So then, now the dust has settled, let me admit to my part in the fans' meeting with Pompey's owner Sulaiman al Fahim last Friday evening (the minutes of which can be read here).
Organisers attempted to keep the meet quiet because they didn't want a media circus, but obviously if something is being organised in an open forum like the internet it's difficult to keep anything secret.
But the only media present when we arrived at Fratton Park were from the club's local newspaper, The News. And they would not have been doing their job had they not been aware.
The man himself came across as affable and keen to win over the fans. But he still failed to convince most of those present. For my part, I suggested to him that he had been very naive in dealing with the media and that he should be more aware of the bad press the club was receiving nationally and locally at the moment.
One supporter made the point that the club was currently a 'laughing stock' and it was difficult to argue with that assertion. Al Fahim was not to be moved from his main theme of the evening, however, which was that he had secured £50m-worth of investment for the club and that, one £50m debt aside, the club should be debt-free in November. Or January, depending on legal niceties.
We're not in a position to start campaigning for him to leave - though the days when the whole crowd used to chant "DEACON OUT!" and shake Fratton's rafters is still one of my happiest memories - and we have to afford him the chance to prove himself.
He wants to have another meeting with fans' representatives in six weeks' time. If he's injected that £50m we'll probably let him wear a replica shirt; if he hasn't ... well, he's bought himself six weeks grace.
We'll just have to wait and see.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
The Sun always shines on the winner
I caught just a little of BBC Breakfast this morning - it was at the moment the wonderful Sian Williams asked if The Sun's withdrawal of its support for Labour will affect the result of next year's general election.
I'm sure there are some, many of them working in the Murdoch empire, who believe it will. Personally I believe apart from those who read Socialist Worker and the Daily Mail, the majority of newspaper readers aren't likely to be aware of the political leanings of their chosen organ.
Those who take The Sun for instance are hardly likely to put "because it backs New Labour" as their no1 reason for purchasing the paper. In fact they're not likely to see the question at all unless it sits on page three, where luscious Lavinia from Letchworth opines that "I believe data collection of the demographic of Sun readers is essential to the well-being of small children and animals in our country and I applaud the steps being taken by News International."
My own political leanings are slightly left of centre, but that is not necessarily reflected in my choice of reading. I get a national newspaper only at weekends and am just as likely to buy The Times or The Independent as I am the Guardian. I've even been known to take the Daily Telegraph if it has a decent DVD to give away.
And, despite finding many of his views abhorrent, I thoroughly enjoy reading the columns of motoring fascist Jeremy Clarkson.
For all the political posturing of The Sun, the exchange of horses mid-stream is irrelevant to the result: Labour will lose and the Tories will win, despite the absence of any tangible policies. That's a given. Gordon Brown has made sure of that.
All The Sun has done is make sure it doesn't back the loser. And you can't blame them for that.
I'm sure there are some, many of them working in the Murdoch empire, who believe it will. Personally I believe apart from those who read Socialist Worker and the Daily Mail, the majority of newspaper readers aren't likely to be aware of the political leanings of their chosen organ.
Those who take The Sun for instance are hardly likely to put "because it backs New Labour" as their no1 reason for purchasing the paper. In fact they're not likely to see the question at all unless it sits on page three, where luscious Lavinia from Letchworth opines that "I believe data collection of the demographic of Sun readers is essential to the well-being of small children and animals in our country and I applaud the steps being taken by News International."
My own political leanings are slightly left of centre, but that is not necessarily reflected in my choice of reading. I get a national newspaper only at weekends and am just as likely to buy The Times or The Independent as I am the Guardian. I've even been known to take the Daily Telegraph if it has a decent DVD to give away.
And, despite finding many of his views abhorrent, I thoroughly enjoy reading the columns of motoring fascist Jeremy Clarkson.
For all the political posturing of The Sun, the exchange of horses mid-stream is irrelevant to the result: Labour will lose and the Tories will win, despite the absence of any tangible policies. That's a given. Gordon Brown has made sure of that.
All The Sun has done is make sure it doesn't back the loser. And you can't blame them for that.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Getting to work is an adrenaline rush
I walk into work these days. And so I should, it's only just over a mile as the crow flies or a little bit more than that the way a lardarse ambles.
That's not to say I don't arrive at the office a steaming, sweaty mess, like a jogger. I do. But it's not just down to the fact I'm fat, sweat a lot and my thighs chafe if I walk more than 100 yards without splaying them out sideways.
It's also nervous tension, because for a large part of the walk I'm on a road with no pavement - or sidewalk if you're one of our trans-Atlantic cousins.
The suggested policy for this is, of course, to walk on the side of the road facing incoming traffic. That in itself should not pose too much of a problem. But I have discovered that most of the incoming traffic using this route - I've included a dodgy map, above, for real anoraks or people who are familiar with Petersfield - appear to be heading to work at the East Hants District Council offices and are subsequently in quite a bad mood.
Hence they object to a fat bloke waddling down their side of the road and forcing them to brake if there's a vehicle coming in the other direction. Some of the looks they send in my direction could send a lesser man scurrying into the adjacent undergrowth.
They appear to be suggesting I should walk off the Tarmac and instead wend my way through the knee-high grass, nettles and soft-drink cans, like the squirrels and badgers do. I do keep to the side but draw the line at turning in David Attenborough merely to get to work.
And keeping to the side's not easy. There is a distinct camber on the road which means I walk as if I have a club foot, dragging it behind me, giving the uneasy impression of a psycho leaving the scene of a murder as quickly as my disability will allow.
The only way to keep my feet on the same level would be to face into the road and walk sideways as if I was keeping close to a wall, like a prisoner-of-war attempting to evade a camp searchlight. And that, quite simply, is just not worth the embarrassment.
No wonder some of the drivers mouth obscenities at me for having the audacity not to trust my journey to the internal combustion engine.
I'll think I'll get myself a Lambretta ... and maybe a fish-tail parka.
That's not to say I don't arrive at the office a steaming, sweaty mess, like a jogger. I do. But it's not just down to the fact I'm fat, sweat a lot and my thighs chafe if I walk more than 100 yards without splaying them out sideways.
It's also nervous tension, because for a large part of the walk I'm on a road with no pavement - or sidewalk if you're one of our trans-Atlantic cousins.
The suggested policy for this is, of course, to walk on the side of the road facing incoming traffic. That in itself should not pose too much of a problem. But I have discovered that most of the incoming traffic using this route - I've included a dodgy map, above, for real anoraks or people who are familiar with Petersfield - appear to be heading to work at the East Hants District Council offices and are subsequently in quite a bad mood.
Hence they object to a fat bloke waddling down their side of the road and forcing them to brake if there's a vehicle coming in the other direction. Some of the looks they send in my direction could send a lesser man scurrying into the adjacent undergrowth.
They appear to be suggesting I should walk off the Tarmac and instead wend my way through the knee-high grass, nettles and soft-drink cans, like the squirrels and badgers do. I do keep to the side but draw the line at turning in David Attenborough merely to get to work.
And keeping to the side's not easy. There is a distinct camber on the road which means I walk as if I have a club foot, dragging it behind me, giving the uneasy impression of a psycho leaving the scene of a murder as quickly as my disability will allow.
The only way to keep my feet on the same level would be to face into the road and walk sideways as if I was keeping close to a wall, like a prisoner-of-war attempting to evade a camp searchlight. And that, quite simply, is just not worth the embarrassment.
No wonder some of the drivers mouth obscenities at me for having the audacity not to trust my journey to the internal combustion engine.
I'll think I'll get myself a Lambretta ... and maybe a fish-tail parka.
Monday, September 28, 2009
My better half...
I have realised that I often refer to my darling wife in this column yet have not really said much about her, other than to refer to her as SWMBO (‘she who must be obeyed’, as used by Horace Rumpole).
Jackie is younger than me, much more attractive than I am – to both genders probably – and much more intelligent than I.
She’s a teacher; the head of maths at a prep school. And she’s one of those teachers who didn’t go into the profession because of the holiday entitlements.
She genuinely takes a pride in seeing the improvement in the youngsters, educationally and morally. The sort of teacher you’d want your kids to be taught by if you were paying for a private education … which is just as well.
She is also my very own Mrs Malaprop, which I find hugely entertaining and very endearing. One of my favourites recently was when she informed me that she had “drawn a line under the sand”, which while retaining its inference does present a difficult technical issue.
She also recently presented me with a book, Three Men in a Float, which is the tale of three guys travelling from Lowestoft to Lands End in a milk float.
“This is the kind of thing you like, isn’t it?” she said. “Like that guy travelling around Ireland in a fridge.”
Again, technically challenging but I knew she was referring to Tony Hawks’ Round Ireland with a Fridge, which is indeed a thoroughly entertaining read.
I’m very lucky to have her. She makes me laugh and love in equal measure. They do say that behind every great man there’s a great woman – well I’m living proof that there can be a great woman behind even a mediocre man.
Jackie is younger than me, much more attractive than I am – to both genders probably – and much more intelligent than I.
She’s a teacher; the head of maths at a prep school. And she’s one of those teachers who didn’t go into the profession because of the holiday entitlements.
She genuinely takes a pride in seeing the improvement in the youngsters, educationally and morally. The sort of teacher you’d want your kids to be taught by if you were paying for a private education … which is just as well.
She is also my very own Mrs Malaprop, which I find hugely entertaining and very endearing. One of my favourites recently was when she informed me that she had “drawn a line under the sand”, which while retaining its inference does present a difficult technical issue.
She also recently presented me with a book, Three Men in a Float, which is the tale of three guys travelling from Lowestoft to Lands End in a milk float.
“This is the kind of thing you like, isn’t it?” she said. “Like that guy travelling around Ireland in a fridge.”
Again, technically challenging but I knew she was referring to Tony Hawks’ Round Ireland with a Fridge, which is indeed a thoroughly entertaining read.
I’m very lucky to have her. She makes me laugh and love in equal measure. They do say that behind every great man there’s a great woman – well I’m living proof that there can be a great woman behind even a mediocre man.
Get 'em off! (ooer missus)
My one-man crusade to get gmtv taken off air continues.
While I wake up to BBC Radio 4’s Today programme on my radio alarm, because I’m second down to the kitchen every morning, I am forced to endure the banality that is gmtv.
I have nothing against Ben Shepherd or Andrew Castle, who both seem decent chaps, but I admit to an intense dislike of Emma Crosby*, who is so far out of her depth she should now be over the horizon; nor am I too keen on Penny Smith, who seems to be more concerned with self-promotion than anything else.
Yet, as difficult as it is to ignore personalities, particularly with a tv programme that insists on perpetuating the cult of personality, I’m going to try to concentrate on issues.
The 7am news on Today informed me that election-winning German chancellor Angela Merkel was now in a position to ditch her coalition with the centre-left Social Democrats (SPD), and move towards a coalition with the right-leaning, pro-business Free Democrats (FDP).
