What a day Friday was. We woke to find that the UK had scored an own goal, with none of our political party leaders winning enough votes to get promoted to captain of the first team and help Great Britain escape relegation. We’re in a bigger mess than this metaphor.
Now we have rival Westminster squad players, who detest each other, pretending to be pals and practising moves on the training pitch while communicating through gritted teeth. A bit like what it must be like to play for Liverpool.
Coming home from work on Friday, the election was all people spoke about on the trains.
I wear fancy clothes about as frequently as Greece wins the lottery but I had a nice new suit on as I had been hosting an awards event. Fellow travellers must have confused my smart clothing with my intelligence, asking me for my opinions on politics on two or three occasions. As Cameron and Clegg now know, if the election did nothing else it made strangers talk to one another.
In my suit I looked professional, I guess, but if I expected anything from others I suppose it would have been someone assuming my mum had dressed me up for my First Communion and slipping a fiver in my pocket, or people mistaking me for a Jehovah’s Witness who’d lost his way (geographically, not spiritually). I wasn’t prepared for what really did happen.
As I got on the escalator at Waterloo, the lady in front turned around to me and said “I was looking at you on the Tube train and I thought ‘what a lovely suit’ so I’d just like to compliment you. You really carry it off.”
And yes, before you ask, she was fully sighted, was not wearing sunglasses or drooling, was unrelated to me and was not trying to be funny.
I’m telling you this not just because I am being more boastful than usual, nor am I revealing it because I only get compliments about every time Andrew Lloyd Webber wins Britain’s Next Top Model, but I’m sharing because I realised what was really great. A complete stranger had risked ridicule and rebuff just to be nice, without worrying that it would be misconstrued. Her very small act of kindness made me feel good all the way home.
So Friday was a good day to talk to strangers, whether in politics or in railway stations. But why is it that we rarely compliment people or talk to each other any more? Is it because we’re so used to emails and texts that we’ve forgotten how to speak? Without putting LOL or OMG or LMAO in every sentence or drawing a smiley face in the air, can we no longer communicate?
Some strangers should be avoided of course. Like the family who moved in around the corner from us and have a drummer in the family who practises non stop. Being American they only know one rhythm which is a cross between a marching band and My Sharona. Try listening to that all day long and you would compliment anyone with a shotgun and the neighbour’s address.
I do try complimenting my wife if she is looking extra specially pretty, but it apparently comes out wrong. I say “Wow, you’re dressed up” and then she looks cross and shouts, “Do you mean ‘You’re looking nice, darling?’”. To me they’re one and the same, but not to her.
Friday has made me resolve to work harder on complimenting people and being nice. I know the difference the lady at Waterloo station made to my day so it’s time now for me to approach strangers armed only with nice things to say.
If I’m arrested for harassment, your Honour, this week’s blog is my alibi.
Showing posts with label Politics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Politics. Show all posts
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Swear To God
Who, apart from someone with no friends, would want to go in to politics?
Any time I say this to friends who are journalists they tell me I should be less cynical and more interested as these things determine the future of the country and the world my kids will live in. I’ll then say something like “fine, why don’t you get involved, run for Parliament, and make a difference?”. And that’s when they shut up. They deny it but they treat politics as a sport, like sitting in the Coliseum watching the lions get religion. They won’t admit it’s easy just to be an opinionated spectator.
Occasionally, though, politics gets interesting even for me. One of the surprising things about our Prime Minister’s huge gaffe last week, when he made rude remarks about a senior citizen who had questioned him about immigration, seems to have gone completely unremarked upon and I’m sure it says too much about me that I have noticed.
As Gordon landed himself in the Brown stuff while forgetting he had a microphone on, he laid in to his team for allowing him to encounter an actual real person. He thought he was speaking in private at the time while, as you know, a TV microphone picked it up. But here’s the thing. While undeniably angry, Gordon Brown didn’t use one single swear word.
The next time he speaks to an ordinary person it will be to answer the question “How much bubble wrap would you like for the packing cases sir?”, and he might well use some choice words then.
If you or I were under pressure and losing ground in the polls for the country’s biggest job, we would have lost it completely and thrown in a few choice words that only dockers and verbally challenged premier league footballers would understand. A good sweary word here and there when you’re angry makes life easier doesn’t it?
I remember my then five year old daughter coming home from school and confiding she had learned a bad word which she said was the rudest word in the world. My wife and I were horrified, of course and asked her what it was. She looked coy and then said it was “the ‘F’ word”. I tried to look unflustered while telling her never to use it as it was a very bad word indeed but she chuckled, as if she had discovered the biggest secret in the world.
