www.paulcoia.com
Most of the time I’d be embarrassed to have me as a friend as I’m the kind of happy go lucky idiot who people could, quite rightly, file under “simple”. I always try to wear a smile and I have a great time looking for life’s pleasures. But I confess I’m currently finding it difficult to keep up the Mary Poppins façade at the moment. It’s not been much of a “chim chim cheery” week.
You find me in an angry mood. I’m angrier than a man who’s discovered a band of creepy builders constructing a leaking nuclear reactor next door to his house the day after his girlfriend has emptied his bank account and run off with her gay best friend. In fact, to be as angry as I am, this man would then have to lose a winning lottery ticket, contract dengué fever and later find that someone has posted a photo of him on a feminist web site under the section marked “even if you were blind drunk and the future of the human race depended on it girls, you wouldn’t would you?”.
You, hopefully, get the picture. I’m angrier than Sir Richard Fuming-Irritated.
Britain plc is going bust, the piggy bank is empty, and even our IOUs have IOUs while our poets, who once rhymed Love with Dove, are now coupling Doom with Gloom instead. But, fear not. While we’re all going on a mystery tour to hell in a handcart, the good old British bureaucracy system is doing its bit to carry on regardless in its mission to make us weep.
Two things happened this week that made me forget all the progress we’ve made over the past few years in filling the common sense vacuum in Britain. I was speechless, which happens about as often as Adam Sandler makes a good movie.
So what’s the background to my moody blue? Well, I received two letters within twenty four hours that made my blood pressure rise and then, in trying to resolve matters, I encountered systems that made it soar higher than Amy Winehouse in a crack den as I came up against telephone operators who may have inspired that Little Britain sketch where the punchline is always “computer says No!”.
The stories are easy, if dull, to tell. The first letter was a written warning from The VAT people putting me on notice that I had sinned by filing my return late. I didn’t read it all as the red mist obscured my vision but I remember something about a warning that, if it happened again, there would be no more chances. I would be shot and my children used as a human shield by the mujahideen in Afghanistan.
I rang the tax people and explained that the reason it was late was down to them as the printed envelope they’d given me had the wrong address on it and my return had been, er, returned by the Post Office as undeliverable ten days later. The woman on the ‘phone acknowledged that this was true and that they had a call logged from me when it happened. She even accepted that it was not my fault. “So, can I rip up this warning letter then?”, I asked.
As it turns out, no, I flippin’ well couldn’t, and if I wanted the warning rescinded I would have to write to another department enclosing all relevant paper work. I’m afraid my cries of “But I don’t have time for this, and it’s all your fault”, cut no ice.
I remember that when I was little and rehearsing in class for going to my first Confession, the nuns made us pretend we’d sinned so we could practise the whole forgiveness ceremony. This reminded me of that. I wrote the letter asking for forgiveness, for something I hadn’t done and, before I had even posted it, I received a letter from a debt collection agency threatening legal action and a trip to hell over some other supposed sin.
This new heinous felony I’d committed, they informed me, was to owe the Halifax insurance company twenty pounds. Knowing that I didn’t, but intimidated nonetheless, I resigned myself to another morning on the ‘phone.
A guy at the debt collection agency accepted they’d made a mistake and that it was all very silly, and he agreed with me that I didn’t actually owe a single penny. I’d left the Halifax to go with another insurer, had rung the Halifax to tell them I was leaving, and had put it in writing.
“Since I don’t actually owe the money then, I presume I can throw your letter in the bin and forget the legal action you threatened so nicely?”.
Computer said No! Mr Call Centre Man could not cancel the legal action unless I sent proof that I had a new, better insurance company policy on the dates in question. “But I don’t have time for this”, I pleaded with a sense of déjà vu. The answer again was, basically, Tough Luck.
So my apologies for being a bit down and ranting this week but sometimes, even a happy idiot like I am has to get it off his chest to feel better, and I do now. Doctor Blog has helped and I’m now back to being Mr Happy, but I may check out the feminist web sites to make sure I’m not there, just in case. For now I’m back in love with everyone.
