I passed my driving test when I was seventeen years old. After just six driving lessons. And no, I didn't have a man walking ahead of the car with a red flag. I'm not that old. Not quite. Admittedly, I didn’t get off to the best of starts in my driving career. On my first or second lesson, when I was attempting a hill start, the handbrake came off in my hand. I think it had less to do with the fact that I don’t know my own strength, and, more to do with the age of the instructor’s Mini Cooper. It was one of the older ones. Such as Michael Caine may have driven in the original Italian job. The instructor got a new car shortly afterwards. It was a Corsa, or something similar.
Anyhow, I passed my driving test at the age of seventeen, in December, and, on the day that I found out I had won a scholarship to Oxford. I had the morning off school to take my test. When I went in to school in the afternoon I was summoned to the Headmaster’s office to be told the news of my scholarship to the Queen’s College, Oxford University. I was the first member of the school to win an Oxbridge scholarship since Sir Geoffrey Howe some twenty or so years earlier. Suffice to say that the school was chuffed. I was chuffed. I spent the afternoon in the pub with my two history teachers. Celebrating. That was a good day.
That said, I almost killed myself the first time that I drove alone. It was a few days after passing my test. After my celebrations. It was night time, in December and cold. I was driving too fast. And, as I approached the crossroads and as I applied my brakes, I hit some black ice. I didn’t stop. I sailed through the junction. I managed to keep the car straight. It was a miracle that nothing was coming down the road I crossed. I survived. I was quite shaken. I slowed down after that. For a while.
Indeed, I have been fortunate not to have had a serious accident in my twenty three years of driving. I hope my luck holds. I have had just three accidents.
The first accident I was involved in was before I had passed my test. I was on a provisional license, driving the family car, a Vauxhall Viva, under the supervision of my day. I was at traffic lights. The lights turned green and I moved off. I was hit just in front of my door by a motorbike. The biker, who had been overtaking two stopped buses at speed, must have been looking too far ahead to the next set of traffic lights and hadn’t noticed that he was on red. He sailed over the bonnet. He bounced. Twice. I think that he broke a leg but was otherwise unharmed. Unlike his bike. He was very lucky. Our car was written off. The force of the crash had shunted the frame out of alignment.
I was about 21 or 22 at the time of my second accident. Indeed the journey from Preston to London, via Birmingham, proved to be one of my most terrifying driving experiences to date. I had to be at a conference in the Midlands for work on a Friday. So, I borrowed a pool car. They gave me a Ford Capri. Two litres of sheer power and beauty with an automatic transmission and bucket seats. Cool. I took it to Preston to visit my girlfriend at her parents’ home. Her mom loved the Capri and insisted I took her for a spin.
On the way back down to London I was stopping off at my parents in Birmingham for Sunday lunch. This was when things began to go wrong. As I was passing junction 10 of the M6 heading south I was in the outside lane. I was doing about 70mph (!) in a stream of traffic. All of a sudden the car two in front of me span out of control. Fortunately for me, he span into the inner two lanes and I was able to proceed in my lane without hitting anything. As I looked up though I saw one of his wheels bouncing towards me. It bounced in front of me and bounced over me. There was quite a pile up but I drove through, unscathed.
After lunch with mom and dad, I continued my journey south. As I left Birmingham it was pouring down. As I was accelerating along the slip road to join the motorway I hit a puddle. I span out of control and stopped when I hit a sapling. The slip road must have been monitored by CCTV because a police car soon appeared on the scene. The front wing of the car had been ripped off but the nice policeman looked it over and said that I was OK to continue my journey but not to go over 50mph.
I was in the inside lane of the motorway doing a steady 50mph in the rain. I was following a timber truck. A big lorry with huge tree trunks on a flat bed trailer. I was following the timber truck at 50mph when the trailer suddenly became detached from the truck. When it became detached from the truck and headed straight for me. I had to swerve into the hard shoulder to avoid being hit.
Three near misses in the one journey. I was pale as a sheet when I got home to London.
The pool car people were none too happy when I returned with the car on Monday morning. But, they changed their tune when they checked the tyres. They were illegal. The tread had worn. Once they realised that they had sent me out with illegal tyres they soon shut up.
The last time I had a bump was Christmas Day a couple of years back. I was driving Cathy’s work car, a top of the range Peugeot 306. We were heading to my mom and dad’s for Christmas lunch. It was snowing very heavily and there was a good inch or so covering the roads. It was awful. If it hadn’t been Christmas we would have turned round. In fact we nearly turned round at Butt Hill near Kidsgrove. There is quite a steep hill through the village. As we began to climb it the Bedford Van we were following lost traction and slid slowly back down the hill towards us, hitting parked cars on the way. We missed it. Just.
I was extra-specially careful after that. Consequently, as I was dropping down the hill to the first series of traffic islands on the A34 into Newcastle Under Lyme, I was doing maybe 5mph at the most as we entered the roundabout. I tried to take as straight a line as possible. We took a very straight line. Indeed, we went straight through the roundabout. The car didn’t turn when I wanted it to. We slid “gracefully” into the high curb at about a 45 degree angle.
There was no visible damage. We continued onto Birmingham. The steering seemed a little heavy but it was difficult to tell because of the snow. We had a very nice Christmas lunch and returned home to Cheshire. The snow had gone by now and we returned on the motorway. C took the car to the garage at the first opportunity. The front axle had cracked. It was a very lucky escape.
Wednesday 28 February 2007
Tuesday 27 February 2007
Near Death Experiences Part 2
So, having successfully avoided chemical scud attacks on holiday in Israel (see earlier posting), C and I continued to risk life and limb on our various sojourns in warmer climates.
Beware the Goats of Atros! Atros is a small monastery high up in the mountains above the port of Poros on the beautiful island of Kefalonia, the famed setting of Captain Corelli’s Mandolin. It truly is a beautiful spot. Indeed, the area in the north, around Fiscardo, is officially the 7th most beautiful spot on the planet. I don’t remember who officially designated it as such, but, I am not one to argue. And, the six more beautiful places must be quite some sight.
There is a story about the monastery at Atros. Apparently the monks there are very sociable. They welcome all visitors who take the time and the trouble to visit them, rewarding them with bread, olive oil and salt, and a glass of ouzo. In return, all they ask is that you send them a postcard from home. Well, this little piece of cultural and social idealism appealed to my better half, C. And so we set off one day, C in search of cultural and social idealism, and me in search of a welcoming glass of ouzo.
The guides all told us that the road cum path up to the monastery was steep and windy. But, I was not deterred. I was not deterred because a) I am generally fearless, b) my inhibitions tend to reduce significantly with proximity to alcohol, and, c) I was driving a four wheel drive Suzuki jeep with the roof down. How cool is that!? Unfortunately, the same could not be said for my diminutive partner. C is not the most confident passenger in the world, while I am the master of under-statement. Nor is she the best at heights. What I hadn’t known until this fateful day, is that she is also not to hot on crumbling edges of roads. I was really enjoying winding my way up the dirt track to Atros. C was not. C was clutching the jeep door like a theme park ride. Even without her glasses, the imminent fall off the sheer drop at the site of the road was clear to her. I decided against an approach of reasoning, and reassuring that my Advanced Motorist techniques were more than a match for the route. When the screaming got too much, I parked. We parked about half way up the mountain path to the friendly monks. We decided to walk.
As we walked we were passed by a couple of other 4WDs carrying labourers from the monastery on high. They looked at us as if we were idiots for attempting to walk up the mountain. They must have fell about in a heap when they realised we had decided to walk with a perfectly functioning 4WD of our own parked below. I just hope to God that they mistook us for Germans. They don’t like Germans on Kefalonia. Don’t mention the war.
We walked. We climbed. We climbed. We walked. The path disappeared into a steep wooded area. All of a sudden we could hear a distant clunking sound. Like a pebble being rattled in an empty coke can. The clunking got louder. The clunking got closer. The clunking was joined by other clunking sounds. C and I stopped walking and we stopped climbing. C and I looked at each other in bemusement. And, then, all of a sudden, the source of the clunking became clear as hundreds, and hundreds, and hundreds, of mountain goats hurtled through the trees towards us. There were hundreds, and hundreds of them. It was very frightening.
These were huge beasts. Mythical beasts from ancient times. They all had huge, sharp horns sticking out from their heads. They were stampeding. Towards us. C took shelter. C took shelter behind me. I had nowhere to hide. Wide-eyed and nostrils flaring, these huge beasts flew towards us, hooves striking sparks on the rocks beneath them. Fortunately, they all somehow managed to spot us quaking there and changed their course at the last minute. We could smell them as they whipped past. The stampede seemed to last an absolute age. And then, all of a sudden, they were gone. It was quiet. C and I looked at each other. Hugged each other. Sighed with relief.
We climbed a little more until we heard a distant clunking sound. The clunking got louder. The clunking got closer. We had to endure another two stampedes of hurtling mountain goats. It was quite terrifying.
Only when we were confident that the mountain top was goat free did we continue on our way. The path steepened. Unfortunately, C and I were ill prepared for such a walk in such a heat. Expecting that we would have driven to the monastery (!) we hadn’t bothered to bring water with us, or hats. It was very hot. We were very dehydrated. And soon, C began to feel the effects of the heat and the sun. She was sick and dizzy. She went weak at the knees. I avoided all obvious jokes. It wouldn't have been the right time.
And so, as we caught a tantalising first glimpse of the monastery on high, we stopped. C could go no more. Fearing the re-emergence of the demonic goats, C refused to be left while I returned for the jeep. We gathered our strength and trudged wearily down the path to our jeep below. We stopped at the first shop we could find for a refreshing can of coke. Fortunately, these cans of coke were clunk free.
We never did get that glass of ouzo. But we had survived yet another near death holiday experience. But even today, the bleat of a goat or a clunking sound or cow bell in the distance can cause the hair on the back of our necks to stand on end. Beware the goats of Atros! Ignore your wife. Drive to the top!
Beware the Goats of Atros! Atros is a small monastery high up in the mountains above the port of Poros on the beautiful island of Kefalonia, the famed setting of Captain Corelli’s Mandolin. It truly is a beautiful spot. Indeed, the area in the north, around Fiscardo, is officially the 7th most beautiful spot on the planet. I don’t remember who officially designated it as such, but, I am not one to argue. And, the six more beautiful places must be quite some sight.
There is a story about the monastery at Atros. Apparently the monks there are very sociable. They welcome all visitors who take the time and the trouble to visit them, rewarding them with bread, olive oil and salt, and a glass of ouzo. In return, all they ask is that you send them a postcard from home. Well, this little piece of cultural and social idealism appealed to my better half, C. And so we set off one day, C in search of cultural and social idealism, and me in search of a welcoming glass of ouzo.
The guides all told us that the road cum path up to the monastery was steep and windy. But, I was not deterred. I was not deterred because a) I am generally fearless, b) my inhibitions tend to reduce significantly with proximity to alcohol, and, c) I was driving a four wheel drive Suzuki jeep with the roof down. How cool is that!? Unfortunately, the same could not be said for my diminutive partner. C is not the most confident passenger in the world, while I am the master of under-statement. Nor is she the best at heights. What I hadn’t known until this fateful day, is that she is also not to hot on crumbling edges of roads. I was really enjoying winding my way up the dirt track to Atros. C was not. C was clutching the jeep door like a theme park ride. Even without her glasses, the imminent fall off the sheer drop at the site of the road was clear to her. I decided against an approach of reasoning, and reassuring that my Advanced Motorist techniques were more than a match for the route. When the screaming got too much, I parked. We parked about half way up the mountain path to the friendly monks. We decided to walk.
As we walked we were passed by a couple of other 4WDs carrying labourers from the monastery on high. They looked at us as if we were idiots for attempting to walk up the mountain. They must have fell about in a heap when they realised we had decided to walk with a perfectly functioning 4WD of our own parked below. I just hope to God that they mistook us for Germans. They don’t like Germans on Kefalonia. Don’t mention the war.
We walked. We climbed. We climbed. We walked. The path disappeared into a steep wooded area. All of a sudden we could hear a distant clunking sound. Like a pebble being rattled in an empty coke can. The clunking got louder. The clunking got closer. The clunking was joined by other clunking sounds. C and I stopped walking and we stopped climbing. C and I looked at each other in bemusement. And, then, all of a sudden, the source of the clunking became clear as hundreds, and hundreds, and hundreds, of mountain goats hurtled through the trees towards us. There were hundreds, and hundreds of them. It was very frightening.
These were huge beasts. Mythical beasts from ancient times. They all had huge, sharp horns sticking out from their heads. They were stampeding. Towards us. C took shelter. C took shelter behind me. I had nowhere to hide. Wide-eyed and nostrils flaring, these huge beasts flew towards us, hooves striking sparks on the rocks beneath them. Fortunately, they all somehow managed to spot us quaking there and changed their course at the last minute. We could smell them as they whipped past. The stampede seemed to last an absolute age. And then, all of a sudden, they were gone. It was quiet. C and I looked at each other. Hugged each other. Sighed with relief.
We climbed a little more until we heard a distant clunking sound. The clunking got louder. The clunking got closer. We had to endure another two stampedes of hurtling mountain goats. It was quite terrifying.
Only when we were confident that the mountain top was goat free did we continue on our way. The path steepened. Unfortunately, C and I were ill prepared for such a walk in such a heat. Expecting that we would have driven to the monastery (!) we hadn’t bothered to bring water with us, or hats. It was very hot. We were very dehydrated. And soon, C began to feel the effects of the heat and the sun. She was sick and dizzy. She went weak at the knees. I avoided all obvious jokes. It wouldn't have been the right time.
And so, as we caught a tantalising first glimpse of the monastery on high, we stopped. C could go no more. Fearing the re-emergence of the demonic goats, C refused to be left while I returned for the jeep. We gathered our strength and trudged wearily down the path to our jeep below. We stopped at the first shop we could find for a refreshing can of coke. Fortunately, these cans of coke were clunk free.
We never did get that glass of ouzo. But we had survived yet another near death holiday experience. But even today, the bleat of a goat or a clunking sound or cow bell in the distance can cause the hair on the back of our necks to stand on end. Beware the goats of Atros! Ignore your wife. Drive to the top!
Monday 26 February 2007
Made My Blood Boil!
I got very annoyed on Friday listening to Radio 5. There was an interview with an Anna Taylor who was complaining that she would lose out to the tune of £89 per week if she got a job, rather than claiming benefit!
This is a woman who has been "on the sick" for a number of years but is well enough to have given birth to five children in the last five years. Her husband/partner does not work either. Between them they "earn" in benefits the equivalent of an annual salary of £35k.
It made me so mad. She gets paid £35k per annum so that she and her partner can stay home 24/7 bringing up five kids under the age of five. I don't know for sure, but I guess that £35k is probably more than a properly trained and qualified Nanny would earn. Someone who has worked hard to get a job as a Nanny.
What really grated was the woman's attitude. Her whole defence was that she was only getting what she was entitled to and that it was ridiculous that she would be worse of if (and this is a huge, huge if) she got a proper job. I am sorry! The ridiculous thing is that the Government is willing to use my hard earned tax contribution to fund a family of layabouts and enable them to afford five kids. As far as I am concerned there is an easy way to resolve this dilemma...Cut her benefits by a couple of hundred quid a week and force the parents out to work!!!
