Middle Man

Middle Man Is Moving Home

2008-09-16T08:03:00.002Z

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!

2008-09-14T09:46:00.000Z

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

2008-09-12T09:24:00.001Z

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

2008-08-20T09:50:00.001Z

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

2008-08-07T14:55:00.003Z

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

2008-07-29T13:29:00.001Z

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

2008-07-15T08:18:00.002Z

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

2008-06-25T12:10:00.001Z

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

2008-06-19T08:38:00.003Z

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!

2008-05-29T15:24:00.000Z

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?

2008-05-29T08:44:00.001Z

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

2008-05-13T15:30:00.001Z

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

2008-04-30T10:26:00.002Z

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

2008-04-11T09:25:00.003Z

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!

2008-04-04T13:59:00.002Z

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

2008-03-20T09:54:00.001Z

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

2008-03-14T09:28:00.008Z

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?

2008-03-13T08:53:00.002Z

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!

2008-03-11T11:25:00.006Z

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.

What Is The World coming To?

2008-03-10T11:39:00.010Z

What Is The World Coming To?

What is the world coming to? For one, the weather has gone crazy. There has been a recent earthquake in the UK and today the weather is reminiscent of the final Judgement Day. I know that it was nigh on impossible to see anything much through the spray on the M6 this morning but I could have sworn I was overtaken by the four Riders of the Apocalypse. Perhaps I should stop listening to the Doors on my iPod while I’m driving.

It is not just the weather either. Sporting results have gone mad too. Just look at the FA Cup results over the weekend. Who would have thought it, Portsmouth, Barnsley, Cardiff and West Brom through to the quarter finals. I wish I had been a gambling man…..

And can you believe it, staff working at ACAS (the Advisory, Conciliation and Arbitration Service) have voted to go on strike. These are the very people who are supposed to help other organisations to mediate and avoid strike action. And then you only have to look at the latest Eurovision entries from the UK and Ireland to realise that the world has gone slightly mad.

Conspiracy theorists must be having a heyday too. Just type “conspiracy theory” into Google and you will be entertained well into the next millennium. 9/11 was deliberately orchestrated by the US, or Israel, or Iraq; the US never did land on the moon, while Nazis Germany had a base there as early as 1942; the US and Indian militaries deliberately caused the Indian Ocean tsunamis by setting off an electromagnetic pulse bomb; and, humanity is actually under the control of dinosauroid-like aliens who must consume human blood to maintain their human appearance. Presumably, Deirdre off Coronation Street is the exception that proves the rule. What is going on with that neck of hers?

I must admit that I too quite like to dabble in conspiracy. My favourite is the old Jesus thing – that he was actually a political leader rather than a religious one (that being his brother James), that he was married to Mary Magdalen (a la “Holy Blood, Holy Grail” and the “Da Vinci Code”) and they had a child who founded the Merovingian dynasty in France, with Christ’s descendants going on to include the likes of Leonardo da Vinci, Robert Boyle, Isaac Newton, Victor Hugo and David Icke. Actually I did make up the David Icke connection. And, so did he.

But, I have been to Rennes-le-Chateau and Masada so I know what I know! Similarly, my good lady C predicted the demise of Princess Diana even before Mohamed Al Fayed. Neither of us think the future looks too rosy for Barack Obama either, unfortunately. And, do you know, there are people out there that think that Cliff Richards is actually gay………surely not.

In truth, nothing can be quite as mad as the real world which gave us President George W Bush and the prospect of Boris Johnson as the Mayor of London. Dick Wittington must be turning in his grave. And, I know that Dana is not entirely happy either!

But, if any of you out there have any good conspiracies that you would like to share, just let me know.

Close Call!

2008-03-04T10:20:00.003Z

Close Call!

For once I am glad to be at my desk, in my little bunker, in darkest Walsall. This morning the sun is shining and reflecting off the yellow hard hats of the street workers midst the myriad roadworks, and, it is beautiful. For I have just survived a near death experience. An accident on the M6, around junction 15.

It was just last week that I was bemoaning my commute to work and the terrible driving that I had witnessed. Well, today was a shave too close for my liking. The last two mornings have been a little dodgy due in part, I believe, to the cold, icy mornings, and the bright sunshine. The winter sun is very low in the sky and there are certain stretches on the motorway where it catches drivers unaware. They are suddenly dazzled, blinded and yank on their brakes. Consequently the motorway goes from the national speed limit (or above) to zero in the briefest of moments.

Consequently, I do try and leave a sensible gap between me and the car that I am following. I also hope that the car behind me will attempt to do likewise.

Well, this morning I was tootling along in the outside lane (I am advised by the more politically correct members of the office that we shouldn’t refer to it as the “fast lane”) when, all of a sudden, the traffic in the middle lane slowed significantly. Without warning and without signalling a white panel van pulled out in front of me, and a Vauxhall Vectra pulled out behind me. The panel van had been travelling at a slower speed than I was and he immediately hit his brakes. I reacted instinctively and jammed my brakes on, making an emergency stop just as the white van ploughed into the car in front of it.

Unfortunately there was not any time for my life to flash before my eyes as I braced for the impact ahead and behind. I do remember thinking that it was rather sad that one of my very last images could be the words “Please clean Me” finger-painted on the van’s rear doors as my head made rapid progress towards the windscreen. I had a brief memory of an article that I had read during some driving awareness course or other which described the last thirty seconds of someone’s life as they were involved in a fatal car crash. It hurts apparently.

But there was a minor miracle. Praise be the engineers at Audi. In particular, those in charge of brakes on the TT. I was able to stop with millimetres to spare. I was able to keep the car in a straight line. The car behind me had swerved back into the middle lane to avoid hitting me.

The panel van had ripped the back end off the car which it had hit, pushing it into the middle lane. But somehow the driver of the car was sufficiently unhurt or so high on adrenalin that he was able to leap from the wreckage and drag the white van man out of his seat for a bout of fisticuffs, until he was dragged off him by the driver’s three other mates. Road rage, but understandable given the circumstances.

How I was not hit and how I stopped in time I will not know. My guardian angel was truly alert this morning. Fortunately, the hour long queue between junctions 11 and 10 gave me sufficient time to calm down and count my blessings. The coffee is beginning to kick in now, so all is well.

Drive carefully out there!

Eurovision

2008-03-03T14:56:00.003Z

EuroVision

Recently there has been one helluva fuss in the UK about whether or not we should hold a referendum on the European Union’s Lisbon Treaty. The argument is all to do with a so-called election pledge by the Blair/Brown Government to hold a referendum on the EU Constitution. Those in favour of a referendum claim that the Lisbon Treaty is in fact the old Constitution under another name. The Government claims that this is ridiculous. It is ridiculous despite the fact that it differs from the Constitution by just 4% of words. I haven’t read it myself but presumably the 4% of words that are different are pretty important. Words like “not”, “never”, “speak German”, “eat snails” and “Gordon Brown” (in the signature box at the end).

Actually, I do not feel bad at not having read it. By all accounts it is a voluminous tome and, to be frank, I struggle with your average Harry Potter. However, it seems patently clear that few of our politicians have read the damn thing either. Presumably they are all too busy fiddling filling in their expense claims. Whether they have read it or not, they seem to be getting rather heated under the collar about the whole affair. The Lib Dems walked out of the Commons after one of their number refused to sit down when ordered to do so by the Speaker in a scene not un-reminiscent of your average kindergarten.

Then, last week, some activist group or other “balloted” a few thousand people who read the (Torygraph) Telegraph, were over the age of seventy, who shout at foreigners to make themselves understood, and, who still feel strongly that the Germans did rather too nicely out of the war settlement than they should have done. Not surprisingly, some 88% “voted” in favour of a referendum. The remaining 12% were presumably having a nap, busy organising some Women’s Institute event, or had mislaid their reading glasses.

To be honest, the prospect of your average “man on the London omnibus” being let loose to decide on anything of any importance strikes fear to my very core. Haven’t these people watched Jeremy Kyle or seen the front cover of the Sun Comic/ Newspaper? Your average British Joe can hardly spell their own name, wouldn’t be able to point to Lisbon on a map. In fact, they probably couldn’t point to London on a map! They probably couldn’t spell “map”!!

Look what happens when you give the British public a vote. Andy bloody Abraham gets voted in as the UK’s Eurovision contestant. For chrissake!! We have one of the most vibrant and successful music industries in the world and Andy from the X Factor is the best that we can come up with. He didn’t even win X Factor. Mind you, there wasn’t much of a choice. There was a couple of failed Pop Idol contestants, an anorexic Swede, a Romanian chick on acid, some builder who failed in his bid to become Joseph, and Michele Gayle out of work wannabee and former child star of Grange Hill and Eastenders.

I think Gayle should have won it. At least she is more pleasing to the eye and I think the lyrics to her song could have cut it with our Eastern European friends. She sang a song called “Woo” with the chorus of “Oooh Yeah Woo” which reminded me of the fake orgasm scene in “When Harry Met Sally”.

I don’t know why I even watched the programme. Well, actually I do. There was only Ant and Dec on the other side and Carrie Grant (one of the judges) and Claudia Winkelman (one of the hosts) are absolute babes.

So the great British voter has in the last three years sent a white rap artist with strippers dressed like schoolgirls (Daz Sampson), strippers dressed as Air Stewardesses (Scooch), and now Andy to represent our great nation in Europe. Our only hope is that they beat the Irish entry – Dustin the Turkey – but I wouldn’t bet on it.

And these people want a referendum on the Lisbon treaty. Please, no!

Going Nowhere Fast

2008-02-20T10:12:00.003Z

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

2008-02-11T08:45:00.000Z

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

2008-02-02T11:16:00.000Z

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.

Alfred Hitchcock - The Birds

2008-01-11T09:18:00.001Z

It was like a scene from Alfred Hitchcock's - The Birds.........

Parking at Crewe Railway Station has always been a bit fraught. To start with you can never be sure how long it is going to take you. It should take about seven minutes at the ungodly time in the morning that I was catching the Virgin Pendelino (overuse of the word "virgin" is always good for a few extra hits!) express train to Euston, but, I have known it take thirty.

I was particularly keen to get there in good time yesterday as this was the first time that I was parking my new car. The beautiful, black, sleek, sporty machine - my new Audi TT. Not only do you have to be in reasonable time if you are to avoid a ridiculously long hike to the station, but, you have to park strategically. The car park was clearly marked out in 1963 or thereabouts when your average Hillman Imp was about half the width and a third the length of your average modern car (let alone those great hulking Chelsea Tractor things). And, the TT does require quite a liberal sweep to open the door. I didn't want to suffer the humiliation of having to climb into the boot on my return, so, I was keen to bag an end of line position if at all possible.

I arrived at the car park in good time. It being Crewe it was dark, cold, windy, and pissing down. But, I found a suitable location and headed off for the platforms. It was at this point that I noticed the noise and looked up to locate the source. The source was the line of trees which borders the north-side of the car park. These trees were moving, and not as a result of the wind. These trees were alive with roosting starlings.

I was in a hurry, getting wet, and headed off without giving it a moment's further thought. That is, until returning to the station some ten hours later - of course it should have been nine hours earlier but we got diverted around Rugby. As I arrived at the queue for the parking ticket machine I found myself behind a technologically incompetent lady who struggled with the basic instructions: "Insert parking ticket; insert credit card". This gave me ample time to read the notice about the starlings. Basically it was an apology for the fact that these avian monsters were crapping over everyone's cars. The trees in which they are roosting is council land and, therefore, Virgin Trains were not able to nuke the little feathered bastards.

It was somewhat with trepidation that I trudged the few hundred yards through the dark, cold, wind and the rain to retrieve my car. My beautiful black machine was beautiful and black no more. Every inch of her was covered in guano. Bird shit. She was blotchy with starling crap from halogen headlight to chrome exhaust. I had to wrap my hand in a tissue to open the door. I did this rather hurriedly of course, because there was a veritable swarm of the flying crappers swirling ominously and noisily over my head and I was without an umbrella.

Parking at Crewe Station for the day cost me six quid. The car wash cost me £6.50. Flying vermin. Exterminate!

ps. Virgin, virgin, virgin, virgin, virgin

pps. Kat Deeley (another popular hit with the search engines! ;)

Letter From America Part 1

2007-12-21T15:00:00.000Z

Letter From America

Part 1 – The Journey

I recently returned from Atlanta, Georgia in the US of A. My new employer had decided to throw me in at the deep end by flying me out to the corporate head office on my very first day. For two weeks. It was my first day; my first time in America, and, my first time flying economy for a long-haul flight.