Well almost everyone. As for call centre staff? No. Not even if I was blind drunk and the future of the human race depended on it.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
When A Man Loves A Woman
www.paulcoia.com
A study published this week showed that women prefer old fashioned wooing to smart, modern day chat up lines. And in similar examinations of the bleeding obvious a different report proved bears like to wander through the trees looking for toilet paper whilst another showed the Pope may go to Mass now and again.
These statistical reports seem to come out daily, and if you look up any dictionary in 2009 the phrase “academic study” would have a definition along the lines of “the act of desperately grabbing a handful of people and asking them a silly question to back up any publicity campaign your sponsors may be involved in”. But, I must confess, the reports are a lot of fun, especially when it comes to the battle of the sexes.
Since Eve first told Adam that Eden’s grass needed cutting, men and women have always battled to get hold of any information that will give them the upper hand, and today there is no shortage of people willing to supply that info for a quick bit of publicity. A new survey this weekend, for example, from a chain of garden centres, told us that a bit of gardening helps men increase their sex drive. Quite how spreading manure and pulling up weeds increases the male’s libido was not explained but, if it’s true, then no wonder that bloke Alan Titchmarsh always looks happy. Perhaps we’ll find an Anne Summers garden at Chelsea this year with rappers singing about men and their hoes.
I asked listeners on Smooth Radio to reflect the battle of the sexes this week and text me their favourite chat up lines, which showed that the oldies are still the best. “Would you like twenty pence to phone your mum and say you won’t be home till morning?”, was one, kind of creepy, one. Or how about “when they arranged the alphabet they should have put U and I together,” or “my eyes must be hurting cause you’re a sight for sore eyes.” There was even a modern day twist with “there’s something wrong with my mobile phone. It doesn’t have your number stored on it”.
My favourite came from a listener who used this line to a girl a few years ago and they are now, he says, very happily married. “Would you like to dance?”, he asked her. “You would? Great. Can I have your seat?”.
I’ve always found the opposite sex to be a mystery wrapped in a puzzle inside an enigma that’s written in Mandarin and then encrypted using technology from the future, so the thought of chat up lines was always redundant to me as, in order to use them, you have to be able to unfreeze your mouth first. I’m convinced every girl I’ve ever met, even today, assumes I’ve just returned from a bad dental visit where the tooth doctor used animal strength anaesthetic.
I first came across a chat up line, although I didn’t know what it was at the time, at a university party when a guy I knew from my karate class, who was a year older and therefore to be held in awe, said to a girl something like “you may not be the prettiest here but beauty is only a light switch away”. Today he’d probably get his head smacked but, back then, it made the girl laugh and the ice was broken.
And don’t girls always say a sense of humour is much better than good looks? I used to try telling jokes, which didn’t work. I‘d pull funny faces and they didn’t notice, and if I tried acting the clown I may as well have been centre stage at a cremation. I found that it was only when I asked for a kiss that they laughed.
So I do look forward to these statistics and surveys because I know that somewhere there’s a poor unlucky individual like I was who will believe in them and use their findings to try and improve his luck with the chat up lines.
Another set of statistics which was released this week tells us that, due to the recession, men are paying ten per cent less than ten years ago on a first date. But it also stated that when women pay they spend, typically, half of what men spend. Now, even though I’ve said that these statistics are nonsense, I want to believe this as it panders to my male sense of being brow beaten and subjugated by the fair sex. So perhaps I’ll simply cherry pick the surveys that work for me, and bin the rest.
I encountered one guy this week who was trying out a modern day chat up. I was walking down Oxford Street in London and saw several of those student charity collectors who wear a different, luminous coloured nylon jacket each day depending on which good cause they’re collecting for. These guys, with their blond dreadlocks and woollen tea cosy hats, must have been told to go in to charm overload to make the ladies part with their money in these tough financial times as the one in front of me held out his arm to a girl and said, as the ice breaker, “so I hear you’re taking me to lunch”. Quick as a flash the girl replied “What? Dressed like that? I don’t think so” and kept on walking without losing a step. Magnificent!
And that’s the problem with chat up lines that no amount of surveys prepares you for. They’re only useful if the other person doesn’t have a ready comeback. “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” works fine until you meet the girl who replies “Yes. Sorry for causing the deformity when I landed on you.”
