Don't Look Back In Anger

As 2011 starts full of promise and hopes, it’s time to look back on 2010 and, as always, my own take on the year’s events.

January
Prime Minister Gordon Brown announced full body scanners for British airports. As he was the first “customer” to try the new device, it was finally confirmed that everyone could see through him, though he’s a bit fuzzy, lightweight and clearly has nothing of value.

February
Chelsea FC refused to discuss their married captain John Terry’s infidelity after he admitted showing his little Wiki to an underwear model, Vanessa Perroncel, prior to playing away from home. She later sold her story detailing Terry’s weak tackle and dribbling skill. His dribbling led to the new phrase “Wiki Leaks”.

March

Following the death of their president, Poland declared a week of mourning. Property speculators in Wimbledon, Hampstead and Chelsea declared a week of mourning also as the building and plumbing industry ground to a halt.

April
An ash cloud from an Icelandic volcano stopped flights all over Europe and brought airports to a standstill. Within ten days Gatwick, Glasgow and Manchester airports were moving again, while Heathrow announced that they hoped to start operating again sometime in 2014.

May

Everyone became very excited when it was announced that the General Election in Britain had ended with a Hung Parliament. Months later everyone was very disappointed when it was discovered that members of Parliament hadn’t actually been hung.

June
Italian Fabio Capello failed miserably as England coach during the world cup when his team were humiliated by Germany. Scottish football fans have now nicknamed him the Tally Ho, Ho, Ho.

July
Cheryl Cole collapses and is rushed to hospital with malaria (mal-aria being Latin for bad singing). After repeated tests she is discharged and vacates her hospital bed. Husband Ashley says it’s not the first time she’s given up her bed for others.

August
Tony Blair announced he was donating all profits from his newly published memoirs to the Royal British Legion. The Legion gratefully spent all the money on a pencil and a fun sized Snicker bar.

September
Young David Miliband lost the leadership battle for the Labour Party after being beaten by his even younger brother Ed. In retaliation David hid Ed’s homework, put spiders in his bed, wiped his bottom with Ed’s school cap and told reporters that he wets the bed.

October
33 Chilean miners were released after spending 68 days cut off from the world, hundreds of feet underground, in a collapsed mine. The newly freed men were told that Piers Morgan had asked to do an interview with them and immediately asked to go back underground.

November
Prince William announced he is getting married next year to his girlfriend Kate Middleton. In his congratulatory email to Kate, John Terry wished her all the best and asked for her ‘phone number.

December
Prince Charles and The Duchess Of Cornwall are pictured looking scared after demonstrators surround their car. The nation is angry and upset with quotes like “typical students” and “can’t get anything right” bandied around after it’s announced the couple were unhurt.

Here’s to a great new year for you all, full of good health and good love in 2011.

Happy New Year.

Give A Little Love

I gave blood the other day. Donating blood is something I’ve done every six months for about twelve years and, as anyone who does it regularly knows, it’s no big deal. So no sermon from me, just do it if you can.

This time I couldn’t make it to my usual donation venue so I had to go to a local town hall which I guess is like a thousand town halls around the country, a place millions have visited. Bit musty smelling, cold and with all the sophistication of someone running in Ugg boots. But it was an adventure for me as I have never been in one in my life.
The nearest I’ve come to a town hall was picking up a charity cheque years ago from Glasgow’s City Chambers where, as I left, a drunk recognised me and asked how I was. After politely replying, I asked after his well being in return. He said “mind your own effin’ business.”

I don’t attend political meetings or Women’s Institute jam sales, and I’ve never had to go to my town hall to complain as we aren’t harassed by undesirables living next door to us – tho’ our neighbours are, of course - so I had no idea what the place was like.

As I got through the blood donation bit much quicker than expected, I went for a wander to see what else was happening and, believe me or not, it was a fascinating place. Perhaps I should get out more but I was excited. The first room I came to had a notice that said, simply, “Healing”. I know I shouldn’t have been nosey but, well, you would wouldn’t you? I couldn’t help myself. Inside were strange looking people dressed as the cast of Hair or Godspell and laying hands on people.

Men were having hands laid on backs while bent over and touching their toes, and various women seemed to have others placing hands near their heads as if to get rid of an ache or tension, and it all looked comically serious. I mean why go to medical school for five years when you can cure everything from halitosis to gout simply by having warm hands?

But then I saw a woman having hands placed near her stomach. She was obviously in pain and I guess had come because the doctors couldn’t help. The look of belief and hope in her face was haunting and all sorts of things ran through my head. Suddenly this room became a very moving place to look at and I was being insensitive and intruding. I moved on.

The next room had something called a Zumba class. Not knowing my Zumba from my Simba or indeed my Zebra, I couldn’t imagine what animal husbandry was going on in there. But I discovered Zumba is a kind of exercise set to Gloria Estefan music. It looked great fun and I might be tempted to join a class even though the room next door was probably closer to my skill and fitness level. In there they were having a tea dance with lots of polite old people swirling round the floor slowly, as if speed might take their dentures flying.