My mom and dad were hard up when they were bringing me and my sister up. My dad's final year annual salary before retirement was less than my first year starting salary. And he had worked for some 35 years for the same company! My mom often held down two jobs at a time to make ends meet. She took night shift work in factories so that she would always be at home when my sister and myself came home from school. And dad would be there when mom was at work. And, if dad had to work at night too, then a relative would be called upon to look after us.
The only Government benefit we got as a family was the family allowance and my university grant. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate how lucky I was to have had my university education funded in this way. I'm not sure that I could have survived in this current world with loans.
But, even then, while a student, I topped funds up myself with two scholarships, that I earned, and by working every Summer holidays! Including a job stripping asbestos from a factory. Wearing full breathing apparatus with an industrial vacuum cleaner strapped to my back up the top of a ladder! And, another job cleaning out oil sumps under tyre presses during the industrial shut-down weeks in Birmingham.
That was one helluva job. It involved being lowered on a rope down a sump shaft that was about one metre square and several metres deep. It was so hot, that we worked in ten minute shifts - ten minutes down the sump and ten minutes on the rope. When in the sump, a bucket would be lowered and you had to dig out all of the gunk, rubber and oil at the bottom of the sump and pass the bucket past your face back up to the top. It was quite horrific when you got to the bottom. Rubber beetles live on this stuff. Rubber beetles are like a cockroach's worst nightmare. Huge. Scary buggers! Not the kind of thing you want to pass by your face by the bucketful!.
My mom and dad worked every hour that God sent; took every and any job that they could to put food on our table and to give my sister and I the opportunity to go to university. They worked hard. They never had a credit card and they only bought what they could afford and when they could afford to have it. They saved for things like camping holidays or for the colour TV. T hey saved so that they could afford their babies. They were hard working, working class, looking to do better for themselves and their kids.
And then this Anna Taylor comes along complaining that she can't find a job paying her £35k per annum to bring up her five kids. She left school at 16 and she aspires to a salary that kids who have put themselves through university would aspire to. And, she sees it as an entitlement. She genuinely believes that she is doing her bit by bringing five kids into the world.
Indeed, many sprang to Anna's defence on the radio chat show, explaining that with our increasingly elderly population, we're more and more reliant upon children growing up and becoming the tax payers of the future to pay for our pension and health care. I'm sorry! It is actually the past generations not the future ones that have paid for my pension and health care. The past generations and the current workers such as myself.
And, are you really trying to convince me that these five kids, given the example of their not-so-hard-working or civic-minded parents will develop a strong work ethic, get themselves a good education and solid jobs, paying lots of taxes into future social welfare funds. They will be unusual if they do. I so hope they prove me wrong.
Or, is it more likely that we will have another five adults living off entitlements/benefits, producing other kids for the state to feed and clothe, while they sit around all day watching Sky Movies, Jeremy Kyle and Judge Judy on their huge plasma screens. I wonder.
Also, when did it become Government policy in this country to pay people to breed? C and I, unfortunately, have not been able to have children. Not through lack of trying. For many years my annual bonus, which is a reflection of how hard I worked, was spent on privately funding IVF or other fertility treatment, without success. £35k would pay for about ten such procedures, every year! Could you imagine the furore if people such as C and I got that.
So, Mr Blair, please review the benefit system in this country. Think a little more about the tax payers, the hard workers. I am not saying that we shouldn't look after the weak, the poor and the needy. Indeed I am more than happy for my tax pounds to go towards the needy and to pay for the pensions and health care of those people who have worked hard all their lives. But, you cannot convince me that giving someone £35k is the answer to anything. That woman's attitude is proof enough.
Why pay benefits for five kids? Why not limit it to two and force would be parents to think about the consequences of their actions and to develop a social awareness? My mom and dad planned their family, why shouldn't these. And, by planning, I mean they worked out if and when they could afford a family rather than whether or not the state benefits would cover the additional cost.
Why not make benefits conditional upon certain caveats, such as attending parenting classes, guaranteeing to take the kids to the park twice a week, the kids' attendance rate at school, etc. And while I think about it, why don't we bring back National Service? I don't necessarily mean putting young men into the army and sending them off to fight an illegal war somewhere. But, why not work as hospital porters, or visiting the elderly in hospices, or as support staff in the fire service, the police, or painting civic buildings. Anything to give them a work ethic and a sense of pride and discipline. I think this would solve your ASBO culture and the underage pregnancy rate in one fell swoop.
It just makes my blood boil.
OK rant over. I think I'm turning into Jeremy Clarkson....
This is a woman who has been "on the sick" for a number of years but is well enough to have given birth to five children in the last five years. Her husband/partner does not work either. Between them they "earn" in benefits the equivalent of an annual salary of £35k.
It made me so mad. She gets paid £35k per annum so that she and her partner can stay home 24/7 bringing up five kids under the age of five. I don't know for sure, but I guess that £35k is probably more than a properly trained and qualified Nanny would earn. Someone who has worked hard to get a job as a Nanny.
What really grated was the woman's attitude. Her whole defence was that she was only getting what she was entitled to and that it was ridiculous that she would be worse of if (and this is a huge, huge if) she got a proper job. I am sorry! The ridiculous thing is that the Government is willing to use my hard earned tax contribution to fund a family of layabouts and enable them to afford five kids. As far as I am concerned there is an easy way to resolve this dilemma...Cut her benefits by a couple of hundred quid a week and force the parents out to work!!!
My mom and dad were hard up when they were bringing me and my sister up. My dad's final year annual salary before retirement was less than my first year starting salary. And he had worked for some 35 years for the same company! My mom often held down two jobs at a time to make ends meet. She took night shift work in factories so that she would always be at home when my sister and myself came home from school. And dad would be there when mom was at work. And, if dad had to work at night too, then a relative would be called upon to look after us.
The only Government benefit we got as a family was the family allowance and my university grant. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate how lucky I was to have had my university education funded in this way. I'm not sure that I could have survived in this current world with loans.
But, even then, while a student, I topped funds up myself with two scholarships, that I earned, and by working every Summer holidays! Including a job stripping asbestos from a factory. Wearing full breathing apparatus with an industrial vacuum cleaner strapped to my back up the top of a ladder! And, another job cleaning out oil sumps under tyre presses during the industrial shut-down weeks in Birmingham.
That was one helluva job. It involved being lowered on a rope down a sump shaft that was about one metre square and several metres deep. It was so hot, that we worked in ten minute shifts - ten minutes down the sump and ten minutes on the rope. When in the sump, a bucket would be lowered and you had to dig out all of the gunk, rubber and oil at the bottom of the sump and pass the bucket past your face back up to the top. It was quite horrific when you got to the bottom. Rubber beetles live on this stuff. Rubber beetles are like a cockroach's worst nightmare. Huge. Scary buggers! Not the kind of thing you want to pass by your face by the bucketful!.
My mom and dad worked every hour that God sent; took every and any job that they could to put food on our table and to give my sister and I the opportunity to go to university. They worked hard. They never had a credit card and they only bought what they could afford and when they could afford to have it. They saved for things like camping holidays or for the colour TV. T hey saved so that they could afford their babies. They were hard working, working class, looking to do better for themselves and their kids.
And then this Anna Taylor comes along complaining that she can't find a job paying her £35k per annum to bring up her five kids. She left school at 16 and she aspires to a salary that kids who have put themselves through university would aspire to. And, she sees it as an entitlement. She genuinely believes that she is doing her bit by bringing five kids into the world.
Indeed, many sprang to Anna's defence on the radio chat show, explaining that with our increasingly elderly population, we're more and more reliant upon children growing up and becoming the tax payers of the future to pay for our pension and health care. I'm sorry! It is actually the past generations not the future ones that have paid for my pension and health care. The past generations and the current workers such as myself.
And, are you really trying to convince me that these five kids, given the example of their not-so-hard-working or civic-minded parents will develop a strong work ethic, get themselves a good education and solid jobs, paying lots of taxes into future social welfare funds. They will be unusual if they do. I so hope they prove me wrong.
Or, is it more likely that we will have another five adults living off entitlements/benefits, producing other kids for the state to feed and clothe, while they sit around all day watching Sky Movies, Jeremy Kyle and Judge Judy on their huge plasma screens. I wonder.
Also, when did it become Government policy in this country to pay people to breed? C and I, unfortunately, have not been able to have children. Not through lack of trying. For many years my annual bonus, which is a reflection of how hard I worked, was spent on privately funding IVF or other fertility treatment, without success. £35k would pay for about ten such procedures, every year! Could you imagine the furore if people such as C and I got that.
So, Mr Blair, please review the benefit system in this country. Think a little more about the tax payers, the hard workers. I am not saying that we shouldn't look after the weak, the poor and the needy. Indeed I am more than happy for my tax pounds to go towards the needy and to pay for the pensions and health care of those people who have worked hard all their lives. But, you cannot convince me that giving someone £35k is the answer to anything. That woman's attitude is proof enough.
Why pay benefits for five kids? Why not limit it to two and force would be parents to think about the consequences of their actions and to develop a social awareness? My mom and dad planned their family, why shouldn't these. And, by planning, I mean they worked out if and when they could afford a family rather than whether or not the state benefits would cover the additional cost.
Why not make benefits conditional upon certain caveats, such as attending parenting classes, guaranteeing to take the kids to the park twice a week, the kids' attendance rate at school, etc. And while I think about it, why don't we bring back National Service? I don't necessarily mean putting young men into the army and sending them off to fight an illegal war somewhere. But, why not work as hospital porters, or visiting the elderly in hospices, or as support staff in the fire service, the police, or painting civic buildings. Anything to give them a work ethic and a sense of pride and discipline. I think this would solve your ASBO culture and the underage pregnancy rate in one fell swoop.
It just makes my blood boil.
OK rant over. I think I'm turning into Jeremy Clarkson....
Friday 23 February 2007
Sheep to the Slaughter!
Sheep are stupid! But I like them. Especially roasted and swimming in mint sauce. Fortunately the fields around us are slowly filling up again after the disaster and debacle of the Government's stunning response to the Foot and Mouth outbreak of 2001. Every lamb and sheep in Cheshire was slaughtered and yet there was not a single confirmed case of the disease in the whole county. What a waste!
In fact it was quite a spectacle the day the sheep disappeared. It was like martial law had been imposed on Cheshire. I arrived home from work to find the lane near home blocked off by the army. I had to wait an hour or so. They were gathering all of the sheep together and putting them onto trains to take them to slaughter. They didn't want anyone watching. After I finally got home we had another army Land Rover come hurtling onto the drive and four squaddies rushed out: "You got any sheep or other livestock?", they barked. We hadn't. At first they didn't believe us. You see the property was still called "School Farm" on the local A to Z. But we did manage to convince them in the end - although they were very suspicious of the old hen coup in our side garden, which was now just used as a shed and dumping ground. In truth though a number of local farmers did foil the army search. Many kept a breeding pair in their homes throughout this period. Foot and Mouth was nothing new and they realised the Government was overreacting. And, they couldn't bear to lose their entire flocks.
The silence of the sheep. It was eerily quiet around the hamlet with the sheep gone, and the cows in sheds. The moles moved in. And the foxes and badgers. The buzzards. The barn owls. These seemed to increase significantly as the fields emptied of livestock. The moles seem to have stayed, much to the chagrin of those of our neighbours who are proud of their lawns.
T and R, our most lawn proud neighbours, suffer really badly with moles. It is a real shame because they love their garden and nature in general. In the summer they live outdoors. They have a split-level pool cum fish pond where they encourage newts and frogs and discourage the herons it attracts. But, R is a big softy. He doesn't like the thought of killing anything. So getting rid of the moles is a bit difficult. There are many myths about moles, you know. Rat poison doesn't work - they can smell it and they avoid it. They just dig another hole. Moth balls don't work for much the same reason. You can't smoke or flood them out because their burrows are far too extensive - they just move out of the way, seek higher ground. There are really only two effective ways to kill them. You can go out at night, wait until you see a mound (mole hill) forming, wait till the little bugger pops his head up, and, whack him with a shovel. Or, you can use razor blades. Moles are haemophiliacs. Their blood doesn't clot. If you push a razor blade into the run of a mole and they run over it, and cut themselves, they bleed to death.....
Moles can be trapped though, and relocated. But, you have to be very careful not to leave your scent on the trap. T approached me one day when R was still at work and asked me to lay a trap. I did. R subsequently sabotaged it by "checking" on it. He touched the trap. He knew what he was doing. He's a really nice guy.
The Foot and Mouth outbreak finished off a number of the farmers around here. They are tenant farmers in the main. They do not own their own land or houses. So, when times are tough they have nothing to borrow against. I once helped a farmer-neighbour when his tractor caught fire at the height of Foot and Mouth. He cried. He wasn't insured. He couldn't afford the premium. He was losing a fortune at the time and thought that the cost of fixing the tractor would push them into bankruptcy. Several of the farms went under. Most are over-priced, poorly designed, badly decorated conversions now. Tis a shame.
But, we still have the moles. And the sheep are back. Sheep are stupid. Have you noticed that they stand in lines. They all look in the same direction. They stare. C says it might be a zen thing. I doubt it. It can be quite spooky when they all line up and stare at you. For no good reason. Spooky. And, it is rude to stare.
On one occasion C and I were walking across the fields to our local pub. At one point we found a sheep with its head stuck in a wire fence. Well stuck. It would seem that it had pushed its head through in an attempt to get at a bucket on the other side which had some kind of food stuff in it. The wire was beginning to cut into its neck. I tried to get it out. I pulled and I pulled. I tugged and I tugged. It budged not a bit. In the end we decided to fetch the farmer.
The farmer didn't seem too happy when we caught up with him. He was just leaving in his Land Rover. Probably off to the pub, or out for Sunday lunch somewhere. We watched him trudge across the field. He found the sheep. He climbed over the fence and he moved the bucket further away. The sheep, realising that there was no way it could get at the food, simply reversed. It backed out, shook its head and rejoined the flock. The farmer shook his head and probably muttered something like "bloody townies". Sheep are stupid? I was only trying to help....
In fact it was quite a spectacle the day the sheep disappeared. It was like martial law had been imposed on Cheshire. I arrived home from work to find the lane near home blocked off by the army. I had to wait an hour or so. They were gathering all of the sheep together and putting them onto trains to take them to slaughter. They didn't want anyone watching. After I finally got home we had another army Land Rover come hurtling onto the drive and four squaddies rushed out: "You got any sheep or other livestock?", they barked. We hadn't. At first they didn't believe us. You see the property was still called "School Farm" on the local A to Z. But we did manage to convince them in the end - although they were very suspicious of the old hen coup in our side garden, which was now just used as a shed and dumping ground. In truth though a number of local farmers did foil the army search. Many kept a breeding pair in their homes throughout this period. Foot and Mouth was nothing new and they realised the Government was overreacting. And, they couldn't bear to lose their entire flocks.
