Five Grumpy Old Men
I am in pain. I ache all over. I particularly ache in my shins, my knees, and my groin. Why? This weekend was the annual reunion of my best mates from university, plus another masochist who joins us on our annual pilgrimage to pain. The Lads’ walking weekend.
This year we were in the Malverns. We all arrived on Friday night and checked into the Abbey Hotel in Great Malvern. I would recommend the hotel. It is ideally located and the rooms are modern, clean and comfortable. Despite the fact that the hotel was full on both the nights that we stayed there it was quiet, but the total exhaustion and the last couple of brandies may well have contributed to that. The hotel has quite a heritage. The Emperor Haile Selassie of Ethiopia (and the black Christ of Rastafarianism) stayed there during his exile, which followed Mussolini’s invasion. My neighbour, J, is also a regular but for somewhat different reasons.
There were five of us. There were three rooms. As much as I love these guys, I love my privacy more. So, I had opted for a room on my own, at great expense, while the other four shared. In the past there have been times when they have been forced to share a double bed, much like Morecambe and Wise used to do, but this time at least they had twin rooms. There were no sunken mattresses resulting in a shock coming together in the middle of the night. Nevertheless, the morning conversations often referenced competitive farting (especially after the Friday night curry) and snoring. Even Oxford-educated forty-something males regress quite easily! If they weren’t discussing bodily excretions they were complaining about the other’s untidiness or similar misdemeanour.
We started our Saturday walk at about 09.30 having bought provisions of fresh fruit and water in the local shops. We finished the walk around 18.30 having taken in such places as St Anne’s Well, the Worcestershire Beacon, the British Camp (Herefordshire Beacon), the obelisk on the Eastnor Estate, the Wyche Cutting and Midsummer Hill. In reality, M and I finished about 18.30. The three others finished somewhat earlier.
It is quite a hard lesson to learn that I am not as fit as I once was. Indeed, I was never a great fan of training, keep fit, or the gym. I liked to consider myself a kind of natural athlete, with a sort of genetic tendency to a level of fitness that meant I could cope with most physical challenges that came my way. Well no longer. Today I feel my age. Indeed, this morning I feel considerably older than my forty one years. I now accept that a couple of quick spins around the flats of Cheshire on my bike is inadequate training for a fifteen to eighteen mile ridge walk.
It was the steep climb and sharp descent over Midsummer Hill that did for me. My left groin began to feel the strain, and my left knee. And both shins. Midsummer Hill was, of course, the furthest point from the sanctuary of the hotel bar. The return trip was somewhat agonising. Especially the down bits. And the up bits. To be honest, there weren’t many flat bits. Just down bits and up bits. Up bits and down bits. It hurt. At points, I felt quite nauseous with the pain.
I was very grateful of M’s company. He was suffering a little with his knees too and the fact that his thousand mile socks (google them) kept falling down and his boots squeaked. Our hardier, fitter, uncaring adventurers abandoned us around the lower part of the British Camp to go in search of higher peaks and ice cream, while we limped back. Despite the pain I kept going. I kept going because there was no option but to. I focused on the prospect of the first cool pint and of killing my mate, P.
P is somewhat fitter than the rest of us. He is in training for a 300k cycling event in the Pyrenees this summer, having completed something similar in the Italian Alps last year. He is also somewhat unsympathetic towards those of us with more sedentary lifestyles. It was P who decided that climbing Midsummer Hill would be a good idea. P would never make a good member of the SAS though. He is not exactly a team player and he has a Darwinian view of most things, which also includes leaving stragglers to their own devices. I only jest. He is a top bloke and I am only jealous of his fitness. And, it is my own fault. These were the mates that clubbed together (with my wife, C) to buy me a bike for my fortieth to encourage me to keep fit. Guys, I promise to do so from now on.
Despite the pain, the tears, and the gritted teeth I actually really enjoyed the walk. The weather was beautiful and sunny if a tad windy. The views from the ridge of Herefordshire to the west and Worcestershire to the East were stunning. The forested areas were carpeted with blue bells and wild garlic. Beautiful.
