A Bientot!

A Bientot!

The Middle Man is going on a very well-deserved holiday. I'll be away for a couple of weeks, so you have no excuse for not catching up on reading through all my posts to date.

For those of you who know me well (or, who think you do), you will know that I only really begin to unwind upon arrival. Safe and sound. In thirty degrees and luxurious splendour. The first "holiday beer".....

Getting the cat to the cattery (today's unpleasant task) and inter-continental air travel are not without stress, as my entries "Planes, Trains & Automobiles" and "My Family and Other Animals" and other various escapades of the furball baby, Maslow, show. So wish us "bon voyage".

And I don't care about my carbon imprint! This long-haul flight is for C and I, and, this is one holiday we deserve. However, this is my first experience of inter-continental economy class. Wish me luck. Perhaps those nice people at Air France will take pity and upgrade us. Fingers crossed.

In the meantime, happy blogging everyone. See you in a couple of weeks.

Customer Service? Not!

Yet again I find myself at home, waiting for a BT engineer. BT. British Telecom. Waste of space. Is there somewhere that I can nominate BT as the worst example of customer service? Ever! The worst ever!

The corporate vision, posted on BT’s website, proudly declares:

Our vision is to be dedicated to helping customers thrive in a changing world. The world we live in and the way we communicate are changing, and we believe in progress, growth and possibility.

We want to help all our customers make their lives and businesses better with products and services that are tailored to their needs and easy to use.

This means getting ever closer to customers, understanding their lifestyles and their businesses, and establishing long-term relationships with them.

We're passionate about customers and are working to meet the needs they have today and innovating to meet the needs they will have tomorrow.

We hope that every time customers deal with us, their experience reflects our vision:
· we do what we say we will do - when we say we will do it - for the price we said
· we are pro-active and easy to do business with; we care
· if we don't keep our promises, we make recovery our number one priority.

Bullsh*t! Well, I’m still awaiting a response to my complaint email of 23rd October 2006. That’s five months! I am not feeling a great infinity with the corporate vision at the moment. And, I am at home again because they failed to turn up on Monday, when I stayed at home a whole day waiting for an engineer. All, I want is a new extension for my broadband service. And, I’m paying them shed loads for the privilege. If they ever turn up that is.

My complaint of October followed an electrical storm which knocked out my home broadband service. My first call found me routed to an offshore customer service centre in Bangalore, India. Don’t get me started! Well, it was Friday 13th. I should have known better. They ran a diagnostic. They declared that they could find no fault. They declared that the fault must be with my router. My router that was safely in a box, in a cupboard, upstairs, and well away from my broadband socket at the time of the lightening storm. Now, I am not technically minded in the slightest, but……

They were insistent and refused to do anymore to help me until I had replace the router. I replaced the router. Nothing. Not a sausage. Still broken! I phoned them back. They ran a diagnostic. They found a fault. They promised to fix the fault within 48 hours.

Two days later I received two voicemail message. Now that did impress me. The first message claimed that the fault had been fixed; the second asked me to get in touch in the event of further difficulty. On my return home I tried to connect. Nothing. Not a sausage. Still broken!

I phoned again. They knew the fault hadn’t been fixed, despite the voicemail that I had received. Apparently that was to tell me that a “copper engineer” had been to fix the line and now a “PSTN engineer” would be visiting, the following week, to fix my broadband. I was furious. I asked to speak to a supervisor. Oh, and what a smug "b" he turned out to be. I asked what had happened to my 48 hour window for fixing. He explained that 48 hours equated to five working days; seven calendar days. “Only on planet BT” I retorted!

While I was on the phone to the jobs-worth, head-up-his-own bum supervisor, I received another voicemail, telling me that my fault had now been escalated to an “Open Reach engineer”. Later that evening, I received another message asking me if I was still having problems. I was.

Three days later I received a call to tell me that after further diagnosis, they had discovered that the fault was “underground” and that an “underground engineer” was to be dispatched in eight days time (c. 72 hours in the world of BT). Underground? We had been spun this yarn with past faults, only to find the fault was in the box thing up the telegraph pole in the lane outside of our garden. We live in the middle of nowhere. Darkest rural Cheshire. Our wires travel many, many miles to the property via overhead cable. If we have an underground problem then it must be in a neighbouring county! Hence my email of complaint. My complaint of five months ago. To which I have had no response.

The fault was fixed by the engineer when he did actually attend, five hours late on a Saturday. A Saturday when we were supposed to be staying with friends. It took less than ten minutes to fix. Apparently it looked as if the socket had been “fried” during a lightening strike. Really? What a surprise. Why hadn’t we thought of that? Oh, we had mentioned it…….

Well, there are just fifty five minutes to go before today’s window for my engineer (copper/PSTN/underground/whatever) arrive closes. I shall not hold my breath. Watch this space. If I can log onto broadband after his arrival or not I will let you know…….

In the meantime, should you wish to waste your time complaining to this customer-focused money-generating machine, the email address is complaints@btbroadbandoffice.com. But, chances are your broadband will be down so you won’t be able to. Don’t even bother to try and phone them. You will be lost in the endless circle of IVRs – “press 99 for…..” before they eventually hang up on you after having you on hold for fifty minutes. As they did on Monday……
It’s now fifty minutes to go………sigh.

Oh, and if anyone wants a perfectly working router, let me know. I have one spare!

Cheshire Swingers Club

I think that Maslow, our furball baby cat, has been using his psychic powers again and has got wind of our imminent holiday. And, his imminent internment in cat camp. And, he’s decided to throw a potential spanner in the works. He’s a bit poorly.

Actually, it is hardly a cat camp. It is more like a luxury five star cat palace. Maslow will be taking his sojourn in a place called Catsworth House. Corny or what? He has his own private sofa. They play the radio to the cats in the morning. They watch TV in the evenings, the cats. And, in the afternoons they have two hours of communal time when all of the cats get together in a big room full of settees. Spoilt rotten! But, he’s worth it.

At least that is the plan. But, Maslow was back at the vets this weekend. He’s been sneezing. Not all the time, but when he sneezes he does so six or seven or eight times, with a very surprised look on his face. It is always a bit of a worry when Maslow shows cold or flu symptoms because he had cat flu when he found us and has, what my grandma used to call a “weak chest”. He was sneezing a lot on Friday, especially in the evening. And again Saturday morning. So, off to the vets to get him checked out.

