In The Summertime

Another British summer has just started, heralded by the sounds of cricket balls on bat, tennis balls on racquets, rock bands on a Glastonbury stage, and thumping rain on the roof outside my bedroom window.

As I write this the carefully planted bedding flowers along my garden borders are getting battered in to the ground by raindrops guided by NATO and causing loads of collateral damage. I have just given in and put the central heating on but it’s June for goodness sake. Did someone forget to tell the weather fairy?

A pal of mine, Paul, has just called to say that, because of the rain, he’s given in and booked a family holiday to Portugal after telling his wife he couldn’t afford it this year. How he’ll pay for it goodness knows but to get away from the cold and damp he’d sell his body, which should just about take care of the price of a coffee and a Kit Kat on the flight over.

While walking through the puddles yesterday I got a call asking me if I’d like to go on Saturday for a week’s work in Dubai, flying off to a country where rain and cold are about as plentiful as gay pole dancing bars. I asked for time to think it over, took a breath to make it sound like I was giving it some thought, and then screamed something like “you’ve saved me, thank you, let me have your babies” whilst lying on the pavement waving my legs and arms in the air before high fiving a passing basset hound. I’m going to see the sun at last.

Summers in the UK are depressing when the weather’s not great, and even more depressing now that Wimbledon has a roof on Centre Court, meaning tennis takes over TV every evening no matter how wet it is outside. I like the fact Wimbledon insists on white clothing though as even I, who think Joseph’s Technicolour Dreamcoat is just different shades of grey, could get the colour coordination right.

Living so close to the tennis championship courts, I try to go every year but this year I can’t be bothered. It’s not just that I’m not an Andy Murray fan – he’s too petulant and sullen for my tastes and reminds me of a kid who won’t learn it’s not nice to shout “in your face” every time someone’s kicked off musical chairs. I just find that the game has slowed to the point of boredom.

I hate the toilet breaks, the calls for the physio and the sitting down between games for longer than it takes me to cook and eat a five course meal. I detest the constant asking for a towel to mop sweat even when nothing has happened, the ridiculous sorting of balls in the hand and then asking for another one before serving, followed by bouncing the balls several dozen times before the actual serve takes place. I don’t like the game stopping while players challenge the umpires and we wait for the video replay, and the constant changing of shirts makes me feel I’m watching CCTV video of a Primark changing room.

I need to find another summer sport to get me interested.

Cricket doesn’t do it for me as it takes too long and I can’t get my head around a game that goes on for a week, with up to maybe three or four spectators on busy days, and always seems to end up as a draw. My neighbour, who is a keen cricketer, also has a croquet pitch on his lawn but that sport seems a bit too genteel and Brideshead Revisited for a rough Glaswegian lout like me.

What about Biking? I’ve done Spinning classes so long at my gym I don’t think I could handle a bike that actually moves. Swimming? It stings my eyes. And as for Morris Dancing? No, it seems a bit like mocking the afflicted.

So I think from now on Summer sport is going to mean Golf for me. We have a crop of world champions, the top world event happens here in a couple of weeks, and we have several best of class, world leading, courses.

So it’s Golf then, just as long as the players don’t start grunting, punching the air, asking for towels, demanding video replays, juggling the balls before hitting them, or shouting “come on Tim” on the 18th green. I’m going to convert.

Just don’t ask me to buy the multi coloured clothes.

I Fought The Law

This week I wanted to share with you and advert that appeared in the Savannah Tribune newspaper recently. It is an authentic ad, displayed here in slightly shortened form, but I can’t verify if the actual events took place. Read it and, like me, you will end up praying that they did.
........
To the guy who tried to mug me in downtown Savannah, night before last.

I was the guy wearing the black Burberry jacket that you demanded I hand over, shortly after you pulled the knife on me and my girlfriend, threatening our lives. You also asked for my girlfriend’s purse and earrings, and I can only hope that somehow you come across this rather important message from us.

