First UK motorist is taught to drive on snow and ice.

12 Jan
A typically devastating scene showing what can happen when snow falls on an English pub.

A typically devastating scene showing what can happen when snow falls on an English pub.

The BBC have released footage of a British driver secretly being taught how to drive on snow and ice. The footage lasts just a few seconds and is hidden within a normal news article.

This news has been greeted with horror by Britain’s biggest safety quango, The Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents (RoSPA). Although its own website proudly claims to advise drivers on how to drive on snow, it is actually designed to discourage drivers from venturing out by simply re-posting the same dubious information that was printed in 1955.

RoSPA’s approach to the topic is simple. Load the driver down with so much cautionary advice on planning and multiple check-lists that they simply give up and stay indoors.

Even under the specific section ‘Driving on snow and ice’ – it doesn’t reveal any actual advice on how to drive on snow and ice beyond what is stated in the Police Driver’s Handbook. There is not a single mention of winter tyres, traction control, accelerator technique or gearbox control over-ride.

It instead assumes that you are immediately going to get stuck. Their finest advice is reproduced below:

“…move your vehicle slowly backwards and forwards out of the rut using the highest gear you can. If this doesn’t work, you may have to ask a friendly passerby for a push or get your shovel out…”

and the all-time classic:

“…slow down in plenty of time before bends and corners…”

What can easily happen if you don't "reduce your speed in plenty of time" as RoSPA advise...

What can easily happen if you don’t “reduce your speed in plenty of time” as RoSPA advise…

Roadwax sent special reporter Elena Handcart to ask RoSPA why they are fifty years out of touch with modern techniques for driving on snow and ice. Brian Loadsworth, head of Driver Thinking explained:

“The average British chappie is a little bit of a nuisance when it comes to driving a motor car on snow. We find it is far safer to try and keep him at home, checking his battery charge level and walking around trying to find a shop that will sell him a cavalry tweed car blanket.

The more ordinary people we can leave completely in the dark about snow driving techniques, the more space there is on the roads for bus drivers to pull over and cancel their journey. One really shouldn’t encourage this sort of foolhardy attitude among the workers”.

Thomas Schneebinder from the Stockholm Institute for Common Sense disagrees:

“When I was just six years old, my parents gave me my first Volvo. Like all other normal Swedish drivers, I learned to race old Saabs over packed ice by the time I was twelve. I am surprised that this knowledge is forbidden in Britain. Well done to the BBC for leaking it.”

DSC00026.roadwaxsnowJPG

A post box completely cut off by more than four inches of snow – typical of what Britain may have to endure for up to several days

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Teachers use words. Wayne LaPierre uses guns. Taft Union High School Loses.

11 Jan

As California comes to terms with yet another pointless schoolchild shooting, the NRA’s website is still hopelessly out of date.

Hours after the shooting of a teenager at Taft High School near Bakersfield, California, USA, the National Rifle Association’s website still leads with the news that it has a membership made up of four million “moms, dads, daughters and sons.“

If they don’t adjust their figures, one might be excused for believing that the NRA are killing the rest of America who do not have membership.

Maybe, someone in the NRA should wake up Wayne LaPierre and get him to say something new on his website. After all, he is the voice of the NRA who sees nothing wrong around him.

It is a very American debate. The rest of the world can only watch while Americans decide who or what is going wrong with their constitution or their way of life.

The rest of the world may not become involved in this debate. This is an argument that is going on in a next-door neighbour’s house. It sounds bad, but it isn’t yet time to call the cops. Maybe, they can sort it out with words. Besides, the cops have guns.

The rest of the world can only form its own opinions, based on the facts, and judge.

Time after time, the rest of the world listens like doubtful neighbours while America trusts the intelligent argument of teachers to defend innocent children against incoherent gunmen.

Time after time, killers with shotguns kill innocent children as the words of Wayne ring in their ears as justification.

Wayne is really heavily involved in his gun club.

The rest of the world isn’t and it doesn’t care too much for Wayne’s bleating about freedom.

Freedom doesn’t carry a gun. Don’t believe anyone who tells you that it does.

New Year Message of hope from ‘Fiscal’ Cliff. *Exclusive* 7:22pm G.M.T.