The flight out was not too bad at all. We flew with Delta Airlines who are a partner of KLM. My Frequent Flyer Card was, therefore, valid for the flight. I had not flown since last February, so on the way out I was welcomed like a returning prodigal son.

My bag received a “Priority” sticker. I don’t know why they bother. As far as I can tell, most of the world’s baggage handlers are illiterate and assume that the bright yellow labels attached to certain bags means “sit on me”.

I was given an aisle seat. As readers of my earlier post – Planes, Trains and Automobiles Part 2 (Belgium) – will know, there are certain strategic advantages to having an aisle seat. Unfortunately the air stewardesses resembled the great grandmothers of Desperate Housewives. They were stick thin. Artificially blonde. And, caked in garish makeup which held their grins in place. They looked like Peter Stringellow on acid.

I was even given a sticker on board to identify me as a Frequent Flyer. This meant that I got extra cheese with my smile and free booze. Not to be sniffed at.

The flight out was nine hours long, but as we had taken off at noon and were landing at four in the afternoon, sleep was not an issue. And, I had great fun playing with my new PC which I had just collected from my new boss. Yes, I lied when asked if “anyone has given you anything to take on board”. I just had to take it on trust that my new boss wasn’t an international terrorist. In truth, the jury is still out on that one……

The flight back was a very different story. We were flying out at eight at night to arrive at nine in the morning. So, sleep was very much an issue. This time, however, it seemed that all of my Frequent Flyer privileges had been revoked (except lounge access which, with three hours to kill at the airport, was as welcome as the free Makers Mark bourbon). I did not get an aisle seat. I was sat in the middle of three. The lady who sat on my right. And I mean on my right (not to the right of me) was like a female version of the James Bond baddy, Whisper. She was as wide as she was tall. And, she was really quite tall. And she squeeked in a ridiculous whisper which was impossible to understand.

After the first five minutes she gave up apologizing for knocking me. And then she decided to sleep. She donned her iPOD headset, her blindfold, and rolled, with all the grace of a hippopotamus in quick sand, onto her right side and began to snore…..very squeakily. I spent nine hours with her huge arse in my face and spilling over my chair arm, making it impossible for me to adjust the controls for the muti-media console. She slept like a babe. A really huge, fat baby. And, I slept not at all. I must have managed just 30 minutes or so shuteye in the whole flight. How does anyone get THAT fat?

Not only was I awake but also I was incredibly bored. There was no video on demand. The plane was so old it may even have been a bi-plane. There was just one movie at a time being displayed on a single big screen. I was a good twelve rows back from the screen and, being in the center seat, my view was obscured by the heads of everyone sat in front of me. It was like watching a bad pirate copy. But, as the “entertainment” consisted of the latest Mr Bean movie, I wasn’t missing much.

I was very glad to get home. I was very tired.

It Doesn't Taste Like Chicken

2007-11-16T09:47:00.000Z

It doesn’t taste like chicken

What is it about the Service Industry in the UK? To be sure, it does very little “servicing”. Nor is it “industrious” if my recent experience is anything to go by.

As readers of recent posts will know, it was with some dismay that I discovered that it takes more than 14 weeks to buy a new Audi TT, being a cunning plot by those fiendish Germans to mess with the old supply and demand dynamic in order to sustain the retail price of their vehicles at ridiculously high levels – presumably in retaliation for our bombing of Dresden back in WW2 or something. As a consequence, I did not in fact purchase a new TT, electing to buy a nearly-new, ex-demonstrator model with lots of unnecessary bells and whistles that I will probably never use (such as cruise control).

Yesterday lunchtime I was driven out of my home by the combined presence of Mike, the painter and decorator, who is in the middle of putting right a collection of DIY disasters (not all of them mine) that have taken place in the property over the years, and, the arrival of Cheryl, our cleaner.
Cheryl is lovely but she does like to chat. Mike is lovely but he does like a fig role with his coffee, and a chat. I don’t do “chatting” so, consequently, I had stored up my chores for the day and promptly took myself off and left them to it. Maslow, our furball baby, does likes neither disruption nor the vacuum cleaner and similarly made himself scarce too.

For some strange reason I was hit by an attack of the munchies and so took myself off to Kentucky Fried Chicken at the Grand Junction Retail Park in the mighty metropolitan Mecca which is Crewe. I know, I know. But sometimes only the deep-fried Colonel’s secret recipe will do.

I entered KFC at 1.30 pm. There were just five customers in the queue ahead of me – a couple of likely-lad builders who were ordering a big bucket of spicy processed stuff with onion rings, fake ice-cream and a coke or something; an elderly couple with a purse full of small change with which to purchase their mini-fillets and fries; and a very easy-on-the-eye petite blonde girl. Unfortunately, behind me there was a very uneasy-on-the-eye lard-arse fast-food regular who was having a very loud conversation on her mobile phone. They should be banned! Both! Uneasy-on-the-eye lard-arses and mobile phones should be banned from all public places.

Tony Soprano once famously stated that all Blockbuster outlets are managed by rhesus monkeys (when arguing with AJ who had been sacked from one). The same is true of KFC it would seem. There was the usual array of inane teenagers sporting body piercings, tattoos, black eyes, baggy jeans and bum cracks, and not a GCSE between them. They all looked either stoned or asleep and in need of a good wash. They were certainly more interested in chatting to each other, cracking jokes, and ogling the petite blonde girl just ahead of me in the queue, than in serving the customers. After taking the elderly couple’s order, the greasy oik at the till actually disappeared for ten minutes. None of the other staff, including the beanpole, hippy Manager that looked like he had been brought up on a Greenham Common peace camp and was best friends with Swampy seemed to know, or care, where she had gone. I think she was a she, but the beard was a little confusing…..meow!

The petite blonde took her Zinger Tower and I stepped up to the counter just twenty five minutes after entering the establishment. Fast food?! The bearded lady had been replaced by jovial fat kid. Jovial fat kid prioritized helping his mate who had just come in to get an application form ahead of serving yours truly. And, without so much as an apology or by your leave, another five minutes later, he asked me what I would like. “A three piece Colonel’s meal to go, please.” said I. “Hold on” said he and disappeared around the back only to return with the magical words: “Sorry but we are out of chicken!”

I was furious. “You what! You’re out of chicken!? What’s the name of this bloody place? It is lunchtime on a Thursday and I’ve queued for thirty minutes to be told that KFC has no bloody chicken!”. The response? An inane grin. I stormed out for fear that I was about to commit a physical assault. I took refuge in the nearby MacDonalds, pursued by lardy-arse and her bloody annoying mobile phone.

Does anyone have the complaints department email address for KFC? Or, the telephone number of the petite blonde……?

Mid-Life Crisis

2007-10-31T10:20:00.000Z

Mid-Life Crisis

I have bought a new car. I have bought a new Audi TT. Shiny and black with beige leather. SatNav, iPOd connection, parking assist. 3.2 litres. V6. Tiptronic. Quattro four-wheel drive. 0 to 62 mph in 5.7 seconds. Top speed of 155 mph. She purrs. At least she will purr when I take delivery at the end of November. It is like waiting for Christmas as a kid.

I was quite disciplined in my selection. I researched all of my options on the web. I received glossy, shiny brochures from various motor manufacturers. I consulted What Car and Jeremy Clarkson (virtually of course, not in person). I ruled out a Mercedes or a BMW for being, well, indistinctive. Samey. Boring. I know that they are good cars but they just look like a better styled Vauxhall or Ford. Same for the Lexus. I ruled out an S2000 or an MX5 as being impractical. I dismissed the Chrysler Crossfire as being a hairdresser’s car and for being noisy with poor visibility.

So, it came down to a choice between the TT, a Nissan 350Z, or a Mazda RX8. I had previously driven the old style TT; the old 1.8 engine. So, I thought it might be nice to try something else for a change. All of the reviews told me that there was little to choose between them.

The RX8 was slightly slower than the other two but looked great, I thought. Design-wise and engineering-wise it was quite different, with innovative door design giving access to practical back seats which would actually seat two adults without the need for an osteopath or a shoehorn. The engine has only three moving parts. It had been voted best coupe for four years on the trot and I found several online reviews which claimed that it was a better drive and more “fun” than its two rivals. It was more economical and significantly cheaper; by at least eight grand. I test drove one and I loved it. And, what is more, they could deliver one by my 1st December deadline - I have to hand back my current company car on 30th November.

For me it was a done deal. But then I made two mistakes. Firstly, I took C to have a look. And, secondly, I told my neighbour, J (who is a bit of a car fanatic), that I was thinking of buying the RX8.

C didn’t like it. She moaned about pointy “Star Trek seats” and back seats that looked like they needed a “spermicide”. J mostly complained that it was a Mazda. She is a bit of a brand snob when it comes to cars. She also claimed that the RX8 had a boy-racer image - she was concerned of the impression that I would be giving when I start my new job. She went on at length about how I needed a good, solid, reliable car for the amount of motorway driving that I would be doing. For a while I thought she was going to suggest a Volvo.

And so, despite my weeks of painstaking scientific research and consideration of performance, economy, driveability, etc. I was bullied out of it by two women because they didn’t like the styling of the car seats.

Not that I am complaining really. The TT is truly gorgeous. Roll on December.

Illigitimi Non Carborundum

2007-10-26T11:54:00.000Z

Illigitimi Non Carborundum

Wednesday this week was cathartic. No, I do not mean that I spent a lot of time on the loo purging my bowels. No, I meant rather in the sense of being emotionally purging. For, this was the day that I left my employer of 20 years, having been put on gardening leave for the sin of finding employment with a competitor company.

The day started much as any other work day. The alarm went off. I came downstairs and made a fuss of Maslow, the furball baby, and fed him. I showered. I donned suit. I grabbed my laptop bag, mobile and wallet, said goodbye to C, and headed for the door.

It being October, and, therefore, the “grey period” weather-wise for the North West of England (it lasts from about September through May!) and it was minus 2 degrees, with a thick layer of ice (or rather frozen dirt - the car needs a wash) on the windscreen. Having de-iced, I wound my way through the gloom and not-so-leafy (it’s Autumn) lanes of Cheshire, to the office in Shameless (see earlier posting) where I have been based for the last fourteen years.

At the weekend I had signed a new contract of employment with a new company, to start in December. This was a huge, huge, huge, huge (it was huge!) relief as I am being made redundant and due to leave my present company at the end of November. I informed my boss on Monday and on Tuesday got the call to say I was being sent home on paid leave. This was not as dramatic as it may have been. I was not under any immediate suspicion of having stolen the company’s crown jewels, commercial secrets, customer database and intellectual property. At least I don’t think that I was. At least my boss said that I wasn’t. In any case, I was not frog-marched from the building carrying my wife’s photo and a potted plant, flanked by burly security guards. No, it was a lot more civilised than that. Thankfully.

On Wednesday morning I cleared my desk. It has never been so tidy. I cleared my half of the cupboard which I shared with a colleague. I cleared my pedestal drawers. I threw away all of the absolutely essential files and folders that I had been hoarding over the years, filling one of the huge blue, plastic, recycling bins.

I was left with very little to show for my twenty years of dedicated service - an Oxford Gem dictionary, a calculator, a photograph of my wife, a couple of books on management style and “The Business Skills of Adolph Hitler and Gerald Ratner” and the like. Just one small bag and a single trip to the car was enough to see me moved out. Moved on. Expunged.

I cleaned out my email and set my final “Out of Office“ message. I undiverted my desk phone, and took my final supper, my very last meal with the Ladies Who Lunch (see previous posting). It was quite emotional. Not because of the food, but the finality and suddenness of the act of farewell. The girls were on good form and trying to buoy me along with the odd joke, the occasional reminiscence, and the latest from the X-Factor. But, there was a sincere affection, both ways, in the hug and peck on cheek as we parted outside of Shameless’ bingo hall. I will miss those girls.

And so, I sent a final farewell-email to my closest colleagues and work friends, before packing up my PC and handing over my laptop. I had a lovely kiss and a cuddle with the girls in the office (thus discovering how Vanessa got her stripper name on Facebook.com), and handed my security badge in at reception.

