www.paulcoia.com
As a proud native of Glasgow, one time city of culture and now the Woolworths of riverside real estate, I’ve long enjoyed the fun to be had in a Scottish sport which is enjoyed by everyone. It is not tossing the caber, but hurling the insult.
Alan McGee, former manager of the band Oasis and pal of Tony Blair, used his Glasgow upbringing this week when asked what he thought of the Prime Minister. “Gordon Brown”, he said “has had a charisma bypass. His party are cretins and retards.” Contrast this with London’s, very English, mayor Boris Johnson who said that Gordon Brown is “like some sherry crazed old dowager who has lost the family silver”. More polite, for sure, but less of a direct hit than McGee’s barbs.
Scottish humour is based on cruelty but also applauding when you get bigger and better thrown back. We’re not sophisticated, and a poster advertising a play about Glasgow summed it up as the city where “some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some are still throwing spears at buses.”
Meeting some gas bag, who simply opens their mouth to boast, might lead English people like Stephen Fry to say a clever and enduringly whimsical remark such as “You have the patter of tiny feats” but in Glasgow it’s more likely that Stevie Fryup would say “That’s clever, the way your lips move but your bum does the talking”. It then becomes a contest with the reply being something like “At least I’m not wearing mine on my shoulders”.
We don’t do subtlety in Glasgow, preferring to hit the bullseye first time, and when I visited the city recently and was recognised in the street, a woman said “I used to look forward to seeing your face on my telly every day.” Then with a sly smile she added, “As soon as you came on I knew it was time to turn over for Countdown”.
As I’ve mentioned before, we’re no repecters of celebrity. When Bono played Glasgow with his band U2 and movingly snapped his fingers every three seconds saying that a child was dying in Africa on every click, an audience member shouted “well stop clicking then”.
So are we Scots just simply rude? I hope it’s more than that. Sir Alex Ferguson, now manager of Manchester United, tells the story of his playing days with Glasgow Rangers and going in to see the then manager Scott Symon to ask why he had been playing in the second team for three weeks. Mr Symon replied with the perfect put down, “because we don’t have a third team”. Ferguson, the target of the comment, just laughed.
Scottish football has a sense of humour deadlier than a teenager’s socks, where hopeless goalkeepers are known as Michael Jackson - because they wear gloves for no apparent reason - useless players are said to be “the biggest waste of money since Paris Hilton bought pyjamas”, and I remember when Scotland lost to Denmark in the Mexican World Cup our supporters summoned up their vast knowledge of world events and current affairs, aligned with their powers of creative writing and word play, and chanted, “you can stick your streaky bacon up you’re a*se”. Now that’s class.
So why am I going on about being Scottish? Well I guess it’s because my kids keep telling me that the longer I live in London the less Scottish I’m becoming by the day and, this week, they said I’m turning English. Apparently I said the word ‘filthy’ rather than my usual ‘manky’. Unless you’ve had acid injected into your veins whilst coating your eyeballs with chilli powder, or you have bought Des O’Connor’s new Christmas album, you cannot appreciate the level of pain I feel when I hear that. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with being English, indeed some of my best wives have been English, but rather that there’s everything wrong with forgetting where you come from.
I know it’s not my accent that’s changed as an internet chat board currently has a comment saying they hate my Scottish voice on radio and always switch over – I wonder if it’s that Countdown fan from Glasgow again – and when I went to see England play Australia at Twickenham two weeks ago I sang the Australian anthem to deflate the auld enemy. It seems to me my Scottish bloody mindedness is still intact.
I wonder, though, if it all matters anyway. It seems that wherever we live we’re all starting to blend more and more in to one homeless waif as quick communications and ease of travel mean we spend more time picking up other cultures and accents, and my kids seem to now talk an American street language that is part “Yo girlfriend” and part indecipherable.
In the quiet road of eleven houses where I live we have three German families, one French and two Far Eastern. There is also a Danish family who are renting, though what they do with streaky bacon must remain a mystery as I’ve yet to meet them. But I’m sure we’d all get along famously as nationality seems to me to be less an issue than ever before.
So forget common currencies, Central Banks, European Unions, Nato and cultural exchange trips. Togetherness in daily life is us all just getting along despite where we come from, and laughing at ourselves. When we get to the stage of Glasgow humour being used commonly, without anyone taking offence, I think we’ll have truly arrived.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Flash Dance
www.paulcoia.com
So like Winter follows Autumn, and “annoys the hell out of me” follows Timmy Mallett, the BBC are again in trouble, this time with actor John Barrowman showing his willy during an interview on Sunday.
The offending incident took place live so couldn’t be edited, but it was on radio, a medium not renowned for its great picture quality. This didn’t stop the Daily Mail from putting the event on their front page today with a headline which reads something like Mad Flasher Kills Four Hundred Babies And Poisons Old Ladies As Civilisation Ends All Thanks to the Labour Government.
Barrowman is only the latest in a long line of distinguished people who like flashing for a laugh, giving his man parts a starring role most days in the movie of his life, though obviously a very small part. Unlike him, while having people laugh at me naked is something I’ve had to come to terms with, it’s not something I’d actively seek.
By coincidence I was driving home and switching around radio stations in my car on Sunday night so, although I’m not normally a Radio One listener, I listened closely to the interview as I had chatted to John just a couple of days before. I came away from it thinking it was a bit juvenile, which seems fair enough as juvenile is Radio One’s target audience.
Last week John told me things about Doctor Who star David Tennant’s anatomy that even a Dalek would find scary so it would appear that Tennant has form on the flashing front too. Any actors invited to take part in the show should pack a bucket of ice and a sense of humour, but you’ll have to wait till the New Year on Smooth Radio London to hear John tell us exactly what Tennant’s peculiarity is.
Barrowman tells these stories, and shows his bottom, with no malice intended and when I asked him last week why he loves flashing he had an obvious, but strictly correct, answer. It’s because he gets told to - whether it’s in a script or in a radio interview. So, John is always polite and waits to be asked first. His mum would be proud. Actually, I did ask if his mum objects when yet another neighbour rings up saying “you’ll never guess what he’s done now”, but he told me she’s happy that, having cleaned it so often, her son’s bum is getting appreciation and attention; a bit like polishing a brass bannister for years and smiling proudly as visitors admire your handiwork .
You’ll be pleased to hear I didn’t ask John to flash but, talking to him, he reminded me of a former colleague of mine at another radio station who used to drop his trousers on a whim. It didn’t matter to him whether he was in a meeting, doing his radio show or opening a shopping centre, though I thought he did take it a bit far at his daughter’s Christening. When I was interviewing stars at Radio Clyde he - let’s call him Tim - used to creep in to the studio and drop his trousers during interviews, leaving us all helpless with laughter.
He did it again during news bulletins, waiting for stories of death and destruction and rendering the newsreader incoherent and giggly. But eventually Tim had to stop after a local traffic warden protested to the police and he was warned as to his future conduct. I must point out in his defence that he was not in the street at the time but was hanging out of our radio station’s sixth floor window and waving at the warden’s office opposite. What he was waving I’ll leave for another day.