31 Dec

'Fiscal' Cliff Spong

By Roadwax Special Reporter Elena Handcart

The  shadowy figure accused of being responsible for the latest economic crisis confronting the United States, Clifford ‘Fiscal’ Spong  – also known as Fiscal Cliff – has released a message of hope for Americans as the deadline for the financial crisis approaches.

In a chance meeting at Scratchwood Services on the M1 in England, our Senior Reporter Elena Handcart was granted permission to record a short interview that is reproduced in unedited form below.

Reporter:   One regular skinny Latte please, hot milk.

Catering Manager:   You want some cake with that, Madam?

Reporter:    Not at these f***ing prices, mate. You must be having a giraffe.

Fiscal Cliff:    Nicely said, little madame. (laughs) Here, go on, I’ll pay. Give her that one on the left.

Reporter:    Call me ‘little madame’ one more time and I’ll put my…oh…(indistinct)…you’re Fiscal Cliff, aren’t you?

Minder:    Don’t speak to Mr Spong unless you’re told to, there’s a good girl.

Reporter:    Wind your neck in, donkey bollocks, or I’ll take you out…(indistinct, sound of scuffle)...

Fiscal Cliff:   It’s all right, Dave. Let her have her cake and eat it. (laughs)

Minder:     She’s recording every word, boss, I think she might be a reporter.

Fiscal Cliff:   Who isn’t these days…?  Its all right. Its all right. Here…have a seat. Sit yourself down, girl.

Minder:   I don’t think you should do this, Mr Spong.

Fiscal Cliff:   I know. That’s why I employ you as a driver.

Reporter:  Mr Spong, what do you have to say to the American people about the outrageous uncertainty…

Minder:   I’m not a driver, I’m a Close Protection Specialist.

Fiscal Cliff:  Don’t interrupt, Dave. Go and get me some Spearmint from the shop, will you? Jesus…

Reporter: …about the taxation and spending crisis. Why did you do it, Mr Spong?

Fiscal Cliff:  Call me ‘Fiscal’.

Catering Manager: Skinny Latte and Chocolate Heart Attack. Enjoy.

Reporter:  Thank you. Can I have a tea spoon?

Catering Manager: I give you spoon already. There. By cup.

Reporter:No, another tea spoon for the cake.

Catering Manager: There. By the cup. I give you spoon already.

Fiscal Cliff:Oh, for f**k’s sake. Just go and get a spoon. Another spoon. Two spoons.

Catering Manager: More spoon?

Fiscal Cliff: Yes. More spoons. One more spoon.

Catering Manager:Two spoons or one? One spoon?

Fiscal Cliff: Dave usually does this stuff for me. No, one spoon. Another spoon. Just one.

Catering Manager: Just one spoon. Yes sir.

Reporter: Fiscal,  is there any hope for the American taxpayer that you will agree to negotiate…

Fiscal Cliff:  He’s getting a dessert spoon. I knew he would. Its bigger than the bloody cake.

Reporter:   Are you willing to negotiate to save the US economy from what appears to be…

Fiscal Cliff:  Of course I am. Of course. People misunderstand me.

Reporter:   How do you mean?

Fiscal Cliff: They’ve been told lies about me. They’ve made me out to be this big villain.

Reporter:  Who has?

Fiscal Cliff:  The politicians. I’m the big monster under the bed.

Reporter:  But at midnight tonight, automated spending cuts and tax hikes are gonna...

Fiscal Cliff:  You don’t really believe all that crap, do you?

Reporter:  But the failure to negotiate an alternative solution…

Fiscal Cliff:  Exactly…! Exactly…! The failure to negotiate…! It’s not me. It’s them lot.

Reporter:  Who?

Fiscal Cliff:  The politicians! Too scared of wrecking their careers to offer a sensible solution!

Reporter:   But the Democrat plan to keep the Estate Tax level of 45% might hurt many farming families.

Fiscal Cliff: Yes, but keeping the rate where it is knocks $119 billion off of tax revenue.

Reporter: Well, so Welfare expenditure would be cut, just like in other countries.

Fiscal Cliff:  Unaffordable. Welfare would tail-spin. Poverty would increase. 

