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.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Words
This week I was coaching some business leaders, a pastime I thoroughly recommend if you want to see rampant egos, point scoring and combative stand offs. No one likes to be criticised, but those who see themselves as captains of commerce are unlike Joan Rivers. They hate to lose face.
This week’s lot were lovely, willing to take criticism in the hope they could learn, and the chief executive reminded me that the last time we’d met I had asked her to be a bit more concise and focused when she spoke. I had recommended she look at a six word story that Ernest Hemingway had written and had often said was the best thing he’d created. The six words were “For Sale, baby shoes, never worn”.
Despite its brevity it is a complete story and the sense of loss and sadness in those few words speak chapters of hurt and longing as well as unfulfilled potential, and they also prove that windbags who speak for hours are just self absorbed.
Last week was the 150th anniversary of the start of the American Civil War and it reminded me that the famous Gettysburg Address was a speech given by Abraham Lincoln in just two minutes, using only two hundred and sixty words, and it became one of the most famous, and long lasting legacy speeches, ever.
If you were to distill your life down to just a few words, what would they be? Would you be proud of them? Embarrassed? Feel a lack of promise fulfilled? When I once asked listeners to my radio show to sum up their life in half a dozen words I received a text saying “Started with promise, ending with disappointment”. Another wrote “Loved A Lot, Loathed Even More”. How sad is that?
As an experiment, I sat down this week to write down six words that I really dread to hear and found that they’ve changed at various stages over the years. I ignored any really serious ideas that we would all obviously hate to hear as I thought it should be personal and give a sense of “me”. So out went any mentions of health, money worries, relatives passing away, etc that we all find fills us with dread. What I had to tie down was “me”.
When I was younger things was quite innocent and simple. I shuddered when I heard the six words “Go Up And Tidy Your Bedroom” or “Your Turn For The Washing Up” as well as “It’s Friday, we’re having boiled fish”. But then I became a student and it was a bit more serious with “It’s The End Of Year Exams” or “You’ve Slept In For Your Lecture” causing me upset, but again reasonably innocent. It’s when you start to really grow up the six words you hate to hear start to get a little bit less charitable.
Late Teen and early Twenties relationships mean the half dozen words I dreaded most changed to “Tell Me That You Love Me” or “Tell Me Where This Is Going”, words that sent me screaming with fear alongside “Shall We Go On Holiday Together” or “You Want To Meet My Parents?”. See, there’s a story right there, in just six words, that can be read by some as a romantic tale full of promise, or by me as a scary signpost to a break up.
Compiling a Top Five list of six word sentences that will haunt me forever and give me the screaming heebies I had to include things like “Our Dinner Party Hosts Are Vegetarians”, “I’m Canvassing For The Green Party” and “He’s Off For A Gap Year”, followed in annoyance by “I Need Time To Find Myself”, “Your Turn To Empty The Dishwasher”, “I’m Fond Of Pan Pipe Music”, and “Sorry Mate, We Don’t Sell Chocolate”. I also have to cite the dreaded “Your Call Is Important, Please Hold”, “Let’s Throw A Royal Wedding Party”, and the very scary “And Now The Alan Titchmarsh Show”.
Then there’s the ones inflicted by my wife, things like “Incidentally, Friday Night We’re Going Out”, or the words I just know mean that I’m about to hear that hundreds of pounds worth of car damage has been done, “Just Remember That I Am OK” .
So that’s me, whatever it says about me, but what about you? Try it this week. I recommend it. Write down in six words everything that annoys you and then see what it says about the real you. It’s just half a dozen words, but I guarantee they’ll include volumes of insight.
This week’s lot were lovely, willing to take criticism in the hope they could learn, and the chief executive reminded me that the last time we’d met I had asked her to be a bit more concise and focused when she spoke. I had recommended she look at a six word story that Ernest Hemingway had written and had often said was the best thing he’d created. The six words were “For Sale, baby shoes, never worn”.
Despite its brevity it is a complete story and the sense of loss and sadness in those few words speak chapters of hurt and longing as well as unfulfilled potential, and they also prove that windbags who speak for hours are just self absorbed.
Last week was the 150th anniversary of the start of the American Civil War and it reminded me that the famous Gettysburg Address was a speech given by Abraham Lincoln in just two minutes, using only two hundred and sixty words, and it became one of the most famous, and long lasting legacy speeches, ever.
If you were to distill your life down to just a few words, what would they be? Would you be proud of them? Embarrassed? Feel a lack of promise fulfilled? When I once asked listeners to my radio show to sum up their life in half a dozen words I received a text saying “Started with promise, ending with disappointment”. Another wrote “Loved A Lot, Loathed Even More”. How sad is that?