For a shy guy like myself, I’m left thinking that it must take a lot of confidence in your anatomy to let everyone see what Mother Nature intended to remain hidden, but it seems there is no shortage of confident flashers in showbiz. Janet Jackson famously had a “wardrobe malfunction” at the Superbowl when her assets popped out, but if she had hoped to shock or, er, titillate, then I’m afraid she failed as my only memory of catching it half way through is being filled with wonder that Michael Jackson’s voice had broken at last. One of them ought to wear a blonde wig or a duffel coat so we can tell them apart.
In paparazzi land Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears, Mischa Barton and Paris Hilton seem to enjoy flashing back at the cameras that are flashing at them and, in the UK, Jordan and Jodie Marsh, to name just four, have some form here though I believe that’s because it’s in their contract with the surgeon whose signature you can just about read above the belly button, depending on the quality of photo.
Here we have a very typically British way of handling these people. When the craze for flashers at sporting events took off a few years ago, with supporters running on to cricket pitches and trying to jump over the stumps without injury, or weaving nakedly in and out of rugby mauls while trying to avoid puns about great tackles or ball control, some stiff policeman with no sense of humour would remove his helmet and cover the offending appendage. But now increased security at grounds has put paid to all that, a seldom mentioned spin off from Mr Bin Laden.
The BBC and John Barrowman have both now issued an apology and, sadly, John has said it will never happen again. It will of course, even if it’s not John who does it, and I for one am glad. The American stars can almost carry off the innocent “accident” routine, but we can’t. We just roll our eyes, have a laugh, and move on. However, I realise that the audience who rang the BBC switchboard to complain about John, and kick started today’s headline, won’t agree with me.
And to that one caller I can only offer my apologies.
So like Winter follows Autumn, and “annoys the hell out of me” follows Timmy Mallett, the BBC are again in trouble, this time with actor John Barrowman showing his willy during an interview on Sunday.
The offending incident took place live so couldn’t be edited, but it was on radio, a medium not renowned for its great picture quality. This didn’t stop the Daily Mail from putting the event on their front page today with a headline which reads something like Mad Flasher Kills Four Hundred Babies And Poisons Old Ladies As Civilisation Ends All Thanks to the Labour Government.
Barrowman is only the latest in a long line of distinguished people who like flashing for a laugh, giving his man parts a starring role most days in the movie of his life, though obviously a very small part. Unlike him, while having people laugh at me naked is something I’ve had to come to terms with, it’s not something I’d actively seek.
By coincidence I was driving home and switching around radio stations in my car on Sunday night so, although I’m not normally a Radio One listener, I listened closely to the interview as I had chatted to John just a couple of days before. I came away from it thinking it was a bit juvenile, which seems fair enough as juvenile is Radio One’s target audience.
Last week John told me things about Doctor Who star David Tennant’s anatomy that even a Dalek would find scary so it would appear that Tennant has form on the flashing front too. Any actors invited to take part in the show should pack a bucket of ice and a sense of humour, but you’ll have to wait till the New Year on Smooth Radio London to hear John tell us exactly what Tennant’s peculiarity is.
Barrowman tells these stories, and shows his bottom, with no malice intended and when I asked him last week why he loves flashing he had an obvious, but strictly correct, answer. It’s because he gets told to - whether it’s in a script or in a radio interview. So, John is always polite and waits to be asked first. His mum would be proud. Actually, I did ask if his mum objects when yet another neighbour rings up saying “you’ll never guess what he’s done now”, but he told me she’s happy that, having cleaned it so often, her son’s bum is getting appreciation and attention; a bit like polishing a brass bannister for years and smiling proudly as visitors admire your handiwork .
You’ll be pleased to hear I didn’t ask John to flash but, talking to him, he reminded me of a former colleague of mine at another radio station who used to drop his trousers on a whim. It didn’t matter to him whether he was in a meeting, doing his radio show or opening a shopping centre, though I thought he did take it a bit far at his daughter’s Christening. When I was interviewing stars at Radio Clyde he - let’s call him Tim - used to creep in to the studio and drop his trousers during interviews, leaving us all helpless with laughter.
He did it again during news bulletins, waiting for stories of death and destruction and rendering the newsreader incoherent and giggly. But eventually Tim had to stop after a local traffic warden protested to the police and he was warned as to his future conduct. I must point out in his defence that he was not in the street at the time but was hanging out of our radio station’s sixth floor window and waving at the warden’s office opposite. What he was waving I’ll leave for another day.
For a shy guy like myself, I’m left thinking that it must take a lot of confidence in your anatomy to let everyone see what Mother Nature intended to remain hidden, but it seems there is no shortage of confident flashers in showbiz. Janet Jackson famously had a “wardrobe malfunction” at the Superbowl when her assets popped out, but if she had hoped to shock or, er, titillate, then I’m afraid she failed as my only memory of catching it half way through is being filled with wonder that Michael Jackson’s voice had broken at last. One of them ought to wear a blonde wig or a duffel coat so we can tell them apart.
In paparazzi land Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears, Mischa Barton and Paris Hilton seem to enjoy flashing back at the cameras that are flashing at them and, in the UK, Jordan and Jodie Marsh, to name just four, have some form here though I believe that’s because it’s in their contract with the surgeon whose signature you can just about read above the belly button, depending on the quality of photo.
Here we have a very typically British way of handling these people. When the craze for flashers at sporting events took off a few years ago, with supporters running on to cricket pitches and trying to jump over the stumps without injury, or weaving nakedly in and out of rugby mauls while trying to avoid puns about great tackles or ball control, some stiff policeman with no sense of humour would remove his helmet and cover the offending appendage. But now increased security at grounds has put paid to all that, a seldom mentioned spin off from Mr Bin Laden.
The BBC and John Barrowman have both now issued an apology and, sadly, John has said it will never happen again. It will of course, even if it’s not John who does it, and I for one am glad. The American stars can almost carry off the innocent “accident” routine, but we can’t. We just roll our eyes, have a laugh, and move on. However, I realise that the audience who rang the BBC switchboard to complain about John, and kick started today’s headline, won’t agree with me.
And to that one caller I can only offer my apologies.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
For Your Eyes Only
www.paulcoia.com
God bless the British public and John Sergeant. The great armchair telephone jury stuck two fingers up at the BBC, and their show Strictly Come Dancing, by refusing to vote off the lumbering bear who has the rhythm of granite and the balance and grace of a sperm whale handstanding on Nelson’s Column.
Week after week, despite pleading from plastic poseurs on the judging panel, the former TV political correspondent became a returning favourite with his blend of wounded elephant and infirm Chewbacca until last week when, under pressure, he resigned. Like an unlucky Catholic his rhythm method may have let him down but, before departing, Sergeant triumphed at blowing a huge hole through the format that is Strictly Come Dancing.
Don’t underestimate how bad this is for the BBC who sell this programme around the world and make local versions in places like America and Australia. Apart from having to refund viewers who voted, BBC heads are having to accept that their cash cow has an almighty tummy bug and that Sergeant’s popularity and style - less Fred Astaire more Stenna Stair - showed up something no one had noticed till now. Formats have to be tested to destruction before getting on air, but the Quality Assurance people went AWOL here.