Reporter:  But over-taxation could strangle growth and investment, kill off enterprise.

Fiscal Cliff:  Well, the figures are painful but it all depends where you want your pain.

Reporter:  Are you threatening me?

FiscalCliff:  I never threatened anyone. Calm down. You have to see the big picture.

Reporter:  Well, what solution can you suggest that is acceptable to everyone?

Fiscal Cliff:   That is the whole problem. All the solutions are unacceptable to one party or the other.

Reporter:  So, there is no solution?

Fiscal Cliff: There are plenty…but they all result in a loss of face to the politicians. Pride.

Reporter: Name a solution, then.

Fiscal Cliff: Easy. Cut back on Defense spending. You’d have the money in a moment.

Reporter:    But Defense spending is a Holy Grail to politicians! They’d lose face.

Fiscal Cliff:   Exactly, even though the U.S. would still be quite safe, they would lose pride.

Reporter:   So wherever you make cuts, some politician loses pride.

Fiscal Cliff: Exactly. It is all about the self-esteem of politicians, not voter’s well-being.

Reporter:  But voters rely on politicians to make the right choices on their behalf, don’t they? 

Fiscal Cliff:  Hang on  (phone bleeps) ...I’m just taking a call from my mate, Obama…

Reporter:  President Obama has your number…?

Fiscal Cliff: Bazza…Bazza…all right, my old son…? Yeah, fine…Scratchwood Services…I know, but nobody knows me in Scratchwood Services…yes…yes…right…right…okay…nice one. Love to the wife and kids…bye.

Reporter:  What did he say?

Fiscal Cliff:He said you climb a mountain one step at a time.

Reporter: What does that mean?

Fiscal Cliff: They’re gonna cut the cost of delivering Defense and Medicare by milking their big suppliers.

Reporter:  Will the big suppliers let that happen?

Fiscal Cliff: They have to. They’re loaded. So, the first round of the fight is won by the people.

Reporter:Why?

Fiscal Cliff: Because that will stop the huge tax hike that was due to happen tomorrow.

Reporter: Won’t the Defense and Medicare fat cats fight back?

Fiscal Cliff: No, the CEOs will keep their tax loopholes in return for higher Corporation Tax.

Reporter: So, the rich get richer and the workers lose the pay rise they were promised for next year…?

Fiscal Cliff:   Yes…but no politicians were hurt during the making of this documentary.

Minder: Are you gonna eat that chocolate cake or can I have it…?

North Korean rocket scientist goes home and hugs kids.

12 Dec

All civilians are instructed to continue with their work program.

That is all.

Is somebody gonna come and wake me up when I’m supposed to salute…?

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Ford (USA) reveal “Back to the Future” version of European Transit

6 Dec

In a bold marketing move by Ford USA, described as “bold” by a panel of analysts who search for boldness in our world, Ford USA have released the first publicity shots of the T-Series/Transit van that will replace the historic E-Series/Econoline on the American continent.

Now, before I begin to ridicule the man on the far left of the photograph, let me point out that Ford are really putting their best brains forward on this project. How do you replace a van as iconic as the E-Series wth something totally new yet retain your customer loyalty?

Answer: You put a 1970’s retro grille on the front and you cross your fingers.

And you make the rest of the van look as much like a Mercedes Sprinter as you can without the Mercedes lawyers calling you up and saying:

“Now, you have made a mistake. A ferry, ferry bed mistake. Ve feel you hef not the full understandink of the word respekt.”

Okay, no cultural stereotyping here on Roadwax but you gotta love the German accent. It rocks.

Right. Now back to the man on the hard left of the picture.

Basically, the story is this.

Ingemar, the director of the photo shoot, doesn’t know squat about how people in warehouses work. But he’s pretty sure that somewhere along the scheme of things, an authority figure with a red clipboard and a hard hat has to shout and order people around.

So he employs an extra called Dave to stand there next to the shutter and shout and wave his hands as though he is in charge. In real life, Dave would keep well clear of the walls because he knows that ‘Blind Danny’ is about to return to the warehouse and collect some pallets, so standing next to a wall right now is not a good move.

