Middle Man Is Moving Home

Thank you for visiting my site. Please be advised that I am now moving all my content to my Wordpress site. You will be able to find me here:

http://caughtinthemiddleman.wordpress.com/

Please do come and visit me in my new home.

The Belts Are being Tightened!

Yesterday saw some stark evidence of the further impact of the credit crunch and failing economy on the Middle Man household.

We were out shopping in Wilmslow, heart of the Cheshire stockbroker belt and home to many a Manchester United player and many minor TV celebrities. We surveyed the state of our finances having struggled to find change for the £2.70 ticket for parking the Audi TT at the back of Hoopers. We decided that we could not afford our usual chianti, Peroni, and repast in the local Pizza Express. We decided that we would have to grab a pasty from Greggs instead.

Until this day I was a Gregg's virgin. Greggs is one of those places which is usually sited between a JCB Sports and a charity shop. There is usually a gaggle of unhealthy-looking, fat, spotty rough kids outside accompanied by a drooling rottweiler and a couiple of moth-eaten pigeons. But today we checked around to make sure that there was no-one that we knew who could see us, and entered. C chose a cheese and onion pasty. I went for the meat and potato and a sausage roll. We ate them a little further down the road, standing outside the rather posh jewellers, so that we would not be mistaken for people eating a Greggs' pasty. I have eaten better. I felt hungry again within minutes.

But, when times are hard you have to economise. Mind you, this grand gesture did seem a little feeble. We were actually out shopping for items to accompany C's fancy dress outfit for the Goodwood Revival next weekend. A wrap and pearls from Hoopers and new red shoes from John Lewis. This was on top of the vintage 50s dress purchased on the web. When we do fancy dress, we DO fancy dress.

It was a successful trip despite our culinary disappointments. We made up for those in the evening when C rustled up Gressingham duck a l'orange! ;)

And Then The Knob Fell Off

I had to fly in and out of Schiphol Amsterdam airport again this week. This was a bit of a shock to the system because my 4am get-up followed a leisurely two week holiday. 4 am doesn't look good from any angle, but especially when you have to drive yourself to the airport.

The second shock to the system was the new security and departure arrangements at Manchester Airport. You now have to go upstairs, where you will be lost for quite some time in a queuing system akin to that you might find when they open a new ride at Alton Towers. It is slow. Lots of grumpy bleary-eyed red-faced holiday makers and stressed businessmen shuffling behind each other with all the enthusiasm of shackled prisoners walking the Green Mile. I felt like shouting at some of the parents with kids: "Why aren't your kids at school!" The schools here have gone back a good week or so at least, so clearly these parents were prioritising a cheap week in Marbella ahead of their progenies' education. Mind you, the kids themselves did not look overly concerned.

Consequently, they were already boarding my plane when I arrived. This did not help my stress level as, as regular readers will know, I like to board early in order to ensure I have space for my luggage in the overhead lockers, and, so that I can check out the other passengers as they file past.......checking for potential hijackers and terrorists and the like (see here and here for a better explanation). Nevertheless I boarded fine and tried to reconnect with my human side after the trials and tribulations of the early start, the dash to the airport, the queue and the rather disgusting egg and cheese sandwiches that were served as my breakfast.

I was relieved, however, that my trip this week was to be a short one. I was keen to avoid travelling on Thursday, it being the 7th anniversary of 9/11. Al Qaida seems to have a thing for anniversaries and for the number seven. I was also a tad concerned that I would spend my last seconds alive in a foreign land as a result of the Big Bang (Large Hadron Collider) experiment in Switzerland creating a black hole and causing the end of the world or something.

So, it was somewhat with relief that I found myself safe and sound back at Schiphol airport in good time to make my flight home, having survived the two hour drive from Doetinchem to Amsterdam - my boss, who was driving, seems to get a speeding fine every other trip and likes to change lanes as the best mechanism for ensuring he stays awake!

At the airport I bought a newspaper and read all about the collapse of the Liquid Bombers Terror Trial - which was probably not the best material to be reading just ahead of boarding a plane. In good time I made my way to gate D6, knowing that this was a security check and holding area ahead of boarding the shuttle bus which takes you to the plane. Exiting via D6 makes it even more difficult to ensure that you are amongst the first to board as, a) there is no obvious place to stand/queue in order to ensure that you are first on the first bus (it generally requires two busses to ferry all passengers to the plane) so people push in, b) you need to know where to stand on the bus to facilitate a quick exit at the optimum position to be amongst the first up the steps of the plane. This is not as easy as it may sound because there are doors on both sides of the bus and there are three doors on either side. Usually the middle door on the right side is best but you still have to gamble on how close to the plane the driver will park. Also, you cannot always retain your position on the bus due to people pushing and frequent requests to "move further inside please". Today, my desire to be amongst the first group was even greater due to the fact that I was sitting in row 1, meaning that my overhead luggage compartment options were limited and I would not be allowed to place my bag near my feet. Also, it was a smaller plane which meant that if you couldn't stow your luggage it would be removed to the hold which would mean a further hour of one's life being wasted at the luggage carousel at the other end.

Gate D6 was horrible. It was hot and everyone was a little sweaty and agitated. The queue for security was long and chaotic due to a number of drunk Geordies who had left it to the last minute to leave the bar and head to the gate for their flight to Humberside - they pushed to the front. Security was strict, so, the laptop had to come out of my bag, and, my see-through resealable liquid bag was checked (a bit of a worry as a colleague who had flown via Birmingham had had her's tested and her shampoo had tested positive for traces of explosive - mind you, if you could see the shocking red colour of her hair you could see how this was possible ;) . They also insisted that I removed my shoes and my belt. It is not the most pleasant experience being frisked by a large, sweaty security guard when you are half naked and trying to hold up your trousers!

Fortunately, I positioned myself leaning against the optimal pillar to be first through the ticket check to get on the bus. The wait until boarding was thankfully brief as, as well as being hot, I was becoming irritating by the annoying spiv who was walking up and down in front of me talking loudly into his mobile and by all the elderly people who insist on going to the desk to confirm "is this the flight to Manchester?" - can't they read the bloody sign?! I was third on the bus, behind a Chinese couple who pushed in the queue just ahead of me. I was able to retain my optimal position on the bus. The driver parked optimally. I was second up the stairs, stowed my bag successfully and sat down to survey the cabin crew and passengers. This was far from ideal, however, as most of the passengers seemed to be carrying large, heavy bags and insisted on bashing them into my shoulder (I was in the aisle seat of course) on the way past. Nevertheless we all boarded in time and they were just about to close the doors for an on-time departure........when the doorknob on the door to the cockpit fell off!

They tried to fix it unsuccessfully with one of the stewardess' harclips and a piece of chewing gum. It took them a further ten minutes or so to find a maintenance man with a screwdriver. He seemed more intent on chatting up the stewardess than fixing the knob. They then decided the knob could not be fixed and that we would all have to offload, get back on the boss, and move to a different plane, which fortunately they had spare and fuelled. I did wonder why it would be quicker and easier to relocate a full plane of passengers with their luggage and to prep a new plane rather than, a) fixing the knob (presumably they could have used the one from the spare plane), or, b) swapping the door.

The joys of business travel eh?

The Great Divide Part 2

I have been immensely proud of my country, Great Britain, over the last couple of weeks.