The vet was quite confident that it wouldn’t be pepper that was making him sneeze. This was one theory because Cathy had left some fresh ground pepper on the work surface over night on Thursday. Maslow could easily have jumped up and done a line. The other theory is that he might have picked something up when hunting. Sticking his nose into something he shouldn’t. As we know, he has caught at least two mice this week (including the one that I sat on and killed) and was getting up front and personal with a hedgehog. He pricked his little pinkie as a consequence.

No, the vet thought his glands were up and his temperature was at the high end of normal. So, Maslow was given an anti-inflammatory and an antibiotic jab that will last two weeks, so, for most of the time that we are away. He’s back to the vet on Wednesday just in case. The day before he is due to go to Catsworth House.

I have to say though that Maslow was as good as gold at the vets. He kind of know when he’s going so hides in strange places, but I managed to grab him and get him in his carry box. I hope it will be just as easy the next two times I have to do it this week. He was a bit reluctant to get out on the vet’s treatment table. But, once he was out he sat there licking my hand while the vet checked him out and gave him his jabs. He did go slightly cross-eyed when the vet checked his temperature. Maslow that is. Not the vet. He has to go back for a final check up on Wednesday. Before cat camp. Maslow that is. Not the vet.

Meanwhile, our pleasant little hamlet has been invaded by strange folk again. Outsiders. Our rural idyll has succumbed to the influx of the Caravan Club staying at the Village Hall. There must be some 30 or 40 vans crammed onto the car park and the adjacent field. Why? Why? Why? Why?

Caravans at the Village Hall are quite a common occurrence. They come from near and, well actually, near. Such far-flung places as Warrington, Stoke or maybe even North Wales. Ok it is a different country but it’s still only an hour away.

They come on a Friday afternoon and they are gone by Sunday lunchtime. But the weirdest thing (other than the basic question of why anyone would want to camp on a car park in the middle of nowhere with no pub, restaurant or places to visit) is that you never see the people. You would expect to see them round the village. Walking, or cycling. You would expect to see them on the footpaths or bridal ways. Nothing. Never. They just stay indoors. They stay in their caravans behind steamy windows. Or they stay in the village hall, behind steamy windows.


We can only assume that the whole caravan thing is a front. We suspect that it is one great swingers’ club. Some of these suspensions must have the workout of a lifetime. I can’t imagine it is very comfortable on a foam-padded mattress. Maybe Calor Gas is an aphrodisiac. That, or tinned new potatoes and Smash. Presumably the Village Hall is used for orgies. Just imagine it. Swinging scallies. All of that cheap polyester rubbing together in a confined space, with gas bottles. One hell of a safety risk. The static electricity generated could run a small city. Fortunately most of the caravaners seem to be beyond breeding age. Thank goodness for that. Just imagine what could crawl out of that genetic soup. It doesn’t bear thinking about. And this in Cheshire too………

If not swingers then we must assume Satanic ritual at the very least. Or sheep shaggers.....When I do get my bike out of the garage after the holiday I will be sure to cycle very quickly past the Village Hall when the caravans are in situ.

Comic Relief! Saucy.

http://www.rednoseday.com/

It is Red Nose Day in the UK. Comic Relief. And, as you can see, the Middle Man has entered into the spirit of things. Hilarious isn't it? Aren't I?

Comic Relief is a charity event in the UK, when comedians of all shapes, and degrees of funniness attempt to persuade us to make donations in aid of children's charities in the UK and in Africa.

Actually, I would encourage all of you to make a donation. Please click on the link above to find out how. I will be getting Mr Plastic out later and making a pledge. And so should you. Anything that you can afford. Go on.

People do stupid, funny things on Red Nose Day, to raise money. You know like wearing funny ears in the office, sitting in a bath of Baked Beans, or, like the lad in Sainsburys last weekend, getting your legs waxed.....

So, that is how C and I will be spending the evening: watching Comic Relief, still wondering why anyone should find Little Britain the slightest bit funny, crying at all the stories about starving children in Africa and disadvantaged ASBO-fodder closer to home, and, trying to forget the guilt we are supposed to be feeling about all those CO2 emissions we will be pouring out on our long-haul flight to Thailand next week. One week to go. Hooray!

Actually, thinking about Baked Beans (have you been paying attention?), has reminded me that today is a very, very, very sad day. HP sauce is no more. The great British sauce is gone.

It is difficult to describe to people who have not tasted HP sauce what it tastes like. It is brown, sticky, sweet and spicy. I had some on my pizza last night. It is considered to be very working class and it so reminds me of my childhood. Chips and HP. Cheese and HP sauce sandwiches. Baked Beans on toast and HP. Cheese on toast and HP. HP butties. Actually, the last meal I ever had as a bachelor, in a greasy spoon in downtown Buxton, was double egg and chips and HP. Heaven.

So, today is a very sad day. The HP factory in Birmingham (opposite BRMB Radio and next to the mounted police stables) has closed. I used to pass it on the bus every school day. On the way there. On the way home. What a smell. Production has apparently moved to the Netherlands, home of McCain oven chips. Well, what do the Cloggies know about food anyway? Cheese and tomato with every meal, including breakfast. Their national speciality of croquettes and bitte ballen - deep-fried meat paste balls coated in breadcrumbs. That is as good as it gets in Holland. Actually, it sounds like the perfect place to take HP. Maybe edam cheese sandwiches will taste of something other than the plastic coating at last.

Remember people. Make a donation.

https://www.rednoseday.com/donation/

Spring Is In The Air

The daffodils are blooming. The hedges are beginning to turn green at the edges. The man who cuts our lawn has put the first stripes down for the year. Birds are nesting in the eves. It is light when the alarm goes off. And, it's not always dark when I get home from work. Birmingham City seem intent to throw away their automatic promotion spot. The car park has not resembled a swimming pool for at least a week. And, they are forecasting snow and an "Artic Blast" for next week. So it is official: spring is in the air!