And there I was gone. I drove home through the gloom with a tear in my eye and a feeling of……..deflation, anti-climax, and, wondering what I will do with myself for the next five weeks.

I would like to thank all of those former-colleagues that have sent me emails and kind thoughts. Please do stay in touch. I will miss you all. And, for those of you who haven’t sent emails or kind thoughts…….shame on you! I wish you all good luck, success, health and happiness. And, to all, but especially my Ladies Who Lunch, remember the motto: illigitimi non carborundum!

Don't Look Under The Bed

2007-10-11T14:02:00.000Z

Don’t Look Under The Bed

What is it with hotels in this country (the UK)? My company has just shelled out the princely sum of one hundred and eighty of your British pounds to enable me to stay one night, yes, one night, in a central London hotel. This was not the Ritz. This was not the Savoy. This was not the Dorchester. This was a run-of-the-mill business/tourist hotel belonging to a well-known chain above Charing Cross station.

In return for this money I got an “executive room” just big enough to swing a cat, a small TV with just five TV channels and four pay-for-view adult movie channels (anonymity guaranteed!), a Bible, a mini bar stocked with the ubiquitous mini-Toblerone and spirit miniatures, and an ironing board combined with a trouser press. The ironing board and trouser press were only big enough to cater for the clothes of a newly born baby and the bottom of the iron looked as if it had been dipped in bitumen.

This was the epitome of British business hotels. There was a newly painted patch on the ceiling, clearly attempting to hide the point at which the bath in the room above had overflowed. There was one wall lamp missing from the dressing table area. There was the remains of someone else’s piece of toast on the armchair. And, the carpet was a tad sticky in places.

I ate the complimentary shortbread biscuits and threw the cushions which adorned the “double bed” (two single beds pushed together with a double sheet which was too slackly fitted to prevent you falling into the crack) to the floor. I checked the ceilings, wall pictures and mirrors for hidden cameras, just in case. I checked that the mini bar was fully stocked and that the seals on the miniatures had not been broken – it is quite common to replace the white spirits with water. Some people!

At least the air-conditioning worked. It rattled and hummed and cooled the room to Eskimo-like temperatures. But, the rattling and humming was at least better than the stifling heat that would otherwise have ensued. And, the humming and rattling acted a little like white noise and helped a little to drown out the middle-of-the-night corridor conversations. Hotel room doors are akin to amplifiers. The slightest drunken whisper in the corridor is amplified to a shout in your shell-like. And the drunks in these hotels are many and not prone to whispering. If it wasn’t amorous partygoers or drunken executives that I was attempting to block out with my air-conditioning and my iPOD, it was the constant click-clack of the fire-doors just outside my room and the rather noisy lift.

Has anyone ever been in a hotel where that little dial in the bathroom, which is supposed to relay the sound of the television, actually worked? I haven’t. I think it is a real shame. I would love to be able to listen to the BBC News while having a constitutional. As ever there was a chip out of the bath enamel and a shower that looked as if it had seen better days, presumably during the reign of Queen Victoria, and now did little more than remind me of the dangers of Legionnaire’s Disease. And, I am always just a little bit suspicious about the contents of those little bottles claiming to contain shampoo or shower gel. I fought my way manfully into the cellophane-wrapped brick which claimed to be a tablet of soap.

As ever, the hairdryer was bolted inside one of the drawers and sported a wholly deficient length of flex, which required me to kneel on the floor in order to dry my hair.

And, is it just my imagination or do you think that the sheets always feel a little damp when you climb into he bed? That familiar rustle of starched sheets over plastic mattress cover. And believe me, no combination of the five pillows will produce a comfortable sleeping position.

And, some bastard stole my copy of the Times from outside my door!

Worth every penny. I think not.

Sleeping With Julia Roberts.

2007-08-21T10:08:00.000Z

Sleeping with Julia Roberts

As well as my sexual encounter with Sarah Lancashire on a Virgin train ;), I have slept with Julia Roberts. Well, actually I have slept next to Julia Roberts. Well, next door to her to be precise. I was staying at the Sheraton Hotel at Paris Airport on a tedious work thing which lasted three or four days. Julia was making a film in the hotel. She was co-starring with Antonio Banderas. I am not sure that it ever made it to the movies or even to DVD because I have not been able to find any reference to it in either of their filmographies or on the shelves at Blockbuster. Nevertheless, I slept in the room next to Julia.

She was beautiful and surprisingly petite. I got within six feet of her at one point (!) when they were filming on the landing outside of our rooms. She smiled at me. Only me. She was waiting to be filmed while we were watching them filming one of the other female stars being thrown over the balcony.

There was quite some disruption in the hotel during the filming. It was really quite exciting. For example, most of the time, the guest lift was not working and we had to use the service lift and walk through the kitchens and other “secret” areas of the hotel to get to reception. Walking through the kitchen made me feel a little bit like a US president en route to being assassinated – well, in the movies it always seems to happen that way doesn’t it? They go through the kitchen and they get shot by the mafia guy along with some small Mexican waiter that is living the American dream.

Lifts (elevators for our American cousins) seemed to figure heavily in the film as well. For about an hour I watched them try to film some “famous” French actor, that I have never heard of and never seen in any film, enter the hotel The idea seems to have been that he would walk into the hotel, walk to the lifts, enter the lifts, and presumably go upstairs and throw a woman off the balcony. Simple. Except that, in the world of Hollywood, it seems actors are not allowed to press the button to call a lift or to wait for it to arrive. For a whole hour they were trying to time it so that someone would push the lift call button off camera, so that the actor would arrive in front of the lift just as the doors would slide open. They hadn’t managed it after an hour and I got bored and went and did some work. In any case Julia was not there to distract me. My little American Tinkerbell.

Julia sent a bottle of champagne to my room to apologise for the noise and disruption. I thought that that was very nice of her. I waited in my room hoping that she would knock my door and share a glass or two with me. Unfortunately she didn’t. I didn’t hear her in her room that night. And, believe me, I listened. I listened hard. And, it came as a huge disappointment when I found out the following morning that Julia (or at least her staff) had sent a bottle of champagne to everyone on the landing. And, I thought that I had been special. Sigh.

This is the closest that I have come so far to a real “A-list” celebrity. To a real star. There have been many minor celebrities along the way (see earlier posting). And, on one occasion I got a little closer than was comfortable. Julian Cope checked me out in the urinals of the village hall in Portree on the Isle of Skye. C and I went to Skye on our first ever holiday together. We got engaged while we were there. But, imagine our surprise when we discovered that Julian Cope was performing at the local village hall. He was doing a tour of the Inner Hebrides. Clearly the residents of Skye had never heard of him. Well, it was 1992 and the Teardrop Explodes was more of an ‘80s thing. We were joined in the village hall by maybe six or seven other people. Julian was stoned. I am not sure that he had a clue where he was. He was off his head. But he belted them out and the world shut its mouth. I went to the loo at a half-time break. Julian followed. He chose the urinal next to me. I am sure he checked me out. Now, if only Julia Roberts had got so close……

Anarchy In The UK

2007-08-20T13:08:00.000Z

Anarchy In The UK

So, would you have a go? Would you intervene if you saw a bunch of youths vandalising your property? Would you intervene if you saw someone being attacked in the street? Up until recently, my answer would always have been “yes”. But now, I am not so sure.

Indeed, it is not all that long ago since I did tell two yobs off for causing damage. They were aged about fifteen and they were climbing on an ornamental hedge in the ornamental gardens of Tatton Park. They were standing on top of the hedge and beating it with a big stick. I told them to “Get the f**k down!” They did. It was a bit of a relief because it was a very big stick. And, imagine my surprise when I realised that the woman who was sitting on the bench in front of the very same hedge was their mom. She, their mom, batted not an eyelid, neither at their unruly behaviour nor at my aggressive admonishment.

I also, regularly have been known to have “a quiet word” in the ear of groups of teenagers who are making noise in cinemas. But, maybe I am foolish to do so. Even if the gang of kids don’t take you on themselves, you run the risk that they will have phoned their big brothers who will be waiting for you outside the movie theatre, with pit-bulls and baseball bats at the ready.

But recently, there have been too many murders of have-a-go heroes, or even, of innocents just trying to protect their own homes. And, it seems that every hoody in the ‘hood is walking around “tooled up” and prepared to use their weapons. On anybody. On everybody. Young male testosterone, bad attitudes, knives, drugs and alcohol are not a nice mix.

Now don’t get me wrong, my teenage years were far from non-violent and I was always more than ready to respond with my fists. Nor is it the case that knives were particularly rare in downtown Handsworth in the early ‘80s. As readers of earlier posts will know I had a boy die in my arms as a result of being stabbed in a schoolyard fracas. And, I have personally had a knife pulled on me three times in my life – once when as a school prefect I was trying to remove a fifth former from school (it was a very small knife and his arm hurt very badly afterwards!); once when someone tried to mug me in London (I only saw the knife after I had smashed his nose and he ran away); and, once when I stepped in to protect my next door neighbour from her enraged boyfriend (see earlier posting).

Knives and sharpened metal combs were omnipresent in my youth. Bouncers on the pub doors in Erdington would regularly confiscate penknives, flick-knives and metal combs. But, they were rarely used. Fights were frequent too. But in my day there were still rules. No kicking. If someone went down in a fight you would never have dreamed of kicking them or stamping on their head. And, the fights were largely self-contained, involving like-minded violent youths only. My teenage friends would never have dreamt of having a go at anyone who tried to stop us from doing something that we shouldn’t have been doing, or of picking on an innocent in the street or on a bus.

People seem to be getting more and more fearful. I read that black army officers are to be drafted in as positive role models to try and deter black youths from joining gangs and getting involved in violence (unless it is on the streets of Basra or Helmund Province that is). But I fear that we will see a growth in gated communities and a polarisation of society. We will find metal detectors and security guards in our schools. I fear that David Cameron’s plan to provide tax incentives to encourage people to get married and to stay together will fail to prevent the decline of our social make-up in which so many young men lack positive male role models. I fear that the Guardian Angels will soon be back on the London underground and groups of vigilantes will be roaming our estates.

So, would I have a go? I really, really don’t know. Would you?

The Good Life

2007-08-13T09:25:00.000Z

The Good Life

It is a Thursday and I am at home. The sun is shining and I am wearing shorts, inflicting my skinny pale pegs on the unsuspecting world. Maslow, our furball baby cat, is on the sofa next to me snoring and purring and chasing squirrels or rabbits or mice in his dreams. Actually, he is much more comfortable than I am, having commandeered the greater part of the sofa so that he can stretch out while wedging me against the arm. But it is a workday so lounging about at home in my shorts sounds pretty ideal you would have thought. But it isn’t. Not entirely. I’m bored and at a loss what to do.

You see, while the sun may be shining (an unusual occurrence in the great Cheshire summertime, so worthy of a second mention) my mood is a little flat. I got turned down for a job yesterday. Admittedly I did quite well in the interview process, being only one of thirteen who got to first interview out of some two hundred and fifty applicants. And, I got through to the final three. But, I was pipped at the post. On the plus side, it does show that my CV is strong and that I must have interviewed OK. On the downside, I had already planned a future involving a new car, new phone, banking my redundancy pay-off for a rainy day, enjoying an exciting and demanding new job, and living the life of luxury with a £25k pay increase. But, ‘twas not to be. Serves me right for getting my hopes up. It is a real shame though.

So now, I ‘m a bit bored. A bit unsettled. A little uncertain about the future. Increasingly anxious. I am less than usefully employed and have plenty of time on my hands. There are only so many times I can go to the shops, walk or cycle around the block, or watch back-to-back Jeremy Kyle shows without turning one’s brain to soup. But, I am making good progress on my latest video game and, so far at least, I have not succumbed to watching live streams of Big Brother Live. That would be when I know I have totally given in. I do like to eat my lunch with Loose Women on TV though – they remind me of the ladies I have lunched with at work over the years.

The recruitment market is also a tad slow at the moment. People are on holiday I guess. But, without a stream of suitable adverts to respond to I am afraid my mind is drifting somewhat. Straying into dark corners where I entertain my fears of not getting a job at the salary level I would like or need to maintain our standard of living. Of relying on my redundancy insurance to pay the mortgage until even that runs out and I have to start consuming my redundancy monies with far too much gusto. Of being unable to find a job for a couple of years and consequently becoming unemployable.