I think this is, in part at least, due to the fact that most of our politicians are on holiday rather than our TV screens. During the House of Commons recess the most bizarre political "news" story seems to have been some Tory think-tank's bizarre advice that people in Liverpool should "emigrate" to London because the North West economy is unsustainable. I mean, come on! They don't even speak the language. Think of the crime surge ;)

But largely my sense of pride is the result of the Olympics. Firstly, the excellent BBC coverage has meant that Bill Turnbull has been moved to some backwater on one of the Freeview channels, so that I have not had to endure him and his ginger banality first thing in the morning. Secondly, and most importantly, I have been hugely impressed with the performance of Team GB, currently lying in third in the overall medal table! They have done us proud and made us proud.

Most impressive has been the professionalism that the whole team has shown. The commitment. The drive. The desire to win! When I was watching the Olympics as a kid we were a team of well-meaning amateurs. Of course we had our heroes such as Coe, Ovett, Daley Thompson and the like, but athletics, and occasionally swimming, aside we were largely bit players in most sports. But look at us now. Heroes all.

John Major, be proud of your legacy! No not peace in Ireland or your extra-curriculas with Edwina Currie, but the National Lottery. The National Lottery funding for sport has turned us into a true sporting nation with the desire and ambition to win. We can feel pride in our nation again. And I do. While I am a little anxious about London's ability to put on a show to rival Beijing in 2012, I am, nonetheless, looking forward to it already.

Incidentally, I also think that the BBC coverage on TV, radio and the net has been great - with the exception of Nicky Campbell on Radio 5. A couple of mornings ago he was asking Chinese people on the street how they felt about the injury to the great Chinese medal hope, Liu Xiang, while being hooked up to Shelagh (pronounced Sheila) Fogarty back in the UK. Nicky could not resist a little schoolboy attempt at a racist joke by asking a Chinese lady with heavily accented English to say "I love you Sheila". She spoke it perfectly, no doubt much to Campbell's chagrin as he clearly had hoped to elicit a giggle, expecting her to say "I ruv u Sheera" instead. Shame on you Mr Campbell.

But last night my British pride took a dent. I watched Channel 4's Secret Millionaire. The programme followed multi-millionaire, Nick Leslau, to the most deprived part of the most deprived city in the UK - Possil and Milton in Glasgow. Now Nick proved himself to be a caring, generous, thoughtful individual. You could tell that he was moved. You could tell that he was changed. Indeed the ladies who ran the disability forum and the riding school for the disabled are saintly. But, what struck me hardest was the abject poverty of the town itself. Nick himself described it as something out of East Germany, but, I suspect that that would be doing East Germany a disservice. How do people live in a place such as this? It made Wythenshawe and Walsall look almost desirable. And, I think that the link between the poverty of the area, the crime, the drugs, and the disabilities and poor health of the inhabitants was plain to see.

There is something very wrong in a country as great as ours, with an economy as strong as ours, that we "allow" our own citizens to "live" in a place such as this. So, while I do not begrudge the funding for sports, I would like to think that maybe our holidaying politicians, especially certain Scottish politicians, might also have seen the programme and shared my opinion. Perhaps, on his return (however brief it might be), Mr Gordon Brown might find a little more money to help people such as in Possil and not just suggest that they all move to London!

The Godfather Part 4

Last Sunday I was honoured and proud to become Godfather to Harry, my nephew, and firstborn (and only so far) of any of C's three sisters and first grandchild for my mother-in-law). C was Godmother too.

This was my fourth Godchild alongside my own sister's two boys, and the daughter of one of my best friends from university. This christening was slightly different, however, in that it took place in Royston Vasey, and in a Catholic Church. Indeed, the Catholic Church where C and I were married nearly fifteen years ago.

The christening had been long and somewhat fraught in the planning. When you have four sisters (mother and three aunties) and two grandmothers, the clothes shopping alone can be perilous and tedious. I think that the youngest sister, R, had the right idea - she decided to opt out and go on holiday in France instead. Perhaps it was just a happy coincidence, but, I am not entirely sure.

So, that left just three sisters to a) confirm that all would be wearing summer dresses, b) ensure that colour schemes and styles were communicated so that there was no duplication and no clashing, and c) ensure the procurement of matching shoes, bags, jewelry, etc. and, d) kit out their better halves (husband and partners) in complimentary outfits. The main retail outlets of Cheshire and Derbyshire must have been wringing their hands with glee.

That said, I was immensely relieved and proud of C's shopping. She bought the first dress that she tried on and the first pair of shoes - although the shoe shopping was spread over two weekends and two venues due to the lack of availability of her size (pixie) at the first emporium. Normally, I would have been dragged around half of the shops in the city over a period of three or four weekends. Even C's trips to the hairdresser, pedicure, and leg waxer seemed to go smoothly. And, she looked gorgeous.

I was also kitted out with a new linen suit and shirt. I washed my hair and I had a shave. I'm worth it.

The planning for the after-church party seemed to be a little more hectic and frantic. No doubt this was due to my mother-in-law's desire to relieve her daughter of as much of the burden as possible, with her having her hands tied somewhat with taking care of the baby. I am sure that it had nothing at all to do with inter-family rivalry and the need to be seen to put on a good show ;
Consequently, the Waitrose Entertaining range was exhausted, and there was more than plenty to feed the twenty or so guests that went back to the house......and the entire population of the rest of the estate........for at least a week or so. Whatever, at least the toffee meringue, apple pie and chocolate fudge cake that C and I provided seemed to go down well.

C and I had to ferry the desserts to the in-laws, where we got changed and met up with Debs (sister-in-law) and Smithy (partner) before making our way to the church. Smithy was also sporting a light-coloured linen suit (although his was hand made in Bahrain, while mine was off-the-peg from John Lewis). Together we looked like Crockett and Tubbs out of the original Miami Vice. Or, to be precise, how Crockett and Tubbs might look in their early 40s. The similarity was further strengthened by the fact that we were both driving Audi TTs and had glamorous ladies on our arms.

Smithy and I were both feeling a little mischievous and anxious about the Catholic Mass ahead of the christening. But, neither of us were granted permission to go to the pub and catch up with them all later ;(

Fortunately the Church did not burst into flames as we entered. The floor of the aisle did not open up as we walked to our pews. The service was bereft of lightening bolts. The priest was friendly if a little camp. He pushed the boundaries somewhat talking about the romance and love affair between Jesus and Paul. He might not have been out of place in the American Anglican Church. Otherwise, he offered sufficient ritual and good humour to keep the audience/congregation interested/amused.

There were two baptisms on the day. Harry's and Damien from the Omen. I kid not. He was quite a bit older than Harry and stomped and screamed and shouted through much of the ceremony. For the rest of the time he glared suspiciously around him with "that Damien look". He was accompanied by two black dogs with red eyes at all times. I kid not.

Harry, in contrast, was angelic throughout. He was, of course, too young to be phased by the fact that he seemed to be dressed in a miniature judo outfit. He waved to his adoring fans at one point. Cute. He was suitably engrossed in the candle which was lit in his honour. I was the candle bearer and manfully carried on through the pain of the hot wax dripping through my fingers. And, he only cried when he was nearly half drowned by the priest. His hair was a mess after all that dunking and laying on and smearing of various oils. Poor chap.

C did a sterling job of the reading. She is not known as "the voice" for nothing.