As we walked we talked. We put the world to rights. Boy, have we turned into Grumpy Old Men. Sports Utility Vehicles and Chelsea Tractors of all kinds came under attack. Or, more precisely their owners did. It was concluded that unless you were a farmer, you had to be inconsiderate to own such a vehicle. You see we are all very aware of our carbon footprint these days. They walk nowhere. They drive like morons. They take up two parking spaces. Their sexuality is questionable. My mate, E, can get quite a good rant on if you wind him up well enough. And, over the twenty three years that we have known each other, we have become expert at winding each other up. We know the buttons to push. So, E was encouraged to rant about owners Chelsea tractors and owners of small dogs and later, over dinner, P was hurling abuse at N (our resident champagne socialist) about Labour's foreign policy and strategy towards Iraq and why we weren’t doing the same in Zimbabwe, North Korea, Iran, Israel, Somalia, Sudan, Darfur, Rwanda, etc. etc. etc. But we all kissed and made up (metaphorically speaking only of course) over a pint or two and a brandy.
As an interesting aside, we also discussed books which had had most impact upon us. The Lord of The Rings got two votes, including one of mine (Holy Blood and Holy Grail got my second vote). There were also votes for The Wind in the Willows, and, for A Dragon in a Wagon (M doesn’t read much, but he does have a young family).
Top weekend Lads. See you next year. Hopefully somewhere nice and flat like Norfolk. Now, where did I put those cycling shorts…….
Monday, 30 April 2007
Monday, 23 April 2007
The Great Divide
The Great Divide
On a recent holiday I read a great book written by the radio DJ and journalist, Stuart Maconie, called “Pies and Prejudice: In Search of the North.” I would heartily recommend it. It describes the North of England (Crewe through Newcastle as he describes it) from the proud perspective of a Northerner’s eyes (Stuart’s own) and has vivid descriptions of places that are familiar to me, interspersed with football and music references that bring those places alive.
Unlike most books on the North it is pro-Northern. It sings the North’s praises and honestly describes its shortfalls without pandering to the dark, gloomy, stupid, flat cap and whippet idea of the North which other similarly titled/themed books, such as Charles Jennings’ “Up North” and Bill Bryson’s “Notes from a Small Island” portray, in an obvious attempt to appeal to the Southern (Jessie) market.
I thoroughly enjoyed Maconie’s book but it did get me thinking about how easily my own homeland gets lost. Overlooked. Misrepresented. Maligned.
I am a Midlander. I was born in Walsall and I lived in Birmingham until I went to university. The Midlands, by their very definition, are neither Northern nor Southern. I am proud of my heritage and I do not wish to be Northern or Southern.
I am a Brummie. From Birmingham. I am a Bluenose – a fan of Birmingham City rather than Aston Villa. The City does not often get a good press. Jane Austen once wrote, “One has not great hopes from Birmingham. I always say there is something direful in the sound.” J.B. Priestley seemed to be in agreement when he stated, “During the half hour or so I sat staring through the top windows of that tram, I saw nothing, not one single tiny thing, that could possibly raise a man’s spirits.”
The accent is not well-liked. It is second only to Liverpudlian scouse as the worst dialect in the UK. For the avoidance of doubt, I am nothing like the stereotypical Brummie as portrayed by Benny off Crossroads. I must admit that I have left some things about Birmingham behind. I don’t wear white socks anymore, except when playing sport. I don’t eat sarnies anymore, preferring sandwiches or butties. I have lost a lot of the accent but I still look in a book(pronounced “luk and“buk”) and clean my teeth with a toothbrush (“toof brush”).
Despite the aspersions repeatedly cast, Birmingham has done none too badly over the years. You may have heard the proud Brummie mantra of “more canals than Venice, more trees than Paris and more green areas than any other town in the UK.
Birmingham is the UK’s second city. The “city of a thousand trades”. Well perhaps not today but it was during the Industrial Revolution in Britain when it was referred to as “the workshop of the world”. The Empire was built using bullets from Birmingham (and soldiers from Ireland and Scotland). Birmingham is a diverse place. Some 30% of the population are from ethnic minorities.
Lawn tennis, the Landrover, Cadbury chocolate, microwave ovens and the balti curry were all local inventions. The NEC is the UK’s largest exhibition venue and the City hosts the third largest St Patrick’s Day parade in the world. After New York and Dublin. Lloyds and the Midland banks started here, as did the Odeon Cinema. You should check out the development around Brindley Wharf . Very chic. And Rackhams has now been dwarfed by Selfridges (the Boob Tube) and Harvey Nicks in the Mailbox.