Spring is in the air and Maslow, the furball baby, our cat, is acting up. He keeps catching mice. He keeps catching mice and bringing them home. Presents for mom and dad. He keeps catching mice, bringing them home and playing with them on the laminate floor of the dining room, under the dining room table. He doesn't kill them. OK he chews them a bit, but he rarely punctures them. Occasionally a weak-hearted one might die of fright, but that is just nature's way of weeding out the runts. Very Darwinian.

Actually, the fact that Maslow doesn't kill the mice he catches is kind of the problem. They escape. He has a poor attention span. He loses them. He forgets where he puts them. Or they run away and hide. That is why, in the past, we have awoken in the middle of the night with a mouse climbing up the curtains of our bedroom. That is why we find mouse droppings behind the wine rack in the dining room. Once, we even found mouse droppings in the spare bed. That is why, when we had stripped the old kitchen out, we found evidence of a mouse nesting in the silver insulation of the boiler! And, that is why C and I are not content to let Maslow bring his presents without taking action. Action means catching the little critters and attempting to liberate them. Or giving the weak-hearted ones a decent burial. In the corporation dust bin.

Maslow brought one in last night. We had just finished dinner. C was stacking the dishwasher and I was in the lounge when C shouted. I rushed into the dining room and closed the door to the lounge behind me. C had already closed the kitchen door so that the mouse could not get at her. Maslow was whirling around the room in pursuit of his quarry.

This mouse was slightly bigger, older than the others that Maslow had brought in recently. It was slightly wiser and a lot, lot quicker. So, quick I couldn't grab it. At one point I was lying on my front under the table, my head between chair legs, with Maslow flitting about before my very eyes. I grabbed for the mouse. I missed. I lost sight of the mouse. Maslow lost sight of the mouse. I thought that I felt the mouse run across my outstretched leg. And, then it was gone. Vanished. I looked everywhere for it. Maslow looked everywhere for it. I moved the bookcases. I moved the wine rack. I checked the pockets of my jacket that was hung on the back of a chair. I checked behind the radiator. Vanished. I checked behind and in the wellies by the cat flap. I checked under the draft excluder and under Maslow's litter tray. Nothing. Mouse gone. Vanished.

C told me it couldn't have escaped so we opened the back door (a path to freedom) and she and I retreated to the lounge, being careful to shut Maslow and the mouse behind us. We left it for a while. Until we got a bit cold in the draft. Then we both went to close the back door and to survey the scene. It was at this point that I felt something in my trousers. Ooh, er, missus. I felt something in my trouser leg. I shook my trouser leg. And, mouse dropped out. Mouse fell to the laminate. Mouse was not well. Mouse was slightly flattened. Mouse was dead. It had not been a weak heart or the shock that had killed mouse. It was me. Obviously, when I thought I had felt mouse run over my leg, it had actually run up my trouser leg. Obviously when I had taken refuge in the lounge, on the sofa, I had sat on him. And, killed him. Sorry mouse.

This is quite scary. This seems to be further evidence that I am turning into my dad. I had nightmares all night about mice, and rats, and small dogs, and Maslow. This has reminded me of an earlier instance described in my post - My Family & Other Animals - when my dad sat on my pet gerbil, Tom. Serial-killing seems to be genetic...........

Middle Aged Spread

I am feeling much better about myself today. Recently I have been a little perturbed about the onset of "middle aged spread". Love handles. My wife tells me that I am doing very well for my age. But, we are soon to embark on a holiday to Thailand, which will require me to expose my pink body to the scrutiny of fellow globe trotters. To be honest, I could do with losing a pound or two. Or three. Or four.

But, thankfully, on the way into work yesterday morning, when sat frustrated in a queue of traffic for fifty minutes due to the failure of traffic lights at roadwork, I was listening to an illuminating report on the Radio 5 Today Programme. It was discussing the link between obesity and exercise. Or more accurately, the link between obesity and the lack of exercise. And, do you know what? There isn't one!

That's great news. It makes me feel far less guilty about my current lack of exercise. According to some recent scientific study, the amount of exercise children undertake is genetically set. It has nothing to do with access to sports facilities. The implication is that your body knows how much exercise you need. It is self regulating. Yeah right....

All I know is that kids today get less exercise than kids twenty years ago. Is that evolution? I suspect not.

I used to walk to Infant and Junior School. A four mile round trip. I used to walk to the bus stop en route to Grammar School. A mile or so. I played football, or cricket, or murder ball, or had a fight, every school break. We had two PE sessions an hour long each week. We had an afternoon of Games (football, cricket, athletics, or cross-country). And these were competitive! It was never just good enough "to take part" for my generation. I played football and cricket for the school, and competed in athletics, gymnastics, basketball and table tennis in House Competitions. I played in the national schoolboy’s cricket final (and lost) at the age of 16. I played badminton and lifted weights in lunchtimes.

Away from school, I roamed my hood on my bike. I would cycle for miles. My cousin, Vince and I would cycle from Birmingham to Warrington to visit a great aunt, at least once a year. We went to the park. We played ball. We walked everywhere.

It doesn't seem to be the same today. Kids are delivered to and collected from the school gate by parents in Chelsea Tractors. F*ck the environment! Convenience rules. Me, me, me. Kids are not allowed to play out due to concerns about their personal security, or, to stop them getting access to drink, drugs or sex. School games are largely no longer competitive. Schools are paranoid about getting sued if a child is injured or as a result of the psychological trauma of being labelled a failure. What ever happened to fun?

To be honest, I have let my fitness regime slip since school. I did play football at University, I rowed, and I played the occasional game of squash. But, to be honest, my recreation time at Oxford did become more sedentary - croquet, darts, and drinking! After Uni, I played an occasional game of squash and for a couple of years, I played five-a-side football and in an indoor cricket league. But, I also discovered, whisky, red wine, and my sofa.

There have been only sporadic attempts at a fitness regime in recent years. I frequently hide behind the fact that most of my sporting prowess of yester-years was in the field of team sports. Occasionally, however, I have been cajoled into the odd game of squash, the odd mile or two of running (I don’t jog! I used to do cross-country at school after all), and even Tai Chi. The Tai Chi lasted only the one week actually. It was something that C and I were trying out as a common interest but the timing was inconvenient, the venue less than salubrious and the rest of the group looked as if they had just come straight from A&E or the geriatrics ward. So now, my athletic life consists of one regular weekend of torture/hiking with the lads from Oxford and, more typically, a regular weekly forced march across Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam!

