I always hoped I'd never become one of those people that said things like, "you youngsters don't know how lucky you are, in my day blah blah blah!". But when I look around at the array of technology that envelops most of us I can't help hankering back to my youth and comparing the differences.
I can still remember the excitement surrounding the launch of a second TV channel. The jealousy of families that had COLOUR television. My revolutionary Dansette portable record player and buying my first 45s (vinyl discs that played at 45 revs per minute...OK!) and the absolute phenomenon that was the transistor pocket radio. They came with one little earpiece that you could feed up your sleeve and listen to in class...until you got caught. Everybody got caught.
Computers were a thing of science fiction and enjoying a movie at home involved setting up a dodgy Super 8 projector and a roll out screen and watching grainy film or slides of the family's last holiday in Margate.
The one thing this deprived childhood did engender was a love of reading. As a kid it ranged from Beano to Treasure Island, teenage years bought Lord of the Flies to Ian Fleming to Marvel comics and as a young adult it got far more eclectic. Harold Robbins, Albert Camus, Tom Wolfe and even Lobsang Rampa and Khalil Gibran to name but a few.
My one abiding loyalty throughout the last thirty years or so has been to Stephen King. Acclaimed as the best popular author since Dickens by some critics and derided as literary popcorn by others...like I give a crap!
Unfortunately, although I've been loyal by buying each new tome in weighty hardback the instant it was published, I have a confession. Loyal yes but not always faithful.
It wasn't my fault your Honour, I was seduced. As the shiny metallic technology took over my leisure hours poor old Steve was confined to being left ignored on the shelf in his sexy new jacket.
Surround sound home cinema, 500 watts of stereo power, 100s of TV channels, video games and the biggest slut of them all...the Internet. After all , I am but a man. By the time I've watched the latest blockbuster, polished off a couple of thousand aliens, played a poker tournament and updated Facebook I can hardly think let alone read.
This Christmas took a new turn. "The Teenager" has had a part-time job and for the first time she bought all her presents with her own money. This not only represented a handy saving for me but also meant I didn't choose my own gift and give her the money to pay for it. To say she was thoughtful and generous would be an understatement. So there we were exchanging gifts and I was thrilled with the DVDs and CDs I had opened. I tore apart the wrapping on the last heaviest one and cast my eyes on the latest collection of short stories by the "Kingster".
Now it's all well and good me splashing out for a book and leaving it unread but I just can't do that with something paid for by hours of call-center tedium. So, for a change some aliens lived to see another day. The poker cyber-world could survive a day or so without me and off I trotted to bed at a moderately sensible hour. I picked up my new book and for the next hour and a bit I realised just how much I've been missing.
So, to all my favourite authors I'd like to apologise. I can't promise to change all my new found habits and I will probably keep philandering but at least I promise to come home more regularly.
Tuesday, 30 December 2008
Monday, 29 December 2008
"Adult Child"
Even at the slimmest, younger and most photogenic phases of my life I have never enjoyed having my photo taken. This probably stems from a professional "smudge" taken at my Bar-Mitzvah. It featured my late Mum in an emerald green evening dress waltzing with me in a midnight blue tux. We looked like two gigantic Christmas tree baubles bumping into each other. Not the most desirable memory of the day the boy became a man.
However, there is one pic that renders memories of a far, far happier event. It is of me (complete with oh so trendy 70s moustache) cradling my newly born son in my hands. You can see how inordinately proud I am and how tiny he is.
This image jumped right back at me last night. It had been a very pleasant time. Adult child and his Mum (my first wife and still a very dear friend) had come over for a post Xmas dinner and gift exchange. As they were leaving I hugged him and couldn't stop myself thinking what happened to all those years between holding that tiny child and saying goodnight to the handsome , honed (and slightly taller than me), intelligent grown man that he has become.
There are some indelible memories that define (that word is for you kid!) my enormous love for him.
Leaving him at boarding school when he wanted to come home, I got in the car and cried my eyes out at my well intentioned efforts of "tuff love". Sorting out a bullying teacher that had been picking on him and other kids. The gut-wrenching pain of not being able to help when he was blamed for something he didn't do and the immeasurable pleasure when he was completely exonerated.
Then there were the "trends". I didn't mind most of them but they always involved the "best" (for "best" substitute most expensive). Skateboards constituted schlepping almost weekly to a specialist shop in the West End to pick up the latest add-on or Stuzzy cap or t-shirt. The remote control cars that cost about the same as my ex-partner payed for a real one, together with repairs that would make a stock car racer weep. The ill-advised ear ring. And a love for trainers that has continued to the present day. It is my belief that without him Nike would still be a cottage industry.
Nevertheless, between his Mum and me we must have done something right. Today he is a man with impeccable taste, exceptional manners and an innate ability to mix with people from all walks of life and give them all a feeling they are sharing something special.
He is also on the verge of what I'm sure will be great success in business. This is very important because the cars he really wants now don't come in kit form and with the current economic climate someone has got to keep Nike going.
It doesn't take much to gather that I'm a doting father. Two wonderful kids with very different talents and abilities. The biggest difference is while "the teenager" is still young enough to be "Daddy's Girl" my son is old enough to not only be my child but also one of my very best friends.
However, there is one pic that renders memories of a far, far happier event. It is of me (complete with oh so trendy 70s moustache) cradling my newly born son in my hands. You can see how inordinately proud I am and how tiny he is.
This image jumped right back at me last night. It had been a very pleasant time. Adult child and his Mum (my first wife and still a very dear friend) had come over for a post Xmas dinner and gift exchange. As they were leaving I hugged him and couldn't stop myself thinking what happened to all those years between holding that tiny child and saying goodnight to the handsome , honed (and slightly taller than me), intelligent grown man that he has become.
There are some indelible memories that define (that word is for you kid!) my enormous love for him.
Leaving him at boarding school when he wanted to come home, I got in the car and cried my eyes out at my well intentioned efforts of "tuff love". Sorting out a bullying teacher that had been picking on him and other kids. The gut-wrenching pain of not being able to help when he was blamed for something he didn't do and the immeasurable pleasure when he was completely exonerated.
Then there were the "trends". I didn't mind most of them but they always involved the "best" (for "best" substitute most expensive). Skateboards constituted schlepping almost weekly to a specialist shop in the West End to pick up the latest add-on or Stuzzy cap or t-shirt. The remote control cars that cost about the same as my ex-partner payed for a real one, together with repairs that would make a stock car racer weep. The ill-advised ear ring. And a love for trainers that has continued to the present day. It is my belief that without him Nike would still be a cottage industry.
Nevertheless, between his Mum and me we must have done something right. Today he is a man with impeccable taste, exceptional manners and an innate ability to mix with people from all walks of life and give them all a feeling they are sharing something special.
He is also on the verge of what I'm sure will be great success in business. This is very important because the cars he really wants now don't come in kit form and with the current economic climate someone has got to keep Nike going.
It doesn't take much to gather that I'm a doting father. Two wonderful kids with very different talents and abilities. The biggest difference is while "the teenager" is still young enough to be "Daddy's Girl" my son is old enough to not only be my child but also one of my very best friends.
Tuesday, 23 December 2008
Surf vs Turf
Whilst watching one of the plethora of daily re-housing programmes, I think it was "Hunt for a new property relocation, place in the country at home or away", I came to a conclusion. It was at the point where the newly retired couple had been shown three different options and Mrs Newly Retired peered out the bedroom window of her dream residence and said "look at that view, you could never get tired of that!"
Well, I looked at the view. It was a sloping landscape of various shades of green and nothing much else and I concluded that I would be bored witless if that was all I was going to look at for the rest of my golden years ( a fleeting David Bowie ref.). The problem is I don't like the "country". I don't mind a leisurely drive to Laconicshire, an expensive lunch at a Michelin starred gaffe and a leisurely drive back. I just wouldn't want to live there.
You see people going "ga-ga" at a picture postcard, chocolate box, ivy-strewn cottage in Puddleton Beeznees and all I keep thinking is what happens if I run out of fags at 11.30pm. The prospective yokels get excited about the fact that the village has a general store, a pub and a post office, I can only ponder the disappointment if you fancy a pizza, Chinese or Indian delivery. They wax lyrically about the wonderful opportunities for rambling, fell walking or horse riding and I go into cold sweat working out where the nearest multiplex is.
On the other hand I totally understand the whole sea view thing. Doesn't matter whether it's Poole or Portofino that'll do for me.
There always seem to be the two completely opposite ends of the lifestyle spectrum. At one end you have the requisite tranquility, the seasonal changes affecting the seascape and the potential of being extricated from the lunacy of city living. Better still, whether an aficionado of the organic sail boat or the sybaritic power cruiser, nothing beats being on the ocean with cool sounds on the stereo and the cocktail shaker within easy reach.
Conversely, seaside living can also come with a thriving social scene. Balmy summer nights, hints of ozone in the air. Marinas alive with restaurants serving great seafood, funky little bars, boat parties complete with local weirdos who never ever seem to do anything but appear everywhere. And, of course glamorous ladies (or men obviously, I just take less notice of them).
So there you have it, my completely unreasonable, nonsensical and biased take on the perfect lifestyle locale. You may also be thinking "what on earth is this nutter going on about on Xmas Eve, hardly festive is it?"
Well, as I look out on the turgid greyness in the skies over North London, gaze moronically at the imitation fir tree and clench my teeth at the sounds of Sir Cliff giving it some "welly ", somewhere deep inside I'm hoping that Santa remembers I really, really want a 48' Sunseeker.
MERRY XMAS!
Well, I looked at the view. It was a sloping landscape of various shades of green and nothing much else and I concluded that I would be bored witless if that was all I was going to look at for the rest of my golden years ( a fleeting David Bowie ref.). The problem is I don't like the "country". I don't mind a leisurely drive to Laconicshire, an expensive lunch at a Michelin starred gaffe and a leisurely drive back. I just wouldn't want to live there.
You see people going "ga-ga" at a picture postcard, chocolate box, ivy-strewn cottage in Puddleton Beeznees and all I keep thinking is what happens if I run out of fags at 11.30pm. The prospective yokels get excited about the fact that the village has a general store, a pub and a post office, I can only ponder the disappointment if you fancy a pizza, Chinese or Indian delivery. They wax lyrically about the wonderful opportunities for rambling, fell walking or horse riding and I go into cold sweat working out where the nearest multiplex is.