The silence of the sheep. It was eerily quiet around the hamlet with the sheep gone, and the cows in sheds. The moles moved in. And the foxes and badgers. The buzzards. The barn owls. These seemed to increase significantly as the fields emptied of livestock. The moles seem to have stayed, much to the chagrin of those of our neighbours who are proud of their lawns.
T and R, our most lawn proud neighbours, suffer really badly with moles. It is a real shame because they love their garden and nature in general. In the summer they live outdoors. They have a split-level pool cum fish pond where they encourage newts and frogs and discourage the herons it attracts. But, R is a big softy. He doesn't like the thought of killing anything. So getting rid of the moles is a bit difficult. There are many myths about moles, you know. Rat poison doesn't work - they can smell it and they avoid it. They just dig another hole. Moth balls don't work for much the same reason. You can't smoke or flood them out because their burrows are far too extensive - they just move out of the way, seek higher ground. There are really only two effective ways to kill them. You can go out at night, wait until you see a mound (mole hill) forming, wait till the little bugger pops his head up, and, whack him with a shovel. Or, you can use razor blades. Moles are haemophiliacs. Their blood doesn't clot. If you push a razor blade into the run of a mole and they run over it, and cut themselves, they bleed to death.....
Moles can be trapped though, and relocated. But, you have to be very careful not to leave your scent on the trap. T approached me one day when R was still at work and asked me to lay a trap. I did. R subsequently sabotaged it by "checking" on it. He touched the trap. He knew what he was doing. He's a really nice guy.
The Foot and Mouth outbreak finished off a number of the farmers around here. They are tenant farmers in the main. They do not own their own land or houses. So, when times are tough they have nothing to borrow against. I once helped a farmer-neighbour when his tractor caught fire at the height of Foot and Mouth. He cried. He wasn't insured. He couldn't afford the premium. He was losing a fortune at the time and thought that the cost of fixing the tractor would push them into bankruptcy. Several of the farms went under. Most are over-priced, poorly designed, badly decorated conversions now. Tis a shame.
But, we still have the moles. And the sheep are back. Sheep are stupid. Have you noticed that they stand in lines. They all look in the same direction. They stare. C says it might be a zen thing. I doubt it. It can be quite spooky when they all line up and stare at you. For no good reason. Spooky. And, it is rude to stare.
On one occasion C and I were walking across the fields to our local pub. At one point we found a sheep with its head stuck in a wire fence. Well stuck. It would seem that it had pushed its head through in an attempt to get at a bucket on the other side which had some kind of food stuff in it. The wire was beginning to cut into its neck. I tried to get it out. I pulled and I pulled. I tugged and I tugged. It budged not a bit. In the end we decided to fetch the farmer.
The farmer didn't seem too happy when we caught up with him. He was just leaving in his Land Rover. Probably off to the pub, or out for Sunday lunch somewhere. We watched him trudge across the field. He found the sheep. He climbed over the fence and he moved the bucket further away. The sheep, realising that there was no way it could get at the food, simply reversed. It backed out, shook its head and rejoined the flock. The farmer shook his head and probably muttered something like "bloody townies". Sheep are stupid? I was only trying to help....
Thursday 22 February 2007
Anything For The Weekend?
I had my hair cut last week. As you can see from the Little Me (my avatar), I am a little salt n'pepper, in a kind of Clooneyesque kind of way. I wish.
I used to hate going to the barbers when I was younger. It was a chore. Well, I was a child of the 70s. In Birmingham. In a family where clothes were knitted by mom and grandma, or handed down from cousin to cousin. I was the youngest boy at this time. Many of my clothes were third hand. I was not exactly fashionable. I was dressed by my mom. These were the days when teenagers were not financially independent. You wore what you were given. What you were told to wear.
I wasn't really into self-image. Indeed, shopping used to be quite an ordeal. I remember once when I was about 12 or 13 and needed new trousers for school. Mom took me to M&S. These were the days before M&S had changing rooms. Mom insisted that I try the trousers on. She made me strip to my undies in the middle of the store: "Go on! No-one is looking at you!". It was hugely embarrassing. I was beetroot red. Everyone was looking. Especially all the hot girls. Y-fronts. How embarrassing.
Indeed, until I met C, I was never really into clothes or image at all. C is now my fashion advisor. She is very good at it. She chooses very well for me. I am now Mr Designer Label!
I wasn't very good at shopping for myself. And, this was made much worse by the fact that I am colour blind. Totally colour blind. Blue/violet; red/green colour blind. I have to concentrate really hard to spot the grid-lines on maps. Or rivers. I once had a major presentation to make to senior bods in the days before C. When I got to the office the girls sent me straight back home. I had a green jacket and blue trousers. I thought they matched. I made it back to the office just in time and colour-coordinated. I got the investment that I was looking for.
On another occasion I got totally confused by a presentation that I was on the receiving end of. I was getting completely the opposite impression to the one that I was expecting. The presentation was using white text out of a blue background. Apart from the key words that is. Words like "not" and "very" and "must". The key words were in red text. Red out of blue, and totally invisible to yours truly! I blame my grandma. Colour-blindness is carried through the female line.
Anyhow, shopping, when I was a bachelor, involved much reliance upon home shopping from the Next Catalogue - these being the days before the Internet. This had the advantage that "trying on" was a private affair. And, you could send the clothes back if they didn't fit.
In any case, I didn't really enjoy getting my haircut in my teenage years. But, my attitude to barbers and to haircuts has changed significantly over the years. The change is due in some small part to my increased affluence and in much greater part to the advice, nay instructions of my wife, C. Long gone are the short back and sides with a side parting of my youth and the “just a quick trim and a number three at the back and sides” of my early 20s.
As a teenager, my local barber was selected more on the distance that I would have to walk and, perhaps most importantly, on the physical attributes of the female hair stylists. Getting your hair cut was an opportunity to sit ogling the stylist for the 10 minutes or so you were sat in the chair and the 30 minutes or so that you were sat in the waiting area pouring over the Sun or The Mirror newspaper, waiting your turn. If you were really lucky the stylist would rub against you as she danced around you gracefully with her comb, scissors and clippers. Your excitement was carefully hidden beneath the cape thing that they throw over you, so it was a perfectly safe pastime. The haircuts were shite though. I think the stylists somehow knew…..and this was their way of reaping their revenge.
My current “barbers” is a chic gentleman’s boutique-type place in suburban Cheshire. There are no female stylists, only well groomed men of dubious sexuality. The Sun has given way to FHM, GQ and similar blokey magazines. The styling process takes considerably longer and the wallet is considerably lighter than in the old days back in Erdington. But, I do believe that the hair is looking a lot better. The “rubbing against” fantasy is now less frequent, consigned as it is to the occasional appearance in my life of a dental nurse. Dental nurses, however, have the additional advantage of wearing a uniform!. However, when lying down on a dentist’s chair/couch, it is far, far harder to hide any erection. Thank goodness for the pain, it takes your mind off it somewhat…..
In all my years of going to the barbers I have never been offered anything for the weekend. Condoms in the early 80s were still very elusive even at the height of the so-called Aids epidemic. You couldn't buy them in supermarkets like you can today. I can remember the humiliating experience of buying condoms for the first time for the first attempt at “going all the way” with my then girlfriend. I hovered around the pharmacy counter of the local Boots chemist for an absolute age. I was scanning the shop like a would-be bank robber, checking that there was no-one around who knew me. I waited for eons for the OAPs (“Old Aged Pensioners”. I think we call them “senior citizens” now that our own parents have joined the club) to collect their prescriptions or acquire their supplies of germolene and Fisherman’s Friends. How pungent!
Incidentally, there should be separate shopping times, or separate lanes, or separate shops for old people, don’t you think? Especially at Christmas! They have all that time on their hands during the week and then decide to go shopping exactly when you need to. They are so slow and always get in the way. I think that the only reason they do this is because they have all shrunk in size and require the assistance of people like me to retrieve their favourite items from the top shelves. Or, maybe it is just cheaper for them than having to heat their own homes. Maybe it is loneliness or confusion. I am not looking forward to getting old myself.
In any case, I waited until the pretty young sales assistant was free. Pure torture! Why are they always female, pretty and young? I thrust my packet of Durex Extra (ha!) towards her, watched as she slowly, teasingly, placed it in a brown paper bag. Anonymity guaranteed, I don’t think. I thrust my money at her and hurriedly turned on my heels to make my escape. “Don’t forget your change, Sir!” she called after me, loudly. All heads turned. I turned, blushed, grabbed my change and ran with the eyes of every OAP lady and grandmother in Birmingham burning into my back – “we know what you are up to young man…..”
I used to hate going to the barbers when I was younger. It was a chore. Well, I was a child of the 70s. In Birmingham. In a family where clothes were knitted by mom and grandma, or handed down from cousin to cousin. I was the youngest boy at this time. Many of my clothes were third hand. I was not exactly fashionable. I was dressed by my mom. These were the days when teenagers were not financially independent. You wore what you were given. What you were told to wear.
I wasn't really into self-image. Indeed, shopping used to be quite an ordeal. I remember once when I was about 12 or 13 and needed new trousers for school. Mom took me to M&S. These were the days before M&S had changing rooms. Mom insisted that I try the trousers on. She made me strip to my undies in the middle of the store: "Go on! No-one is looking at you!". It was hugely embarrassing. I was beetroot red. Everyone was looking. Especially all the hot girls. Y-fronts. How embarrassing.
Indeed, until I met C, I was never really into clothes or image at all. C is now my fashion advisor. She is very good at it. She chooses very well for me. I am now Mr Designer Label!
I wasn't very good at shopping for myself. And, this was made much worse by the fact that I am colour blind. Totally colour blind. Blue/violet; red/green colour blind. I have to concentrate really hard to spot the grid-lines on maps. Or rivers. I once had a major presentation to make to senior bods in the days before C. When I got to the office the girls sent me straight back home. I had a green jacket and blue trousers. I thought they matched. I made it back to the office just in time and colour-coordinated. I got the investment that I was looking for.
On another occasion I got totally confused by a presentation that I was on the receiving end of. I was getting completely the opposite impression to the one that I was expecting. The presentation was using white text out of a blue background. Apart from the key words that is. Words like "not" and "very" and "must". The key words were in red text. Red out of blue, and totally invisible to yours truly! I blame my grandma. Colour-blindness is carried through the female line.
Anyhow, shopping, when I was a bachelor, involved much reliance upon home shopping from the Next Catalogue - these being the days before the Internet. This had the advantage that "trying on" was a private affair. And, you could send the clothes back if they didn't fit.
In any case, I didn't really enjoy getting my haircut in my teenage years. But, my attitude to barbers and to haircuts has changed significantly over the years. The change is due in some small part to my increased affluence and in much greater part to the advice, nay instructions of my wife, C. Long gone are the short back and sides with a side parting of my youth and the “just a quick trim and a number three at the back and sides” of my early 20s.
As a teenager, my local barber was selected more on the distance that I would have to walk and, perhaps most importantly, on the physical attributes of the female hair stylists. Getting your hair cut was an opportunity to sit ogling the stylist for the 10 minutes or so you were sat in the chair and the 30 minutes or so that you were sat in the waiting area pouring over the Sun or The Mirror newspaper, waiting your turn. If you were really lucky the stylist would rub against you as she danced around you gracefully with her comb, scissors and clippers. Your excitement was carefully hidden beneath the cape thing that they throw over you, so it was a perfectly safe pastime. The haircuts were shite though. I think the stylists somehow knew…..and this was their way of reaping their revenge.
My current “barbers” is a chic gentleman’s boutique-type place in suburban Cheshire. There are no female stylists, only well groomed men of dubious sexuality. The Sun has given way to FHM, GQ and similar blokey magazines. The styling process takes considerably longer and the wallet is considerably lighter than in the old days back in Erdington. But, I do believe that the hair is looking a lot better. The “rubbing against” fantasy is now less frequent, consigned as it is to the occasional appearance in my life of a dental nurse. Dental nurses, however, have the additional advantage of wearing a uniform!. However, when lying down on a dentist’s chair/couch, it is far, far harder to hide any erection. Thank goodness for the pain, it takes your mind off it somewhat…..
In all my years of going to the barbers I have never been offered anything for the weekend. Condoms in the early 80s were still very elusive even at the height of the so-called Aids epidemic. You couldn't buy them in supermarkets like you can today. I can remember the humiliating experience of buying condoms for the first time for the first attempt at “going all the way” with my then girlfriend. I hovered around the pharmacy counter of the local Boots chemist for an absolute age. I was scanning the shop like a would-be bank robber, checking that there was no-one around who knew me. I waited for eons for the OAPs (“Old Aged Pensioners”. I think we call them “senior citizens” now that our own parents have joined the club) to collect their prescriptions or acquire their supplies of germolene and Fisherman’s Friends. How pungent!
Incidentally, there should be separate shopping times, or separate lanes, or separate shops for old people, don’t you think? Especially at Christmas! They have all that time on their hands during the week and then decide to go shopping exactly when you need to. They are so slow and always get in the way. I think that the only reason they do this is because they have all shrunk in size and require the assistance of people like me to retrieve their favourite items from the top shelves. Or, maybe it is just cheaper for them than having to heat their own homes. Maybe it is loneliness or confusion. I am not looking forward to getting old myself.
In any case, I waited until the pretty young sales assistant was free. Pure torture! Why are they always female, pretty and young? I thrust my packet of Durex Extra (ha!) towards her, watched as she slowly, teasingly, placed it in a brown paper bag. Anonymity guaranteed, I don’t think. I thrust my money at her and hurriedly turned on my heels to make my escape. “Don’t forget your change, Sir!” she called after me, loudly. All heads turned. I turned, blushed, grabbed my change and ran with the eyes of every OAP lady and grandmother in Birmingham burning into my back – “we know what you are up to young man…..”
Wednesday 21 February 2007
"Let's Be Careful Out There!"
I have recently had a job with responsibility for the security of payment cards and combating fraud. I loved it. I like to think I learnt a great deal. I came to the job with almost zero knowledge and left it much better informed, with a huge suspicion and distrust of my fellow man, and of so-called secure technology. It was a huge eye opener.
As a result, I am all in favour of the government’s plan to mark privacy areas around ATMs – holes in the wall. For sure, I will never let that personal space be invaded while I am keying my PIN number. Indeed, I am a bit anal about the whole process of withdrawing money from a cash dispenser. I check for pin-hole cameras. I check for false keyboards. I check for card skimming devices. I check for shoulder surfers (people looking over your shoulder to see what PIN you enter). I check for people with MP3 devices within range. All of these things are widely used to your capture card details and to produce copy or counterfeit cards.
I never let my personal credit card out of my sight – petrol stations and Indian and Chinese restaurants are amongst the most common locations where card details are skimmed. I shred all material containing personal data. I would hate to be a victim of identity fraud. Am I over reacting? No I am not. Fraud is a lot more common than most people would think. You are a lot more vulnerable to becoming a victim of crime than you would think.
Did you know that statistically, 30 to 80% of all job applications contain lies or exaggerations; company employees commit 12% of fraud; management commits 40% of fraud. Who checks your expense claims? Perhaps you should take a closer look at those colleagues you sit with in the office every day. Is he or she a fraudster? How would you tell? Well, the typical profile of a fraudster is someone who does not take holidays, someone who is secretive about business processes, is resistant to supervision, has poor inter-personal skills, has good technical ability, works late, is prone to substance/alcohol abuse, is prone to relationship discord........Sounds like most of my colleagues. Especially those in the security department. Worrying!