A life of abject poverty surely beckons. Which is probably why my thoughts have drifted to self-sufficiency. Sustainable living. The Good Life. Felicity, Felicity (Kendal), you fill me with electricity. She was kind of cute in the Good Life and downright filthy in the Camomile Lawn. Sigh.

Now let us be clear. I am not expecting C to don dungarees and grow pigtails in her hair. Nor am I turning into a Guardian reader or a hippy. We actually gave away the chicken coup that once lived in our side garden. I just like the thought of cooking using things that I have grown and nurtured myself.

Now there have been sporadic delusions of growing my own vegetables over the years. My granddad always used to grow his own. Runner beans, potatoes, cabbages, tomatoes, lettuce, and gooseberries. The whole shebang. He could often be found pricking out in his greenhouse, so to speak.

Even mom and dad were inspired by the financial benefits of growing your own and turned our back garden into a vegetable patch in the 1970s, when funds were low and the chest freezer had arrived. The chest freezer would be filled with the carcases of whole pigs, lambs, and the larger part of a cow’s anatomy. Offal. Sheep’s brain is a delicacy which has to be tried to be believed. And, our meat was accompanied by home-grown vegetables suitably blanched and frozen to see us through the non-growing period. I think that my main contribution in this period was to plant a few radish plants down the side of the summerhouse.

When we moved to rural Cheshire I got the gardening bug, briefly. I was probably inspired by the early episodes of Big Brother when they used to look after chickens and tend to their own veggies. These were the early seasons before they started to put vegetables in the house as housemates.

A vegetable patch was dug, composted, and seeds were planted. The planted seeds were occasionally watered. It was a disaster. I was not big into weeding and my tendering was definitely fair weather and intermittent. The slugs and snails soon saw to any actual edible vegetation that appeared. My main crop was bindweed. Indeed, my only crop was bindweed. Nature’s very own barbed wire.

But, the imminent onset of abject poverty coupled with the terrible tedium of having nothing to do has inspired me once more. And now, the front of our home is adorned with five terracotta earthenware pots, filled with the best growing compost. One is filled with mint, one filled with rosemary, one filled with coriander, another with parsley, and the last with thyme. I can sense the snails smacking their lips already. I know it is only a small start but it a start nonetheless. And, we know that from tiny acorns, mighty oaks do grow. Well, in my case it is likely to be bindweed again……..

I just have to get a job……….

The Oxford Experience

2007-07-19T07:37:00.000Z

C and I have recently spent an excellent weekend with four good friends and one very cute, happy, five month old baby boy in Oxford. My Alma Mata. The place I went to university. I left just twenty years ago. It feels like yesterday. It feels like a hundred years ago. It felt very strange to be back.

We were staying in a Landmark Trust property called the Old Parsonage in Iffley Village, to the south of the city. The house had its own walled garden running down to the river Isis (being what the Thames is known as when it passes through Oxford). Little were we to know that just a week or so later, Oxford would be flooding. I do hope that the flood waters went into the meadow on the opposite side of the bank rather than climbing the steep garden to the ancient building that we had stayed in.

The Old Parsonage was truly beautiful. It dates back to Norman times but most of the present building dates back to 1500. The downstairs rooms are beautifully panelled in dark wood, and the bedrooms and bathrooms on the upper two storeys are tastefully decorated. Comfortable. It is a perfect size for a group of six and a baby. C and I were dreaming of owning and living in such a place.The oven was a bit dodgy though – the back burner on the hob didn’t work, the oven door wouldn’t shut properly, and the grill only lit at the front. Consequently, the oven took about twice as long to cook things, unless you were prepared to stand there all evening with your knee against the oven door, wrapped in a t-towel to protect against the heat. Still, it’s better than camping! And, C’s pork with pears and parsnips was a success. Thank you Jamie Oliver.

We had a great weekend. We ate ourselves stupid with cooked breakfasts/brunches and wonderful dinners. If I never see another sausage again…….We drank ourselves stupid with the fine wine and beers and gin that we had brought, topped up with a couple of trips to local hostelries. Even the flat southern beer hit the spot.

And, we kept ourselves entertained with Radio 4 in the kitchen, an iPOD shuffling away to itself in the lounge, evening games of University Challenge (a game with beginners, intermediary and difficult questions based on the TV programme, complete with electric buzzers but the crappiest scoreboard in the world) and a “guess who” game of our own invention. Apparently, “Irish” is not a good one-word clue to Eddie Murphy. Sorry guys. We even mostly (!) coped with the sleep deprivation that results from a strange bed, a breast-feeding baby, and too much booze (and apparently my snoring and crying out in my sleep).

The weather was not brilliant. It is the height of the British summer after all. Saturday was sunny enough to allow us to walk along the river into the city and to take in the Dreaming Spires and the more typical touristy things such as the Radcliffe Camra, the Bridge of Sighs, the Sheldonian, the Covered Market and the like. The weather allowed us to enjoy a bbq on the Saturday evening cooked by our very own resident Aussie. More sausages. Otherwise it mostly rained, but we were happy enough enjoying the surroundings of the Old Parsonage itself.

Visits to Oxford over the last couple of years (C and I stayed in the other Landmark property in Oxford – The Steward’s House – for my birthday last year) have convinced me that the place was largely wasted upon me as a student.

I was probably too young and immature to get the most out of it. Don’t get me wrong, I was by far from being the youngest. I am sure that there were several infant genii/geniuses there (that will no doubt spark a debate on its own – what is the plural of genius?) who were much younger than myself. Indeed, Ruth Lawrence was in the same year and would often be spotted on the High riding a tandem with her father, including one memorable time when we were blocking the entrance to All Souls in protest against Margaret Thatcher, who was receiving an honorary degree there.

Nevertheless, I was one of the youngest in my year. Most of my intake seemed to have already taken a year off, polishing daddy’s yacht or doing an internship (without that dress I hope) at Accenture (or Anderson Consulting as it was back then), or having done a seventh term crammer, or re-applying, having failed to get in the first time around. And, at that age, the extra year here or there seems to make a big difference. You do a lot of growing up between the ages of 18 and 21. Or, at least, you are supposed to.

And, I admit to having been a little bit intimidated at first. I had always been used to being one of the brightest in my school but now I found myself to be just another bright kid amongst many. Also, I had a bit of a working class chip on my shoulder. Apart from the occasional school football and cricket matches these were the first public school students that I had ever met. And they were, frankly, different.

While I knew that I was there on merit, having gained a scholarship following the entrance exam and interview, and, gaining four grade A “A-Levels” with distinctions, I wasn’t sure about my fellow students. A lot of them seemed to be there because they went to the right schools, or because daddy was an old boy, or mommy went to Cambridge, or because they were top rowers or rugby players, or minor royalty. We had an actual, genuine African prince at college while I was there.

There was I in my Wrangler jeans (never the most fashionable), Dunlop trainers (before they were trendy – dad got a discount in the company shop), and donkey jacket with the rubberised back. I was amongst brogues, chords, striped open-neck shirts, the occasional cravat (I joke not) and jackets with leather patches on the elbows. I felt that I did not fully conform. I remember returning to college once after having attended a job interview. As such I was unusually wearing a suit. I bumped into my History Tutor, Dr Parker, and he exclaimed in surprised amusement: “You are transformed! You are without denim.”

I was also somewhat distracted in the beginning of university life. I had attended an all boys school and now found myself surrounded by beautiful, intelligent, young ladies. I was like a dog on heat. Or at least I was like a dog on heat in the privacy of my own room. I think I was a tad too eager in the beginning. I remember pursuing one young lady in the first week, at the end of which she described me as “ubiquitous”. I had to look the word up. I’ve been called worse. We didn’t hit it off.

So, the beautiful surroundings were a bit of a blur in my formative student years. I was once stopped in the street by an American tourist who asked me where the university was. I only visited the Union once. For a blind date charity event. I ended up spending a most boring evening with some posh bird who had apparently been in the Sunday Observer magazine just the week before. And, it is only in the last couple of years that I have stepped foot in the Bodleian or any of the Oxford museums. I can recommend the Pitt Rivers and the Ashmolean. But, I could always find the Turf pub down its hidden alleyways with my eyes shut.

My Oxford experience was a blur of watered-down beer, the occasional glass of port at formal dinners, Pimms at garden parties, and sherry in a Don’s room on wintry evenings. Football, croquet, darts, frisby, rowing, one game of hockey in which I received a concussion after being hit round the head with a stick after a “disagreement” with a member of the other team, the occasional game of squash, and cricket over a beer barrel in the park. I edited the college magazine for a year. I was Entz Rep for a couple of terms - sweaty bops on a Friday night and the occasional cocktail party on a Saturday.

I was so busy that it was sometimes difficult to find time for the study. But, fortunately, our tutors lacked imagination and would set the same essays year to year. It was always a good tactic to get hold of the essays of previous-year students – it saved a lot of unnecessary reading. I was embarrassed, however, when a tutor asked me once to explain what had caused the Hundred Years War…….

Nevertheless, I left university with a 2:1, a cheating girlfriend (a fact I only discovered after the event) an overdraft, a hangover, a good general knowledge of how to mix cocktails, a white bow tie which I have never since worn, and a thorough understanding of which knife and fork to use at formal dinners. And, some of the best friends in the world……Not such a waste after all.

Man Flu

2007-07-05T10:46:00.000Z

I think I may be coming down with a sniffle. A cold. I have been sneezing and my nose is a little redder than normal due to the number of times that I have blown my nose. I say a “little redder” because being “reddish” is, unfortunately, my normal state of affairs. My face is often pink. It is probably genetic. But, unlike my total colour-blindness (red-green and blue-violet) which was clearly my grandma’s fault (it is passed down the female genetic line), this seems to be my dad’s fault….

My reddishness is not because I blush easily (but I do) or because I am easily embarrassed (but I often am). Nor is it because I have spent too long under a sunbed (but I do). Nor is it related to any blood pressure problems. As far as I am aware, I don’t have any. No, but I do have Rosacea, which, according to the NHS Direct is “a common inflammatory condition of the skin of the face that causes redness that looks like a flush or blush”. It is made worse when it is hot, at times of stress, and after spicy food, etc. It can be embarrassing. I can’t count the number of times that I get asked if I have been away on holiday and the like. Fortunately, my Rosacea manifests itself as a whole head blush. I think that this is slightly better than it being blotchy or patchy. My poor dad looks as if he has a rash sometimes.

Anyhow, it is not surprising that I have a cold. I have spent the last couple of days outside in the rain a lot. The great British summer. Flooding everywhere. Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink. I have been living in my wellies, desperately trying to stop water flooding into the hallway. It has rained pretty solidly in Cheshire for the last couple of weeks. Fortunately, we are not near a river or a stream and do not have the same flood risk as those poor people in Hull and South Yorkshire, Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire and elsewhere. But, the fields around home are sodden. Water is pouring off the fields onto the roads, and, the poor soak-away drain that we have in the front drive could not cope with the rainfall. It was even worse than in my earlier posting “It Rains Up North”.

Fortunately my rudimentary barricade of bricks, a couple of pieces of wood, and, compost bags were not quite tested. But, it was close. And, so, yesterday, I went and purchased 15 bags of Cheshire Pink gravel (it is a planning requirement!) and piled it outside of the front door in an attempt to divert future inundations away from the house. Fingers crossed. The joys of climate change!

So, I seem to have a cold. And it probably didn’t help that we were without central heating and hot water from Saturday until Tuesday, because we ran out of oil. My fault. I should have ordered earlier. But, this wet weather combined with a cold-water stand up wash in the morning is not the best start to the day. But, I will not succumb. I do not do “man flus”. You know, when men exaggerate their illnesses so that when they have a cold they claim they have the flu, etc.

Fortunately, I have been ill very infrequently in my forty or so years. So far. Touch wood. Fingers crossed. When I was a kid I had the annual bout of tonsillitis. Spookily it would always come during the Christmas holidays so I didn’t even get the benefit of time off school. And, one Christmas I remember a hurried last-minute scramble for Christmas dinner ingredients because I was too ill to travel to our Auntie Jane’s as scheduled.