Not surprisingly, for a radio station with decent journalistic values, a German government moving to the right, in however small an increment, was considered newsworthy.
Not so on gmtv though. I waited and waited, but the 7.30 bulletin finished with the market-crashing news that an act in the equally banal X Factor had been disqualified because one of the members of the band had lied about her age.
After my darling wife had cleared up the bowl of Golden Nuggets I stole from our youngest and hurled in the direction of the grinning Penny Smith, she decided to take me to task over my sudden interest in German politics.
My wife and I often have heated discussions on politics – in general that is, not just those in Germany. She comes from the side which would have accused Adolf Hitler in the 1930s as being part of a loony-left conspiracy, while I, wearing my social conscience like a badge of honour, purport to be a socialist, while being happy to enjoy a comfortable middle-class lifestyle and not even purchasing the occasional copy of the Big Issue.
She asked why I thought voters were moving to the right. She believed it was because they were fed up with the ‘socialist’ government of Gordon Brown – I use the inverted commas advisedly – while I suggested, tongue-in-cheek, that maybe they intended to annex the Sudetenland, omitting to point out the obvious flaw in her argument: that Brown was not in the German government.
This led on to a debate about whether the current New Labour government – or indeed party – was left-wing in any way, shape or form.
By the time I’d finished my socialist diatribe against Blair and Brown’s shift to the right, she and her two sons had already departed the family home, leaving me to contemplate my high blood pressure, a cold cup of coffee and soggy piece of flaccid toast.
But at least I could now turn over to Sky Sports News for my own helping of mind-numbing gossip.
*Apparently this vacuous bint is on £120,000 a year. And yet we still harp on about MPs’ expenses…
While I wake up to BBC Radio 4’s Today programme on my radio alarm, because I’m second down to the kitchen every morning, I am forced to endure the banality that is gmtv.
I have nothing against Ben Shepherd or Andrew Castle, who both seem decent chaps, but I admit to an intense dislike of Emma Crosby*, who is so far out of her depth she should now be over the horizon; nor am I too keen on Penny Smith, who seems to be more concerned with self-promotion than anything else.
Yet, as difficult as it is to ignore personalities, particularly with a tv programme that insists on perpetuating the cult of personality, I’m going to try to concentrate on issues.
The 7am news on Today informed me that election-winning German chancellor Angela Merkel was now in a position to ditch her coalition with the centre-left Social Democrats (SPD), and move towards a coalition with the right-leaning, pro-business Free Democrats (FDP).
Not surprisingly, for a radio station with decent journalistic values, a German government moving to the right, in however small an increment, was considered newsworthy.
Not so on gmtv though. I waited and waited, but the 7.30 bulletin finished with the market-crashing news that an act in the equally banal X Factor had been disqualified because one of the members of the band had lied about her age.
After my darling wife had cleared up the bowl of Golden Nuggets I stole from our youngest and hurled in the direction of the grinning Penny Smith, she decided to take me to task over my sudden interest in German politics.
My wife and I often have heated discussions on politics – in general that is, not just those in Germany. She comes from the side which would have accused Adolf Hitler in the 1930s as being part of a loony-left conspiracy, while I, wearing my social conscience like a badge of honour, purport to be a socialist, while being happy to enjoy a comfortable middle-class lifestyle and not even purchasing the occasional copy of the Big Issue.
She asked why I thought voters were moving to the right. She believed it was because they were fed up with the ‘socialist’ government of Gordon Brown – I use the inverted commas advisedly – while I suggested, tongue-in-cheek, that maybe they intended to annex the Sudetenland, omitting to point out the obvious flaw in her argument: that Brown was not in the German government.
This led on to a debate about whether the current New Labour government – or indeed party – was left-wing in any way, shape or form.
By the time I’d finished my socialist diatribe against Blair and Brown’s shift to the right, she and her two sons had already departed the family home, leaving me to contemplate my high blood pressure, a cold cup of coffee and soggy piece of flaccid toast.
But at least I could now turn over to Sky Sports News for my own helping of mind-numbing gossip.
*Apparently this vacuous bint is on £120,000 a year. And yet we still harp on about MPs’ expenses…
Friday, September 25, 2009
It made me laugh anyway
Sometimes Google alerts can provide a good laugh by just teasing a story with the first few lines.
As an example I give you one which came through an hour or so ago…
HEADLINE: Man drowns while diving for golf balls
SOURCE: Boston Herald
Jerry Gunderson started diving for golf balls in 1953, when he was 19…
Well, to be honest, I thought, he’s done bloody well to hold his breath for that long!
As an example I give you one which came through an hour or so ago…
HEADLINE: Man drowns while diving for golf balls
SOURCE: Boston Herald
Jerry Gunderson started diving for golf balls in 1953, when he was 19…
Well, to be honest, I thought, he’s done bloody well to hold his breath for that long!
Thursday, September 24, 2009
ITV drama is brought to you in association with scepticism
Last night saw the beginning of the last series of Midsomer Murders on ITV.
And though I've been something of a regular viewer - it's very easy to sit through - I think they're right to pull the plug. It really is showing its age.
There are far too many flaws in the plot and increasingly I find myself saying to SWMBO "Why the hell doesn't he just (insert whatever he should doing here)?"
And, even if you put aside the natural scepticism which would make you wonder how there are possibly any residents left in the small county of Midsomer, one is always faced with the inevitability that DI Tom Barnaby's wife, Joyce, and daughter, Cully, will be involved with the victims and the perpetrator somehow.
This inevitability seems to follow around John Nettles - who has played Barnaby for 12 years - as the same scenario was present in Bergerac, which ran from 1981-1991. Without fail, when a crime was committed you needed to simply find out who was staying with Jim's father-in-law, Charlie Hungerford, or who he'd just gone into business with. And there was the murderer / fraudster / drug dealer.
Getting a detective on the case was uneccessary. All that was needed was to have somebody monitoring Charlie's diary and you could stop a crime before it was committed.
If I lived in Midsomer the last thing I would do would be to attend a fete / choir / cycle ride / charity event involving either of the female Barnabys for it was certain somebody would meet an untimely end and I would end up either as a suspect or a mute bystander encouraged to smile inanely when somebody purporting to be a neighbour hove into view.
One would experience the same emotions if one had saved up to have the holiday of a lifetime only to find, when having high tea in the foyer of the luxury hotel, Hercules Poirot or Miss Marple checking in at reception.
You just know everything's about to go Pete Tong.
And though I've been something of a regular viewer - it's very easy to sit through - I think they're right to pull the plug. It really is showing its age.
There are far too many flaws in the plot and increasingly I find myself saying to SWMBO "Why the hell doesn't he just (insert whatever he should doing here)?"
And, even if you put aside the natural scepticism which would make you wonder how there are possibly any residents left in the small county of Midsomer, one is always faced with the inevitability that DI Tom Barnaby's wife, Joyce, and daughter, Cully, will be involved with the victims and the perpetrator somehow.
This inevitability seems to follow around John Nettles - who has played Barnaby for 12 years - as the same scenario was present in Bergerac, which ran from 1981-1991. Without fail, when a crime was committed you needed to simply find out who was staying with Jim's father-in-law, Charlie Hungerford, or who he'd just gone into business with. And there was the murderer / fraudster / drug dealer.
Getting a detective on the case was uneccessary. All that was needed was to have somebody monitoring Charlie's diary and you could stop a crime before it was committed.
If I lived in Midsomer the last thing I would do would be to attend a fete / choir / cycle ride / charity event involving either of the female Barnabys for it was certain somebody would meet an untimely end and I would end up either as a suspect or a mute bystander encouraged to smile inanely when somebody purporting to be a neighbour hove into view.
One would experience the same emotions if one had saved up to have the holiday of a lifetime only to find, when having high tea in the foyer of the luxury hotel, Hercules Poirot or Miss Marple checking in at reception.
You just know everything's about to go Pete Tong.
We'll see...
I see Harry 'Fork-Tongue' Redknapp has 'ruled out a move' for former Pompey defender Sol Campbell.
So expect the ex-England man to sign for Spurs on January 1 then...
Apparently Campbell was disappointed in the facilities at Notts County. What he wasn't quoted as saying was: "I thought I'd got away from that sort of s**t when I left Pompey."
So expect the ex-England man to sign for Spurs on January 1 then...
Apparently Campbell was disappointed in the facilities at Notts County. What he wasn't quoted as saying was: "I thought I'd got away from that sort of s**t when I left Pompey."
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Of pies and vests
I lead a pretty nondescript life. The highlight of my working day is when I am offered a lift to the local Tesco superstore, where I can purchase some lunch.
It's an exciting time for me because I never know what I'm going to have. I don't go in with a set menu in mind. No chicken & bacon sandwich and a packet of cheese & onion crisps for me.
My meal is determined largely by what is in the reduced section, which is why it can be as obscure as six slices of chicken roll, a bag of apple pieces and an air freshener.
If the reduced section contains only raw ingredients - a leek and a microwavable shepherd's pie for one, for example - I'm forced to look elsewhere at the 'offers' section.
That's why my lunch quite often consists of a quiche (half-price) and a tub of cottage cheese (two for £1.50).
Today, the journey to Tesco enjoyed even more of a frisson than normal because the ticket machine was out of order necessitating an extra walk across to the far side of the car park.
It is unexpected turns of events such as these which make life so rivetting. That and the sight of a class of school-children being herded across the road by their teacher. While there is nothing unusual in that per se, on this occasion every child was wearing a high-visibility vest, just so they won't get knocked down.
The teachers were allowed to play Russian roulette with the traffic though, which is probably their equivalent of an exciting lunchtime jaunt to Tesco. I said to my chauffeur, Lee, that they looked like a really young apprentice scheme for council workmen.
Yet on the way out of the car park we saw another class of children - they may even have been from the same school - taking the same route wearing nothing more visible than their normal school uniform.
"Do you think I'd be within my legal rights to mow them down?" asked Lee with a laugh.
He didn't attempt it, of course - but it might make for an interesting test case.
It's an exciting time for me because I never know what I'm going to have. I don't go in with a set menu in mind. No chicken & bacon sandwich and a packet of cheese & onion crisps for me.
My meal is determined largely by what is in the reduced section, which is why it can be as obscure as six slices of chicken roll, a bag of apple pieces and an air freshener.
If the reduced section contains only raw ingredients - a leek and a microwavable shepherd's pie for one, for example - I'm forced to look elsewhere at the 'offers' section.
That's why my lunch quite often consists of a quiche (half-price) and a tub of cottage cheese (two for £1.50).
Today, the journey to Tesco enjoyed even more of a frisson than normal because the ticket machine was out of order necessitating an extra walk across to the far side of the car park.
It is unexpected turns of events such as these which make life so rivetting. That and the sight of a class of school-children being herded across the road by their teacher. While there is nothing unusual in that per se, on this occasion every child was wearing a high-visibility vest, just so they won't get knocked down.