As an experiment, I sat down this week to write down six words that I really dread to hear and found that they’ve changed at various stages over the years. I ignored any really serious ideas that we would all obviously hate to hear as I thought it should be personal and give a sense of “me”. So out went any mentions of health, money worries, relatives passing away, etc that we all find fills us with dread. What I had to tie down was “me”.
When I was younger things was quite innocent and simple. I shuddered when I heard the six words “Go Up And Tidy Your Bedroom” or “Your Turn For The Washing Up” as well as “It’s Friday, we’re having boiled fish”. But then I became a student and it was a bit more serious with “It’s The End Of Year Exams” or “You’ve Slept In For Your Lecture” causing me upset, but again reasonably innocent. It’s when you start to really grow up the six words you hate to hear start to get a little bit less charitable.
Late Teen and early Twenties relationships mean the half dozen words I dreaded most changed to “Tell Me That You Love Me” or “Tell Me Where This Is Going”, words that sent me screaming with fear alongside “Shall We Go On Holiday Together” or “You Want To Meet My Parents?”. See, there’s a story right there, in just six words, that can be read by some as a romantic tale full of promise, or by me as a scary signpost to a break up.
Compiling a Top Five list of six word sentences that will haunt me forever and give me the screaming heebies I had to include things like “Our Dinner Party Hosts Are Vegetarians”, “I’m Canvassing For The Green Party” and “He’s Off For A Gap Year”, followed in annoyance by “I Need Time To Find Myself”, “Your Turn To Empty The Dishwasher”, “I’m Fond Of Pan Pipe Music”, and “Sorry Mate, We Don’t Sell Chocolate”. I also have to cite the dreaded “Your Call Is Important, Please Hold”, “Let’s Throw A Royal Wedding Party”, and the very scary “And Now The Alan Titchmarsh Show”.
Then there’s the ones inflicted by my wife, things like “Incidentally, Friday Night We’re Going Out”, or the words I just know mean that I’m about to hear that hundreds of pounds worth of car damage has been done, “Just Remember That I Am OK” .
So that’s me, whatever it says about me, but what about you? Try it this week. I recommend it. Write down in six words everything that annoys you and then see what it says about the real you. It’s just half a dozen words, but I guarantee they’ll include volumes of insight.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Old Before I Die
I have a lot of learning to do, but then don’t we all? I believe that when you stop learning you cease being useful to yourself or anyone around you, so I love new things – new experiences, new inspiration, new ways of working.
In an age when “new money” or a “new face” seem to be the only target for some people, new learning has to be shouted about a bit more. I gratefully appreciate recommendations to try new things. A particular book, Sophie’s World, was suggested by a friend recently and has helped me learn a lot and question things I take for granted. Mind you new things take effort and Sophie’s World was about as easy to read as an upside down wardrobe assembly leaflet written in Russian by someone with a tremor and cataracts, but perseverance gave me loads of rewards.
We all need to keep on learning and I was delighted to be invited this week to a debate about how we make sure older folk continue to learn. The comments from the audience were very instructive and turned the stereotype of lazy youngsters and hard working oldies on its head. Most of the older people there seemed to believe that if anyone wanted them to use computers they had to make it worth their while. A bit of a reversal of clichés there. The tone seemed to be that they want special treatment and don’t want to get off their backsides and seek out learning. It has to come to them.
One lady even said she didn’t want to be taught computer skills in a “class full of nineteen year olds” and, although I sympathise that she may feel overwhelmed, it struck me as being a bit precious, sad and dare I say it sniffy.
So has the older generation become selfish or are they just terrified that they’ve missed the boat?
One problem that wasn’t discussed at the debate was that the threat for anyone older who doesn’t become a silver surfer is that they will fail to understand how to communicate with anyone younger. In fact it’s already happening. I’m not talking about the slang of the street like my teenage daughter saying something is “sick” when she means good, I mean that younger people actually have differently wired brains now thanks to the digital revolution. It means they have little patience and want the message you’re giving them to be passed on quicker and in a more pointed way, but it also means they retain less information. In other words, ironically, informing youngsters is a bit like talking to really old people where you have to repeat your message over and over again for it to sink in. This is not their fault but is due to the quick, sharp, overloaded digital age they’ve grown up in.
Another emphatic reason to sit up and realise things are changing occurred this week when only three songs in the Top 40 charts sold any CDs whatsoever. Sounds trivial? All the other 37 sold not one single tangible disc that you can hold in your hand or put on your shelf. It’s all downloads. In years to come these digital songs will have been wiped from iPods everywhere to make room for new stuff, meaning kids won’t have CDs or singles to look at, to hold, cherish and bring back memories.