Bill Oddie, Tony Hancock, Jasper Carrott and Lenny Henry; Trevor Eve, Charles Danse, Ian Lavender (Pikey in Dad’s Army), Cat Deeley, Felicity Kendal, Julie Walters. Brummies all. As were JRR Tolkien and Barbara Cartland. The City has given us music as diverse as Black Sabbath and Judas Priest, Dexy’s Midnight Runners, Duran Duran, Musical Youth and UB40.
So, what’s so good about being Northern or Southern? I’m a Midlander and proud. A Brummie. From Birmingham. I won’t hear a bad word said against it. I still like to visit. ;)
That said, I also agree with Maconie. The North is not too bad either. I am very happy living in leafy Cheshire and the lure of the shops and restaurants of Knutsford, Wilmslow, Chester and Manchester. Things could be a lot worse. You could be a Southerner…….
On a recent holiday I read a great book written by the radio DJ and journalist, Stuart Maconie, called “Pies and Prejudice: In Search of the North.” I would heartily recommend it. It describes the North of England (Crewe through Newcastle as he describes it) from the proud perspective of a Northerner’s eyes (Stuart’s own) and has vivid descriptions of places that are familiar to me, interspersed with football and music references that bring those places alive.
Unlike most books on the North it is pro-Northern. It sings the North’s praises and honestly describes its shortfalls without pandering to the dark, gloomy, stupid, flat cap and whippet idea of the North which other similarly titled/themed books, such as Charles Jennings’ “Up North” and Bill Bryson’s “Notes from a Small Island” portray, in an obvious attempt to appeal to the Southern (Jessie) market.
I thoroughly enjoyed Maconie’s book but it did get me thinking about how easily my own homeland gets lost. Overlooked. Misrepresented. Maligned.
I am a Midlander. I was born in Walsall and I lived in Birmingham until I went to university. The Midlands, by their very definition, are neither Northern nor Southern. I am proud of my heritage and I do not wish to be Northern or Southern.
I am a Brummie. From Birmingham. I am a Bluenose – a fan of Birmingham City rather than Aston Villa. The City does not often get a good press. Jane Austen once wrote, “One has not great hopes from Birmingham. I always say there is something direful in the sound.” J.B. Priestley seemed to be in agreement when he stated, “During the half hour or so I sat staring through the top windows of that tram, I saw nothing, not one single tiny thing, that could possibly raise a man’s spirits.”
The accent is not well-liked. It is second only to Liverpudlian scouse as the worst dialect in the UK. For the avoidance of doubt, I am nothing like the stereotypical Brummie as portrayed by Benny off Crossroads. I must admit that I have left some things about Birmingham behind. I don’t wear white socks anymore, except when playing sport. I don’t eat sarnies anymore, preferring sandwiches or butties. I have lost a lot of the accent but I still look in a book(pronounced “luk and“buk”) and clean my teeth with a toothbrush (“toof brush”).
Despite the aspersions repeatedly cast, Birmingham has done none too badly over the years. You may have heard the proud Brummie mantra of “more canals than Venice, more trees than Paris and more green areas than any other town in the UK.
Birmingham is the UK’s second city. The “city of a thousand trades”. Well perhaps not today but it was during the Industrial Revolution in Britain when it was referred to as “the workshop of the world”. The Empire was built using bullets from Birmingham (and soldiers from Ireland and Scotland). Birmingham is a diverse place. Some 30% of the population are from ethnic minorities.
Lawn tennis, the Landrover, Cadbury chocolate, microwave ovens and the balti curry were all local inventions. The NEC is the UK’s largest exhibition venue and the City hosts the third largest St Patrick’s Day parade in the world. After New York and Dublin. Lloyds and the Midland banks started here, as did the Odeon Cinema. You should check out the development around Brindley Wharf . Very chic. And Rackhams has now been dwarfed by Selfridges (the Boob Tube) and Harvey Nicks in the Mailbox.
Bill Oddie, Tony Hancock, Jasper Carrott and Lenny Henry; Trevor Eve, Charles Danse, Ian Lavender (Pikey in Dad’s Army), Cat Deeley, Felicity Kendal, Julie Walters. Brummies all. As were JRR Tolkien and Barbara Cartland. The City has given us music as diverse as Black Sabbath and Judas Priest, Dexy’s Midnight Runners, Duran Duran, Musical Youth and UB40.