The teachers were allowed to play Russian roulette with the traffic though, which is probably their equivalent of an exciting lunchtime jaunt to Tesco. I said to my chauffeur, Lee, that they looked like a really young apprentice scheme for council workmen.
Yet on the way out of the car park we saw another class of children - they may even have been from the same school - taking the same route wearing nothing more visible than their normal school uniform.
"Do you think I'd be within my legal rights to mow them down?" asked Lee with a laugh.
He didn't attempt it, of course - but it might make for an interesting test case.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Just cut it out
I’ve just had my hair cut and it was a tortuous experience.
The woman to whom I normally entrust my greying locks was shut “due to illness and holidays” the notice said, though of course that should be “owing to” not “due to”.
I resisted the urge to take a permanent marker to the window and change the wording, but it already had me on edge as I found another hair stylist.
Once the operation actually started I was reminded why I normally patronised the other stylist despite her grammatical shortcomings. I’m not good at small talk. Despite not knowing that due is an adjective and therefore must modify a noun, Tracey is very adept at cutting hair and doesn’t engage me in small talk.
I have no issues with the way this second female chopped and shaped my follicles, but I struggled to avoid tedious conversation.
She managed to establish that I WAS on my lunch hour; I DID work locally; and that I did not watch much TV because my wife enjoys X Factor and soap operas. Apparently all “us girls like watching stuff like Peter and Katie”. I resisted the urge to tell her that even my wife draws the line at such tripe.
I also struggled to resist the temptation to join in the conversations her contemporaries were having with their clients, in much the same way she joined in.
In just a 15-minute session I learned:
• The credit crunch is all the fault of the immigrants
• Swine flu is on its way back and its worse than ever
• ‘They’ don’t test vaccines properly
• The first swine flu inoculations affected people’s brains so badly that they’re now in wheelchairs
• And that the Great Wall of China is the only man-made object visible from the moon
I was pretty sure most of them were incorrect and knew damned well the first and last were. But I resisted.
After my hairdresser had ascertained that business was picking up at our firm she actually made me feel personally responsible for the laying-off of two of my colleagues earlier in the year. She was only just able to prevent herself from accusing me of bringing down Lehman Brothers. Or so it seemed to me.
At that point I decided I would say nothing further despite the ridiculous assertions which had been winging their way around the salon and stated as 'fact'.
My last words were “please can you trim my eyebrows?” and “thank-you”.
I have decided that in the event of Tracey being in ill in future, I will simply let my hair grow to avoid having to endure the sort of banal chit-chat that almost compelled me to throw myself on to a pair of long-handled hair scissors.
The woman to whom I normally entrust my greying locks was shut “due to illness and holidays” the notice said, though of course that should be “owing to” not “due to”.
I resisted the urge to take a permanent marker to the window and change the wording, but it already had me on edge as I found another hair stylist.
Once the operation actually started I was reminded why I normally patronised the other stylist despite her grammatical shortcomings. I’m not good at small talk. Despite not knowing that due is an adjective and therefore must modify a noun, Tracey is very adept at cutting hair and doesn’t engage me in small talk.
I have no issues with the way this second female chopped and shaped my follicles, but I struggled to avoid tedious conversation.
She managed to establish that I WAS on my lunch hour; I DID work locally; and that I did not watch much TV because my wife enjoys X Factor and soap operas. Apparently all “us girls like watching stuff like Peter and Katie”. I resisted the urge to tell her that even my wife draws the line at such tripe.
I also struggled to resist the temptation to join in the conversations her contemporaries were having with their clients, in much the same way she joined in.
In just a 15-minute session I learned:
• The credit crunch is all the fault of the immigrants
• Swine flu is on its way back and its worse than ever
• ‘They’ don’t test vaccines properly
• The first swine flu inoculations affected people’s brains so badly that they’re now in wheelchairs
• And that the Great Wall of China is the only man-made object visible from the moon
I was pretty sure most of them were incorrect and knew damned well the first and last were. But I resisted.
After my hairdresser had ascertained that business was picking up at our firm she actually made me feel personally responsible for the laying-off of two of my colleagues earlier in the year. She was only just able to prevent herself from accusing me of bringing down Lehman Brothers. Or so it seemed to me.
At that point I decided I would say nothing further despite the ridiculous assertions which had been winging their way around the salon and stated as 'fact'.
My last words were “please can you trim my eyebrows?” and “thank-you”.
I have decided that in the event of Tracey being in ill in future, I will simply let my hair grow to avoid having to endure the sort of banal chit-chat that almost compelled me to throw myself on to a pair of long-handled hair scissors.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Bad taste alert
Best line I heard over the weekend?
Isn't raping Katie Price a little like shop-lifting at Lidl?
Isn't raping Katie Price a little like shop-lifting at Lidl?
A little bit of politics there . . .
Thirty years ago I left school at 16. I would have given anything to go to university and further my education but, like many working-class kids, I needed to bring money into the house.
That and the fact that, with three O levels, I probably wasn’t bright enough.
Many of my friends have found success professionally despite doing the same as I did. Some work in the City. Some edit newspapers or magazines. And they got there without the benefit of a university education.
For in those days only the elite got to university. Not the elite in the form of the middle and upper classes, but the elite in terms of intelligence. The really bright ones. The people who could quite easily see a career as a doctor or a scientist ahead of them.
The problem these days is that the Government has lost sight of what they really should be trying to achieve.
The aim should be to offer every child, from whatever background, access to a top-quality education to determine – and this is the crux – whether they are bright enough to warrant a place at university.
Instead, university places have been belittled by opening them up to people who, quite simply, shouldn’t be there. People whose academic achievement in my day would have been a slightly dodgy looking ashtray made in metalwork – or resistant materials as I believe it’s called nowadays.
Now, they saddle themselves with debt in order to study a subject which previously was the preserve of the specialist round in Mastermind – Graffiti during the French Renaissance or some such – only to end up doing the same job they would have found themselves in if they’d worked their way up from the IT equivalent of the shop-floor.
If we really are concerned about tuition fees and the debts incurred by students, let’s make university places a privilege not a right.
There are colleges out there where you can study things like the ‘Philosophical Use of the Internal Combustion Engine 1930-1934’ and you probably don’t have to leave home to study it.
More and more I’m becoming convinced that going to university is, for many, just a jolly and a chance to live a riotous lifestyle among like-minded hedonists.
Instead it should be the first step to being an asset to the country and the community – that way we won’t have to worry about tuition fees and student debt to the same extent.
That and the fact that, with three O levels, I probably wasn’t bright enough.
Many of my friends have found success professionally despite doing the same as I did. Some work in the City. Some edit newspapers or magazines. And they got there without the benefit of a university education.
For in those days only the elite got to university. Not the elite in the form of the middle and upper classes, but the elite in terms of intelligence. The really bright ones. The people who could quite easily see a career as a doctor or a scientist ahead of them.
The problem these days is that the Government has lost sight of what they really should be trying to achieve.
The aim should be to offer every child, from whatever background, access to a top-quality education to determine – and this is the crux – whether they are bright enough to warrant a place at university.
Instead, university places have been belittled by opening them up to people who, quite simply, shouldn’t be there. People whose academic achievement in my day would have been a slightly dodgy looking ashtray made in metalwork – or resistant materials as I believe it’s called nowadays.
Now, they saddle themselves with debt in order to study a subject which previously was the preserve of the specialist round in Mastermind – Graffiti during the French Renaissance or some such – only to end up doing the same job they would have found themselves in if they’d worked their way up from the IT equivalent of the shop-floor.
If we really are concerned about tuition fees and the debts incurred by students, let’s make university places a privilege not a right.
There are colleges out there where you can study things like the ‘Philosophical Use of the Internal Combustion Engine 1930-1934’ and you probably don’t have to leave home to study it.
More and more I’m becoming convinced that going to university is, for many, just a jolly and a chance to live a riotous lifestyle among like-minded hedonists.
Instead it should be the first step to being an asset to the country and the community – that way we won’t have to worry about tuition fees and student debt to the same extent.
It goes against the grain . . .
Craig Bellamy is an irritating little oik, with an attitude problem, who should not be allowed anywhere near a professional football club (unless it’s Pompey and he’s in good goalscoring form).
However, I’m at a loss to understand why Rio Ferdinand and John O’Shea took it upon themselves to remonstrate with him yesterday when he manhandled a Manchester United fan on the pitch.
Presumably, while Ferdinand and O’Shea accept that it is against the law, Premiership rules and club regulations for a member of the public to invade the pitch in this manner, it is only a mild offence if committed by a United fan who confronts a whinging little t*t!
Sorry, hopefully for the only time in my life, I’m on Bellamy’s side on this one. His actions should go without censure – he was only doing what the stewards should have done.
Brian Clough is probably turning in his grave.
However, I’m at a loss to understand why Rio Ferdinand and John O’Shea took it upon themselves to remonstrate with him yesterday when he manhandled a Manchester United fan on the pitch.
Presumably, while Ferdinand and O’Shea accept that it is against the law, Premiership rules and club regulations for a member of the public to invade the pitch in this manner, it is only a mild offence if committed by a United fan who confronts a whinging little t*t!
Sorry, hopefully for the only time in my life, I’m on Bellamy’s side on this one. His actions should go without censure – he was only doing what the stewards should have done.
Brian Clough is probably turning in his grave.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
No more heroes any more
Name-dropping alert
WARNING: IF YOU DON’T LIKE CELEBRITIES THIS ENTRY WON’T BE FOR YOU
I’ve heard it said that you should never meet your heroes, for they seldom live up to your expectations.
I was reminded of this idiom yesterday, when a friend of mine – having read Tuesday’s blog – asked which of my heroes I had met, given that I was too young to have shared a pint and a bag of pork scratchings with Isambard Kingdom Brunel.
And, he persisted, did I still feel the same way after meeting them?
It got me thinking – and that generally ends in me writing a blog entry. So who have I met, who was (before the event) or still is, a hero of mine?
Well, I met George Best a couple of times, and despite the fact he was as the newt on the first occasion it didn’t damage the esteem in which I held him. Probably because everybody knew he enjoyed a quick one – or 10 – anyway . . .
I interviewed Jasper Carrott and he was very pleasant and humble; I met the late, great Jimmy Dickinson (Pompey legend) and he was everything I expected him to be; the much-missed Oscar-winning film director Anthony Minghella, was also a thoroughly decent chap in the flesh; the legendary Eric Sykes, a truly gifted comedy writer who is as warm and friendly as his on-screen persona suggests; and of course my colleague Henry’s old man, Peter Alliss, is as avuncular in person as he sounds on the box.
One of my heroes will mean nothing to most people. I grew up reading the Portsmouth News, which had an award-winning columnist called Keith Newbery.
I loved his style of writing, his wit and his intuition. He inspired me. And it was Keith who was my first editor when I started my career in journalism. He didn’t disappoint; in fact he far exceeded my expectations. He was – and remains – a huge influence on my journalistic career.
Indeed, I regard many of my friends as heroes – in one way or another they’ve nearly all inspired me. But that’s far too maudlin, so I won’t dwell on it. You want celebrity name-dropping . . .