On the other hand I totally understand the whole sea view thing. Doesn't matter whether it's Poole or Portofino that'll do for me.
There always seem to be the two completely opposite ends of the lifestyle spectrum. At one end you have the requisite tranquility, the seasonal changes affecting the seascape and the potential of being extricated from the lunacy of city living. Better still, whether an aficionado of the organic sail boat or the sybaritic power cruiser, nothing beats being on the ocean with cool sounds on the stereo and the cocktail shaker within easy reach.
Conversely, seaside living can also come with a thriving social scene. Balmy summer nights, hints of ozone in the air. Marinas alive with restaurants serving great seafood, funky little bars, boat parties complete with local weirdos who never ever seem to do anything but appear everywhere. And, of course glamorous ladies (or men obviously, I just take less notice of them).
So there you have it, my completely unreasonable, nonsensical and biased take on the perfect lifestyle locale. You may also be thinking "what on earth is this nutter going on about on Xmas Eve, hardly festive is it?"
Well, as I look out on the turgid greyness in the skies over North London, gaze moronically at the imitation fir tree and clench my teeth at the sounds of Sir Cliff giving it some "welly ", somewhere deep inside I'm hoping that Santa remembers I really, really want a 48' Sunseeker.
MERRY XMAS!
Thursday, 18 December 2008
HO! HO! Hmmm
I love an event! Birthdays (other peoples mine are getting scary), anniversaries (definitely other peoples, I'm never married long enough), St Valentine's (normally with another person) and especially Christmas.
This would not normally be surprising, but as a "nice" Jewish boy it obviously has no religious significance whatsoever but throughout my life we've just never done Hanukkah (for the uninitiated it's the "Festival of Lights" and normally occurs about the same time of year).
One of my fondest childhood memories was my Grandpa dressing up as Santa and having a massive sack full of goodies for distribution. My only slight regret was that being the eldest I had a good couple of years of being spoilt rotten until various other Rug Rats started to appear and the spoils had to be shared.
There has always been a tree and decorations and although I hate how early the preamble starts I have always enjoyed the whole seasonal thing.
Of course, with parenthood the traditions continued and however clicheed it may be there just isn't anything better than the pleasure derived from seeing the look on one's kids' faces after tearing the guts out of the wrapping paper and discovering they got exactly what they wanted. In fact, if I remember correctly I was always up before either of the kids. One year I had to wake my daughter up at about 7 am 'cos the little darling wouldn't budge.
It wasn't all about the children. I must be one of the few men that actually enjoys shopping and hunting for the perfect pressies for the "significant other" has always been a lot of fun. Even if it meant standing five deep in the "cheap"section of Tiffany's along with every other "metro sexual" in London.
This year, to quote "the teenager" I'm just not feelin' it
It has nothing to do with the economy or even that it just doesn't seem particularly Christmassy out there. This year it appears that "adult child" will be abroad for the festivities, "the teenager" is at the stage where the presents are great but she's way too cool to get excited about the general proceedings and for the first time in my entire adult life I'm not married to, living with or dating anyone.
This would not normally be surprising, but as a "nice" Jewish boy it obviously has no religious significance whatsoever but throughout my life we've just never done Hanukkah (for the uninitiated it's the "Festival of Lights" and normally occurs about the same time of year).
One of my fondest childhood memories was my Grandpa dressing up as Santa and having a massive sack full of goodies for distribution. My only slight regret was that being the eldest I had a good couple of years of being spoilt rotten until various other Rug Rats started to appear and the spoils had to be shared.
There has always been a tree and decorations and although I hate how early the preamble starts I have always enjoyed the whole seasonal thing.
Of course, with parenthood the traditions continued and however clicheed it may be there just isn't anything better than the pleasure derived from seeing the look on one's kids' faces after tearing the guts out of the wrapping paper and discovering they got exactly what they wanted. In fact, if I remember correctly I was always up before either of the kids. One year I had to wake my daughter up at about 7 am 'cos the little darling wouldn't budge.
It wasn't all about the children. I must be one of the few men that actually enjoys shopping and hunting for the perfect pressies for the "significant other" has always been a lot of fun. Even if it meant standing five deep in the "cheap"section of Tiffany's along with every other "metro sexual" in London.
This year, to quote "the teenager" I'm just not feelin' it
It has nothing to do with the economy or even that it just doesn't seem particularly Christmassy out there. This year it appears that "adult child" will be abroad for the festivities, "the teenager" is at the stage where the presents are great but she's way too cool to get excited about the general proceedings and for the first time in my entire adult life I'm not married to, living with or dating anyone.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not actually miserable about being "tout seul", it's more a case of being aware of how few people are around if you are not a "normal" family unit. Sadly, my younger brother passed away a few years ago. His kids are now grown up and have their own lives. My parents are also long gone and neither of my kids are gonna procreate any time soon.
So, the tree is up. Gifts are underneath. There will be turkey and all the trimmings (damn good job I can cook), "the teenager" and I will work our way through a box of crackers and I'll still refuse to wear the dumb hat but this year it's all going to be very, very low key.
I know there are so many people that would give their right arm to have what we will have and before I get severely criticised, I know it's not really "my" festival anyway. I'm just articulating my thoughts - that's all!
For all I know, by this time next year I might've met an adorable woman with four noisy kids, a full set of parents, and numerous annoying relatives and half way through the Queen's speech I'll be pining back to the halcyon day of Xmas 2008.
Tuesday, 16 December 2008
If Only
"If it wasn't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all" is a line from an old song by Ray Charles that has been rattling around the frontal lobes for a couple of days.
I have often pondered the suggestion that one makes one's own luck but how can that be true. If it were, every person who purchases a Lottery ticket would win. After all how can you win it if you're not in it ?
By the same token if someone works their socks off and builds a business, only to find it crumble due to the credit crunch or dwindling economy are they unlucky or just another victim of an unhealthy financial climate.
The reason behind this post is that I recently spotted an old mate of mine on Facebook. If he's reading this he will recognise himself immediately
His pic showed him having an exceedingly jolly time with an absolutely stunning blond, he looked fit, well and assumedly not too concerned about the current downturn.
He no longer lives in the UK but over the years I spent quite a lot of time with him and at one time we were briefly in business together. However, if old Ray had nothin' but bad luck, this guy would survive a minefield whilst on roller skates for the very first time.
About 15 years ago his then business was going through a cash flow crisis. During this monetary hiccup he was invited to Ascot races on a corporate "knees-up". One accumulator bet later and he left Royal Berkshire £30,000 better off. Crisis over!
On another occasion he was entertaining clients and the evening concluded at a London casino. He'd had a bad time at the tables and was about £500 worse off, he had one £100 chip left and on his way to cash-in he passed the roulette table. Rather than cut his losses he tossed the chip on 36. No surprises for guessing he went home £3000 in pocket.
All that pales in significance compared to his greatest coup. He created a business in the early days of the internet. The general populace was still not on board with the whole www revolution but nevertheless the money men were keen to get behind the new technologies. He floated the business on the stock market but hated the strictures of being a CEO of a public company. After a boardroom shakeup he sold the majority of his shares for £25,000,000 plus. KERCHING!! Ironically, the business never made a profit. His successor was later disgraced for his poor performance and the whole business was sold off for a fraction of what my mate sold his shares for.
Good businessman or lucky son of a bitch, I'll leave you to make your own mind up.
As far as I'm concerned good luck to him (pun intended) and whilst I would love some of it to have rubbed off on me, I look at my children, my friends, my home and the fact I'm still alive and kicking and realise just how lucky I am too. Nevertheless, if those pesky six numbers ever come up, if I manage to win an international poker tourney or my next business venture takes off like a rocket you can be sure that I will credit it all to massive amounts of.................skill.
I have often pondered the suggestion that one makes one's own luck but how can that be true. If it were, every person who purchases a Lottery ticket would win. After all how can you win it if you're not in it ?
By the same token if someone works their socks off and builds a business, only to find it crumble due to the credit crunch or dwindling economy are they unlucky or just another victim of an unhealthy financial climate.
The reason behind this post is that I recently spotted an old mate of mine on Facebook. If he's reading this he will recognise himself immediately
His pic showed him having an exceedingly jolly time with an absolutely stunning blond, he looked fit, well and assumedly not too concerned about the current downturn.
He no longer lives in the UK but over the years I spent quite a lot of time with him and at one time we were briefly in business together. However, if old Ray had nothin' but bad luck, this guy would survive a minefield whilst on roller skates for the very first time.
About 15 years ago his then business was going through a cash flow crisis. During this monetary hiccup he was invited to Ascot races on a corporate "knees-up". One accumulator bet later and he left Royal Berkshire £30,000 better off. Crisis over!
On another occasion he was entertaining clients and the evening concluded at a London casino. He'd had a bad time at the tables and was about £500 worse off, he had one £100 chip left and on his way to cash-in he passed the roulette table. Rather than cut his losses he tossed the chip on 36. No surprises for guessing he went home £3000 in pocket.
All that pales in significance compared to his greatest coup. He created a business in the early days of the internet. The general populace was still not on board with the whole www revolution but nevertheless the money men were keen to get behind the new technologies. He floated the business on the stock market but hated the strictures of being a CEO of a public company. After a boardroom shakeup he sold the majority of his shares for £25,000,000 plus. KERCHING!! Ironically, the business never made a profit. His successor was later disgraced for his poor performance and the whole business was sold off for a fraction of what my mate sold his shares for.
Good businessman or lucky son of a bitch, I'll leave you to make your own mind up.
As far as I'm concerned good luck to him (pun intended) and whilst I would love some of it to have rubbed off on me, I look at my children, my friends, my home and the fact I'm still alive and kicking and realise just how lucky I am too. Nevertheless, if those pesky six numbers ever come up, if I manage to win an international poker tourney or my next business venture takes off like a rocket you can be sure that I will credit it all to massive amounts of.................skill.
Sunday, 14 December 2008
Overload
In the unlikely event that you have noticed, I haven't posted anything for a few days. In the even more unlikely event that you have actually missed me......I apologise profusely!
Part of the reason for my slacking is that I've been preoccupied with several personal issues but the main reason is that I'm suffering from whatever the opposite of"writer's block" may be. Writers overload perhaps?
There are so many invasive topics that are crowding my mind but my normal bent is to find an angle on a subject that I hope will amuse you and me but right now I'm finding it hard to see the funny side of almost anything.
