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So let’s get this straight. If you want to legally see a film at any point within the first four months of its release, you have to leave your house, go to what is effectively a ‘movie warehouse’ and pay £10 to see the film at a set time, regardless of how inconvenient that is. You also have to sit with 200 strangers and if you want a snack or drink you have to pay a price that makes you cry. And you can’t pause the film if you need to use the loo. Or rewind it if you miss a crucial detail. And if you decide that you enjoyed the movie and want to see it again you have to leave your house, pay more money and do it all again.

Man, that is dumb.

But wait, it gets dumber.

The movie itself is a digital product. It’s infinitely copyable and is already being distributed in uncontrollable numbers online, globally, for free. You can see the movie at whatever time you like, sat on the couch with your family in the comfort of your own home, eating the snacks you’ve already bought and can pause, rewind and replay it at any time. But there’s a catch – if you do that you’re a criminal.

Movie studios want to actively pursue you and have you fined, or take your internet away, if you attempt to watch the film in the comfort of your own home at any point within the first four months.

That’s fine I suppose, the movie studios are the originators of the content, so they have the power over how and when they sell their product. That’s how it works with all products, from a toy to a pie to a garden shed – the seller sets the price and the terms.

Oh wait, it’s NOTHING like a toy or a pie or a garden shed, because those are physical products. You can’t have them unless the seller agrees to give them to you. We’re talking about movies – digital products – that, like books and music, are infinitely copyable and can be distributed globally at the touch of a button without anyone’s permission.

So the goal posts have moved. When someone can get something for free, the seller can no longer dictate the terms. The power is in the hands of the consumer.

In this situation (the real world) the rights holder is left with one option – give people access to the content on as many platforms as possible and allow them to pay for it. Most people don’t want to be criminals. Most people recognise that it probably cost a bit of money to make a movie or a song or a book, and want to donate money to the creator, allowing them to make more of the movies or songs or books that they love.

But the movie industry chooses not to embrace this.

The movie industry puts its fingers in its ears and says ‘La-la-laaaa!’ when you try and GIVE IT MONEY so that you can watch the film at home with your family. It allows you no legal option of watching the film other than to sit in a place you may not want to be, at a time you may not like, with strangers you may not want to be with. So instead of generating revenue from what is possibly the largest untapped market in any industry in the world, it turns all other viewing options into a criminal act. That doesn’t stop it happening, it just stops the industry making any money from it.

And that’s why movies have the world’s dumbest business model.

I’m not a mathematical man. Isaac Newton would despair if he saw me trying to do a sudoku. However, my brain has given birth to one logic-based theory… Commuter Minute Theory.

CMT is a theory about how long it takes to complete a city journey,
not in actual minutes, but in perceived minutes.

For example, I hate getting the bus. It stops at traffic lights and it’s often full of annoying people. With chicken. BUT the glorious marvel that is the tube whizzes through the tunnel at what feels like lightening speed. So for me a bus minute feels longer than a tube minute.

My business partner Garret doesn’t mind the bus. He’s got a phone signal, he has time to read and he can see the city. So for him a bus minute doesn’t feel as long as it does to me.

My other business partner Jack is a cyclist, so he hates the tube and the bus. Jack would rather spend twice as long getting somewhere by bike than spend half the time on the tube. So for him a bike minute feels like half the time of everything else.

I realised it’s all about perception. SO I MADE AN EQUATION. A really simple one…

Length of Journey (in mins) x Minute Type = Commuter Minute Total

For me, these are my minutes:
Tube minute = 0.5min (When the tube works it feels quick.)
Walking minute when early = 0.5min (La-de-daaa! Time well spent.)
Bike minute = 1min (I use a Boris bike. It’s… not bad.)
Train minute = 1.5min (Nice view, but feels slower than the tube)
Bus minute = 2min (Yawn. Another traffic light? Bore off.)
Walking minute when late = 3min (Why are my feet so SLOW!?)

So in ‘reality’ (the reality in my head – the only reality that matters) a tricky choice between a 15min walk or a 10min bus ride is easy when you do the maths. In Commuter Minutes the walk takes 7.5min and the bus is 20min. Easy decision – get walking.