A study published this week showed that women prefer old fashioned wooing to smart, modern day chat up lines. And in similar examinations of the bleeding obvious a different report proved bears like to wander through the trees looking for toilet paper whilst another showed the Pope may go to Mass now and again.
These statistical reports seem to come out daily, and if you look up any dictionary in 2009 the phrase “academic study” would have a definition along the lines of “the act of desperately grabbing a handful of people and asking them a silly question to back up any publicity campaign your sponsors may be involved in”. But, I must confess, the reports are a lot of fun, especially when it comes to the battle of the sexes.
Since Eve first told Adam that Eden’s grass needed cutting, men and women have always battled to get hold of any information that will give them the upper hand, and today there is no shortage of people willing to supply that info for a quick bit of publicity. A new survey this weekend, for example, from a chain of garden centres, told us that a bit of gardening helps men increase their sex drive. Quite how spreading manure and pulling up weeds increases the male’s libido was not explained but, if it’s true, then no wonder that bloke Alan Titchmarsh always looks happy. Perhaps we’ll find an Anne Summers garden at Chelsea this year with rappers singing about men and their hoes.
I asked listeners on Smooth Radio to reflect the battle of the sexes this week and text me their favourite chat up lines, which showed that the oldies are still the best. “Would you like twenty pence to phone your mum and say you won’t be home till morning?”, was one, kind of creepy, one. Or how about “when they arranged the alphabet they should have put U and I together,” or “my eyes must be hurting cause you’re a sight for sore eyes.” There was even a modern day twist with “there’s something wrong with my mobile phone. It doesn’t have your number stored on it”.
My favourite came from a listener who used this line to a girl a few years ago and they are now, he says, very happily married. “Would you like to dance?”, he asked her. “You would? Great. Can I have your seat?”.
I’ve always found the opposite sex to be a mystery wrapped in a puzzle inside an enigma that’s written in Mandarin and then encrypted using technology from the future, so the thought of chat up lines was always redundant to me as, in order to use them, you have to be able to unfreeze your mouth first. I’m convinced every girl I’ve ever met, even today, assumes I’ve just returned from a bad dental visit where the tooth doctor used animal strength anaesthetic.
I first came across a chat up line, although I didn’t know what it was at the time, at a university party when a guy I knew from my karate class, who was a year older and therefore to be held in awe, said to a girl something like “you may not be the prettiest here but beauty is only a light switch away”. Today he’d probably get his head smacked but, back then, it made the girl laugh and the ice was broken.
And don’t girls always say a sense of humour is much better than good looks? I used to try telling jokes, which didn’t work. I‘d pull funny faces and they didn’t notice, and if I tried acting the clown I may as well have been centre stage at a cremation. I found that it was only when I asked for a kiss that they laughed.
So I do look forward to these statistics and surveys because I know that somewhere there’s a poor unlucky individual like I was who will believe in them and use their findings to try and improve his luck with the chat up lines.
Another set of statistics which was released this week tells us that, due to the recession, men are paying ten per cent less than ten years ago on a first date. But it also stated that when women pay they spend, typically, half of what men spend. Now, even though I’ve said that these statistics are nonsense, I want to believe this as it panders to my male sense of being brow beaten and subjugated by the fair sex. So perhaps I’ll simply cherry pick the surveys that work for me, and bin the rest.
I encountered one guy this week who was trying out a modern day chat up. I was walking down Oxford Street in London and saw several of those student charity collectors who wear a different, luminous coloured nylon jacket each day depending on which good cause they’re collecting for. These guys, with their blond dreadlocks and woollen tea cosy hats, must have been told to go in to charm overload to make the ladies part with their money in these tough financial times as the one in front of me held out his arm to a girl and said, as the ice breaker, “so I hear you’re taking me to lunch”. Quick as a flash the girl replied “What? Dressed like that? I don’t think so” and kept on walking without losing a step. Magnificent!
And that’s the problem with chat up lines that no amount of surveys prepares you for. They’re only useful if the other person doesn’t have a ready comeback. “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” works fine until you meet the girl who replies “Yes. Sorry for causing the deformity when I landed on you.”
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Papa Don't Preach
www.paulcoia.com
God is everywhere.