Like millions of others I am still struggling to come to terms with the horrific death of Baby P. To even accept that human beings are capable of subjecting a toddler to a remorseless existence of torture and punishment makes me ashamed that we are even of the same species. Sadly, I live in the same borough whose social services were so abjectly inept that they couldn't (even after sixty visits) prevent this tragedy from happening. This is the same borough that allows traffic wardens and tow trucks to sit in wait so that as soon as yellow lines kick in they can issue residents with tickets and remove their vehicles within the space of five minutes. Ah yes but that's revenue isn't it?
Just as the impact of one human catastrophe inevitably subsides we have to get our heads around a new threat to innocent life. The teenage suicide bomber! I don't give a damn what your religious beliefs are, I couldn't care less who you consider the "enemy" is and I'm certainly not knowledgeable enough to offer any kind of solution to the complex conundrum that is the Middle East or come to that any other political hot spot. But what kind of race, creed, cult or religion can indoctrinate a child into destroying their life and the lives of others before they can even draw on their own life experiences. An "unholy mess".
Until recently we could comfort ourselves with the "I'm alright Jack" syndrome but not anymore we can't. Our cast-iron investment in bricks and mortar is depreciating on a daily basis. The job for life is currently a job for as long as the company's overdraft lasts and the pound in our pocket is worth less and less almost everywhere in the world. Moreover, anybody who thought they were lucky enough to have savings or pensions may have to seriously assess their "comfort zone".
On Saturday I ventured out to my local shopping centre to spend some of my dwindling reserves on Xmas presents. It was the penultimate Saturday to the "Big Day" the streets should have been heaving. they weren't. The shops should have been "jam packed" they weren't and the punters should have been laden with bags and looking cheerful as they shopped. They weren't and they didn't.
Being a "glass half full" kinda guy I'm sure I'll be back very shortly with another attempt at the rib-tickling or satire tinged writing that I (and hopefully you) enjoy but just for the moment I don't feel up to the challenge.
"Peace on Earth and Goodwill to all Men". Not this year I'm afraid.
Part of the reason for my slacking is that I've been preoccupied with several personal issues but the main reason is that I'm suffering from whatever the opposite of"writer's block" may be. Writers overload perhaps?
There are so many invasive topics that are crowding my mind but my normal bent is to find an angle on a subject that I hope will amuse you and me but right now I'm finding it hard to see the funny side of almost anything.
Like millions of others I am still struggling to come to terms with the horrific death of Baby P. To even accept that human beings are capable of subjecting a toddler to a remorseless existence of torture and punishment makes me ashamed that we are even of the same species. Sadly, I live in the same borough whose social services were so abjectly inept that they couldn't (even after sixty visits) prevent this tragedy from happening. This is the same borough that allows traffic wardens and tow trucks to sit in wait so that as soon as yellow lines kick in they can issue residents with tickets and remove their vehicles within the space of five minutes. Ah yes but that's revenue isn't it?
Just as the impact of one human catastrophe inevitably subsides we have to get our heads around a new threat to innocent life. The teenage suicide bomber! I don't give a damn what your religious beliefs are, I couldn't care less who you consider the "enemy" is and I'm certainly not knowledgeable enough to offer any kind of solution to the complex conundrum that is the Middle East or come to that any other political hot spot. But what kind of race, creed, cult or religion can indoctrinate a child into destroying their life and the lives of others before they can even draw on their own life experiences. An "unholy mess".
Until recently we could comfort ourselves with the "I'm alright Jack" syndrome but not anymore we can't. Our cast-iron investment in bricks and mortar is depreciating on a daily basis. The job for life is currently a job for as long as the company's overdraft lasts and the pound in our pocket is worth less and less almost everywhere in the world. Moreover, anybody who thought they were lucky enough to have savings or pensions may have to seriously assess their "comfort zone".
On Saturday I ventured out to my local shopping centre to spend some of my dwindling reserves on Xmas presents. It was the penultimate Saturday to the "Big Day" the streets should have been heaving. they weren't. The shops should have been "jam packed" they weren't and the punters should have been laden with bags and looking cheerful as they shopped. They weren't and they didn't.
Being a "glass half full" kinda guy I'm sure I'll be back very shortly with another attempt at the rib-tickling or satire tinged writing that I (and hopefully you) enjoy but just for the moment I don't feel up to the challenge.
"Peace on Earth and Goodwill to all Men". Not this year I'm afraid.
Tuesday, 9 December 2008
The Ex-Factor
I remember, to my chagrin, probably no more than four or five years ago stating imperiously that, "you'd never catch me doing that Internet dating". In my favour, I was in a relationship that was about ten years standing then (more of that later) and it never occurred to me that there would ever be the necessity to do so.
In true, (I wish I'd never opened my big mouth), fashion I wrote my first online dating profile almost exactly two years ago. It was done with a degree of childishness. My ex had done it first and was starting to see people and if she could do it I was damn sure I could too.
The first thing you realise is that dating profiles and career CVs are very similar......everybody lies. Some lie a little some lie a lot.
The next thing you notice is the lack of originality. I lost count of the times I read the phrases:-
"I'm just as happy in high heels as I am in wellies"
"I love dressing up in a ballgown or dressing down in jeans and T-shirt"
"Just as content dining out in an elegant restaurant as snuggling up on a sofa with a DVD and nice glass of wine"
Or, my personal favourite.
"Enjoys long country walks and finding a little pub with an open fire"
All very admirable, I'm sure but what I was really looking for was.
" Lottery winning 40 yr old ex-swimsuit model. Has own homes in Mayfair, Cannes and the Cotswolds. Collects exotic cars and Agent Provocateur lingerie. Interested in Poker, Cordon Blue cooking and Tottenham Hotspurs. Slightly kinky with a high sex drive. WLTM 58 yr old multiple divorcee. Preferably not in great shape added bonus if he has a live-in teenage daughter!"
Fortunately, I'm not holding my breath on that one ever materialising.
Since that first slightly narky profile there have been many Liaisons. Some Dangereuse some not. Some out and out nutters including one stalker, one who wanted to move in on the first date and one who called at 3 am just to hear my voice. I think the phrase she heard was "are you off your bleeding mind?"
There have also been some very lovely ladies that I have spent varying periods of time with, including the recently departed (no she's not dead just no longer with me) "lady friend". A relationship that lasted several months and which I know was mostly rewarding for both of us.
Two years on and still single. But here's the kicker so is my ex. Neither of us has managed to find Mr or Ms Right.
I think I know what the problem is though. The reason we are both still single is that we are looking for each other. Not the real each other but the fantasy each other. The perfect version that is all the things we liked/loved about each other. The each other that doesn't come with baggage, shortcomings and disappointments.
You may well ask "how do you know that's true". It's easy! Nobody has ever made us laugh so much as each other.
In true, (I wish I'd never opened my big mouth), fashion I wrote my first online dating profile almost exactly two years ago. It was done with a degree of childishness. My ex had done it first and was starting to see people and if she could do it I was damn sure I could too.
The first thing you realise is that dating profiles and career CVs are very similar......everybody lies. Some lie a little some lie a lot.
The next thing you notice is the lack of originality. I lost count of the times I read the phrases:-
"I'm just as happy in high heels as I am in wellies"
"I love dressing up in a ballgown or dressing down in jeans and T-shirt"
"Just as content dining out in an elegant restaurant as snuggling up on a sofa with a DVD and nice glass of wine"
Or, my personal favourite.
"Enjoys long country walks and finding a little pub with an open fire"
All very admirable, I'm sure but what I was really looking for was.
" Lottery winning 40 yr old ex-swimsuit model. Has own homes in Mayfair, Cannes and the Cotswolds. Collects exotic cars and Agent Provocateur lingerie. Interested in Poker, Cordon Blue cooking and Tottenham Hotspurs. Slightly kinky with a high sex drive. WLTM 58 yr old multiple divorcee. Preferably not in great shape added bonus if he has a live-in teenage daughter!"
Fortunately, I'm not holding my breath on that one ever materialising.
Since that first slightly narky profile there have been many Liaisons. Some Dangereuse some not. Some out and out nutters including one stalker, one who wanted to move in on the first date and one who called at 3 am just to hear my voice. I think the phrase she heard was "are you off your bleeding mind?"
There have also been some very lovely ladies that I have spent varying periods of time with, including the recently departed (no she's not dead just no longer with me) "lady friend". A relationship that lasted several months and which I know was mostly rewarding for both of us.
Two years on and still single. But here's the kicker so is my ex. Neither of us has managed to find Mr or Ms Right.
I think I know what the problem is though. The reason we are both still single is that we are looking for each other. Not the real each other but the fantasy each other. The perfect version that is all the things we liked/loved about each other. The each other that doesn't come with baggage, shortcomings and disappointments.
You may well ask "how do you know that's true". It's easy! Nobody has ever made us laugh so much as each other.
Friday, 5 December 2008
The Old Pals Act
I really loved "The Who"! Mod anthems, great clothes, cool hairstyles and real attitude. Even now I can embarrass the hell out of "the teenager" by screaming my way through "Won't Get Fooled Again" whilst throwing in an occasional Townsend flailing "air" power chord to complete the picture.
However, as much as I love a touch of irony, the iconic line "hope I die before I get old" does evoke a snigger when you consider the band is still touring and they are older than me. Mind you at least Kieth Moon and John Entwhistle stayed true to the cause.
But have I've taken it too literally? Maybe those lyrics really allude to not getting mentally old. To not thinking like a grumpy old man, not being averse to change and to not enjoying every last minute we have on this crumbling old rock. If that's the case I'm totally on it.
You may be thinking "where's this all going?". Well, let me tell you. Over the last seven days I have spent evenings with three of my very best and oldest friends. Between us we have nine kids, seven divorces, one marriage that has lasted nearly a quarter of a century, three currently single men and an average of over thirty-five years of friendship between me and each of them.
None of us are deluded enough not to recognise we are no longer young men but one things for sure, compared to our Dads at the same age we are a darn sight "younger". They were all great guys and all sadly no longer around and much like us, their sons, they each had very different lives and degrees of success and failure but without doubt when they were the same age as we are now they were "older".
Maybe, it was growing up in the sixties and all that that involved (the bits I can remember anyway........you gotta love a cliche), or the evolution of media that allows us to tune into the zeitgeist without really noticing it or maybe it is just a refusal to accept chronology as a life style choice.