I’ve looked up to actor Bryan Marshall - whose name may not mean much, though I’m sure you’d recognise his face – ever since as a young kid I was a guest at a charity football match and found myself sitting next to him in the dug-out. He couldn’t have been nicer though he had far better things to do than nursemaid a kid he didn’t even know.
Rick Wakeman is great company – a self-deprecating, self-confessed grumpy old man – and I had the pleasure of spending a morning with him at a charity golf event.
There have been counterpoints of course: people I’ve met who disappointed me. Hampshire and West Indies cricketer Gordon Greenidge, was hugely grumpy when I spoke to him; golfer Sam Torrance was brusque and aloof; and football writer Brian Glanville, whose talent inspired me, came across as very arrogant when we met, albeit briefly.
There are heroes I never got to meet – mainly in my second love of comedy: Eric Morecambe, Tony Hancock, Tommy Cooper, Spike Milligan and footballers Duncan Edwards, Bobby Moore and anybody who was in Pompey’s 1939 FA Cup-winning team.
And there are heroes I still hope to meet: comedians Mark Watson, Rhod Gilbert, Punt and Dennis, Marcus Brigstocke, Paul Merton and David Mitchell; actor Martin Sheen and anybody else who starred in the brilliant The West Wing; Homer Simpson and the world’s number one golfer Tiger Woods.
No musicians anywhere you notice. Comedy and sport have always been my rock ‘n roll. However, I would quite like to meet Chris de Burgh, though I might well spend the rest of my days in a prison cell if I did.
WARNING: IF YOU DON’T LIKE CELEBRITIES THIS ENTRY WON’T BE FOR YOU
I’ve heard it said that you should never meet your heroes, for they seldom live up to your expectations.
I was reminded of this idiom yesterday, when a friend of mine – having read Tuesday’s blog – asked which of my heroes I had met, given that I was too young to have shared a pint and a bag of pork scratchings with Isambard Kingdom Brunel.
And, he persisted, did I still feel the same way after meeting them?
It got me thinking – and that generally ends in me writing a blog entry. So who have I met, who was (before the event) or still is, a hero of mine?
Well, I met George Best a couple of times, and despite the fact he was as the newt on the first occasion it didn’t damage the esteem in which I held him. Probably because everybody knew he enjoyed a quick one – or 10 – anyway . . .
I interviewed Jasper Carrott and he was very pleasant and humble; I met the late, great Jimmy Dickinson (Pompey legend) and he was everything I expected him to be; the much-missed Oscar-winning film director Anthony Minghella, was also a thoroughly decent chap in the flesh; the legendary Eric Sykes, a truly gifted comedy writer who is as warm and friendly as his on-screen persona suggests; and of course my colleague Henry’s old man, Peter Alliss, is as avuncular in person as he sounds on the box.
One of my heroes will mean nothing to most people. I grew up reading the Portsmouth News, which had an award-winning columnist called Keith Newbery.
I loved his style of writing, his wit and his intuition. He inspired me. And it was Keith who was my first editor when I started my career in journalism. He didn’t disappoint; in fact he far exceeded my expectations. He was – and remains – a huge influence on my journalistic career.
Indeed, I regard many of my friends as heroes – in one way or another they’ve nearly all inspired me. But that’s far too maudlin, so I won’t dwell on it. You want celebrity name-dropping . . .
I’ve looked up to actor Bryan Marshall - whose name may not mean much, though I’m sure you’d recognise his face – ever since as a young kid I was a guest at a charity football match and found myself sitting next to him in the dug-out. He couldn’t have been nicer though he had far better things to do than nursemaid a kid he didn’t even know.
Rick Wakeman is great company – a self-deprecating, self-confessed grumpy old man – and I had the pleasure of spending a morning with him at a charity golf event.
There have been counterpoints of course: people I’ve met who disappointed me. Hampshire and West Indies cricketer Gordon Greenidge, was hugely grumpy when I spoke to him; golfer Sam Torrance was brusque and aloof; and football writer Brian Glanville, whose talent inspired me, came across as very arrogant when we met, albeit briefly.
There are heroes I never got to meet – mainly in my second love of comedy: Eric Morecambe, Tony Hancock, Tommy Cooper, Spike Milligan and footballers Duncan Edwards, Bobby Moore and anybody who was in Pompey’s 1939 FA Cup-winning team.
And there are heroes I still hope to meet: comedians Mark Watson, Rhod Gilbert, Punt and Dennis, Marcus Brigstocke, Paul Merton and David Mitchell; actor Martin Sheen and anybody else who starred in the brilliant The West Wing; Homer Simpson and the world’s number one golfer Tiger Woods.
No musicians anywhere you notice. Comedy and sport have always been my rock ‘n roll. However, I would quite like to meet Chris de Burgh, though I might well spend the rest of my days in a prison cell if I did.
Doctor No
Amid all the hoo-ha surrounding the Government's plans to allow people to choose their GP, I kept hearing, this morning, medical experts talking about the effect this could have on 'good doctors', in much the same way my mates and I would discuss good and bad Indian restaurants in the pub.
I find that a little disconcerting. Remind me not to get ill again in a hurry.
I find that a little disconcerting. Remind me not to get ill again in a hurry.
It was always thus
According to this morning's news on the BBC, industrial action has meant that around nine million items of post have been delayed by the Royal Mail.
It's good of them to tell us - how else would we have noticed..?
It's good of them to tell us - how else would we have noticed..?
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Tales from the touchine - week one
Every week during the football season I pen a column for our local newspaper, the Petersfield Post, on the travails of a parent watching youth football. In an ideal world it's a light-hearted piece - though I have been known to occasionally throw my toys out of the pram.
Now I have a blog, I will post the column here every week for your delectation . . . but seven days later than it appears in the newspaper. After all I wouldn't want to damage its sales figures . . .
Here's the first of the new season:
If you’ve been enduring this column for the last five years you’ll be interested to learn I have a ‘new’ role.
If, however, you’re a newcomer, welcome and I’ll gloss over my relegation last season.
That was as temporary manager of the under-14 B team. Having been impressed with the way I got the boys relegated for the first time, Kev (AKA Kelvin), the A team manager, has recruited me as one of his assistants for the new campaign.
Physio Andy (AKA Nurse Gladys) is also working with the ‘minis’ so Kev now has three assistants for both his Saturday and Sunday teams – and I wear number three on the basis he doesn’t have a number four.
Both seasons started last weekend and we were delighted to record victories in both leagues. But it was on the journey home from Saturday’s game when I was reminded of how the game has changed.
My stepson Ben and I were in discussion about the merits of some of the opposition players. “Was he the one with the red adiPure TRX?” asked Ben. “Or the one with the orange Total 90s?”
“He was the number 13,” I said, bemused. “I haven’t a clue what boots he was wearing…”
And I only knew he was talking boots because he has a habit of leaving pages of catalogues scattered throughout the house.
That 10-second conversation encapsulated what’s wrong with football these days. It’s all about gloss. In my day the only difference between the boots we wore were the sizes. Now, a player’s ability is judged by his contemporaries on his choice of footwear.
If you were to turn up wearing a pair of plain, black boots with no brand name emblazoned on them you would be regarded as a no-hoper.
I blame Alan Ball…
Now I have a blog, I will post the column here every week for your delectation . . . but seven days later than it appears in the newspaper. After all I wouldn't want to damage its sales figures . . .
Here's the first of the new season:
If you’ve been enduring this column for the last five years you’ll be interested to learn I have a ‘new’ role.
If, however, you’re a newcomer, welcome and I’ll gloss over my relegation last season.
That was as temporary manager of the under-14 B team. Having been impressed with the way I got the boys relegated for the first time, Kev (AKA Kelvin), the A team manager, has recruited me as one of his assistants for the new campaign.
Physio Andy (AKA Nurse Gladys) is also working with the ‘minis’ so Kev now has three assistants for both his Saturday and Sunday teams – and I wear number three on the basis he doesn’t have a number four.
Both seasons started last weekend and we were delighted to record victories in both leagues. But it was on the journey home from Saturday’s game when I was reminded of how the game has changed.
My stepson Ben and I were in discussion about the merits of some of the opposition players. “Was he the one with the red adiPure TRX?” asked Ben. “Or the one with the orange Total 90s?”
“He was the number 13,” I said, bemused. “I haven’t a clue what boots he was wearing…”
And I only knew he was talking boots because he has a habit of leaving pages of catalogues scattered throughout the house.
That 10-second conversation encapsulated what’s wrong with football these days. It’s all about gloss. In my day the only difference between the boots we wore were the sizes. Now, a player’s ability is judged by his contemporaries on his choice of footwear.
If you were to turn up wearing a pair of plain, black boots with no brand name emblazoned on them you would be regarded as a no-hoper.
I blame Alan Ball…
Maybe it's because I'm grumpy
Maybe it’s because I’ve just finished reading Mark Watson’s Crap at the Environment (blog passim) and am much more conscious of green issues.
Or maybe it’s because I hate gmtv with a passion. Whichever it is, I am at a loss to understand how the producers can justify sending Ross King and Mel B* to Beverly Hills merely to promote a competition to win £100,000, in association with a Beverly Hills hotel.
Avoiding pointless air journeys such as this, is the first, easy step to take to cut down on carbon emissions - and the hot air the duo creates in their ‘chummy’ banter can only damage the environment further. Have they not heard of library footage at gmtv?
Personally I’d rather they spent the money on getting another decent news reporter so they could stop being tv’s version of OK! magazine (just don’t get me started on Carla Romano).
Are gmtv viewers so thick that they don’t realise the location of Beverly Hills and that for £100,000 you can afford an air fare? Are they so stupid that they wouldn’t know what to do with 100 grand? And are they so shallow that they need B-list celebrities to encourage them to enter a competition?
I think we all know the answer is probably ‘yes’.
How else can you explain the fact that in thousands of houses every morning people jump up excitedly from the breakfast table because they realise they know the answer to a multiple-choice question which is only slightly more difficult than ‘what is your name?’
It’s easy because they want thousands of people to phone in and cover the cost of the prize you numbskull. Chewing gum for the eyes? It’s not even that high-brow . . .
And if any of the three people who read this blog on a regular basis use the above link to actually enter the competition I will personally come round to your house under cover of darkness and remove all sharp objects for your own safety.
*And if, as has been suggested by a colleague of mine, they were in the US anyway, they'd probably still have taken internal flights, which, it could be argued, is an even greater sin
** Said colleague has pointed out that King and B may well live in Beverly Hills anyway. In which case I take back everything about a carbon footprint. Just concentrate on the fact I hate gmtv. Never let a smart-arse ruin a good rant.
Or maybe it’s because I hate gmtv with a passion. Whichever it is, I am at a loss to understand how the producers can justify sending Ross King and Mel B* to Beverly Hills merely to promote a competition to win £100,000, in association with a Beverly Hills hotel.