Now before you run away screaming, thinking that I must have woken up on Christmas morning to find a tambourine and a wind up holy statue that speaks in tongues in my stocking, bear with me. Though I will admit I bought a copy of The War Cry from a Salvation Army man who looked miserable outside Marks and Spencers on Christmas Eve, but that doesn’t mean I’m going all woolly pullover, acoustic guitar and campfire hymn singing.
I realise why the opening sentence this week probably sounds like the beginning of an unoriginal Sunday sermon, or perhaps it’s more like the greeting you get every six months when opening your front door to find two raincoated Yanks, with clipboards, bibles and teeth whiter than your soul.
I’ve mentioned before that I’m always pleasant to Jehovah’s Witnesses as they at least believe they’re doing good, are polite, and no one gets hurt, but when you do get the ring at the door you may want to take the advice of one of my neighbours. He asked them in to his house, sat them down for a cup of tea, and then asked if they’d like to see his holiday photos. Ever obliging, they said yes, and afterwards he showed them his wedding video, record collection, library of Jeffrey Archer books, his children’s old school certificates and anything else that made him look lonely and anxious for company.
Whenever they turned the conversation to the Almighty he said something about how he gave thanks on his knees every day for his health and then discussed his (fictitious) prostate problems in great detail. They ran, presumably in to a Jehovah’s Witness protection scheme, and he hasn’t been bothered since.
So, back to “God is everywhere”, an opening that’s probably turned plenty of you off already. But, if you look at our Press or TV at the moment He really is ubiquitous, or at least his representatives are. If it’s not married Anglican priests running away from their partners to be together, it’s the other priest who is currently making headlines by writing prayers for those of us affected by unemployment and the recession. Yet another has outraged parents by banning a crucifix from his church in case it scares the little ones. This is the cross with, as they say in Liverpool, the little man on it.
The Archbishop of Canterbury has also been weighing in on the news pages with a warning that the government is as morally bankrupt as the country is financially, and he almost quotes that great religious philosopher Freddie Mercury with ‘Beelzebub has a devil put aside for Gordon Brown’. Now the Archbishop of York has weighed in with his thoughts on immigration.
If I didn’t know better I’d think this increased activity from the Church is connected to the fact that this year is the bicentenary of Charles Darwin’s birth and the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the publication of his theories on evolution. Darwin was accused of being a heretic as his main theory was that Adam and Eve were bacteria and the Garden of Eden had poisonous gas instead of blue skies, slime instead of trees and, despite Steve Job’s world domination, Apples were no where to be seen.
Using this anniversary year, the atheists have gone on the offensive – in both senses of the word.
A group of them wanted to advertise their message on a few dozen London buses so that everyone could enjoy their liberating message but atheism, like religion, costs money and they didn’t have any. Instead of offering up a prayer, an internet campaign was started to attract five thousand pounds, though it actually raised one hundred and thirty five thousand, so now their message is seen not only across London but will shortly appear on eight hundred buses from Exmouth to Aberdeen.
The buses proclaim “There’s Probably No God. Now Stop Worrying And Enjoy Your Life.” It’s mildly amusing of course but certainly condescending to the millions of Christians, Muslims, Jews and others who will tell you the very reason they don’t worry about things is because of their belief. But it’s a catchy line. Whether it’s effective or not I have no idea but one reader wrote to a London evening paper this week saying they prefer not to believe what they read on bus ads “That way I know The Love Guru is not the best comedy film ever and that broadband is never free.”
Meantime, in Australia, the campaign ground to a halt as authorities vetoed bus ads put forward which were less amusing and had opted for the more direct, bossy, approach . “Sleep In On A Sunday Morning” was the best they came up with, which would have pleased employers no end.
So, prepare for an interesting year and a battle for column inches and airtime as the arguments will rage between the atheists and believers. Scientists believe Darwin was right, but many of them say it doesn’t account for the higher power that started it all off in the first place.
For me, a person of little brain, thinking all this through can sometimes cause nightmares. If very intelligent people can put themselves, happily, on either side of the debate I need something a bit simpler to help, so I’ve found a maxim that gets me through it all, reminding me of the one, undisputable proof of a higher being, whatever you personally choose to call him. In times of doubt, you are welcome to borrow it, and it’s simply this.
If there is no God, how come we have chocolate?
