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.