Back at the party the two families suitably split apart - theirs inside (apart from the occasional smoker), ours outside, and the odd friend in between. My mother-in-law bridged the gap somewhat by sitting just inside the conservatory. But, she was sufficiently out of the way that she did not spot my father-in-law sneaking an extra glass of wine or two, and an extra slice of apple pie. As might be expected of several generations of teachers on both sides of the family, there was much reminiscing and explaining about whose elder brother or younger sister was taught by who. Everyone muddled along quite nicely. The drink and Abba's Greatest Hits seemed to keep everyone in a reasonable mood. As the wine and beer began to flow, the accents of C and her sisters became positively more Glossop.

All in all though, it went swimmingly and was enjoyed by all.

And, I am looking forward to getting Harry his first drum kit, his first set of boxing gloves, his first pint.......oh the pressure of being a role model and moral compass.......

Good luck, Harry, you'll need it.

Kill Bill 3

I awoke a little grumpily this morning.

In part this was due to sleep deprivation - the weather here in the north west of England has been uncommonly hot the last couple of days. Now, I am (unusually) not complaining but the evenings have been very warm and muggy. Despite dispensing with duvets and despite opening windows, the last two nights sleep have been brief and fretful. Mind you, the rather dramatic thunder and lightening at 03.40 this morning didn't help.

That said, the return of Bill Turnbull to the BBC Breakfast News Sofa alongside foxy Sian Williams helped my mood not at all. Why can't he just retire gracefully? In a kind of smarmy, fey, quite camp and irritating kind of grace that is.

Bill's return coincided with the Parliamentary Recess to deliver yet another morning session bereft of meaningful news stories. Again, it is official, absolutely nothing of any importance is going on, absolutely anywhere on this planet of ours, or the surrounding universes (unless you believe all the recent white noise about aliens living amongst us and UFOs and conspiracy theories and the like).

Instead, the whole morning was filled with tales of gingerbread men in the shape of Christiano Ronaldo, and a seemingly blatant advertisement for a male cosmetic firm trying to convince us that we hot-blooded men should be wearing eyeliner and mascara (or Guyliner and Manscara as it is wittingly branded). Of course, the "I'm not at all camp" Bill was all too reluctantly willing to try this out!

There was also the non-story about Carol Kirkwood, the must-have morning crumpet of choice for middle aged men (whose attention turns to Carol Vorderman in the afternoon and the female presenters of The One Show in the evening), not camping in Burnham-on-Sea. Despite looking pretty windswept, the supposed "joke" was that Carol actually stayed in a luxury chalet rather than under canvas.

Nevertheless, Carol found time to feed those sexual fantasies with tales of her time in the girl guides. I suspect that she still has a uniform. A very tight-fitting uniform. Also, it provided an opportunity for Carol to flirt with her "Billy" as she calls him and for banter implying that Carol and Chris Mullin, the sports presenter with whom Carol spent Ascot week and Wimbledon with, knew rather too much about each other - Chris implied that Carol snored and Carol implied that Chris had sweaty feet!

And, the visit to Burnham-on-Sea, conjured up images of past relationships/holidays which I would rather regret. Burnham is probably the closest seaside resort to the city of Birmingham. It is, therefore, also full of Brummies. And, when I was just 17 years old, this is where I went on holiday with my first serious girlfriend, Melissa, and her family. When I say "serious" she was the first girl that let me get further than base one - and, in case my mom is reading I am not admitting which base I got to, but........

I slept in the awning with the family dog, while Melissa slept in the caravan with her mom, dad and younger sister. Thankfully her two scary brothers - one a night club bouncer and the other a convicted GBHer - didn't join us.

It was not the most enjoyable holiday experience that I had. In fact it was right up there with the twin centre holiday to Sorrento and Rome when I got ditched by my fiancee, who subsequently admitted to having an affair with a married man with three children. This is what Bill Turnbill does to me, the swine. All this emotional turmoil just comes flooding back. And, Burnham is a dump.

Please BBC. Kill Bill.

Stab In The Dark

All the news is depressing at the moment. Mind you, you wouldn't think that we are busy fighting two major wars at the moment - Iraq and Afghanistan hardly get any coverage. They do not seem to be as important as Traffic Cameras in Swindon and holiday jobs for students! But, every news bulletin seems to include a piece on the imminent recession and the fact that we are all likely to be found dead on our doorsteps, murdered by some knife-wielding, maniacal twelve year old.

As I write, my friend Jacqui Smith, the Home Secretary, is busily backing down and performing u-turns and somersaults on the subject of knife crime initiatives. And there is much talk about extending the right to search of teachers to include searching for weapons, drugs, and alcohol. What has the world come to? In my day we would have jumped to comply with an "Empty your pockets, boy!" bellow from a domineering teacher. Mind you, in my day, all you were likely to find in a teenage boy's school trouser pockets were a snot-soaked hankie, a comb (metal ones with a sharp handle could be considered a weapon!), a pack of Top Trumps Cards, and illicit sweets or chewing gum (both of which were banned inside of school). And, of course, cigarettes. Cigarettes were schoolboy currency. You "collected" cigarettes even if you did not smoke yourself.

That is not to say that the problems with teenage kids so evident today did not exist twenty or thirty years ago. Kids smoked - the local shops around my school would sell cigarettes in singles to make them more affordable. Kids drank - not out of bottles of cheap cider on street corners, but, in pubs with a relaxed attitude to underage drinking (as long as you took your school blazer and tie off you were in). Kids had sex. Kids stole. Kids fought. And, kids carried knives. While I choose not to implicate myself in any of these various crimes and misdemeanours - my dad reads these posts, occasionally. I was personally impacted by schoolboy knife crime back in 1983 when a 13 year old bully was stabbed through the heart by a 12 year old victim and died in my arms. See my earlier post.

Indeed, I understand that 80% of kids who carry knives do so out of a belief that they need to defend themselves. A belief driven by a fear of bullying, mugging and gangs. Well, I hope my personal experience shows the foolishness of carrying a knife to deter a bully. From victim to killer in a single motion.

In reality, only 16% of kids admit to carrying a knife because of an involvement in criminal activity such as mugging and gang-related crime.

But, some of the initiatives that the Government and others are touting around to tackle the problem are just non-starters. Parenting classes? Many of these kids are born into single-parent families to pramface mothers who have dropped out of education. Jail? We would have to scrap all greenbelt initiatives to build all of the jails that would be needed. Awareness? Do we really think that these kids are going to be deterred by meeting convicts and victims? These are kids that are largely excluded from "adult" or "normal" society. They have few positive role models (unless you include Jeremy Kyle - which I do not). They do not read newspapers or watch the news. They live a You Tube, Facebook or Bebo existence. They live on street corners and in bus shelters. They have welcomed our politically correct world and become mini-lawyers aware of their rights (but seemingly not their wrongs).

So what can be done? Well I am all in favour of Alf Hitchcock's (the so-called Knife Tsar) for a form of National Service. Schools should be able to ban and confiscate those things which may encourage muggings such as mobile phones, MP3s, and designer goods. Schools should revert to strict school uniform rules which would eliminate gang paraphernalia. Parents and teachers should be able to use reasonable punishment to clamp down on bad behaviour, including the cane or a slap round the back of the legs. Put metal detectors on school doors and into the hands of the police. For those that get caught carrying knives, give them hard community service - cleaning the streets and sewers and the like. Lock up those that use the weapon. Remove the privileges and benefits for the families of repeat offenders - take their council house, housing benefit and unemployment benefit away until they and their offspring comply with a strict social contract.

Take away temptation, impose real and meaningful deterrents and punishment. And, make Jeremy Clarkson Prime Minister.........

