Walking On Sunshine

So that’s me back from Dubai – six hours on a flight next to a honeymooning couple who puckered up more times, and for longer, than a lip plumped lamprey sucking silt off the glass of the London Aquarium. The kisses I could stand, but the slurping noises drowned the music in my headphones so often I thought it was plugged in to a Dyson.

Dubai was, as always, a fantastic adventure with lots of hard work but a bit of play too. I caught the new Cars 2 animated movie which has a brilliant Aston Martin spy car voiced by Michael Caine, and my favourite line came when one car asked a stupid question and the other replied “Is the Popemobile a Cadillac?”.

I had to suffer as well and manfully went for a “brunch” meal on Friday which meant non stop champagne and exotic food, and finished with my mouth stuck under a chocolate fountain. To think, I actually get paid for this!

Talking of chocolate... as I left Heathrow airport in London the newsagent WH Smith had a huge display in Terminal Three under a Union Jack banner announcing Great British Gifts for sale. They were selling Toblerone. I’m guessing it must have come from that English county Switzerland between Germanyshire and Italyshire.

Arriving at Dubai airport I always find I get caught by how different things are. It’s not just the way people dress or talk. I find myself standing in the passport control line amazed at the fact they allow a very loud busker to sing at the top of his voice somewhere on the concourse. It’s quite pleasant even though the singer is invisible, but then I found out this is a pre recorded call to prayer that is played over the public address system every few hours. That busker gets everywhere as I heard him again in every shopping mall I visited. He must be worth a fortune by now.

Being based in the United Arab Emirates, Dubai takes its responsibilities seriously and we have all heard about what happens to Brits who don’t respect their customs and traditions. The coverage of Monte Carlo head Prince Albert’s wedding was shown on TV but, when CNN showed the nuptial mass, the sound was cut so as not to encourage Christianity. Which seems silly. How many people spring up after watching a wedding on telly and say “That’s it, I’m going to start going to Church?”.

The Brits in Dubai are a great collection of ex pats and visitors and on Men’s Finals day at Wimbledon I was invited to a party hosted by Nick, a nice guy who used to be the NATO spokesperson in Afghanistan. His guests included another Brit, Paul Bramble, who had the incredibly tough and dangerous armed job of running security companies in Iraq and Colombia. He has recently changed career and now imports exotic flowers.

Currently Dubai is emptying as wives and children of the ex pats head home to Europe for school holidays and to avoid the heat, which is around 45 degrees – that’s about 113 degrees in old, black and white, Fahrenheit. In Dubai deodorant is your best friend.

The radio stations sound, more or less, like they do here – the same old songs played over and over again till you want to scream, and there appear to be many British presenters. One of them, a DJ on Virgin radio rang up someone, live on air, to get his Bluetooth fixed. He didn’t ring a phone shop or a technical help line. He rang a dentist. The receptionist on the other end sounded more and more frustrated while explaining that blue teeth were not their field of expertise. Funny, if a bit on the long side.

Now I’m back, and the sunshine is just a memory to be enjoyed as I pack a bag and get ready for our annual holiday.

Life is tough isn’t it?

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.”

Work It

Being Ryan Giggs’ lawyer must be about the worst job in the world. After lots of effort to suppress the story that his client, a Welsh footballer, allegedly had an affair with a beauty queen, he then sees it announced all over the internet and newspapers. Being Gigg’s publicity guy must be the second worst job as he had to spin the story that, actually, we’d all just misunderstood. What Manchester based Ryan had said was “from time to time I do miss Wales”, not “from time to time I do Miss Wales.”

This week I came across various jobs that might join the Giggs camp and qualify to be in the top ten worst professions in the world. I’ve just had five days on the beach in Portugal, raising my head only to buy fresh doughnuts from a cake seller who strolled the beach all day in blistering heat trying to lighten his load as quickly as possible while dripping sweat all over his cookies – and shame on you and your dirty mind if you sniggered at that last scenario! That guy must have one of the worst jobs ever, tho’ I think the gastroenterologist at Faro hospital may have an even worse one as he cleaned up the aftermath of those sweaty, sand covered, doughnuts.

How about the poor bloke I saw on Wednesday who stood on a high box outside toy store Hamleys dressed as a pirate and shouting “Arrrr, Jim Lad” to entice kids in while blowing bubbles? He has a rubbish job and I passed him again four hours later as he still stood now sounding hoarse, sweating like an engine stoker’s bum crease, with washing up liquid dribbling out of his mouth and looking like a skirmish at sea with the British navy might be more enjoyable.

One of the worst jobs in the world might be something we all assume is actually quite easy. I’m thinking here of the job of a psychoanalyst. Imagine how boring it must be having to sit for hours listening to other people talk about their real and imagined problems while constantly wanting to jump in with “sort yourself out you big girl’s blouse. You think YOU’VE got problems, well let me tell you about ME.”