I have two other theories that I believe are the real answer. Firstly, I think my generation of parents are closer to their kids than our forebears. Not that we love them more, that is certainly not the case but we share more and are less judgemental. We watch the same TV, go to the same movies and sometimes (I did say sometimes) even listen to the same music. Sex and drugs are no longer taboo subjects for discussion and extended families have taught tolerance and displayed our vulnerabilities.
Secondly, friendships like mine that have stood the test of time ensure that we are not allowed to take ourselves too seriously. There is always someone to schlep one back to earth with a bang when a "senior moment" beckons.
Take the other night. Three of us went to a bar that was oh so trendy back "in the day" and we still love. It started off with the usual catching up, moved onto "credit crunch" and careers (in my case, lack of one), escalated to the opposite sex and sex and by the time we were on our fourth Mai Tai the conversation took a distinctly downward spiral. Each and every weakness and foible was ridiculed relentlessly, waitresses smiled kindly at us as we flirted aimlessly with them and most important of all we giggled non-stop like fifth formers on a school trip.
At 4am I fell into bed, "pissed as a newt" with a big smile on my face. About five hours later I was awoken by a "call of nature". I gingerly ventured towards the bathroom and fell flat on my butt. My body felt 58, my head felt 18 and I was still giggling.
"Hope I die before I get old", I don't think so and if you think that's childish......."why don't you all f-f-fade away".
However, as much as I love a touch of irony, the iconic line "hope I die before I get old" does evoke a snigger when you consider the band is still touring and they are older than me. Mind you at least Kieth Moon and John Entwhistle stayed true to the cause.
But have I've taken it too literally? Maybe those lyrics really allude to not getting mentally old. To not thinking like a grumpy old man, not being averse to change and to not enjoying every last minute we have on this crumbling old rock. If that's the case I'm totally on it.
You may be thinking "where's this all going?". Well, let me tell you. Over the last seven days I have spent evenings with three of my very best and oldest friends. Between us we have nine kids, seven divorces, one marriage that has lasted nearly a quarter of a century, three currently single men and an average of over thirty-five years of friendship between me and each of them.
None of us are deluded enough not to recognise we are no longer young men but one things for sure, compared to our Dads at the same age we are a darn sight "younger". They were all great guys and all sadly no longer around and much like us, their sons, they each had very different lives and degrees of success and failure but without doubt when they were the same age as we are now they were "older".
Maybe, it was growing up in the sixties and all that that involved (the bits I can remember anyway........you gotta love a cliche), or the evolution of media that allows us to tune into the zeitgeist without really noticing it or maybe it is just a refusal to accept chronology as a life style choice.
I have two other theories that I believe are the real answer. Firstly, I think my generation of parents are closer to their kids than our forebears. Not that we love them more, that is certainly not the case but we share more and are less judgemental. We watch the same TV, go to the same movies and sometimes (I did say sometimes) even listen to the same music. Sex and drugs are no longer taboo subjects for discussion and extended families have taught tolerance and displayed our vulnerabilities.
Secondly, friendships like mine that have stood the test of time ensure that we are not allowed to take ourselves too seriously. There is always someone to schlep one back to earth with a bang when a "senior moment" beckons.
Take the other night. Three of us went to a bar that was oh so trendy back "in the day" and we still love. It started off with the usual catching up, moved onto "credit crunch" and careers (in my case, lack of one), escalated to the opposite sex and sex and by the time we were on our fourth Mai Tai the conversation took a distinctly downward spiral. Each and every weakness and foible was ridiculed relentlessly, waitresses smiled kindly at us as we flirted aimlessly with them and most important of all we giggled non-stop like fifth formers on a school trip.
At 4am I fell into bed, "pissed as a newt" with a big smile on my face. About five hours later I was awoken by a "call of nature". I gingerly ventured towards the bathroom and fell flat on my butt. My body felt 58, my head felt 18 and I was still giggling.
"Hope I die before I get old", I don't think so and if you think that's childish......."why don't you all f-f-fade away".
Wednesday, 3 December 2008
Blogistics
Talk about "little things please little minds". About three days after I first posted, I googled the blog's URL and nothing came up. I kept trying every couple of days and was just about to go and have a serious chat with Mr Google, when last night it was there for all to see. I cannot deny I felt just a little proud. I, then, decided to check just how many co-members I might have in our elite club known as the Internet. According to a survey done last February there were 108,810,358 different websites. Instantaneously I felt very,very small.
This got me thinking. I've read about some blogs having readerships of thousands, book and TV adaptations and advertising revenue by the boatload. Now I know some people are reading this, mainly 'cos I can name each and every one of them but I have no idea if there might be a wider audience. Of course, you might be a lousy typist, searched for Chairman Mao and got me instead. In which case the best I can do is "a journey of a 100 miles starts with but a single step". After that buddy, you are on your own but if you'd like to stay you are very welcome.
In my mind's eye it would all be ever so simple. My ramblings would have a warm and fuzzy life of their own. The word would be passed in an organic, six degrees of separation style and before you could say "Amazon" a community of avid readers would form. Hmmm, dream on Mo!
Admittedly, I haven't been doing this very long and I am an impatient bugger. I really didn't start this for any form of reward or recognition but it would be nice to know that I wasn't just amusing friends and family. The only written comments I've received on the site so far are from "adult child". Thanks Son but I do speak to you about ten times a day anyway.
I decided to ask the other members of our "club" for advice. You have no idea just how many "How to Improve Your Blog" sites there are. I checked several of them. Conflicting opinions all over the shop. Write daily, don't write unless you have something to say. Get a free site, pay for a site. Don't take advertising at first, maximise advertising at first. Nevertheless, I did find out a fair bit I didn't know and with the help of my in-house experts (adult child & the teenager), I will start implementing some of them. Mind you, I'm still confused as to how to get that clever little spider into my PC. Apparently, he's a big help.
If you are reading this and we don't know each other please make contact. If something has amused you, annoyed you or you have ideas for topics write a comment. I'd appreciate it.
In the meantime, I'm going to start posting these on "You Tube" as well. Then if you can't be bothered to read and you really want to see my ugly mug at the same time I've got you covered.
Who knows? By this time next year I may have a DVD box set available for Xmas.
This got me thinking. I've read about some blogs having readerships of thousands, book and TV adaptations and advertising revenue by the boatload. Now I know some people are reading this, mainly 'cos I can name each and every one of them but I have no idea if there might be a wider audience. Of course, you might be a lousy typist, searched for Chairman Mao and got me instead. In which case the best I can do is "a journey of a 100 miles starts with but a single step". After that buddy, you are on your own but if you'd like to stay you are very welcome.
In my mind's eye it would all be ever so simple. My ramblings would have a warm and fuzzy life of their own. The word would be passed in an organic, six degrees of separation style and before you could say "Amazon" a community of avid readers would form. Hmmm, dream on Mo!
Admittedly, I haven't been doing this very long and I am an impatient bugger. I really didn't start this for any form of reward or recognition but it would be nice to know that I wasn't just amusing friends and family. The only written comments I've received on the site so far are from "adult child". Thanks Son but I do speak to you about ten times a day anyway.
I decided to ask the other members of our "club" for advice. You have no idea just how many "How to Improve Your Blog" sites there are. I checked several of them. Conflicting opinions all over the shop. Write daily, don't write unless you have something to say. Get a free site, pay for a site. Don't take advertising at first, maximise advertising at first. Nevertheless, I did find out a fair bit I didn't know and with the help of my in-house experts (adult child & the teenager), I will start implementing some of them. Mind you, I'm still confused as to how to get that clever little spider into my PC. Apparently, he's a big help.
If you are reading this and we don't know each other please make contact. If something has amused you, annoyed you or you have ideas for topics write a comment. I'd appreciate it.
In the meantime, I'm going to start posting these on "You Tube" as well. Then if you can't be bothered to read and you really want to see my ugly mug at the same time I've got you covered.
Who knows? By this time next year I may have a DVD box set available for Xmas.
Monday, 1 December 2008
Celebritee-hee
I couldn't have been more than 11 or 12 but I remember this quite clearly. There used to be a TV programme called "Sunday Night at the London Palladium". It was a variety show (sort of like "Britains Got Talent" with jugglers that didn't drop things) and every week they had a big time international star to end the show. On this particular night the headliner was Liberace (for the youngsters thinking WHO? Try this, Alan Carr in sequins, playing the piano with an American accent). Out he flounced, dressed like a Xmas tree on acid and as "camp" as a row of tents. I was sitting with my late Mum, who absolutely loved old Libby.
"Eeeeww Mum, he is such a Homo!" or some equally un-PC comment.
"No he is not! He's just slightly effeminate. It's all just an act"
Well, it was certainly an act but even in those naive days my Gaydar was in perfect working order.
Now, please, please, please don't think this is in any way an anti-gay rant. Not in the slightest, in fact as long as your sexual predilections are consensual and don't involve children or defenseless animals I will stand up and defend your rights to get your rocks off in any way you jolly well choose.
My point is that in the heady days of the first half of the last century the general public were happy to have their entertainment icons sanitised, packaged, protected and served to them in nice little user friendly portions. The film studios and record companies went to great lengths to cover up the truth about such idols as Rock Hudson, Montgomery Clift and Tab Hunter. They were photographed on the red carpet with stunning "starlets", straight relationships were reported in the press and in some cases they even married them off!
Strangely enough, the "Rat Pack"( Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin & Sammy Davis jr), who specialised in womanising, hard drinking and gambling, were almost presented as role models.
Couldn't do it these days though. If the latest heart-throb doesn't out him/herself there are websites that will. If the orgy involving a vicar, dominatrix and a shire horse was meant to be by invite only...forget it. There will have been a paparazzi with a trillion x zoom catching the whole thing for syndication. And if their intake of Columbian Marching Powder was a guilty secret, somebody with a camera-phone will have videoed them hunched over with a straw up their schnoz and on You-Tube within the hour. Guilty yes, secret no.
What really hacks me off is not that our celebrities have nasty habits, exotic sexual preferences or skeletons in the fitted wardrobe but the fact that they whinge about it when they are caught red-handed.
We've all seen the interviews:
"So, Squiffy since you've been successful what has been your biggest disappointment with fame and fortune?"
" Well er, you know. it's like umm, the fact that I just ain't got no privacy anymore. I mean, like, ya know, kinda, I can't go down to the "Offy" anymore in my pj's and hair in curlers without some bleedin' photographer snapping at me".