In the twenty years that I have been working, I have had just two days off work through illness. That was due to a chest infection which required me to take anti-biotics for the first time in my life. Which I hated. I hated it because a) it meant that I had to curtail my alcohol intake for a couple for days and b) because I find it really hard to swallow pills, tablets and capsules. They make me gag. I can’t swallow them. Normally, I end up chewing the damn things, which is not nice because most medicines taste bloody awful.

The only time that I have been really ill was when I was at university. I developed a form of herpes of the mouth. Nice. I caught this from kissing my girlfriend when she had a cold sore on her lip. Nice. I was ill. The whole of the inside of my mouth and tongue were coated in painful ulcers.

I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t drink. I lost about two stone in weight in about a week and a half. This was extreme dieting. I also had blood poisoning which caused hallucinations including a really, really scary dream about being chased by nuns. This was a result of falling asleep in the Junior Common Room while watching the Sound of Music one Bank Holiday Monday. She can be damn scary that Mary Poppins (sic!).

The college doctor shipped me off to the John Radcliffe Teaching Hospital in Oxford, where I became a bit of a spectacle. Apparently, what I had was very rare. Which meant that every doctor and every student-doctor in the place (of which there were many) felt it necessary to come and have a look, and take a swab, and have a poke. It was not nice. It hurt.

It only lasted a couple of weeks or so. Fortunately. Unfortunately, a much longer-term problem, thankfully now cured, was the “eating disorder” it left me with. When I finally made it back into “normal” college life (which must be an oxymoron) I looked bloody awful because of the weight I had lost.

I was put on a “special” diet. Special food. It was like being a baby again. Mostly mushy stuff like scrambled egg, custards and the like. The special diet meant that I was served my meals in formal hall after everyone else had been served the normal meal that was available that night. My food was paraded in by my very own waitress, who I happened to have been on a couple of dates with (which was totally against college rules). It was very embarrassing.

I became very self-conscious. I thought everyone was staring at me. This was because everyone was staring at me. And, it left me with a bit of a phobia about eating in public, which stuck with me until my mid-Thirties. It was worse when I was feeling a bit stressed. I was stressed a lot until my mid-Thirties. Lunches with customers, romantic meals with girlfriends (or girls I wanted to be girlfriends) were an absolute joy. Not. You don’t want to know how many restaurant toilets I have thrown up in.

If you just think how often you actually have to eat in the company of others then you may get a sense for how big a problem it could be. Normally I would just push the food around on my plate to make it look as if I had eaten something. I would hide the meat under my potatoes and I would hide my leftovers under my napkin. And then I would wait until I was back in the comfort of my own home before eating. Mostly mushy stuff like scrambled egg, custards and the like.

To this day, my best friends from university vie for the strategic place next to me at the table so that they can scavenge my leftovers. I am still not a big eater when in the company of others.

So, take my advice. No matter how gorgeous your girlfriend. If she is need of Zovarax, leave her alone. Cold sores are to be avoided!

Fifteen Minutes Of Fame

2007-07-02T15:54:00.000Z

Andy Warhol once declared that: "The day will come when everybody will be famous for fifteen minutes." Well, I am not sure if we are all supposed to become famous on the SAME day, or, we all have our own day in the glare of paparazzi flashes. And, clearly, there are some people like David Beckham, the Queen, Kylie, and Nicholas Parsons who have had much more than fifteen minutes. So, how does it work? If someone takes half an hour of fame does that mean that someone else has to do without? Is it like carbon emissions? Can I sell my fifteen minutes to some wannabe Big Brother contestant or someone in the auditions queue at the next X-Factor?

Actually, if I think about it, I might have already used my own fifteen minutes up. Except in my case, it is probably more a case of a quarter of an hour of infamy....

It started at an early age. In fact, at birth. I was declared to be a "Miracle Baby". No, nothing to do with a donkey, a carpenter, a manger and three stargazing hippies high on frankincense. No immaculate conception for my momma. No divine inheritance for yours truly. No, apparently, it was a miracle that I survived. I decided to come out upside down, the wrong way round, attempting to snuff myself out before I had even begun by strangling myself with my own umbilical chord. My mom lost a lot of blood.

Fortunately, however, such suicidal tendencies have largely been absent in the years that have followed - if you discount me glugging from a bottle of Domestos bleach while potty training, setting fire to the frayed landing carpet when a toddler, and, whacking Leroy Hunter around the head with a cricket bat at Junior School. He was hard. And, not just in the head.

I made it into the internal magazine at my dad's work (Fort Dunlop Tyre Factory in Birmingham) when I was about six or seven. This was because I had won an art competition by painting "My dad at work". I think I probably won because my dad's job was a little different to most who worked in the tyre factory. My dad was the company chauffeur. While others were no doubt sketching pictures of men in overalls and tyres, I was able to push out a passing representation of a man in a peaked cap holding open the door of a big posh car.

I made it into the Birmingham Saturday pink Sports Argos newspaper. Twice. Once when it was recorded that I had been sent off in a school cricket match. I know. I can't think of anyone else who was sent off at a cricket match. I was sent off because I punched the wicket keeper. I hit the wicket keeper because he was taking the p*ss. But, at least I was decent enough to drop my bat and remove my gloves before decking him. The second time in the Sports Argos was when our team photo was included when we lost (yes lost) the national schoolboys' cricket final at Edgbaston in 1982. We lost by a whisker. Five minutes in fact (it was a timed game). If only we had dawdled over our sandwiches during the tea interval......

I even made it onto the Nine O'clock News. Well, not THE 9 O'clock News. Not on the BBC. No this was the Irish version. I was filmed, together with my mates from University, coming ashore in Ballinskellig, County Kerry, Ireland. We were on a cycling and camping holiday there during our first summer holidays. It was June 23rd 1985 and we had been on a boat trip to visit the early Christian beehive monastery and the puffins on the Island of Skellig Michael.

On the way back to the mainland we found more than we had been looking for. We found ourselves amongst the floating wreckage of Air India Flight 182, which had been blown up by a terrorist bomb while en route from Canada to Heathrow. 329 people died. It was an eerie scene. Fortunately we did not see any bodies but we did find bits of wreckage floating on the surface. A galley door. A bit of wing. An unused safety vest. The boat's captain radioed ahead. Apparently we were the first people to find the wreckage and the news reporters were waiting on the beach for us when we returned.

But, it has been down hill since then on the fame front, I'm afraid. I made it into my college gossip mag "Queenie" (Queen's College) a couple of times. But, that was hardly surprising as I was the editor and I am not known for being self-effacing. And, I have made it into my company's internal magazine at least twice - once in the basket of big truck-shaped balloon (don't ask) and once when photographed with Eddie the Eagle (really, don't ask). I have even made it into Sweden's leading industry publication on plastic card production. I am not entirely sure why I was in it because I don't speak Swedish, but hopefully it was something to do with combating card fraud, as that was my job at the time.

So, I guess it is time I pulled my finger out and did something else noteworthy. Unfortunately, inspiration forsakes me at the mo..........

A Strange Old Week

2007-07-01T14:44:00.000Z

It has been a strange old week. A busy one. In no particular order or preference, there has been flooding across much of the country, a new (ish) Prime Minister, terrorist attacks in London and in Glasgow (and arrests on the M6 at Sandbach, VERY near where we live), a couple of funerals, a ban on smoking in public places, a phone call from my mom and dad who are on holiday in Canada, a meeting with a Head Hunter, Birmingham City have signed two new players, Brian has brought Rory back home to Ambridge in the Archers, Charlie has somehow survived another week in the Big Brother House, and, we have run out of oil.

It is Sunday. C is upstairs, trapped in her study, trying to make progress on an assignment that she has to complete by next Friday as part of her psychotherapy course. She is very disciplined. Very dedicated. She will be locked away until either she completes the task, or, the urge of a nicotine fix kicks in. Following the Government ban on the 1st July, our lounge is now one of the few places left in this great nation of ours where C can smoke without risking a fine or public derision. This week I even got a letter from the leasing company reminding me that my company car is designated a workplace and that smoking is, therefore, banned. Fortunately I do not smoke. I never have. And, even if I had, I am sure I would never have smoked in a car. Far too enclosed a space. But, C will be OK with the ban. She only really smokes in the evening, just four or five a night, and is very aware of her smoke and prefers not to smoke when eating or when others would be offended.

Maslow, our furball baby cat, has been a bit fractious today. There have been several episodes of “mad cat”, when he stares with wild, wide eyes at imaginary monsters, drops his tail, and bounces around the room like a lunatic feather-duster on speed. It might be the weather. It is very wet and windy. He doesn’t like the wind. It might be because C is ensconced in her study and he is not getting the attention he seeks. Or, it might be because I released the little “present” that he brought us this morning - a little robin red-breast. I managed to retrieve it from Maslow’s mouth and release it through the dining room window. It was a little shocked and chewed but unpierced and he flew away under his own steam, thankfully.

As for the funerals, I attended one and sent a memorial message to the other. The funeral that I attended was of our neighbour’s father. A lovely man. The one I didn‘t attend was that of a work colleague. He was also a lovely man. His death was maybe even more tragic in that he was so young - maybe only a year or so older than I am. Such a waste. God Bless both.

Anyhow, with C at work upstairs, I am at home with the Sunday Times, listening to Radio 4 and the frequent, heavy showers outside. I am glowing slightly and emitting a faint pink radiation. I have not long returned from five minutes in a stand-up sunbed. Consequently, I am a tad flushed and smell a little singed. Which is unfortunate really as a shower is out of the question. This is because we have run out of heating oil and so have neither hot water nor heating since Friday. I doubt that they will deliver before Wednesday, which means a couple of early mornings having a stand up wash in cold water, and, shaving and washing hair by boiling kettles. Lovely.

I have applied for three jobs this morning. One out of the paper and the other two as a result of the many, many, many email prompts that I receive from all of the recruitment agencies that I am now registered with. Getting a job is a full-time job in itself. I had with a Head Hunter on Thursday (a recruitment specialist rather than a wild man from Borneo).He seemed quite hopeful, and the job that he described would certainly be of interest. He said he will probably be able to tell me tomorrow if I will be called for an interview. So, fingers crossed!

In the meantime, I am desperately trying to conjure up some enthusiasm about Gordon Brown’s arrival at Number 10. I would like to believe that he is genuine in his cabinet approach and a Government of “all talents” but I am guarded in my enthusiasm. I still feel badly let down by Blair and his lies that took us to war in Iraq. And Brown is the least impressive front man that I have ever seen. He is such a dull speaker. So monotone. I find myself drifting off when he is talking, even when it is about something as important as the latest terrorist threats. And, I can’t seem to get beyond that slack-jawed gagging thing that he does with his mouth. So, the jury is still out………as indeed, it is on Brum’s latest signings, Garry O’Connor and Olivier Kapo. So, watch this space.

Incidentally, it is a bit worrying that suspect terrorists were arrested near Sandbach on the M6 - if I stand on tip-toe in my garden I can almost see the spot where the police stopped the traffic and pounced. It is a little too close to home. Especially, since the failed car bomb in London was outside of the Tiger Tiger nightclub, being the last place that I “hit the town” in at a colleague’s leaving do. The food and service was crap, by the way. But, why are they picking on me……

Ladies Who Lunch

2007-06-20T10:48:00.000Z

Ladies Who Lunch

Since I have worked in Shameless (see earlier entries), in a plane-proof building near Manchester Airport, I have always shared my lunchtime with an ever-evolving group of ladies of a certain age. My ladies who lunch.

As an aside, the fact that the office was supposedly “plane-proof” was quite reassuring when I first moved up from London all those many years ago. For about five minutes. The building is on the flight path. The landing path in fact. And, in the event of a crash it would e on the crash path. And, I was working on the third floor. The top floor. The floor over which all the planes skimmed on their way into land. It was a bit disconcerting and, therefore, somewhat reassuring to hear the office described as “plane-proof”. Until it was explained to me exactly what that phrase meant.

In the old days, before the onset of outsourcing, and off-shoring, the Shameless office used to house the company mainframe systems (they are now in Prague and Bangalore). The systems were in the basement. Underground. In the event of an aircraft crashing onto the roof of the building, it is designed to collapse in on itself to form a protective layer of rubble, debris, and, presumably, dead employees over the mainframes so that they could carry on working without interruption. Even during the recovery of the bodies. So, not so reassuring after all.