Over the next few days we debated whether we’d chosen the right school for her and whether we should perhaps move her up a notch or two to a nearby Borstal or get her to board at a local boozer instead. It was a further three days before she told us what the word was as she proudly shouted it out with a smile on her face. It was ‘Fart’.
They say swearing is the last refuge of those who have limited vocabulary but you only have to watch the TV show In The Loop to see that’s not true. It’s about a fictional political spin doctor, and his creative use of swear words is almost Shakespearean in invention.
When told by a department head that she should have been informed about a colleague’s appearance on television as it “falls well within my purview”, head of spin Malcolm Tucker looks at her coldly and says “Within your 'purview'? Where do you think you are? Some f**king Regency costume drama? This is a government department, not some f**king Jane f**king Austen novel! Allow me to pop a jaunty little bonnet on your purview and ram it up your ........”.
Now if that’s not creative, I don’t know what is, and I personally wish the real world of politics was as creative.
A few colourful and inventive uses of expletives might have had our Prime Minister winning voters the length and breadth of the country.
Any time I say this to friends who are journalists they tell me I should be less cynical and more interested as these things determine the future of the country and the world my kids will live in. I’ll then say something like “fine, why don’t you get involved, run for Parliament, and make a difference?”. And that’s when they shut up. They deny it but they treat politics as a sport, like sitting in the Coliseum watching the lions get religion. They won’t admit it’s easy just to be an opinionated spectator.
Occasionally, though, politics gets interesting even for me. One of the surprising things about our Prime Minister’s huge gaffe last week, when he made rude remarks about a senior citizen who had questioned him about immigration, seems to have gone completely unremarked upon and I’m sure it says too much about me that I have noticed.
As Gordon landed himself in the Brown stuff while forgetting he had a microphone on, he laid in to his team for allowing him to encounter an actual real person. He thought he was speaking in private at the time while, as you know, a TV microphone picked it up. But here’s the thing. While undeniably angry, Gordon Brown didn’t use one single swear word.
The next time he speaks to an ordinary person it will be to answer the question “How much bubble wrap would you like for the packing cases sir?”, and he might well use some choice words then.
If you or I were under pressure and losing ground in the polls for the country’s biggest job, we would have lost it completely and thrown in a few choice words that only dockers and verbally challenged premier league footballers would understand. A good sweary word here and there when you’re angry makes life easier doesn’t it?
I remember my then five year old daughter coming home from school and confiding she had learned a bad word which she said was the rudest word in the world. My wife and I were horrified, of course and asked her what it was. She looked coy and then said it was “the ‘F’ word”. I tried to look unflustered while telling her never to use it as it was a very bad word indeed but she chuckled, as if she had discovered the biggest secret in the world.
Over the next few days we debated whether we’d chosen the right school for her and whether we should perhaps move her up a notch or two to a nearby Borstal or get her to board at a local boozer instead. It was a further three days before she told us what the word was as she proudly shouted it out with a smile on her face. It was ‘Fart’.
They say swearing is the last refuge of those who have limited vocabulary but you only have to watch the TV show In The Loop to see that’s not true. It’s about a fictional political spin doctor, and his creative use of swear words is almost Shakespearean in invention.
When told by a department head that she should have been informed about a colleague’s appearance on television as it “falls well within my purview”, head of spin Malcolm Tucker looks at her coldly and says “Within your 'purview'? Where do you think you are? Some f**king Regency costume drama? This is a government department, not some f**king Jane f**king Austen novel! Allow me to pop a jaunty little bonnet on your purview and ram it up your ........”.
Now if that’s not creative, I don’t know what is, and I personally wish the real world of politics was as creative.
A few colourful and inventive uses of expletives might have had our Prime Minister winning voters the length and breadth of the country.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Hey Fatty Bum Bum
With an election approaching, I’ve been chewing things over a bit this week like a cow with more stomachs than it knows what to do with. I’m bored with politics so I turned my thoughts to what I would do as Prime Minister and how I would stamp out obesity. I think I’ve found an answer which is simplicity itself - just as well with my limited brain.
I’m probably a little obsessed just now with exercise as I mentioned last week that I’ve been going daily to the local gym for a blast of cycling, running, sit ups and gossip, and it that has been exhausting. Well, the exercise has been tiring, but coming up with new gossip every day for all the gym buddies and Wimbledon wives is absolutely knackering, let me tell you.
My weight, however, has not been falling off fast enough through diet or exercise so, like a latter day Tony Blair, I have been on the lookout for a third way, and now I think I have it. I will share it with you, but I don’t want my idea stolen and put in some Paul McKenna self help book – he has more money than a Banker celebrating a Lottery win – so I am sharing this for free.
