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"
Thursday, 27 November 2008
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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