I accept that if you run a dance competition then the best dancer should win, but if you ask the public to vote, and take money off them for the privilege, you have to accept whatever they give you, even if they keep blowing raspberries at your format by voting for the one who makes them laugh. It means the idea is flawed, a bit like getting a brand new, safety tested, car and finding the seat belts are made of elastic.
Even the new series of I’m A Celebrity faced revolt when contestants threatened to walk off unless conditions improved this week, so another weakened format and another triumph for people power over media execs at the Groucho Club.
In this new spirit of spotting flaws and speaking up for what the common man wants, can I this week start a backlash of my own and ask you to join in? I’m forming a movement called BBOOB, which stands for Bring Back Our Old Bond because, right now, Daniel Craig and the producers of Quantum of Solace are making a pig’s ear out of it.
I was watching the actor Jason Statham on NBC the other night and he told a story about driving through Hollywood in a beat up old banger when a shiny, chauffeur driven car pulled up alongside and his old mate Daniel Craig wound down the rear window and shouted something rude. Statham mouthed “Shut up, Mr Bond”, and drove on. I loved that story for many reasons but mainly because it shows Daniel Craig is human and just may be able to have a laugh – something lacking in his James Bond outings where irony, humour and fun have disappeared along with the gadgets and decent theme song.
At the risk of sounding like the little boy in the crowd who shouts “The king’s in the buff”, especially when so many are saying that it’s good to get the films back to the style of the books, let me shout as loudly as I can as the king goes past that the books must have been flippin’ hopeless. And anyway, I enjoy my choc ice and popcorn at the movies not the library.
Every two years the new Bond film was an event I looked forward to, a big red circle on my calendar. The various actors brought their own, individual, take on the icon with Connery as the original, Moore as a more comic creation, Brosnan as an ironic, sassy, agent and now Craig plays him as if troubled with diverticulitis where any sudden movement may mean M getting a bill for a new pair of pants.
He doesn’t even have to think on his feet as the director goes so close to the action, and cuts so quickly, that no one knows what’s going on as his enemies fly through the air and disappear for no reason, unless perhaps it’s because of boredom. Craig’s lack of personality is matched by the baddies. Another Goldfinger? Jaws? Scaramanga? Oddjob? This new lot have a water fetish and will be remembered about as long as the new theme song which is called …er…. something or other by …er.... those two Americans.
There are two female leads in this movie. One looks to be a woman, the other like she’s just stepped off a hockey pitch and is on her way to sit her A level exams dressed in her mum’s Sunday best. Guess which one he seduces? Yep. Bond has become a dirty old man.
Expecting the famous Bond guitar theme to play during the chases? Forget it. Waiting for lines like “shaken not stirred” or “the name’s Bond. James Bond?” You’ve come to the wrong place. Wanting Bond to appear in his swimming trunks again? Well, our Daniel takes himself very seriously and didn’t like the attention last time so there’s no room for that. Just as there’s no room for a memorable stunt before the titles. Where once we got thrilling ski chases followed by Bond flying off a mountain wearing a Union Jack parachute, we now get yet another car chase with the punchline being him opening the boot of his car. I can do that in Wimbledon rush hour.
So, please join me in BBOOB. You need a cause to rally round now that John Sergeant’s gone from the dancing show and perhaps we may even ask for John to become a baddie in the next Bond movie. Or maybe he will sing the theme song. Or, even better, replace Daniel Craig.
At least Sergeant knows how to get a laugh.
God bless the British public and John Sergeant. The great armchair telephone jury stuck two fingers up at the BBC, and their show Strictly Come Dancing, by refusing to vote off the lumbering bear who has the rhythm of granite and the balance and grace of a sperm whale handstanding on Nelson’s Column.
Week after week, despite pleading from plastic poseurs on the judging panel, the former TV political correspondent became a returning favourite with his blend of wounded elephant and infirm Chewbacca until last week when, under pressure, he resigned. Like an unlucky Catholic his rhythm method may have let him down but, before departing, Sergeant triumphed at blowing a huge hole through the format that is Strictly Come Dancing.
Don’t underestimate how bad this is for the BBC who sell this programme around the world and make local versions in places like America and Australia. Apart from having to refund viewers who voted, BBC heads are having to accept that their cash cow has an almighty tummy bug and that Sergeant’s popularity and style - less Fred Astaire more Stenna Stair - showed up something no one had noticed till now. Formats have to be tested to destruction before getting on air, but the Quality Assurance people went AWOL here.
I accept that if you run a dance competition then the best dancer should win, but if you ask the public to vote, and take money off them for the privilege, you have to accept whatever they give you, even if they keep blowing raspberries at your format by voting for the one who makes them laugh. It means the idea is flawed, a bit like getting a brand new, safety tested, car and finding the seat belts are made of elastic.
Even the new series of I’m A Celebrity faced revolt when contestants threatened to walk off unless conditions improved this week, so another weakened format and another triumph for people power over media execs at the Groucho Club.
In this new spirit of spotting flaws and speaking up for what the common man wants, can I this week start a backlash of my own and ask you to join in? I’m forming a movement called BBOOB, which stands for Bring Back Our Old Bond because, right now, Daniel Craig and the producers of Quantum of Solace are making a pig’s ear out of it.
I was watching the actor Jason Statham on NBC the other night and he told a story about driving through Hollywood in a beat up old banger when a shiny, chauffeur driven car pulled up alongside and his old mate Daniel Craig wound down the rear window and shouted something rude. Statham mouthed “Shut up, Mr Bond”, and drove on. I loved that story for many reasons but mainly because it shows Daniel Craig is human and just may be able to have a laugh – something lacking in his James Bond outings where irony, humour and fun have disappeared along with the gadgets and decent theme song.
At the risk of sounding like the little boy in the crowd who shouts “The king’s in the buff”, especially when so many are saying that it’s good to get the films back to the style of the books, let me shout as loudly as I can as the king goes past that the books must have been flippin’ hopeless. And anyway, I enjoy my choc ice and popcorn at the movies not the library.
Every two years the new Bond film was an event I looked forward to, a big red circle on my calendar. The various actors brought their own, individual, take on the icon with Connery as the original, Moore as a more comic creation, Brosnan as an ironic, sassy, agent and now Craig plays him as if troubled with diverticulitis where any sudden movement may mean M getting a bill for a new pair of pants.
He doesn’t even have to think on his feet as the director goes so close to the action, and cuts so quickly, that no one knows what’s going on as his enemies fly through the air and disappear for no reason, unless perhaps it’s because of boredom. Craig’s lack of personality is matched by the baddies. Another Goldfinger? Jaws? Scaramanga? Oddjob? This new lot have a water fetish and will be remembered about as long as the new theme song which is called …er…. something or other by …er.... those two Americans.
There are two female leads in this movie. One looks to be a woman, the other like she’s just stepped off a hockey pitch and is on her way to sit her A level exams dressed in her mum’s Sunday best. Guess which one he seduces? Yep. Bond has become a dirty old man.