Incidentally, and as another aside, the company’s Danish headquarters, in Copenhagen, used to be Nazi headquarters during the Second World War. Not out of choice you understand. In any case, as Nazi headquaters it was an obvious target for Allied bombing raids. Those canny (this being the mildest word that I could have used, believe me) Germans knew this of course and decided to protect themselves by letting it be known that Allied Prisoners of War were housed in the buildings upper storeys. A latter-day human shield. I am glad to report, however, that us even-cannier Brits responded by developing a new type of bombing attack which enabled buildings to be struck from the side in such a way that the upper storeys would collapse down, relatively intact. Hmmnn. Risky, but apparently it did work.

Anyhow, the ladies that I have lunched with over the years (though the will have called it “dinner”, being good northern lasses) have been a frequent source of inspiration, sometimes frustration, often information, and, always, entertainment. Sharing lunch breaks with them is like living through an episode of Loose Women on HRT (Hormone Replacement Therapy). Most are good Manchester stock, living fairly close to Shameless. Fairly close to where they were born, went to school, got married, had kids, and worked. Most have worked for the company for a number of years. Woman and child. Child and mother. A number of years brutally interrupted when they were outsourced for three years before being insourced back following the collapse of the outsource relationship. My advice would be to avoid EDS like the plague.

I have always respected these ladies. They are all doers. They come to work. They do their jobs, diligently. They go home. They take their pay. And, they get on with their lives outside of work. They have a job rather than a career, because they have other things in their lives that are more important to them. Family. Kids. Elderly relatives to care for. Pets. Hobbies. Lives.

Lunchtimes have always been entertaining. Not least because of the food, which is, frankly, appalling. Fridays is always battered fish or breaded fish, chips, mushy peas or garden peas and gravy. Gravy! With battered fish? Is it a northern thing? Spotted dick. Manchester Tart (it is a dessert). Bland salad options. Boiled liver. And “vegetarian chilli con carne” (con carne means with meat!). Chips, chips and more chips. Well at least it is free. But most of the entertainment has come from these amazing characters themselves.

“Riz”, a miniscule, pocket-sized bundle of humour and inner strength. A single-mom. A traditionally attired Muslim, with a broad Glaswegian accent and an even bigger heart. This lady is indomitable. She survived a violent husband, sleeping in a single room with her child, with drug dealers for neighbours. She never missed a day’s work and managed to make a new life for herself back in Glasgow, where I understand she and her son are now thriving. She never stopped smiling. She never stopped helping those around her.

“J”, who started in the mailroom. There is almost a mythology around that clique of people who started in the mailroom. I suspect that there was something quite suspicious about what they put in the mailroom tea. Anyhow, “J” started in the mailroom about 35 years ago and I suspect that is where she developed her wonderful cynicism and particular view of the world. The spectacles that “J” wears are not exactly rose-tinted for sure. Again, “J” is a survivor who over the years has tended to sick parents, neighbours and cared for her siblings. “J” has a story about everything and the ambition to share them all with you. Whatever you have done, “J” knows someone who has done it earlier, bigger, better, and more often. That someone is, more often than not her brother, upon who she dotes. If you have an illness or have been the victim of bad luck, then “J” will know someone who has had it worse and is pleased to tell you how bad things could still get. “J” also has a huge heart and a wonderful sense of humour. She is totally self-effacing and would do anything for you.

“F” is the youngster on the block. She has been with the group for almost as long as I have. She has the art of smoking down to a tee. She can complete her cigarette in the exact time that it takes to walk from the office to the canteen (they would like us to call it a restaurant but that is a bit too grandiose). Again, “F” has a heart of gold and, for many years has brought up her (ex) boyfriend’s young child in very difficult circumstances. She has a certain innocence and I delight in making her blush. So, it maybe was a mistake on her part to let me know that she recently got locked in the bedroom after a night of passion with her new feller. Of course, I was totally discreet and haven’t told a soul….

“K”, cat-hater with her “senior moments”, hot flushes, amazing shopping and party tips. Let me tell you, it isn’t a true party unless “K” is there with her musical cake slice from the Pound Shop; “S” with her filthy sense of humour, “interesting” home life, amazing hobbies, and crap cars; “A” with her belligerence and self-confessed alzheimers; the two “P”s……..there are far too many to detail here. The group has changed over the years as people have moved jobs or left the company or gone to circumnavigate the globe in a yacht. Please do not be offended if I haven’t mentioned you here. And, please don’t be offended if I have. You will all be in the book if it ever gets published, unless you bribe or blackmail me that is.

As I prepare to leave the company myself, and as I am in the office less and less I do not have the same opportunity to share their company, I realise that I will miss them all very much. Thank you ladies. Thank you all. You have been from time to time my informants, my confidantes, my counsellors, and my friends. You have kept me going through the tough times. You have made me laugh. And, you have inspired me. I wish you and yours good luck and every happiness. You deserve it.

Anyone for lunch?

A Bag Is For Life

2007-05-31T13:15:00.000Z

It seems that a bag, like a puppy, is for life, and not just for Christmas. Every time I visit my local Waitrose (which is often) I am offered a “Bag For Life”. No, this is not some promotional idea of a charity raising funds for poor children in Africa or for a new scanner of some kind at a local hospital. No, these are eco-friendlier bags; stronger so they last longer, and, presumably more bio-degradable than your typical supermarket carrier bag which is destined to clog up some landfill site for a couple of millennia. On the news this morning there were a bunch of eco-warriors of uncertain sexuality and various degrees of cleanliness, intelligence, and sowing ability who had taken the idea one step further. They had made shopping bags out of old clothes. Nice. Would you want to bring your groceries home in someone else’s granddad’s Y-fronts?

Now don’t get me wrong. I am all for saving the planet and avoiding climate change. But, this Bag For Life thing just doesn’t seem to work for me. I think I have about six of the damn things already. Perhaps they are breeding. But for sure, I think I will be stuck with them for a very, very long time simply because I forget to take them with me to the supermarket. I now have to go through that whole routine where they ask me if I would like a Bag For Life; I say, “no thank you because I have several at home already”; and they reluctantly hand me two old-style carrier bags when I clearly need five or six for my many purchases, and they scowl at me in a way which is clearly intended to make me feel as if I am uniquely and personally responsible for imminent climactic chaos on an unprecedented scale.

And in any case, I recycle the carrier bags. We put our rubbish in them. Our non-recyclable rubbish that is. I am a frequent visitor to the paper bank, the bottle bank, and the plastic recycling place. But we use the old-style supermarket carrier bags to put our non-recyclables in. And, incidentally, our non-recyclables consist mostly of unnecessary supermarket packaging! Let he who is without sin…….

And, why do we need plastic bags at all? Why can’t we use paper bags like they do in America? Surely that would be much better for the planet. It would encourage the planting of more forests, and paper is much more easily recyclable than plastic. And, just think how many of us could have met our soulmates in one of those everything-falling-through-the-bottom-of-a-wet-paper-bag movie moments……

And, while I think about it, why can’t we have those nice carton things that Americans eat their Chinese takeaway out of using chopsticks, instead of those silver carton things and the plastic forks that we have over here? They may not have signed up to Kyoto, but they do seem to have a thing or two to tell us about packaging.

No, it seems that I am destined to feel the full weight of my own carbon footprint in the form of the growing number of Bags For Life that are to be crammed into kitchen cupboards and the millions of wire coat hangers that seem to be taking over the wardrobes upstairs. Every shirt that comes back from the laundry returns with its own hanger. If only I was creative and talented enough to recycle the hangers into children’s mobiles or sci-fi statues, or anything that I could make my fortune doing.

And while, I think about it, the real purveyors of global warming and climate change are those little bastards who keep nicking our recycling bins. This happens far too often. We have already had one brown bin for compostable (is that a word?) stuff (weeds, leftover grub, etc.), and one blue box (for paper) stolen. Our neighbours have all been hit as well. We presume it is just kids doing it for fun, as there is not a lot else to do in sleepy Bradwall, rather than eco-terrorists. But it does seem crazy that I have to burn more CO2 by driving to the recycling place myself as a consequence of some childish prank. Perhaps the council can use those tracker things that they are putting into bins these days to find mine and return it to me.

PS.
Incidentally, on the subject of poor children in Africa and elsewhere, I would wholeheartedly recommend World Vision to you. C and I sponsor a little five year old Tanzanian girl called Sesilia. Her mom and dad are only young themselves and are subsistence farmers. We like to think that our contribution will make a real difference to Sesilia’s life. Hopefully, we will be able to pay for her education. And, hopefully, this will enable her to find her own place in the world. We dream one day of visiting her in her village and saying hello properly. In the meantime, we enjoy sending her the occasional photograph and letter and receiving letters from her, translated into English by one of the charity workers.

Grumpy Old Man Part 5

2007-05-29T09:33:00.000Z

A Grumpy Old Man On Holiday

It is 07.40 in the morning. A Tuesday morning. The day after Spring Bank Holiday and, I am on holiday. Everyone else is at work. But, I am not. So, what the hell am I doing up at twenty minutes to eight in the morning? Waiting for a bloody tradesman. ‘Scuse my French, but I am not good in the morning.

Actually, the tradesman that I am waiting for is the exception that proves the rule. To start with, he is not Polish. Secondly, he is punctual. And, he is trustworthy. He is competent. And, yes, he is very expensive. But, you can’t have everything. And, today, he is doing me a favour. This morning, before he goes to his paid job, he is helping me to refit the wooden worktop in my kitchen. For nothing. He’s a nice bloke.

The kitchen worktop was removed because the boiler broke down and needed repairing. And, because the worktop was fitted over the boiler it needed to be taken off. It needed to be removed just four months after our very expensive kitchen had been fitted, tiled, and decorated. Decorated by the very man who is coming to help me this morning. He is helping me this morning because I have been let down by the kitchen fitter who should have come to refit the very expensive beach wood worktop that he fitted in our very expensive kitchen just four months ago. Can you sense my frustration?

Now I know that the more handy, savvy, do-it-yourself-knowledgeable types out there are saying that you shouldn’t have fitted a solid wood worktop above a boiler. I know. We knew that at the time it was fitted. We didn’t want to. But, we had no choice.

Planning a new kitchen is worse then any global system implementation project I have managed. Worse than planning the invasion of Iraq. Not that I did that. And not that there is much evidence that the invasion was actually planned at all. No, synchronising the arrival of the kitchen fitter, the units, the skip, the electrician, the plumber, at the prescribed “windows of opportunity” is a complicated nightmare.

People of Stoke, Staffordshire and South Cheshire beware of plumbers named Stuart. It was Stuart that let us down. He let us down badly. We had agreed with Stuart to hand over large amounts of dosh in return for which he would move the boiler. He was going to move the boiler literally next to itself. Half a day’s work. Half a day’s work for five hundred quid. This was going to enable us to cut the worktop in a place that wouldn’t be aesthetically unpleasing. So that a small piece of worktop could be easily removed to get at the top of the boiler.

Stuart, the plumber from Stoke, had one whole day in which to move the boiler. He knew this. He knew that if he missed this window then the whole fitting would be delayed by at least two months. Now don’t get me wrong, we knew Stuart. Stuart has been servicing our boiler for about five years. Stuart had fitted at least four radiators in our house. We had recommended him to at least two of our neighbours. You would have thought that we were considered to be good customers. That he may have wanted to keep us sweet. And, if not, you would have at least thought that he would have relished £500 for half a day’s work…….

Stuart turned up late. Two hours late. Stuart was grumpy when he arrived. In retrospect, Stuart was always grumpy. Stuart declared that it was “stupid” to move the boiler. Stuart walked off the job. Never to return. Over my dead body. And he can whistle for the money that I still owe him.

The boiler is still where it was. As a result, we could not cut the worktop. So, our very capable kitchen fitter designed it that, in the “very rare event” that something went wrong with the very modern, ultra-reliable boiler that we had had serviced every year and had absolutely no problem with ever, then the whole top could be removed to give access to the boiler.

The boiler broke about six weeks ago. True enough, the worktop was removed as designed. The brand new sealant was cut and removed. Three bolts, a dozen or so screws. All were removed, and, amazingly, I managed to do it without breaking any of the very expensive, brand new, Fired Earth tiles.

The boiler was fixed. But, I couldn’t get the worktop back. Not so it fitted in such a way that it would not warp. Not in an aesthetically pleasing way. And, the tap had developed a very irritating wobble. But not to worry. The kitchen fitter promised to “pop back” to help us in the event of us ever having to remove the worktop. Yeah right. I have been awaiting the “popping back” for six weeks now.