Avoiding pointless air journeys such as this, is the first, easy step to take to cut down on carbon emissions - and the hot air the duo creates in their ‘chummy’ banter can only damage the environment further. Have they not heard of library footage at gmtv?
Personally I’d rather they spent the money on getting another decent news reporter so they could stop being tv’s version of OK! magazine (just don’t get me started on Carla Romano).
Are gmtv viewers so thick that they don’t realise the location of Beverly Hills and that for £100,000 you can afford an air fare? Are they so stupid that they wouldn’t know what to do with 100 grand? And are they so shallow that they need B-list celebrities to encourage them to enter a competition?
I think we all know the answer is probably ‘yes’.
How else can you explain the fact that in thousands of houses every morning people jump up excitedly from the breakfast table because they realise they know the answer to a multiple-choice question which is only slightly more difficult than ‘what is your name?’
It’s easy because they want thousands of people to phone in and cover the cost of the prize you numbskull. Chewing gum for the eyes? It’s not even that high-brow . . .
And if any of the three people who read this blog on a regular basis use the above link to actually enter the competition I will personally come round to your house under cover of darkness and remove all sharp objects for your own safety.
*And if, as has been suggested by a colleague of mine, they were in the US anyway, they'd probably still have taken internal flights, which, it could be argued, is an even greater sin
** Said colleague has pointed out that King and B may well live in Beverly Hills anyway. In which case I take back everything about a carbon footprint. Just concentrate on the fact I hate gmtv. Never let a smart-arse ruin a good rant.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
And now for something completely different
Today is the 150th anniversary of the death of one of my heroes: Isambard Kingdom Brunel.
Obviously I never met him, though I have taken to wearing a stovepipe hat and growing mutton-chop whiskers. I draw the line at smoking cigars the size of Mother Teresa, however.
His work can still be seen today all over the south and west of England and his influence is tangible worldwide.
As a fellow son of Portsmouth I’m immensely proud of his achievements. Personally, I never quite mastered Meccano, so, as you can imagine, my admiration is boundless.
One date I missed, however – as it would seem did an awful lot of people – was the 40th anniversary of the first recording of the seminal Monty Python’s Flying Circus, which took place on September 7, 1969.
Maybe more will be made of the 40th anniversary of the first airing on October 5.
Python wasn’t of course universally popular when it launched. It seems bizarre now, but there were some in the BBC who were outraged by it.
And certainly there was no chance of me as a six-year-old being allowed to see it. Indeed, it wasn’t until I was well into my teens that I first watched an episode.
I would imagine I wasn’t alone. In those days there were things called long-playing records (LPs) and much of Python’s catalogue was released on this format allowing the crackly pirate recordings of same on cassette tape to be passed around my school with the same reverence as the centre-fold spread in a girlie magazine.
Live at Drury Lane even saw the use of the F-word – our parents would have been outraged. It was mainly the boys who were taken with this humour; girls didn’t seem to ‘get’ it. And, I fear, if SWMBO is an example of the modern female generation, nothing has changed in 40 years.
Now, the Oxbridge team who, along with the anarchic Goons changed the course of British comedy, are far from outrageous – indeed they have become mainstream. The DVD of the very first series carries a 12 rating.
Does this mean society has lower standards today? Or simply we’re more tolerant of irreverence? What it undoubtedly does mean is that 12-year-olds in 2009 are lucky little sods, because I never got to watch this sort of brilliance at the same age. When I was their age I was already 19!
But today’s 12-year-olds won’t want to see it. It’s not ‘in yer face’ enough; it requires too much thought; and a great deal of imagination.
Today’s 12-year-olds wouldn’t see anything funny in Pablo Picasso and Wassily Kandinsky producing a painting while cycling up the A3 past the Tolworth roundabout – yes, that classic was in the very first episode.
Closeted in my bedroom with my woolly old cassette player, Python introduced me to names I’d previously not heard of; it was an education: Picasso, Kandinsky, Henri Bergson, René Descartes, Sir Kenneth Clarke and Jack Bodell.
Python didn’t play to the lowest common denominator.
Forty years on the standards have indeed been lowered; but not socially, merely in the quality of comedy on offer.
I can’t imagine clandestine exchanges of VHS copies of My Family taking place in comprehensive schools nationwide, can you?
Obviously I never met him, though I have taken to wearing a stovepipe hat and growing mutton-chop whiskers. I draw the line at smoking cigars the size of Mother Teresa, however.
His work can still be seen today all over the south and west of England and his influence is tangible worldwide.
As a fellow son of Portsmouth I’m immensely proud of his achievements. Personally, I never quite mastered Meccano, so, as you can imagine, my admiration is boundless.
One date I missed, however – as it would seem did an awful lot of people – was the 40th anniversary of the first recording of the seminal Monty Python’s Flying Circus, which took place on September 7, 1969.
Maybe more will be made of the 40th anniversary of the first airing on October 5.
Python wasn’t of course universally popular when it launched. It seems bizarre now, but there were some in the BBC who were outraged by it.
And certainly there was no chance of me as a six-year-old being allowed to see it. Indeed, it wasn’t until I was well into my teens that I first watched an episode.
I would imagine I wasn’t alone. In those days there were things called long-playing records (LPs) and much of Python’s catalogue was released on this format allowing the crackly pirate recordings of same on cassette tape to be passed around my school with the same reverence as the centre-fold spread in a girlie magazine.
Live at Drury Lane even saw the use of the F-word – our parents would have been outraged. It was mainly the boys who were taken with this humour; girls didn’t seem to ‘get’ it. And, I fear, if SWMBO is an example of the modern female generation, nothing has changed in 40 years.
Now, the Oxbridge team who, along with the anarchic Goons changed the course of British comedy, are far from outrageous – indeed they have become mainstream. The DVD of the very first series carries a 12 rating.
Does this mean society has lower standards today? Or simply we’re more tolerant of irreverence? What it undoubtedly does mean is that 12-year-olds in 2009 are lucky little sods, because I never got to watch this sort of brilliance at the same age. When I was their age I was already 19!
But today’s 12-year-olds won’t want to see it. It’s not ‘in yer face’ enough; it requires too much thought; and a great deal of imagination.
Today’s 12-year-olds wouldn’t see anything funny in Pablo Picasso and Wassily Kandinsky producing a painting while cycling up the A3 past the Tolworth roundabout – yes, that classic was in the very first episode.
Closeted in my bedroom with my woolly old cassette player, Python introduced me to names I’d previously not heard of; it was an education: Picasso, Kandinsky, Henri Bergson, René Descartes, Sir Kenneth Clarke and Jack Bodell.
Python didn’t play to the lowest common denominator.
Forty years on the standards have indeed been lowered; but not socially, merely in the quality of comedy on offer.
I can’t imagine clandestine exchanges of VHS copies of My Family taking place in comprehensive schools nationwide, can you?
Monday, September 14, 2009
A step too far
I live in Petersfield, a wonderful little market town in east Hampshire.
I moved here 12 years ago from Portsmouth, where I’d lived for 34 years, man and boy, born and bred.
It is quite a contrast: every morning I walk to work and somebody who I’ve never seen before will pass me on the street and say ‘hello’. Yet in Pompey – the nickname of the old naval city of Portsmouth for those of you unfamiliar with the vernacular – I spent a year living in a house on my own and didn’t even get to know the names of my immediate neighbours.
In the excellent Tales of the Country, by the Independent newspaper columnist Brian Viner, he explains that when he moved out into the country his social circle changed considerably.
Whereas when he lived in London most of his circle were roughly the same age – a demographic driven by becoming parents – out in a small village, age was not a deciding factor in friendships. You made friendships purely because of things you had in common, hence he often had elderly couples round for dinner who had become very good friends with he and his wife.
On a smaller scale this is also what I have discovered since moving to Petersfield. I spent a spell on the local council and made friends there; I made friends with people involved with the local football club – both senior and the youth version; and I’ve chummed up with other people since joining a local pub quiz team (our age ranges from 26 to 49 depending on who’s available).
Life’s good here in Petersfield; I even write a little column for one of the town’s two weekly paid-for newspapers - how a town of this size can justify two weekly paid-fors, two freesheets and several free monthly magazines baffles me - on the travails of a parent of a 14-year-old playing youth football.
I’ve also been recruited by our local festival organisers to do a bit of compering in the town square – Petersfield has a food festival in May, the main ‘festivities’ on August bank holiday, and a Christmas version. All of the people involved are volunteers and do a great job.
However – and this is the point of me rambling on for nearly 400 words – the people behind the Petersfield Festivities have come up with a controversial plan. They wish to shut off the traffic at weekends and re-locate the statue of William III which has been there since 1812, to allow more events to take place in the square.
Now I’m all in favour of shutting the High Street and making more use of the square. I’d do it permanently if it was within my remit. It is a glorious little square which gives Petersfield the air of a French town.
I’ve passed many an hour sat outside Caffe Nero with a coffee watching the local great and good traversing the square. And we certainly don’t make the most of it.
Now I’m no fan of any member of the Royal Family – particularly a Dutchman who took the throne by force and had very little interest in the country or its citizenry – but I do like a bit of local heritage. And to move the statue would be a travesty.
Especially when we could simply move the ubiquitous Pimms stall to the High St side of the statue and do away with any ‘sight-line’ problems when a stage is erected.
The bottom line is: pedestrianised town centre good; loss of Dutch bloke’s statue bad. And I'm hoping people will agree with me on that . . . it would make a change.
I moved here 12 years ago from Portsmouth, where I’d lived for 34 years, man and boy, born and bred.
It is quite a contrast: every morning I walk to work and somebody who I’ve never seen before will pass me on the street and say ‘hello’. Yet in Pompey – the nickname of the old naval city of Portsmouth for those of you unfamiliar with the vernacular – I spent a year living in a house on my own and didn’t even get to know the names of my immediate neighbours.
In the excellent Tales of the Country, by the Independent newspaper columnist Brian Viner, he explains that when he moved out into the country his social circle changed considerably.
Whereas when he lived in London most of his circle were roughly the same age – a demographic driven by becoming parents – out in a small village, age was not a deciding factor in friendships. You made friendships purely because of things you had in common, hence he often had elderly couples round for dinner who had become very good friends with he and his wife.
On a smaller scale this is also what I have discovered since moving to Petersfield. I spent a spell on the local council and made friends there; I made friends with people involved with the local football club – both senior and the youth version; and I’ve chummed up with other people since joining a local pub quiz team (our age ranges from 26 to 49 depending on who’s available).
Life’s good here in Petersfield; I even write a little column for one of the town’s two weekly paid-for newspapers - how a town of this size can justify two weekly paid-fors, two freesheets and several free monthly magazines baffles me - on the travails of a parent of a 14-year-old playing youth football.
I’ve also been recruited by our local festival organisers to do a bit of compering in the town square – Petersfield has a food festival in May, the main ‘festivities’ on August bank holiday, and a Christmas version. All of the people involved are volunteers and do a great job.