In the foreground, to reinforce the fact that this is a parcel van that is being portrayed, Ingemar gets hold of an extra who looks like a parcel delivery driver.

Meet Remy. To compensate for the fact that Remy actually works as a damn good ballet dancer and doesn’t even hold a driving license (he cycles), Ingemar tells him to look exhausted and ignore the bloke who is shouting and waving his arms over by the shutter.

Remy was a little upset that the wardrobe department have mistakenly given him ill-fitting workwear but Ingmar just smiled and nodded his head with a knowing wink. Ingemar ordered the workwear himself and he (like us) knows about these things.

Although Ingemar has got an embarrassingly limited understanding of how the parcel industry actually works, he is highly skilled as a director of films depicting the violent collapse of the human condition. Ingemar just knows instinctively that a third character must be introduced to the picture to destabilize it and imply a note of menace.

Ingemar used this technique to great effect in “Twenty Steps to Trondheim” and “Death Is Thursday” which both won him awards at the 2012 Cannes Festival of Stuff Going Straight to DVD.

Cue Colin, far right.

Colin is an English nanny who works for Ingemar’s partner now that his US work visa has expired. Colin is cheap and reliable and does what Ingemar tells him to do.

So, Ingemar says:

‘Colin, I am feeling that you should be standing with a sack barrow in front of you. I think this works.”

Does Colin point out to Ingemar that this looks utterly stupid and removes the last shred of authenticity in the shot? That the entire warehouse is filled with palletised goods, none of which could be moved with a sack barrow?

You decide…

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Does your Procter and Gamble washing powder destroy your will to live…?

5 Dec
Okay...its a box of washing machine powder...but...

Okay…its a box of washing machine powder…but…

Procter & Gamble UK make a huge range of cleaning, grooming and beauty products. Beginning in the United States in 1837, they have always been pretty clever when it comes to selling stuff like washing powder or anything that involves mixing a few chemicals together to spread over yourself or your kitchen.

Trouble is, they can’t write good copy. I mean, they really have a problem with creative writing. A big problem. Scary big.

This is their household favourite, ‘Fairy Non-Bio’ washing powder:

...nothing suspicious here...everything appears to be quite normal...but...

…nothing suspicious here…everything appears to be quite normal…but…

And this is the same pack from another angle:

...there seems to be some kind of important message on the back...

…there seems to be some kind of important message on the back…

And this is what it says on the back:

oh dear...

oh dear…

I think P&G want mother to sing these words under her breath to the tune of:  ‘I’m a Little Teapot’ – that totally bonkers 1930’s hit song – while  smiling lovingly at her baby.

If you happen to be a baby who’s mother is currently smiling at you and singing these words, get out quick. Crawl towards the door and leave. Never look back.

“I’m a little toddler

Short, not stout,”

Okay, this has already gone wrong, hasn’t it? Babies are almost universally stout. Take a look at your own logo at the bottom right of the pack. ‘Stout’ appears to be very much in evidence. You got a problem with ‘stout’?

“Feel my jumper,

Soft, no doubt…”

Wooaaah…right, so this is already getting way out of line. Is this a call from P&G to encourage a a new trend in baby-fondling? Are babies supposed to be admired and assessed for the softness of their jumpers? Is this how we are?

“When I get all dirty,

Hear me shout:”

Ever heard a baby shout? Did that shout include any recognised words? Anything to do with mass-produced cleansing agents?

“Get the box of liquitabs out!”

Oh dear…oh dear…oh dear…

Where does one start?

Close your eyes and imagine a dirty baby shouting that line at you.

Scary Bad.

Imagine if Sesame Street  suddenly did an episode on bestiality. Or, suppose you saw Kermit theFrog with a needle stuck in his arm. See what I mean? The dream is forever shattered…

And as for suggesting that one should clean up a dirty baby by using a sachet of harsh chemicals, designed to be put in a washing machine…

Okay. Now, dear reader, (as fellow WordPress blogger Linda Vernon might say) we imagine that afternoon meeting in the Procter & Gamble marketing department when this copy was actually signed off.