Being a soldier in conflict is a pretty bad job. New figures show American soldiers need therapy afterwards – ten times more than British soldiers - because they’re brought up to expect that analysis can give you anything and everything, except of course a good job. I once went to a psychotherapist who asked me one question and then sat back for an hour leaving big silences that I was supposed to fill. Pardon me, but for £120 an hour I’m expecting her to do the talking, not me. It wasn’t until I told her I wouldn’t be coming back, or indeed paying her bill, that she suddenly found her voice. I think she found the shouting and swearing quite therapeutic.

Having a job as the voice of the speaking clock must be a rubbish way of earning a living. Every time you open your mouth in a supermarket people smile with recognition and ask the time. I just hope and pray the current bloke has a sense of humour and answers with “the time sponsored by Accurist is...”. If you want to know the time, by the way, and also annoy an MP at the same time, ask Chris Huhne the Liberal Democrat who is hogging the political news with claims he made his wife take driving penalty points for him. Huhne’s mum, Ann Murray, was the voice of the speaking clock for years. Pity she didn’t do it live as she wouldn’t have had the spare time to get pregnant.

My daughter had her belly button pierced this week and going with her to offer support I realised that being a tattoo artist is a pretty rubbish job too. Apart from punching holes in people all day like a secretary ploughing through binding, you have to be a walking advert for your profession and show off that it’s not painful by having graffiti on your arms, piercings across your ears, and studs through your nostrils giving you a permanent sniff.

But perhaps the worst job in the world is designing web sites. I’d like to thank John for redesigning mine and listening to my ideas and moans for months. I hope you like it. If you do, it was all my idea. If you don’t, blame John.

I Belong To Glasgow

I spent last weekend in Glasgow watching tourists climb my parents’ mountains of Easter Eggs. I think the Easter bunny must at least have a holiday home in my mum and dad’s garden along with all the baby Easter bunnies, and their cousins, aunties, uncles and step children twice removed. Mum’s lounge resembles Willy Wonka’s present cupboard.

She has no discipline whatsoever when it comes to chocolate so eats her Easter eggs straight away while dad usually leaves his for a few weeks till she’s finished and then teases her by eating his very slowly in front of her. She got her own back last year by eating his eggs from the back, apart from the small visible bit that pokes through the cardboard at the front. She had glued that in place so that he wouldn’t suspect.

The Scots have a tradition I haven’t seen in England of rolling hard bloiled eggs down a hill on Easter Monday and then eating them, and I’m surprised it hasn’t become a delicacy in Scottish restaurants to remind us all of childhood – Bolied Eggs Froid served with Grass and Broken Shell and the odd bit of Dog Poo.

There’s something strange about going home to the area where you grew up and remembering long forgotten traditions. Football pitches where I kicked a ball, and trees where I once climbed, now look much smaller of course, buildings have sprung up and roads appeared that weren’t there before. But what I really noticed this time was the pace of life was so much slower and more relaxed. London, without warning, seems to have turned me in to a speed freak where actually just doing nothing hasn’t been an option for a long time.

Sure, people drive more slowly in Glasgow, but I think there might be a reason for that. The roads there resemble the floor of a badly maintained quarry that has been bombed and then attacked by an army of tarmac eating ants with pickaxes and hungry bellies. Forget going to Alton Towers or Disneyland. You want a bumpy, screaming, rollercoaster ride? Drive on any main road in Glasgow. You can make it more exciting by flying the flag of England and weaving in and out of traffic shouting “Bring Back Maggie”.

But this slower pace of life thing is more than just speed on side streets. People take time to talk to each other, even strangers.

Beside me at the supermarket, the checkout girl looked at the woman behind me and said “That’s a load of stuff you’ve got there. Having a party?”. The answer was “No, it’s pie day.” Now pie day was not a tradition I remembered at all but it seemed a great idea – every one gets a shortcrust treat for their dinner, maybe a nice steak and kidney followed by an apple and blackcurrant? As I listened closely it turned out that I simply hadn’t adjusted to the dialect yet. This woman confessed she gets “pied every Friday as Friday is pie day”, and it was then I realised she meant “pay day”. But I still think pie day is a better idea.

As my mum and dad are a bit hard of hearing, their TV has the subtitles on permanently and whoever invented speech recognition software for television certainly wasn’t a Scotsman. As one Glasgow reporter with a broad accent asked the Prime Minister if the election was all about “the cuts”, the subtitles informed us it was “all about the cats” which, again, seems a great idea. Watching football on Sunday the commentator shouted “Celtic and Rangers are desperate for goals” but the subtitles told us they were “desperate for golf”. And the accent is catching. I have come back to London sounding like the love child of Susan Boyle and Kenny Dalglish.

While my garden in London basked in tropically hot, sunny weather over the weekend, I was enjoying the tradition of cloud and a bit of rain in Glasgow, and it may sound that with the clapped out roads and the rotten weather I wish I’d stayed home in London. But no.

For all its faults Glasgow will always be home, and if I eventually move back there I’m going to set myself up in business as a road repairer. That way I’ll have enough millions in the bank not just to escape to somewhere warm on holiday, I will be able to buy the sun outright and rent it out.