However – and this is the point of me rambling on for nearly 400 words – the people behind the Petersfield Festivities have come up with a controversial plan. They wish to shut off the traffic at weekends and re-locate the statue of William III which has been there since 1812, to allow more events to take place in the square.
Now I’m all in favour of shutting the High Street and making more use of the square. I’d do it permanently if it was within my remit. It is a glorious little square which gives Petersfield the air of a French town.
I’ve passed many an hour sat outside Caffe Nero with a coffee watching the local great and good traversing the square. And we certainly don’t make the most of it.
Now I’m no fan of any member of the Royal Family – particularly a Dutchman who took the throne by force and had very little interest in the country or its citizenry – but I do like a bit of local heritage. And to move the statue would be a travesty.
Especially when we could simply move the ubiquitous Pimms stall to the High St side of the statue and do away with any ‘sight-line’ problems when a stage is erected.
The bottom line is: pedestrianised town centre good; loss of Dutch bloke’s statue bad. And I'm hoping people will agree with me on that . . . it would make a change.
No need to thank me guys
I’m not losing my hair – though it would not bother me adversely if I did.
It’s a pain; I prefer my hair short but SWMBO reckons it makes me look like a ‘thug’. Her words not mine. That view is echoed by our offspring, so I have to keep my hair at a length which keeps them happy and not, necessarily, me.
Their argument is that they have to look at me, I don’t. An argument it’s difficult to rebuff. So if I started to lose my hair it might be a blessing in disguise. Not least because it would save me around £120 per year.
Many of my mates have started losing their hair at a shocking rate. Some have lost it all before they’ve even reached their 40s. Others shave their head at the first sign of a handful of the stuff in the shower tray.
I like this idea and check every morning to see if I’m starting to lose it. Sadly, not yet. And my hair stylist – we don’t have a barber round these parts – reckons I won’t lose it now I’ve attained this age with a full head of hair.
But I think I may have hit on a cure for baldness. None of that being licked by a cow rubbish or rubbing some horrible gelatinous substance into your scalp thrice daily. No my solution is scientifically proven (almost).
While hair on one’s head appears to fall out in an arbitrary manner the hair in nostrils or ears continues to grow at an astonishing pace and with great efficacy.
So the simple solution appears to be to transplant some internal nostril membrane or ear flesh on to the scalp to get a new head of hair in . . . oh I estimate around six weeks.
It may not be an exact science, but I’m not exactly a scientist. I’ve offered up the basis of a solution so it’s now up to those working in white coats to sort it out for the benefit of society as a whole.
And if it comes off I’d like to say here and now I’d be happy with five per cent of the profits. Please send cheques to . . .
It’s a pain; I prefer my hair short but SWMBO reckons it makes me look like a ‘thug’. Her words not mine. That view is echoed by our offspring, so I have to keep my hair at a length which keeps them happy and not, necessarily, me.
Their argument is that they have to look at me, I don’t. An argument it’s difficult to rebuff. So if I started to lose my hair it might be a blessing in disguise. Not least because it would save me around £120 per year.
Many of my mates have started losing their hair at a shocking rate. Some have lost it all before they’ve even reached their 40s. Others shave their head at the first sign of a handful of the stuff in the shower tray.
I like this idea and check every morning to see if I’m starting to lose it. Sadly, not yet. And my hair stylist – we don’t have a barber round these parts – reckons I won’t lose it now I’ve attained this age with a full head of hair.
But I think I may have hit on a cure for baldness. None of that being licked by a cow rubbish or rubbing some horrible gelatinous substance into your scalp thrice daily. No my solution is scientifically proven (almost).
While hair on one’s head appears to fall out in an arbitrary manner the hair in nostrils or ears continues to grow at an astonishing pace and with great efficacy.
So the simple solution appears to be to transplant some internal nostril membrane or ear flesh on to the scalp to get a new head of hair in . . . oh I estimate around six weeks.
It may not be an exact science, but I’m not exactly a scientist. I’ve offered up the basis of a solution so it’s now up to those working in white coats to sort it out for the benefit of society as a whole.
And if it comes off I’d like to say here and now I’d be happy with five per cent of the profits. Please send cheques to . . .
Jeremy Clarkson eat your heart out - 26 years
ago I wasn't concerned about short hair
ago I wasn't concerned about short hair
Friday, September 11, 2009
Is it me?
I can’t be alone in finding the timbre and inflection of Robert Peston’s voice irritating.
The BBC’s business editor pops up on all forms of the corporation’s digital platform – web, radio and TV – and on each occasion he comes on I find I lose interest in the subject matter because I’m constantly bewildered by the apparent arbitrary nature of his vocal chords.
I detest the rising inflection so beloved of teenagers because of their over-exposure to Aussie soap operas at an early age? I’m at a loss to understand why every sentence they utter should sound like a question?
You know what I mean – admittedly it doesn’t become too apparent in a blog, but we’ve all heard it?
But at least that’s only at the end of a sentence. Peston’s delivery pauses at inappropriate times, stresses words seemingly at random and never gives the impression he’s actually imparting a serious piece of news.
This morning for instance he was talking about the bosses of MG Rover, who awarded themselves an obscene £42m in salaries and bonuses before taking the company down the tubes with the loss of 6,500 jobs.
I know this because I saw it on the BBC website and not because of Peston. When he spoke on Radio 4 on the subject earlier today I once again found myself mesmerised my his erratic speech patterns while remaining largely ill-informed.
I wonder is there a society out there for like-minded Peston sufferers?
The BBC’s business editor pops up on all forms of the corporation’s digital platform – web, radio and TV – and on each occasion he comes on I find I lose interest in the subject matter because I’m constantly bewildered by the apparent arbitrary nature of his vocal chords.
I detest the rising inflection so beloved of teenagers because of their over-exposure to Aussie soap operas at an early age? I’m at a loss to understand why every sentence they utter should sound like a question?
You know what I mean – admittedly it doesn’t become too apparent in a blog, but we’ve all heard it?
But at least that’s only at the end of a sentence. Peston’s delivery pauses at inappropriate times, stresses words seemingly at random and never gives the impression he’s actually imparting a serious piece of news.
This morning for instance he was talking about the bosses of MG Rover, who awarded themselves an obscene £42m in salaries and bonuses before taking the company down the tubes with the loss of 6,500 jobs.
I know this because I saw it on the BBC website and not because of Peston. When he spoke on Radio 4 on the subject earlier today I once again found myself mesmerised my his erratic speech patterns while remaining largely ill-informed.
I wonder is there a society out there for like-minded Peston sufferers?
Government in protection racket
Following the controversial introduction of its new ‘vetting and barring’ scheme for parents and voluntary workers the Government plans to introduce a similar scheme to protect ministers and civil servants from journalists who are prone to ask pertinent questions.
This follows an incident on this morning’s Today programme on Radio 4 when veteran broadcaster John Humphrys completely destroyed the arguments of a civil servant who drew the short straw in the Children’s Ministry and was forced to attempt to defend the ‘vetting and barring’ scheme.
After Humphrys had driven the equivalent of a 12-wheeler through holes in the argument the Government issued a hastily constructed statement to ensure ministers and civil servants will no longer have to risk interview abuse.
A spokesman said: “We will be introducing the Standard Humphrys Interview Test (SHIT) which will require all journalists to submit to a test to see if they are experienced enough to ask questions which may illustrate flaws in Government policy. If they are they fail the test and will not be allowed to participate in discussions.
“Obviously this scenario is not in the interests of Government or its spokesmen, but it will be a proportionate, common sense system.
“It is not designed to stop interviews, merely to ensure that interviewers in these situations are ideally naïve, maybe even straight out of college, and will be suitably intimidated by the subject matter.
“It is essential that our ministers and spokesman are protected from serious questioning – nobody would want that in modern society. We all remember the tragic case of Michael Howard MP being grilled by Jeremy Paxman. The whole nation was sickened by this and it can not be allowed to continue.
“It will apply only when a representative is interviewed in a professional capacity with a recognised media outlet, however. A personal arrangement, for example a discussion in a pub when a minister gets abused for his expenses, would be outside the scheme.
“It will be a lot of work for Government departments and will mean Government offices will be full of SHIT . . . but that is not an unusual occurrence in the modern age.”
John Humphrys is 66.
This follows an incident on this morning’s Today programme on Radio 4 when veteran broadcaster John Humphrys completely destroyed the arguments of a civil servant who drew the short straw in the Children’s Ministry and was forced to attempt to defend the ‘vetting and barring’ scheme.
After Humphrys had driven the equivalent of a 12-wheeler through holes in the argument the Government issued a hastily constructed statement to ensure ministers and civil servants will no longer have to risk interview abuse.
A spokesman said: “We will be introducing the Standard Humphrys Interview Test (SHIT) which will require all journalists to submit to a test to see if they are experienced enough to ask questions which may illustrate flaws in Government policy. If they are they fail the test and will not be allowed to participate in discussions.
“Obviously this scenario is not in the interests of Government or its spokesmen, but it will be a proportionate, common sense system.
“It is not designed to stop interviews, merely to ensure that interviewers in these situations are ideally naïve, maybe even straight out of college, and will be suitably intimidated by the subject matter.
“It is essential that our ministers and spokesman are protected from serious questioning – nobody would want that in modern society. We all remember the tragic case of Michael Howard MP being grilled by Jeremy Paxman. The whole nation was sickened by this and it can not be allowed to continue.
“It will apply only when a representative is interviewed in a professional capacity with a recognised media outlet, however. A personal arrangement, for example a discussion in a pub when a minister gets abused for his expenses, would be outside the scheme.
“It will be a lot of work for Government departments and will mean Government offices will be full of SHIT . . . but that is not an unusual occurrence in the modern age.”
John Humphrys is 66.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Cynical but getting greener
I just love the opportunity to be cynical; after all I’m a journalist.
So I was interested to see the press release today about a thing called the Low Carbon Festival later this year.
It said: “Visitors and residents alike will have the ultimate excuse to visit Exmoor and Dartmoor this October as the South West’s National Parks host the very first Dartmoor & Exmoor Low Carbon Festival from 9-12th October (www.lowcarbonfestival.co.uk).”
Great. A festival about lowering carbon emissions. I think I’ll fly down to Plymouth Airport from Newcastle for that. Or maybe jump in my Audi A4 and drive down.
(Actually I live in Hampshire, not Newcastle, but I needed to stress my point).
Admittedly, the travel section of the website does say: “Please consider the many sustainable options for travel by using public transport or car sharing whenever possible.”
But then it still gives instructions on how to get there by air!
Maybe this wouldn’t have registered on my cynical barometer a month ago, but as I mentioned in a previous blog I’m currently reading Mark Watson’s Crap at the Environment (CATE), and I’ve suddenly become much more aware of things like this. I’m even half-filling kettles for the office coffees, not leaving my phone charger on overnight and walking to work.
Like Mark, I’m still CATE but I’m becoming more aware . . . and it would appear, more cynical.