Actually fraud, or rather the impact of fraud, has touched me only fleetingly in my existence to date. And that is as close as I would ever like it to get.
I gave back my first ever company car. I had been so looking forward to my first company car. But, I sent this one back. I refused to drive it. How insensitive of the Company to give me a car that had previously been that of a recently deceased colleague. A recently deceased colleague who had taken his own life. A colleague who had killed himself by attaching a pipe to the exhaust of his company car, passed it through a small gap in a window and sat in his car in his garage until he breathed no more. This was a lovely guy. He was an experienced sales rep who, just one month earlier, I had shadowed as part of my sales training. Unfortunately he was also a fraudster. He had been caught exaggerating sales in collusion with a number of dealerships for which he was responsible, meaning that they received higher commission payments from the Company than they had been entitled to. He was splitting the additional payments with the dealers. He got caught. The shame of being caught drove him over the edge. Drove him to suicide. He left a wife and two teenage kids. There was no way I was driving that car.
On another occasion, C and I almost bought a house from someone who didn’t own the house they were selling. A house in Gee Cross near Hyde in Manchester. It was a beautiful house. A double-fronted Georgian house with an nice walled garden and a barn that could have been converted into C’s consulting room (she’s a counsellor and trainee psychotherapist). It was a bit dated inside and would have required decorating throughout, a new kitchen, and bathroom. But it was a beautiful house and would have been a wonderful investment property for us. It was going cheap because it needed some work and, we were told, because the owner had recently died very suddenly and unexpectedly.
We were going through the buying process when, on one evening while I was away on business, C was watching a reconstruction on a TV news programme. It was a reconstruction of the killing of the last victim of a notorious serial killer. It showed the killer parking outside of a beautiful double-fronted Georgian house in Gee Cross near Hyde in Manchester. I t showed him entering the house through a nice walled garden, next to a barn. It showed him administering the lethal injection to his victim. The killer had forged the poor lady’s will so that it looked as if she had bequeathed him a huge amount of money, and the house in which she lived. The house in which she died. The house in which she had been killed. And, the house in which the killer had subsequently intended to sell to us, before he was caught.
The killer was a doctor. A General Practitioner by the name of Doctor Harold Shipman. Doctor Death. The most prolific serial killer ever to disgrace these shores. After his trial, an inquest decided that there was enough evidence to suggest that Shipman had killed some 215 people, mostly women. His youngest victim had been a 41-year-old woman. Some sources have suggested that Shipman may have killed over 400 people.
I hate to think how we would have stood legally or otherwise (or where we would have lived) if we had bought the house before the fraudulent will had been discovered. It doesn’t bear thinking about. We had a lucky escape.
So, just you take care. Keep your cards close. Be careful what you throw away. Have a healthy degree of caution when dealing with others. And, watch your colleagues closely. Above all, if you are doing something wrong, stop it now. Before you get caught. The consequences don't bear thinking about. As Sgt. Phil Esterhaus (Hill Street Blues) would have said: “Let’s be careful out there!”
As a result, I am all in favour of the government’s plan to mark privacy areas around ATMs – holes in the wall. For sure, I will never let that personal space be invaded while I am keying my PIN number. Indeed, I am a bit anal about the whole process of withdrawing money from a cash dispenser. I check for pin-hole cameras. I check for false keyboards. I check for card skimming devices. I check for shoulder surfers (people looking over your shoulder to see what PIN you enter). I check for people with MP3 devices within range. All of these things are widely used to your capture card details and to produce copy or counterfeit cards.
I never let my personal credit card out of my sight – petrol stations and Indian and Chinese restaurants are amongst the most common locations where card details are skimmed. I shred all material containing personal data. I would hate to be a victim of identity fraud. Am I over reacting? No I am not. Fraud is a lot more common than most people would think. You are a lot more vulnerable to becoming a victim of crime than you would think.
Did you know that statistically, 30 to 80% of all job applications contain lies or exaggerations; company employees commit 12% of fraud; management commits 40% of fraud. Who checks your expense claims? Perhaps you should take a closer look at those colleagues you sit with in the office every day. Is he or she a fraudster? How would you tell? Well, the typical profile of a fraudster is someone who does not take holidays, someone who is secretive about business processes, is resistant to supervision, has poor inter-personal skills, has good technical ability, works late, is prone to substance/alcohol abuse, is prone to relationship discord........Sounds like most of my colleagues. Especially those in the security department. Worrying!
Actually fraud, or rather the impact of fraud, has touched me only fleetingly in my existence to date. And that is as close as I would ever like it to get.
I gave back my first ever company car. I had been so looking forward to my first company car. But, I sent this one back. I refused to drive it. How insensitive of the Company to give me a car that had previously been that of a recently deceased colleague. A recently deceased colleague who had taken his own life. A colleague who had killed himself by attaching a pipe to the exhaust of his company car, passed it through a small gap in a window and sat in his car in his garage until he breathed no more. This was a lovely guy. He was an experienced sales rep who, just one month earlier, I had shadowed as part of my sales training. Unfortunately he was also a fraudster. He had been caught exaggerating sales in collusion with a number of dealerships for which he was responsible, meaning that they received higher commission payments from the Company than they had been entitled to. He was splitting the additional payments with the dealers. He got caught. The shame of being caught drove him over the edge. Drove him to suicide. He left a wife and two teenage kids. There was no way I was driving that car.
On another occasion, C and I almost bought a house from someone who didn’t own the house they were selling. A house in Gee Cross near Hyde in Manchester. It was a beautiful house. A double-fronted Georgian house with an nice walled garden and a barn that could have been converted into C’s consulting room (she’s a counsellor and trainee psychotherapist). It was a bit dated inside and would have required decorating throughout, a new kitchen, and bathroom. But it was a beautiful house and would have been a wonderful investment property for us. It was going cheap because it needed some work and, we were told, because the owner had recently died very suddenly and unexpectedly.
We were going through the buying process when, on one evening while I was away on business, C was watching a reconstruction on a TV news programme. It was a reconstruction of the killing of the last victim of a notorious serial killer. It showed the killer parking outside of a beautiful double-fronted Georgian house in Gee Cross near Hyde in Manchester. I t showed him entering the house through a nice walled garden, next to a barn. It showed him administering the lethal injection to his victim. The killer had forged the poor lady’s will so that it looked as if she had bequeathed him a huge amount of money, and the house in which she lived. The house in which she died. The house in which she had been killed. And, the house in which the killer had subsequently intended to sell to us, before he was caught.
The killer was a doctor. A General Practitioner by the name of Doctor Harold Shipman. Doctor Death. The most prolific serial killer ever to disgrace these shores. After his trial, an inquest decided that there was enough evidence to suggest that Shipman had killed some 215 people, mostly women. His youngest victim had been a 41-year-old woman. Some sources have suggested that Shipman may have killed over 400 people.
I hate to think how we would have stood legally or otherwise (or where we would have lived) if we had bought the house before the fraudulent will had been discovered. It doesn’t bear thinking about. We had a lucky escape.
So, just you take care. Keep your cards close. Be careful what you throw away. Have a healthy degree of caution when dealing with others. And, watch your colleagues closely. Above all, if you are doing something wrong, stop it now. Before you get caught. The consequences don't bear thinking about. As Sgt. Phil Esterhaus (Hill Street Blues) would have said: “Let’s be careful out there!”
Tuesday 20 February 2007
Where's The Volume Control?
Where is the volume control knob on kids? C and I do not have any kids, apart from the fur baby, Maslow the cat. But we do appreciate the kids of our friends and family. We have been very fortunate to see all of our friends' kids grow from babies.
We recently stayed for the weekend with my best mate, E, and his family. He has one daughter, R, who is five; one son, J, who is three; and, a new baby daughter, A, who is just nine months old. She has that lovely smell that only babies have. They are all adorable. But, they are all so noisy. Adorable and noisy. How can something so small generate so much volume.
We had an hour or two after arrival having a "grown up" chat with E, catching up on old times and then meeting baby A for the first time, after she had woken up. She was great fun. She is very sociable and used to being passed around between adults, due to the fact, unfortunately, that she has spent an awful lot of time in hospital. She is a lot better now though, thankfully. We spent a pleasant hour or so getting to know her - cuddles, playing hide-and-seek, dutifully picking up the things she had dropped, and taking her for a walk in the new three-wheeler buggy. A three-wheeler buggy. Apparently they are so much better for off-road walking! I'm afraid that E, Barnsley-born and bred, is sliding gracefully into the middle classes. He retains his social conscience though, picking up any litter he finds in the streets, and, rescuing "useful" things that have been discarded in neighbours skips. You can take the boy out of Barnsley, but........
And then, mom returned with the other two kids. It was as if a tornado had swept through the house. An adorable tornado though. An adorable, incredibly noisy tornado. Admittedly, they were probably high on e-numbers, having just returned from a kiddies' party, clutching their goody bags in sticky little hands. Apparently, J is at that age when little boys get a rush of testosterone. Well, it showed. The next couple of hours involved J running around laughing and shouting gleefully at all the attention he was receiving, bashing everyone with the balloon he had brought back from the party. He was not quiet. For those of you familiar with the spoof rock classic, Spinal Tap, J's volume control definitely goes up to eleven!
Actually, we had a great time. J and I built flying monsters out of K'Nex, while C helped little R colour in some fairies that would subsequently be turned into badges and fridge magnets. R is big into fairies at the moment. She's a proper little princess. These kids both have really great manners and wonderful imaginations, and, it is a pleasure to spend time with them without the necessity of batteries. Toys without batteries seem to be very rare these days. In any case, they are quite capable of providing their own sound effects.
For those of us without kids, it is hard to explain to those of you who have, how loud children can be. Parents seem to have an amazing skill at blocking this sound out. It washes over them. But, if one of the kids so much as misses a breath in the middle of the night, both parents would be wide awake and by their side in a second. They didn't miss a breath as it happened, but all three kids did have a cough. They coughed through the night until it was time to get up and play. Time to make more noise.
This reminded me of the time I baby sat for the neighbours' three year old boy. Michael was also adorable. He was cute. He was like a cartoon boy with a big head, big eyes, and a mop of brown hair that could never fully be stuck down successfully. He could have advertised Bisto. He was an outdoor kid and would spend hours in the garden with just his vivid imagination for company. He collected worms, newts and snails. He let the snails play on his slide......or should that be a roll? He loved to plant herbs with C in our garden. He would water them and come to visit often to see how much they had grown. On one occasion he touched some wild garlic and then smelled his fingers. He declared: "It smells like burps!". Such wisdom.
Anyhow, I had never babysat before. I was a tad nervous, especially about the "toilet things". Moms in the office spent the day reassuring me that three year olds were normally toilet trained. This was reassuring because I had Michael all to myself for about three hours as C was working late that night. His mom brought Michael round just before they left for their night at the ballet (in Crewe?). "He's just been to the loo so he'll just need his teeth cleaning and a wee before bed." said mom. That was reassuring.
Mom left. A fort was constructed out of the cushions off the sofa and our lounge soon turned into a scene reminiscent of a bomb going off in Toys R'Us. And, just five minutes later, little Michael declared, "I need the loo!" and set off upstairs. He always made himself at home. I wasn't worried until I heard a little cry from upstairs: "D, I keep falling in!". His little bum was too small for our toilet seat. And, so it began!
I had to hold Michael over the loo as he did his number twos. How could such a cute little boy produce such a horrible smell! It was clearly hard work. Michael was straining as if he was giving birth to a baby elephant. His teeth were clenched and he was turning red in the face through his exertions. The smell got worse. The noise was incredible. He was pebble-dashing the bowl. It was quite horrible. I began to retch. Fortunately I kept the contents of my stomach to myself. Things could not get worse.
Then things got worse. Michael finished. Michael skipped off the toilet, turned his back to me, bent over and touched his toes. I had to wipe his bum. Yeuch! I hope I never have to get that close to another human being in my life. My hat goes off to all those parents, nurses and other carers out there for which this is a common occurrence. Maslow's litter tray is about my limit.
C thought all this was hilarious when she got home. Mind you her timing was perfect that night. I had the toilet experience. I then spent the next couple of hours keeping Micheal entertained and tiring him out. Tiring him out!? I was exhausted. C arrived just in time for teeth cleaning, which he managed to do himself, and to read him a bed-time story.....Fair-weather babysitting if you ask me.
Adorable. Hard work but adorable. Noisy but adorable. To all my friends and family with kids, the utmost respect. We love them all. We especially love the way you take them back when we have finished playing. See you all soon. xx
We recently stayed for the weekend with my best mate, E, and his family. He has one daughter, R, who is five; one son, J, who is three; and, a new baby daughter, A, who is just nine months old. She has that lovely smell that only babies have. They are all adorable. But, they are all so noisy. Adorable and noisy. How can something so small generate so much volume.
We had an hour or two after arrival having a "grown up" chat with E, catching up on old times and then meeting baby A for the first time, after she had woken up. She was great fun. She is very sociable and used to being passed around between adults, due to the fact, unfortunately, that she has spent an awful lot of time in hospital. She is a lot better now though, thankfully. We spent a pleasant hour or so getting to know her - cuddles, playing hide-and-seek, dutifully picking up the things she had dropped, and taking her for a walk in the new three-wheeler buggy. A three-wheeler buggy. Apparently they are so much better for off-road walking! I'm afraid that E, Barnsley-born and bred, is sliding gracefully into the middle classes. He retains his social conscience though, picking up any litter he finds in the streets, and, rescuing "useful" things that have been discarded in neighbours skips. You can take the boy out of Barnsley, but........
And then, mom returned with the other two kids. It was as if a tornado had swept through the house. An adorable tornado though. An adorable, incredibly noisy tornado. Admittedly, they were probably high on e-numbers, having just returned from a kiddies' party, clutching their goody bags in sticky little hands. Apparently, J is at that age when little boys get a rush of testosterone. Well, it showed. The next couple of hours involved J running around laughing and shouting gleefully at all the attention he was receiving, bashing everyone with the balloon he had brought back from the party. He was not quiet. For those of you familiar with the spoof rock classic, Spinal Tap, J's volume control definitely goes up to eleven!
Actually, we had a great time. J and I built flying monsters out of K'Nex, while C helped little R colour in some fairies that would subsequently be turned into badges and fridge magnets. R is big into fairies at the moment. She's a proper little princess. These kids both have really great manners and wonderful imaginations, and, it is a pleasure to spend time with them without the necessity of batteries. Toys without batteries seem to be very rare these days. In any case, they are quite capable of providing their own sound effects.
For those of us without kids, it is hard to explain to those of you who have, how loud children can be. Parents seem to have an amazing skill at blocking this sound out. It washes over them. But, if one of the kids so much as misses a breath in the middle of the night, both parents would be wide awake and by their side in a second. They didn't miss a breath as it happened, but all three kids did have a cough. They coughed through the night until it was time to get up and play. Time to make more noise.