Oh poor, poor you. Had you never seen Heat, Ok, Hello or The News of the World. Did the whole internet, global information thing pass you by. Did they not have television in Grimly-on-the Mold and was radio a medium only enjoyed by the local Lord of the Manor.
You wanted the fame and fortune. The premieres, designer clothing, holidays in the Bahamas and the house in Essex called "Squiffy Manor" were all on your wish-list. It was all you ever wanted but like everything in life it comes with a price. Whilst most of the world is crunched by their credit don't expect any sympathy
So do us all a favour. When you get round to doing the inevitable ("it was only meant to be a really personal thing for me and my Dwayne") celebrity sex-tape make sure you at least get your hair, make-up and lighting done properly.
"Eeeeww Mum, he is such a Homo!" or some equally un-PC comment.
"No he is not! He's just slightly effeminate. It's all just an act"
Well, it was certainly an act but even in those naive days my Gaydar was in perfect working order.
Now, please, please, please don't think this is in any way an anti-gay rant. Not in the slightest, in fact as long as your sexual predilections are consensual and don't involve children or defenseless animals I will stand up and defend your rights to get your rocks off in any way you jolly well choose.
My point is that in the heady days of the first half of the last century the general public were happy to have their entertainment icons sanitised, packaged, protected and served to them in nice little user friendly portions. The film studios and record companies went to great lengths to cover up the truth about such idols as Rock Hudson, Montgomery Clift and Tab Hunter. They were photographed on the red carpet with stunning "starlets", straight relationships were reported in the press and in some cases they even married them off!
Strangely enough, the "Rat Pack"( Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin & Sammy Davis jr), who specialised in womanising, hard drinking and gambling, were almost presented as role models.
Couldn't do it these days though. If the latest heart-throb doesn't out him/herself there are websites that will. If the orgy involving a vicar, dominatrix and a shire horse was meant to be by invite only...forget it. There will have been a paparazzi with a trillion x zoom catching the whole thing for syndication. And if their intake of Columbian Marching Powder was a guilty secret, somebody with a camera-phone will have videoed them hunched over with a straw up their schnoz and on You-Tube within the hour. Guilty yes, secret no.
What really hacks me off is not that our celebrities have nasty habits, exotic sexual preferences or skeletons in the fitted wardrobe but the fact that they whinge about it when they are caught red-handed.
We've all seen the interviews:
"So, Squiffy since you've been successful what has been your biggest disappointment with fame and fortune?"
" Well er, you know. it's like umm, the fact that I just ain't got no privacy anymore. I mean, like, ya know, kinda, I can't go down to the "Offy" anymore in my pj's and hair in curlers without some bleedin' photographer snapping at me".
Oh poor, poor you. Had you never seen Heat, Ok, Hello or The News of the World. Did the whole internet, global information thing pass you by. Did they not have television in Grimly-on-the Mold and was radio a medium only enjoyed by the local Lord of the Manor.
You wanted the fame and fortune. The premieres, designer clothing, holidays in the Bahamas and the house in Essex called "Squiffy Manor" were all on your wish-list. It was all you ever wanted but like everything in life it comes with a price. Whilst most of the world is crunched by their credit don't expect any sympathy
So do us all a favour. When you get round to doing the inevitable ("it was only meant to be a really personal thing for me and my Dwayne") celebrity sex-tape make sure you at least get your hair, make-up and lighting done properly.
Thursday, 27 November 2008
The Teenager
In 1968 I bought an album (aye that's what we called them in them there days) by Blood Sweat & Tears called "Child is Father to the Man". I had no idea what it meant then but 40 years on I think I'm beginning to get a clue.
There are many things in my life I'm proud of, a fair few not so much so but nothing has afforded me so much pride, pleasure, love and occasional brain damage as my two wonderful kids.
I wisely chose the one of each gender option so there is "adult child"-male and "the teenager"-female. Of course, they are of equal importance so at a later date I will, no doubt, be eulogising the "biggun". This post, however, is dedicated to the the one in the title.
In a strange twist of fate I got custody of her over eight years ago. This was all without the necessity of dressing up as Spiderman or bungee jumping off Big Ben. Moreover, when my last long term relationship ended I became SINGLE DAD!
At risk of being accused of double standards (heaven forfend!), I was, and am , way more protective of her than I ever was of "adult child". Mind you, I suppose it's pretty natural to be less concerned about a 6'4" 16 stone male 15 year old than the somewhat smaller female equivalent. The trouble is, it wasn't long before the roles started to reverse almost imperceptibly.
Up until she was legally old enough I wouldn't have dreamt of leaving her alone during the evening but eventually it became time for me to regain some semblance of a social life. At first one ventured out tentatively with the reassurance of "Oh Dad, don't be so silly just go out and have fun" and like a good boy off I trotted making sure to be home earlier than really necessary. Inevitably, the time came when I got more confident and stayed out a little later.
"And what time did you get in last night and were you with a WOMAN?"
"It wasn't that late and it was just a date".
"If YOU say so"
See what's happening?
Then I have to suffer the ignominy of being a 21st century metrosexual. We sit and watch a movie or TV programme together. It only has to be about some parent's altruistic love for their offspring or an NSPCC ad' and I'm snuffling like a Pug with extra nasal congestion.
"Oh My God Dad, you are such a wuss"
Harrumph!
Don't even get me started on music! "The Teenager" can sing, I don't mean she can warble along with a degree of competence. I mean she CAN sing. Even worse she has an elephantine memory for the lyrics of every poxy song written in the last 35 years. God forbid, I should have a raspy singalong to something and bugger up the odd word or miss a note. she makes me feel like buying a massive digger, go down about 12 feet, jump in and rapidly fill the hole in with my own hands.
So far I have had to cope with the " can I have my belly button pierced, can I, can I, can I?" Uh NO! Some time later asked again, same response. Then in the tradition of men familiar with being nagged, since time immemorial, I acquiesced. It went septic!
"Can I dye my hair blonde, can I , can I, can I?" Follow the above sequence. It went orange.
She's not getting a tattoo, couldn't cope with septicemia.
We've also done the "can I get a boyfriend?" which was greeted with the same sort of response I might have reserved for a leper asking to borrow my bath towel. But you know what? She's over 16 now, I've got to let go eventually and why shouldn't some poor 17 yr old floppy haired chap get used to an adult life full of "Can I-s"
There are many things in my life I'm proud of, a fair few not so much so but nothing has afforded me so much pride, pleasure, love and occasional brain damage as my two wonderful kids.
I wisely chose the one of each gender option so there is "adult child"-male and "the teenager"-female. Of course, they are of equal importance so at a later date I will, no doubt, be eulogising the "biggun". This post, however, is dedicated to the the one in the title.
In a strange twist of fate I got custody of her over eight years ago. This was all without the necessity of dressing up as Spiderman or bungee jumping off Big Ben. Moreover, when my last long term relationship ended I became SINGLE DAD!
At risk of being accused of double standards (heaven forfend!), I was, and am , way more protective of her than I ever was of "adult child". Mind you, I suppose it's pretty natural to be less concerned about a 6'4" 16 stone male 15 year old than the somewhat smaller female equivalent. The trouble is, it wasn't long before the roles started to reverse almost imperceptibly.
Up until she was legally old enough I wouldn't have dreamt of leaving her alone during the evening but eventually it became time for me to regain some semblance of a social life. At first one ventured out tentatively with the reassurance of "Oh Dad, don't be so silly just go out and have fun" and like a good boy off I trotted making sure to be home earlier than really necessary. Inevitably, the time came when I got more confident and stayed out a little later.
"And what time did you get in last night and were you with a WOMAN?"
"It wasn't that late and it was just a date".
"If YOU say so"
See what's happening?
Then I have to suffer the ignominy of being a 21st century metrosexual. We sit and watch a movie or TV programme together. It only has to be about some parent's altruistic love for their offspring or an NSPCC ad' and I'm snuffling like a Pug with extra nasal congestion.
"Oh My God Dad, you are such a wuss"
Harrumph!
Don't even get me started on music! "The Teenager" can sing, I don't mean she can warble along with a degree of competence. I mean she CAN sing. Even worse she has an elephantine memory for the lyrics of every poxy song written in the last 35 years. God forbid, I should have a raspy singalong to something and bugger up the odd word or miss a note. she makes me feel like buying a massive digger, go down about 12 feet, jump in and rapidly fill the hole in with my own hands.
So far I have had to cope with the " can I have my belly button pierced, can I, can I, can I?" Uh NO! Some time later asked again, same response. Then in the tradition of men familiar with being nagged, since time immemorial, I acquiesced. It went septic!
"Can I dye my hair blonde, can I , can I, can I?" Follow the above sequence. It went orange.
She's not getting a tattoo, couldn't cope with septicemia.
We've also done the "can I get a boyfriend?" which was greeted with the same sort of response I might have reserved for a leper asking to borrow my bath towel. But you know what? She's over 16 now, I've got to let go eventually and why shouldn't some poor 17 yr old floppy haired chap get used to an adult life full of "Can I-s"
Monday, 24 November 2008
Lets Get Quizzical
I think it's only fair to "out" myself at the very start! I have appeared on a TV game show. It was a strange set of circumstances, which involved being in a hotel on business and auditions being held at the same venue. By recognising a nine letter anagram as MASOCHISM, I ended up on Countdown.
Now, I'd love to say that I blew away the competition with my prodigious vocabulary and Voorderman-esque ability to do simple maths but the fact of the matter is I scored a weedy 27 (in the days when there were less rounds...I have some pride) and was subsequently deposited on the train from Leeds back to London. All in all, not a totally unpleasant experience and I consoled myself with the facts that all the people I met were very affable and I didn't make a complete fool of myself.
If you have been following my ramblings (thank you) you know that I am not currently in full time employment. Apart from the opportunity this has given me to indulge my writing "habit" it has also exposed me to the wondrous world that is Daytime Television.