We stayed overnight at a hotel in the countryside on Friday and they gave us a breakfast which was probably left over from the last Apollo moon landing with milk, spoon and cornflakes all contained in a small, shakeable, tub. Very healthy but at times like this I wish I had a gerbil to feed. So we went next door where they had a restaurant run by a gourmet cook who was possibly on the short side, and this Little Chef served porridge that made me feel as if Pavarotti was hiding in my lower intestines. With food very much on my mind then I set off and I noticed Mother Nature giving me the answer to the world’s weight problem.
As I drove I noticed fields filled with sheep, and I idly wondered if I could find one who was not eating. For mile after mile, sheep after sheep, not one of them stopped munching. You never see a sheep just looking around or shooting the breeze with his mates and yet you never see a fat sheep either. So I asked myself Why?
Anyone else would have come to the conclusion that it is because they only eat grass, but not me. I knew the real reason. You never notice fat sheep because we always assume their bulk is down to their wool needing to be sheared off. In other words sheep are masters of disguise by hiding their obesity cleverly under a blanket of wool. Again, someone else would say this means we should all wear baggy clothes, but what happens in the changing rooms at the gym? People would see your playdoh tum and bum then wouldn’t they?
The simple answer for us is to do what sheep do. You never see sheep shaving or using a razor under their arms or on their legs. Sheep just let the wool grow, and that is what we should do. No more epilating, no more razors or special creams. Let’s all grow long beards to hide our double chins. Let’s all encourage hairy legs and other bits to hide our excess flab.
Of course chewing gum would be a thing of the past - I’m told lambs don’t appreciate the smell of mint - but, let’s face it, it’s a small price to pay.
If we all live like sheep, our confidence will be higher. Mortgages will be history as we all commune together, fitness trainers will have to retrain as hairdressers, January’s Fitness DVDs will be obsolete, and every TV programme will be presented by The Hairy Bikers.
And politics and elections will be a thing of the past.
I’m probably a little obsessed just now with exercise as I mentioned last week that I’ve been going daily to the local gym for a blast of cycling, running, sit ups and gossip, and it that has been exhausting. Well, the exercise has been tiring, but coming up with new gossip every day for all the gym buddies and Wimbledon wives is absolutely knackering, let me tell you.
My weight, however, has not been falling off fast enough through diet or exercise so, like a latter day Tony Blair, I have been on the lookout for a third way, and now I think I have it. I will share it with you, but I don’t want my idea stolen and put in some Paul McKenna self help book – he has more money than a Banker celebrating a Lottery win – so I am sharing this for free.
We stayed overnight at a hotel in the countryside on Friday and they gave us a breakfast which was probably left over from the last Apollo moon landing with milk, spoon and cornflakes all contained in a small, shakeable, tub. Very healthy but at times like this I wish I had a gerbil to feed. So we went next door where they had a restaurant run by a gourmet cook who was possibly on the short side, and this Little Chef served porridge that made me feel as if Pavarotti was hiding in my lower intestines. With food very much on my mind then I set off and I noticed Mother Nature giving me the answer to the world’s weight problem.
As I drove I noticed fields filled with sheep, and I idly wondered if I could find one who was not eating. For mile after mile, sheep after sheep, not one of them stopped munching. You never see a sheep just looking around or shooting the breeze with his mates and yet you never see a fat sheep either. So I asked myself Why?
Anyone else would have come to the conclusion that it is because they only eat grass, but not me. I knew the real reason. You never notice fat sheep because we always assume their bulk is down to their wool needing to be sheared off. In other words sheep are masters of disguise by hiding their obesity cleverly under a blanket of wool. Again, someone else would say this means we should all wear baggy clothes, but what happens in the changing rooms at the gym? People would see your playdoh tum and bum then wouldn’t they?
The simple answer for us is to do what sheep do. You never see sheep shaving or using a razor under their arms or on their legs. Sheep just let the wool grow, and that is what we should do. No more epilating, no more razors or special creams. Let’s all grow long beards to hide our double chins. Let’s all encourage hairy legs and other bits to hide our excess flab.
Of course chewing gum would be a thing of the past - I’m told lambs don’t appreciate the smell of mint - but, let’s face it, it’s a small price to pay.
If we all live like sheep, our confidence will be higher. Mortgages will be history as we all commune together, fitness trainers will have to retrain as hairdressers, January’s Fitness DVDs will be obsolete, and every TV programme will be presented by The Hairy Bikers.
And politics and elections will be a thing of the past.
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