This reminded me of the time I baby sat for the neighbours' three year old boy. Michael was also adorable. He was cute. He was like a cartoon boy with a big head, big eyes, and a mop of brown hair that could never fully be stuck down successfully. He could have advertised Bisto. He was an outdoor kid and would spend hours in the garden with just his vivid imagination for company. He collected worms, newts and snails. He let the snails play on his slide......or should that be a roll? He loved to plant herbs with C in our garden. He would water them and come to visit often to see how much they had grown. On one occasion he touched some wild garlic and then smelled his fingers. He declared: "It smells like burps!". Such wisdom.
Anyhow, I had never babysat before. I was a tad nervous, especially about the "toilet things". Moms in the office spent the day reassuring me that three year olds were normally toilet trained. This was reassuring because I had Michael all to myself for about three hours as C was working late that night. His mom brought Michael round just before they left for their night at the ballet (in Crewe?). "He's just been to the loo so he'll just need his teeth cleaning and a wee before bed." said mom. That was reassuring.
Mom left. A fort was constructed out of the cushions off the sofa and our lounge soon turned into a scene reminiscent of a bomb going off in Toys R'Us. And, just five minutes later, little Michael declared, "I need the loo!" and set off upstairs. He always made himself at home. I wasn't worried until I heard a little cry from upstairs: "D, I keep falling in!". His little bum was too small for our toilet seat. And, so it began!
I had to hold Michael over the loo as he did his number twos. How could such a cute little boy produce such a horrible smell! It was clearly hard work. Michael was straining as if he was giving birth to a baby elephant. His teeth were clenched and he was turning red in the face through his exertions. The smell got worse. The noise was incredible. He was pebble-dashing the bowl. It was quite horrible. I began to retch. Fortunately I kept the contents of my stomach to myself. Things could not get worse.
Then things got worse. Michael finished. Michael skipped off the toilet, turned his back to me, bent over and touched his toes. I had to wipe his bum. Yeuch! I hope I never have to get that close to another human being in my life. My hat goes off to all those parents, nurses and other carers out there for which this is a common occurrence. Maslow's litter tray is about my limit.
C thought all this was hilarious when she got home. Mind you her timing was perfect that night. I had the toilet experience. I then spent the next couple of hours keeping Micheal entertained and tiring him out. Tiring him out!? I was exhausted. C arrived just in time for teeth cleaning, which he managed to do himself, and to read him a bed-time story.....Fair-weather babysitting if you ask me.
Adorable. Hard work but adorable. Noisy but adorable. To all my friends and family with kids, the utmost respect. We love them all. We especially love the way you take them back when we have finished playing. See you all soon. xx
Monday 19 February 2007
Near Death Experiences Part 1
C and I often joke that whenever we go on holiday we end up having a near death experience.
This is not always the case. But it is mostly the case. So, I'm not sure why our parents are always so keen to come with us.....
We did get a bit spooked when we went to Eilat in Israel and almost ended up in the middle of a second Gulf War (this was, of course, long before the second Gulf War). Eilat is at the base of Israel, on the Red Sea. Eilat is surrounded by hostile states. From our hotel you could see Jordan – Eilat is next door to Aqaba in Jordan, which is where Lawrence of Arabia went through all that grief to get to. We used to joke that as long as the lights were on in Aqaba then we were OK. Saudi Arabia was also visible from the hotel and Egypt was just 10 minutes round the corner on the coast road. And, most importantly, Eilat was within scud missile range of Iraq, Saddam’s Iraq.
That would be enough to put most people off Eilat, especially at a time of such international tension. But not C and I. Indeed, the threat from weapons of mass destruction aside, I am not sure that Eilat is somewhere that I would recommend to anyone other than the most committed scuba-divers. Eilat is a bit like holidaying in Birmingham by the Sea, or, a Portsmouth with dolphins. It is quite a big city, at the edge of an even bigger desert, with nice beaches, a wonderful aquarium, and dolphins. But, it also has huge shopping malls (a bit disconcerting when you get searched as a possible suicide bomber on the way in), prostitutes, and quite a lot of industry too. It also has the rudest rip off taxi drivers I have met anywhere. They are even worse than those of Paris (don't get me started) with the one notable exception - Eilat cabbies tote guns!
When you visit Israel you can kind of understand why they do not get on with their neighbours. Israel is surrounded by hostile states. Admittedly, those states are hostile because they lost the war and ended up with a very westernised, very Americanised, very militaristic Israel in the middle of their holy land, and, in their own cities and homes. To the victor the spoils of war. Also, Israel is only something like forty miles across at the widest point - and that is shrinking fast as the Dead Sea finally seems to be giving up the illusion of life. And, it seems that the Israeli's are not always the easiest of people to have as your neighbours. Israeli's differentiate between those that are born and bread in Israel and those that are immigrants. The home-grown variety are called "Shabra". In Israeli this means "Prickly Pear", being soft and delicious on the inside but spiky and aggressive to the outside world.
Anyhow, things were a little tense when we were in Eilat. Saddam was not playing ball. He was not allowing the UN weapons inspectors to search for those mythical WMDs (Weapons of Mass Destruction) that would cause Tony Blair so much trouble later on. The Security Council, egged on by the US and Britain, were spoiling for a fight. Israel expected to be a target and mobilised its forces. Admittedly, C noticed this mobilisation a little later than the Iraqis probably did. She is a bit shortsighted. I had to point out to her that every Israeli man and woman of a certain age, walking about the streets of Eilat, was sporting a sub-machine gun. The navy was constantly patrolling the Red Sea. The naval base was just five minutes up the road from our hotel. Trips to Jordan were cancelled after a tourist bus had been fired on. We never did get to see Petra. We were searched going into the local mall. We watched Red Neck US satellite TV to stay in touch with the scarce news. We were getting worried. We got even more worried when we met another British couple at a bus stop and they told us that they had been advised to report to an Israeli police station upon arrival to be issued wit their gas masks. We had received no such warning. We had no gas masks. Thank you Foreign Office. Thanks for nothing.
Local TV was full of advice about sealing your home against a chemical attack. Great. There is only so much bottled water you can store in a mini-bar. And, mosquito nets are not the best defence against anthrax spores.
C and I even conjured up an escape plan. In the event of something kicking off we were going to steal bikes from the hotel reception and cycle the two miles round the coast road to Egypt and seek sanctuary there . This could have been fun; it had been a long time since C had been on a bike…….As it turned out we were evacuated instead. We were evacuated through Eilat’s military airbase, which was bristling with attack helicopters and other such military hardware. It was quite spooky. And, being interrogated by an 18 year-old female soldier about the contents of your luggage was pretty spooky too, especially when she went into graphic detail about how little explosive was needed to bring down a jumbo ( a credit-card sized amount will do it apparently). We didn’t mention that we had left our bags unguarded at reception for two hours as we took a last swim in the pool…….
As it turned out, Saddam did not unleash the mother of all battles at this time. The day was saved by Koffi Annan, then top honcho at the UN. He flew into Baghdad just as we flew out and he came to an arrangement about the weapons inspectors……It was pretty tense for a while though.
This is not always the case. But it is mostly the case. So, I'm not sure why our parents are always so keen to come with us.....
We did get a bit spooked when we went to Eilat in Israel and almost ended up in the middle of a second Gulf War (this was, of course, long before the second Gulf War). Eilat is at the base of Israel, on the Red Sea. Eilat is surrounded by hostile states. From our hotel you could see Jordan – Eilat is next door to Aqaba in Jordan, which is where Lawrence of Arabia went through all that grief to get to. We used to joke that as long as the lights were on in Aqaba then we were OK. Saudi Arabia was also visible from the hotel and Egypt was just 10 minutes round the corner on the coast road. And, most importantly, Eilat was within scud missile range of Iraq, Saddam’s Iraq.
That would be enough to put most people off Eilat, especially at a time of such international tension. But not C and I. Indeed, the threat from weapons of mass destruction aside, I am not sure that Eilat is somewhere that I would recommend to anyone other than the most committed scuba-divers. Eilat is a bit like holidaying in Birmingham by the Sea, or, a Portsmouth with dolphins. It is quite a big city, at the edge of an even bigger desert, with nice beaches, a wonderful aquarium, and dolphins. But, it also has huge shopping malls (a bit disconcerting when you get searched as a possible suicide bomber on the way in), prostitutes, and quite a lot of industry too. It also has the rudest rip off taxi drivers I have met anywhere. They are even worse than those of Paris (don't get me started) with the one notable exception - Eilat cabbies tote guns!
When you visit Israel you can kind of understand why they do not get on with their neighbours. Israel is surrounded by hostile states. Admittedly, those states are hostile because they lost the war and ended up with a very westernised, very Americanised, very militaristic Israel in the middle of their holy land, and, in their own cities and homes. To the victor the spoils of war. Also, Israel is only something like forty miles across at the widest point - and that is shrinking fast as the Dead Sea finally seems to be giving up the illusion of life. And, it seems that the Israeli's are not always the easiest of people to have as your neighbours. Israeli's differentiate between those that are born and bread in Israel and those that are immigrants. The home-grown variety are called "Shabra". In Israeli this means "Prickly Pear", being soft and delicious on the inside but spiky and aggressive to the outside world.
Anyhow, things were a little tense when we were in Eilat. Saddam was not playing ball. He was not allowing the UN weapons inspectors to search for those mythical WMDs (Weapons of Mass Destruction) that would cause Tony Blair so much trouble later on. The Security Council, egged on by the US and Britain, were spoiling for a fight. Israel expected to be a target and mobilised its forces. Admittedly, C noticed this mobilisation a little later than the Iraqis probably did. She is a bit shortsighted. I had to point out to her that every Israeli man and woman of a certain age, walking about the streets of Eilat, was sporting a sub-machine gun. The navy was constantly patrolling the Red Sea. The naval base was just five minutes up the road from our hotel. Trips to Jordan were cancelled after a tourist bus had been fired on. We never did get to see Petra. We were searched going into the local mall. We watched Red Neck US satellite TV to stay in touch with the scarce news. We were getting worried. We got even more worried when we met another British couple at a bus stop and they told us that they had been advised to report to an Israeli police station upon arrival to be issued wit their gas masks. We had received no such warning. We had no gas masks. Thank you Foreign Office. Thanks for nothing.
Local TV was full of advice about sealing your home against a chemical attack. Great. There is only so much bottled water you can store in a mini-bar. And, mosquito nets are not the best defence against anthrax spores.
C and I even conjured up an escape plan. In the event of something kicking off we were going to steal bikes from the hotel reception and cycle the two miles round the coast road to Egypt and seek sanctuary there . This could have been fun; it had been a long time since C had been on a bike…….As it turned out we were evacuated instead. We were evacuated through Eilat’s military airbase, which was bristling with attack helicopters and other such military hardware. It was quite spooky. And, being interrogated by an 18 year-old female soldier about the contents of your luggage was pretty spooky too, especially when she went into graphic detail about how little explosive was needed to bring down a jumbo ( a credit-card sized amount will do it apparently). We didn’t mention that we had left our bags unguarded at reception for two hours as we took a last swim in the pool…….
As it turned out, Saddam did not unleash the mother of all battles at this time. The day was saved by Koffi Annan, then top honcho at the UN. He flew into Baghdad just as we flew out and he came to an arrangement about the weapons inspectors……It was pretty tense for a while though.
Friday 16 February 2007
There's A Bomb!
I have never understood why my parents worry so much about overseas travel. They seem to have this view that the UK is safe and that the rest of the world is about to get blown up at any time. This perspective has, of course, hardened since the attacks on the Twin Towers and the emergence of Al Qaida. It has, however, never really been my view. I am fully aware that Britain is often just as violent and at risk of terror attacks as anywhere else. I survived the Handsworth race riots. I lived in London at the height of the IRA bombing campaign. I was at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris when they carried out a controlled explosion on a bag. We were in Manchester in 1996 when the IRA blew up the Arndale Centre (for which we are eternally grateful – it was a dump! We now have a Selfridges and a Harvey Nichols as more than adequate compensation).
I am not sure why my mom and dad hold onto this xenophobic view of the world. Mom is from Warrington, which the IRA bombed to devastating effect in 1993; my dad was working late in Birmingham and was just yards away at the time of the pub bombings in 1974, and was outside Harrods during the bomb attack of 1983. Hmmn, come to think of it, I’ll have to keep a closer eye on my dad. I hope it is just a coincidence. He has never shown any tendency towards Irish republicanism…and I’m not sure that he is the mercenary type. But, it is always the quiet ones…….
Nevertheless, fear of Irish Republicanism and Al Qaida terrorism has led to a couple of notable experiences.
I should start by saying that I am not anti-Irish. I love the place. I love the people. One of the best holidays I ever had was cycling and camping around the southern counties aged 18. There were these two American girls.........The friendliest people you could hope to meet. And, my mother-in-law's maiden name (and we do not have a typical mother/son-in-law relationship - we like each other) is Hoolihan (the origin of the word "hooligan"), first generation immigrants from Ireland.
When the IRA bomb devastated the centre of Manchester in 1996, C and I were living in Alderley Edge. We lived next to “mad V” and Irish lady, who when not with her toy boys lived alone, and who took regular holidays back to the “old country”. After the bomb, the police immediately sent out a plea for public support in the hunt for the bombers. They said that a typical profile would be a group of young Irish men who would have moved into a suburban area of the city a couple of days before the incident.
Well…….1996 was the time of the European Football Championship in England (we got knocked out by Germany on penalties in the semi-finals…so no change there). V, our neighbour, had gone on holiday but, unusually, left us a note explaining that she would be gone, and, that while she was away, some friends would be staying at her place. Some male Irish friends who were over to watch the football. However, even before the bomb, I had commented to C that these four blokes were the strangest football fans I had ever known because they were never out when the games were on at the Manchester grounds, and were never watching the football when they were next door. We would know. The walls were paper-thin. This was why we moved. In fact, it was because V played “I Want To Know What Love Is”, the Shirley Bassey version, non-stop, for a whole weekend. That is why we moved. I can still hear that bloody tune. Anyhow, Cathy laughed at my suspicions. She pooh poohed my suspicions as obvious racism….until after the bomb.
Fortunately we had a friend who was in the Ant-Terrorist Squad at the time. He took my concerns seriously and a constable on the Manchester team that was investigating interviewed me. They were very interested and put a watch on V and her friends. Indeed, it never did lead to anything. They decided tat V and her friends were not the ones hey were looking for. But, they could have been, and I felt that I had done my duty by reporting it…….But, I am often (jokingly) derided by C (3rd generation Irish immigrant) and my friends for my anti-Irish racism….but not by my mate in the force!
Then there was the occasion of the on-board bomb on a plane between Manchester and Amsterdam. This was not long after the London bombings of 2005, when fear of Al Qaida was still high. It was another of those oh so typically frustrating journeys to Rotterdam. My plane had been delayed due to a technical fault. There was a lot of hanging around, but, eventually, we boarded. I was sat in the first row behind the business class section. As ever, I was first on board – I am well practised in the art of where to stand on the shuttle bus to be sure to alight before other passengers. As ever, having already checked out the on-board totty (the stewardesses), I paid attention to the talent that might be boarding in the guise of female passengers – I have to explain that this is typical male behaviour and does not mean that I am a pervert or anything – while looking for potential hijackers, bombers and the like. As you do. As I do.
