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!

Blair's Second-Hand Babe

Blair’s Second-hand Babe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles Part 2

Belgium is the Ireland of the Netherlands and France. That is to say that people in those countries make Belgian jokes in the same way as un-pc Brits (and I mean the “British” in the correct sense; i.e. non-Irish members of the United Kingdom) do about the Irish.

Well, I do not know if there is too much that can be read into this fact but my experience of travelling to and from Belgian has been “interesting”. Let me quote the examples of two different flights between the Netherlands and Brussels. Bear in mind that this is only a half-an-hour flight.

The first example was on a full flight from Brussels to the Netherlands. Everything had gone to plan. The plane was on time. The passengers had boarded. The multi-lingual safety announcement had been given in French, in Dutch and in English (must really pi*s you off if you are a native Spanish or Mandarin speaker!). And so, we began to taxi to the runway as normal.

Just as we began to pick up speed the guy sat in the aisle two rows in front of me must have suddenly realised that he had left his book or other reading material in his bag in the overhead locker above him. It must have been a compelling read for this gentleman decided to unbuckle his seat belt and stand up to retrieve his book.

As he stood the stewardess (or is that “cabin person”? I get very confused in these PC days. I know that that are no longer “Trolley Dollies” or “Air Hostesses” but exactly what we are supposed/allowed to call them I do not know) at the front of the plane picked up the microphone and stated politely “Sir. Please take your seat as we are about to take off.”

The man acknowledged he had heard by raising his hand but continued to rummage in his luggage. “Sir. Please sit down as we are about to take off.” The plane accelerated. The man rummaged. “Sit down now!” The plane accelerated. The plane lifted off. The plane tilted at a 45-degree angle. The man gently and, as if in slow motion, fell backwards and, as if in a cartoon, rolled the full length of the aisle until he hit the back of the plane. There was a dull thud. He stayed at the back of the plane until it levelled off and the cabin crew (“stewards” and “stewardesses”?) were able to come to his aid.

Thankfully he was OK and with nothing more than his ego bruised and paperback ruffled he retook his seat and began to read his book. There was, however, an almost audible and synchronised collective thought amongst all of the Dutch passengers: “Belgians!”

My second Belgian flight story was a little more colourful. Again I was travelling from Brussels to Amsterdam. (NB. I have since discovered the simple pleasure of the international train between these two great capital cities. Thankfully).

As ever, I was one of the first to board the plane. These days luggage space on board planes is rather tight and if you leave it too late to board then you run the risk of not having a space for your PC bag and the other piece of luggage which contains your toothbrush, razor (even beardies have to shave!), duty free (not any more unfortunately – you can stick your European Union if abolition of duty free is seen to be progress!) and your dirty smalls. If you can’t squeeze it under the seat in front of you, you run the risk that some surly member of the cabin crew will snatch it from your grasp in return for the mandatory docket and banish said baggage to the hold, with the prospect of a further loss of 45 minutes of your life as you stand next to a whining, beeping, revolving luggage carousel waiting to be reunited with said bags.

Unusually I was sat in a window seat. I usually prefer to sit in an aisle. Aisle seats have a number of advantages over other seats: 1) You are able to recover your luggage (if it has not been snatched and banished) more easily and vacate the plane more rapidly upon arrival, 2) in the event of an emergency you trample fewer fellow passengers in your blind panic of a rush to the emergency exits, 3) you can stretch your legs occasionally between trolleys and so avoid the risk of deep vein thrombosis, and 4) in the event of a pretty one, you can ogle the stewardess.

I think that most travelling men will have to admit that there is still something very sexy about a girl in uniform. This sexiness is multiplied several times by the added coincidence of 1) makeup, 2) the fact that this is an old-fashioned girl that still serves her man, and 3) rumours of stockings and suspenders, the Mile High Club and good time parties back at the crew’s stopover hotel! There is not a red-blooded male that has not travelled by air and, when blessed with a pretty one (which is increasingly rare, especially on BA domestic flights. This is because the profession is being taken over by Julian Clarey wannabes) and not hoped that the stewardess would actually simulate blowing into the top up pipe of the lifejacket during the safety demonstration. There is something very stimulating about pursed rouged lips around a pipe……

Similarly, we all know that it is a bloke that chooses the uniforms for all of the airlines. Blouses rather too tight and gaping around the nipple area. Skirts rather too short and rather too tight around the bum. High heels. In any case, the aisle is the best seat from which to watch the stewardess cross and uncross her legs during take-off and landing when she is sat at the jump seat at the front!

And so, I was a little pissed off to find myself in the window seat and soon found myself looking out of the window. Well, what else is there to do? I noticed that the plane seemed to be surrounded by armed members of the Belgian police. Hmmn, unusual…..

Eventually the plane began to fill up until there remained just two empty seats – the two next to me. Then, I espied another policeman. This one was on board. This one was making his way down the aisle towards me. This policeman was towing two reluctant passenger handcuffed together behind him. He un-cuffed his prisoners, ensured they sat down in the seats next to me, and he left.

I felt a tad uncomfortable in my window seat. The two prisoners looked like they had just escaped from a Hollywood film set. The film would have been called something like “Serial Gangster and his Bitch: Escape to Belgium”.

We did not introduce ourselves or exchange pleasantries. The bloke, who had the aisle seat looked like your typical South American drug dealer. He was tall with long dark hair tied back in a ponytail. He sported a goatee and a silver tooth. A medallion. He wore a black sleeveless shirt that showed off his not-inconsiderable muscles and his prison tattoos, and, leather pants.

His slim, gum-chewing, buxom girlfriend was dressed like a hooker, similarly dark-haired, "blinged" and tattooed. Her cleavage was impressively squeezed into a boob tube that was cut off to show her pierced midriff and six-pack. She had an impossibly tiny denim skirt which revealed a lot of thigh above high-heeled, knee length shiny black boots. I was sure that she must have her own website……and that it would be a popular one!

These pair were clearly “no-do-gooders” being extradited from Belgium to the Netherlands. Both were clearly stoned. The woman in particular was out of it and proceeded to rest her head on my shoulder and fall asleep. She dribbled. A growing damp patch soon began to fill my shirt sleeve. I did not complain. I did not move. I tried not to look at her bosom or thighs for fear that her man might be watching. So, I fixed my gaze out of the window until we landed in Amsterdam.

All the other passengers left the plane before the armed Dutch police officer came on board, re-cuffed his guests and rescued me.

This was the one and only time I have been the last to get off a plane. I prefer the aisle seat. I travel by train between Brussels and the Netherlands now!