Do give it a try, it never fails. And all you city-dwellers out there, let me know… how long are your Commuter Minutes?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a sudoku from 1998 to finish…

(London bus picture designed buy Quentin Newark and can be purchased as a poster here.)

I just read that Jennifer Aniston’s 15 year old dog ‘Norman’ has died. Let’s think about how I know this.

First, the dog died. A personal moment of sadness. Then a Hollywood PR person, whose entire job involves making us care about Jennifer Aniston, wrote a press release about the dead dog and sent it to websites and newspapers in order to use the dog’s death to get Jennifer Anniston more exposure. On receiving the self-publicising dead dog press release the reporter said ‘a dead dog, THAT’S A STORY’ and took time out of her day to write a dead dog article and create an accompanying picture gallery of ‘Stars and their Furry Friends’, complete with over one hundred photos. Then, using a complex network of computers, satellites and global technology she published the dead dog story to millions of homes, offices and mobile phones around the world, where it began receiving comments discussing Jennifer Aniston and her dead dog. Soon it became morning here in the UK, and I (totally unaware of the dead dog) turned on my computer to find out what had happened in the world while I was asleep. At this point the dead dog story, which originated in Jennifer Aniston’s house in the west coast of the USA, was beamed using a high-tech network of fibre optic cables into my house in South London where, without even having to get out of bed, I am told about the dog. Who is dead. Who belonged to a woman I’ve never met.

Now I’m not saying there could have been a better use of this global news network but a billion people don’t have access to clean water. Just saying.

(Picture by emy-msm on DeviantArt)

This is possibly the single most honest tweet I’ve ever written.  Welcome to my life.

That should have said ‘badass detective’, but predictive text is a difficult mistress to please. Anyway, Sam Shepherd responded with…

“A bad-ass detective with a drinking problem? And an ex-wife? And two kids you never see and a partner that got shot. Right?” 

Absolutely correct.  If I was a detective I’d spend my days like this…

And my nights like this…

Maybe one day I’ll live that dream, but for now I’d better stay in my job.

Hallo citizen,

Barrington

I’ll never be a surgeon with a stethoscope and mask
I’ll never be a tap dancer – my shoes aren’t up to task

I’ll never be a banker, wearing braces, selling stock
(In fact, I’ll never be banker coz I’m not a total cock)

I’ll never wear a pilot’s hat and fly a massive plane
I’ll never wear red overalls and work in a pit lane

I’ll never be an astronaut with a helmet like a bubble
I’ll never be a cowboy with my boots and hat and stubble

I’ll never be a fireman and wear those fireproof clothes
I’ll never wear that yellow hat (and make jokes about my hose)

I’ll never be a copper with a truncheon, badge and gun
I’ll never have a habit like an creepy male nun

I’ll never be a manager, in fresh-pressed shirt and tie
I’ll never be a referee, with black socks pulled up high

You see, I’ll never wear a uniform, but I don’t care who knows
Coz at work I live my childhood dream… I get to wear own clothes.

Let me set the scene… It’s a sunny Sunday afternoon and Chellington and I are sat on the couch watching Come Dine With Me. A woman is feeding eggs to her cat. I’m not sure why. (Do cat’s even like eggs?) The window’s open and then the familiar sound chimes in…

Ding ding-a-ling ding ding-a-ling ding…

“ICE CREAM VAAAAAAN!”

Like meerkats in an air raid we start running round, scrabbling together pound coins before I leg it out in my socks to buy our first ice creams of the year. And what belters!

Now ice cream is a pesky fella. Within moments of it being put in front of you it starts getting all melty and annoying. So thank goodness someone invented an entire industry (worth £1.3billion pounds per year) that involves bringing ice cream to you.

Whether it’s at the beach, in the park or even in some shady dogging hotspot, you never know when an ice cream van might shimmy round the corner, singing to you like a demented accordion on wheels. I defy anyone not to smile as this cartoon box of happiness approaches, offering delicious frozen treats that, moments earlier, you didn’t even want! Then for the price of half a pint they can make you a child again, licking away with the gusto of an obese eleven year old.

And now it seems that my new house (we only moved in in Feb) is directly on the flight path of one of these glorious machines. Mega.

Summer, we welcome you with open arms… and strawberry sauce all down our front.