Travel Is Fun

Don’t you just hate travelling on business at this time of year? Especially flying. This week I had to fly from Manchester to Amsterdam. As ever at this time of year the great unwashed are allowing their kids to bunk off school in order to take advantage of cheap flights and holidays to places like Spain, Turkey, and various other all-inclusive destinations strewn with British Bars (or Irish Pubs at the better places), advertising “English Breakfast”, “Sunday lunch with real Yorkshire pudding”, “karaoke”, “Sky Sports” and “Happy Hour”. You can spot people on the flight for Bodrum a mile off. Blackpool abroad. Morecambe in the sun.

Consequently, the airport is like something reminiscent of the bar scene in the original Star Wars movie. Aliens of all shapes and sizes everywhere you look. It is filled with shaven-headed blokes with earrings, gold chains, signet rings, “love” and “hate” tattooed on their knuckles, and “mother” or “Kylie” tattooed on their arms. The women look as if they have just come off set from a Britney Spears video – after her breakdown. They sport bleached blonde hair. They have orange fake tans or have blue-veined cellulite peeping out of mini skirts. Their bellies hang over the front of their jeans, while their thongs and ubiquitous tattoos are all too evident at the back. And, how any of them manage to get through security with all those body piercings. Jailbait 14 year old daughters, Goth teenage sons, and grizzling sprogs who have been forced to get up ahead of the time that they would normally have switched off their X-box and gone to sleep. Everyone is suffering the effects of sleep deprivation and nicotine withdrawal. Personally, it makes me feel like taking up smoking myself. The viewing figures for Jeremy Kyle must take one hell of a dip at this time of year. And, at least the benefit offices will be quieter.

There is a total lack of fashion awareness. All are inappropriately dressed for the beach with flip flops or white stilettos, shorts and football tops – Manchester United, Liverpool or “Engerland” in the main. And, that is both sexes. And there is nothing so attractive as a middle-aged man in a beer-belly hugging football shirt. Oh, except, that is, for the sight of a middle-aged woman in a beer-belly hugging football shirt.

Everywhere you look there are fat unattractive couples with fat unattractive kids in tow. The queue at Burger King is longer than the queue at security. And the bars are full of people quaffing pints of lager and vodka cocktails. Even at 6am! Mind you, all of that heaving flesh and cleavage is difficult to take so early without the benefit of alcohol.

Everyone has a mobile phone clasped against their ear while wrestling with their bags of duty free and pulling an inappropriately sized piece of so-called hand luggage behind them with the same piece of Christmas tinsel wrapped around the handle. None can read the flight display screens from a distance of more than two feet. They are all wandering aimlessly, seemingly blind to all directional signs and deaf to all announcements. “Could the person who has left their small child and their brain at security please return to collect it.” “Would Mr Skally travelling to Puerto Plata please make his way out of the bar.”

The only redeeming feature is the check-in staff. They might not give you a safety demonstration but at least they get their uniforms from the same shop as the air stewardesses.

Oh and great, I have to fly back later tonight. I cannot wait to get home.

Sting in the Tale

It's a pun. If not very punny.....

On Tuesday evening this week I took C to see The Police in concert at the Manchester Evening News Arena. This would not have been my first choice for a concert, but it was a birthday wish for C, a life long Police fan who had, unfortunately, managed to avoid seeing them live in their hay days of the 70s and 80s. And she fancies Sting. She fancies Sting big time.

As it happens, the concert was 8 months late. It had been postponed on the original date because Sting had a sore throat. Bless. This added to my general dislike of the guy, putting him firmly in the camp of wuss/big girl's blouse. This, being just one of the labels that I have tagged onto Mr Gordon Sumner - "Destroyer of the Planet" (we could not visit the amphitheatre at Ephesus in Turkey because it had been deemed unsafe due to the cracks allegedly caused by the Sting concert there, ironically as part of his "Save the Planet Tour" with that indian guy with the big lips) and "Pillock", for being oh so up himself with his bloody medieval lute playing palaver......

Actually, I think I just dislike the guy because C (and millions of other fanciable women who should only have eyes for yours truly) fancies him. Indeed, we have a clause in our wedding contract that allows C to leave me, with no hard feelings, (and no alimony) should she and Sting get it together. So Tuesday was quite a high risk event for me personally. I have a reciprocal clause, however, which allows me to leave in the much more likely event that I get it on with Kylie Minogue. Sex on a stick. And, I have come so close already. Well, I almost got her telephone number. Almost.....

It was beginning to feel like fate was about to deal a strange card when I noticed that the sex kitten herself was coming to the MEN in July. I hadn't booked tickets (her vocal capabilities are not exactly what attracts me to her) but I did think that it would be a useful fall back position should the evening not go so well and I was forced to leave C with the Sting.

And so, we set off for Manchester fairly early in order to secure a parking place at the venue. Sat Nav delivered us to the very (barriered) steps of the Arena, and I then had to resort to "the Force" (it was not with me) and the scarce brown tourist signs to find the entrance to the car park. Unfortunately this meant that we were some 10 minutes or so later and we ended up on the 7th floor.

After a quick cigarette outside - I think C was just "hanging" in case Sting walked past - we joined the queue and soon found ourselves on the inside. C went to the loo while I ordered two pints of watered lager in plastic glasses. Consumption of the lager prompted a second toilet visit for C before we took our seats (which were excellent) and waited for the support act. We waited and we waited and we waited. They were 45 minutes late.

But, the delay did not cause our spirits to flag. We people watched. We actually felt very young and fashionable compared with our fellow concert goers, many of whom were stuck in 1979 or so. We also wondered why so many people felt it necessary to wear sunglasses indoors. If nothing else, it must be a health and safety issue on the steep stairs. We also mocked the rather too many people who were picking up leaflets for the 50th Anniversary Cliff Richard Time Mchine Tour. Well, at least when he's in Manchester he is not troubling small boys in South Africa ;)

We were pleased to note that the support act was not in fact Sting's son's band as it had been scheduled to be back in October. The support group was very good. While I did, tentatively, identify them as Starsailor, it was clear that their identity was lost on most of the middle-agers in the. At least my "hip" and "cool" credentials were intact. I am positively "down" with them "man".

And, I have to say that The Police were, well, awesome. Sting is a much better vocalist than I had imagined.....and looks far too good for his age, the git. Actually, I have to say that he seems to have gone for a very striking bearded look not unlike my own! If you forgive his sweaty armpits and the rather too many twiddly guitar solos from Andy Summers, it was very, very good indeed.

After several encores we left rather later than expected. As all the eateries were closed, we returned to the car and joined the long queue to exit the car park It took about 45 minutes or so and by the time we exited the Sat Nav was very, very confused.....

Sorry Kylie, maybe next time.

I Can't Afford It!

I am depressed. I woke up this morning to the news that the UK housing market is in free-fall. Apparently our houses have lost 2.5% of their value in just the last month alone, being the seventh month in succession that house prices have fallen. So, I've just had more value knocked off the house than I spent on the new kitchen and bathroom. Great. Just great.

And, of course, this all happens at a time when the oil price is going mad. It is SO bad that I am actually in two minds as to whether I can afford to go to work. Seriously. I have a fifty mile commute. That's four hundred miles in a week (I work from homes on a Friday). And with the cost of Super Unleaded at something like £122 a litre and a fuel performance of around 20 mpg or so......

