One Man's Sand Is Another Man's Window

Written by Annette Curtain

As dawn breaks across the pristine coast of southern England, few are up and about, and even fewer at the beach itself. The ubiquitous beach huts for which it is so well known are all closed, though like flowers, they shall open as the sun washes over them, drawing their pallid, easily sunburnt, oft handkerchief-clad owners to the shore. They will come as many as there are grains of sand on the beach – and then, depending on their age, they will consume ice cream and Stella Artois until they are physically sick.

But it is early yet. The lone sign of humanity is the council worker in the tractor, methodically grading the beach in preparation for the many games of beach cricket to be played later that day, and presumably also to remove any carelessly discarded syringes. The tractor trundles back and forth, creating a thoroughly pleasing uniformity to the sand for a few hours before the grains surrender themselves to the whim of the coastal wind.

And then they arrive. Not the hordes of lumpy, ashen visitors one would expect at an English seaside resort, but an entirely different and peculiar manner of creature. Unvarying in their middle age, they are almost identically attired: sensible sun hat, plain t-shirt tucked into cargo shorts (the waistline of which resides around the bottom of their ribcage), utilitarian work boots, and socks that leave mere inches of pasty flesh exposed between the top of the socks and the bottom of the shorts.

In their hands, they clutch the tool that separates them from a regular social outcast and catapults them into a sub-genre that screams eccentricity, bellows romantic solitude, and loudly confirms the likelihood that they still live with their mother – a metal detector.

They are the beachcombers.

In a bizarre demonstration of reverse anthropomorphism, they wait with an uneasy mixture of patience and begrudging respect for the pecking order, licking their lips in anticipation of the booty exposed by the hulking mechanical brute. No sooner has the tractor left the sand, they scuttle out in to the open like hermit crabs, eager to begin their daily search for the untold riches that lurk beneath the surface.

They are territorial creatures, each waiting their turn at scanning the expanse of sand between each groyne, eager to demonstrate the superiority of their foraging abilities to their peers. Even in this most base of hobbies, there exists the same spirit of one-upmanship that is to be found in the bowels of any male dominated competition. One discovers a bunch of keys that unlock a door, the location of which they shall never know; the other unearths a collection of coins totalling less than a pound, the previous owner perhaps intending to purchase ice cream, the new owner intending to put them towards the cost of a new metal detector battery so that he may find more piles of coins.

It is safe to say that there are few, if any millionaires whom have built their fortune upon the returns from scavenging on public beaches. Perhaps even less likely is the possibility that one would be able to derive an income to support even the most frugal of lifestyles from the sale of beach booty. With an admittedly limited knowledge of the desires of pawnbrokers, one would presume that cheap watches, discarded bathing togs and plastic shovels are not in high demand.

Why then would one subject oneself to a daily ritual of sand in uncomfortable crevices, the silent scorn of elitist internet columnists, and ultimately inevitable and searing disappointment? As the beachcombers scurry back to their nondescript hovels, they carry with them little other than their metal detectors, a few remaining shreds of dignity and their most valuable possession. It is one that cannot be found amongst grains of sand, nor carelessly forgotten and left behind by drunken and sunstroke ridden tourists – hope. For whilst ambition begets failure, failure begets ambition, and even if in your unwelcome middle age you are jobless and share a house with your mother, hope springs eternal.

Microsoft Excel: Saviour of Humanity

Written by Logan Bluetooth

I was recently interviewed by respected business journal Capitalist Review Weekly for a forthcoming article on the greatest efficiency experts of the past 100 years. I shall appear alongside other doyens of productivity such as J.D. Rockefeller, J.P. Morgan, and Mao Zedong. The latter seemed a peculiar inclusion, but despite his odious Marxism, you can’t deny that he got the job done.

I suspect it shall be the usual self-congratulatory erotic massage masquerading as legitimate journalism, but I have never been one to refuse praise, nor for that matter an erotic massage. The author was kind enough to provide me with a draft copy of the article before publication.

For most mere mortals, the name Bluetooth means little other than a revolutionary communications technology. Perhaps then it is a testament to a man so driven by efficiency and results that he could find time from his busy schedule of enhanced attrition implementation to invent and develop a technology that eliminated the cumbersome and unproductive act of raising a telephone to one’s ear. Bluetooth is, as always, the soul of brevity, stating simply “there are far more things a man can do with his hand than hold a telephone.”

And stroke, stroke, stroke it goes for another 2000 words or so. I found it particularly enjoyable, however a part of me wished for a feature article of my own. Not, as you cynical loppers of tall, elegant, perfumed poppies might imagine, for the benefit of my own ego. Rather, I wished to expand on one of my answers and give due respect and credit to my most faithful and trustworthy ally; an ally that has been with me through thick and thin, boom and bust, cosmopolitan and chartreuse.

Microsoft Excel: my rock, my love, my eternal soul mate.

For the perpetually suspicious web detectives amongst you, I must at this point state that I have never received any financial incentives from the Microsoft Corporation in return for favourable editorials about their software, nor will I. In fact, despite my ardent and undying love for Microsoft Excel, I am certainly not labouring under any misapprehensions about its murky roots.