“Well done, team!…Really pushed the ball uphill on this one!…I think we’ve totally cracked the message we want to send to the world!…Fantastic effort all round!…This is really going to hit the target market hard!…So proud…you guys make me so damn proud…!”

“Team, I feel that our job here is done. Now, let’s move straight on to solving World Poverty. Any ideas come to mind…?”

Crazy Bad.

Oh, since you ask, that spoon on the draining board is mine. I got others as well, but that one is particularly damn sexy, ain’t it? My house is fitted with an alarm, by the way…

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UK: A part of Europe yet apart.

25 Nov

This is the view of Britain that you can see if you look west from the edge of Europe. It has not changed since the birth of religion. This view remains constant. It is the view one gets from any ship or ferry that is heading to the Port of Dover, England.

To the home-coming Brit, first time visitor or the migrant, this view emerges usually from a cloak of  mist and cloud. The grey finger of land looms ever closer until great cliffs reveal the entrance to the small but restless port.

These last few minutes of the journey let you see yourself and your fellow ferry travelers as you really are. On deck or looking through the huge windows from the passenger lounges, we all stare at this view in silence.

There is nothing to point at, no comment worth making, no detail to arrest one’s thoughts until one is almost there.

I watch as a group of young Eastern European men and women put arms around each other’s shoulders as they gaze. One of them turns and hugs his friend and I see his cheeks are streamed wet with tears, his reddened eyes blinking furiously. His friends crowd round and he breaks his embrace and laughs and hugs them. They all laugh and hug.

By contrast, the well-dressed elderly couple turn away from the railing. He fishes a handkerchief from his sharply ironed trousers and blows his nose. She opens her handbag and suddenly rummages inside it as if attempting to kill a particularly defensive small rodent.

‘Have you got the keys…?’

Her shocked voice barks out to him, echoing across the deck above the hum and whine of the ship’s engines.

‘Yes.’ He replies, returning his handkerchief to its appointed pocket and inspecting with great enthusiasm the grey plastic decking beneath his brown and immaculately polished brogues.

A mother and father spill out through the cabin door onto the deck and repeatedly call for Imogen. Imogen leaves her position by the hand rail near me and becomes tried, found guilty, sentenced and punished in the few seconds it needs for her tired parents to dispense rough justice.

I watch as my brother takes a last photograph from the stern of the closely packed long-distance trucks that litter the open hold below. Sailors are cracking undone the chains that bind their dusty trailers to the deck and the ship’s tannoy is welcoming us to the Port of Dover in English, French and finally, Polish.

‘It sounds better in Polish’ says my brother, slipping his camera back into his jacket. ‘The French version somehow lacks a certain enthusiasm.’

Our great ferry is now shuddering violently as if something large and expensive to replace has broken loose in the engine room. The stern foams as black harbour water is angrily hurled elsewhere to let us turn and line up the bow doors with ramp number fourteen. The ferry over at ramp number nine  begins to depart and we all start to file below, down the stairs to the car deck.

As the 40 tonne trucks are let out of the holds beneath us, people go through the complex nesting procedures that are required to drive an unbroken journey from the dock to home, hundreds of miles inland.

The baby’s bottle needs to be got from underneath the suitcase in the back. The raincoats need to be folded away on the left so that father can see out of the right. The lady in the Audi TT needs her driving shoes on and her stilettos off and stored behind her. Imogen needs to be reminded once more of areas in her behaviour where her mother seeks lasting improvement.

I need to peel the black tape from my headlights so that they can once again shine more brightly to the left. I need to check the oil and water. Doing so fills the drivers behind me in the queue with horror. I am lifting the bonnet. I must have broken down. They are now trapped behind me. They will never be able to leave the ferry. I have ruined their entire holiday. I should not be allowed to drive. I drop the bonnet from shoulder height and stare back at them. Suckers. It works every time.

Our passports were checked earlier by the French Customs officer at the port in France. Then again at the next cabin fifty metres further along in the concrete wasteland by the British Customs officer in France. Then, once parked up in lines and waiting for our ferry, our load space was again checked by a British Customs officer in France.

Now, we leave the ship and join the queue that leads to the British Customs in Britain. Their concrete cave nestles at the foot of the towering cliffs of Dover. We are invited in.