I know I could get a more fuel efficient car than an Audi TT but I do have an image to think about. And, there have to be some perks to all my hard work over the years! Now don't all you planet huggers and eco-terrorists start on me when I'm feeling down. And, no, public transport is not an option. I live in rural Cheshire (the bit with the M6 motorway going through the middle of it) and the nearest bus service is a good two and a half miles away. The bus only runs on a Tuesday. And, it doesn't go anywhere that I would want to.

Added to that, another joy of living the rural dream is that I now have to worry about the threat of someone breaking into my home heating oil tank and syphoning it all off. The cost of home heating oil (kerosene) has almost doubled in the last twelve months and it seems to have sparked a min-crime wave. We are not connected to the gas mains so we have no choice but to use oil. So, I can't afford to go to work and I can't afford to heat my water or my home!

So, we are economising. Economising mostly involves sacking ("letting go" was the term that C used) our gardener. The efficient and reliable guy who has mown our two expansive lawns and trimmed our hedges. Instead, this has become my job. So, a new petrol powered lawnmower (more bloody fuel cost) has been purchased and two hours or so of my life every other week or so will be given up to putting fresh stripes on the garden. But, do not fear, this is not the first sign of us becoming self-sufficient. Many of you will know of previous failed bids at achieving the Good Life. But we'll not be going there.......or will we?

Indeed, we may well have to turn the side garden over to vegetables. Either that or try and sell it to the government as a site for one of their new nuclear power stations....

I can't afford to drive. I can't afford to pay someone to cut the lawn (please God don't let the window cleaner put his prices up!). I can't afford hot water or heating. And, it is becoming increasingly hard to afford to eat. Sure, rice, bread, and pasta costs seem to have also rocketed around the world. While the good old potato is being touted as the planet's saviour, I am not allowed to eat them because of my summer diet. "We" are concerned about our bikini figure. And, thanks to bloody Jamie and Hugh I am now so emotionally scarred that I can only eat organic free range chicken from the Dali Lama's personal petting farm, at the cost of an arm and a leg. If it wasn't for Waitrose's wine offers we'd be destitute.....

So it looks as if I have to sell the car, give up work, buy a shotgun with which to guard the oil tank, wrap myself in a Waitrose Bag for Life just to keep warm, and dig for England. It's probably no bad thing. If you believe the other news headlining today, if I ever did step outside the front door I'd probably be attacked by a ten year old knife wielding crack addict! Always look on the bright side, eh?

What Does An Eye Taste Like?

I don't have to watch the BBC Breakfast News to know who is doing the weather reports or which poor female reporter has got the bum seat on the big red sofa next to that smarmy, chinless, waste of space which is Bill Turnbull. No, these days I can pretty much guess who is on by checking out my blog's dashboard. Checking out the search engine terms that found my blog. So, today, my guess is that Louise Lear will be huddled under an umbrella in the Blue Peter Garden or somewhere, sporting one of her brightly coloured, tailored raincoats, while Louise Minchin has the unenviable tasks of bringing a semblance of dignity and professionalism to the news reports despite the best efforts of that poodle Turnbull to sabotage things with his ridiculous quips, died hair and plucked eyebrows.

I like to think of my dashboard as a bit of a barometer on the state of the world. So, what do you make of today's top ten? The ten top search engine terms which found my blog so far this morning are as follows:

1) Louise Lear
2) Kylie Minogue legs
3) "Louise Minchin"
4) Neighbours constant loud music
5) Neighbours from hell
6) Air France leg room
7) Sally James school uniform
8.) What does an eye taste like?
9) Female prefect caned
10) Cat Deeley topless

So, what do we make of all that? I can only assume that my blog is mostly visited by men of a certain age. Well, men of my age I would guess. That would no doubt explain the strange fantasies about the stars of Breakfast TV, Saturday morning childrens' TV presenters from across the ages, and Kylie of course. That said, I am not sure that her legs are Kylie's best features, and, you would need a magnifying glass to find Cat's prize assets. And, quite why "Louise Minchin" always appears within quotation marks I do not know. "Minchin" isn't a verb to do with sexual activity is it? Is it something humourous like Muffin the Mule?

I can emphasise and sympathise with those poor souls whose existance is blighted by a troublesome neighbour. I have been there. I have got that t-shirt. But, I am a little bemused as to what people were expecting to find in their quest for corporal punishment from a schoolgirl dominatrix? They will be sadly disappointed, underwhelmed, and, in need of a cold shower when they discover the not so rich pickings in Middleman's blogosphere........Why would anyone want to know what an eye would taste like? I can only assume that the answer to that is "It doesn't taste like chicken!"

I guess it is just another to add to the long list of life's unanswered questions. Why does toast always fall buttered side down? Why does asparagus make your wee smell like that? Why do fat chance and slim chance mean the same thing? How come Bill Turnbull is still employed? And, apparently, what is Louise Minchin's cup size?

Answers on a postcard please.

Brothers-In-Law In a Double Bed

Well, I had one of my thankfully infrequent "sleep talking" incidents again last night. While I am often prone to making the odd noise or crying out in my sleep, actually talking in my sleep or holding a conversation is less common. But, last night my better half was woken by me talking. When she endeavoured to get me to go to the spare room I replied along the lines of "But we haven't got there yet!" When she tried yet again I retorted, apparently having checked the time on the bedside clock, "But we still have five hours to get there!" Then I went and slept, somewhat furtively, in the spare room.

I moved to the spare room quite gingerly. I am still in recovery from the annual Lads' Walking Weekend which left me with a couple of knackered knees, a stiff right leg, and aches and pains all over my body. Ouch, ouch, ow, ouch. Presumably, my "sleep talking" was linked to the pain I was feeling and involuntary flashbacks to the trial of the weekend - six grumpy old men and their new young gimp (aged 32) walking from Westward Ho! to Bude, via Clovelly and Hartland Quay in bright sunshine, too little breeze, and, temperatures in the mid to high twenties. As far as I could tell, the Devonshire coast was truly beautiful, if the scenery was somewhat blurred through the tears of my pain.

Westward Ho!, apparently the only place in the UK with an exclamation mark in its name, could do with a lick of paint and a bit of care and attention. And, I would certainly sack the town planner. It was the usual pitiful array of run down B&Bs, fish and chip shops, and amusement arcades that is to be found in any English seaside resort. Thankfully, however, we were there just to eat, drink and sleep, arriving after 8pm. For, Westward Ho! is a strange place indeed.
The pub on the Friday night was packed with locals. The locals looked genetically challenged and spent most of the night discussing the size of their runner beans. They clearly didn't get out to the big city too often. Fashion there is by Primark and Matalan in Westward Ho! And, the pub grub was somewhat disappointing.

In the morning, we paid and bode farewell to our God Botherer host in the B&B -for which we received a blessing in return. We split the various chores between the group - shuffling cars to the next destination (including a spot of frankly unnecessary road rage from Volvo Man), and, buying lunch - and had a relaxed coffee under an umbrella from where we took in the view.
Westward Ho! was teaming with young surfer dudes sporting tans, six packs (lucky bastards) and very tacky tattoos; plump young girls sporting ice-creams (presumably as their puddings, having consumed a pasty or two before venturing out of doors); old women in wheelchairs being pushed about by their carers from the local home; and pasty looking families heading for the beach.

Much to our amusement, someone had left a pair of false teeth on the chair next to our table. This was retrieved by the waiter with a grimace and a pair of rubber gloves. Even funnier was the fact that the teeth's owner returned to retrieve them. He was a fat, bald, red-faced man with man-boobs that Jordan would have been proud of.