Expecting the famous Bond guitar theme to play during the chases? Forget it. Waiting for lines like “shaken not stirred” or “the name’s Bond. James Bond?” You’ve come to the wrong place. Wanting Bond to appear in his swimming trunks again? Well, our Daniel takes himself very seriously and didn’t like the attention last time so there’s no room for that. Just as there’s no room for a memorable stunt before the titles. Where once we got thrilling ski chases followed by Bond flying off a mountain wearing a Union Jack parachute, we now get yet another car chase with the punchline being him opening the boot of his car. I can do that in Wimbledon rush hour.
So, please join me in BBOOB. You need a cause to rally round now that John Sergeant’s gone from the dancing show and perhaps we may even ask for John to become a baddie in the next Bond movie. Or maybe he will sing the theme song. Or, even better, replace Daniel Craig.
At least Sergeant knows how to get a laugh.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
A Boy Named Sue
www.paulcoia.com
My middle name is Giacomo, which is Italian for James and is, I believe, a fine name if you want to write opera or dabble as a dictator, but I rarely dust it off and use it. Plain old Paul Coia seems to do the job just fine and leaving out my middle name makes things shorter, a mix of the common and the Latin, while not taking up too much of anyone’s time.
But when I was very young, for reasons I now forget, I thought my name was perhaps a bit too common and would typecast me, taking me in to the hairdressing profession, which was not what I wanted at all. Maybe in Glasgow all hairdressers had Italian surnames and that influenced me, or perhaps all our local barbers were called Paul, the way all Jimmy’s tend to be cab drivers, all Chloes work on perfume counters, and people with no vowels in their name end up working in Starbucks.
Whatever the reason, I believed back then that my name was going to be a handicap if my conversation was to progress beyond the “something for the weekend sir?” that I used to overhear when getting my short back and sides. I hadn’t a clue what those freshly shaved customers actually got in their brown paper bags and assumed it might be tickets for a football match one week, a hymn sheet for Sunday Mass the next.
I knew that if I went in to hairdressing I wouldn’t cope with constantly coming up with new surprises for customers every weekend in their Lucky Bags so my young brain used to run through loads of new names I could adopt to save me from sweeping hairy floors, eventually settling on one that I felt was rugged and would lead me to fame and fortune rather than rinse and blow dry. It had to trip off the tongue and sound pleasant, while being strong and virile, so I took Clint from Mr Eastwood and Carson from an actress in Coronation Street.
At night, in bed, I used to dream of what Clint Carson was going to grow up to be and eventually he settled in to an exciting life as a land based member of International Rescue who used to save people from burning houses during the day but at night played his latest top ten hit live in clubs. In my dreams each night Clint was so good he had even managed to talk the Beatles in to reuniting to play as his backing band.
I didn’t quite get to the obsessive stage of practising Clint’s autograph but I’m sure there’s a famous Clint Carson out there somewhere, though Googling his name led me to someone in Indianapolis who works in the dairy business and another one who is a fictitious rogue in a book called Antiques Roadkill. So, not a pop star or superhero amongst them.
Names are important, as that great philosopher Johnny Cash told us in A Boy Named Sue, and when I had a long chat with the great Australian author, poet, critic and TV presenter Clive James this week, he told me that Clive is not his real name. He couldn’t wait till he was old enough to change the name his mum and dad had given him and, as soon as he could, he raced to the registrar. Good, old, solid Clive was actually born, wait for it, Vivien!
Today I was reading the newspaper and found that more and more people seem to have really ridiculous names caused by this post Eighties craze for joining father and mother’s surnames together rather than opting for one or the other. A sad article told the story of a student called James Wentworth-Stanley. Another, by Alison Smith-Squire, concerned a lady named Ella Samoles-Little and her quest for plastic surgery. I read this, incidentally, hoping to God Ella was trying to get a surgeon to amputate one of her names when, disappointed, I turned the page to find another piece about someone called Clare Milford- Haven.
This double barrelled thing is getting out of order and is becoming the fungus of the nomenclature world, growing everywhere. And where does a name like Milford- Haven come from? It sounds like a new town with helpful ring roads so the rest of us can avoid looking at its ugly roundabouts and factory outlets. Perhaps this will catch on and we may find future generations adopting the place of their birth. Maybe a John Milton- Keynes will appear, or a Penelope Market-Harborough, or perhaps even a George Shepherds-Bush.
To scruff like myself, these double barrels seem an affectation and a stab at conning us lower orders in to believing they are really from the aristocracy. Would I be able to skip to the front of queues and get in to clubs free if I brought back Giacomo and gave him a hyphen? And what happens when these people marry? If a Roberts-Smythe and an Eden- Scott get hitched and carry on this silly tradition, their son Adam will have a name that reads like a rugby team sheet - including the reserves. And it’s not as if Adam Roberts-Smythe-Eden-Scott can ever simplify things by just using his initials.
I’m finding this, new style, posh name calling is even coming to my door and affecting me now. Debbie, the Miss Right in my life, was giving me a hard time this week about road directions or something similar and wouldn’t take no for an answer, and I couldn’t help reflecting that she is now set on scrambling up the social ladder.
I think, from now on, my wife wishes to be known as Miss Always–Right.
My middle name is Giacomo, which is Italian for James and is, I believe, a fine name if you want to write opera or dabble as a dictator, but I rarely dust it off and use it. Plain old Paul Coia seems to do the job just fine and leaving out my middle name makes things shorter, a mix of the common and the Latin, while not taking up too much of anyone’s time.
But when I was very young, for reasons I now forget, I thought my name was perhaps a bit too common and would typecast me, taking me in to the hairdressing profession, which was not what I wanted at all. Maybe in Glasgow all hairdressers had Italian surnames and that influenced me, or perhaps all our local barbers were called Paul, the way all Jimmy’s tend to be cab drivers, all Chloes work on perfume counters, and people with no vowels in their name end up working in Starbucks.
Whatever the reason, I believed back then that my name was going to be a handicap if my conversation was to progress beyond the “something for the weekend sir?” that I used to overhear when getting my short back and sides. I hadn’t a clue what those freshly shaved customers actually got in their brown paper bags and assumed it might be tickets for a football match one week, a hymn sheet for Sunday Mass the next.
I knew that if I went in to hairdressing I wouldn’t cope with constantly coming up with new surprises for customers every weekend in their Lucky Bags so my young brain used to run through loads of new names I could adopt to save me from sweeping hairy floors, eventually settling on one that I felt was rugged and would lead me to fame and fortune rather than rinse and blow dry. It had to trip off the tongue and sound pleasant, while being strong and virile, so I took Clint from Mr Eastwood and Carson from an actress in Coronation Street.
At night, in bed, I used to dream of what Clint Carson was going to grow up to be and eventually he settled in to an exciting life as a land based member of International Rescue who used to save people from burning houses during the day but at night played his latest top ten hit live in clubs. In my dreams each night Clint was so good he had even managed to talk the Beatles in to reuniting to play as his backing band.