The British Customs in Britain dance and swerve between the two slowly moving queues of heavily laden cars. They wave and point and beckon, let three cars straight through then stop the fourth and lean in to ask a quick question of the driver. The driver must not do two things. He must not sound nervous when asked out of the blue if he has visited Holland and his breath must not smell of alcohol.

Four policemen with loaded machine guns and hands on triggers ensure that we all focus on where we all are and why we are all here. You may look the policemen in the eye but you may not out-stare them. Not unless you wish to be beckoned to steer to the left and to a bay marked out on the wet concrete floor for those who may not understand. Look away. Appear bored and impatient.

The Eastern Europeans in their minibus are waved straight through. Customs are already fully aware who they are. The old couple are stopped. Duty Free alcohol. Where is it? How many bottles? Are there more bottles they have bought in France? Where? In the back? Show me. Fine. Thank you. Move on. The old man’s face is flushed. He was not expecting that. The customs officer knows that and that is precisely why he stopped him. You’d be surprised who tries to break the law.

My brother and I are waved straight through. Our car is sunken on its springs with over a hundred wine bottles that fill the cabin and boot under our coats and jackets. The Customs officers already know that. We are on a day trip. We are bound to be maxed out on wine that costs a quarter of the British price and tastes twice as good. We won’t be smuggling. You don’t get rich smuggling wine using a VW Golf. You use a Mercedes estate with self-levelling suspension, like the old couple did.

I am bringing into Britain what I am entitled to by British Customs. EU law says that the British are allowed to bring as much of whatever they want into Britain as members of a free-trade union of countries called the European Union. That is what free trade is all about.

But that cuts no ice with British Customs officials. They say that I am only allowed to bring in 100 litres of wine and a kilo of tobacco. Every now and then. Not too often.

Britain is different. We are an island. See photo at top of page for further clarification.

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Obama Wins Second Term. World Breathes Out.

7 Nov

Good cat wins. Bad cat loses. That’s how we cats like it.

For us British, the US Presidential election results are revealed between midnight and 6am.

Thoroughly frustrating. Traditional as Halloween, yes, but also maddening.

It is like being forced to watch a five hour presentation of your friend’s holiday pictures when all you really want to see is the bit where they lost control of their rental car and drowned it in the drainage lake beside the airport as they were returning it.

I waited up until the first states called their results and then went to bed. I couldn’t stand the mental agony of listening to the BBC anchor man asking “So, what does this really mean…?” another 48 times.

Five hours of sleep put me in a curious position. I didn’t want to get up. If I got up then the Republicans might be in power. If I stayed in bed, Obama was still ruling America.
As I lay and stared at the ceiling, I remembered another chilling thought from the previous night. One of the commentators had expressed the view that for decades, America had been driving relentlessly onward to the extreme right.
This theory would be proved correct if Obama now was kicked out and the journey towards fascism was continued after a four year accidental blip.
I stayed in bed some more.
Then, I remembered the white British anchorman asking his chatty multicultural American table guests if it may be a case of “…Americans being tired of the black man in the White House…”.
His chatty American guests weren’t ready for that one. You don’t mention that in America. The chatty American guests had been set up. They squirmed. Slam dunk. Answer that one. You’re getting paid, aren’t you…?
In the whole reportage of the American elections by American reporters, you never heard a single reference to the seething indignation felt by right wing white Americans that there was a black man in the White House.
You used to.
You heard it in the run-up to the previous election. You heard it on Obama’s winning night. You heard it at his inauguration speech. You heard it fade away, once the white racists realised that a black man really was in the White House and there was nothing that could be done.
The white racists’ only hope was to get Obama out of office four years later and have him suffer the indignation of being a “One Term President”. Forgotten as a freak of historical detail.
I leaped out of bed and rushed to switch the TV on.
Obama was thanking America and telling Americans how great they were as a nation. His voice croaked as he pushed it for one last time after weeks and weeks of speeches. I almost cried.
And it was true, what Obama was saying. They are great as a nation.
As a nation, they had seen through that grotesque caricature of an Uber-right-wing politician, Mitt Romney. They had voted instead for Obama, the guy who was born to engage with people and embrace politics. Romney, on the other hand, was born only to employ people and play politics with them. He never hid it. He couldn’t.
Noble (through gritted teeth) in defeat, he nevertheless chilled the blood of anyone who understands the dreadful damage that George W. Bush caused the reputation of the American people outside America. Rich white kids who have shares in arms companies are very out of fashion, right now.
Mitt Romney could never shake off the suspicion in most people’s minds that he had come out of the cinema after seeing The Matrix and turned to his P.A. and said: “Find out how much it would cost us to build a machine like that and have the report on my desk tomorrow morning.”
Removing Obama and replacing him with Romney would have been a PR catastrophe for America. 
The good guy won today.