So I was interested to see the press release today about a thing called the Low Carbon Festival later this year.
It said: “Visitors and residents alike will have the ultimate excuse to visit Exmoor and Dartmoor this October as the South West’s National Parks host the very first Dartmoor & Exmoor Low Carbon Festival from 9-12th October (www.lowcarbonfestival.co.uk).”
Great. A festival about lowering carbon emissions. I think I’ll fly down to Plymouth Airport from Newcastle for that. Or maybe jump in my Audi A4 and drive down.
(Actually I live in Hampshire, not Newcastle, but I needed to stress my point).
Admittedly, the travel section of the website does say: “Please consider the many sustainable options for travel by using public transport or car sharing whenever possible.”
But then it still gives instructions on how to get there by air!
Maybe this wouldn’t have registered on my cynical barometer a month ago, but as I mentioned in a previous blog I’m currently reading Mark Watson’s Crap at the Environment (CATE), and I’ve suddenly become much more aware of things like this. I’m even half-filling kettles for the office coffees, not leaving my phone charger on overnight and walking to work.
Like Mark, I’m still CATE but I’m becoming more aware . . . and it would appear, more cynical.
You'll have to speak up a bit
More cynicism. I saw on BBC Breakfast Time this morning a piece about the medieval bells in St Lawrence Church, Ipswich, being rung today for the first time in 25 years.
We were informed that the 15th century bells would be heard for the first time in a quarter of a century later today…
Presumably then, everybody who was walking around Ipswich this morning at 7.20am and 8.20am and yesterday during the rehearsal, were issued with ear-protectors by the BBC to ensure they weren’t heard in advance.
Or maybe each of the clappers in the bells was wrapped in a large towel so only the campanologists could hear.
Or maybe I’m just a grumpy git with too much time on my hands in the morning…
We were informed that the 15th century bells would be heard for the first time in a quarter of a century later today…
Presumably then, everybody who was walking around Ipswich this morning at 7.20am and 8.20am and yesterday during the rehearsal, were issued with ear-protectors by the BBC to ensure they weren’t heard in advance.
Or maybe each of the clappers in the bells was wrapped in a large towel so only the campanologists could hear.
Or maybe I’m just a grumpy git with too much time on my hands in the morning…
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
The wisdom that comes with Government funding
I want to get Government funding to carry out studies into how university teams continue to get Government funding for studies which produce findings we already know.
I thought I'd give myself the title of professor of pointless studies at the University of the Bleedin' Obvious.
Why? Well largely because of a study released today which says that couples who share a bed may suffer problems as a result. This is hardly groundbreaking stuff is it?
Many couples of my acquaintance sleep in separate beds because one or other - both in my case - snore, nick the quilt, experience restless bouts of sleep, or have the need to wake at different times.
Having your sleep disturbed for any of these reasons - or myriad more I'm sure - is obviously not good for you. Yet, sleep specialist Dr Neil Stanley, of the University of Surrey, has presumably been funded to complete a 'study' that shows bed-sharing can cause rows over duvet-hogging or snoring and that the loss of sleep is unhealthy.
Thanks Doc, I'm glad you alerted me to that. For years I'd been wondering if there was any correlation between me not having any duvet and my propensity for snatching it back during the night to the consternation of Mrs B. Likewise my snoring and her desire to thump me and yell "Fer chrissakes shut-up!"
His study found a 50 per cent chance - now there's a coincidence! - that a partner would be disturbed during the night if the couple slept together. But merely eight per cent of couples in their 40s and 50s currently sleep apart. He should have spoken to some of my friends, they would have made for more impressive statistics.
Apparently the 'tradition' of the marital bed only came about as a result of the Industrial Revolution when people found themselves short of living space. Before that it was commonplace for married couples to sleep apart. Hardly surprising really.
The BBC report states that "In ancient Rome, the marital bed was a place for sexual congress but not for sleeping". And given the sort of 'sexual congress' enjoyed by the likes of Caligula it must have been a pretty big bed. It's hard to squeeze a horse into a normal divan.
I thought I'd give myself the title of professor of pointless studies at the University of the Bleedin' Obvious.
Why? Well largely because of a study released today which says that couples who share a bed may suffer problems as a result. This is hardly groundbreaking stuff is it?
Many couples of my acquaintance sleep in separate beds because one or other - both in my case - snore, nick the quilt, experience restless bouts of sleep, or have the need to wake at different times.
Having your sleep disturbed for any of these reasons - or myriad more I'm sure - is obviously not good for you. Yet, sleep specialist Dr Neil Stanley, of the University of Surrey, has presumably been funded to complete a 'study' that shows bed-sharing can cause rows over duvet-hogging or snoring and that the loss of sleep is unhealthy.
Thanks Doc, I'm glad you alerted me to that. For years I'd been wondering if there was any correlation between me not having any duvet and my propensity for snatching it back during the night to the consternation of Mrs B. Likewise my snoring and her desire to thump me and yell "Fer chrissakes shut-up!"
His study found a 50 per cent chance - now there's a coincidence! - that a partner would be disturbed during the night if the couple slept together. But merely eight per cent of couples in their 40s and 50s currently sleep apart. He should have spoken to some of my friends, they would have made for more impressive statistics.
Apparently the 'tradition' of the marital bed only came about as a result of the Industrial Revolution when people found themselves short of living space. Before that it was commonplace for married couples to sleep apart. Hardly surprising really.
The BBC report states that "In ancient Rome, the marital bed was a place for sexual congress but not for sleeping". And given the sort of 'sexual congress' enjoyed by the likes of Caligula it must have been a pretty big bed. It's hard to squeeze a horse into a normal divan.
Monday, September 07, 2009
Give 'em enough rope
Gordon Brown meets Lionel Richie's elder - and quite ill-looking - brother
Some people are up in arms over the thought of the British National Party (BNP) being allowed to appear on the BBC's Question Time. So here's a question: why?
Why shouldn't the BNP, which has elected representatives at the European Parliament, be afforded the same platform as all other political parties?
The fact that most right-minded people deplore their policies and everything they stand for should not bar them from appearing on the programme. Indeed, excluding them may merely add to their credibility in the eyes of some - and that's the last thing we need.
Let's get some erudite members of the mainstream parties on there, to show the BNP up for what they really are.
NB: Not everybody is of this opinion. Read Sunny Hundal's piece in today's Guardian.
And while we're on the subject of politics - I try to avoid politics if possible because I tend to be subjective and serious on the subject and it causes problems with She Who Must Be Obeyed - let's all laugh at the Government's ridiculous decision to support the move to get compensation from Libya for the victims of IRA attacks.
Do the words 'glass houses' mean nothing to you Mr Brown? The arms trade has been one of Britain's biggest export markets for the last 50 years, so presumably we can expect similar claims to be made from families right across the globe.
Or is it all OK if it goes through the books? Hypocrites!
Friday, September 04, 2009
Train of thought
It's been fascinating - and heartwarming - this week to watch the story unfold of the Holocaust evacuees who have retraced their steps on a steam train from Prague to London.
We live in such a pampered and largely danger-free generation that it is often very difficult for us to envisage what life was like before the advent of microwave ovens, X-boxes, cars with airbags, and the defeat of the Nazi hordes trampling all over free Europe.
Congratulations to those TV companies who have given such extensive coverage to a genuine human interest story. And brickbats to those who still feel Katie Price's love life is more important.
What's interesting to note is what hasn't changed in 70 years. It's taken four days to get from Prague to London . . . so it's just like travelling on Virgin Trains over here!
We live in such a pampered and largely danger-free generation that it is often very difficult for us to envisage what life was like before the advent of microwave ovens, X-boxes, cars with airbags, and the defeat of the Nazi hordes trampling all over free Europe.
Congratulations to those TV companies who have given such extensive coverage to a genuine human interest story. And brickbats to those who still feel Katie Price's love life is more important.
What's interesting to note is what hasn't changed in 70 years. It's taken four days to get from Prague to London . . . so it's just like travelling on Virgin Trains over here!
Thursday, September 03, 2009
Girls Aloud? Not at Leaderboard courses they're not...
Tradition versus modernity. It's the age-old conundrum.
I would imagine when the Bronze Age kicked off there were people refusing to participate saying flint had been good enough for their father, and their father's father before that.
And in the 17th century there were those who eschewed the fashion for powdered wigs - except for lawyers of course who sill enjoy prancing around in them to this day.
The tradition versus modernity argument has raised its head again on the golf course, with the Leaderboard Group - which owns four clubs in the south of England - banning the girls of Eye Candy Caddies from its fairways.
Personally I've always felt the term Eye Candy Caddies (ECC) was a bit of a misnomer for some of them, but they argue they provide a useful service. Leaderboard disagrees and says they provide a disservice to the fairer sex who are still, at some anachronistic clubs, searching for equal rights.
It's a difficult one. ECC could be interpreted as a bit of harmless fun. But, though I don't wish to be a Luddite, I have to agree with Leaderboard here. It's not what I would personally want to see at my golf club, even if it were for just a one-day corporate event. Though I am an old fart.
This one's not tradition versus modernity, it's about standards. And I like the fact golf, in general, has high standards.
What can not be denied, however, is that both parties have enjoyed some highly beneficial publicity. And that can't be a bad thing for either of them.
I would imagine when the Bronze Age kicked off there were people refusing to participate saying flint had been good enough for their father, and their father's father before that.
And in the 17th century there were those who eschewed the fashion for powdered wigs - except for lawyers of course who sill enjoy prancing around in them to this day.
The tradition versus modernity argument has raised its head again on the golf course, with the Leaderboard Group - which owns four clubs in the south of England - banning the girls of Eye Candy Caddies from its fairways.
Personally I've always felt the term Eye Candy Caddies (ECC) was a bit of a misnomer for some of them, but they argue they provide a useful service. Leaderboard disagrees and says they provide a disservice to the fairer sex who are still, at some anachronistic clubs, searching for equal rights.
It's a difficult one. ECC could be interpreted as a bit of harmless fun. But, though I don't wish to be a Luddite, I have to agree with Leaderboard here. It's not what I would personally want to see at my golf club, even if it were for just a one-day corporate event. Though I am an old fart.
This one's not tradition versus modernity, it's about standards. And I like the fact golf, in general, has high standards.
What can not be denied, however, is that both parties have enjoyed some highly beneficial publicity. And that can't be a bad thing for either of them.
All booked up
I have a vice. Admittedly it's not much of a vice, but then again I'm quite an uninteresting person, hence I feel the need to put most of my thoughts down on this blog.
My vice is books. I love books. I love being surrounded by them and spend hours reading.
But my family think I'm weird because I read more than one book at once. I don't mean I have five or six spread out on a table reading a page in each before darting to the next one like a chess champion's exhibition. No, I have more than one book on the go at any one time.