Fortunately (?!?), Mike the decorator popped in yesterday to measure up for some decorating that we need doing. The study, the landing, the hallway, the skirting boards in the lounge, a picture rail, a new heated towel rail in the one-year-old bathroom to replace the one which fell off the wall at the bloody weekend! An arm and a leg. A small fortune no doubt. I sometimes wish that I had forsaken an Oxford education in favour of a plumbing or plastering course.

But, Mike is a top bloke. Totally professional. Perfectly punctual and reliable. Trustworthy. And Mike offered to come around this morning before going to a job elsewhere to help me out. So here I am. On my day off……….

Who Am I? Part 2

2007-05-24T08:31:00.000Z

Who Am I? Part 2

Actually, I am quite pleased to have discovered that I am an ESTP. Extrovert, Sensing, Thinking and Perceiving (see previous entry: Who Am I? Part 1). It was quite a relief. It was quite reassuring. It kind of reminded me who I am. Who I am on the inside. Who I really am. And, who I need to be on the outside too. The rediscovery of myself helped to explain why I have been less than entirely happy at work recently. For, being ESTP also makes me a square peg in a round hole in my current job. And the master of understatement.

The company that I work for has recently asked me to become a project manager, driving global process, product and infrastructure standardisation initiatives. And, to be frank, it just ain’t me. Don’t get me wrong, I can do it. I have done it. But, it does not come naturally. And, I do not really enjoy doing it that much. It pays pretty well though. To do this job you need to be good at planning, at detail, and interested in enforcing the rules. You need to be a political animal who is turned on by templates, blueprints, stagegates, rules, and doing everything the same way, everywhere. And, I am not.

As an ESTP, I am more of an entrepreneur. I am good in a crisis. I like to take risks. I like variety. I like to roll my sleeves up and get involved. I am pragmatic and practical. I also do not take kindly to too much direction and doing as I am told. I like plain speaking. I like to be autonomous and able to set my own agenda.

ESTPs tend to work least well with people who complain all the time; take themselves too seriously; or, who discuss ideas to death without ever taking a decision and actually doing anything. Well, maybe not every multi-national oil giant is the same, but the one that I work with is full of people like that. I am irritated by rules and regulations; routine; corporate bullshit; and, people who do not take responsibility for themselves. I do not fit in anymore. If I ever did. And, if you bear in mind that I have worked for the same company now for nearly twenty years, I guess it is time I considered a change.

I recognise that I am not perfect though. As an ESTP I am prone to look for a crisis where there isn’t one and am often sarcastic. And, when stressed, I can become withdrawn and moody. Abrupt. Snappy. Grrrr. I can also irritate others by being abrupt, and telling them to pull themselves together. If I have done that to any of you, well, sorry. I can recommend a very good counsellor though.

I guess you might be wondering why the sudden urge for self-enlightenment. Well, I am being made redundant. I am being made redundant after twenty years. The wonderful global project that I was asked to lead did not go ahead. It was my own fault really because I was one of the ones who recommended it did not go ahead. I just thought that the company could invest the $40 million better elsewhere. They quite gratefully accepted my recommendation, and, are now making me redundant as a consequence.

Actually, I am quite pleased. Sure I am worried a little bit about getting another job. I am worried about money. But me and the old company have been drifting apart for quite some time now. This is exactly the kind of kick up the arse I needed to get myself motivated to change. So, that is what I intend to do. And, part of the process is to understand the kind of environment that I prefer to work in; the type of people that I prefer working with; the kind of role that best suits my personality. And, that is where the psychometric test came in. It is actually part of the process offered by the outplacement service that the company has kindly given me access to.

So, now I know who I am, I can better focus on the type of job that would suit me. According to the manual that the outplacement consultant has given me, the most attractive occupations for people like me include law enforcement, general management, farming, or, working in a factory. Maybe I could enforce the law in a battery hen farm. Hmmm. Any of you who know me got any ideas or suggestions?

Gizza job!

Who Am I?

2007-05-23T08:48:00.000Z

Who Am I?

I know who I am. I even have it in writing. I found myself without the usual naval gazing, psychotherapy, time on monastic retreats, travelling the world, or doing voluntary work in the Hindukush that most people who want to “find themselves” seem to have to go through. Well, I guess it is not entirely true that my self-discovery is entirely without psychotherapy. It is rather hard to avoid when you are married to a psychotherapist and a huge fan of the Sopranos. But, I am confident that my extensive repertoire of Hilton Hotels and airport lounges of the world does not count as having “seen the world”, man.

I discovered who I am the easy way. I took a psychometric test. Two in fact. The 16PF (I know) and the Myers-Briggs. The latter is apparently based upon Jung’s observation of personality types. Can you imagine the kind of blog that Jung or Freud would have if they were still alive today?

It was quite a relief, finding myself. I have been a little worried about who I might be for some time now. I’m not sure why I have been anxious about it. I am not sure that I have any special reason for worrying about who I am. Sure there were the usual “Who do you think you are!” bellowings from strict teachers at school. The usual teenage musings as to whether I was adopted or left by a superior alien race. Such musings are normal aren’t they? I mean, at that age we always refuse to see ourselves in our parents, don’t we? Not now. Not any more. Not when you see video clips of you walking, talking and standing just like your dad, but with hair. Not when you hear yourself using the same turn of phrase. Not since the “Top of The Pops Moment” when you declare that they don’t write songs like they used to. Or, perhaps, that is just me getting older.

There was, of course, the “You’ve changed!” jibe from my mom after I came home from Oxford, for Christmas, after my very first term there. I was guilty of the crime of wasting my university grant by contributing to the Striking Miners’ Fund (go Scargill!), protesting against Margaret Thatcher’s honorary degree at All Souls, and, for listening to Billy Bragg tapes. It was to my great dismay that Mrs T, the unturning Iron Lady, had avoided our student protest and blockade of All Souls by sneaking through a side garden of my own college. Mom and dad had always voted Conservative because they were in favour of Grammar Schools. How topical eh? What goes around, comes around. Plus ca change and all that. I wonder if my parents will abandon Mr Cameron in favour of Gordon Brown next time around?

More worryingly, there was the “Graphology Moment” in my mid-twenties. We had organised a handwriting expert to talk to and analyse a bunch of our top customers at work. This was our attempt at corporate entertainment. This was at a time when companies were dabbling in the use of such psychobabble to weed out unsuitable types during their recruitment process. This was back in the days before email. When people used pen and ink and their own fair hand when corresponding. Anyhow, this lady, the expert, showed us comparisons of various famous people’s handwriting: Adolf Hitler, Margaret Thatcher, other known fascists. She got us to write a few words down and draw a cartoon dog (it is quite significant if you draw the dog looking to the left or to the right apparently) and then analysed the audience.

The audience, being our customer base, was predominantly male, white, middle-class, well-educated and of a certain age, as you can imagine. It was no surprise then that the expert declared that the majority of the people who had been in the room were white, middle-class, well-educated, middle-aged men. She was very good.

Nor was it surprising when she added that the vast majority were “left brain” users, meaning that they relied heavily on their logic rather than their feelings or emotions. What was surprising was that there were just two people in the room who had an unusual balance between “left brain” and “right brain”, albeit they had answered the questions and drawn the dog looking in an entirely opposite way. I was one of those people. And C, the then Assistant Advertising Manager and, subsequently my nearest and dearest wife, was the other.

We both felt quite smug to find that we were atypical, similar to each other, and, that we stood out from the rest by having a balance between our ying and yangs, so to speak. The expert went on to declare that such a balance was highly unusual and “was most commonly to be found in people of genius and in psychopaths”. The jury is still out on that one. But as we scored opposite, the likelihood is we have one of each in our marriage. I am not sure whether it is more reassuring that I be the genius married to a psycho or the other way around. But I suspect that my IQ score of 135 at the age of eleven (and recently reconfirmed in a bout of intellectual competitiveness with a colleague, J, who clearly guessed luckily as she beat me by 2) is significant. Beware people who draw right-looking doggies.

Anyhow, the psychometric test, fortunately did not reveal any tendencies towards a desire to commit mass murder or to conquer the planet, although I will still have to get C checked out. This may come as a bit of a surprise to those closest to me. No, I am happy to share with you that I am an ESTP. Middleman has the personality type of Extrovert, Sensing, Thinking, and Perceiving. That is who I am. I am ESTP. So be told.

My Family And Other Animals Part 7

2007-05-17T17:46:00.000Z

No Luck With The Birds

Indeed it rains quite often in Cheshire. As has often been said – that’s why the Lake District is where it is. And, despite annual clear-outs by a man with an industrial-sized super-cleaner, the soak-away drain at the heart of the car park often does not cope. It is often inundated. As a consequence, from about late September through to March (our grey period) , the car park looks more like a pond. That is when it is mild. When it is cold, it better resembles a skating rink. A veritable death trap to all who would venture upon it.

However, when it is doing its pond impression, it is very convincing. In fact, on one occasion at least, it was so convincing that a passing wild duck decided to make its home at the “side of the pond” in the long grass beside the oil tanks ,alongside the row of garages. There, Mrs Duck (we’ll assume she was married although there was no sign of Mr Duck), built her nest and waited for her eggs to hatch!

She was there a couple of days. In fact, we were quite concerned about her. Although she was quite safe from humans, being almost invisible in her hideaway of herbage, we were worried about foxes, the local polecat that the farmers had been hunting, and, more likely, feline attention from the multitude of pet cats that existed at School Farm at the time (not least Maslow, our very own furball baby cat). We consulted our local farmer, Godfrey, who assured us that she (Mrs Duck) would be alright and that she would up and off as soon as the chicks had hatched. And this is what must have happened as, after a few days, she just disappeared. There was no sign of her chicks and, thankfully, no tell-tale sign of a fight or a killing ground. The pond was still there though.

Mrs Duck was not the only avian visitor to grace our Cheshire home. While we were next door (we moved next door!) we were visited by a “resting” racing pigeon. It collapsed just by our back door. C gave it a name. Something like Tarquin if I remember correctly, after the guy on the Boddingtons’ advert who wears his y-fronts the wrong way round. We know it was a racing pigeon because C phoned the RSPB and gave them the number on the poor little bugger’s ankle bracelet. They assured us it was probably just resting and in need of water and food. We gave it both. We hid him so that he would not fall prey to the local cat (this was the days before Maslow). We left him to rest.

He was dead within the hour. Deceased. Stiff as a Norwegian Blue Parrot in a Monty Python sketch. C asked me to dispose of Tarquin. I did. I threw him over the hedge into the farmer’s field. For a bird, he was not very aerodynamic when dead. He flew like a stone……

Do You Believe In Ghosts?

2007-05-11T13:59:00.000Z

Do You Believe In Ghosts?

Do you believe in ghosts? I do. I believe I have seen one, and been in the presence of at least two others.

Once was when I was quite young and at home in Erdington. Dad was not home from work yet and mom and my sister, J, were upstairs doing something girlie. I was watching a report on the local Midlands news programme, which was investigating hauntings in local factories. The interviewer was talking to two “witnesses”. As I watched a shadowy figure of a woman appeared behind the “witnesses”. I thought it was a joke. A special effect. I called upstairs to my mom and sister, but, the article had finished by the time they got downstairs.

My story was, however, corroborated the following day on the same news programme. They had received a number of complaints by other viewers who had reported seeing the “bad taste” special effect of the ghostly woman. But, the programme claimed innocence and replayed the piece, which this time was “spirit” free. Spooky.

Perhaps the best example of things going bump in the night was at the first house which C and I rented together in Alderley Edge. An old Victorian mid-terrace cottage. C woke in the night on more than one occasion claiming to have seen an old bearded man stood at the foot of our bed. Spooky. And no, I was neither bearded nor old at this time.

In the same property, strange things would happen in the kitchen. Drawers and cupboard doors would mysteriously open themselves. This was not the side-effect of poor fitting or cheap appliances. This was a Poltergeist. You could literally walk from the kitchen into the dining room with everything “normal”, and, having forgotten something, immediately turn on your heel and re-enter the kitchen, to find all drawers and doors wide open. Yes it was spooky but there was not any sense of animosity or fear. It was more as if the ghost had a sense of humour and was having a bit of a laugh.