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Human Rights Industry for sale. Click here to add ‘Human Rights’ to shopping cart.

6 Nov

If you are reading these words, then you are a conscientious citizen who cares about protecting human rights.

Or else,  you are an employee belonging to one of  hundreds of worldwide government organisations who monitor the internet for early signs of organised dissent.

If you fall into both categories then your body may soon be found by a passer-by.

If you are ‘time-poor’ or otherwise have a boss who wears sunglasses inside the office, here are the two links:

This one is to the RFK Training Institute.

This one is to the BBC who have written an online article about them.

Off you go. See you back here later.

Over the last two years, Roadwax has noticed a couple of disturbing trends within the media.

1) The increasing use of the term “Human Rights Activist”.

2) Investigative journalists who mock Twitter for being a fickle gossip shop yet all have Twitter accounts.

Let’s take a closer look:

1) “Human Rights Activist”. Er…someone who actively promotes human rights? Not just a “Human Rights Supporter” – someone who supports basic human rights but…well…someone who goes a little bit further. Maybe, too far.

Even the most right-wing dictator or left-wing Supreme Leader supports human rights. It always looks good on their CV or resume and calms fears that they might actually be a right-wing dictator or a left wing Supreme Leader. But hey, running around and actively supporting Human Rights – now, that is just asking for trouble. Best stay at home and click ‘like’ on a Facebook campaign when asked. Don’t push it. Don’t get active. You need to be a trained pro to do all that stuff. Best leave it to someone else.

On what date in history did we normal humans apparently stop actively supporting our rights? Or, is popular media beginning to use the term ‘active’ as a kind of negative adjective, a nudge in the ribs to their readers and viewers?

“Watch out for Dave. He’s an Education Activist. He openly questions the teachers at parent meetings.”

“Watch out for Ella. She’s an Animal Welfare Activist. She persuaded her local store to stop selling battery-farmed eggs.”

Supporters are supposed to fill seats in the stadium and watch the activists do the work.

Nonsense. Dangerous nonsense.

We should all be Human Rights Activists. We should regain ownership of the term.

Which brings me neatly to point number 2).

Again, in the space of a couple of years, Twitter has gone from lightweight world chat-room to premier source of breaking news.

How do we know? Well, we could conduct a simple scientific experiment:

1) Have a huge storm hit a major city. New York will do fine.

2) Go on to Twitter and watch what ordinary people say and upload as pictures.

3) When someone uploads a picture of a shark swimming in their yard…

4) Watch how long it takes in seconds before major news websites carry the story…

5) …before dumping  it and instead running a “How to Spot a Faked Photo” article.

So, without causing any cruelty or suffering to animals, we can test out how the major news-gathering organisations work these days.

They watch Twitter. They use a mixed bag of paid and unpaid freelance reporters to report from the front line. They use activists.

Staff reporters visiting dangerous places? Not likely. Have you any idea how expensive and embarrassing it gets when a staff reporter gets their head stuck in a toilet in a Kiev brothel or runs down a local warlord’s mother-in-law while driving a Sixt Rental Toyota in Afghanistan? Nope. Staff reporters do the restaurant reviews and click on Twitter.

The RFK Training Institute have spotted this trend. The BBC have spotted the RFK Institute spotting this trend. Roadwax spotted the BBC spotting the RFK…oh – you know how word travels.

The RFK Institute in Florence, Italy are opening their doors today.

They are offering to train Human Rights Activists how not to get caught, killed or disconnected. The big beasts. The ones who report human rights abuses in other people’s countries. Countries where nobody can tell who the guys with the guns and the Toyota pickup truck work for. The guys outside your house.

