Going Nowhere Fast

Going Nowhere Fast

My new job requires me to commute on a regular basis between the leafy, rural lanes of south Cheshire to the grid-locked conglomeration of roadworks and building sites which is Walsall. I notice that Wikipedia provides a pronunciation tool to help one say “Walsall” correctly. Which, is probably why most of my friends are confused, believing that I am currently employed in the capital of Poland.

While resembling many former Soviet block towns and cities, Walsall is, in fact, in the Black Country – not yet a reference to its ethnic mix but to the smoky, sooty side-effects of the Industrial Revolution. “Walsall” is thought to be derived from the words “Wah halh”, meaning “valley of the Celtic speakers” or “where people speak like Benny off Crossroads”. Walsall is “famous” for its arboretum and its illuminations and is officially the “Unhappiest Town” in the country (according to a First Direct poll) and is compared with Ceaucescu’s Romania and declared “The ugliest place in the world”.

Famous residents include Noddy Holder (my friends will regale me with their renditions of the “Kipper Tie/Cuppa Tea” joke at the drop of a hat) and Boy George. And, very briefly my good self. For I was born in the Manor Hospital, which is virtually next door to the office where I now work. You see, I have come a long way!

Anyhow, my commute takes me down the M6. I hate the M6. It has been a long time since I have had to drive regularly on the great British motorway system but it hasn’t taken me long to loathe it. Not so long ago, I enjoyed a holiday in France which involved driving the full length of the country, to the Pyrenees, along French motorways with tolls. It was an absolute pleasure. The M6, however, is a nightmare.

The inside lane is consistently clogged with a train of heavy trucks going nowhere fast and occasionally interspersed with a caravan or an old lady in a Volvo in an obvious state of panic having believed she had turned into the carpark of her local supermarket and not the slip-road to one of our busiest roads.

What is worse, the middle lane is also frequently clogged by HGVs who seem to forget that they have speed limiters installed and, therefore, are not able to go any faster than the similarly restricted trucks that they are trying to overtake. And this then forces all of the other vehicles into the third lane – I will not refer to it as the “fast” lane, for it is not!

I try to drive safely, by keeping a suitable distance (count to 5) between me and the car in front. But if I ever do leave more than a gap equivalent in size to a gnat’s tadger, it is immediately filled by someone swerving to avoid a truck in the middle lane, more often than not without indicating (mirror, signal, manoeuvre). More often than not it is a “white van” with “clean me” humorously (not) written on the dirty rear doors, around which I am unable to see, and which proceeds to hover on and off his brake lights for the next thirty miles or so.

As I am driving a TT, every boy racer in a toy racing car (Mazdas, MGs, Chrysler Crossfires, Porsche Boxters and the like) or a Golf GTI, seems to feel honour bound to undertake me. Fortunately, you can see these guys coming from quite a distance because they have their fog lights glaring even in the height of summer (it is illegal). And at night you can see their fake-tan orange faces, dimly lit by the glow from the Blackberry Pearl or Borg-like hands-free earpieces permanently stuck to their ears or the reflection from their Tom Tom screen which obscure the view.

Tailgating, poor lane discipline, not indicating, undertaking, women drivers, Volvos and flat caps. It is a miracle that I ever make it to the office in the morning. The only reason I do is because I seem to average a speed of about 10 miles per hour. Admittedly this is an average of brief seconds of doing the national speed limit (:) - honest) and the couple of years that I seem to sit in stopped traffic between junctions 11 and 10.

Now, where did I put my valium?

Strange Visitors

Does this describe you?

I seem to get some very strange visitors to my blog. These strange visitors find me through some very weird search engine searches. One of the most common seems to be a double whammy on "swingers" and "caravans". For some reason these phrases are often accompanied by the search term "cheshire" or "north wales". Well, for those of you who came via such a route, you may wish to view my entry Cheshire Swingers..........enjoy!

I am not sure why I am so surprised that swinging is so popular in Cheshire or North Wales. But I am. But, will someone please, please tell me why you do it in caravans?!?

There are other popular searches that seem to find me. Typically these would involve a "kat deeley" or a "julia roberts" or a "kylie" or "suzannah reid" and various spelling derivatives thereof. Now these are all fine looking women and I have had close contact with at least two of them (see "Sleeping With Julia Roberts" and "Planes, Trains and Automobiles Part 6" and I am sure we have all been propositioned by Sarah Lancashire!! But, you would be surprised how often these searches are accompanied by the word "porn" or "naked" or "stockings". Shame on you!