I could have shown off and danced like Fred and Ginger but, if I’m honest, it would have been closer to Fred Flintstone and the ginger one from Harry Potter so, again, I moved on.

Carrying on my tour of the town hall I found a museum staffed by local ladies, a Christmas card sale, an exhibition of paintings, and a small coffee shop. This place was like the Tardis and contained a whole soap opera’s variety of life. It was brilliant.

So I think I’ve now found a new idea for a book. How about a day in the life of the town hall? I’ll pick a day next summer and get around as many of these halls as I can, taking photos and interviewing the people who are using the facilities. Why is she giving blood? What’s the story behind her tummy and the laying of hands? Who’s at the tea dance? Why is she giving up her free time to guide people round display cabinets of local maps and photos? Why am I so uninteresting I have to live through other’s lives?

Without these places what would people do? For some it must be the highlight of the week, something they look forward to for days. I came out to the town hall car park filled with enthusiasm and bonhomie, thinking what a great day it was.

And found I had a parking ticket.

A very Happy Christmas to you and yours.

Wait A Minute Mister Postman

I got round to writing my Christmas cards this week, a task I try to put off each year as long as possible. It starts out well and I’m full of the festive spirit with a Christmas CD playing and some mince pies beside me but, by the time I’ve got to the “D”s in my address book, Shane McGowan and Kirsty McColl are singing “Merry Christmas your arse, I pray God it’s our last” and the mince pies have gone as quickly as my enthusiasm.

To spice things up this year, I’m thinking of putting one of these “round robin” letters in my cards. You know the kind of thing.....”We’ve had a great year with Jim getting promoted to section head of pest control and me getting my varicose veins done. Little Betty has had a fun year at school, winning the sports prize......etc, etc”.

I think the idea is that you are supposed to boast but not too obviously, so, exclusively for you, here’s the letter I’m thinking of putting in all our cards this year. Have a read and let me know if you think it’s a “goer”.

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Christmas 2010

Dear Friends.

As we come to the end of another year, we’re finding here that so much has happened in the Coia household in 2010 we thought we’d keep you updated on what life’s been like.

Our daughters, Annalie and Luisa, have had an exciting year. Luisa has just started at Oxford University doing her PhD in advanced mathematical astronomy and celestial physics, which we think is amazing for a thirteen year old. She will carry on as captain of the Great Britain ladies’ netball team and is still finding time to give regular guitar lessons to Eric Clapton. A joint concert is planned for the Albert Hall in May.

Annalie turned sixteen this year and continues to win prizes for her ground breaking work pioneering anaesthetic free heart surgery on the Space Station where lack of gravity is causing major problems with her hair straighteners. She is due back on earth in time to deliver her latest paper on Vascular Surgical Advances In 3D Laser Technology to the Royal College of Surgeons in fluent English, Russian, Italian, Gaelic, Serbo Croat and American Gangster Rap.

Debbie, meantime, had a very moving reunion this year when we all went to visit her in rehab. Her friends Ron Bacardi and Johnnie Walker have been sent packing and she is now fighting fit - in fact she’s fighting with her nurses, doctors, psychiatrist and anyone who visits. She should be out by February as she is to sing Aida at Covent Garden – that’s the tube station, where she will be busking.

Paul had his eyes lasered this year after misreading the hospital surgery consent form for what he thought was to be his Glandular Realignment. The subsequent Gender Realignment operation went well, even if it was unexpected, and he is now, at last, shaving. He also finally got rid of the haemorrhoids, which was a silly name for a backing group anyway.

Meantime, our cat Molly has had a fantastic year too. We don’t wish to appear boastful but she became the first feline in history to be awarded Best Of Breed at Crufts.

All the Coias wish you a very Happy Christmas and, at the close of the year as we think of you all, we will all raise a glass or two.

Apart from Debbie of course.

Please Release Me

Being stuck at home because of the bad weather this week, I watched more television than is probably good for me. The adverts on daytime TV seemed not to be aimed at me, or anyone else normal, but rather at women with the mental age of Fozzie Bear.

An alien watching these would assume all British women have flatulence and streaming underarm sweat that, should it be harnessed as wave power, could keep the national grid going. These poor women in the adverts are constantly bloated and tripping over holes in the pavement and needing to sue someone, but they smile through it all because the answer to all their problems seems to be yoghurt which has the restorative powers of penicillin, faith healing and voodoo. If only Florence Nightingale had eaten enough Activia she would still be with us and running the NHS.

So, the TV drove me mad, and coupled with the usual seasonal viruses and colds made me start to feel giddy. Watching the white stuff fall outside I felt like a mini me living in a snow globe. If only that giant would stop picking up my house and shaking me.

But I was not so dizzy as to miss one really terrible show on the BBC. Having battled to get my own TV formats on air I know how difficult it is to get funding and convince the powers that be to let your show on air so I congratulate anyone who can do it. However, this week I watched what must be the most ridiculous reality show ever. It was called Young Plumber Of The Year.

Who on earth came up with this idea, and how did they manage to sell it?