I didn’t quite get to the obsessive stage of practising Clint’s autograph but I’m sure there’s a famous Clint Carson out there somewhere, though Googling his name led me to someone in Indianapolis who works in the dairy business and another one who is a fictitious rogue in a book called Antiques Roadkill. So, not a pop star or superhero amongst them.
Names are important, as that great philosopher Johnny Cash told us in A Boy Named Sue, and when I had a long chat with the great Australian author, poet, critic and TV presenter Clive James this week, he told me that Clive is not his real name. He couldn’t wait till he was old enough to change the name his mum and dad had given him and, as soon as he could, he raced to the registrar. Good, old, solid Clive was actually born, wait for it, Vivien!
Today I was reading the newspaper and found that more and more people seem to have really ridiculous names caused by this post Eighties craze for joining father and mother’s surnames together rather than opting for one or the other. A sad article told the story of a student called James Wentworth-Stanley. Another, by Alison Smith-Squire, concerned a lady named Ella Samoles-Little and her quest for plastic surgery. I read this, incidentally, hoping to God Ella was trying to get a surgeon to amputate one of her names when, disappointed, I turned the page to find another piece about someone called Clare Milford- Haven.
This double barrelled thing is getting out of order and is becoming the fungus of the nomenclature world, growing everywhere. And where does a name like Milford- Haven come from? It sounds like a new town with helpful ring roads so the rest of us can avoid looking at its ugly roundabouts and factory outlets. Perhaps this will catch on and we may find future generations adopting the place of their birth. Maybe a John Milton- Keynes will appear, or a Penelope Market-Harborough, or perhaps even a George Shepherds-Bush.
To scruff like myself, these double barrels seem an affectation and a stab at conning us lower orders in to believing they are really from the aristocracy. Would I be able to skip to the front of queues and get in to clubs free if I brought back Giacomo and gave him a hyphen? And what happens when these people marry? If a Roberts-Smythe and an Eden- Scott get hitched and carry on this silly tradition, their son Adam will have a name that reads like a rugby team sheet - including the reserves. And it’s not as if Adam Roberts-Smythe-Eden-Scott can ever simplify things by just using his initials.
I’m finding this, new style, posh name calling is even coming to my door and affecting me now. Debbie, the Miss Right in my life, was giving me a hard time this week about road directions or something similar and wouldn’t take no for an answer, and I couldn’t help reflecting that she is now set on scrambling up the social ladder.
I think, from now on, my wife wishes to be known as Miss Always–Right.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Elected
There’s been only one topic of conversation this week, of course, and it’s been that big, life changing and epoch making, election. All over the world everyone is talking of a time for change, a new bright future, the restoration of pride and of history being made. Yes, the Glenrothes By Election was some event.
Actually no one at all is talking about the Glenrothes by election, not even in the town itself, as it all seems small beer compared to the Obamarama Ding Dong which saw Obama and McCain cross a continent addressing millions while, here, our politicians crossed the Rothes Road for two pensioners gossiping on a street corner. In Glenrothes, where old ladies are the real big hitters, two or more parked shopping bags constitute a rally and if McCain were running here he’d be the young pin up, fought over by grappling grannies leaving teeth marks, and indeed their teeth, in opponents legs. Last election, the Scottish Pension Party polled more votes than the Socialists or Independents, and this time the Senior Citizen's Unity Party have come fifth out of eight. Toasting their success with, er, toast and warm milk, they keep changing the name of the party as they forget what it was called last time, so expect a fight from The Bus Pass Coalition next time. Probably.
But it’s not exciting is it? Unlike the States I can’t see a movie in it because, basically, politics is boring here in the UK while Obama’s story seems to have captivated people from all over the world. An acquaintance of mine stayed up on American election night last week ringing over two hundred people in Florida and urging them to get out and vote. He made the calls, at his own expense, from his house in London, preferring American designer democracy to our own crumpled charity shop politics.
Now that our Monster Raving Loony Party is more or less history, we don’t seem to have the amount of fun here that they have in the States, especially for women, where every new ‘Mama For Obama’ remembers four years ago when bikini waxing salons carried the slogan “No More Bush”. They even have better anagrams. “Sarah Palin Vice President” magically rearranges in to “Perhaps Is Devil Incarnate”.
I can’t pretend to be as committed as my friend but, despite being politically agnostic, I confess I have been an activist in my time. In fact twice; both times on the side of the underdog who, with my help, won few votes, loads of humiliation, and lost their race by a wider mile than a Moroccan Olympic Ski team.
So why did I do it? Was it love of democracy? Help for the underdog? Well, on one occasion it was because I got a free badge, and on the other it was because my mum and dad told me I had to. I guess, having admitted that, I’ll have to turn down my invitations to enter the House of Lords and join the other great cerebral swimmers in the government’s political think tank.
My first brush with politics came at school when a class mate appeared one day wearing a smart blue pin, and when I asked if he could get me one, I was directed to the SNP offices down town. I popped in with my contact details and received my badge, followed days later by large pictures of the party’s logo which had one crucial wow factor. They were bigger than my Clapton poster and covered more of my peeling bedroom wallpaper.
Of course political parties don’t leave it there and soon I had to take delivery of leaflets and flyers that I was supposed to deliver round the neighbourhood - a high price for a lapel ornament. My details were also passed to a neighbour who was active in the party and, despite never having said a civil word to me since I knocked on her door asking if I could get my Action Man parachute back from her garden, she declared herself my new best friend and I was invited in for tea and biscuits. I declined, though it was a close thing as she had those chocolate marshmallows with jam at the bottom.
The next time I was politically active, my mum and dad had become friendly with our local doctor whose mother in law was running as local Lib Dem MP and my brother and I were given hundreds of leaflets and asked to deliver them, which we did. Well, up to a point. The first few nights were OK but then we got bored with democracy and delivered the remaining bundles to the rear of a hedge.
We weren’t quite the Partridge Family in our house but mum and dad did like to occasionally have friends over with guitars, so Molly, the MP in waiting, asked them to write some jingles for playing through loudspeakers as she toured the district. As we all had to sing in to a tape recorder, over and over again, I still remember the words of those jingles even to this day. Poor Molly looked bereft when she lost the election but still had the decency to invite the grown ups to a thank you party while I stayed at home, praying she’d never find that hedge, and learning an edgy guitar riff from Wishbone Ash instead. My last brush with political campaigning was over.
Perhaps this is why I find UK politics so boring, having been spoiled with spectacular lack of success at such an early age. But, with interest in our Parliament at such a low, I was thinking this week that I should maybe drag myself out of retirement and get back in to the political fray. Just think, if Obama had called a few weeks ago and asked me to do some jingles for him, I could have changed history.
McCain would have won.
Actually no one at all is talking about the Glenrothes by election, not even in the town itself, as it all seems small beer compared to the Obamarama Ding Dong which saw Obama and McCain cross a continent addressing millions while, here, our politicians crossed the Rothes Road for two pensioners gossiping on a street corner. In Glenrothes, where old ladies are the real big hitters, two or more parked shopping bags constitute a rally and if McCain were running here he’d be the young pin up, fought over by grappling grannies leaving teeth marks, and indeed their teeth, in opponents legs. Last election, the Scottish Pension Party polled more votes than the Socialists or Independents, and this time the Senior Citizen's Unity Party have come fifth out of eight. Toasting their success with, er, toast and warm milk, they keep changing the name of the party as they forget what it was called last time, so expect a fight from The Bus Pass Coalition next time. Probably.