My best mates and C pooled together last year to buy me a bike for my 40th birthday. My mates all have young families which keep them fit. I think they were worried about me. I will dig it out of the garage after I get back from my hols. The annual Lads Walk is planned at the end of April, so I'll have to get some miles in.

In the meantime, it's lunchtime!

The History Boys

I watched the History Boys at the weekend. It was a present from J, who is a fellow Oxbridge history graduate, although 20 years my junior and a graduate of the "other place". Cambridge. She got a first. But we all know that degrees are not what they used to be, and I reckon my 2:1 is worth at least a First at the "other place". The rivalry is alive and kicking.

The film is set in a northern all boys Grammar School in 1983. It follows a bunch of bright lads who are attempting to get into Oxbridge to study history. Sound familiar? This was the year that I won my place at Oxford. 1983! Most students today would consider that to be history....

Maslow, our furball baby cat, did his level best to disrupt proceedings. He must have found a nest of field mice. He brought two in, on separate occasions, until we decided to close his cat flap and lock him in doors. He was playing with them under the dining room table. Fortunately he hadn't killed or punctured them. They bring them as gifts, so you have to praise them. After all, they are only doing what comes naturally. And, to be frank, he needs the exercise even more than I do. Luckily I was able to grab both of the poor squeaking, terrified baby mices and to liberate them through the dining room window. Maslow hadn't spotted me do this so proceeded to sniff round every corner and piece of furniture looking for his erstwhile prey while C and I finished watching the DVD.

I enjoyed the film. It reminded me a little of the Dead Poets Society. You could tell that it was based upon a theatre play but it translated to film pretty well. And it dragged me right back to 1983, when I was aged 17 and in the first year of Sixth Form at Grammar School in Birmingham.

There were a number of similarities. To start with, the school architecture and style was very reminiscent of my own Victorian educational edifice. The boys wore the same uniforms but their hairstyles were certainly much trendier than I remember in my own day. I could see bits of some of my teachers in the actors, especially Mr Robins who taught me French and Frau Walker who beat German into me. And they got the look of the entrance exam papers right. A5 pamphlets most unlike the A4 booklets of "O" and "A" Levels. Attention to detail.

But, it was the differences that struck me most. All these boys were doing a crammer or seventh term. This means that the had already had their "A" Level results and had returned to their school for an extra term, aged 18, to prepare for their entrance exam. I didn't do it that way. We didn't have the option at my school. I took the entrance exam and had my interview the year before taking my "A" levels. I knew I had a place at Oxford before I took my "A" Levels. Well, as long as I achieved two grade "Es" that is. I did. Four "A stars" in fact. Swot!

People like me (the cocky, obnoxious, immature ones) used to take the Michael out of those who had resorted to a crammer. The extra term. Sorry Nye. But, it was not unusual. Some of my mates even deferred entry for a whole year. This was most typical in working class backgrounds.

However, my preparation was nowhere near as flamboyant, detailed, disciplined, extensive or all-encompassing as in the History Boys. True, the Headmaster coached us a little in Classical Studies and we brushed up a little on our Latin - for the entrance exam you were required to do one translation from a dead language such as Latin or Greek. This was a bit of a stretch for yours truly as I had only had one year's study for both Latin and Classics, both of which I had dropped at the age of 12. Amo, amas, amat, amamas, amatis, amant. Hey, I still got it!

Also, we learnt a few more complicated verb conjugations for the French paper. You had to do a translation in a modern language such as French, German, Spanish or Russian (for the wannabe spies / double agents). But, this was all done during the lunchtime break. We did go into our "A" level history course in significantly more detail though. And I learnt all of the history questions in Trivial Pursuit off by heart.

There was certainly no standing at the piano performing Noel Coward or Gilbert and Sullivan though. Nor were there any art history trips. We did go for a visit to Oxford, but this was more of a pub crawl than an educational experience. And, there was certainly no having your balls fondled by the homosexual history teacher!

In my recollection they were kept in the closet back in 1983 Birmingham. Homosexuals. Either that or I was totally naive. I suspect the latter. In the film two of the teachers and two of the boys were gay or bi-sexual at least. I wasn't aware of meeting an openly gay boy or man in person until I went to Oxford. Oh, except for the music teacher. But you never took any notice of him as everyone dropped music after the age of 12 and your average 11 year old could have taken him in a fight.

I remember going up to Oxford for the entrance interview. This followed the written entrance exam. Incidentally, you (well "one" I suppose) go up to Oxford irrespective of which point of the compass you started from. It is one of those snobbish things - a reference to reaching, supposedly, the height of academic achievement.

I remember it was cold. December. And, it was dark. I was summoned into a smoky, dark, oak-panelled room and sat in a squeaky leather chair in front of a roaring log fire as my interviewing panel of two history dons sat snuggled on an antique sofa opposite. They offered me a glass of sweet sherry and interrogated me on my personal background, the Franco-Prussian War of 1871 and the empire building of Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden.

It was a bit like the scene in Shallow Grave when they are interviewing for a new flatmate. Except there was no one beaten up in the gents afterwards. And the fact that the dons were all both caricatures: Mr B an effeminate Mr Bean lookalike and an expert in Anglo Saxon English history; Mr P, a specialist in the Second World War, who was the spit of the Cambridge don described in Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency by Douglas Adam, which is a book I would recommend.

I was offered a scholarship. Clearly, I was offered a scholarship because of my in-depth knowledge of Latin, Classics and complicated French verb conjugations. Actually, I reckon it was because they got grants to attract people from non-public schools, the fact that I could hold my sherry, and, because, amazingly, I knew more about twelfth century Swedish imperialism than a tutor in Anglo Saxon history.........What a surprise.

