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!
Tuesday, 4 March 2008
Monday, 3 March 2008
Eurovision
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!
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!
Wednesday, 20 February 2008
Going Nowhere Fast
Going Nowhere Fast
My new job requires me to commute on a regular basis between the leafy, rural lanes of south Cheshire to the grid-locked conglomeration of roadworks and building sites which is Walsall. I notice that Wikipedia provides a pronunciation tool to help one say “Walsall” correctly. Which, is probably why most of my friends are confused, believing that I am currently employed in the capital of Poland.
While resembling many former Soviet block towns and cities, Walsall is, in fact, in the Black Country – not yet a reference to its ethnic mix but to the smoky, sooty side-effects of the Industrial Revolution. “Walsall” is thought to be derived from the words “Wah halh”, meaning “valley of the Celtic speakers” or “where people speak like Benny off Crossroads”. Walsall is “famous” for its arboretum and its illuminations and is officially the “Unhappiest Town” in the country (according to a First Direct poll) and is compared with Ceaucescu’s Romania and declared “The ugliest place in the world”.
Famous residents include Noddy Holder (my friends will regale me with their renditions of the “Kipper Tie/Cuppa Tea” joke at the drop of a hat) and Boy George. And, very briefly my good self. For I was born in the Manor Hospital, which is virtually next door to the office where I now work. You see, I have come a long way!
Anyhow, my commute takes me down the M6. I hate the M6. It has been a long time since I have had to drive regularly on the great British motorway system but it hasn’t taken me long to loathe it. Not so long ago, I enjoyed a holiday in France which involved driving the full length of the country, to the Pyrenees, along French motorways with tolls. It was an absolute pleasure. The M6, however, is a nightmare.
The inside lane is consistently clogged with a train of heavy trucks going nowhere fast and occasionally interspersed with a caravan or an old lady in a Volvo in an obvious state of panic having believed she had turned into the carpark of her local supermarket and not the slip-road to one of our busiest roads.
What is worse, the middle lane is also frequently clogged by HGVs who seem to forget that they have speed limiters installed and, therefore, are not able to go any faster than the similarly restricted trucks that they are trying to overtake. And this then forces all of the other vehicles into the third lane – I will not refer to it as the “fast” lane, for it is not!
I try to drive safely, by keeping a suitable distance (count to 5) between me and the car in front. But if I ever do leave more than a gap equivalent in size to a gnat’s tadger, it is immediately filled by someone swerving to avoid a truck in the middle lane, more often than not without indicating (mirror, signal, manoeuvre). More often than not it is a “white van” with “clean me” humorously (not) written on the dirty rear doors, around which I am unable to see, and which proceeds to hover on and off his brake lights for the next thirty miles or so.
As I am driving a TT, every boy racer in a toy racing car (Mazdas, MGs, Chrysler Crossfires, Porsche Boxters and the like) or a Golf GTI, seems to feel honour bound to undertake me. Fortunately, you can see these guys coming from quite a distance because they have their fog lights glaring even in the height of summer (it is illegal). And at night you can see their fake-tan orange faces, dimly lit by the glow from the Blackberry Pearl or Borg-like hands-free earpieces permanently stuck to their ears or the reflection from their Tom Tom screen which obscure the view.
Tailgating, poor lane discipline, not indicating, undertaking, women drivers, Volvos and flat caps. It is a miracle that I ever make it to the office in the morning. The only reason I do is because I seem to average a speed of about 10 miles per hour. Admittedly this is an average of brief seconds of doing the national speed limit (:) - honest) and the couple of years that I seem to sit in stopped traffic between junctions 11 and 10.
Now, where did I put my valium?
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?
Monday, 11 February 2008
Strange Visitors
Does this describe you?
I seem to get some very strange visitors to my blog. These strange visitors find me through some very weird search engine searches. One of the most common seems to be a double whammy on "swingers" and "caravans". For some reason these phrases are often accompanied by the search term "cheshire" or "north wales". Well, for those of you who came via such a route, you may wish to view my entry Cheshire Swingers..........enjoy!
I am not sure why I am so surprised that swinging is so popular in Cheshire or North Wales. But I am. But, will someone please, please tell me why you do it in caravans?!?
There are other popular searches that seem to find me. Typically these would involve a "kat deeley" or a "julia roberts" or a "kylie" or "suzannah reid" and various spelling derivatives thereof. Now these are all fine looking women and I have had close contact with at least two of them (see "Sleeping With Julia Roberts" and "Planes, Trains and Automobiles Part 6" and I am sure we have all been propositioned by Sarah Lancashire!! But, you would be surprised how often these searches are accompanied by the word "porn" or "naked" or "stockings". Shame on you!