God is everywhere.
Now before you run away screaming, thinking that I must have woken up on Christmas morning to find a tambourine and a wind up holy statue that speaks in tongues in my stocking, bear with me. Though I will admit I bought a copy of The War Cry from a Salvation Army man who looked miserable outside Marks and Spencers on Christmas Eve, but that doesn’t mean I’m going all woolly pullover, acoustic guitar and campfire hymn singing.
I realise why the opening sentence this week probably sounds like the beginning of an unoriginal Sunday sermon, or perhaps it’s more like the greeting you get every six months when opening your front door to find two raincoated Yanks, with clipboards, bibles and teeth whiter than your soul.
I’ve mentioned before that I’m always pleasant to Jehovah’s Witnesses as they at least believe they’re doing good, are polite, and no one gets hurt, but when you do get the ring at the door you may want to take the advice of one of my neighbours. He asked them in to his house, sat them down for a cup of tea, and then asked if they’d like to see his holiday photos. Ever obliging, they said yes, and afterwards he showed them his wedding video, record collection, library of Jeffrey Archer books, his children’s old school certificates and anything else that made him look lonely and anxious for company.
Whenever they turned the conversation to the Almighty he said something about how he gave thanks on his knees every day for his health and then discussed his (fictitious) prostate problems in great detail. They ran, presumably in to a Jehovah’s Witness protection scheme, and he hasn’t been bothered since.
So, back to “God is everywhere”, an opening that’s probably turned plenty of you off already. But, if you look at our Press or TV at the moment He really is ubiquitous, or at least his representatives are. If it’s not married Anglican priests running away from their partners to be together, it’s the other priest who is currently making headlines by writing prayers for those of us affected by unemployment and the recession. Yet another has outraged parents by banning a crucifix from his church in case it scares the little ones. This is the cross with, as they say in Liverpool, the little man on it.
The Archbishop of Canterbury has also been weighing in on the news pages with a warning that the government is as morally bankrupt as the country is financially, and he almost quotes that great religious philosopher Freddie Mercury with ‘Beelzebub has a devil put aside for Gordon Brown’. Now the Archbishop of York has weighed in with his thoughts on immigration.
If I didn’t know better I’d think this increased activity from the Church is connected to the fact that this year is the bicentenary of Charles Darwin’s birth and the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the publication of his theories on evolution. Darwin was accused of being a heretic as his main theory was that Adam and Eve were bacteria and the Garden of Eden had poisonous gas instead of blue skies, slime instead of trees and, despite Steve Job’s world domination, Apples were no where to be seen.
Using this anniversary year, the atheists have gone on the offensive – in both senses of the word.
A group of them wanted to advertise their message on a few dozen London buses so that everyone could enjoy their liberating message but atheism, like religion, costs money and they didn’t have any. Instead of offering up a prayer, an internet campaign was started to attract five thousand pounds, though it actually raised one hundred and thirty five thousand, so now their message is seen not only across London but will shortly appear on eight hundred buses from Exmouth to Aberdeen.
The buses proclaim “There’s Probably No God. Now Stop Worrying And Enjoy Your Life.” It’s mildly amusing of course but certainly condescending to the millions of Christians, Muslims, Jews and others who will tell you the very reason they don’t worry about things is because of their belief. But it’s a catchy line. Whether it’s effective or not I have no idea but one reader wrote to a London evening paper this week saying they prefer not to believe what they read on bus ads “That way I know The Love Guru is not the best comedy film ever and that broadband is never free.”
Meantime, in Australia, the campaign ground to a halt as authorities vetoed bus ads put forward which were less amusing and had opted for the more direct, bossy, approach . “Sleep In On A Sunday Morning” was the best they came up with, which would have pleased employers no end.
So, prepare for an interesting year and a battle for column inches and airtime as the arguments will rage between the atheists and believers. Scientists believe Darwin was right, but many of them say it doesn’t account for the higher power that started it all off in the first place.
For me, a person of little brain, thinking all this through can sometimes cause nightmares. If very intelligent people can put themselves, happily, on either side of the debate I need something a bit simpler to help, so I’ve found a maxim that gets me through it all, reminding me of the one, undisputable proof of a higher being, whatever you personally choose to call him. In times of doubt, you are welcome to borrow it, and it’s simply this.