Excel, or as it was known in 1979, Excommunicate, was an archaic yet undeniably ingenious and thoroughly effective manual filing and categorisation system employed by the Vatican. Pope John Paul II, widely considered to be the laziest of all the popes, thought excommunication to be a decidedly ghastly and objectionable task, and would take any opportunity to avoid it.

Rather than questioning the holy work ethic of the pope and risking getting the living hell smote out of them, the faithful Vatican mathemagicians (licensed practitioners of Mathemeligion) created Excommunicate. Simple by name and nature, yet utterly brilliant, Excommunicate used a combination of Dewey Decimal Classification, an alphabetised index of sinners, the Pythagorean theorem and a washing machine. The practical application of the components of Excommunicate is not entirely clear, but the end product was an easily decipherable list of those who were no longer in favour with the Catholic church.

By 1984, the system had come to the attention of an ambitious and bespectacled entrepreneur known as William Gates III. Fuelled by silicon chips and an insatiable appetite for the theft of intellectual property, Gates gave the order to attack the Vatican. His Microsoft storm troopers showed little mercy as they blasted the unprepared Vatican guards with their photon cannons, escaping with the blueprints for Excommunicate, various priceless artworks and a selection of ceremonial goblets.

The rest, as they say, is history. Gates and his loyal minions set about developing the system into the single most important piece of software in the history of business. Microsoft was the envy of the fledgling computer industry, for not only were they terrorising their competitors and monopolising the market, they were also able to produce colourful graphs demonstrating the exact extent of their dominance.

So what precisely does Excel offer an efficiency expert of my calibre? I consider it to be a corporate translator. English is indisputably the most beautiful language in the world, but it is lamentably as easily understood as Swahili when it comes to delivering facts and figures to ambitionless office veal, and perhaps even moreso to intellectually vacant holders of positions known only by acronyms (presumably because they are incapable of remembering or spelling the words that make up their job titles).

Excel, on the other hand, transcends language. One could waste two hours in a conference suite attempting to explain such stimulating terms as “mechanised organic attrition augmentation” and the thoroughly pleasing “instantaneous external migration of individuals previously engaged in a professional capacity”, but it is an unfortunate truth that most office workers lack the necessary education to decipher such simple terminology. Excel cuts through the confusion and delivers the message in such a manner that even the mail room boy is able to grasp the gravitas of a situation.



With each day, technological advancements cause the earth to become inextricably smaller, yet communication seems to have reached an uncomfortable plateau. More and more nationalities mix, yet assimilation becomes less and less likely, which in turn leads to turmoil and ill feeling between cultural groups that should otherwise be coexisting harmoniously. What is the answer? Microsoft Excel.

The Mediterranean proprietor of your local takeaway establishment doesn’t understand your accent – you leave hungry, he misses out on income, and nobody wins. Next time, take your laptop with you. Present him with a pie chart titled “Food I Want”. Dim sims (0%), sausage in batter with chips (100%).

This is but a solitary example of literally millions of practical, real world applications of Microsoft Excel that have yet to be taken advantage of. To think that Excel is limited to boardroom situations is unbelievably naïve and short sighted. For all you know, this program could be the key to realising the untapped potential of humanity.

Excel creates vivid colour where only the grey and drab are present; it offers clarity where previously there was nothing but mud. It presents all facets of existence in a palatable, honest fashion. If software were able to govern, I would not hesitate to cast my vote for it. It is a god amongst men and the software they create, a two amongst ones and zeroes, a saviour long ahead of its time. Viva, Microsoft Excel, my one, my only, my pure and true love.

The Art of Letter Writing # £4.99 - Wine, Doughnuts & A Petty Man

Written in aisle five by Eoinín McAlpine

Dear Exalted Conquistadors of Tesco,

I write with regards to your methodical and thus far efficacious attempt to seize control of the world. The recession has brought great tidings of doom to your commercial enemies, and consequently has blessed you with an even larger market share, bringing you one step closer to your ultimate goal of a Tesco own brand Earth (less than half the price of the current planet!).

Alas, with all plots for world domination, there are the inevitable hindrances that present themselves at the most frighteningly inopportune times, such as vodka martini-quaffing British secret service agents seducing your sexy yet otherwise ruthlessly bloodthirsty scientist/dominatrix.

It may shock you to learn that the greatest threat to global Tesco homogeny is posed not by tuxedo-clad spies armed with an arsenal of high tech gadgetry and disarmingly witty rejoinders, but rather by the army of bumbling and ineffectual henchmen and yes, even henchwomen representing your brand at the frontline.

Where to begin? Perhaps with the grotesque assortment of human waste given the honour of manning the checkouts. The women are abrasive, surly strumpets; feckless ingrates unable to muster even the most base level of small talk one would expect from someone paid to deal with the public. The men are misshapen, slovenly social outcasts; they pause from counting the flakes of dandruff collecting on their shirts for long enough to lick their slimy reptilian lips as they ogle my lady friend and ask her for the fourth time in as many weeks if she has any ID, because, corr, she doesn’t look old enough to be buying alcohol, phwoar!