The programming for DT follows a series of genres. There's the how to buy and sell a house and make a profit format........it's November 2008 get real. There's the find a hidden treasure in your attic format........."So, how are you gonna spend the £30 profit from the cracked Clarisse Cliff ashtray?" Probably on the train fare home. And then, of course, there are the game shows
You can start your brain training with "Going for Gold", tired old shtick tired old sets. Then "Spin Star" great big fruit machine, all very spangly. No idea what it's all about. "Golden Balls" on the other hand is a real doozy. Hosted by a very unfunny Jasper Carrot it seems to centre round people opening spheres with random amounts of money therein and lying to other players about how much they contained. The finale is two people swearing they will split the proceeds but actually planning to shaft each other. Sweet! If you are still hungry for even more you can't go wrong with a touch of "Deal or No Deal". Good God! How difficult is it? Start at Box 1 work your way towards Box 22 and when it gets twitchy take the bleedin' money! As DT starts to fade into the sunset we get possibly the least pretentious and most challenging of the lot, "Eggheads". Five professional quizzers are challenged by pub-style quiz teams. "The Giants of Quizland have triumphed once again will they ever be beaten?" . Actually yes, on average about every five games.
I have, as you'd expect, saved the worst 'til last. It is the phenomenon, the leviathan, the Guvnor. the utter heap of unadulterated detritus better known as "The Weakest Link".
When it first appeared as early evening entertainment offering decent amounts of prize money, I was moderately amused by what was clearly credible competition for "Millionaire" . I used to cringe slightly at the put downs but it was my choice to watch. As indeed it is now with the DT version but, but, but...........this really is "car crash" TV.
We are all used to everyone desiring their "15 minutes of fame" (guilty as charged your Honour) but why, oh why do the deluded saddos choose to grab it on this "lamb to the slaughter" scenario? I can only assume it is the same mindset that makes the tone deaf and socially challenged apply for "X Factor"!
At least six of the so-called contestants seem to have a problem even articulating their name let alone a real challenge like "name the L that is the opposite of Right". Consequently, the chance of a prize any bigger than £2,500 is nigh on impossible. In order for the one player with an IQ over 50 to get their hands on this week altering amount, they are subjected to an onslaught of playground bullying by the Henna'd Harridan. I would rather crawl over broken glass than allow this Eva Braun wannabe to deride me. To make this even more laughable She That is Well Past Her Sell by Date seems to make more mistakes in pronunciation than the majority of her "guests". Pot...Kettle anybody.
Aah! I feel much better for that. Hmm, can't seem to work out this nine letter conundrum "critehypo" .
Now, I'd love to say that I blew away the competition with my prodigious vocabulary and Voorderman-esque ability to do simple maths but the fact of the matter is I scored a weedy 27 (in the days when there were less rounds...I have some pride) and was subsequently deposited on the train from Leeds back to London. All in all, not a totally unpleasant experience and I consoled myself with the facts that all the people I met were very affable and I didn't make a complete fool of myself.
If you have been following my ramblings (thank you) you know that I am not currently in full time employment. Apart from the opportunity this has given me to indulge my writing "habit" it has also exposed me to the wondrous world that is Daytime Television.
The programming for DT follows a series of genres. There's the how to buy and sell a house and make a profit format........it's November 2008 get real. There's the find a hidden treasure in your attic format........."So, how are you gonna spend the £30 profit from the cracked Clarisse Cliff ashtray?" Probably on the train fare home. And then, of course, there are the game shows
You can start your brain training with "Going for Gold", tired old shtick tired old sets. Then "Spin Star" great big fruit machine, all very spangly. No idea what it's all about. "Golden Balls" on the other hand is a real doozy. Hosted by a very unfunny Jasper Carrot it seems to centre round people opening spheres with random amounts of money therein and lying to other players about how much they contained. The finale is two people swearing they will split the proceeds but actually planning to shaft each other. Sweet! If you are still hungry for even more you can't go wrong with a touch of "Deal or No Deal". Good God! How difficult is it? Start at Box 1 work your way towards Box 22 and when it gets twitchy take the bleedin' money! As DT starts to fade into the sunset we get possibly the least pretentious and most challenging of the lot, "Eggheads". Five professional quizzers are challenged by pub-style quiz teams. "The Giants of Quizland have triumphed once again will they ever be beaten?" . Actually yes, on average about every five games.
I have, as you'd expect, saved the worst 'til last. It is the phenomenon, the leviathan, the Guvnor. the utter heap of unadulterated detritus better known as "The Weakest Link".
When it first appeared as early evening entertainment offering decent amounts of prize money, I was moderately amused by what was clearly credible competition for "Millionaire" . I used to cringe slightly at the put downs but it was my choice to watch. As indeed it is now with the DT version but, but, but...........this really is "car crash" TV.
We are all used to everyone desiring their "15 minutes of fame" (guilty as charged your Honour) but why, oh why do the deluded saddos choose to grab it on this "lamb to the slaughter" scenario? I can only assume it is the same mindset that makes the tone deaf and socially challenged apply for "X Factor"!
At least six of the so-called contestants seem to have a problem even articulating their name let alone a real challenge like "name the L that is the opposite of Right". Consequently, the chance of a prize any bigger than £2,500 is nigh on impossible. In order for the one player with an IQ over 50 to get their hands on this week altering amount, they are subjected to an onslaught of playground bullying by the Henna'd Harridan. I would rather crawl over broken glass than allow this Eva Braun wannabe to deride me. To make this even more laughable She That is Well Past Her Sell by Date seems to make more mistakes in pronunciation than the majority of her "guests". Pot...Kettle anybody.
Aah! I feel much better for that. Hmm, can't seem to work out this nine letter conundrum "critehypo" .
Sunday, 23 November 2008
Interlude
I wish somebody would have warned me. I wish there was a help-line. I wish I had read something but I didn't. So if (just in case) you ever get the urge, let me be the first to warn you.....blogging is addictive!
As far as I know, apart from a few friends and family, nobody may be reading this. Does that put me off writing? Does it heck! Do I think I'm a great writer? Hell NO! So what on earth am I doing this for? I have no idea but I can't stop.
To an extent it's cathartic and it does satisfy a desire to do something creative after an age of working in a mind numbingly, soul destroying environment where the most artistic thing I did in five years was approve recruitment ads' but it's not as if I was harbouring a secret desire to be the next Steinbeck or Hunter S Thompson.
The bit that's getting to me is that it has almost overtaken my entire thought process. "Would that be a interesting topic?" "That's a funny line" or "I've just gotta write something about THAT" have become my new raison d'etre.
You never know, another couple of weeks of this and the novelty may fade. I may start working on a proper money making scheme and not have the time or I might just run out of things I want to write about but until any of those happen I'll keep tapping away.
I might well award myself a B.A. though. Yup, that's right, founder member of Bloggers Anonymous.
As far as I know, apart from a few friends and family, nobody may be reading this. Does that put me off writing? Does it heck! Do I think I'm a great writer? Hell NO! So what on earth am I doing this for? I have no idea but I can't stop.
To an extent it's cathartic and it does satisfy a desire to do something creative after an age of working in a mind numbingly, soul destroying environment where the most artistic thing I did in five years was approve recruitment ads' but it's not as if I was harbouring a secret desire to be the next Steinbeck or Hunter S Thompson.
The bit that's getting to me is that it has almost overtaken my entire thought process. "Would that be a interesting topic?" "That's a funny line" or "I've just gotta write something about THAT" have become my new raison d'etre.
You never know, another couple of weeks of this and the novelty may fade. I may start working on a proper money making scheme and not have the time or I might just run out of things I want to write about but until any of those happen I'll keep tapping away.
I might well award myself a B.A. though. Yup, that's right, founder member of Bloggers Anonymous.
Friday, 21 November 2008
"Lap" Dancing
Before you go any further it's only fair to warn you that if you are of a delicate disposition or easily shocked, don't read any further. By all means check out earlier posts or come back soon. Missing you already.
Right you are then, still with me. I will try to be as delicate as possible.
A couple of weeks ago I was at the "lady friend's" bijou residence. After dinner, sated with excellent food and glowing with the heady warmth of good wine the inevitable question was raised........."what's on the box?"
Amazingly but not surprisingly, we checked out the eighteen hundred and twenty seven channels offered on cable and came to the conclusion there was absolutely nothing we both fancied. Although, I must admit a re-run of Top Gear on Dave+1 was tugging gently at my heart strings.
Not to be defeated, we decided to check out "Movies on Demand". As you can imagine exploding zombies, marauding Mongols and undercover assassins were off (see earlier post) and I was way too awake for an Eastern European odyssey of love and loss. Just at the point of submission we noticed what could be a little gem. "Irina Palm", the story of a middle-aged women entering the sex industry starring........MARRIANE FAITHFULL!
If, like us , you can remember the 60s this was the woman that every hippy guy wanted to shag and every hippy chick wanted to be. Hanging out with the Stones, Mick Jagger's main squeeze, "As Tears Go By", "The Girl on the Motorcycle". Oh Yeah Baby!
Prior to switching on your set be prepared for a plot spoiler. The most shocking thing about the film was the fact that Marriane spent the entire thing looking like one of the Nans that knit Shreddies. The gist of the story is that in order to raise the funds to send her grandson to the States for a life saving operation she finds a job in a Soho clip joint. You are probably thinking that if she looks like a babushka how does this happen?
Taking into account that the movies budget was about £47 and that the writer, director and producer had obviously never been to a clip joint in Soho, she accumulates the funds as follows. Men go into a room, plop their appendage through a hole and Marianne "pleasures" them manually. She becomes so good at this that men are actually queueing into the streets to sample the experience. According to the script she had the "best hands in London". Remember, these are meant to be straight men so any stories you may have heard about "glory holes" in gay clubs do not apply.
We actually watched this turgid rubbish to the bitter end, partly out of disbelief and partly 'cos it instantly became a great topic for conversation.
The fact of the matter is that for the sort of money these chumps were supposedly paying for the service, they could have gone to anyone of dozens of hookers in Soho and at least have seen what they were paying for (so I've been told). For all they knew the body that the hands belonged to behind the wall could've been mine!
This, of course, brings me neatly to the actual subject of this missive. Firstly, I have to make this very clear. I love women, their brains, their looks, their bodies, their smells, and the very fact they are the complete opposite of blokes. Secondly, I have absolutely no truck with the issue of a man wanting to or having to pay for sex , as long as it's not with some sex slave being exploited against her will.
What I don't understand whatsoever is.....lap dancing.
I sort of get the whole Dita Von Teese, camp burlesque thing. It can be cutesy and funny. I totally get the whole pre-sixties strip club in the days when a glimpse of stocking was something shocking but what the +@!* is lap dancing all about.
The first time I went it was out of prurient interest but since then I've been dragged (almost) kicking and screaming on stag-nights and corporate "jollys".
