ten years of smoking, I’ve decided to have a bash at giving up.

This will be the first time I’ve really bothered trying. From the first puff of a shared Silk Cut at the age of 15, through the 20+ Lambert and Butlers I would consume on a daily basis while at university, to the beautifully hand rolled ciggies of the last four years, I’ve never really considered quitting, because I didn’t want to. And I still don’t want to, really – not least because the politically correct bastards that spend so long ostracising smokers throughout the country have only made me more determined to exercise my own free will. Well, that and the fact that smoking feels so damn good. But here we are. Unfortunately I told someone rather important that I’d give it my best shot and I’m not one to go back on my word.

Which is why I’m announcing my intentions here, to the world. I figure I’m more likely to succeed if I’m living in fear of judgement and heart wrenching looks of disappointment. But how the hell does one ’succeed’ in giving something up? How do you know when you’ve done it, if there’s always the possibility that you could do it again? It’s like measuring the invisible.

Nonetheless, existential debate aside, New Year’s Day was wonderfully marred by my impotent fury with the world and everything that had the misfortune to fall into my line of vision, and last night plagued by unsettling nightmares produced by a fraught brain panic-stricken at its deprivation of a chemical upon which it has been dependent for the last 3650-odd days and nights; so today I dutifully stormed into Boots like a junkie in search of a fix, to find something to ‘take the edge off’. I have returned with a device that can only be likened to a plastic tampon, the sucking of which is supposed to be akin to ‘a real smoking experience’. I’m rather inclined to disagree with this, but desperation is a powerful emotion, and as my housemates cower in terror behind the door to ask in tiny voices if I’d like a cup of tea, I expect I’d better just get the hell on with it.

Shit happens, right?

Not any more, it would seem. Thanks to increasing media coverage of celebrities embroiled in petty defamation debates, and those incessant ‘no win no fee’ adverts on TV where a mouth-breathing numpty talks us through the terrible day they fell off a chair at work and were subsequently lavished with eight thousand pounds, everybody wants a piece of the compensation pie.

Not long ago we heard about the chronic gambler who tried to sue William Hill for more than £2 million after an administrative error meant that he was able to continue betting after he’d asked them to ‘exclude him’. He was then quoted as saying: “The fact is that I did try to go through the right procedures and I was let down.” What planet is this man living on to assume that asking the bookies – where he frittered away over £7.5 million - to keep an eye on his gambling habits would constitute the ‘right procedure?’ 

Then yesterday, the courts awarded substantial damages to the parents of a boy who had suffered brain damage as the result of an accident on a bouncy castle. The couple who hired the bouncy castle have been sued for negligence, on the basis that the boy, who has Asperger syndrome, was allowed on the bouncy castle and was inadequately supervised. Surely, if the boy’s illness is such that he requires continual supervision, his parents would have done well not to leave him at a child’s party with an unqualified couple responsible for looking after hordes of other children too?

The Independent has a good article on cases like these, mainly from America (surprise surprise), which I read with growing indignance. I later relayed my views to my housemate, who’s just managed to wangle herself a two week extension on her dissertation because she has a cold, who told me about a friend of hers who managed to sue our local council for £2500. Apparently this girl was responsible for a pile up at a roundabout, but claimed that it was the council’s fault that she couldn’t see the road signs properly, because they weren’t placed adequately for short people.

Where has the attitude come from? In the golden days of yore people subscribed to the ‘whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’ school of thought and accepted that they should probably keep their damn eyes open when walking over a cobbled street or probably shouldn’t have that supersized burger meal if they’ve already had two heart attacks. But now the smallest taint of misfortune demands compensation and extensions and shouts of ‘me me me!’ and cries of entitlement. Our grandparents would be disgusted.

Couldn’t resist that title, sorry. Nonetheless, I realise I’m treading on politically correct hallowed ground here, so I shall continue with caution.

A few months ago I was in the car, and as I pootled down my very quiet residential street an enormous Audi pulled out in front of me at a crossroad. It was my right of way, and his path was clearly marked with a stop sign. My beloved Rover was literally three inches away from collision and I was, of course, fuming at this person’s incompetence, and to demonstrate this, slammed the horn. His response was to turn around and give me the finger. My blood boiling with fury, the most cathartic word I could manage to expel with force was ‘TOSSER!’ Glaring at him, he then rolled down his window and shouted back to me, ‘Racist!’

I was speechless. The fact that this guy was Asian had never even crossed my mind. Anyway, he drove off and I continued to, in that quintessentially British way, mumble under my breath about the injustice of it all.