Oh, and then we walked, limped and hobbled our way the twelve miles or so to Clovelly.

Clovelly is a lovely spot with friendly cats and a tame fox. Apparently the village has been privately owned by the same family since 1066. Gleaming white cottages clinging to a steep cliff face with narrow cobbled streets leading down to a busy little quay. There are no cars in the village (they wouldn't fit) so everything gets transported by donkey and wooden sledge. Unfortunately, only half of our group made it in time for the six o'clock cream tea deadline. The walking wounded had to make do with a pint of beer. No prizes for guessing which camp yours truly was in.

I suspect that we may have made a slight impression on the inhabitants of Clovelly. There had been a slight mix-up over the rooms at our hotel, requiring two of our number to be located in a B&B a few doors further down the hill and two of our number almost came to blows when one suggested to the organiser of our little sojourn that he deserved a discount. Thankfully, after a few heated words at the dinner table they went outside and hugged it out. Eyebrows had been raised earlier in the Beer Garden when another of the Lads dropped his jar of Vaseline! The same Lad prompted more comedy by wearing a pair of old comfy slippers in which to descend the precarious cobbled slope to the pub at the quay after dinner. He is prone to blisters you see. I am not sure if news of our presence had preceded us to the pub, but once there one of the locals stated "you Lads must be either divers or fishermen". Unfortunately, neither.
Some of the loudest exchanges within our merry band, however, were around whose turn it was to share the double bed. Fortunately, I was excluded from this debate as I had paid extra for single occupancy throughout the weekend. As much as I love my mates, they snore, smell and fart, and, I like my privacy in the bathroom. And, I wish to spare them all the experience of me talking in my sleep. The two brothers-in-law unfortunately drew the short straws and had to share the double bed. This was rather un-nerving for the younger of the two (now known as the young gimp) as this was his first time on the Lads' Walk and the rest of us somehow gave him the impression that this was some sort of initiation rite. He too had spied the Vaseline earlier in the night. Whatever, the two brothers-in-law made a pact that whatever happened in the room, stayed in the room. And so it did, there was not a single muttering of spooning or an involuntary erection at the breakfast table.

Myself and one other unfortunately failed a late fitness test in the morning. We were not considered to be up to the full arduous ten miles or so from Clovelly to Hartland Quay. So, we offered to shuffle the cars, fill up on diesel, take in a coffee and the newspapers at Bude, and to start walking from the opposite end in order to meet up with the rest of the boys along the route.
Bude is a dump and seemingly bereft of a Starbucks or a single umbrella under which to perch while sipping a Latte. And so we ended up in a tiny, old-fashioned cafe where we were joined by a group of old people with Eastend accents and leathery faces lined like the streets of Venice. They had left their dogs howling in the car outside and reminisced about how one of their number had once been so sick eating spotted dick and custard that they hadn't been able to eat it for years afterwards. Bizarrely, one of the old girls ordered an Espresso coffee "but not too strong!"

Suitably refreshed, my fellow invalid and I commenced our walk to meet our mates. Bloody hell. What the buggers hadn't told us was that the stretch that we were doing was the hardest of the lot. And we had to do it twice. There and back. We endured five miles of agony. It was one steep descent followed by one steep climb after another. We were, frankly, buggered.

In truth, we are all beginning to feel our age now. Most of have resorted to using walking poles to take the pressure of ageing joints. And, those who didn't this year have vowed to do so next. The downside is that we are now so slow at the walking bit that we leave ourselves very little time for the drinking bit before collapsing in our beds through exhaustion. However, while we are all carrying a few more pounds than we have in the past, we, to a man, managed to suck it all in on cue while the very attractive blonde in the tight leggings walked past us at Bucks Mill. There was certainly no VPL there! Nice.

Thanks for a great weekend guys and see you next year. Now, where are those details of my BUPA subscription.

Celebrity Spotting Part 3

My business meeting in London finished early yesterday. This came as a relief because I was concerned that I would, otherwise, have spent most of the night trying to get my car unclamped.
You see, in order to save money my company insists that we book train tickets in advance. An open first class return ticket from Crewe to Euston costs nearly £300 but if you book in advance and are prepared to travel off peak you can get tickets for a half decent price.

Yesterday I was travelling both ways for a total of £90 but only if I travelled out on the 09.53 and returned on the 19.46. But, when I got to the car park at Crewe station it was full. Damn. Parking is rare at Crewe and I didn't want to take the chance that other regular commuters seem to do and park at B&Q. I suppose I could have parked near Crewe Alexander's stadium but was a) not sure there wasn't a game on that night and b) was not sure I had time to get there, park and walk back to the station in time to catch my train.

My only option was to use one of the pay and displays around the corner. I had no option. Imagine my concern when I noticed that my maximum stay was 10 hours with a fine of £70 to be paid for infringing this. But, if I was to continue with my planned schedule I would be parked there for at least 12 hours. But, I had no option.

So it was a huge relief when we finished two hours ahead of schedule and my boss agreed that I could buy a new ticket to get home. £147!!!! How on earth can they justify these prices?
£147 bought me a seat in first class, complimentary cups of tea, a couple of red wines, a hot meal, cheese and biscuits and the Evening Standard. And, I found myself sat next to the Home Secretary, Jacqui Smith and her entourage. If you see red tickets where the normal reserved labels go it must mean reserved for VIPs.

I was sat next to the window in the single seating. Jacqui sat next to me with a vacant seat between us at the group of four, together with a couple of aids. Her minders (three) sat behind her and surprisingly paid little attention to me. I was amazed at the seeming lack of security. Now, I know I don't look like your average Taliban fighter or shoe bomber but I could have been, well anyone. The rest of the carriage was surprisingly empty, so, they could even have asked me to move.

I am sure that most people would have walked past Jacqui and her gang without a second glance. She was discreet and certainly wasn't trying to draw any attention to herself. She was quietly spoken, polite and jovial with the Virgin staff and her colleagues, and not showing any of that cleavage which got her into so much trouble at the beginning of her stint as Home Secretary. Indeed, she was a bit drab and close up she looked a little plumper than I had thought and her double chin is definitely giving birth to a third.

So, the journey was great for people watching and listening in to private conversations. Jacqui ate the trout and skipped dessert in favour of a chocolate cluster; she drank two G&Ts (full fat tonic, ice and lemon) but refused a third; and, spent the whole journey as far as Crewe (apparently she was en route to Blackpool) working on a speech in PowerPoint on her laptop.

She had a battered old mobile with a cracked screen which she used only twice - once to phone her dad to remind him to watch the Party Election Broadcast on the BBC at 18.55 (he had to take his hearing aid out to hear her properly) and once when she seemed to be chatting to a child and confirming that the choice of broccoli and courgettes was very good indeed.

There was very little interaction with her colleagues. She sat opposite an older woman who did nothing but read newspapers. At one point they exchanged a joke over the story in the Evening Standard of Kate Hoey joining Boris' team in the event of him becoming Mayor of London. There was a young twenty something (but looked about twelve) lad who was smartly and trendily dressed. He helped her with her cables and saving her presentation but otherwise played on his PSP (PlayStation Portable) and read his book - The Spy Who Came In From The Cold by John Le Carre. I thought that was kind of fitting for the department responsible for anti-terrorism and home security.

Not quite up there with Pete Waterman and my sexual encounter with Sarah Lancashire but still a pleasant way of passing the time.