So, what’s so good about being Northern or Southern? I’m a Midlander and proud. A Brummie. From Birmingham. I won’t hear a bad word said against it. I still like to visit. ;)
That said, I also agree with Maconie. The North is not too bad either. I am very happy living in leafy Cheshire and the lure of the shops and restaurants of Knutsford, Wilmslow, Chester and Manchester. Things could be a lot worse. You could be a Southerner…….
Thursday, 19 April 2007
The Times They Are A-Changin Part 4
Good Manners
Manners, good and bad. Etiquette. Class. They have been much in the news recently. I am not entirely sure why this is newsworthy when there is a war on in Iraq and Afghanistan and a maniac gunman is massacring students in American universities. But, newsworthy it seems to be. This was probably prompted by the demise of the relationship of Prince William and Kate Middleton, and, rumours of a gum-chewing mother (Kate’s not William’s of course!) offending the royal sensibilities at some do or another as the possible cause.
Can you imagine it? They may have split up because he was embarrassed by the potential in-laws. Sorry? This is Prince Charles’ son we are talking about. I mean, it is not as if his own family is full of perfect role models is it. Gin swillers. Racists. Affairs and infidelity. Rumours of Charlie taking advantage of his male staff members. I choose my words advisedly. If you know what I mean…..
Kate Middleton seemed to be a great catch by any bloke's assessment. And you would have thought she would be a parent-pleaser too. Bright, beautiful, composed, well-dressed, discreet.
Take away the title and the money what has William got going for him? He is already going bald. He dresses like his dad. Oh, and he has a career in the Forces. Well, he has a career in the forces safe in the knowledge that he will progress through the ranks without ever facing a shot in anger. Unlike his Uncle Andrew who flew helicopters in the Falklands Crisis twenty years ago. And, unlike his brother Harry - the one who looks like James Hewitt - who is soon to put his life on the line fighting the Taliban in darkest Afghanistan. Is it just me or is the uncanny resemblance between Prince Henry, to give him his posh name, and the former lover of Princess Diana just a coincidence?
Anyhow, manners. It is all so confusing! I have always opened the door for people. Men and women. Young and old. I have never differentiated. These days it just seems to get you into trouble, or, it just makes my blood boil.
What is so difficult about it? If you are approaching a door or passing through a door at the same time as someone else you hold it open and let them pass through; they say “thank you” and you move on. Simple. Not!
Try holding a door open for a woman these days. More often than not they will mutter something about “male chauvinism” and you end up having one of those “After you. No, after you” conversations that are just so embarrassing. Or, if they are anywhere near good looking, they will assume that you are letting them past just so you can have a sniff as they pass and watch their wiggle as you follow them down the corridor. Well……..
And, don’t get me started on old people. Pensioners. Our elders. There is a myth that old people have good manners and young people do not. How does that work? Surely the ignorant and rude young people of today grow up to be rude and ignorant old people tomorrow. The number of times I have held shop doors open for a couple of elderly ladies and they have just wafted by all blue rinse and germolene without so much as a “thank you”. As if I was a doorman or something. This makes me very angry. I normally wait until they have passed and then say “Pardon” very loudly. Just in case they are hard of hearing. Typically they respond by saying “I didn’t say anything”, to which I retort, “Oh, I thought you might have said thank you”. I trust they are duly embarrassed and shame-faced. More than that, I hope they say "thank you" the next time that someone does something nice to them.
One day you will probably find me lying in a pool of my own blood, clubbed by an angry octogenarian’s walking stick. Or clutching my balls, having been kneed in the groin by an irate perfumed feminist in a short, tight skirt……
Manners, good and bad. Etiquette. Class. They have been much in the news recently. I am not entirely sure why this is newsworthy when there is a war on in Iraq and Afghanistan and a maniac gunman is massacring students in American universities. But, newsworthy it seems to be. This was probably prompted by the demise of the relationship of Prince William and Kate Middleton, and, rumours of a gum-chewing mother (Kate’s not William’s of course!) offending the royal sensibilities at some do or another as the possible cause.
Can you imagine it? They may have split up because he was embarrassed by the potential in-laws. Sorry? This is Prince Charles’ son we are talking about. I mean, it is not as if his own family is full of perfect role models is it. Gin swillers. Racists. Affairs and infidelity. Rumours of Charlie taking advantage of his male staff members. I choose my words advisedly. If you know what I mean…..
Kate Middleton seemed to be a great catch by any bloke's assessment. And you would have thought she would be a parent-pleaser too. Bright, beautiful, composed, well-dressed, discreet.