Having put the incident to the back of my mind, I was walking to a friend’s house the other day when a seemingly inebriated guy shouted across the road. ‘Hey baby! You’re foxy aren’t you?’ Now my usual approach to this kind of idiocy is to ignore it, or perhaps glare at the offender in a suitably disgusted way. The latter was the approach I took this time, which simply yielded the response ‘Oh yeah! I like them with attitude!’. Stampeding on ahead, I then upped my game by shaking my head and rolling my eyes. The bloke in question then turned to his grinning friends and slurred ‘That white girl, I guess she doesn’t like us blackies eh?’ And then they all laughed and high fived each other.

And then this morning, as I was coming back from the shops, a man hawked back an inhuman amount of mucus and spat it out on the street. Now I find this absolutely disgusting, and cannot see any justification whatsoever for spitting on a public street. However, he didn’t just spit it on the street, a large part of the offending goo, thanks to prevailing wind conditions, ended up on my leg as well. Now to this I took enormous offence and told him in no uncertain terms that I was incredibly unhappy about his blatant disregard for other people. And he simply replied, ‘It’s my culture to spit. If you hate my culture then you’re racist.’

Again, dumbfounded, and this time with the added insult of a maxillary gland’s worth of snot smeared down my leg to boot.

These are, of course, culturally sensitive times in which we live, but is the situation now simply escalating to ridiculous levels of unaccountability? I open the floor…

…Doesn’t really have the same ring to it, does it? (I am, of course, talking about Outkast’s catchy tune, ‘Hey ya!’ which actually goes ’shake it like a Polaroid picture.’)

Anyway, Polaroid are running down their business. These are sad times for those who truly revered the merits of instant film. Sure, medium format film continues to have a vital place in the circles of photographic artistry, but with digital cameras now practically falling out of cereal boxes, their days are surely numbered too.

Now, obviously you can’t just pick up a digital camera, snap away and achieve the kinds of stunning images we are bombarded with on a daily basis; advertisements for cars, fashion pictures, brochure images, even book covers, have all been digitally manipulated and enhanced to within an inch of their pixelly lives. Indeed, this is a skill – scour the shelves of any decent magazine retailer and you’ll find more magazines on the topic than you can count on both hands. It’s big business.

 The danger, of course, is that we’ll eventually lose any sense of the real, instead presented continually with ‘amended’ versions only loosely connected to the original image – of what a) people (advertisers?) WANT us to see, and b) what we’ll eventually come to expect. I truly envisage the day coming when an unedited, non-adjusted image of a subject (whatever that may be) evokes unease and discomfort in the viewer.

There’s a lot to be said for digital photography and image manipulation in the sphere of art- but creating something thought-provoking and visually moving with instant film is a process hindered only by the bounds of creativity and vision – the future of which I worry about in this increasingly sterile world.

 For an example of the artistic merits of instant film – have a look here.

(Originally published 15/10/07) 

Ok, so we’re all familiar with the concept of identity theft, right? Someone rummages around in your bins and nabs your bank statements, or hacks into your computer because you’re fool enough not to have adequate protection (come ON, in this day and age?). And then you ring your bank and it all gets sorted out (albeit eventually). Fine. But what happens when someone steals your face and thoughts? And I’m not talking about aliens.

I received a message today from a friend on Facebook, telling me to have a look at this link, which I duly did, and quite frankly couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The link had taken me to a Myspace profile of a girl named ‘Lizzy-O’ who had the same profile background that I’d had a while ago. No big deal, I thought. Then I heard the familiar opening tinkle of the song I had on my profile, and then the graphics loaded and staring back at me was….well, me.

I sat there dumbfounded, waiting for the ol’ cogs to turn and process what was going on. This person, ‘Lizzy-O’ (if that is her real name) had stolen my blurbs, my list of favourite bands, my arty and probably pretentious ‘about me’ section, and most importantly my photos. All my photos. Everything. The only differences were that she’d changed the name, where she was from (Texas, of all places) and had written a very favourable blog about Timbaland. And she’d changed the captions of my photos. So the one of me running about in the snow like an excitable spaniel is tagged with ‘Ice queen, but in a good way! Lolz!’ and in another one where I’m laughing, she’s tagged it with ‘OMG! Laughing again!’

Timbaland? Lolz? OMG? WTF? Somebody using my image is bad enough but to affiliate it with an arrogant hip hop producer and disrespect for the English language is something else. Irate, I banged out an angry email to Myspace. ‘What the hell?’ ‘How could you let this happen?’ ‘I demand you shut that account immediately’ etc etc. But then I sat back and reconsidered this. I voluntarily put my image on the internet and I was fool enough to allow public access to my profile. All Myspace did was provide a vehicle for me to do so. Yes, I feel incredibly unsettled by this and it’s upsetting to think that someone out there (male or female) is using my image to masquerade behind, and I hope that Myspace do delete the account, but how shocking is it really? Not that much.

So I bring you this message. Be careful where you stick your mug, because god only knows where mine is now.