And, my car wasn't clamped after all and I was home in time to see Paul Scholes' goal against Barca!!

Jerusalem Lost

So, according to this morning's BBC Breakfast News (thankfully without smarmy Bill Turnbull, scourge of news presenting), there are plans afoot within the church to ban the singing of the hymn, "Jerusalem" by William Blake. They are doing so on the grounds that it isn't really a hymn because it does not praise God enough and because, in reality, it is merely a poem meant as a social comment at the time of writing, set to music. They also do not seem to like it because it is nationalistic.

Are they mad!? I must admit that I should declare a personal interest here. "Jerusalem" is probably my favourite hymn. Do not get me wrong, I am neither religious nor a regular churchgoer. I am not, however, without belief and nor do I look down upon people who have a faith in any way. I am still seen booted and suited in churches at weddings, christenings and unfortunately too regularly funerals, and, the occasional Christmas carol service. I also like to visit churches and cathedrals when I am out and about on holiday. "Jerusalem" though, was the official hymn of my university college (Queen's Oxford), and, was sung at my wedding (it truly was a beautiful service). When it is truly belted out by people who can hold a tune (which excludes myself for sure) it still sends shivers down my spine and makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It is rousing and emotive.

Not religious enough? Have they not read the lyrics? Firstly there is reference to the possibility of Jesus having visited England in a second coming together with Joseph of Aramethia when they were headlining together at the first Glastonbury Festival. You can read all about it in the Book of Revelation.

Now don't start me on that whole conspiracy theory thing. The one that goes Jesus was not the son of God but a political leader who did not die on the cross; he was married to Mary Magdalene and they had a child; that the whole Grail Mystery thing is actually a corruption of the term Sang Royale meaning "royal blood" and referring to the bloodline of Christ which was protected at the battle of Masada, founded the Merovingian dynastyin France and ultimately is all tied up with the Freemasons, etc, etc. Or something like that. Go read Holy Blood Holy Grail and you'll get my meaning.

But I digress. Even if you read Blake's words as a denial of the second coming it does at least then go on to say that we should build a new Jerusalem in England. Heaven on Earth. That, I would have hoped, was something that the Christian churches in England be they Protestant or Catholic should adhere to and aim for.

And, why would you want to ban one of the few hymns that people seem to enjoy singing? You might as well just sell the pews for firewood right now, lock the doors and give the lead on the roof to a deserving cause. Why does being in church need to be so gloomy and dull? Now, I am not calling for us to get all happy clappy, dancing with snakes, or growing our beards and sitting in circles holding hands and singing "cum by ya my Lord" but at least let the faithful sing something with a bit of emotion, something stirring, a bit of umph.

And what on Earth is wrong with being nationalistic, or should I say, proud of our nation! It isn't saying that we are better than anyone else. There are no references to disliking the Germans or of bombing Iraq. It just says that we should build something better here than what we have. Amen to that! It is the anthem of the Womens' Institute for Heavens sake.

Rant over.......I guess it must have been a "quiet news" day. At least it was on BBC Breakfast.
ps. Free the Birmingham Two! Karen Brady and David Sullivan are innocent (I hope).

The World Has Gone Mad!

I think it is official - the world has gone mad. Any quick scan of the world news will verify this.

Most bizarre of all is the story in the US of a man who is having a baby. Pregnant. With child. A man!?!This is the story of one Thomas Beatie who appeared on the Oprah Winfrey show to tell us (presumably in return for loads of money) the wonderful tale of his "miracle" pregnancy.

Apparently, despite having his/her breasts reduced some 10 years or so ago and having a good dose of testosterone (good enough to provide him/her with a rather unimpressive goatie), Thomas declined the kind of surgery that would have completed his/her transition - such as sowing some bits up and growing some balls. Well, I am no surgeon but you get my drift.

So, it would seem that this is a rather nonsense story as Thomas is still very much a woman, with working womens' bits (like a womb and a vagina). Perhaps a more realistic headline would have been "Bearded Lady!". It is all a bit like a scene from the comedy show, Little Britain.

Almost as unbelievable is the fact that Robert Mugabe seems to think that he can get away with yet another blatant rigging of the presidential elections in Zimbabwe. How does he get away with it? Why does the world let him get away with it? He is an oppressor as bad as any Saddam Hussein, who has ethnically cleansed this once great country (of the old colonial whites) that once fed the continent of Africa, and brought it to its knees. Inflation at over 1000%, the people starving, his opponents beaten up and jailed on a whim, and foreign journalists banned from reporting there. And, the rest of the world seems content to let the 84 year old tyrant get away with it. I guess that means there is no oil to be had there then. I'm not sure they'll be hosting the Olympic Games there in the near future though. So much (again) for Labour's so-called ethical foreign policy.

Meanwhile, back in the so-called civilised world, the great national laughing stock which is Heathrow Airport Terminal 5 continues to roll on a week after its opening. Flights are still being cancelled, bags are still not being delivered. Neither of which goes down well at an airport. One rather amusing twist today, however, was the fact that the once great supermodel Naomi Campbell, upon finding out that two of her bags had been mislaid, threw a hissy-fit, and spat at a police officer before being evicted from her plane and banned by British Airways. I wonder if her mom is proud of her!?

Let's do the world a favour and lock these weirdos away for a while. We could stick them all in the same house and film them for our amusement. We could call it something like Celebrity Big Brother!

Mad! Mad! Mad!

ET Is from Birmingham

According to an article in yesterday’s Times newspaper, Birmingham, my hometown, is officially “the weirdest place in the UK.” and rated the “capital of spooky phenomena”. Apparently showers of frogs, gigantic hailstones, miraculous lightning cures, tornados, and mince pies being dripped by UFOs are almost everyday occurrences in the great second city. Well, pretty frequent (although the only dated examples quoted in the article were 1954 and 1980).

Now readers of my earlier post – the Great Divide – will realise that I am a proud Brummie (although I was actually born in Walsall – the most unhappy town in the country) but I am not exactly surprised.

Presumably the Extra Terrestrials are attracted by the aerial views of “Spaghetti Junction” or “the Boob Tube”, or, just come to gawk at the local fashion – white socks are, unfortunately, still very prevalent with your fashion (un) conscious Midland Man.

The plagues and extreme weather phenomena are probably just God’s way of trying to clean the place up a bit. Well, it worked for the Brindley Wharf area (Gas Street Basin as was). Weird it may be, but not as weird as where mu mother-in-law lives. My mother-in-law lives in Royston Vasey.

I Blame Jeremy Kyle

I Blame Jeremy Kyle

Did you see “Pramface Babies” on Channel 4 last night? I was forced to miss Ashes To Ashes for this wonderful piece of ….well, it was hardly the epitome of investigative journalism or of drama-documentary; it was hardly the new “Cathy Come Home”.

“Pramface” is a derogatory term used to refer to underage or young mothers on council estates. See the Urban Dictionary for some more “colourful” explanations. I have seen many a Pramface mom in my time in the Civic Centre of Shameless (see earlier postings). They are hardly inspiring role models for their children. Body-pierced, bleached, tattooed, blue veined, teenage girls pushing and dragging multi-coloured and multi-parented (“parented” is a bit of a misnomer of course – I mean that the children have different sires). They are uneducated, out of work, and foul mouthed. The fathers are, well, elsewhere.