Wherever you are in the clubs you will see naked or semi-naked girls "dancing" or doing that silly pseudo gymnast thing on a pole. So, if the purpose was to see women with their bits out....job done. However, the minute you sit down it starts. "Wanna private dance darling?" Well, no actually I don't. For a start I'm exactly four feet away from the chaps on either side of me who have bothered to bung money in a garter and I can see almost exactly what they can without having to maintain a rictus grin whilst "Chantelle" or "Venus" is doing her thing.
Even more mind-boggling is that some of the punters keep depositing seemingly never-ending funds in the garters for more of the same. Why?? The law says you are not allowed to touch, the "legitimate" establishments won't allow contact off the premises and if they did why bother depleting the old bank roll when you must have been able to negotiate a fee for the whole enchilada during the first, or for really tongue-tied punters, second rhythmic liaison!
Maybe it is some kind of macho one-upmanship. " I can afford more dances than you, so there!". If that's the case I would like to quote the best description I've heard of lap dancing. "it's all hors d'oeuvre and no main course!".
As for me, I'm off to dinner.
Right you are then, still with me. I will try to be as delicate as possible.
A couple of weeks ago I was at the "lady friend's" bijou residence. After dinner, sated with excellent food and glowing with the heady warmth of good wine the inevitable question was raised........."what's on the box?"
Amazingly but not surprisingly, we checked out the eighteen hundred and twenty seven channels offered on cable and came to the conclusion there was absolutely nothing we both fancied. Although, I must admit a re-run of Top Gear on Dave+1 was tugging gently at my heart strings.
Not to be defeated, we decided to check out "Movies on Demand". As you can imagine exploding zombies, marauding Mongols and undercover assassins were off (see earlier post) and I was way too awake for an Eastern European odyssey of love and loss. Just at the point of submission we noticed what could be a little gem. "Irina Palm", the story of a middle-aged women entering the sex industry starring........MARRIANE FAITHFULL!
If, like us , you can remember the 60s this was the woman that every hippy guy wanted to shag and every hippy chick wanted to be. Hanging out with the Stones, Mick Jagger's main squeeze, "As Tears Go By", "The Girl on the Motorcycle". Oh Yeah Baby!
Prior to switching on your set be prepared for a plot spoiler. The most shocking thing about the film was the fact that Marriane spent the entire thing looking like one of the Nans that knit Shreddies. The gist of the story is that in order to raise the funds to send her grandson to the States for a life saving operation she finds a job in a Soho clip joint. You are probably thinking that if she looks like a babushka how does this happen?
Taking into account that the movies budget was about £47 and that the writer, director and producer had obviously never been to a clip joint in Soho, she accumulates the funds as follows. Men go into a room, plop their appendage through a hole and Marianne "pleasures" them manually. She becomes so good at this that men are actually queueing into the streets to sample the experience. According to the script she had the "best hands in London". Remember, these are meant to be straight men so any stories you may have heard about "glory holes" in gay clubs do not apply.
We actually watched this turgid rubbish to the bitter end, partly out of disbelief and partly 'cos it instantly became a great topic for conversation.
The fact of the matter is that for the sort of money these chumps were supposedly paying for the service, they could have gone to anyone of dozens of hookers in Soho and at least have seen what they were paying for (so I've been told). For all they knew the body that the hands belonged to behind the wall could've been mine!
This, of course, brings me neatly to the actual subject of this missive. Firstly, I have to make this very clear. I love women, their brains, their looks, their bodies, their smells, and the very fact they are the complete opposite of blokes. Secondly, I have absolutely no truck with the issue of a man wanting to or having to pay for sex , as long as it's not with some sex slave being exploited against her will.
What I don't understand whatsoever is.....lap dancing.
I sort of get the whole Dita Von Teese, camp burlesque thing. It can be cutesy and funny. I totally get the whole pre-sixties strip club in the days when a glimpse of stocking was something shocking but what the +@!* is lap dancing all about.
The first time I went it was out of prurient interest but since then I've been dragged (almost) kicking and screaming on stag-nights and corporate "jollys".
Wherever you are in the clubs you will see naked or semi-naked girls "dancing" or doing that silly pseudo gymnast thing on a pole. So, if the purpose was to see women with their bits out....job done. However, the minute you sit down it starts. "Wanna private dance darling?" Well, no actually I don't. For a start I'm exactly four feet away from the chaps on either side of me who have bothered to bung money in a garter and I can see almost exactly what they can without having to maintain a rictus grin whilst "Chantelle" or "Venus" is doing her thing.
Even more mind-boggling is that some of the punters keep depositing seemingly never-ending funds in the garters for more of the same. Why?? The law says you are not allowed to touch, the "legitimate" establishments won't allow contact off the premises and if they did why bother depleting the old bank roll when you must have been able to negotiate a fee for the whole enchilada during the first, or for really tongue-tied punters, second rhythmic liaison!
Maybe it is some kind of macho one-upmanship. " I can afford more dances than you, so there!". If that's the case I would like to quote the best description I've heard of lap dancing. "it's all hors d'oeuvre and no main course!".
As for me, I'm off to dinner.
Thursday, 20 November 2008
Art House?
I love movies! Not in a cuddly "what's on this week, maybe we can see a fillum" kinda way but more in an obsessive "it opens on Friday, I've got tickets for the 6.05 am performance " kinda way.
My custom made Purves & Purves DVD cabinet is busting at the seams. It's all there, from Angel A (Luc Besson Dir) to Zoolander (Ben Stiller Dir) and Anderson Paul Dir (Resident Evil) to Zwick Edwin Dir (The Last Samurai, Blood Diamond). See what I mean? Moreover, I'm an equal opportunity movie nut, I can wax just as lyrical about Blades of Glory (Will Ferrell 2007) as I can about The Beat My Heart Skipped (Romain Duris 2005).
IMDB (Internet Movie Data Base) is on the drop down menu of my browser and each new issue of Empire magazine is greeted with the same sort of fervour I used to reserve for Playboy when I was 13. Doesn't matter how many times I've read that last sentence it still seems so wrong!
Being a cinephile, yes we do have a name, I know nothing beats the experience of actually going to a cinema to feed ones habit. Being a Dad with two kids with a 13 year age gap between them, also means that I have had constant "movie buddies" for almost thirty years. However, there are limits to what you can subject your kids to. Consequently my fixation with "world cinema" has been limited to receiving suspect little brown paper packages containing the latest Haneke or a Director's cut of "Betty Blue".
Nevertheless, the local multiplex has served me and the "teenager" well. If you arrive before 4pm on the weekends two tickets are about £8. The large nachos (with extra jalapenos), container load of popcorn and a gallon of Pepsi Max will add another tenner and "we're good to go". Once inside the appropriate "screen" we can sink into voluminous seats that slide back and forth and immerse ourselves in pristine sound and vision. Admittedly, there are some slight negatives. The dubious looking hoodies hanging round the bottom of the escalators and the inevitable hip-hop ring tones followed by " Whassup Bruv, yeah I'm in the pictures. Laters G", add a certain edgy frisson.
In recent months I have been "dating". A lovely lady, great personality and wonderful sense of humour. She is by profession a highly qualified and respected English and Drama teacher. As you can imagine her profession predisposes her to have an interest in all things cultural, including, of course, cinema. Unfortunately, anything featuring loud explosions, car chases or death counts over a dozen or so, don't float her boat. What will get the dinghy bobbing are angsty, moody, languorous art house movies, or anything featuring Liverpool (she's a Scouser).
You would think that having read this far that this should suit me down to the ground. The "teenager" to accompany me for this week's latest blockbuster and the "lady friend" to obviate the need for the brown paper packages. Well, not exactly.
It's not the films, it's certainly not her company, it's the bloody cinemas. You have to book in advance 'cos they are invariably small. Two tickets that'll be £21. Two Fair Trade coffees in recycled paper cups, a portion of Patagonian trail-mix in a knit it yourself container and one wheat free, gluten free, nut free, taste free flapjack £16. Right on! Then you go inside.
Now, if you've been paying attention you'll know that I'm not exactly what you'd call trim. However, whilst I'm more than happy to take responsibilty for my breadth, my length lies squarely on the shoulders of genetics. I take an aisle seat to maximise leg room. The only problem with that is that the rows are so close together that I have to swivel on my butt to get my legs out. This of course results in either a severe case of "numb bum" or the person sitting behind me playing "spot the screen" due to my constant wriggling. Invariably, the person behind me is not a dwarf either and spents the majority of the programme replicating my movements and kicking the back of my seat. This might just be bearable if I'm watching Jason Statham destroy a few buildings and jump a car over a 100 yard ravine but if I'm straining to read the sub-titles and cherish the nuance of the directors multi-layered sub-text.........it sucks!
So there you have it, my love of movies continues, the "lady friend" stays and the "teenager" can rely on me springing for a "slushy" for a while yet but the next time I see Kristen Scott-Thomas she will have been delivered surreptitiously to my door.
My custom made Purves & Purves DVD cabinet is busting at the seams. It's all there, from Angel A (Luc Besson Dir) to Zoolander (Ben Stiller Dir) and Anderson Paul Dir (Resident Evil) to Zwick Edwin Dir (The Last Samurai, Blood Diamond). See what I mean? Moreover, I'm an equal opportunity movie nut, I can wax just as lyrical about Blades of Glory (Will Ferrell 2007) as I can about The Beat My Heart Skipped (Romain Duris 2005).
IMDB (Internet Movie Data Base) is on the drop down menu of my browser and each new issue of Empire magazine is greeted with the same sort of fervour I used to reserve for Playboy when I was 13. Doesn't matter how many times I've read that last sentence it still seems so wrong!
Being a cinephile, yes we do have a name, I know nothing beats the experience of actually going to a cinema to feed ones habit. Being a Dad with two kids with a 13 year age gap between them, also means that I have had constant "movie buddies" for almost thirty years. However, there are limits to what you can subject your kids to. Consequently my fixation with "world cinema" has been limited to receiving suspect little brown paper packages containing the latest Haneke or a Director's cut of "Betty Blue".
Nevertheless, the local multiplex has served me and the "teenager" well. If you arrive before 4pm on the weekends two tickets are about £8. The large nachos (with extra jalapenos), container load of popcorn and a gallon of Pepsi Max will add another tenner and "we're good to go". Once inside the appropriate "screen" we can sink into voluminous seats that slide back and forth and immerse ourselves in pristine sound and vision. Admittedly, there are some slight negatives. The dubious looking hoodies hanging round the bottom of the escalators and the inevitable hip-hop ring tones followed by " Whassup Bruv, yeah I'm in the pictures. Laters G", add a certain edgy frisson.