Well, I bet you can't wait until I tell you about the steamy weekend I once passed in a trailer-tent in Staffordshire with Anni-Frid and Agnetha, the babes from Abba........."Abba" is by far and away the single most commonly used search term that finds me. And, I can only remember mentioning them the once (here) but I guess I did so in an article which started with the word "porn". Enjoy.

Oh, and Happy Caravaning!

Blair's Second-Hand Babe

Blair’s Second-hand Babe

I like to read the Times on a plane journey and my new job looks as if it will take me to the beautiful city of Prague in the Czech Republic every other week or so. For a while at least. The trip takes about two hours, which is just about long enough for me to read the paper, do the Times2 quick crossword, and, complete the Killer Sudoku…..unless it is a particularly difficult one….or unless the stewardesses are particularly distracting.

Actually, on my last trip I was particularly distracted by the advertisement on the back of the antimacassars. You know, those paper-like things that cover the seat headrest and flaps over the back. They were originally a piece of cloth protecting a seat headrest from staining by hair oil. The term is derived from Rowland's Macassar Oil, first manufactured in about 1793.

The ad read: ”The (crossed out!) David’s new Skoda Fabia with MP3 connection…because listening to “Love Is In The Air” on the road sounds as good as in the air” followed by the strapline “Love at first drive!”….with a picture of a bright orange car.

I was offended on several levels. Firstly, it is just a bad advert. I can only assume that it was originally “crafted” in Czech and, well, just translated very, very badly. Secondly, my name is “David” and, as you all know, I drive a classic, black, 3.2 litre, V6 Audi TT dream machine with an iPOD interface. I wouldn’t be seen dead in a Fabia. At least not driving one. And you wouldn’t recognise me if I was a passenger. I would be in disguise. Incognito. Nor would you catch me listening to “Love Is In The Air”. Not since about 1978. I do not posses any John Paul Young music at all.

I suspect that it is a subliminal message aimed at the cabin crew. “Love-is-in-the-air.com” is a dating site for cabin crew! I always suspected that the Fabia was aimed at the trolly dolly market.

I was also distracted on the flight by a tiny reference to a previous article on another day – which I missed – referring to Ruth Kelly, Secretary of State for Transport, and her time as Entz Rep (Entertainments Representative) at Queen’s College, Oxford. The suggestion seemed to be that it was unlikely that Ruth could organise anything entertaining given her personality (or lack of it) and her leanings towards Opus Dei….unless you are into mortification of the flesh, that is. I’m not.

This distracted me because a) I too went to Queen’s College Oxford and b) I used to be Entz Rep. I think I must have been Entz Rep a year or so before Ruth was. The position of Entz Rep was an elected post and a member of the Junior Common Room (JCR) Committee. I organised discos known as sweaty bops. They took place in a packed beer cellar. It got very warm and condensation and perspirations would literally drip from the low ceilings. I organised cocktail parties and would often get tipsy trying out different recipes. Film nights. Themed parties – Valentines, Halloween, Fancy Dress. You get the idea.

I remember Ruth quite well. She was a couple of years below me. She was taking PPE (Politics, Philosophy and Economics) while I was doing Modern History. She was slimmer then. More fresh faced. But, even then she had the same hairstyle. She was also politically active back then too. And in the Labour Party.

But she was someone else’s babe before she was Tony’s (Blair’s). She was one of Nye’s Babes. Nye was and is a good mate of mine. He was JCR President at the time, for which he was rewarded with status and a huge room. Nye was (and is) blessed with the good looks of a young Charles Dance. Blond. Blue eyed. He was also politically aware. Also in the Labour Party. And, blessed with a social conscience. He was also kind of aloof at the time. He took his politics seriously. More seriously than his History studies at times. He seemed to have little interest in girls. Consequently he had a constant gaggle of young ladies pursuing him. He had a bevy of young socialists hanging on his every word and only too eager to help distribute leaflets, organize a rally and the like. And, Ruth Kelly was part of this entourage. She may have had the same hairstyle, but back in 1987 she had a definite twinkle in her eye. So, sorry Tony, but someone else got to Ruth before you did.

It is strange seeing people that you knew from college/university appearing on the TV. Apart from Ruth, another regular Queensman on the box is Guto Harri, political correspondent for the BBC. He was in the same year as me, doing PPE. There have also been brief sightings of Neil Tunnicliffe. He used to be Chief Executive of the Rugby Football League and could infrequently be found given interviews or picking balls out of a sack at the time of a cup draw. Oh, and Rowan Atkinson of course. He went to Queen’s too.