The answer to the first question is simple. The person who devised this is the same person who came up with Young Fishmonger Of The Year and Young Butcher Of The Year, each of which, unbelievably, will appear later in this series. I not only applaud his tenacity and work rate in getting these ideas accepted by the BBC, I also applaud the carers who let him in to the community for his short period of work experience. But enough’s enough. Get him back in before he causes more harm.

Make no mistake. Young Plumber Of The Year was bad. Really, really bad. The sort of telly that would have John Logie Baird and Lord Reith travelling to a Zurich clinic begging for the ultimate injection but slitting each others’ wrists on the way just to make sure.

Four finalists had to weld bends in water pipes against the clock, losing marks for scorching or leaving drips of solder which are called “Snot”, according to a badly preserved judge who, we were told, ran his own profitable plumbing company. He looked like a preserved Sixties era Beatle wearing a late Seventies suit, and I’m guessing he was in his Eighties or Nineties.

The show moved on to tasks such as clearing blocked toilets, a re enactment I'm guessing of the initial production meeting when the idea was pitched.

My kids also caught a lot of rotten telly as they were off school. I found them watching something about a single, teenaged mum on MTV and they tell me the station also carries shows called Sixteen And Pregnant, Teen Mum, Pregnant Teen Mum, and others. My thirteen year old daughter Luisa tells me there’s now so many of these programmes that, genuinely, a Facebook network has been set up called “If I’m Teenage And Pregnant How Come I Get A Slap Not A TV Show.”

Coming next on the BBC, Young Pole Dancer Of The Year? Or how about Young Bloated Yoghurt Addict Of the Year? And how long till some clever clogs TV producer comes up with Young Teenage Mum Of The Year? Please God make this bad weather go away.

You Always Hurt The One You Love

I’ve been laughing this week at how television producers are supposedly staring horrified at a big middle finger being waved in their direction by the public. The great cities of Britain may be bankrupt, we may have more pram faces per square metre than an American trailer park, and now there’s posh student demonstrators fighting for skinny cappuccinos at university , but we’re not daft. According to the story, we’ve woken up.

For a few years now we’ve all bought in to voting for the best talent on reality shows so that we can pick a star. But now the TV companies have had our money and smiled at our gullibility, it’s our turn to have a laugh. Or is it?

Anne Widdicombe, a woman with the coordination and dancing technique of a rhinoceros in labour, is hopeless as a dancer and has the grace of a tractor with three wheels, yet she’s never in the bottom two on Strictly Come Dancing. Why? Because we’re told the public now knows it can wave that middle finger at the producers, and by voting in someone who has no right to be there it’s a big “up yours” to the TV bosses.

Then, viewers of I’m A Celebrity decided not to play the role thrust on them and instead voted, night after night, for Gillian McKeith to face spiders, snakes and drowning, forgetting to share the torture around because they just don’t like her. It is, of course, bullying and viewers should be ashamed unless, perhaps, they were trying to save her from spending more time with Lembit Opik. The producers could do nothing about it and had to refund callers after McKeith’s amateur dramatics and hammy fainting spell. She now says she’s pregnant, making every male contestant happy he was asked to the naked jungle rather than the naked conception.

And week after week Wagner was voted through on the X Factor, not because he can sing (he can’t) and not because he’s nice (he’s not) but, according to journalists, because the public wanted to show Simon Cowell who’s boss. As the good singers bite the dust, we were told that Cowell must be tense as he faces the real prospect of jaded viewers voting for Wagner to win and an album being released that no one will buy apart from farmers keen to scare pests and wild animals.

Also, the public at last turned on Cheryl Cole. She publicly upbraided Wagner for remarks he made to a reporter but she’s a professional who knows how the press works, while he doesn’t. She’s had years of dealing with sneaky reporters who lie to get a story, but he hasn’t. She knows about being constantly misquoted, yet he doesn’t. But she still went ahead and tried the character assassination bit on him.

The bully girl tactics were not fair, the viewers didn’t like it and hundreds have complained. Perhaps she’ll soon be Cheryl Dole.

But I’m not buying any of this. The great British unwashed, myself included, simply vote for whoever’s made them laugh. And anyway, no matter what happens, these shows just get more publicity and more viewers every week as these silly stories gain press coverage, so the thought of Cowell, or any other producer, getting worried is just plain daft.

However, sometimes the public CAN BE nasty, can’t they?

I was in W.H. Smith this week and had to wait while staff tried to find something for a woman in front of me. Eventually a young assistant told her, apologetically, that he’d checked with head office and she had actually ordered on line so the item would be delivered to her address as she had requested, not to the store. She flew in to a rage and asked for the manager, then told him the assistant had called her a liar.

Feeling sorry for the young bloke, I told the manager that he had been perfectly polite throughout and had not used that word at all. The customer then shouted to me to mind my own “effin’” business and I have rarely heard language like the invective she hurled at me. But that was OK, after all I’m from Glasgow where we call that “love talk”. But it was her departing remark that really hurt. Looking over her shoulder as she fled she muttered “Bloody Dale Winton lookalike.”

Now that hurt. What do the public know anyway?