I noticed one obviously African couple get on board. I say obviously African because both of them were in traditional tribal robes and headdress. T his was what had brought them to my attention. That and the fact that the guy was carrying the biggest, squarest, reddest holdall that you had ever seen. He placed it in the over-head lockers in the business class section and went to sit towards the back of the plane. This was not suspicious in itself, as often passengers would leave their luggage at the first possible spot they found in the overheads. No, my suspicions were raised by subsequent events.
The cabin crew carried out the passenger count. They did this three times. An announcement came asking if anyone on board was actually booked on the later flight to Amsterdam (which due to our delay, was scheduled to now leave just 10 minutes later). The announcement was repeated, twice. Eventually they must have cross-referenced the boarding ticket stubs and they identified that the extra passenger on board was, indeed, this African man that I had seen earlier. He was asked to leave. He left. He left without the big, red, square bag in business class……..(at this point, if this was a movie, there would be suitable mood music such as the da da music in Jaws…..)
I was suspicious. I discussed my suspicions with the guy next to me. He was suspicious. I discussed my suspicions with the cabin crew. The stewardess was suspicious. She sent for the captain. The captain was suspicious. The captain checked and a number of us had noticed the man place the bag there when boarding. The captain tried to lift the bag down but as he did the African lady came flying down the plane to explain in pigeon English that the bag was hers and that the man had merely been carrying it for her. Very suspicious.
We were all still suspicious, and a number of passengers around me told the captain that unless the bag was removed that they would leave the plane. The captain went to speak to the air traffic people and, it would seem a security protocol was put into place.
This security protocol seemed to hinge on making sure that if we had a bomb on board, the loss of life and damage to the terminal would be kept to a minimum by moving the plane to a safe area. With us on board. The doors were shut, the engines were started, and, we taxied to a far corner of the airport. Clearly, it was not our potential loss of life or damage to our plane with which the controllers were concerned. The bag was removed to the safety (not) of the galley area with the curtain closed. I hadn’t realised those curtains were bomb proof. I still suspect that they are not. The bag was searched by the captain, and declared to be safe.
I can look back and smile at the incident now. It is a good dinner party story. Admittedly though, it is not as good a story as Smithy’s. Smithy is the boyfriend of my sister-in-law, D. He is a pilot. He once diverted a plane en route from India to Manchester to Germany because of a suspicious package on board. The package turned out to be an embarrassed passenger’s colostomy bag……Safety first, Smithy.
You all be careful out there and do it to them before they do it to us.
I am not sure why my mom and dad hold onto this xenophobic view of the world. Mom is from Warrington, which the IRA bombed to devastating effect in 1993; my dad was working late in Birmingham and was just yards away at the time of the pub bombings in 1974, and was outside Harrods during the bomb attack of 1983. Hmmn, come to think of it, I’ll have to keep a closer eye on my dad. I hope it is just a coincidence. He has never shown any tendency towards Irish republicanism…and I’m not sure that he is the mercenary type. But, it is always the quiet ones…….
Nevertheless, fear of Irish Republicanism and Al Qaida terrorism has led to a couple of notable experiences.
I should start by saying that I am not anti-Irish. I love the place. I love the people. One of the best holidays I ever had was cycling and camping around the southern counties aged 18. There were these two American girls.........The friendliest people you could hope to meet. And, my mother-in-law's maiden name (and we do not have a typical mother/son-in-law relationship - we like each other) is Hoolihan (the origin of the word "hooligan"), first generation immigrants from Ireland.
When the IRA bomb devastated the centre of Manchester in 1996, C and I were living in Alderley Edge. We lived next to “mad V” and Irish lady, who when not with her toy boys lived alone, and who took regular holidays back to the “old country”. After the bomb, the police immediately sent out a plea for public support in the hunt for the bombers. They said that a typical profile would be a group of young Irish men who would have moved into a suburban area of the city a couple of days before the incident.
Well…….1996 was the time of the European Football Championship in England (we got knocked out by Germany on penalties in the semi-finals…so no change there). V, our neighbour, had gone on holiday but, unusually, left us a note explaining that she would be gone, and, that while she was away, some friends would be staying at her place. Some male Irish friends who were over to watch the football. However, even before the bomb, I had commented to C that these four blokes were the strangest football fans I had ever known because they were never out when the games were on at the Manchester grounds, and were never watching the football when they were next door. We would know. The walls were paper-thin. This was why we moved. In fact, it was because V played “I Want To Know What Love Is”, the Shirley Bassey version, non-stop, for a whole weekend. That is why we moved. I can still hear that bloody tune. Anyhow, Cathy laughed at my suspicions. She pooh poohed my suspicions as obvious racism….until after the bomb.
Fortunately we had a friend who was in the Ant-Terrorist Squad at the time. He took my concerns seriously and a constable on the Manchester team that was investigating interviewed me. They were very interested and put a watch on V and her friends. Indeed, it never did lead to anything. They decided tat V and her friends were not the ones hey were looking for. But, they could have been, and I felt that I had done my duty by reporting it…….But, I am often (jokingly) derided by C (3rd generation Irish immigrant) and my friends for my anti-Irish racism….but not by my mate in the force!
Then there was the occasion of the on-board bomb on a plane between Manchester and Amsterdam. This was not long after the London bombings of 2005, when fear of Al Qaida was still high. It was another of those oh so typically frustrating journeys to Rotterdam. My plane had been delayed due to a technical fault. There was a lot of hanging around, but, eventually, we boarded. I was sat in the first row behind the business class section. As ever, I was first on board – I am well practised in the art of where to stand on the shuttle bus to be sure to alight before other passengers. As ever, having already checked out the on-board totty (the stewardesses), I paid attention to the talent that might be boarding in the guise of female passengers – I have to explain that this is typical male behaviour and does not mean that I am a pervert or anything – while looking for potential hijackers, bombers and the like. As you do. As I do.
I noticed one obviously African couple get on board. I say obviously African because both of them were in traditional tribal robes and headdress. T his was what had brought them to my attention. That and the fact that the guy was carrying the biggest, squarest, reddest holdall that you had ever seen. He placed it in the over-head lockers in the business class section and went to sit towards the back of the plane. This was not suspicious in itself, as often passengers would leave their luggage at the first possible spot they found in the overheads. No, my suspicions were raised by subsequent events.
The cabin crew carried out the passenger count. They did this three times. An announcement came asking if anyone on board was actually booked on the later flight to Amsterdam (which due to our delay, was scheduled to now leave just 10 minutes later). The announcement was repeated, twice. Eventually they must have cross-referenced the boarding ticket stubs and they identified that the extra passenger on board was, indeed, this African man that I had seen earlier. He was asked to leave. He left. He left without the big, red, square bag in business class……..(at this point, if this was a movie, there would be suitable mood music such as the da da music in Jaws…..)
I was suspicious. I discussed my suspicions with the guy next to me. He was suspicious. I discussed my suspicions with the cabin crew. The stewardess was suspicious. She sent for the captain. The captain was suspicious. The captain checked and a number of us had noticed the man place the bag there when boarding. The captain tried to lift the bag down but as he did the African lady came flying down the plane to explain in pigeon English that the bag was hers and that the man had merely been carrying it for her. Very suspicious.
We were all still suspicious, and a number of passengers around me told the captain that unless the bag was removed that they would leave the plane. The captain went to speak to the air traffic people and, it would seem a security protocol was put into place.
This security protocol seemed to hinge on making sure that if we had a bomb on board, the loss of life and damage to the terminal would be kept to a minimum by moving the plane to a safe area. With us on board. The doors were shut, the engines were started, and, we taxied to a far corner of the airport. Clearly, it was not our potential loss of life or damage to our plane with which the controllers were concerned. The bag was removed to the safety (not) of the galley area with the curtain closed. I hadn’t realised those curtains were bomb proof. I still suspect that they are not. The bag was searched by the captain, and declared to be safe.
I can look back and smile at the incident now. It is a good dinner party story. Admittedly though, it is not as good a story as Smithy’s. Smithy is the boyfriend of my sister-in-law, D. He is a pilot. He once diverted a plane en route from India to Manchester to Germany because of a suspicious package on board. The package turned out to be an embarrassed passenger’s colostomy bag……Safety first, Smithy.
You all be careful out there and do it to them before they do it to us.
Thursday 15 February 2007
Celebrity Spotting Part 2
Many B, C and Z list celebrities live in the Wilmslow area of Cheshire. It is the land of Coronation Street stars and Manchester United players. And, they all seem to shop at Sainsbury’s. Or at least they did before the arrival of Waitrose a couple of years ago. Ken Barlow (Bill Roache) used to live around the corner from us and was a regular in the corner shop. As indeed was Steve McDonald (Simon Gregson) – "allegedly" often pissed and buying alcohol. Jim McDonald/Charles Lawson (his screen dad), another alleged alki, Samia (sigh) Smith who plays Maria Sutherland, and Denise Welch (Natalie Barnes) are also Sainsburys regulars. Also, Brian McClair of Manchester United. I once saw Christian Ronaldo in there. It was before the world cup (2206) so he was still popular then. He was with his brother and his dad. He was clearly buying stuff for a family bbq. He was swamped by youngsters seeking autographs. He was very patient and took it all in his stride and I remember thinking “what a nice bloke”. But, I will never forgive him for getting Rooney sent off! In fact Wayne Rooney has also moved into the area, and lowered the tone. Apparently he is now a regular in Brasingamens, the Braz, being a club in Alderley Edge (Bolliwood!), where, allegedly, he once punched his girlfriend, Coleen McLoughlin. It would seem that Wayne is often to be found partying with other Scousers, and that the potential WAG factor has begun to attract the ladies of Liverpool to this part of Cheshire on a Friday and Saturday night in search of a potential footballing hubby. Well, denim mini skirts, see-through tops, pierced navels, and white stilettos have not gone down too well with ladies who lunch of Wilmslow and Alderley Edge. I know who I'd back in a fight though. And, be careful where you park your car at the weekend.....
I even saw Liam Gallagher (of Oasis) and his then wife Patsy Kensit in Sainsburys. That caused a stir. You don’t get many Man City fans in Wilmslow! Not with all those shops selling prawn sandwiches. I like Patsy Kensit. In fact I have loved Patsy Kensit ever since she starred in the Birds Eye Peas adverts, starting in 1972. Those big blue eyes. That blonde hair. Mother wouldn’t approve.
I gave up my chair once for Barbara Knox who plays Rita Fairclough/Sullivan. It was in the business lounge of Manchester Airport. The cast was assembling there en route for one of those holiday specials in Ibiza or Majorca or some such place. You know, “the Street goes on holiday and it all ends in disaster” special.
Airports in general are a very good place for hob-nobbing with stars…..I bumped into the Edge (U2), literally, in the lounge at Heathrow. I followed Annika Rice’s bottom (nice) up the stairs to a plane. I stood next to Alex Furgusson and Craig Brown (then Scotland Manager) on the tarmac at Heathrow as we tried to find our baggage after it had been turfed off a broken-down plane. I once sat next to Willy Thorne and his snooker cue on a plane to Amsterdam. He was a very nice guy, sociable, if a bit obsessive about his cue.
Most bizarrely, C and I once sat at a table next to Jason Orange of Take That in the Swan in Wybunbury, in darkest Cheshire. This was in the wilderness years between the demise and rebirth. He was just like any other normal bloke out for a drink and Sunday meal with the family.
C and I sat next to Jane Danson (Leanne Battersby of Corrie) when she was having a girls' night out, in Pizza Express in Wilmslow. In fact, we were once in there at the same time as Dwight Yorke, when he was still a Birmingham City player. I didn't pester him for an autograph though. We once queued next to Sinbad from Brookside in the big Ikea at Warrington. I sat next to Frank Finlay (star of Bouquet of Barbed Wire – TV incest in 1976) on the Northern Line tube. Twice. On separate occasions.
It is sporting stars that I have got closest to though (apart from Annika Rice's rear of the year). I once shared a ride in a friends Mini Cooper (one of the original ones) with Bob Willis, the former England fast bowler. He is huge. Very tall. It was quite a funny sight to see him folded up in the back of a mini. And he stood his round in teh pub. And, I once spent the day with Eddie the Eagle at the height of his "fame". At the time I was running a truck racing team sponsored by the company that I work for, and Eddie was there for a celebrity race. He lost, of course. He grinned inanely all day long. He hit on my colleague, Liz. He lost out there too.
But, by far my most memorable brush with celebrity was with Golden Balls himself, David Beckham. Actually, more precisely, it was with Brooklyn Beckham, his first born. I was minding my business hanging around the arrivals area of Manchester terminal 1, waiting for a car to come and pick me up, when a small sprog grabbed my hand. It was Brooklyn. He had grabbed my hand by mistake, thinking that I was his father. Well, it is hardly surprising, we could be twins! Identical. Well, at least we were dressed in a similar fashion. Becks had apparently been there, keeping a low profile, waiting for someone to come off a flight, and little Brookie had wandered off just like any other two year old. David was very good about it. This was in the days before the alleged kidnap attempts. He smiled and squeaked something to me which I didn't quite catch......
I even saw Liam Gallagher (of Oasis) and his then wife Patsy Kensit in Sainsburys. That caused a stir. You don’t get many Man City fans in Wilmslow! Not with all those shops selling prawn sandwiches. I like Patsy Kensit. In fact I have loved Patsy Kensit ever since she starred in the Birds Eye Peas adverts, starting in 1972. Those big blue eyes. That blonde hair. Mother wouldn’t approve.
I gave up my chair once for Barbara Knox who plays Rita Fairclough/Sullivan. It was in the business lounge of Manchester Airport. The cast was assembling there en route for one of those holiday specials in Ibiza or Majorca or some such place. You know, “the Street goes on holiday and it all ends in disaster” special.
Airports in general are a very good place for hob-nobbing with stars…..I bumped into the Edge (U2), literally, in the lounge at Heathrow. I followed Annika Rice’s bottom (nice) up the stairs to a plane. I stood next to Alex Furgusson and Craig Brown (then Scotland Manager) on the tarmac at Heathrow as we tried to find our baggage after it had been turfed off a broken-down plane. I once sat next to Willy Thorne and his snooker cue on a plane to Amsterdam. He was a very nice guy, sociable, if a bit obsessive about his cue.
Most bizarrely, C and I once sat at a table next to Jason Orange of Take That in the Swan in Wybunbury, in darkest Cheshire. This was in the wilderness years between the demise and rebirth. He was just like any other normal bloke out for a drink and Sunday meal with the family.
C and I sat next to Jane Danson (Leanne Battersby of Corrie) when she was having a girls' night out, in Pizza Express in Wilmslow. In fact, we were once in there at the same time as Dwight Yorke, when he was still a Birmingham City player. I didn't pester him for an autograph though. We once queued next to Sinbad from Brookside in the big Ikea at Warrington. I sat next to Frank Finlay (star of Bouquet of Barbed Wire – TV incest in 1976) on the Northern Line tube. Twice. On separate occasions.