If there is no God, how come we have chocolate?
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Don't Look Back In Anger
www.paulcoia.com
I hope that you had a great festive couple of weeks, didn’t kill any family members, got the socks you wanted, ate yourself silly, embarrassed yourself at the neighbours’ party and tripped over your Sales bags in the High Street spilling coffee all over some poor innocent bystander. At least that way I won’t feel alone.
So now things are more or less back to normal and we should all feel ready to face the new year and whatever it will throw at us. If you have time, and go to the BBC news web site, you’ll see that they’ve asked people to comment on what they fear most about 2009, and it makes for very sober reading with around half the readers fearing economic meltdown and the other half fearing for Gordon Brown’s health.
To be more accurate they fear that he has probably got great health and will still be around later in the year to muck things up even further although, to be fair to our Prime Minister, it is slightly less than half who wish him ill as one guy said the thing he feared most of all was cheese being made illegal and there being a pickle shortage.
It may be me trying too hard to be arty and literate, or perhaps I’ve been inhaling too much Marks and Spencer Christmas pot pourri, but I’ve always thought of the upcoming new year as a kind of vaguely familiar person from my past who I can see in the shadows getting ready to throw me a present. As I catch the box I never know whether it’s a great gift or not, and I take around twelve months to unwrap it and work things out.
On reflection, having read the last paragraph again, you’re right. It must be the pot pourri.
The vaguely familiar person that was called 2008 threw me a great present which was full of things that made me happy and grateful and led to a fantastic year, but I fear that the shadowy figure that is 2009 is not getting ready to throw me a parcel but to throw up all over me, and indeed all of us. The year ahead looks tougher than Jonathan Ross’s chances of a knighthood, but that wasn’t going to stop me from my annual, year end, tidying up of drawers and old photos, ready to welcome in the new year.
I won’t bore you with the memories that came flooding back as I found half torn, fading, family photo groups and memories of Christmases past, though one particular polaroid of me lying across a sofa after a few drinks at a festive Top Of The Pops party brought a smile. If I remember correctly Julian Lennon and I had just bonded but, with the flow of wine, I thought his dad was still alive and kept asking when he was going to bring out another record. Julian will always be tops in my book for his patience, or perhaps he was simply as well oiled as I was.
But, the one photo that rekindled most memories during my end of year office tidy was my old university matriculation card.
I’ve written before about one of these cards where I wore a beard, but this one predated even that, and was very scary. I looked exactly like an Iraqi wanted poster, the image of a militant student who wanted to change the world, defeat capitalism and pick a fight with every grown up before giving his washing to Mum and settling down to a packet of chocolate digestives in front of Coronation Street. If I was as hard as nails then the nails must have been made of wet tissue paper.
I probably would have saved the world if I could have got myself out of bed in the morning but I settled, instead, for the humiliation of explaining to my Maths teacher why I’d missed his dawn lecture, a daily dressing down on my way to the student restaurant and the heaven of pies and beans.
I must admit that the mean, moody, would be terrorist look on my card is somewhat spoiled by a huge spot on the end of my nose, a centre parting in my hair that Moses could have led the Israelites through, and an attempt at designer stubble that looks like I’d glued iron filings on my chin and then had most of them blown away in a gust of wind. The diagonal, striped, brown pullover completes the underprivileged, charity shop look, and I looked very much dressed for the part of a fan club member standing with other disadvantaged souls outside a Cliff Richard concert. But, at the time, I thought I was cooler than a polar bear sitting on a glacier, eating ice cream in a snow storm.
It was around this time I decided on my career after a local radio DJ came to play records at our student disco. I had just started as the DJ there and was asked to keep putting the records on while the celebrity gave his patter over the microphone and gave away some prizes. It seemed he had an easy life and, as I watched him getting paid in bundles of cash, I knew that this must be a more fun way to earn a living than being a scientist. Watching the girls gather round him for autographs I knew it had better perks too.
Each day when I present my show on Smooth Radio, whatever that half familiar dark stranger called 2009 throws at me, I’m going to remember back to that day and the enthusiasm I had, even if I hadn’t quite sorted out the clothing or haircut yet.