Things did, however, get a bit twitchy one night when we were entertaining friends from London. We were having a meal in the dining room and talking about ghosts and all things spooky. Admittedly, the wine was flowing quite freely. But, all of a sudden the CD which was playing music stopped. The cassette tape switched itself on. The cassette tape switched itself on to “record”. The cassette player was recording us. The cassette player was recording our conversation about ghosts. To be clear, to get the cassette player to tape you would have to first switch from CD to tape, and the hold down the play and record buttons at the same time.

We went very quiet. We looked at each other and laughed nervously. We turned the music back on. And, it happened again. A second time. Even writing about it now I can feel the hairs on the back of my head stand up and a shiver is passing down my spine. Spooky.

We now live in an old Cheshire Reformatory School, a boys’ prison, which is converted into nine properties. The prison was built in 1855 and housed some 76 convicted boys aged between about 6 and 16. Crimes ranged from local boys who had stolen bread, presumably as a way of getting the education that the school also offered, through to convicted murderers. Often these would be boys from as far afield as Manchester, Liverpool, Glasgow or London, presumably working on the premise that there would be less chance of them running away to get home.

Now we have never felt any presence here, C and I. Our next door neighbour did once claim that a ghost was moving things around his home but as this used to be our old house (we moved next door!) and we had had no such experience, we assumed he was joking. We didn’t like him very much. He used to stand in his lounge window wearing just skimpy underpants. Spooky.

More compelling, however, was the story of Holly. When Holly was just 3 years old or so and her family had just moved into the property, Holly asked her mom if she could go and play “with the boys in the courtyard”. Of course there were no boys. And, of course, little Holly knew nothing of the property’s history at that point. Spooky.

One house that does have a feeling about it, an eeriness, is Trivor. Trivor is a house in Monmouthshire which is owned by the father of a good friend of mine from university. My closest friends, and subsequently their wives and partners, and subsequently their children, have visited the house every year for nigh on twenty years or so now. Trivor is mentioned in the Doomsday Book. Most of the current property dates back to the sixteenth century, however. A Catholic Priest was caught practising an illegal Mass there during the reign of Queen Elizabeth 1 and was apparently hanged, drawn and quartered. It must have smarted a bit. I guess something like that can leave a bit of an impression on an old place like that.

So, what about you? Do you have any ghostly tales that you wish to share?

Planes, Trains and Automobiles Part 4

2007-05-09T11:54:00.000Z

A Grumpy Old Man’s Trip To London

Well, it has not been a good start to the day. I am currently sat on the 07.13 Virgin Pendolino inter-city train from Crewe en route to London Euston. It is 07.35 and we have just left the station. This means that we will be behind all of the still-on-time trains with the likelihood that we will be further delayed. They seem to work on the principle that it is better to have one very delayed train than lots of slightly delayed trains. But, that seems like a very strange principle upon which to run a train company. Whatever happened to punctuality?

As ever, they haven’t thought up a decent enough reason for the delay with which to share with the paying customer. And I have paid. Through the nose. £275 for a First Class return! Extortionate. It is cheaper to fly to London from Manchester but, unfortunately for me, it is still less convenient.

Crewe station is just ten minutes from home, and, after a couple of hours in which you can stretch your legs, read a paper, hopefully complete the Times 2 Crossword (although I am struggling with 5 down at the moment) and the Killer Su Doku, and maybe do some work, you are delivered to Euston station. Then it is just 15 minutes by Tube, unfortunately, before I am delivered straight to the office alongside which is alongside Waterloo station. Door to door in two hours forty five minutes if I am lucky. But, as with today it would seem, I am rarely that. Lucky.

Manchester Airport, however, is a good (or bad) 45 minutes drive away itself. With the heightened security you definitely now need to be there at least one hour before the flight is delayed. And you have all that hassle with your luggage and your clear plastic bag for your toothpaste and eau de cologne (Euphoria for Men by Calvin Klein). And, Heathrow is just not as convenient for central London, although the Heathrow Express is much better than the old crawl in on the Underground.

At least when travelling care of Sir Richard Branson, the food is generally OK, and the tea, coffee and alcoholic beverages (not at breakfast of course, unfortunately) flow much more abundantly than they do in the air these days. I am currently sipping tea, having already partaken of a grapefruit juice and a passable sausage sandwich with brown sauce. The bread was a little dry though.

And, there is generally more to see out of the windows. And, every so often, you get to meet a celebrity. Those of you who have read my earlier postings (Celebrity Spotting) will know that I had a very enjoyable chat with Pete Waterman once and nearly had sex with Sarah Lancashire. The more I think about it the more I realise that she wanted me. And, these new toilets in the Pendolinos are so much more accommodating than in the old days. Another opportunity missed.

I have also seen Patrick Moore, the male chauvinistic stargazer who recently complained about there being too many senior placed women running the BBC, and, the diminutive and foxy news reader Sian Williams recently. Which reminds me, I literally bumped into Suzannah Reed, the other foxy if midget morning newscaster with the BBC, when buying my lunchtime M&S sandwich at Waterloo Station last time I was in the Smoke. She was quite startled and seemed a little spooked when she realised that I had recognised who she was. She was dressed all in white with a very long flowing coat. She had very white face make-up and very red rouged lips and cheeks, which made her seem even more alarmed. It was probably my fault. Living in the countryside and frequenting only small towns such as Sandbach and Holmes Chapel these days I get quite alarmed by the crowds in the big cities. I seem to have lost that knack of walking through a crowd without bumping into people. It can feel quite claustrophobic at times.

Well listen to me extolling the virtues of Virgin Trains. Mr Branson are there any jobs going in your marketing department?

On the downside, things can get a bit tense on board train. Especially in the Quiet Zone. Of course, the Quiet Zone is hardly that. Quiet. You still get the normal train announcements, and that strange beep beep noise as the Pendolino seems to tilt precariously when taking a bend at speed. You still get passengers chatting, passengers snoring and the like. No, things get tense when some jumped up self-opinionated, self-important oik decides that the “No Mobile Phones” sign does not apply to him and proceeds to have a loud if disjointed conversation. Conversations are disjointed because the signal quality is so poor, conversations require a lot of redialling after thirty seconds of “hello, hello, can you hear me?” or, “I’m in a tunnel”). These noise abusers can often be found wandering up and down the carriage to annoy as many people as he (it is invariably a he) possibly can. Or they stand at the end of the carriage, in the vestibule as Mr Virgin calls it, next to the loos. They seem to think that they are less annoying there. They are not, it is even worse listening to the self-important oik on his phone with the carriage doors sliding open and then shut again, and again, and again, as he triggers them with his proximity.

Things can also get tense when the staff forget to reserve pre-booked seats or all reservations are cancelled because of a train cancellation requiring two or three trains to be merged into one. Pandemonium. Even on “normal” days, people ignore the seat reservations and assume that just because they are a party of eight they have the right to sit next to each other. I can feel myself getting tense. I shall move on.

Unusually, the train staff this morning are not Eastern European. They seem to be Scousers. So, they are as good as Eastern Europeans. Homegrown Eastern Europeans if you like. But it is unusual. Have you not noticed how, in the last couple of years or so, the service industries of our great nation have been overwhelmed by Poles, Czechs, Slovaks, Albanians and the like?

I learnt at the weekend of a very successful restauranteur and property developer who only employs Bratislavans. He does this because they are reliable, polite, and punctual and have excellent language skills. So, nothing like Scousers then. He pays them the going rate so they are not cheap.

Every London bar, every hotel reception, every waiter and waitress, every shelf-filler in Waitrose, every bricky, carpenter and electrician. They are all Eastern European. Crewe has shops selling “Polish Food” now, and in parts of the country road signs are now displayed in both English and Polish. The influx of devote Poles has now resulted in the Catholic Church becoming the biggest religion in the country again.. Henry the Eighth must be turning in his grave.

No, it is the Australians I feel sorry for. And the New Zealanders. They used to have the monopoly on the London bars. I can only assume that all the Kiwis and Australians are now serving drinks in Warsaw, Prague, and wherever the capital of Bratislava may be. Although at least a couple of our Antipodean cousins could be found at this weekend’s Home & Garden Design Show in Tatton Park, selling Magic Shammy Leathers. How the Empire has fallen.
The train now seems to be crawling along. I don’t think we’ve even reached Nuneaton yet. Now, where’s that girl with the tea……….

Grumpy Old Men Part 2

2007-05-04T19:34:00.000Z

I am not as young as I was. My powers of recovery are not what they were.

Twenty odd years ago, when I was at university, I used to be up late on a Friday night, having sunk ten pints of watered beer at the Sweaty Bop only be up again at 6am, to jog down to the Boat House on the River Isis (which is what the Thames is known as as it meanders its way through the Dreaming Spires of Oxford), throw up behind the Boat House, before taking an hour and a half training session as stoke of a sporting eight, being a racing eight crewed by people who cannot row very effectively but claim to be good at other, non-public school sports such as football.

The stroke is the one who sits at the front facing the cox and attempts to beat out the rhythm for the rest of the boat to follow. The cox is the little one with the big mouth and bigger attitude who steers the ship, and who in my case, would belch last night's chili kebab and Guinness into my face every time I came forward.

Having rowed, I would jog back to college in time for breakfast only to spend the afternoon captaining the Animals football team, being a team made up of blokes, well, lacking the finesse of Christiano Ronaldo, before returning to College in time for a quick shower and back to the Beer Cellar for another heavy bout of watered down Marstons.

These days it takes a little longer to recover. It has taken me the best part of a week to recover from last weekend's walking weekend with the lads. Admittedly, I was cheered a little bit when super fit P (he of the 300k cycling event in the Alps) phoned to check how I was and admitted that he was suffering big time too. Myself, I have been limping and wincing all week and avoiding stairs whenever possible. I had no idea how much you used the muscles at the front of the shin. Ouch.

Nevertheless, I am proud of myself today. As promised, I went out on my bike. It was forty five minutes of sheer agony. The Cheshire plains felt like the Massive Central today. And, I am saddle saw! Is it my imagination or have saddles got much, much narrower over the years? And not for the better if the state of my bum is anything to go by. Now where did I leave that jar of Vaseline. It helps with the chafing......

Indeed, bike technology has moved on alarmingly too. When I was in my teens and early twenties I used to do a lot of cycling and would do all of my own maintenance and repairs, although I was not so big on cleaning. I have to admit, reluctantly, that when my mates and C clubbed together to buy my new cycle, I had to resort to reading the instruction manual before I could operate the gears. An instruction manual for heaven's sake. I thought they existed just for the benefit of women and the incredibly stupid.

So it would seem that I am descending into middle age. I am becoming a grumpy old man. This has been hammered home none too subtlely of late - being made redundant, with conversations with my mates focusing far too much on how to combat nasal and ear hair, gardening and growing your own vegetables (apparently purple sprouting broccoli is to be recommended). And, only this week I joined in a conversation with a colleague, J, which was essentially a tirade about the arrogance of the Germans. All of them. Every last one of them. Clarkson for President.

Well, I might be getting older and I might be getting grumpier. But, I have no intention of going gracefully, quietly, or soberly. Bring it on!

Grumpy Old Men Part 1

2007-04-30T09:51:00.000Z

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…….

The Great Divide

2007-04-23T13:55:00.000Z

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…….

The Times They Are A-Changin Part 4

2007-04-19T09:14:00.000Z

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……

The Times They Are A-Changin Part 3

2007-04-12T15:11:00.000Z

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…………..

More Leg Room Please!

2007-04-10T12:28:00.000Z

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?

A Bientot!

2007-03-22T08:10:00.000Z

A Bientot!

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

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

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

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

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

Customer Service? Not!

2007-03-21T12:11:00.000Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheshire Swingers Club

2007-03-19T10:11:00.000Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Comic Relief! Saucy.

2007-03-16T12:29:00.000Z

http://www.rednoseday.com/

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remember people. Make a donation.

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

Spring Is In The Air

2007-03-15T09:42:00.000Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Middle Aged Spread

2007-03-13T18:55:00.000Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the meantime, it's lunchtime!

The History Boys

2007-03-12T12:40:00.000Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2007-03-09T12:29:00.000Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2007-03-07T16:47:00.000Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2007-03-06T19:08:00.000Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2007-03-05T14:43:00.000Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Near Death Experiences Part 3

2007-03-02T11:23:00.000Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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