It is sporting stars that I have got closest to though (apart from Annika Rice's rear of the year). I once shared a ride in a friends Mini Cooper (one of the original ones) with Bob Willis, the former England fast bowler. He is huge. Very tall. It was quite a funny sight to see him folded up in the back of a mini. And he stood his round in teh pub. And, I once spent the day with Eddie the Eagle at the height of his "fame". At the time I was running a truck racing team sponsored by the company that I work for, and Eddie was there for a celebrity race. He lost, of course. He grinned inanely all day long. He hit on my colleague, Liz. He lost out there too.
But, by far my most memorable brush with celebrity was with Golden Balls himself, David Beckham. Actually, more precisely, it was with Brooklyn Beckham, his first born. I was minding my business hanging around the arrivals area of Manchester terminal 1, waiting for a car to come and pick me up, when a small sprog grabbed my hand. It was Brooklyn. He had grabbed my hand by mistake, thinking that I was his father. Well, it is hardly surprising, we could be twins! Identical. Well, at least we were dressed in a similar fashion. Becks had apparently been there, keeping a low profile, waiting for someone to come off a flight, and little Brookie had wandered off just like any other two year old. David was very good about it. This was in the days before the alleged kidnap attempts. He smiled and squeaked something to me which I didn't quite catch......
Wednesday 14 February 2007
Celebrity Spotting Part 1
Business travel, and Sainsburys in Wilmslow have been a great source of rendezvous with minor celebrities.
Perhaps most enjoyable have been train journeys. You feel closer to the celebs in some sort of strange way. Journeys on Virgin trains between the North West and London and back have been most fruitful. On one occasion I sat opposite Sarah Lancashire, star of a “wealth” of Sunday night family viewing such as “Where the Heart Is” and, most notably “Coronation Street”. She starred as Raquel Watts, ditsy barmaid who married (and divorced) Curly Watts. She was/is a bit of a babe. Especially in the flesh, so to speak. The kind of homely, northern lass that your mom would approve of. And only two years older than I. She asked me the time. It was the was she asked. You know. The way she asked implied “do you want to come somewhere and get to know each other intimately?”. I did want to. I didn’t. I couldn’t be quite sure that I was reading the signals correctly. Another opportunity lost.
My other notable train claim, in a very different way, was Pete Waterman, of Stock, Aitkin, and Waterman fame. He who discovered Kylie. For which, I shall be eternally grateful. Pete sat opposite me on a journey from London to Crewe. He was on his way home to Stockton Heath. At first I was dead cool and did not let on that I recognised him. I surreptitiously texted C and colleagues at work who I thought would be impressed. C sent a simple text back “Don’t sing!”. Good advice. I am tone death (and I mean death!) and toneless. J, whose uncle is the keyboard and song writer in Tears for Fears replied, “My uncle says he’s a tw*t!”. Not quite the reaction I was looking for.
When I subsequently told my best mates about the encounter, they were similarly suitably underwhelmed. None of them have quite the same affinity with Kylie as I have. Most comments ranged from “Tosser”, “W*nker” (they meant Pete, not me of course), or “big deal”. But, they don’t know Pete like I do. Most likely they were trying to deflect me from one of my usual waffling, rambling stories of great adventures starring the Middle Man. They know me too well. But, they’re very forgiving.
Actually, he, Pete that is, was a thoroughly nice guy. It was vodka that broke the ice, both literally and metaphorically. Pete exclaimed: “Vladivar. Not seen that for ages!” “From Warrington”, says I. We have been best buddies ever since. I explained that my Uncle Tom used to drive the cart, and then then truck, making deliveries for Greenalls the brewery and Pete told me of the brewery’s demise. He is into real ale and was looking forward to getting home. His local village hall turns into a real ale pub for locals and members of CAMRA on a Thursday, Friday and Saturday night and he was keen to get there by 8pm for opening. I wish our village hall did the same.
We chatted quite freely for a good hour. He told me about his home in London - a disused warehouse (3500 square feet) in Borough which he bought for fifteen thousand pound in 1983 (presumably on the back of Kylie……now there’s a thought). He employed interior designers for thirty five thousand. They painted the walls white and the floors black. He has one bedroom, a dining room (Chinese red, "very warm and welcoming in winter") with a table and four chairs, a huge lounge with two fourteen foot long sofas, and a “f*ck off bathroom”. The latter was his main stipulation. He has no shower, but, apparently a palatial bathroom. He explained, “I didn’t live anywhere with a bath until I was 17.”
I asked him for Kylie’s telephone number. He declined. When I explained I only wanted to wish her the best after her recent cancer he said he would pass on my regards. So close. So far.
We talked of Pop Idol and X Factor. Allegedly, Simon Cowell’s banter is scripted and the US version of the game is fixed. But, enough of that…..let’s talk about Kylie. Sigh……
Perhaps most enjoyable have been train journeys. You feel closer to the celebs in some sort of strange way. Journeys on Virgin trains between the North West and London and back have been most fruitful. On one occasion I sat opposite Sarah Lancashire, star of a “wealth” of Sunday night family viewing such as “Where the Heart Is” and, most notably “Coronation Street”. She starred as Raquel Watts, ditsy barmaid who married (and divorced) Curly Watts. She was/is a bit of a babe. Especially in the flesh, so to speak. The kind of homely, northern lass that your mom would approve of. And only two years older than I. She asked me the time. It was the was she asked. You know. The way she asked implied “do you want to come somewhere and get to know each other intimately?”. I did want to. I didn’t. I couldn’t be quite sure that I was reading the signals correctly. Another opportunity lost.
My other notable train claim, in a very different way, was Pete Waterman, of Stock, Aitkin, and Waterman fame. He who discovered Kylie. For which, I shall be eternally grateful. Pete sat opposite me on a journey from London to Crewe. He was on his way home to Stockton Heath. At first I was dead cool and did not let on that I recognised him. I surreptitiously texted C and colleagues at work who I thought would be impressed. C sent a simple text back “Don’t sing!”. Good advice. I am tone death (and I mean death!) and toneless. J, whose uncle is the keyboard and song writer in Tears for Fears replied, “My uncle says he’s a tw*t!”. Not quite the reaction I was looking for.
When I subsequently told my best mates about the encounter, they were similarly suitably underwhelmed. None of them have quite the same affinity with Kylie as I have. Most comments ranged from “Tosser”, “W*nker” (they meant Pete, not me of course), or “big deal”. But, they don’t know Pete like I do. Most likely they were trying to deflect me from one of my usual waffling, rambling stories of great adventures starring the Middle Man. They know me too well. But, they’re very forgiving.
Actually, he, Pete that is, was a thoroughly nice guy. It was vodka that broke the ice, both literally and metaphorically. Pete exclaimed: “Vladivar. Not seen that for ages!” “From Warrington”, says I. We have been best buddies ever since. I explained that my Uncle Tom used to drive the cart, and then then truck, making deliveries for Greenalls the brewery and Pete told me of the brewery’s demise. He is into real ale and was looking forward to getting home. His local village hall turns into a real ale pub for locals and members of CAMRA on a Thursday, Friday and Saturday night and he was keen to get there by 8pm for opening. I wish our village hall did the same.
We chatted quite freely for a good hour. He told me about his home in London - a disused warehouse (3500 square feet) in Borough which he bought for fifteen thousand pound in 1983 (presumably on the back of Kylie……now there’s a thought). He employed interior designers for thirty five thousand. They painted the walls white and the floors black. He has one bedroom, a dining room (Chinese red, "very warm and welcoming in winter") with a table and four chairs, a huge lounge with two fourteen foot long sofas, and a “f*ck off bathroom”. The latter was his main stipulation. He has no shower, but, apparently a palatial bathroom. He explained, “I didn’t live anywhere with a bath until I was 17.”
I asked him for Kylie’s telephone number. He declined. When I explained I only wanted to wish her the best after her recent cancer he said he would pass on my regards. So close. So far.
We talked of Pop Idol and X Factor. Allegedly, Simon Cowell’s banter is scripted and the US version of the game is fixed. But, enough of that…..let’s talk about Kylie. Sigh……
Tuesday 13 February 2007
The Times They Are A-Changin Part 2
Things are changing so fast. My childhood took place before the onset of central heating. In winter, condensation would freeze on the inside of the bedroom window. You could not move under the weight of the many blankets in a winter before duvets. You would race downstairs in the morning, slippered feet, to dress hurriedly in front of the lounge bar-heater. True you could have risked the bathroom with the old circular light and heater combined, the one with the pull down switch. But, these things buzzed like a disturbed hive, threw out heat like a napalm incendiary, and smelled of smouldering dust and the polystyrene tiles which adorned the bathroom ceiling. And, the combination of electricity, condensation dripping from polystyrene tiles, and little wet hands never struck me as the safest of combinations. I never did feel safe. It was always the lounge bar-heater for me.
Whenever I meet up with my mates’ families or see my nephews, I am just reminded of how different things were when I was a child. All the kids today have mobiles. I n my day, only babies were lucky enough to have those. I was lucky if I even had change for a phone box. Phone boxes – tall, square, red, glazed and proud. You still see them sometimes in posh hotels as trendy shower cubicles, or, in architectural salvage yards. The home telephone didn’t arrive in our house until way into the 80s. It arrived at about the same time as the colour TV, Breakfast Television, and long before the central heating was installed and the front room wall was knocked down to create a through room. In my day we still had front rooms. Vistied only ever on special occasions. Indeed, my grandma’s generation still had parlours and outside loos. My family were not exactly “early adopters”. We couldn’t afford to be.
These were the years of strikes. Winters of discontent. Rubbish piled up in the street as wine lakes and butter mountains formed in Europe. Many a weekend viewing of the Black and White Minstrels, or Morecambe and Wise was ruined by a power cut, with the family huddled around the emergency candles and a pack of cards. Many a Saturday morning was spent queuing for bread or some other staple. My childhood was like modern Russia at times.
Today, my nephews’ bedrooms are like multi-media palaces. Mine was a place you slept in during the night, or where you were banished to as a punishment during the day. They have TVs, DVDs, CDs, PCs, videos, PS2s, GameBoys, IPOds, mobiles (WAP-enabled, of course) hamsters and a tropical fish tank! In my day, I didn’t even have privacy. If you even attempted to seek solace in the refuge of your own room you would be hunted down. Shouts of “what are you doing up there” would climb the stairs. The door would be knocked: “Are you feeling OK?”. No privacy. No time alone. I think they assumed that there was only one thing a teenage boy could be doing on his own in the waking hours. They were probably right! After all, I did, for a brief time, have pictures of the “Bionic Woman” (Lindsay Wagner, sigh!) and “Charlie’s’ Angels” on the wall of my bedroom – the originals with Farah Fawcett not Lucy Lui (but I could be persuaded).
By about 14 I had a top-loading cassette player. The kind that you recorded with by placing next to the radio and turning the volume up. Later I progressed to a tape-to-tape, but seeing as I only had my mom and dad’s music to tape from the choice was somewhat limited. While Abba’s Greatest Hits have become a bit more retro-chic, I doubt that James Last’s Orchestra or Klaus Wunderlicht and his amazing bontempi will ever be considered cool.
Most kids today probably have access to free porn (being far more technically astute than their parents). I had to make do with a vivid imagination. I never could work out which out of the blonde and the brunette in “Abba” I would do first. I fancied most of the assistants on “the Generation Game” and “Dr Who”, especially Sarah Jane Smith who has recently played roles in the latest versions. Of course I never fancied Bonnie Langford. She is a two-bagger (you make her wear a bag to hide her face and you wear one yourself, just in case her’s falls off). S arah Greene was on Blue Peter in those days performing the sexiest thing ever seen on TV - demonstrating how to pull on skin-tight jeans using a coat hanger. Not to be missed. Never to be forgotten.
I also tended to like the female presenters on Saturday morning kids’ TV. I still do. Sally James off “Tizwas”, Sarah Greene from “the Saturday Morning Picture Show” on the other side, Emma Forbes who cooked. Emma was the Nigella Lawson of the 1980s but even sexier and of better parentage. She is Nanette Newman’s daughter, which conjures up a whole new “mother and daughter” fantasy which we shall not go into. I was also very partial to most of the female cast of ”Dallas”, especially Victoria Principal (a truly well-put-together woman), and Charlene Tilton. These were the Kat Deely, Anthea Turner, Carol Vordeman, Carole Smiley, and Kylie of my later years. My bed sheets must have fairly crackled, if only with the amount of static electricity I was generating (polyester was a very dangerous invention). Sorry mom.
Incidentally, Kylie Mynogue is sex on a stick. I have a get-out clause in my marriage if I ever get it together with Kylie. C has a similar one involving Sting. Our worst-case scenario is if Sting and Kylie ever get it together. Unlikely I know, but, unfortunately, more likely than Kylie and myself.
The lingerie section of mom’s Great Universal mail-order catalogue was about the most pornographic material in the house other than my dad’s H&E (Health and Education) magazines. He thought he had so carefully hidden these in the brown paper bag in the ottoman on the landing. In my experience it is always wise to take a peak into any brown paper bag that you may find. Unless you know that Bonnie Langford lies beneath. Oh, and the pictures of African tribal ladies grinding flour with their baps out in some of granddad’s old encyclopaedias. How times change…….
Whenever I meet up with my mates’ families or see my nephews, I am just reminded of how different things were when I was a child. All the kids today have mobiles. I n my day, only babies were lucky enough to have those. I was lucky if I even had change for a phone box. Phone boxes – tall, square, red, glazed and proud. You still see them sometimes in posh hotels as trendy shower cubicles, or, in architectural salvage yards. The home telephone didn’t arrive in our house until way into the 80s. It arrived at about the same time as the colour TV, Breakfast Television, and long before the central heating was installed and the front room wall was knocked down to create a through room. In my day we still had front rooms. Vistied only ever on special occasions. Indeed, my grandma’s generation still had parlours and outside loos. My family were not exactly “early adopters”. We couldn’t afford to be.
These were the years of strikes. Winters of discontent. Rubbish piled up in the street as wine lakes and butter mountains formed in Europe. Many a weekend viewing of the Black and White Minstrels, or Morecambe and Wise was ruined by a power cut, with the family huddled around the emergency candles and a pack of cards. Many a Saturday morning was spent queuing for bread or some other staple. My childhood was like modern Russia at times.
Today, my nephews’ bedrooms are like multi-media palaces. Mine was a place you slept in during the night, or where you were banished to as a punishment during the day. They have TVs, DVDs, CDs, PCs, videos, PS2s, GameBoys, IPOds, mobiles (WAP-enabled, of course) hamsters and a tropical fish tank! In my day, I didn’t even have privacy. If you even attempted to seek solace in the refuge of your own room you would be hunted down. Shouts of “what are you doing up there” would climb the stairs. The door would be knocked: “Are you feeling OK?”. No privacy. No time alone. I think they assumed that there was only one thing a teenage boy could be doing on his own in the waking hours. They were probably right! After all, I did, for a brief time, have pictures of the “Bionic Woman” (Lindsay Wagner, sigh!) and “Charlie’s’ Angels” on the wall of my bedroom – the originals with Farah Fawcett not Lucy Lui (but I could be persuaded).