Take away the title and the money what has William got going for him? He is already going bald. He dresses like his dad. Oh, and he has a career in the Forces. Well, he has a career in the forces safe in the knowledge that he will progress through the ranks without ever facing a shot in anger. Unlike his Uncle Andrew who flew helicopters in the Falklands Crisis twenty years ago. And, unlike his brother Harry - the one who looks like James Hewitt - who is soon to put his life on the line fighting the Taliban in darkest Afghanistan. Is it just me or is the uncanny resemblance between Prince Henry, to give him his posh name, and the former lover of Princess Diana just a coincidence?
Anyhow, manners. It is all so confusing! I have always opened the door for people. Men and women. Young and old. I have never differentiated. These days it just seems to get you into trouble, or, it just makes my blood boil.
What is so difficult about it? If you are approaching a door or passing through a door at the same time as someone else you hold it open and let them pass through; they say “thank you” and you move on. Simple. Not!
Try holding a door open for a woman these days. More often than not they will mutter something about “male chauvinism” and you end up having one of those “After you. No, after you” conversations that are just so embarrassing. Or, if they are anywhere near good looking, they will assume that you are letting them past just so you can have a sniff as they pass and watch their wiggle as you follow them down the corridor. Well……..
And, don’t get me started on old people. Pensioners. Our elders. There is a myth that old people have good manners and young people do not. How does that work? Surely the ignorant and rude young people of today grow up to be rude and ignorant old people tomorrow. The number of times I have held shop doors open for a couple of elderly ladies and they have just wafted by all blue rinse and germolene without so much as a “thank you”. As if I was a doorman or something. This makes me very angry. I normally wait until they have passed and then say “Pardon” very loudly. Just in case they are hard of hearing. Typically they respond by saying “I didn’t say anything”, to which I retort, “Oh, I thought you might have said thank you”. I trust they are duly embarrassed and shame-faced. More than that, I hope they say "thank you" the next time that someone does something nice to them.
One day you will probably find me lying in a pool of my own blood, clubbed by an angry octogenarian’s walking stick. Or clutching my balls, having been kneed in the groin by an irate perfumed feminist in a short, tight skirt……
Thursday, 12 April 2007
The Times They Are A-Changin Part 3
The Times They Are A-Changin Part 3
I was working from home yesterday. I know what you’re thinking. But, normally when I say that I am working from home, I am doing exactly that. At home. Working. It is not a euphemism that I use for “skiving”. However, I must admit that yesterday I was far from stretched. This was due, in no small part, to the fact that I am “between jobs” and “looking for a new challenge”.
In any case, I was less than busy, and while I was waiting for my new iPOD to import the first 1590 tracks (only about a million to go!) from my ridiculously extensive CD collection, I allowed myself to be distracted by daytime TV. How depressing.
The morning news, on each of the main terrestrial channels, is clearly dumbed down and designed for viewers with the attention span of a goldfish with Alzheimers. Watch it for even half an hour and you will see the same stories repeated three or four times. This is presumably because it is aimed at people who are in a hurry. People rushing to get out of the house to get to work. Parents attempting to get the kids off to school.
But as soon as the news finishes, it starts. Daytime TV. Sponsored by Ambulance Chasers Inc., How To Sue Plc., Something For Nothing Money Lenders Ltd, and, Fast Food Is Good For You, Honest……It would seem that the TV schedulers have worked out that the great unwashed, the unemployed, the social scroungers, all get up around 9.15am. Or maybe, this is when their metabolism wakes them, craving more alcohol, or a quick fix.....
Harsh? Maybe. Maybe not. Just look at the programmes that are on and look at the people who are on them. It starts with the Jeremy Kyle Show. When that is finished you can turn over for a spot of Trisha. The Ricki Lake Show, Sally Jessy Raphael, Judge Judy, Wife Swap, Wife Swap USA, etc., etc. It is endless. They are back to back and repeated throughout the day on the freeview channels. But, worst/best of all are the homegrown shows of Trisha and Jeremy Kyle. Trailer trash TV British style.