If you want any more information, email  Valentina Pagliai on:  pagliai@rfkcenter.com but do not waste her time. They are apparently looking to focus efforts on the most high priority cases – the men and women who already have to hide from tyranny to stay alive long enough to report it.

The BBC says that the RFK Institute are going to sell courses to teach human rights activists how to protect themselves online from being tracked, monitored, shut down or effectively marginalised.

The first students will enroll in January 2013.

Strange.

Instead of offering all this information free to everyone via the internet, the RFK Institute is carefully hand-picking a few whose names will be kept secret and who will be trained behind closed doors.

Instead of freely revealing all the tips and tricks that every human ought to be aware of to be kept safe while using the internet in 2012, RFK is teaching maybe fifty or a hundred paying guests.

They will become the elite who can protect themselves from prying agencies. RFK Institute will issue the qualifications, I assume. Control the market, as it were.

The RFK Institute has just created the Human Rights Industry.

It has just put a price on knowledge instead of uploading it for free to everyone.

If I become a donor to this charity, will I get a monthly newsletter that includes a helpful ‘handy tip’ on how to keep my freedom online? I doubt it. I sincerely hope not.

The RFK Institute appears to be ‘professionalising’ human rights activism.

My heart hurts.

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Lydia Callis, Interpreter, is deleted. ‘Killing the messenger’, Bloomberg Style…

30 Oct

Last night, as New York state (and also half the world) watched TV news for information on Pretty Damn Big Storm Sandy, a star was born.

As New York Mayor Mike Bloomberg  droned relentlessly onward like a Caterpillar D8 bulldozer (shown below), Lydia Callis translated the true meaning of his words for those listeners who still believed in the power of life and who still had hearts that beat.

By 02:00 hrs GMT, as the storm was thrashing Lower Manhattan, Lydia had a Twitter account that was trending like a rocket. She was gaining followers  in a way that meant only one thing: she had become an overnight sensation in the literal sense.

Her outstanding, intuitive and skilled visual interpretation of Bloomberg’s words was truly electrifying to watch.

It was made more so by the contrast between her vivacious delivery and his life-sucking, soul-crushingly unmemorable droning. 

Lydia spoke to the living and the hard of hearing.

Mike spoke to the telegraph poles and the concrete kerb stones.

By morning, Lydia was receiving the kind of internet media attention that spelled trouble. People loved her. People adored her. People wanted to see more of her rather than Bloomberg.

One just knew what would happen next…

In a simple feat of 1950’s Russian Communist Party subtlety, Lydia has been deleted. Airbrushed out of the history of New York’s worst night.

Camera footage of her at Bloomberg’s side on the night of the storm has been cropped so that she is no longer in view. You can just catch a glimpse of her elbow if you have sharp eyes. Yes, the footage looks slightly grainy now; it has been cropped and enlarged  to counter for the fact that it is zoomed in on Mike.

Her upbeat Twitter account comment which she made last night:   “I’m back…!” has gone.

So have all her other comments and posts.

So has her Twitter account.

All that remains is a hashtag page for ‘SignLanguageLady’ – her own original account address. It leads to nowhere. She is now nobody. She has become a ‘non-person’.

Some might argue that it does not befit a mayor’s interpreter to upstage a mayor.

Others might counter that it does not befit a mayor to make his atrociously poor communication worse by removing his interpreter.

Some might argue that she diverted attention from Bloomberg’s words.

Others might argue that this was an act of supreme charity and kindness since Mike has no talent for communication. Not a shred. Nada.

Lydia mentioned last night that, although she loves working with Mike, when Bloomberg tries to “habla” (speak Spanish) – she stops signing. 

Her comment has now been removed from the internet.

Bloomberg has as much in common with the Hispanic community as a hat stand does with a pork pie. This is not a thing that should be pointed out. If it is, then people might think that he is unelectable in the Hispanic community.

People might be right. 

Bloomberg does not speak for and does not speak with the people. He should not be a mayor.

Callis (or: Callas – the spelling that used to appear) spoke for and to the people and she should be.

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