But it’s not exciting is it? Unlike the States I can’t see a movie in it because, basically, politics is boring here in the UK while Obama’s story seems to have captivated people from all over the world. An acquaintance of mine stayed up on American election night last week ringing over two hundred people in Florida and urging them to get out and vote. He made the calls, at his own expense, from his house in London, preferring American designer democracy to our own crumpled charity shop politics.
Now that our Monster Raving Loony Party is more or less history, we don’t seem to have the amount of fun here that they have in the States, especially for women, where every new ‘Mama For Obama’ remembers four years ago when bikini waxing salons carried the slogan “No More Bush”. They even have better anagrams. “Sarah Palin Vice President” magically rearranges in to “Perhaps Is Devil Incarnate”.
I can’t pretend to be as committed as my friend but, despite being politically agnostic, I confess I have been an activist in my time. In fact twice; both times on the side of the underdog who, with my help, won few votes, loads of humiliation, and lost their race by a wider mile than a Moroccan Olympic Ski team.
So why did I do it? Was it love of democracy? Help for the underdog? Well, on one occasion it was because I got a free badge, and on the other it was because my mum and dad told me I had to. I guess, having admitted that, I’ll have to turn down my invitations to enter the House of Lords and join the other great cerebral swimmers in the government’s political think tank.
My first brush with politics came at school when a class mate appeared one day wearing a smart blue pin, and when I asked if he could get me one, I was directed to the SNP offices down town. I popped in with my contact details and received my badge, followed days later by large pictures of the party’s logo which had one crucial wow factor. They were bigger than my Clapton poster and covered more of my peeling bedroom wallpaper.
Of course political parties don’t leave it there and soon I had to take delivery of leaflets and flyers that I was supposed to deliver round the neighbourhood - a high price for a lapel ornament. My details were also passed to a neighbour who was active in the party and, despite never having said a civil word to me since I knocked on her door asking if I could get my Action Man parachute back from her garden, she declared herself my new best friend and I was invited in for tea and biscuits. I declined, though it was a close thing as she had those chocolate marshmallows with jam at the bottom.
The next time I was politically active, my mum and dad had become friendly with our local doctor whose mother in law was running as local Lib Dem MP and my brother and I were given hundreds of leaflets and asked to deliver them, which we did. Well, up to a point. The first few nights were OK but then we got bored with democracy and delivered the remaining bundles to the rear of a hedge.
We weren’t quite the Partridge Family in our house but mum and dad did like to occasionally have friends over with guitars, so Molly, the MP in waiting, asked them to write some jingles for playing through loudspeakers as she toured the district. As we all had to sing in to a tape recorder, over and over again, I still remember the words of those jingles even to this day. Poor Molly looked bereft when she lost the election but still had the decency to invite the grown ups to a thank you party while I stayed at home, praying she’d never find that hedge, and learning an edgy guitar riff from Wishbone Ash instead. My last brush with political campaigning was over.
Perhaps this is why I find UK politics so boring, having been spoiled with spectacular lack of success at such an early age. But, with interest in our Parliament at such a low, I was thinking this week that I should maybe drag myself out of retirement and get back in to the political fray. Just think, if Obama had called a few weeks ago and asked me to do some jingles for him, I could have changed history.
McCain would have won.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Meaty, Beaty, Big and Bouncy
www.paulcoia.com
You can tell Christmas is on the way, can’t you? Go to the shops just now and it’s all cut price Terry’s Chocolate Orange and Michael Jackson’s mummy kissing Santa Claus. But the real giveaway that Santa’s getting the soup stains out of his beard and gearing up to whip the elves in to shape is that every shopping mall walkway is overrun by adults with their barrows, trying desperately to shift crystals and hair ties that even eBay wouldn’t touch.
I went to our local mall this week and had to run an assault course of guys wishing to rub sea salt on my elbows, women who wanted me to buy hair straighteners, odd looking hippies selling perspex cubes with holograms of Jesus, barrows buzzing with vibrating cushions and then the sad sight of three adults sitting on trikes and going round in circles while imploring us to stop and buy. The embarrassed looks on their faces were replaced by tsunamis of sweat and a look of job hunting gone very wrong two hours later when I passed again to see their wacky races still in progress and, judging by the stock on view, not one single sale made.
What bothered me more than any sympathy I felt was the builder’s bum showing on each one of them as they cycled by, bums topped, of course, by the usual tattoo. Now regular readers know I would rather drink maggots melted in goat’s sick than get a tramp stamp tattooed on my posterior, but these were different. One had a bar code, as if she was scared of losing her bum and might get it handed in to a check out later, and another had an arrow marked “this way down”. I almost wanted to buy a trike just to get a closer look.
A church of England vicar, Jim Mullen, says he wants gays to be compulsorily tattooed on their bums with the message “sex can seriously damage your health” which is a great idea for all of us but, for those whose romances are conducted with lights out, perhaps they could use luminous ink. Maybe also do it in Braille just to be helpful to all minorities. Married men who stray could get one on their appendage saying “Property of…” to avoid any infidelities and if there’s not enough room then perhaps just the wife’s name. Or, in my case, initials.
Carrying on through the shopping centre I went past someone selling orthopaedic sandals, another with pillows that massage your head, a crazed looking woman selling calendars and then I bumped in to a woman who really had it sussed. She was selling pots of honey and jam and had a queue of men buying furiously. The reason is that she had her blouse unbuttoned and her ample chest pushed up with some sort of industrial hoist till her cleavage could be mistaken for a cleft chin.
Looking at these guys who had suddenly discovered the joys of jam I was reminded of that line from Notting Hill where Hugh Grant confesses that he can’t see what all the fuss is about regarding women’s breasts. “After all, half the population have them. Slightly more if you count Meatloaf”.
Having just come back from a week in Portugal, I was exposed to these celebrity magazines you only buy on holiday because they usually have a free Cadbury’s Flake stuck on the front. Magazines like Ok and Hello don’t normally fill my reading hours although I did like the cheek of a now defunct Scottish version called Hiya. Of course it had to be short lived as, once you’ve interviewed David Tennant and The Proclaimers, there are no Scottish celebs left. Anyway, this week there were photos of Kerry Katona who was pictured topless with her hands cupped around her bare breasts, looking like she was trying to gather in pounds of bread dough before they slid to the floor. Liz Hurley appeared in a red dress with her cleavage hoisted up and squashed like two big stress balls and the irony that she was appearing at a Breast Cancer fund raiser, where many in her audience may have had surgery, seemed to have escaped her.
Then, in the same magazine, yet another page had Gok Wan and loads of women taking part in some nude contest with him grabbing someone’s décolletage. And today I see Georgina Bailey, the girl at the centre of the BBC’s problem ‘phone calls, has starred in a sleazy video where she gets another girl to wash her bare chest. The world has gone boob crazy!
