How to Lose Friends & Alienate People

You want to know how? Make a film like this. Simon Pegg has, to date, done a brilliant job of pleasing fans with his fresh and entertaining ‘Britcoms’ (of these, Shaun of the Dead remains the best). He could have blown a lot of the fan goodwill he’s built on this movie.

The film is pretty much ‘Run Fatboy Run’ all over again. Very ‘British’ and slovenly Pegg takes on toothy-grinned, super-groomed, super successful American homme for the affections of a woman and keeps losing but wins anyway. Sorry for the spoiler. The difference is its set in the world of glossy showbiz magazines.

Cringe humour is the staple ingredient (Pegg turning up for work in a rude T-shirt, accidentally spitting half-chewed food on the executives and so on). There’s nothing that hasn’t been seen before and it leaves the movie predictable, dull and lifeless. The only saving grace is Megan Fox – and that’s only in a ‘Loaded’ kind of way.

Maybe it would have worked better on the small screen.

Digital device

It’s the end of a long day. I’m ready to run for the train. As my computer shuts down, I gather up the discarded paper from my desk and carry it to the secure confidential waste paper and thin card bin along the corridor.

The SCWPATC bin has a locked lid with a thin slit for depositing papers. I put my papers in the slot. They do not disappear, due to an excess of confidential waste paper and possibly thin cards piled up beneath.

I do not want to leave my confidential waste paper poking out at the mercy of data desperados bent on document theft. So I prod the papers firmly through the slot with my shortish, but not stubby, middle finger.

My finger gets stuck in the slot. Quite painfully, behind the second joint. I pull it up. It does not slip free. I glance at my watch. Nat. Ex. trains wait for no man (only wildfowl). I need to hurry.

I pull harder, bravely ignoring the pain. The locked lid lifts lazily off the bin, exposing an Aladdin’s cave of confidential waste paper.

I am free. I just have a large curved plastic lid encasing my hand. I look like a Pelota player. I do a quick risk assessment. The lid on my hand is inconvenient, but not life threatening. It will not change my life, although I will have to get some larger ski gloves. Typing will be difficult. I could run for the train.

With a sigh I hold the lid down firmly with my other hand and yank my trapped finger out of the slit. The lid slots back into position, re-securing the waste assets. Somewhere in the distance a train whistle blows.