I read one article about the programme referring to the girls as being from a “working class” background. No they are not! “Working class” refers to a class that works. As my wise and wonderful better half, C, informed me, you are working class if your parent (for it could be either or both of mom and dad) came home from work dirty. Labourers, miners, factory workers and the like. But, there was little evidence of jobs amongst this little gaggle or their “partners”. Although, I notice that they were all able to afford state-of-the-art mobile phones.

At least we seem to have lost the “Jason and Kylie” generation. Instead, we seem to have developed a fashion for two-syllable names, spelt phonetically. The girls in question were named “Laura”, “Linzi”, “Kerrie” and “Krista” and their “partners” included “Andy” and “Terry”.

We never actually saw Terry. He was AWOL. Probably wetting the baby’s head with a two-litre bottle of cider and a spliff or a line or two somewhere. Or, maybe getting the baby’s name tattooed on his forehead. We did, however, get a brief insight into the caring nature of Terry with the introduction of the Christmas present that he had given to Laura – an American bulldog (nice) called “Gucci” (aspirational at least) who was happily nesting in the baby’s carry cot. Charming.

We did meet Linzi’s other half, Andy, who was described as being a “terrific dad”. Andy lives with his mom. Terrific. In fact, this was to be Linzi’s second child by Andy. Like the first it was “unexpected”. Unexpected? Well at least they didn’t use the term “accident” or “unplanned” but how on earth could it have been unexpected. Did they miss the pretty obvious lesson in biology of the first baby that they made! Indeed, I thought that it was not without a little irony that this programme was immediately followed by “Big Bang Theory”…..on so many levels.

What is our society coming to? I blame Jeremy Kyle. Judge Alan Berg once described The Jeremy Kyle Show as trash which existed to "titillate bored members of the public with nothing better to do". He went on to say "It seems to me that the purpose of this show is to effect a morbid and depressing display of dysfunctional people whose lives are in turmoil." and added that it was "human bear-baiting".

These kids seem to have nothing better to do than stay at home (provided for by the state); spend their benefit on drink, smokes, and drugs; and, shag. They aspire only to have their problems resolved in full public glare on Jeremy Kyle or Trisha; the deluded aspire to become famous on X Factor or Big Brother Uncut. Maybe we should consider shutting down daytime TV, limiting the payment of child benefit to the first two kids, and making parenting classes compulsory.

Rant over…..for now.

Whatever Happened To The News?

Whatever Happened To The News?

Who on earth thinks that is a good idea to have "Dancing" Bill Turnbull front the BBC Breakfast News? He is hardly a classic news anchor, though he does rhyme with one. He is so smug, so smarmy, so uninspiring, so un-serious, so un-witty, so un-fashionable, and, so, so boring. His favourite hobbies are bee keeping and ballroom dancing for chrissake!

He lowers the tone with his un-naturally plucked eyebrows that hint at a grooming regime that is far more stringent than that of his glamorous colleagues (especially Louise Minchin who often looks as if she has just made it in after a very harrowing trip into the office). He lowers the tone with his boring suits and offensive ties. He lowers the tone when attempting, unsuccessfully to conjure witty links between the news stories (I use that term loosely), the weather, the sports report, and those humorous (not) articles they put on about such things as Dancing Dogs at Crufts and the like, or the all-to-frequent blatant advertisements for the BBC’s own programming – Celebrity Strictly Come Dancing, the Apprentice and so on.

Increasingly, they seem to forget to report the news or do so only fleetingly. We are fighting two wars, there is genocide in Darfur, and we are inundated by stories of children pretending to be news reporters, how to make a pancake, obese cats, and Chris Mullin (the sports presenter who is frequently linked with rumours of off-camera nookie with Carol Kirkwood, the weather presenter) in a rather unattractive all-in-one body suit used by Olympic swimmers.

The whole programme would be an absolute nightmare and waste of time if it hadn’t been for the constant distraction of his side-kicks. Like Dr Who, Turnbull comes with his own companion, who is usually an intelligent, easy-on-the-eye, foxy if not sexy female presenter.

The list is extensive, but, I will include it here for no other reason than it will dramatically increase the hits I get, especially from those very sad souls that somehow always find my posts on Cheshire Swingers, or Sleeping With Julia Roberts (see my post on Strange Visitors by way of explanation) with their very obscure search terms.

Sophie Raworth, Natasha Kaplinski (far too much make-up), sporty Kate Silverton, Mishal Husain, and, of course, the dynamic duo which get most men of a certain age going in the morning; the epitome of pint-sized foxiness Susanna Reid (often misspelt in search engines) and Sian Williams. And, not forgetting the glamorous weather girls with which our Bill flirts so furiously: Carol Kirkwood, Helen Willetts, and Louise Lear. Boy, this is going to be my best day ever!

Bill’s colleagues are all smart and professional. They fill in the serious bits when Bill isn’t reminding us that he too appeared in Celebrity Strictly Come Dancing. Presumably he was attracted by the make-up and the flouncy dresses.

Please BBC, Kill Bill! Kick him into touch. Put him out to grass. If it were not for Sian and Susanna it would be nigh on impossible to drag myself out of the bed in the morning. Sometimes it is a relief when I am in a hurry and have to dash to my car and the serious news reporting of the Today programme on Radio 4 John Humphrys is a god! At least they seem to take the news seriously and in depth. What a contrast.

Cooking Up A Storm!

Cooking Up A Storm!

Did anyone else out there witness the demise of Delia Smith last night on her new BBC 2 Programme? Quite possibly I think that dementia might be kicking in. That or the booze.

Now don’t get me wrong, I have a lot to thank Delia for. You don’t get an OBE at the age of 66 and sell 18 million cookery books (and, therefore, outselling Nigel Slater, Jamie Oliver and Gordon Ramsay), without being successful. Her recipes have rescued many a Christmas dinner in our household and her “How To Cook” taught at least two of my sister-in-laws the joy of cooking and eating as well as increasing the sale of eggs by 10% overnight and causing most shops to see-out of omelette pans.

I even quite fancied her when she was on “Multi-Coloured Swapshop”, being the first female chef on children’s TV, before I gave my heart away to Emma Forbes. And, having seen her, Delia that is, modelling bathing costumes in this week’s Radio Times, I can easily see why I did.

Even the rather camp Nigel Slater (who is a chef I admire greatly) seemed to have a soft spot for ol’ Delia, talking at one point about receiving “permission from Headmistress”. I wouldn’t have put him down as being into S&M. It takes all sorts.

However, I am now beginning to believe that the drink-fuelled rant at a Norwich City football game may not have been a one off. She must have been boozed up when she made last night’s show, surely. For, as far as I can tell, it had next to nothing to do with proper cooking or even cheating at cooking as she claimed. How many of us put quails eggs in our fish pies? How many of us have capers, cornichons and walnuts on our shelves? How many put potato into our chocolate cakes? How many of us would pour a sauce that looked like cat sick over spiced potato wedges, boiled eggs, and olives?

Perhaps the most disappointing thing about last night was her constant use of frozen mashed potato. Why didn’t she just show her audience how to make perfectly good mash? It takes just 25 minutes to peel, boil, and mash a potato and with a little butter, milk and seasoning it is quite delicious. The frozen monstrosities that Delia was hawking took 40 minutes to cook. Where is the sense in that?

Maybe it is the lowly position of Norwich that has got her down. Maybe it is the realisation that she has been usurped in many male eyes by the beauty of Nigella Lawson (admittedly fading), and Tana Ramsay (Gordon’s much easier on the eye wife), or, for our American cousins, Giada de Laurentiis and Rachel Ray.

How the mighty have fallen.