Middle Man Is Moving Home

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

http://caughtinthemiddleman.wordpress.com/

Please do come and visit me in my new home.

Sleeping With Julia Roberts.

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……

The Good Life

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……….

Fifteen Minutes Of Fame

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..........

My Family And Other Animals Part 7

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……

Grumpy Old Men Part 2

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

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

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

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

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!

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!

A Bientot!

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

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

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

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

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

Customer Service? Not!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheshire Swingers Club

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Comic Relief! Saucy.

http://www.rednoseday.com/

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remember people. Make a donation.

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

Spring Is In The Air

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Middle Aged Spread

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the meantime, it's lunchtime!

The History Boys

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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