While all of the nice retired people and "ladies who lunch" are watching nice middle-class programmes such as Good Morning, Plastic Surgery Makeover, Loose Women and Relocate To An Even Better Place In The Sun, the great unwashed are learning their life lessons from Jeremy Kyle and Trisha. Every show is the same. Some emaciated, alcoholic, stoned, shaven-haired waster in a shell suit with a pierced eyebrow is trying to justify why he is beating his current pregnant-again girlfriend. The girlfriend is obese and foul-mouthed and is beating him back. There is always a twist like they are actually brother and sister or something. Or, the bloke is a woman and therefore adamant that the child cannot be his/hers. Drug tests, boot camps and lie detectors are in abundance.
These are people who have no jobs. Unemployable. People who choose not to work. Why should they? They “earn” far more from benefits than they ever could in paid employment. They sit on their arses all day and they spend their evenings apparently copulating with friends, family, and people they have met in chat rooms or on jail visits. They leave a trail of unwanted and unpaid-for kids. All their money goes on booze, drugs, and plasma screen TVs. They care for themselves and no-one else.
No wonder the findings of the Office for National Statistics, out yesterday, were so depressing. A quarter of children in Britain now live with just one parent; typically single mothers. And, they don’t know when to stop. They are at it like rabbits. The number of lone mums bringing up three or more children has trebled since the 1970s. “Bringing up”?
We now have the lowest number of marriages since records began and two in three marriages end in divorce. Society is falling apart. We don’t have so much of a self-help culture as a help yourself to someone else's one. A "sod you" view of the world. A world without a sense of place; of belonging; of community. Only 29% of British people now believe that “most people are trustworthy”. In the last 20 years there has been a five-fold increase in complaints about neighbours.
Jeremy Kyle has got a job for life!
Next time I’m at home all day and less than industrious I think I’ll listen to Radio 4, or, Radio 5…………..
I was working from home yesterday. I know what you’re thinking. But, normally when I say that I am working from home, I am doing exactly that. At home. Working. It is not a euphemism that I use for “skiving”. However, I must admit that yesterday I was far from stretched. This was due, in no small part, to the fact that I am “between jobs” and “looking for a new challenge”.
In any case, I was less than busy, and while I was waiting for my new iPOD to import the first 1590 tracks (only about a million to go!) from my ridiculously extensive CD collection, I allowed myself to be distracted by daytime TV. How depressing.
The morning news, on each of the main terrestrial channels, is clearly dumbed down and designed for viewers with the attention span of a goldfish with Alzheimers. Watch it for even half an hour and you will see the same stories repeated three or four times. This is presumably because it is aimed at people who are in a hurry. People rushing to get out of the house to get to work. Parents attempting to get the kids off to school.
But as soon as the news finishes, it starts. Daytime TV. Sponsored by Ambulance Chasers Inc., How To Sue Plc., Something For Nothing Money Lenders Ltd, and, Fast Food Is Good For You, Honest……It would seem that the TV schedulers have worked out that the great unwashed, the unemployed, the social scroungers, all get up around 9.15am. Or maybe, this is when their metabolism wakes them, craving more alcohol, or a quick fix.....
Harsh? Maybe. Maybe not. Just look at the programmes that are on and look at the people who are on them. It starts with the Jeremy Kyle Show. When that is finished you can turn over for a spot of Trisha. The Ricki Lake Show, Sally Jessy Raphael, Judge Judy, Wife Swap, Wife Swap USA, etc., etc. It is endless. They are back to back and repeated throughout the day on the freeview channels. But, worst/best of all are the homegrown shows of Trisha and Jeremy Kyle. Trailer trash TV British style.
While all of the nice retired people and "ladies who lunch" are watching nice middle-class programmes such as Good Morning, Plastic Surgery Makeover, Loose Women and Relocate To An Even Better Place In The Sun, the great unwashed are learning their life lessons from Jeremy Kyle and Trisha. Every show is the same. Some emaciated, alcoholic, stoned, shaven-haired waster in a shell suit with a pierced eyebrow is trying to justify why he is beating his current pregnant-again girlfriend. The girlfriend is obese and foul-mouthed and is beating him back. There is always a twist like they are actually brother and sister or something. Or, the bloke is a woman and therefore adamant that the child cannot be his/hers. Drug tests, boot camps and lie detectors are in abundance.
These are people who have no jobs. Unemployable. People who choose not to work. Why should they? They “earn” far more from benefits than they ever could in paid employment. They sit on their arses all day and they spend their evenings apparently copulating with friends, family, and people they have met in chat rooms or on jail visits. They leave a trail of unwanted and unpaid-for kids. All their money goes on booze, drugs, and plasma screen TVs. They care for themselves and no-one else.