A new year is a time to look forward but, sometimes, you have to look back first. It stops you taking yourself too seriously.
I hope that you had a great festive couple of weeks, didn’t kill any family members, got the socks you wanted, ate yourself silly, embarrassed yourself at the neighbours’ party and tripped over your Sales bags in the High Street spilling coffee all over some poor innocent bystander. At least that way I won’t feel alone.
So now things are more or less back to normal and we should all feel ready to face the new year and whatever it will throw at us. If you have time, and go to the BBC news web site, you’ll see that they’ve asked people to comment on what they fear most about 2009, and it makes for very sober reading with around half the readers fearing economic meltdown and the other half fearing for Gordon Brown’s health.
To be more accurate they fear that he has probably got great health and will still be around later in the year to muck things up even further although, to be fair to our Prime Minister, it is slightly less than half who wish him ill as one guy said the thing he feared most of all was cheese being made illegal and there being a pickle shortage.
It may be me trying too hard to be arty and literate, or perhaps I’ve been inhaling too much Marks and Spencer Christmas pot pourri, but I’ve always thought of the upcoming new year as a kind of vaguely familiar person from my past who I can see in the shadows getting ready to throw me a present. As I catch the box I never know whether it’s a great gift or not, and I take around twelve months to unwrap it and work things out.
On reflection, having read the last paragraph again, you’re right. It must be the pot pourri.
The vaguely familiar person that was called 2008 threw me a great present which was full of things that made me happy and grateful and led to a fantastic year, but I fear that the shadowy figure that is 2009 is not getting ready to throw me a parcel but to throw up all over me, and indeed all of us. The year ahead looks tougher than Jonathan Ross’s chances of a knighthood, but that wasn’t going to stop me from my annual, year end, tidying up of drawers and old photos, ready to welcome in the new year.
I won’t bore you with the memories that came flooding back as I found half torn, fading, family photo groups and memories of Christmases past, though one particular polaroid of me lying across a sofa after a few drinks at a festive Top Of The Pops party brought a smile. If I remember correctly Julian Lennon and I had just bonded but, with the flow of wine, I thought his dad was still alive and kept asking when he was going to bring out another record. Julian will always be tops in my book for his patience, or perhaps he was simply as well oiled as I was.
But, the one photo that rekindled most memories during my end of year office tidy was my old university matriculation card.
I’ve written before about one of these cards where I wore a beard, but this one predated even that, and was very scary. I looked exactly like an Iraqi wanted poster, the image of a militant student who wanted to change the world, defeat capitalism and pick a fight with every grown up before giving his washing to Mum and settling down to a packet of chocolate digestives in front of Coronation Street. If I was as hard as nails then the nails must have been made of wet tissue paper.
I probably would have saved the world if I could have got myself out of bed in the morning but I settled, instead, for the humiliation of explaining to my Maths teacher why I’d missed his dawn lecture, a daily dressing down on my way to the student restaurant and the heaven of pies and beans.
I must admit that the mean, moody, would be terrorist look on my card is somewhat spoiled by a huge spot on the end of my nose, a centre parting in my hair that Moses could have led the Israelites through, and an attempt at designer stubble that looks like I’d glued iron filings on my chin and then had most of them blown away in a gust of wind. The diagonal, striped, brown pullover completes the underprivileged, charity shop look, and I looked very much dressed for the part of a fan club member standing with other disadvantaged souls outside a Cliff Richard concert. But, at the time, I thought I was cooler than a polar bear sitting on a glacier, eating ice cream in a snow storm.
It was around this time I decided on my career after a local radio DJ came to play records at our student disco. I had just started as the DJ there and was asked to keep putting the records on while the celebrity gave his patter over the microphone and gave away some prizes. It seemed he had an easy life and, as I watched him getting paid in bundles of cash, I knew that this must be a more fun way to earn a living than being a scientist. Watching the girls gather round him for autographs I knew it had better perks too.
Each day when I present my show on Smooth Radio, whatever that half familiar dark stranger called 2009 throws at me, I’m going to remember back to that day and the enthusiasm I had, even if I hadn’t quite sorted out the clothing or haircut yet.
A new year is a time to look forward but, sometimes, you have to look back first. It stops you taking yourself too seriously.
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