First, I’d like to apologise for your embarrassment; I didn’t actually expect you to crap in your pants when I drew my pistol after you took my jacket. The evening was not that cold, and I was wearing the jacket for a reason. My girlfriend had just bought me that Kimber Model 1911 45 ACP pistol for my birthday, and we had picked up a shoulder holster for it that very evening. Obviously you agree that it is a very intimidating weapon, especially when pointed at your head...isn’t it?

I know it probably wasn’t fun walking back to wherever you came from with that brown sludge in your pants. I’m sure it was even worse walking bare footed as I’d made you leave your shoes, cell phone and wallet with me. (That prevented you from calling or running to your buddies to come help mug us again).

After I called your mother (or Momma as you had her listed in your cell) I explained the entire episode of what you’d done. Then I went and filled up my gas tank as well as those of four other people in the gas station, on your credit card. The guy with the motor home took 150 gallons and was extremely grateful. I gave your shoes to a homeless guy outside Vinnie Van Go Go’s along with all the cash in your wallet. (That really made his day).

I then threw your wallet in to the big pink “pimp mobile” that was parked at the curb....after I broke the windshield and side window and keyed the entire driver’s side of the car. Later I called a bunch of phone sex numbers from your cell phone. The line has now been closed even though I only kept it open for just over a day. Earlier I managed to get in two threatening calls to the DA’s office and one to the FBI, mentioning President Obama as my possible target. The FBI guy seemed really intense and we had a nice long chat (I guess while he traced your number, etc.)

I wish you well as you try to sort through some of these rather immediate, pressing issues and can only hope that you have the opportunity to reflect on, and reconsider, the career path you have chosen to pursue in life.

Remember, next time you may not be so lucky. Have a good day.

Thoughtfully yours,

Alex.

I Will Be Your Father Figure

Ever had a diary clash and found you need to be in two places at once? Well it could be worse because your double booking will be nothing compared to the one that many will face on Sunday. This will cause the Mother of all diary clashes for Arnold Schwarzenneger for instance as it’s Father’s Day, and I suspect he will have to sneak around visiting more houses than an overachieving Jehovah’s Witness.

Last year my birthday fell on a Saturday with Father’s Day the day after, leading to a whole weekend of chocolate cake and pressies, but this year I’m sure I will feel a bit put out as both momentous days in everyone’s calendar fall on the same day, leaving me feeling a bit like one of those unfortunates whose birthday falls on Christmas day. Just one load of pressies and one cake, and I don’t even have the distraction of a festive Doctor Who special to make me feel better.

I’m very lucky in that my wife always asks what I’d like to have as a present rather than guessing, so I know I will never have to worry about unwrapping novelty socks, non streaky car wax or, when he learns to write, Wayne Rooney’s autobiography. But I do feel sorry for those kids and wives who are guided by the notices in shops just now advertising what looks like car boot sale rubbish as “the ideal Father’s Day gift”.

Supermarket chain Asda, for example, has a newspaper advert running for clothing just now featuring a pink T shirt with a palm tree on the front, and another boasting a glass of lager with the slogan Bar Trek, and both of these pieces of tat are described as “the ideal Father’s Day present”. Well excuse me but what kind of bloke wants this crud, unless it’s to use as rags for polishing his car with non streak wax?

When it’s mum’s turn, Mother’s Day adverts describe the ideal gift for her as a world cruise or expensive perfume and dinner at the Ritz. But dads get a raw deal.

For real desperation to sell off old, unwanted and unloved stock, Primark really have gone further than anyone else on the High Street this Father’s Day. You won’t believe me so please set time aside and go in to check that I’m not making this up. They have full adult sized, all in one romper suits (called Onesies I’m told by my daughter) in tiger print with tiger ears on the hood, described as having the property to “Make Father’s Day Special”. What? That must be “special” in the sense that a hernia in your nose or a divorce where dad’s been dumped for another woman is special.

Meanwhile the DIY chain B&Q are advertising a power drill as the ideal gift for Dad, which seems to me as directly sexist as advertising an iron or a carpet sweeper as a gift for Mother’s Day. Why do men get such a raw deal?