Neighbours - The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly Part 3

I lived in London twice. The first time was just after university. I moved because I had got a job in London. 1987. Twenty years ago. I had to share a flat with another bloke who had joined the Company on the same day as me, Simon. Simon was a drinker. He was a drinker who thought he was bright and was owed a living on a plate. He was not as bright as he thought he was. He was a drinker, a diabetic and a crack addict. I forget the number of times that I had to revive him with a sugar cube or an emergency Mars Bar. We lived in St. John’s Wood in an ex-council flat above Barclays Bank. Most of the other flats on our floor were still council flats. The tenants were quite elderly and doddery. Many were house bound. We rarely crossed paths. The only time that I would see the old girl across the corridor would be on Sunday mornings. She would struggle across the landing using her zimmer frame to knock on my door. To inform me that my flat mate had passed out on the landing or at the top of the stairs. It was quite a regular weekend occurrence. What must she have thought of us? How embarrassing.

I was glad to leave the flat in St John’s Wood. And Simon. He left the Company. By mutual consent. Something to do with expense claims I think. Or it could have been his regular afternoon naps in the toilets. He was an odd one. He ripped off a bunch of colleagues by organising a fictitious trip to Moscow. He was a raving lefty. And, I once had to bail him out of jail after he had been caught stealing books from Waterstones. We didn’t keep in touch. I suspect he will have drunk himself to death by now, or have been killed by some victim of a scam, or, a millionaire.

My experience with Simon made me adamant that I would never share a place again. Except with C and Maslow of course.

On my second spell second spell in the Smoke, I lived in Kilburn. Little Ireland. Well, not so little in fact. Kilburn has the largest Irish community in the world outside of Dublin. It was the safest place to be during the IRA bombing campaign of the late 80s. The only time I remember Kilburn being effected by a bomb scare was on St. Patrick’s Day evening. I suspect it was a hoax aimed at disrupting all of the Paddy’s Day celebrations.

I lived in a one bedroom flat on he first floor of a two-storey house conversion, opposite a launderette where the local hoodies would hang out and which once figured in a Crimewatch reconstruction following a murder. Nice.

I only met the girl who lived below me maybe twice to talk to. The first time was on the night I moved in. Not being a southerner I “knocked on” to introduce myself. She was very welcoming, invited me in, and offered me a glass of wine. An hour later we were exchanging spare keys, in case of emergency.


The second time I saw her was a bit more embarrassing. C and I were in the shower. This was not long after we had got together. Apparently, C and I were oblivious to the fact that the spray from the shower was hitting the tiled wall at the side of the bath, running down a hitherto unnoticed crack, and exiting through the light in the kitchen of the downstairs apartment. My neighbour had been knocking, apparently, but we hadn’t heard her. She had let herself in and was coming up our stairs as I was walking out of the bathroom. How embarrassing. We didn't keep in touch after I moved.

Neighbours - The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly Part 2

There have been good neighbours along the way too. When I lived as a bachelor in a small, brand-new estate called Galley Common, near Nuneaton, I had lots of nice neighbours. Wikipedia claims that Nuneaton is most famous for its association with the gender-challenged author George Elliot, but I think it should be more infamous for its town planning. They built the ring road in the middle of the town! Both Mary Whitehouse (the TV moral campaigner) and Larry Grayson (the camp host of the Generation Game) lived in Nuneaton. Now that would have made for an interesting dinner party. Galley Common doesn’t even rate an entry.

Nevertheless, bachelorhood in Galley Common, in the late 80s, was a good time for me. I was the only single male on the estate. I worked from home a lot. I was often asked to fix a punctured tyre, to rewire a plug, change a light bulb, by the many housewives that were stranded there during the day.

I lived in a very small, badly built semi-detached starter home. The walls were paper thin. Thank goodness I had a great neighbour at that time, Ruth. She would sneeze, I would say “bless you” and she would reply “thank you”. We could hear each other switch lights on and off. We could hear the toilet flushing. We were both very glad to be next to good neighbours.

Everyone else on the estate seemed to be called Sue. Sue 1 lived opposite. She was ten years older than me, very good looking and bi-sexual. My dad used to love it if she was cleaning her car on her drive when he was visiting. She wore very short shorts and a very cropped top. She made Paris Hilton look prudish. She would fling open her bedroom curtains every morning, completely naked. The net curtains that my mom had installed as a moving in gift were very useful.

Sue 1 and I had a brief fling one Christmas. I changed a punctured tire for her and she reciprocated with lasagne and a Saturday night. We both had been recently dumped and found the festive season less than festive on our own. So, we wallowed in our depression together.

Sue1 almost fulfilled a teenage fantasy. By which I mean a common fantasy of all teenage boys. A threesome. Me, Sue1 and her girlfriend. I turned them down. Sue1’s girlfriend was not a looker. She was not attractive. She did nothing for me. I thought that it would be impolite to bring two paper bags with me, so I declined the offer. Just my luck.

Sue2 lived next door. Sue2 was 7 years older than me. Sue2 was a babe. She was tall, pretty, with long dark hair, short skirts, long legs and stockings. Sue2 was living with a typical Midland Man: bald, shorter than her, white socks. A Neanderthal who believed that women should be ladies, housewives, and “on call” and men should be whatever they wanted to be.

Midland Man worked away during the week, in Oxford. On one occasion Sue2 went to surprise him for his birthday. She surprised him alright. He hadn’t been expecting her. She also surprised the “other woman” he was with. It would seem that Midland Man was having his cake and eating it.

Sue2 cried on my shoulder. To cheer her up I took her to Alton Towers for the day. You get very close on those theme rides! When we returned home we had one too many drinks together and one thing led to another…….Ruth must have had her fingers in her ears that night.

That weekend I heard an almighty commotion coming from next door. Where Sue2 lived with Midland Man. From my bathroom window I could see into their kitchen. The door was open. The kitchen was a mess. Things had been thrown around. Then I heard a scream and saw Sue2 running outside, her dress torn, crying. Midland Man came running after her, clutching a carving knife.

I assumed that Midland Man had discovered our roller coaster ride and was none-to-happy. What was sauce for the goose certainly didn’t seem to be sauce for the gander. I rushed outside and put myself between him and Sue2. Between Sue2 and the carving knife. I don't like knives. It was a huge relief when he immediately said: “Dave, get out of the way. This has nothing to do with you!” Phew. He was a bully and as with most bullies he was also a coward. When I told him I was going nowhere and that he would have to come through me to get at Sue2, he backed down, handed me the blade, and collapsed in a heap of self-pity. Phew.