Well, I bet you can't wait until I tell you about the steamy weekend I once passed in a trailer-tent in Staffordshire with Anni-Frid and Agnetha, the babes from Abba........."Abba" is by far and away the single most commonly used search term that finds me. And, I can only remember mentioning them the once (here) but I guess I did so in an article which started with the word "porn". Enjoy.
Oh, and Happy Caravaning!
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!
Saturday, 2 February 2008
Blair's Second-Hand Babe
Blair’s Second-hand Babe
I like to read the Times on a plane journey and my new job looks as if it will take me to the beautiful city of Prague in the Czech Republic every other week or so. For a while at least. The trip takes about two hours, which is just about long enough for me to read the paper, do the Times2 quick crossword, and, complete the Killer Sudoku…..unless it is a particularly difficult one….or unless the stewardesses are particularly distracting.
Actually, on my last trip I was particularly distracted by the advertisement on the back of the antimacassars. You know, those paper-like things that cover the seat headrest and flaps over the back. They were originally a piece of cloth protecting a seat headrest from staining by hair oil. The term is derived from Rowland's Macassar Oil, first manufactured in about 1793.
The ad read: ”The (crossed out!) David’s new Skoda Fabia with MP3 connection…because listening to “Love Is In The Air” on the road sounds as good as in the air” followed by the strapline “Love at first drive!”….with a picture of a bright orange car.
I was offended on several levels. Firstly, it is just a bad advert. I can only assume that it was originally “crafted” in Czech and, well, just translated very, very badly. Secondly, my name is “David” and, as you all know, I drive a classic, black, 3.2 litre, V6 Audi TT dream machine with an iPOD interface. I wouldn’t be seen dead in a Fabia. At least not driving one. And you wouldn’t recognise me if I was a passenger. I would be in disguise. Incognito. Nor would you catch me listening to “Love Is In The Air”. Not since about 1978. I do not posses any John Paul Young music at all.
I suspect that it is a subliminal message aimed at the cabin crew. “Love-is-in-the-air.com” is a dating site for cabin crew! I always suspected that the Fabia was aimed at the trolly dolly market.
I was also distracted on the flight by a tiny reference to a previous article on another day – which I missed – referring to Ruth Kelly, Secretary of State for Transport, and her time as Entz Rep (Entertainments Representative) at Queen’s College, Oxford. The suggestion seemed to be that it was unlikely that Ruth could organise anything entertaining given her personality (or lack of it) and her leanings towards Opus Dei….unless you are into mortification of the flesh, that is. I’m not.
This distracted me because a) I too went to Queen’s College Oxford and b) I used to be Entz Rep. I think I must have been Entz Rep a year or so before Ruth was. The position of Entz Rep was an elected post and a member of the Junior Common Room (JCR) Committee. I organised discos known as sweaty bops. They took place in a packed beer cellar. It got very warm and condensation and perspirations would literally drip from the low ceilings. I organised cocktail parties and would often get tipsy trying out different recipes. Film nights. Themed parties – Valentines, Halloween, Fancy Dress. You get the idea.
I remember Ruth quite well. She was a couple of years below me. She was taking PPE (Politics, Philosophy and Economics) while I was doing Modern History. She was slimmer then. More fresh faced. But, even then she had the same hairstyle. She was also politically active back then too. And in the Labour Party.
But she was someone else’s babe before she was Tony’s (Blair’s). She was one of Nye’s Babes. Nye was and is a good mate of mine. He was JCR President at the time, for which he was rewarded with status and a huge room. Nye was (and is) blessed with the good looks of a young Charles Dance. Blond. Blue eyed. He was also politically aware. Also in the Labour Party. And, blessed with a social conscience. He was also kind of aloof at the time. He took his politics seriously. More seriously than his History studies at times. He seemed to have little interest in girls. Consequently he had a constant gaggle of young ladies pursuing him. He had a bevy of young socialists hanging on his every word and only too eager to help distribute leaflets, organize a rally and the like. And, Ruth Kelly was part of this entourage. She may have had the same hairstyle, but back in 1987 she had a definite twinkle in her eye. So, sorry Tony, but someone else got to Ruth before you did.
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.
Friday, 11 January 2008
Alfred Hitchcock - The Birds
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! ;)
Friday, 21 December 2007
Letter From America Part 1
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.
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.
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