Again I’m lucky that my wife and kids like to make me happy on my birthday, but I have friends for whom the day passes without even a card. My mum always forgets my dad’s birthday and panics on the day, scribbling on whatever card she has in the house. So far he has had cards “To My Daughter”, one offering congratulations “On Your New Home”, another telling him to “Get Well Soon” and even one offering condolences on a bereavement.

I do think guys get a raw deal out of this presents thing so my advice would be to just use some thought and consideration please girls.

But now I’d better go and get something for my dad. Do you think tiger ears will suit him?

Common People

Let’s talk about common sense or, rather, the lack of common sense which seems to me to be invading life like some horrible virus just now.

Despite all signs to the contrary people still believe that Jason Statham will one day learn to act, that Ed Milliband will eventually become a politician, that Simon Cowell has never, ever manufactured a publicity stunt and that the Tooth Fairy exists – don’t they know it’s actually Santa Claus who does it? Where’s your common sense people?

On Thursday I took a call from the Blood Tranfusion Service asking me to give at a donating session later in June. Sure, I said, what times do you have? Er, none actually, we’re fully booked. So why are you calling me? Because my computer screen told me to. Common sense?

On Friday I received an HP printer for my computer which arrived in a box, within a box, within a box like one of those Russian dolls without the colour or endless play possibilities. After unwrapping this “pass the parcel” goody, the machine was finally discovered in a canvas bag proclaiming “for transporting your printer” with a smaller bag on the side for “carrying printer essentials around”. Now, how often have you travelled to a mate’s house and thought “I know, I’ll take my printer for a visit. Perhaps it will enjoy the trip on the bus and get some fresh air around it’s cartridges. What I need is a custom made bag”? And guess who manufactured these silly bags which I threw away as rubbish increasing the load in our landfill bin? A company called Eco Solutions.

There was also a message on the cartridges stating “ink may be harmful if eaten”, a note that stated “for best results please attach to a computer”, a leaflet with the addresses of all the repair centres in Turkey, and a booklet containing instructions in Egyptian, Greek, Lithuanian, Latvian, Slovenian and Hrvatski, whatever that is.

This week I seem to have come across many silly situations that have frustrated me more and more until I have become as disappointed as a footballer discovering a petting zoo only contains animals. Has the world gone mad recently and no one told me?

David Beckham first showed the lack of brain matter when he told TV viewers how surprised he was that The Queen knew his wife was due to have a baby when they met last week. Even allowing for the fact that Beckham thinks an ‘A’ level is a capital latter without a slope and so probably wouldn’t know common sense if it held him down and tattooed his backside, he should have perhaps thought that Queenie might just get briefed by her aides before every meeting and event. Allowing for the fact that she may be as distanced from reality as those judges who used to ask “who are the Beatles and what is this new beat music thing”, does he not think the tens of thousands of pounds he and his wife spend on publicity agents every month to get them into newspapers might have something to do with it?

But a lack of common sense isn’t just limited to celebrities.

My local cafe, The Windmill, sells cheese toasties which, just like everywhere else, are bits of bread with cheese that’s then grilled. Our daughter wanted a simple cheese sandwich but was told they didn’t have that on the menu. “So,” I asked, “could you just take a cheese toastie and give it to us before you grill it please?” The answer was No! If it’s not on the menu we can’t give it to you. It then got worse.

I only drink hot water, no tea or coffee, so I asked for a mug of hot water. Sorry, health and safety say no, we can’t sell hot water. So could I buy a cup of tea and just ask you to put the tea bag on the side rather than in the cup? Yes, that was allowed. “But it’s still a mug of hot water isn’t it” I suggested? No, it’s a cup of tea in waiting and we can sell that. Mad, mad mad. Where has common sense gone?

It’s all part of a malaise in the UK where I bought a tube of antiseptic cream for athlete’s foot last Monday to find the message “for external use only” as if the makers were worried I might eat it as a cocktail with the new computer ink to cure the spare feet I keep safely hidden in my stomach. I also have deodorant that tells me “not to be used in eyes”, a wheelbarrow that came with instructions “not to be used on motorways”, and a toilet brush that warns me it is “not to be used orally.”

How about the Government making all manufacturers put this message on their products from now on? “Common Sense. Not to be taken for granted.”