It Doesn't Taste Like Chicken

It doesn’t taste like chicken

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mid-Life Crisis

Mid-Life Crisis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Illigitimi Non Carborundum

Illigitimi Non Carborundum

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't Look Under The Bed

Don’t Look Under The Bed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Worth every penny. I think not.

Sleeping With Julia Roberts.

Sleeping with Julia Roberts

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anarchy In The UK

Anarchy In The UK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Good Life

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……….