In recent months I have been "dating". A lovely lady, great personality and wonderful sense of humour. She is by profession a highly qualified and respected English and Drama teacher. As you can imagine her profession predisposes her to have an interest in all things cultural, including, of course, cinema. Unfortunately, anything featuring loud explosions, car chases or death counts over a dozen or so, don't float her boat. What will get the dinghy bobbing are angsty, moody, languorous art house movies, or anything featuring Liverpool (she's a Scouser).
You would think that having read this far that this should suit me down to the ground. The "teenager" to accompany me for this week's latest blockbuster and the "lady friend" to obviate the need for the brown paper packages. Well, not exactly.
It's not the films, it's certainly not her company, it's the bloody cinemas. You have to book in advance 'cos they are invariably small. Two tickets that'll be £21. Two Fair Trade coffees in recycled paper cups, a portion of Patagonian trail-mix in a knit it yourself container and one wheat free, gluten free, nut free, taste free flapjack £16. Right on! Then you go inside.
Now, if you've been paying attention you'll know that I'm not exactly what you'd call trim. However, whilst I'm more than happy to take responsibilty for my breadth, my length lies squarely on the shoulders of genetics. I take an aisle seat to maximise leg room. The only problem with that is that the rows are so close together that I have to swivel on my butt to get my legs out. This of course results in either a severe case of "numb bum" or the person sitting behind me playing "spot the screen" due to my constant wriggling. Invariably, the person behind me is not a dwarf either and spents the majority of the programme replicating my movements and kicking the back of my seat. This might just be bearable if I'm watching Jason Statham destroy a few buildings and jump a car over a 100 yard ravine but if I'm straining to read the sub-titles and cherish the nuance of the directors multi-layered sub-text.........it sucks!
So there you have it, my love of movies continues, the "lady friend" stays and the "teenager" can rely on me springing for a "slushy" for a while yet but the next time I see Kristen Scott-Thomas she will have been delivered surreptitiously to my door.
Wednesday, 19 November 2008
The Call Centre
I had it all worked out, what I was going to write today, until I saw Homer Simpson lying prone, motionless and soundless on my TV!
My first thoughts were " I have magically been granted Sky + or Tivo", after pressing the obvious buttons and then prodding absolutely every one for the heck of it, I noticed an ugly red light on the set-top box where it should have been a pleasing shade of green.
On cue, teenage daughter arrived from the magical kingdom (otherwise known as "MY ROOM"). "Daaaaaaaaaaad, the internets down". At that point there was absolutely no need to panic. She passed Information Technology with an 'A' Merit. She knew exactly what to do. She turned it off and waited 10 seconds and turned it on again. Even with her credentials the red light refused to be impressed.
Ok, ok! I admit the concern was mounting. Every adult knows if a teenager can't fix it you've got a problem. The time had come to re-assert my head of the household status. I would call the "help-desk"!
Manfully I picked up the handset, I pushed the green dial button, I dialed 150 and......................nothin'. The phoneline was down too. I started to feel grateful for the daily blood-pressure suppressants.
Of course, I have a mobile phone. Unfortunately, said mobile has an aversion to working indoors which results in most conversations consisting of " sorry mate, I can't hear you"or "say that again , you're breaking up". It was last resort time.
"Daaaaaaaaaaaaarlin', can I use your mobile?" Asking one's daughter for usage of her pink life-line to the world was ignominious enough but as needs must.
What ensued was an abject lesson in how not to put a smile on my face. The call was answered with the following message; " thank you for calling XXX, calls from your XXX landline are free but please be aware that calls from other landlines or mobiles may be charged". GRRRR!
Then the neverending menu options, sub-menus and sub-sub-menus. Eventually, a human being answered.
"Good evening, thank you for calling XXX help-desk my name is Simon how can I help you?" No! Your name is not Simon, I am obviously through to Mumbai or Delhi. Your name may be Sahar, it may be Samir or even Sanjay but it's not bloody Simon. Why is an English name meant to make us feel better. I wouldn't call up my local Indian delivery service and expect to talk to Tristram Hetherington-Smythe.
For some obscure reason known only to Asian call center trainers, staff are taught to speak to customers in a manner not heard of since the "Last Days of the Raj". Obsequious to the extreme. Nevertheless, I told "Simon" what wasn't happening with my services. "Please Sir, I hope you don't mind holding on but I will have to put you on hold while I check out the problem". Okey, dokey.
Five, yes five minutes later "Simon" was back. "Yes Sir, you are right all the services are down in your area," thanks for confirming I'm not losing my mind, "our engineers are working on the problem. It should all be fine in 4-6 hours". "Hmm, "Simon", thats all well and good but firstly am I going to be compensated for this lack of service and secondly are you going to refund the cost of this call from what is obviously not a XXX landline?" And then came the killer response. "Well Sir, I really don't know, you will have to call back tomorrow and speak to a UK call centre". AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!
I'm going to get my revenge though. I keep getting called by an automated system from one of my credit card suppliers. It calls three times, cuts off and leaves a message saying "You've been called by YYY credit card and we will call back later". Next time it calls I'm going to name the disembodied voice..........Devendra.
My first thoughts were " I have magically been granted Sky + or Tivo", after pressing the obvious buttons and then prodding absolutely every one for the heck of it, I noticed an ugly red light on the set-top box where it should have been a pleasing shade of green.
On cue, teenage daughter arrived from the magical kingdom (otherwise known as "MY ROOM"). "Daaaaaaaaaaad, the internets down". At that point there was absolutely no need to panic. She passed Information Technology with an 'A' Merit. She knew exactly what to do. She turned it off and waited 10 seconds and turned it on again. Even with her credentials the red light refused to be impressed.
Ok, ok! I admit the concern was mounting. Every adult knows if a teenager can't fix it you've got a problem. The time had come to re-assert my head of the household status. I would call the "help-desk"!
Manfully I picked up the handset, I pushed the green dial button, I dialed 150 and......................nothin'. The phoneline was down too. I started to feel grateful for the daily blood-pressure suppressants.
Of course, I have a mobile phone. Unfortunately, said mobile has an aversion to working indoors which results in most conversations consisting of " sorry mate, I can't hear you"or "say that again , you're breaking up". It was last resort time.
"Daaaaaaaaaaaaarlin', can I use your mobile?" Asking one's daughter for usage of her pink life-line to the world was ignominious enough but as needs must.
What ensued was an abject lesson in how not to put a smile on my face. The call was answered with the following message; " thank you for calling XXX, calls from your XXX landline are free but please be aware that calls from other landlines or mobiles may be charged". GRRRR!
Then the neverending menu options, sub-menus and sub-sub-menus. Eventually, a human being answered.
"Good evening, thank you for calling XXX help-desk my name is Simon how can I help you?" No! Your name is not Simon, I am obviously through to Mumbai or Delhi. Your name may be Sahar, it may be Samir or even Sanjay but it's not bloody Simon. Why is an English name meant to make us feel better. I wouldn't call up my local Indian delivery service and expect to talk to Tristram Hetherington-Smythe.
For some obscure reason known only to Asian call center trainers, staff are taught to speak to customers in a manner not heard of since the "Last Days of the Raj". Obsequious to the extreme. Nevertheless, I told "Simon" what wasn't happening with my services. "Please Sir, I hope you don't mind holding on but I will have to put you on hold while I check out the problem". Okey, dokey.
Five, yes five minutes later "Simon" was back. "Yes Sir, you are right all the services are down in your area," thanks for confirming I'm not losing my mind, "our engineers are working on the problem. It should all be fine in 4-6 hours". "Hmm, "Simon", thats all well and good but firstly am I going to be compensated for this lack of service and secondly are you going to refund the cost of this call from what is obviously not a XXX landline?" And then came the killer response. "Well Sir, I really don't know, you will have to call back tomorrow and speak to a UK call centre". AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!
I'm going to get my revenge though. I keep getting called by an automated system from one of my credit card suppliers. It calls three times, cuts off and leaves a message saying "You've been called by YYY credit card and we will call back later". Next time it calls I'm going to name the disembodied voice..........Devendra.
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
The Ascent of Mo
Unremarkable childhood, remarkable only for being spectacularly overweight. Teenage through to late twenties, spectacular weight loss, financial highs and lows, ludicrous amounts of sex, drugs and rock 'n roll. Politics very,very liberal. Thirties through mid-forties, fluctuating weight, financial highs and lows, marriages, parenthood, copious amounts of sex, drugs and rock 'n roll. Politics moving closer to the centre. From then to now,inevitable weight gain, finances from very high to current gut wrenching low, long term relationship (now over), acceptable levels of sex, drugs very rarely (except medication) and rock 'n roll played slightly quieter. Politics creeping right of center.
I originally wanted to start a cult.....Mo-ism! it seemed such a great idea. Nick some rhetoric from self-help books, some eastern mysticism, dash of sci-fi and throw in a bit of EST & Herbal Life and there you go. However, I finally decided that expecting my target market to send 10% of their income to a 58 yr old, overweight out of work businessman was possibly stretching things a tad. Maybe I can come up with a neat pyramid sales scam instead.
Having forsaken my opportunity to become a demi-god I still had an uncontrollable urge to foist my thoughts, opinions and never-ending rants on an adoring public......hence the BLOG.
From here on in I hope to amuse, bemuse, confuse and infuriate you. Its unlikely to be diary style. more likely it will be a series of random topics, bubbling turmoil or just the outright surreal thoughts that tend to visit me completely unnanounced. Enjoy!
I originally wanted to start a cult.....Mo-ism! it seemed such a great idea. Nick some rhetoric from self-help books, some eastern mysticism, dash of sci-fi and throw in a bit of EST & Herbal Life and there you go. However, I finally decided that expecting my target market to send 10% of their income to a 58 yr old, overweight out of work businessman was possibly stretching things a tad. Maybe I can come up with a neat pyramid sales scam instead.
Having forsaken my opportunity to become a demi-god I still had an uncontrollable urge to foist my thoughts, opinions and never-ending rants on an adoring public......hence the BLOG.
From here on in I hope to amuse, bemuse, confuse and infuriate you. Its unlikely to be diary style. more likely it will be a series of random topics, bubbling turmoil or just the outright surreal thoughts that tend to visit me completely unnanounced. Enjoy!
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