No wonder the findings of the Office for National Statistics, out yesterday, were so depressing. A quarter of children in Britain now live with just one parent; typically single mothers. And, they don’t know when to stop. They are at it like rabbits. The number of lone mums bringing up three or more children has trebled since the 1970s. “Bringing up”?
We now have the lowest number of marriages since records began and two in three marriages end in divorce. Society is falling apart. We don’t have so much of a self-help culture as a help yourself to someone else's one. A "sod you" view of the world. A world without a sense of place; of belonging; of community. Only 29% of British people now believe that “most people are trustworthy”. In the last 20 years there has been a five-fold increase in complaints about neighbours.
Jeremy Kyle has got a job for life!
Next time I’m at home all day and less than industrious I think I’ll listen to Radio 4, or, Radio 5…………..
Tuesday, 10 April 2007
More Leg Room Please!
I’m back. Did you miss me? We had a wonderful time. I am even a little brown. And, I know that you don’t want to hear another word about my holiday, do you?
But, how do the airlines get away with it!?! This was my first experience of economy-class long-haul. I know, I know. I’ve been spoilt and I should count myself lucky. But, seriously, how do they get away with it? I have seen sheep transporters on British motorways that have offered more wiggle-room than we had. Air France, shame on you!
We flew out from Paris Charles de Gaulle/Roissy . The French give the airport two names just to confuse you and to make it quite, quite clear that they are different. The airport is known everywhere in the world as Charles de Gaulle. Everywhere except France that is. CDG is even used as the international shorthand for the airport. You will get CDG on your baggage tickets. But, as soon as you land it is “Bienvenue a Roissy!” This is just some sick Frenchman’s pitiful attempt to disorientate you; to make some weary traveller panic that he is in the wrong place. Shame on you Charles de Gaulle. Shame on you France. Shame on you Air France.
We flew out on a 747 Jumbo. C and I were in row 25, in the window and middle seat. C likes the window seat. I am not sure why. You can hardly see very much in the dark and they make you shutter it for most of the time on long-haul flights. Except for take-off and landing of course.
Apparently, according to my mate Smithy the pilot, they dim the cabin lights and insist on having all windows open (well the little blind thing up – I haven’t actually been on a plane with windows that open) so that your eyes are adjusted to the ambient light. So that you can see better in the event of something happening. Something like crashing, catching fire, or being hit by a terrorist’s shoulder held surface-to-air missile. To be quite frank, that is the kind of thing I would rather not see coming!
As readers of my previous blogs will know (see the Planes, Trains and Automobile entries), I prefer an aisle seat. My motives for this are, well, many and varied but on long-haul the main ones would be a) you can get out of your seat whenever you want to for toilet or booze without disturbing those weird folk that tend to be placed in the seat next to you, and b) the extra leg room. You cannot imagine the relief of brief opportunities to stretch a leg down the aisle in between trolleys.
But, on this occasion, C got her window seat and I got stuck in the middle. A petite Vietnamese lady sat in the aisle. She was about five foot nothing and her legs dangled off the end of the seat without reaching the floor. So, the aisle seat with its leg stretching opportunities was clearly wasted on her! My legs, however, were parted either side of magazine pocket and my knees wedged firmly against the back of the seat in front of me. Now at six feet and an important half inch tall I am hardly a midget, but nor am I a giant. This leg room was frankly pitiful.
I was wedged in and there I stayed for the better, no, the worse part of eleven hours. The twee Vietnamese lady to my left popped a couple of sleeping pills during the safety demonstration, which for some strange reason does not include any reference to the fact that being completely comatose in the event of an “ on-board incident” can clearly damage your health and the health of the poor sod wedged into the seat next to you. Me. She was out of it. In the event that this plane went down, C and I were going down with her!
Those little bottles of water that they give you on long-haul flights aren’t to prevent dehydration you know. No, they are designed to be emptied and then used as a personal relieving vessel (piss pot) by people wedged in the middle seat and who cannot get out to go to the loo.