We know that if Kerry Katona had a sensible mum she’d wear her squishy assets as a nice scarf wrapped around her brass neck for the cold nights and we’re smart enough to realise Liz Hurley’s boobs don’t really look like that. So what’s the point of it all when we suspect that she goes home, undoes the steel harness, and watches as her chest hits her kneecaps before sweeping the floor.
The police say it seems that a Friday night isn’t complete without some girl having a few drinks and thinking it’s wild and wacky to bare her chest in public. “Wouldn’t it be absolutely hilarious”, she thinks, “if I pulled my top up and showed my bazoombas. My how everyone will think that’s original and will laugh.” Well, go on You Tube and watch thousands doing exactly the same and you’ll get an inkling of why, at the risk of sounding like an American TV evangelist, I’m going to say “enough is enough”.
Please girls just stop. We guys have something unique too, you know. How would you feel if we went around showing what we’ve got all the time? Would you fancy opening up Hello and seeing Liz Hurley’s husband showing his... er... beer belly? We blokes know that you’ve all got these treasure chests, but Hugh Grant was right. It may sell honey and jam but it’s not big and it’s not funny.
Well unless you’re Kerry Katona of course. Now hers really are big and funny.
You can tell Christmas is on the way, can’t you? Go to the shops just now and it’s all cut price Terry’s Chocolate Orange and Michael Jackson’s mummy kissing Santa Claus. But the real giveaway that Santa’s getting the soup stains out of his beard and gearing up to whip the elves in to shape is that every shopping mall walkway is overrun by adults with their barrows, trying desperately to shift crystals and hair ties that even eBay wouldn’t touch.
I went to our local mall this week and had to run an assault course of guys wishing to rub sea salt on my elbows, women who wanted me to buy hair straighteners, odd looking hippies selling perspex cubes with holograms of Jesus, barrows buzzing with vibrating cushions and then the sad sight of three adults sitting on trikes and going round in circles while imploring us to stop and buy. The embarrassed looks on their faces were replaced by tsunamis of sweat and a look of job hunting gone very wrong two hours later when I passed again to see their wacky races still in progress and, judging by the stock on view, not one single sale made.
What bothered me more than any sympathy I felt was the builder’s bum showing on each one of them as they cycled by, bums topped, of course, by the usual tattoo. Now regular readers know I would rather drink maggots melted in goat’s sick than get a tramp stamp tattooed on my posterior, but these were different. One had a bar code, as if she was scared of losing her bum and might get it handed in to a check out later, and another had an arrow marked “this way down”. I almost wanted to buy a trike just to get a closer look.
A church of England vicar, Jim Mullen, says he wants gays to be compulsorily tattooed on their bums with the message “sex can seriously damage your health” which is a great idea for all of us but, for those whose romances are conducted with lights out, perhaps they could use luminous ink. Maybe also do it in Braille just to be helpful to all minorities. Married men who stray could get one on their appendage saying “Property of…” to avoid any infidelities and if there’s not enough room then perhaps just the wife’s name. Or, in my case, initials.
Carrying on through the shopping centre I went past someone selling orthopaedic sandals, another with pillows that massage your head, a crazed looking woman selling calendars and then I bumped in to a woman who really had it sussed. She was selling pots of honey and jam and had a queue of men buying furiously. The reason is that she had her blouse unbuttoned and her ample chest pushed up with some sort of industrial hoist till her cleavage could be mistaken for a cleft chin.
Looking at these guys who had suddenly discovered the joys of jam I was reminded of that line from Notting Hill where Hugh Grant confesses that he can’t see what all the fuss is about regarding women’s breasts. “After all, half the population have them. Slightly more if you count Meatloaf”.
Having just come back from a week in Portugal, I was exposed to these celebrity magazines you only buy on holiday because they usually have a free Cadbury’s Flake stuck on the front. Magazines like Ok and Hello don’t normally fill my reading hours although I did like the cheek of a now defunct Scottish version called Hiya. Of course it had to be short lived as, once you’ve interviewed David Tennant and The Proclaimers, there are no Scottish celebs left. Anyway, this week there were photos of Kerry Katona who was pictured topless with her hands cupped around her bare breasts, looking like she was trying to gather in pounds of bread dough before they slid to the floor. Liz Hurley appeared in a red dress with her cleavage hoisted up and squashed like two big stress balls and the irony that she was appearing at a Breast Cancer fund raiser, where many in her audience may have had surgery, seemed to have escaped her.
Then, in the same magazine, yet another page had Gok Wan and loads of women taking part in some nude contest with him grabbing someone’s décolletage. And today I see Georgina Bailey, the girl at the centre of the BBC’s problem ‘phone calls, has starred in a sleazy video where she gets another girl to wash her bare chest. The world has gone boob crazy!
We know that if Kerry Katona had a sensible mum she’d wear her squishy assets as a nice scarf wrapped around her brass neck for the cold nights and we’re smart enough to realise Liz Hurley’s boobs don’t really look like that. So what’s the point of it all when we suspect that she goes home, undoes the steel harness, and watches as her chest hits her kneecaps before sweeping the floor.
The police say it seems that a Friday night isn’t complete without some girl having a few drinks and thinking it’s wild and wacky to bare her chest in public. “Wouldn’t it be absolutely hilarious”, she thinks, “if I pulled my top up and showed my bazoombas. My how everyone will think that’s original and will laugh.” Well, go on You Tube and watch thousands doing exactly the same and you’ll get an inkling of why, at the risk of sounding like an American TV evangelist, I’m going to say “enough is enough”.
Please girls just stop. We guys have something unique too, you know. How would you feel if we went around showing what we’ve got all the time? Would you fancy opening up Hello and seeing Liz Hurley’s husband showing his... er... beer belly? We blokes know that you’ve all got these treasure chests, but Hugh Grant was right. It may sell honey and jam but it’s not big and it’s not funny.
Well unless you’re Kerry Katona of course. Now hers really are big and funny.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
We Are The World
I’ve been away from home this week working in Madrid and clocking up some more air miles to add to the thousands I already have tucked away in a drawer somewhere in cyber space. The light at the end of my tunnel may have been switched off lately to save money but I have amassed enough free travel to take several choirs and all of Madonna’s ex husbands on a First Class return trip to a nice sandy beach somewhere on Mars. Great location but not much atmosphere.
But two things are stopping me. The first is that the airlines, as usual, go out of their way to make it impossible for anyone to actually spend free air points. I’m told the flights I qualify for leave at three o’clock in the morning and fly over Iraq. If I then ask the nice lady at British Airways to get me one anyway, she’ll say that they’re reserved for Sagittarians only and, even if I lie, the computer says the seats are available only in leap years or on days when a canonised saint with Blood Group A is caught doing coke at one of Hugh Heffner's parties.
The second, and more important reason that I don’t use the free travel, is that I’m starting to feel guilty about my carbon footprint. Now I don’t usually do guilt so please believe me when I say that this is a momentous event. I think the last time I felt guilty was many years ago when I strung together several rarely heard profanities and screamed them at my brother after he broke wind in a silent, yet Chemical Ali type, manner. He wasn’t impressed with me drawing attention to him and, if I’m honest, neither were the nuns at that particular school assembly.