I don’t think that Sue2 and Midland Man stayed together very long. Unfortunately, after the incident with the knife, Sue2 developed a bit of an infatuation with me that wasn’t reciprocated. On one occasion she came round with her bags packed and I had to persuade her that this was not what I was looking for. Fortunately, this was just as I was relocating to London with work. Sorry Sue2. You were gorgeous though, and, you deserved better.


I was just glad to escape Nuneaton in one piece. Metaphorically and otherwise.

My Neighbours - The Good, the Bad and the Ugly Part 1

I have been blessed with good neighbours. I have been damned with awful neighbours. I crave for a detached house. Isolation. Neighbourless is a state that would suit me down to the ground. I am paranoid about neighbourly noise. Actually there is nothing neighbourly about noise from your neighbours. It is intrusive, wearing, impolite. It eats into your soul. It gets into your head, and it stays there. It grinds you down and it drives you out. It eats away at you until you can hear yourself scream the silent scream.

This is all the fault of Val. C and I lived next to Val for six years in our first home as a married couple. It was a beautiful Victorian cottage in Bolliwood (Alderley Edge) in Cheshire. Unfortunately, it was a semi-detached cottage, just one room wide. And, Val lived on the other side of the shared wall. Val, her TV and her stereo.....

Don’t get me wrong, the years were not all bad. Indeed, the first five and a half years out of the six were wonderful. After we had moved on, Val “knocked on” as they do in the North. When our paths crossed she always raised her hand in hello and we exchanged a word or two. Indeed, I remember the first time that we went away on holiday we left Val with a set of keys. In case of emergency. It was such a nice surprise when we discovered, upon our return, that Val had stocked the fridge with milk, bread and bacon and egg as a welcome home gift. We reciprocated, of course, when Val made one of her many trips back to the motherland. Val was Irish.

On my last night in the house I could have killed her. She was deliberately provoking us. She held a party despite the fact that it was a Thursday night. A work night to all intents and purposes. But, she knew we were leaving. So, she had all her Irish drinking partners around until 3 am. The shared wall shook to the tune of many an Irish jig or sad rock ballad. If I had gone round to complain I would have killed her. Actually, C refused to let me go. She was more concerned that this was a deliberate provocation and that if I had gone around there would have been many a Guinness and Jameson fuelled navvy more than ready to kill me.

For most of these six years Val lived alone. Occasionally she would obtain a boy friend. Val was in her fifties. Most of her boyfriends were in their twenties or thirties. Toy boys. Val was no looker. Perhaps she had money. These toy boys came and went. But, the toy boy that went five and half years into our residence next door to Val must have been significant. Val was inconsolable. Val resorted to self-pity, alcohol and Shirley Bassey. Shirley Bassey ballads would reverberate through the walls. Cover versions. Val once spent a whole weekend playing Shirley’s version of Foreigner’s “I want to know what love is” at full volume, back to back, in a constant repetitive loop. I did complain about 3am in the morning. Monday morning. I had to get up for work at 6am. She answered the door in an apologetic drunken haze. She did turn the music down. For maybe 20 minutes. After which Shirley belted it out at full volume until the alarm went off and opened the door to sanctuary.

Also during this last six months, Val discovered the pleasure of Line Dancing. She also discovered the joys of practise. Home practise. Can you imagine listening to Cotton Eye Joe being played at full volume on a constant loop! It was almost a relief when practise was over and Shirley Bassey would kick in. Or, bloody Simply Red. God I had that man. Ginga!

For those of you who have read my earlier post “There’s a Bomb”, you will understand that I have long suspected that Val was trained in terrorist techniques. To be sure, the CIA would have been proud of her excellent use of noise pollution. General Noreaga would not have survived 24 hours next to Val.

I became paranoid about noise. I became convinced that we were somehow provoking Val into retaliating. I would only allow C three bars on the TV volume control. More often the not we spent the last six months in this house watching the same programmes on TV as Val next door, with our volume down, listening to her TV. When C was out I would listen to the football on the radio in the bathroom or in the kitchen so as not to provoke a retaliation. Mostly I would go out for a walk or a drive. I was making myself ill.

When selling, we would schedule viewings when we knew that Val was most likely to be out. We got very excited when someone put an offer in for the house who was hoping to set up a recording studio in the attic. Revenge would be mine. Unfortunately he pulled out. Shame.


Val, wherever you are now I hope you rot in a Neighbour From Hell existence of your own making. My own personal Hell would be a small cottage, a shared wall, Shirley and a Ginga singing a duet of Cotton Eye Joe. Thanks Val and good riddance.

Royston Vasey (Where My Mother-in-Law Lives)

My in-laws live in a place called Hadfield, in Glossop, the High Peak, in Derbyshire. For those of you who are interested, I would encourage you visit http://www.glossop.com/. It is a mine of “interesting” information. It is certainly the only place I know that has a development scheme called the “Liveability Pilot". Pilot? Liveability? They have to pilot living? As opposed to what – Dieability? Some parts of Glossop do still seem to belong to a bygone age. Which is not necessarily a bad thing at all.

I also like the Wikipedia entry for Hadfield which stresses that: “The town has a railway station on the electrified line to Manchester…..” How very modern! No steam trains for modern Hadfield! Hadfield is where they filmed the League of Gentlemen. Actually, it would seem, that the League of Gentlemen was based upon Hadfield. Hadfield is Royston Vasey. Royston Vasey is Hadfield. My in-laws live in Royston Vasey.

Royston Vasey, is actually the real name of Roy “Chubby” Brown being the very blue, often offensive comedian who plays the town’s foul-mouthed mayor in the TV programme. Steve Pemberton, one of the writers, claims that Royston Vasey is an amalgam of northern towns in which the writers have had strange experiences.

My in-laws don’t like the League of Gentlemen very much. I am not sure that either of them have ever watched it. Anything not on BBC1, Radio 3, Sky Sports, or Irish, is likely to have passed them by. In any case, they dislike the association with their home. Being from Birmingham myself, this is something that I can associate and empathise with. It is never nice to have your hometown denigrated in such a way. I was so glad when Crossroads finished. Both times.