One could avoid these vile, inexplicably employed stains by taking one’s business across the street to Marks & Spencer. Unfortunately, one doesn’t earn enough to spend £17.99 on a pint of milk. Thus, I adopted your online shopping facility. I enjoyed the lack of spiritually dead, drool-stained “service” staff. I also enjoyed the endearingly abstract moneysaving tips provided as I shopped. Jameson Irish Whiskey: see cheaper alternatives – why not try Tesco own brand mineral turpentine?

Satisfied with my choices, I cautiously paid for the goods, already dreading the living, breathing horror that would deliver the groceries. How misplaced my fears were. The order was delivered by a pleasantly affable chap that bore a striking resemblance to house/techno (electronic music – not really my cup of tea) DJ Carl Cox. Food and drink at the click of a mouse button, celebrity delivery drivers; things were beginning to look up for Team Tesco. And then, like an uninvited mentally retarded cousin of a world leader bursting in to peace talks between Israel and Palestine and urinating on the treaty, then came the wine substitutions.

I shall assume that those of you in Tesco HQ are largely unaware of the intricacies of the wine substitution policy for online orders. It is as follows: should the bottle of wine the customer has ordered be unavailable, please ensure that it is replaced with a bottle that bears absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to the original request, short of giving them a bottle of Tesco own brand washing up liquid. For example, if the customer orders a 2003 Shiraz Cabernet, a suitable substitute would be a 2009 Sauvignon Blanc.

Even more staggering is that this generally occurs when one orders a wine that is on special. As far as I am aware, Tesco is not a newcomer to the supermarket industry. Therefore one would deduce that you would be au fait with the concept of supply and demand. If a specific product is advertised at a discounted price, demand will invariably increase. Accordingly, supplies of that particular product should be increased to a volume to meet the demand created by the marketing. Simple enough, right? Apparently not.

One could draw the cynical conclusion that this is a devious plot schemed up by the marketing department to lure in unsuspecting shoppers with a promise of heavily discounted wines of a certain standard, only to send them away with a bottle of the Chateau de Merde that hasn’t been shifting as many units as they would have hoped. Nobody else would pull this sort of a stunt. Oh, I’m frightfully sorry sir, we’re inexplicably out of those £500 Bentleys, however we do have a surplus of rusted pushbikes with flat tyres, bent handlebars and no saddle.

It’s not just the wine substitutions and aspiring sociopaths manning the checkout that are devaluing the Tesco brand. Might I also suggest that a smidgen of product knowledge be bestowed upon the in-store seafood aficionados. This should ensure that the next time a customer points out that all the mussels are open, they won’t have to wonder to themselves what the big deal is, because like, you know, how would you eat them if the shells were closed? Should you be unfamiliar with this bizarre law of the sea, mussels with their shells open prior to being cooked = food poisoning. Food poisoning = lawsuit. Lawsuit = bad press and compensation. I loathe the parasites that masquerade as personal injury lawyers, so let’s not give them free business, eh?

Whilst the stores may be littered with poorly trained seafood staff, loathsome and lecherous checkout operators, and cantankerous old bastards fighting over the last copy of the Daily Mail (not entirely your fault, I suppose), there are sporadic bursts of commercial sunshine. There are the obscenely cheap and delicious jam doughnuts, not to mention the mini jaffa cakes. Other than that, it’s really just a series of tremendously disappointing experiences that entrench one’s opinion of Tesco as a patently evil hyperconglomerate that would sell a child if it was left unattended for longer than a few seconds.

Complaints aside, I shall no doubt continue to endure the substitutions of a calibre one might expect from a visually impaired football manager listening to the telecast from a tennis match. But as I sip on the glass of pistachios that have taken the place of the 2003 tempranillo I ordered, I shall console myself with the belief that my letter has penetrated the deep recesses of the heavily fortified capitalist heart of Tesco, and the person reading this has resolved to act on my sanctimonious critique of What’s Wrong With Tesco.

Aye, they will cry loudly, no longer shall we offer ridiculous alternative products. Adequate product training and basic hygiene practices shall be imparted upon all employees as standard, they will proclaim as they slam their fists upon the table. Furthermore, they will utter as they tremble with the giddy joy one enjoys when faced with imminent and dramatically positive change, we shall cease employing checkout staff drawn from a gene pool that probably could have done with a splash of chlorine.

Heed my words, ladies and gentlemen of Tesco – you are fortunate enough to be experiencing one of those rare moments when the customer is right. Abuse your corporate monopoly responsibly, or risk becoming a universally hated purveyor of unadulterated evil that exists only because its reluctant and downtrodden patrons have no other feasible alternative – think Ryanair.

I concede that it would be wholly unrealistic to expect that all of my suggestions be implemented immediately. Slow and steady wins the race. Though when my next online order arrives and the wine is of the same grape that I requested and vintage is within a decade of the year advertised, I shall consider it a little victory. After all, every little helps.

Yours sincerely,


Eoinín McAlpine