By about 14 I had a top-loading cassette player. The kind that you recorded with by placing next to the radio and turning the volume up. Later I progressed to a tape-to-tape, but seeing as I only had my mom and dad’s music to tape from the choice was somewhat limited. While Abba’s Greatest Hits have become a bit more retro-chic, I doubt that James Last’s Orchestra or Klaus Wunderlicht and his amazing bontempi will ever be considered cool.
Most kids today probably have access to free porn (being far more technically astute than their parents). I had to make do with a vivid imagination. I never could work out which out of the blonde and the brunette in “Abba” I would do first. I fancied most of the assistants on “the Generation Game” and “Dr Who”, especially Sarah Jane Smith who has recently played roles in the latest versions. Of course I never fancied Bonnie Langford. She is a two-bagger (you make her wear a bag to hide her face and you wear one yourself, just in case her’s falls off). S arah Greene was on Blue Peter in those days performing the sexiest thing ever seen on TV - demonstrating how to pull on skin-tight jeans using a coat hanger. Not to be missed. Never to be forgotten.
I also tended to like the female presenters on Saturday morning kids’ TV. I still do. Sally James off “Tizwas”, Sarah Greene from “the Saturday Morning Picture Show” on the other side, Emma Forbes who cooked. Emma was the Nigella Lawson of the 1980s but even sexier and of better parentage. She is Nanette Newman’s daughter, which conjures up a whole new “mother and daughter” fantasy which we shall not go into. I was also very partial to most of the female cast of ”Dallas”, especially Victoria Principal (a truly well-put-together woman), and Charlene Tilton. These were the Kat Deely, Anthea Turner, Carol Vordeman, Carole Smiley, and Kylie of my later years. My bed sheets must have fairly crackled, if only with the amount of static electricity I was generating (polyester was a very dangerous invention). Sorry mom.
Incidentally, Kylie Mynogue is sex on a stick. I have a get-out clause in my marriage if I ever get it together with Kylie. C has a similar one involving Sting. Our worst-case scenario is if Sting and Kylie ever get it together. Unlikely I know, but, unfortunately, more likely than Kylie and myself.
The lingerie section of mom’s Great Universal mail-order catalogue was about the most pornographic material in the house other than my dad’s H&E (Health and Education) magazines. He thought he had so carefully hidden these in the brown paper bag in the ottoman on the landing. In my experience it is always wise to take a peak into any brown paper bag that you may find. Unless you know that Bonnie Langford lies beneath. Oh, and the pictures of African tribal ladies grinding flour with their baps out in some of granddad’s old encyclopaedias. How times change…….
Monday 12 February 2007
The Times They Are A-Changin Part 1
I’ve been having a contemplative Sunday morning. The wood-smoke scent of last night’s real fire gently pervades the lounge. The dishwasher quietly murmurs in the kitchen beyond. Maslow is noisily preening himself in a sunspot on the sofa beside me. The Archers Omnibus is entertaining itself in the background, playing through the Freeview digital-TV. Across the other side of the world and in a different time zone (I think it is tomorrow there already….) rain is disrupting a would-be, and most unexpected, possible, if not probable victory over Australia, the great nemesis. It is the second leg of the Tri-nations One Day International cricket final. Go Monty!
Yesterday’s newspaper (the Saturday Times), multiple magazines, and other supplements are gently gathering dust on the coffee table. I admit I do tend to lose interest a little bit after I have completed the Killer Su Doku and the Times 2 Crossword, but there is something quite satisfying about the weekly visit to the recycling bins at Waitrose. If you ignore the fact that so many trees were felled to make the stuff in the first place, and, so much CO2 was spewed into the atmosphere while transporting the stuff around the globe, it makes me feel as if I am doing my little bit for the planet and the next generation. And, so I do. Ignore the fact that is.
The news is much, much more accessible these days. This might explain why there is also a growing pile of CDs tottering on the coffee table. CDs which, not unlike my free copy of the Harvard Business Review, are likely to remain unopened, never to see a PC disk drive, or CD player, or the light of day. Give-away CDs from papers or received unsolicited through the mail: “Paul McKenna’s Deep Relaxation: Programme Your Mind to Feel Good”, “Charlotte’s Web: Help is Coming from Above” – an audio CD, “Full Circle: Alaska and Russia – The Michael Palin Collection”, “Coast: Exmouth to Bristol”, “Teach Yourself Mandarin Chinese Conversation”, (I joke not !!), and, “Make a Contribution to a Cleaner World” – an educative missive from our supplier of home heating oil, trying to justify why they are five pence per litre more expensive than their nearest rivals…….There’s probably a degree in social studies in the making right there on our coffee table. In fact I am sure there is. Especially if you add in the other reading materials which are to be found there. “The Dangerous Book for Boys”, “Mr Jones’ Rules”, “The Rough Guide to Thailand”, the Laura Ashley catalagoue, and the “Radio Times”.
These days you can learn everything you ever wanted or needed to know about the world without even leaving your bedroom, visiting a museum, stepping into a library, trekking across the Sahara, or undertaking a balloon safari in deepest, darkest Africa. We have News 24, broadband and Wikipedia. Amazon.co.uk delivers. Wine Direct delivers. Tesco Direct delivers. The local Indian delivers. I am seriously considering becoming a recluse. But a recluse who is well-fed, well-informed and worldly-wise.
The recent snowfall that paralysed much of the Midlands, Wales and the London Tube (Southern Jessies!), closing all of the schools, reminded me of an incident from my own childhood. It made me think about how technology has changed. How our experience of the world has been altered, and, how the online, virtual nature of communication tools today have coloured our response to incidents such as a snow storm.
When I was about 11 or 12, at Grammar School, it snowed one day. This was proper snow, mind you. Not like the stuff you get these days - the wrong kind of snow. This was heavy snow. A blizzard. Drifting snow. Dickensian winter snow. It had started in the morning after lessons had already started. We watched it eagerly through Victorian windows, pleased to see that it was settling and anticipating breaktime and the snowball fights that would inevitably follow. Frozen balls of ice would be sculpted and thrown. Knitted mittens and gloves would soon be sodden. Little hands would freeze, and turn blue, to be thawed in excruciating, delightful agony on the old iron radiators, accompanied by the smell of burning flesh and scolding woollens. By first break there was a good couple of inches. By lunchtime there must have been a foot or so. It was a veritable blizzard. The gritters had failed. Snow-ploughs were nowhere to be seen. The roads were becoming blocked, even in the city centre. And, then all public transport (it sounds very grand doesn’t it – I mean the buses) was brought to a halt or returned to the depot on safety grounds. And so, at lunchtime, school was declared closed. School was closed, and all the little tykes like me were abandoned, thrown out into the streets to fend for ourselves and find our own ways home. Without a shovel, spade, or snow-shoe between us.
Home seemed a long way away that day. I t was six and a half miles long. Six and a half miles around the Outer Circle. And, as there were no buses. Six and a half miles, on foot, in about a foot of snow, in the middle of a blizzard. So off I set. I set off with no idea how long a walk such as this would take. I was alone. I was small. I was very cold. I had no way of letting mom and dad know of my plight. Even if I had had the two pence for a call home (which I didn’t) the phone boxes around Handsworth were generally vandalised and rendered inoperative. Even if I had found a phone box which was working, we didn’t have a phone at home… But I did know a neighbours number, just for emergencies. But, even if I had been able to phone, I knew it would have gone unanswered. Everyone I knew would be at work. Out. These were the days before voicemail and answer-machines. I was small, cold, and alone, and without the means to tell my mom. She would be worried. I was frightened. I cried.
I walked all the way home. My feet were frozen. My tears were frozen. Everything I was wearing was soaking. It took me hours. But, I made it. And, I soon found myself slowly thawing in front of the bar heater, with a cup of hot milk simmering in the pan. Heaven.
How different the events of this week seemed to be by contrast. First of all, the met office seemed to have got its act together. In my childhood, the weather forecast, if you were lucky, would tell you how the weather had been today, rather than what it was going to be like tomorrow. Nowadays, you can get a pretty good idea how it is going to be over the next five days, anywhere in the world, or, just for your post code (or zip code). And so, this week, the schools in Birmingham knew what the weather was going to do. They were able to predict the chaos that would ensue. And, so, they were able to take the decision to close the schools even before the weather broke. What is more, they were able to communicate that decision, so that parents would be able to keep their kids at home, and plan for their care. Bulletins were sent out 24/7 via radio, TV, and the web. No doubt headmasters and headmistresses and their staff across the region were able to contact parents by phone at home, by mobile, leaving voicemails or text messages where necessary. No doubt, news of the decision was also sent out by email and received on many a parental desktop, laptop, palm held, or blackberry.
Even if a rogue child had slipped through the net (how apt) and made their way to school only to find it closed, it would not have been a problem. There are not many 11 or 12 year olds these days who are not fully equipped with mobile phones. No doubt they would have been able to contact their parents, and entertained themselves with IPOD, MP3 or GameBoy, until mom or dad or the nanny arrived in their air-conditioned 4WD to usher them home………to the central heating, a microwaved latte, and, a multi-media heaven of their own.
By the way, we won the cricket! Good on you lads. Oh, and the snow only lasted 24 hours.
Yesterday’s newspaper (the Saturday Times), multiple magazines, and other supplements are gently gathering dust on the coffee table. I admit I do tend to lose interest a little bit after I have completed the Killer Su Doku and the Times 2 Crossword, but there is something quite satisfying about the weekly visit to the recycling bins at Waitrose. If you ignore the fact that so many trees were felled to make the stuff in the first place, and, so much CO2 was spewed into the atmosphere while transporting the stuff around the globe, it makes me feel as if I am doing my little bit for the planet and the next generation. And, so I do. Ignore the fact that is.
The news is much, much more accessible these days. This might explain why there is also a growing pile of CDs tottering on the coffee table. CDs which, not unlike my free copy of the Harvard Business Review, are likely to remain unopened, never to see a PC disk drive, or CD player, or the light of day. Give-away CDs from papers or received unsolicited through the mail: “Paul McKenna’s Deep Relaxation: Programme Your Mind to Feel Good”, “Charlotte’s Web: Help is Coming from Above” – an audio CD, “Full Circle: Alaska and Russia – The Michael Palin Collection”, “Coast: Exmouth to Bristol”, “Teach Yourself Mandarin Chinese Conversation”, (I joke not !!), and, “Make a Contribution to a Cleaner World” – an educative missive from our supplier of home heating oil, trying to justify why they are five pence per litre more expensive than their nearest rivals…….There’s probably a degree in social studies in the making right there on our coffee table. In fact I am sure there is. Especially if you add in the other reading materials which are to be found there. “The Dangerous Book for Boys”, “Mr Jones’ Rules”, “The Rough Guide to Thailand”, the Laura Ashley catalagoue, and the “Radio Times”.
These days you can learn everything you ever wanted or needed to know about the world without even leaving your bedroom, visiting a museum, stepping into a library, trekking across the Sahara, or undertaking a balloon safari in deepest, darkest Africa. We have News 24, broadband and Wikipedia. Amazon.co.uk delivers. Wine Direct delivers. Tesco Direct delivers. The local Indian delivers. I am seriously considering becoming a recluse. But a recluse who is well-fed, well-informed and worldly-wise.
The recent snowfall that paralysed much of the Midlands, Wales and the London Tube (Southern Jessies!), closing all of the schools, reminded me of an incident from my own childhood. It made me think about how technology has changed. How our experience of the world has been altered, and, how the online, virtual nature of communication tools today have coloured our response to incidents such as a snow storm.
When I was about 11 or 12, at Grammar School, it snowed one day. This was proper snow, mind you. Not like the stuff you get these days - the wrong kind of snow. This was heavy snow. A blizzard. Drifting snow. Dickensian winter snow. It had started in the morning after lessons had already started. We watched it eagerly through Victorian windows, pleased to see that it was settling and anticipating breaktime and the snowball fights that would inevitably follow. Frozen balls of ice would be sculpted and thrown. Knitted mittens and gloves would soon be sodden. Little hands would freeze, and turn blue, to be thawed in excruciating, delightful agony on the old iron radiators, accompanied by the smell of burning flesh and scolding woollens. By first break there was a good couple of inches. By lunchtime there must have been a foot or so. It was a veritable blizzard. The gritters had failed. Snow-ploughs were nowhere to be seen. The roads were becoming blocked, even in the city centre. And, then all public transport (it sounds very grand doesn’t it – I mean the buses) was brought to a halt or returned to the depot on safety grounds. And so, at lunchtime, school was declared closed. School was closed, and all the little tykes like me were abandoned, thrown out into the streets to fend for ourselves and find our own ways home. Without a shovel, spade, or snow-shoe between us.
Home seemed a long way away that day. I t was six and a half miles long. Six and a half miles around the Outer Circle. And, as there were no buses. Six and a half miles, on foot, in about a foot of snow, in the middle of a blizzard. So off I set. I set off with no idea how long a walk such as this would take. I was alone. I was small. I was very cold. I had no way of letting mom and dad know of my plight. Even if I had had the two pence for a call home (which I didn’t) the phone boxes around Handsworth were generally vandalised and rendered inoperative. Even if I had found a phone box which was working, we didn’t have a phone at home… But I did know a neighbours number, just for emergencies. But, even if I had been able to phone, I knew it would have gone unanswered. Everyone I knew would be at work. Out. These were the days before voicemail and answer-machines. I was small, cold, and alone, and without the means to tell my mom. She would be worried. I was frightened. I cried.
I walked all the way home. My feet were frozen. My tears were frozen. Everything I was wearing was soaking. It took me hours. But, I made it. And, I soon found myself slowly thawing in front of the bar heater, with a cup of hot milk simmering in the pan. Heaven.
How different the events of this week seemed to be by contrast. First of all, the met office seemed to have got its act together. In my childhood, the weather forecast, if you were lucky, would tell you how the weather had been today, rather than what it was going to be like tomorrow. Nowadays, you can get a pretty good idea how it is going to be over the next five days, anywhere in the world, or, just for your post code (or zip code). And so, this week, the schools in Birmingham knew what the weather was going to do. They were able to predict the chaos that would ensue. And, so, they were able to take the decision to close the schools even before the weather broke. What is more, they were able to communicate that decision, so that parents would be able to keep their kids at home, and plan for their care. Bulletins were sent out 24/7 via radio, TV, and the web. No doubt headmasters and headmistresses and their staff across the region were able to contact parents by phone at home, by mobile, leaving voicemails or text messages where necessary. No doubt, news of the decision was also sent out by email and received on many a parental desktop, laptop, palm held, or blackberry.
Even if a rogue child had slipped through the net (how apt) and made their way to school only to find it closed, it would not have been a problem. There are not many 11 or 12 year olds these days who are not fully equipped with mobile phones. No doubt they would have been able to contact their parents, and entertained themselves with IPOD, MP3 or GameBoy, until mom or dad or the nanny arrived in their air-conditioned 4WD to usher them home………to the central heating, a microwaved latte, and, a multi-media heaven of their own.
By the way, we won the cricket! Good on you lads. Oh, and the snow only lasted 24 hours.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