But now the relentless nagging of the conservationists, and the lobbying of the recycling and globe hugging brigade, has at last got to me so I’ve decided the air travel will have to slow down. My carbon footprint is currently the size of a Doc Martin boot and, if it’s true what they say about men’s feet, any carbon ladies I meet will soon be swooning.
I have cut down my use of the car and I now try walking more but I’m having problems with the rest of this cherish the planet stuff. In Argos yesterday, on picking up an MP3 player I’d just bought, I was offered a plastic bag. Aware that everyone now believes my bag would lead to future babies being born with three big toes growing out of their two heads, I declined. So, of course, I carried the box I’d just bought around for three hours along with various other bits and pieces and ended up dropping them all over the street.
I know that you’re probably thinking that I should get one of these Hessian bags for life and bring it with me when I go shopping, but my new enthusiasm for the environment has its limits. I am not going to walk around looking like a social worker shopping for a nice tie dyed T shirt to wear at his wedding.
I got so fed up picking my stuff off pavements that I went for a hot chocolate in Costa. Their environmental arithmetic in counting the pennies donated from triple shot espressos meant my paper cup had a green plastic lid on it with a frog embossed in the middle and they handed me a leaflet boasting how the company is now sourcing coffee from sustainable plantations run by sperm whales. I’m sure the hundreds of trees that were cut down to make those brochures will be pleased that their sacrifice was not in vain.
And now, this week, I get back from my travels to find I have to get to grips with our council’s new waste disposal plans which mean we have a wheelie bin for rubbish, a green bin for food waste, a box for papers, a container for tin cans, one for bottles, a bag for cardboard and a further bin for my patience. I opened a wrapped sweet yesterday and thought it tasted like landfill so decided to put it in the bin. But which one? The toffee had to go in the food disposal receptacle, the cellophane in a plastic and packaging box, and then the silver wrapping in another box for tins cans and aluminium. By the time I’d walked around looking for all the receptacles, I’d worn a groove in our ethically sourced teak and ivory studded floorboards.
And the smell? Try keeping a box of old food tin cans lying around your house for a week beside a box of food waste and you’ll soon see why I’m reminded again of my brother at school assembly. Air freshener is now my new best friend as I blast millions of CFCs in to the environment to cover up the stink of saving the world. We’re supposed to be doing this so that we can stop and smell the roses that would otherwise die out, but their scent will be lost forever behind the smell of council recycling.
So I have an idea. I am suggesting that from now on we all do our grocery shopping at the supermarket as usual and then meet in the car park and eat it. We can put the leftovers and wrappings in their bins and let them sort it out while a whole new spirit of neighbourliness and friendship will rise in the car parks which will be overrun with families cooking on primus stoves and actually talking to each other. We can even organise dinner parties at the weekends with Vera Lynne singing and the kids being amused by riding the supermarket’s escalators.
I’m sure you probably think I’m Neanderthal and hopeless for not grasping this whole planet saving thing, but I promise I’ll do my best to hold my nose and get on with it.
But I can’t help wishing I could just get on a plane and fly away from it all.
But two things are stopping me. The first is that the airlines, as usual, go out of their way to make it impossible for anyone to actually spend free air points. I’m told the flights I qualify for leave at three o’clock in the morning and fly over Iraq. If I then ask the nice lady at British Airways to get me one anyway, she’ll say that they’re reserved for Sagittarians only and, even if I lie, the computer says the seats are available only in leap years or on days when a canonised saint with Blood Group A is caught doing coke at one of Hugh Heffner's parties.
The second, and more important reason that I don’t use the free travel, is that I’m starting to feel guilty about my carbon footprint. Now I don’t usually do guilt so please believe me when I say that this is a momentous event. I think the last time I felt guilty was many years ago when I strung together several rarely heard profanities and screamed them at my brother after he broke wind in a silent, yet Chemical Ali type, manner. He wasn’t impressed with me drawing attention to him and, if I’m honest, neither were the nuns at that particular school assembly.
But now the relentless nagging of the conservationists, and the lobbying of the recycling and globe hugging brigade, has at last got to me so I’ve decided the air travel will have to slow down. My carbon footprint is currently the size of a Doc Martin boot and, if it’s true what they say about men’s feet, any carbon ladies I meet will soon be swooning.
I have cut down my use of the car and I now try walking more but I’m having problems with the rest of this cherish the planet stuff. In Argos yesterday, on picking up an MP3 player I’d just bought, I was offered a plastic bag. Aware that everyone now believes my bag would lead to future babies being born with three big toes growing out of their two heads, I declined. So, of course, I carried the box I’d just bought around for three hours along with various other bits and pieces and ended up dropping them all over the street.
I know that you’re probably thinking that I should get one of these Hessian bags for life and bring it with me when I go shopping, but my new enthusiasm for the environment has its limits. I am not going to walk around looking like a social worker shopping for a nice tie dyed T shirt to wear at his wedding.
I got so fed up picking my stuff off pavements that I went for a hot chocolate in Costa. Their environmental arithmetic in counting the pennies donated from triple shot espressos meant my paper cup had a green plastic lid on it with a frog embossed in the middle and they handed me a leaflet boasting how the company is now sourcing coffee from sustainable plantations run by sperm whales. I’m sure the hundreds of trees that were cut down to make those brochures will be pleased that their sacrifice was not in vain.
And now, this week, I get back from my travels to find I have to get to grips with our council’s new waste disposal plans which mean we have a wheelie bin for rubbish, a green bin for food waste, a box for papers, a container for tin cans, one for bottles, a bag for cardboard and a further bin for my patience. I opened a wrapped sweet yesterday and thought it tasted like landfill so decided to put it in the bin. But which one? The toffee had to go in the food disposal receptacle, the cellophane in a plastic and packaging box, and then the silver wrapping in another box for tins cans and aluminium. By the time I’d walked around looking for all the receptacles, I’d worn a groove in our ethically sourced teak and ivory studded floorboards.
And the smell? Try keeping a box of old food tin cans lying around your house for a week beside a box of food waste and you’ll soon see why I’m reminded again of my brother at school assembly. Air freshener is now my new best friend as I blast millions of CFCs in to the environment to cover up the stink of saving the world. We’re supposed to be doing this so that we can stop and smell the roses that would otherwise die out, but their scent will be lost forever behind the smell of council recycling.
So I have an idea. I am suggesting that from now on we all do our grocery shopping at the supermarket as usual and then meet in the car park and eat it. We can put the leftovers and wrappings in their bins and let them sort it out while a whole new spirit of neighbourliness and friendship will rise in the car parks which will be overrun with families cooking on primus stoves and actually talking to each other. We can even organise dinner parties at the weekends with Vera Lynne singing and the kids being amused by riding the supermarket’s escalators.
I’m sure you probably think I’m Neanderthal and hopeless for not grasping this whole planet saving thing, but I promise I’ll do my best to hold my nose and get on with it.
But I can’t help wishing I could just get on a plane and fly away from it all.
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