My mother-in-law expressed her unhappiness about Hadfield's association with Royston Vasey one Sunday lunch, with C’s three younger sisters in attendance. We were sat around the table, wine in glasses, plates full of roast meat, and Irish tunes gently playing in the background. My mom-in-law is very proud of her Irish heritage. She is second generation off the boat. Her bookcases groan under the weight of Irish literature, and, our earplugs groan under the weight of Irish dirges. Incidentally, it is often said that Glossop people, being sophisticated, tell 'Irish' jokes about people from Hadfield. (As Irish people tell jokes about people from Cork. And French people tell jokes about Belgians.) People from Hadfield tell jokes about people from Padfield. People from Padfield don't tell jokes, they just pick plums.

In any case, “The people in town do not like all this Royston Vasey business!”, declared my mother-in-law. ( I could have added a few “to be sure” and “bejesus” but she doesn’t actually talk that way.) “In fact, last week a bunch of women in the town got so annoyed that they started to throw stones at the film crew!”. So, not like Royston Vasey at all!

Incidentally, the meat we ate that very Sunday was bought from Mettricks' butcher. H Briss & Sons Butchers in the show. This is the butchers where the “special sausages” are made. Indeed, in real life, the butcher does market a range of “special sausages”, but with alcohol as an ingredient rather than body parts. I am glad to say that Mettricks , at least, is cashing in on its notoriety with an online ordering facility (http://www.mettricksbutchers.co.uk/gentlemen.htm). Other, entrepreneurial “local shops” and businesses are also looking to cash in. The local burger bar is now called “Burger Me”. And, the local pubs are happy to entertain those doing the tourist thing on the back of teh show. It seems that not all of the locals dislike the association with the programme quite as much as my mother-in-law.

Indeed, when C and I were looking for venues for our wedding reception, C’s mom took us to a place called Windy Harbour – a B&B with a decent sized breakfast room that was use for events. I’m so glad that we chose Palace Hotel in Buxton instead. Windy Harbour, though a perfectly adequate B&B, is where they filmed the swingers club in the League of Gentlemen – the so-called Windermere Guest House. I am quite glad we chose to go elsewhere. Starting married life in a swingers club recommended to you by your mother-in-law is probably not the best start.

Steve Pemberton, one of the four writers of The League, has admitted that "75 or 80% of the characters do have basis in real people, believe it or not." So, mom, I was right after all………

Near Death Experiences Part 3

I am not the world's strongest swimmer. I did get my Swimming Proficiency Badge while in the Cubs so I am able to swim 25 metres and rescue a brick from the bottom of a heavily chloronated pool while wearing pyjamas. But, this has not proved to be the perfect training for the real thing. The sea. The ocean. The big blue. Maybe I should always wear pyjamas when I go swimming.

I have nearly drowned twice. The first time was in the beautiful lagoon of Oludeniz in Turkey. C and I were on holiday there a few years ago. Oludeniz is beautiful with its white fine sand tipping into the beautiful blue/green water of the lagoon. The lagoon is framed by sheer cliffs. Paragliders launch themselves from the top of these cliffs and soar like graceful eagles until they decend onto the beach. Indeed our neighbours, who are big in the paragliding world - Neil was former captain of the UK team - have flown here themselves. But, not on the day that C and I were there.

It was very hot. C and I decided to swim a while in order to cool down a bit. The water was clean and cool. The beach sloped gently into the sea, giving an expanse of shallow water, before falling away quite dramatically into deep water. While swimming you could tell that you had crossed the "ledge" by the considerable drop in water temperature.

C and I were close to this ledge, taking in the views. Earlier we had spotted a bunch of local lads, in their early twenties, teaching one of their number to swim. Right now this lad was stood alone near to us, waist high in the water, while his mates were catching some rays back on the beach. After a while he started to jump up and down in the water. After a little while longer he began to wave his arms around. His mates waved back. After a little while longer he began to slip under the water. It suddenly became clear to C and I that he wasn't messing around. He was in difficulty. He was clearly caught on the edge of the ledge and the sand was slipping away beneath his feet. His mates hadn't noticed and were too far away to help him in any case. And, then he disappeared.

I dived into the water, over the ledge, and grabbed the lad. He was really panicking at this point and grabbed me and pulled me and dragged me down with him. It took a huge amount of energy and strength for me to get beneath him, to grab his legs and literally to hurl him away from me back into the shallows. He crawled to the shore. I emerged from the sea, gasping and gagging on water I had swollen. I crawled to the shore. There his mates surrounded me and patted me on the back. They had no English but it was clear that they were very happy that I had rescued their mate from a potentially dangerous situation. I was quite proud of myself that day. I think I save that lad's life.

The second time I nearly drowned was a lot more recent. It was Christmas 2005. It was the second day of our holiday in Australia. We were in Sydney staying with a very good friend, K, who was working over there. We were taking in the coastal path walking from Clovelly to Bondi Beach. About half way round we stopped for a bite to eat at Bronte Beach before walking on to Tamarama. We were all a bit hot and so we decided to stay a while at Tamarama and take a cooling, refreshing dip in the beautiful blue sea.

After a little sunbathing C and I went into the water together while K was guarding the bags and applying her suntan cream. C and I were bobbing up and down in the waves, sometimes hopping on one leg, sometimes with C holding onto me as I bobbed. We were ecstatic. We could not believe that only a couple of days earlier we had been in the depths of a British winter, complete with snow. We were engrossed in the view, the excitement, the whole experience.

I should also add that this was considered to be a safe beach. And, there were lots of other people in the water at the same time as ourselves. The beach was guarded by life guards and we were well between the flags that designated the safe swimming area.