It is impossible to sleep well when your knees are stuck firmly against the seat in front of you. It is impossible to sleep when the dainty Asian lady next to you keeps wriggling in her sleep and banging her arse against your armrest. Sleep would not come, despite the best endeavours of the Air France trolley dollies who plied me with alcohol and tried to induce slumber via the in-flight “entertainment”. I use the word incorrectly. It was not entertaining. Normally, the movie “A Night at the Museum” followed by back-to-back National Geographic documentaries, in French, would be enough to bring a coma on. But not when you are wedged in the middle seat of an Air France 747. Not when you have lost all feeling from the knees down. Not when your knees are bleeding because they have chafed against the seat in front. Not when your next-door neighbour keeps rubbing her bum against your elbow. Not when your thoughts are filled with the prospect of deep vein thrombosis and the growing awareness that your bladder is full!
Please Air France. Can we have more leg room?
But, how do the airlines get away with it!?! This was my first experience of economy-class long-haul. I know, I know. I’ve been spoilt and I should count myself lucky. But, seriously, how do they get away with it? I have seen sheep transporters on British motorways that have offered more wiggle-room than we had. Air France, shame on you!
We flew out from Paris Charles de Gaulle/Roissy . The French give the airport two names just to confuse you and to make it quite, quite clear that they are different. The airport is known everywhere in the world as Charles de Gaulle. Everywhere except France that is. CDG is even used as the international shorthand for the airport. You will get CDG on your baggage tickets. But, as soon as you land it is “Bienvenue a Roissy!” This is just some sick Frenchman’s pitiful attempt to disorientate you; to make some weary traveller panic that he is in the wrong place. Shame on you Charles de Gaulle. Shame on you France. Shame on you Air France.
We flew out on a 747 Jumbo. C and I were in row 25, in the window and middle seat. C likes the window seat. I am not sure why. You can hardly see very much in the dark and they make you shutter it for most of the time on long-haul flights. Except for take-off and landing of course.
Apparently, according to my mate Smithy the pilot, they dim the cabin lights and insist on having all windows open (well the little blind thing up – I haven’t actually been on a plane with windows that open) so that your eyes are adjusted to the ambient light. So that you can see better in the event of something happening. Something like crashing, catching fire, or being hit by a terrorist’s shoulder held surface-to-air missile. To be quite frank, that is the kind of thing I would rather not see coming!
As readers of my previous blogs will know (see the Planes, Trains and Automobile entries), I prefer an aisle seat. My motives for this are, well, many and varied but on long-haul the main ones would be a) you can get out of your seat whenever you want to for toilet or booze without disturbing those weird folk that tend to be placed in the seat next to you, and b) the extra leg room. You cannot imagine the relief of brief opportunities to stretch a leg down the aisle in between trolleys.
But, on this occasion, C got her window seat and I got stuck in the middle. A petite Vietnamese lady sat in the aisle. She was about five foot nothing and her legs dangled off the end of the seat without reaching the floor. So, the aisle seat with its leg stretching opportunities was clearly wasted on her! My legs, however, were parted either side of magazine pocket and my knees wedged firmly against the back of the seat in front of me. Now at six feet and an important half inch tall I am hardly a midget, but nor am I a giant. This leg room was frankly pitiful.
I was wedged in and there I stayed for the better, no, the worse part of eleven hours. The twee Vietnamese lady to my left popped a couple of sleeping pills during the safety demonstration, which for some strange reason does not include any reference to the fact that being completely comatose in the event of an “ on-board incident” can clearly damage your health and the health of the poor sod wedged into the seat next to you. Me. She was out of it. In the event that this plane went down, C and I were going down with her!
Those little bottles of water that they give you on long-haul flights aren’t to prevent dehydration you know. No, they are designed to be emptied and then used as a personal relieving vessel (piss pot) by people wedged in the middle seat and who cannot get out to go to the loo.
It is impossible to sleep well when your knees are stuck firmly against the seat in front of you. It is impossible to sleep when the dainty Asian lady next to you keeps wriggling in her sleep and banging her arse against your armrest. Sleep would not come, despite the best endeavours of the Air France trolley dollies who plied me with alcohol and tried to induce slumber via the in-flight “entertainment”. I use the word incorrectly. It was not entertaining. Normally, the movie “A Night at the Museum” followed by back-to-back National Geographic documentaries, in French, would be enough to bring a coma on. But not when you are wedged in the middle seat of an Air France 747. Not when you have lost all feeling from the knees down. Not when your knees are bleeding because they have chafed against the seat in front. Not when your next-door neighbour keeps rubbing her bum against your elbow. Not when your thoughts are filled with the prospect of deep vein thrombosis and the growing awareness that your bladder is full!
Please Air France. Can we have more leg room?
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