Currently I have five: Mark Watson's Crap at the Environment (one of the funniest comics around currently tries to save the planet - my light read); John O'Farrell's Utterly Impartial History of Britain (another light read but also educational); Christian Wolmar's Subterranean Railway (the story of the London Underground - slightly heavy going but it is a subject which fascinates me); Stephen E Ambrose's D Day (essential reading for everybody in the most pampered and comfortable British generation ever); and To Have and Have Not, by Ernest Hemingway (My attempt at literary self-education).
Plus I'm listening to Bill Bryson's Lost Continent on my mp3 player when walking to work and PG Wodehouse's Uncle Fred in the Springtime is in the CD player when I'm driving.
Which book I read at bed-time depends on my mood. If I've had a hard day and am feeling a little down or stressed I'll turn to a light read; if I'm feeling full of the joys of a bedspring I'll pick up something a little heavier. I don't think that makes me 'weird' though my wife and kids disagree.
I still get through two or three books every fortnight, even flitting from one to the next.
My darling wife always say "I don't know how you can do that - I'd get lost." But this is the same woman who five minutes after Tom Barnaby makes a crucial discovery in Midsomer Murder will turn to me and ask "how did he know that?"
And they think I'm weird.
FOOTNOTE: I've just finished reading Tim Moore's Nul Points, a celebration of those people who garnered nul points for their entry into the Eurovision Song Contest. How appropriate for a Pompey fan...
My vice is books. I love books. I love being surrounded by them and spend hours reading.
But my family think I'm weird because I read more than one book at once. I don't mean I have five or six spread out on a table reading a page in each before darting to the next one like a chess champion's exhibition. No, I have more than one book on the go at any one time.
Currently I have five: Mark Watson's Crap at the Environment (one of the funniest comics around currently tries to save the planet - my light read); John O'Farrell's Utterly Impartial History of Britain (another light read but also educational); Christian Wolmar's Subterranean Railway (the story of the London Underground - slightly heavy going but it is a subject which fascinates me); Stephen E Ambrose's D Day (essential reading for everybody in the most pampered and comfortable British generation ever); and To Have and Have Not, by Ernest Hemingway (My attempt at literary self-education).
Plus I'm listening to Bill Bryson's Lost Continent on my mp3 player when walking to work and PG Wodehouse's Uncle Fred in the Springtime is in the CD player when I'm driving.
Which book I read at bed-time depends on my mood. If I've had a hard day and am feeling a little down or stressed I'll turn to a light read; if I'm feeling full of the joys of a bedspring I'll pick up something a little heavier. I don't think that makes me 'weird' though my wife and kids disagree.
I still get through two or three books every fortnight, even flitting from one to the next.
My darling wife always say "I don't know how you can do that - I'd get lost." But this is the same woman who five minutes after Tom Barnaby makes a crucial discovery in Midsomer Murder will turn to me and ask "how did he know that?"
And they think I'm weird.
FOOTNOTE: I've just finished reading Tim Moore's Nul Points, a celebration of those people who garnered nul points for their entry into the Eurovision Song Contest. How appropriate for a Pompey fan...
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Four games, no points
Obviously I can't let Pompey's transfer-window activity pass without comment.
Apart from the obvious observation that the comings were funded by the goings, thus fuelling the argument that Sulaiman al Fahim has not a pot to do it in, I'm a little bemused by the signings.
We all know Paul Hart believes a strong defence is the answer - although we're not quite sure what the question was - but do we really need 24 defensive midfielders?
Even in his patented 4-6-0 formation - I believe steam trains once had the same configuration - that still means at least half our stock of defensive midfielders will have to sit out the match.
The forthcoming clash with Bolton should at least offer some clue as to how we'll be playing until January. But I don't imagine we'll be recording too many 4-0 victories.
PS Have I ever mentioned how much I dislike Harry Redknapp?
Apart from the obvious observation that the comings were funded by the goings, thus fuelling the argument that Sulaiman al Fahim has not a pot to do it in, I'm a little bemused by the signings.
We all know Paul Hart believes a strong defence is the answer - although we're not quite sure what the question was - but do we really need 24 defensive midfielders?
Even in his patented 4-6-0 formation - I believe steam trains once had the same configuration - that still means at least half our stock of defensive midfielders will have to sit out the match.
The forthcoming clash with Bolton should at least offer some clue as to how we'll be playing until January. But I don't imagine we'll be recording too many 4-0 victories.
PS Have I ever mentioned how much I dislike Harry Redknapp?
Don't tick it then...
We do owe Tim Berners-Lee a great vote of thanks, for the internet he spawned is a great tool.
But sadly it’s also a hive of criminality, duplicity, depravity and, on a more prosaic level, a huge bank of disinformation and error. And I’m not just talking about Wikipedia here.
Take the recent case of the controversial mobile directory service 118 800. Somebody out there in the ether decided they didn’t like the idea of their mobile phone number being on a list somewhere so they crafted a falsehood that the BBC was encouraging people to complain about it or at the very least insist they went ex-directory.
It also claimed that it was ‘an invasion of privacy’, an ‘infringement on human rights’ and would lead to a plethora of companies ‘cold-calling’ mobile phone users. All of which is, quite frankly, ludicrous.
But like emails from Nigerian widows claiming to have pots of money to give away to UK citizens with bank accounts, or missives claiming ‘you’ are the lucky winner of the Lithuanian state lottery, some people are taken in by virals.
The fact is that the 118 800 service is merely an organic development from the telephone directory which first appeared in New Haven, US, in 1878. There wasn’t the availability of a viral campaign in those days, so it wasn’t possible to tap into people’s latent fears. That came with the launch of the Daily Mail in 1896.
For years people were quite happy to have their numbers listed in a telephone directory because they were under the impression it might aid somebody who wished to get in touch with them. The ex-directory option became more popular with the advent of cold calling, but it didn’t stop it entirely.
Now we all have mobile phones, so it was only a matter of time before a mobile phone directory was launched. What’s the difference? Why the uproar?
It is neither an invasion of privacy nor an infringement of human rights, for to be on the databases purchased by 118 800, a person must have, at some stage, somewhere, either ticked a box to allow their number to be passed on to a ‘select’ group of commercial partners or failed to tick the box stating they wished to be excluded from such an agreement.
As with insurance policies, holidays booked through Teletext, or shares in the Padstow Oil Company, the caveat always remains the same: read the small print. As my mother would have said, if she understood any of this new-fangled technology, “if it goes wrong don’t come running to me”.
And of course the last bit of misinformation is that those on the database – rumoured to be around 15 million – will be inundated by cold calls. Only if the company doing it is really bloody stupid will you…
The 118 800 service merely brokers the call rather than giving out the mobile phone number. The service costs £1 per number bought – so by the time they’ve made around 300 calls they could have bought their own database with 100 times that number of users.
See what I mean about disinformation? Basically, if you get a text message saying that a number or name you are unfamiliar with wishes to speak to you, don’t act on it. Rather like I don’t act on messages from O2 offering me an early bird opportunity to buy tickets for the Pussycat Dolls or some such non-entity.
The bottom line is that for a large section of the community, 118 800 is a valuable service. Controversial its June launch may have been but within a month it was the 111th most visited web brand in the UK with almost two million unique UK visitors. And they weren’t all trying to go ex-directory.
The furore wasn’t helped by people like London MEP Syed Kamall, who said: “This is one of many examples of breaches of privacy becoming commonplace. The government is sanctioning the construction of a mobile phone directory without anyone’s permission. It is wrong that decisions that affect us all are taken so lightly without a proper public debate.”
Tickboxes mate, that’s all I’ll say to you. Tickboxes. That’s all the ‘debate’ required.
The 118 800 service is currently still off-line but you can be sure it will return and will prosper. A similar service has been operating in Scandinavia for some years now with none of the public outcry we’ve experienced. But then again, scare-mongering isn’t quite as popular over there…
But sadly it’s also a hive of criminality, duplicity, depravity and, on a more prosaic level, a huge bank of disinformation and error. And I’m not just talking about Wikipedia here.
Take the recent case of the controversial mobile directory service 118 800. Somebody out there in the ether decided they didn’t like the idea of their mobile phone number being on a list somewhere so they crafted a falsehood that the BBC was encouraging people to complain about it or at the very least insist they went ex-directory.
It also claimed that it was ‘an invasion of privacy’, an ‘infringement on human rights’ and would lead to a plethora of companies ‘cold-calling’ mobile phone users. All of which is, quite frankly, ludicrous.
But like emails from Nigerian widows claiming to have pots of money to give away to UK citizens with bank accounts, or missives claiming ‘you’ are the lucky winner of the Lithuanian state lottery, some people are taken in by virals.
The fact is that the 118 800 service is merely an organic development from the telephone directory which first appeared in New Haven, US, in 1878. There wasn’t the availability of a viral campaign in those days, so it wasn’t possible to tap into people’s latent fears. That came with the launch of the Daily Mail in 1896.
For years people were quite happy to have their numbers listed in a telephone directory because they were under the impression it might aid somebody who wished to get in touch with them. The ex-directory option became more popular with the advent of cold calling, but it didn’t stop it entirely.
Now we all have mobile phones, so it was only a matter of time before a mobile phone directory was launched. What’s the difference? Why the uproar?
It is neither an invasion of privacy nor an infringement of human rights, for to be on the databases purchased by 118 800, a person must have, at some stage, somewhere, either ticked a box to allow their number to be passed on to a ‘select’ group of commercial partners or failed to tick the box stating they wished to be excluded from such an agreement.
As with insurance policies, holidays booked through Teletext, or shares in the Padstow Oil Company, the caveat always remains the same: read the small print. As my mother would have said, if she understood any of this new-fangled technology, “if it goes wrong don’t come running to me”.
And of course the last bit of misinformation is that those on the database – rumoured to be around 15 million – will be inundated by cold calls. Only if the company doing it is really bloody stupid will you…
The 118 800 service merely brokers the call rather than giving out the mobile phone number. The service costs £1 per number bought – so by the time they’ve made around 300 calls they could have bought their own database with 100 times that number of users.
See what I mean about disinformation? Basically, if you get a text message saying that a number or name you are unfamiliar with wishes to speak to you, don’t act on it. Rather like I don’t act on messages from O2 offering me an early bird opportunity to buy tickets for the Pussycat Dolls or some such non-entity.
The bottom line is that for a large section of the community, 118 800 is a valuable service. Controversial its June launch may have been but within a month it was the 111th most visited web brand in the UK with almost two million unique UK visitors. And they weren’t all trying to go ex-directory.
The furore wasn’t helped by people like London MEP Syed Kamall, who said: “This is one of many examples of breaches of privacy becoming commonplace. The government is sanctioning the construction of a mobile phone directory without anyone’s permission. It is wrong that decisions that affect us all are taken so lightly without a proper public debate.”
Tickboxes mate, that’s all I’ll say to you. Tickboxes. That’s all the ‘debate’ required.
The 118 800 service is currently still off-line but you can be sure it will return and will prosper. A similar service has been operating in Scandinavia for some years now with none of the public outcry we’ve experienced. But then again, scare-mongering isn’t quite as popular over there…
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