Anyhow, after chatting for ten minutes or so, C and I noticed that we had drifted a few metres away from the main crowd of bathers. At the same time, waves began to break on top of us, taking us under. But at this point, once the wave had broken, I was till able to hop and bring my head above the surface. We looked at each other and decided it would be best to swim for shore.
We swam. We swam for a good five minutes. We were getting nowhere. Actually we were getting further from the shore. We were swimming backwards. We were in a rip tide. We were in a rip tide that was taking us beyond the edge of the rocks and into the open sea. Into the open, shark-infested sea. We had already heard of two swimmers who had been killed by bull sharks since our arrival Down Under, so this was not a pleasant prospect. And, again, waves began to break onto us and take us under. But, by now I was tiring and there was no sand beneath my feet when I attempted to hop. By now, I was beneath the surface more than I was above it. I realised that I was helpless. I was too tired to swim to shore. C is a stronger swimmer than I am. I told her she should leave me and try and swim back. She refused. She wouldn't leave me. This was the closest I have ever felt to death. C and I were actually, silently, beginning to say goodbye to each other. Helpless. But, at least were were together.

I got taken down again by a big wave. As I spluttered back to the surface and looked around for C I was surprised to hear another voice: "G'day folks. Do you need a hand?" It was a lifeguard. Sat there on a surfboard, all bronzed, blond and muscular in his red swim shorts. I could have kissed him. They must have been watching us from the shore and realised that we were in difficulty. He had swam out beyond us on his board to come to our rescue. However, we were in a very rough bit of sea so as we clung to his board he signalled for another lifeguard to came and help. And soon, another surf knight arrived on his gleaming steed.

Being rescued was not the easiest. For a while both rescuer and rescuee spent a good time somersaulting around in the water, gripping a surfboard, as waves crashed about us. My knuckles were raw from gripping the cord and being pressed against the board. Eventually we made it to some flat water. Now they attempted to get us onto the boards. C was hesitant. Throughout most of this experience she had been clinging on with just one hand, while the other attempted to cling onto her dignity and the bikini bottoms which every crashing wave attempted to wrench from her bum. C insisted on pulling her pants back up before climbing on board and being whisked to the safety of land. Once C was safe it was my turn. I was instructed to clamber aboard on my belly. Once I was on, I heard something from another man that I hope never to hear again: "Spread your legs mate, I'm coming in from behind!" With my guardian angel kneeling behind me we veritably flew back to shore. "No more swimming for you today mate!" He instructed as he went off to move the safety flags.....

C and I clambered back to our friend Kate. Our friend Kate who had missed the whole thing. An old guy who had been sat next to her suddenly remarked:"Jeez, if I'd a known they wuz with you, I'd a given you a heads up" (to be read in an Australian accent).

Everyone we met thereafter seemed to have good advice how to survive a rip tide. I wish they had given it to us before we had entered the water. The advice goes a) don't attempt to swim your way out - you will just tire and drown or attract shark and be eaten; b) put one arm in the air to signal that you require assistance; c) float. Apparently rip tides pull you out but then, as if in a big arc, will simply deposit you further down the coast. As long as the sharks don't get you, you'll be fine as long as you float.

We chilled for the rest of the day and then, in the evening, went to a bar in another Sydney suburb to meet up with some of K's work colleagues. One Aussie native was adamant that she knew C from somewhere. We then attempted to determine how this could possibly be. We ruled out London and other parts of the UK and everything else until the girl suddenly exclaimed: "I know! You were the girl rescued from Tamarama Bay this avvo......" C's fifteen minutes of fame.

I hope we don't come that close to having to say goodbye to each other for a very, very long time, C and I.

Going Underground!

I had to catch the Tube yesterday morning. The London Underground. I hate the Tube. The only good thing about travelling by Tube is that it serves as a useful reminder, if I ever needed one, of why I’m glad I no longer live in London.

Everyone in London moans about the Tube. They moan about the rats. They moan about delays, even though one comes along every five minutes or so. They moan about the over-crowding. They moan about the cleanliness. Moan, moan, moan. Do these people not realise that the Tube is probably one of the most efficient, and affordable (relatively) transport systems in the country!?! You can get anywhere in London by Tube, and at virtually any time that you would want to. Back home, I have a two and half mile hike to the nearest bus stop. There is just one bus a day. And, that bus doesn’t go to anywhere that I would want to. So, London, stop bloody moaning!

That said, it is not the, most pleasurable of travel experiences, the Tube. It is invariable full. At least during rush hour it is. At the time you have to travel. You spend your journey either stooped, wedged against the door with someone’s briefcase stuck up your arse and somebody else’s elbow in your ribs. Or, you have to put up with your face in someone’s sweaty armpit or garlic-smelling face, next to an oik playing music too loud through a none-too-personal set of headphones.

On one occasion, in the morning rush hour, I did get into an almost empty carriage at Queen’s Park. It took as long as it took the doors to close behind me to realise why. My sense of smell told me. There was a tramp on board. A street person, I should probably say in these politically correct times. He was challenged in the personal odour department. He stank. It was unbearable. I got out at the next stop and moved to the next carriage, which was full, and stuck my head into the nearest armpit I could find and breathed in what seemed like fresh air by comparison.

If you are ever lucky enough to get a seat, it is invariably damp. I hate to think with what. Everyone avoids eye contact. Well, this is understandable. All of the men are secretly ogling all of the women and don’t want to be seen doing it. All of the women are avoiding eye contact with the men in case they are being ogled, or, in case they aren’t. You can always tell if there is a good-looking woman on the Tube because the men will arrange themselves around her. Strategic sitting and standing. Fortunately, there are always the adverts to stare at while avoiding eye contact. They are usually for cheap phone calls to exotic places, or for insurance, or for the holiday of a lifetime. If you are really lucky there is sometimes a quaint poem or two to pass the time.

There is of course one exception to the eye contact rule these days, unfortunately. If you happen to be male and Asian in appearance, and/or wearing a rucksack, people will stare into your very soul, trying to determine whether you are a suicide bomber. I know that this is borderline racism but it is understandable. The Irish had to put up with the same treatment for years. It must be quite unpleasant for all of the decent Asian males out there. On the bright side, I guess they often get to sit in a less than crowded carriage….

The Tube is even more horrible in the summer. Last summer when it was an unbearable 30 degrees centigrade in the open it was 50 degrees on the Underground. That's hot! They slowed everything down because of the heat. Great. The only good thing about the Tube in summer is the occasional breeze. Apparently, the human brain begins to boil at 45 degrees. I got a taxi that day.


Also, and trust me on this. Don’t travel by Tube if you’re hung over.