These downloads, and the demise of discs with their beautiful album covers, are also the reason HMV is going to the wall, graphic artists are unemployed, sales assistants are being made redundant, record companies are scaling back or going bust, and so it goes on. No point the older generation doing an impression of King Canute because you cannot hold this back. Adapt or be run over. If the silver surfers don’t waken up soon they will be sleeping all the way to obsolescence – a bit like vinyl and CDs.
Perhaps, though, there is hope. In making an appointment with two of the much older speakers on the platform, I reached for my diary. One of them put the appointment in his iPhone, the other used his iPad.
The revolution started a long time ago Oldies. For God’s sake get on board.
In an age when “new money” or a “new face” seem to be the only target for some people, new learning has to be shouted about a bit more. I gratefully appreciate recommendations to try new things. A particular book, Sophie’s World, was suggested by a friend recently and has helped me learn a lot and question things I take for granted. Mind you new things take effort and Sophie’s World was about as easy to read as an upside down wardrobe assembly leaflet written in Russian by someone with a tremor and cataracts, but perseverance gave me loads of rewards.
We all need to keep on learning and I was delighted to be invited this week to a debate about how we make sure older folk continue to learn. The comments from the audience were very instructive and turned the stereotype of lazy youngsters and hard working oldies on its head. Most of the older people there seemed to believe that if anyone wanted them to use computers they had to make it worth their while. A bit of a reversal of clichés there. The tone seemed to be that they want special treatment and don’t want to get off their backsides and seek out learning. It has to come to them.
One lady even said she didn’t want to be taught computer skills in a “class full of nineteen year olds” and, although I sympathise that she may feel overwhelmed, it struck me as being a bit precious, sad and dare I say it sniffy.
So has the older generation become selfish or are they just terrified that they’ve missed the boat?
One problem that wasn’t discussed at the debate was that the threat for anyone older who doesn’t become a silver surfer is that they will fail to understand how to communicate with anyone younger. In fact it’s already happening. I’m not talking about the slang of the street like my teenage daughter saying something is “sick” when she means good, I mean that younger people actually have differently wired brains now thanks to the digital revolution. It means they have little patience and want the message you’re giving them to be passed on quicker and in a more pointed way, but it also means they retain less information. In other words, ironically, informing youngsters is a bit like talking to really old people where you have to repeat your message over and over again for it to sink in. This is not their fault but is due to the quick, sharp, overloaded digital age they’ve grown up in.
Another emphatic reason to sit up and realise things are changing occurred this week when only three songs in the Top 40 charts sold any CDs whatsoever. Sounds trivial? All the other 37 sold not one single tangible disc that you can hold in your hand or put on your shelf. It’s all downloads. In years to come these digital songs will have been wiped from iPods everywhere to make room for new stuff, meaning kids won’t have CDs or singles to look at, to hold, cherish and bring back memories.
These downloads, and the demise of discs with their beautiful album covers, are also the reason HMV is going to the wall, graphic artists are unemployed, sales assistants are being made redundant, record companies are scaling back or going bust, and so it goes on. No point the older generation doing an impression of King Canute because you cannot hold this back. Adapt or be run over. If the silver surfers don’t waken up soon they will be sleeping all the way to obsolescence – a bit like vinyl and CDs.
Perhaps, though, there is hope. In making an appointment with two of the much older speakers on the platform, I reached for my diary. One of them put the appointment in his iPhone, the other used his iPad.
The revolution started a long time ago Oldies. For God’s sake get on board.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Food Glorious Food
I caught a reality TV show called Three In A Bed the other night in which odd looking couples who run boarding houses compete to see who makes the best breakfast. This joins other current shows like Come Dine With Me in which odd looking people compete to see who makes the best dinner, and Sky News where odd looking anchors compete to see who makes the most cock ups.
But this new boarding house competition has given me an idea for a show. In a tense climax to my new format that will have the nation glued to its seats, odd looking owners of burger vans will have a play off on the M25 motorway to decide who makes the best fry up. It’s going to be called Burger Off.
If someone had told us even five years ago that TV would be as bad as it is today we would have laughed, but it seems there will always be an audience for food programmes, good or bad. I remember making a Delia Smith recipe from one of her shows years ago to impress a girlfriend and it was a disaster. Queen Delia was adding a “handful” of this and a “fistful” of that but, being a woman, her fists were smaller than mine so my dish exploded in the oven, and then in the mouth, like those starburst crystals kids eat.
The secret of a good dinner party for me is easy, and it’s not necessarily about good cooking. It’s simply having enough food to offer extra portions. I can just about play the game of listening to boring conversation and insipid background music, but if you don’t offer me more after I’ve cleaned my plate, then the night’s a write off. I am the Oliver of dinner parties.
One recent dinner at a friend’s house went really well and there were plenty of leftovers, but as soon as I was ready for more the hostess picked up the serving dishes saying she was off to feed the kids with them. Well pardon me, but if you’re having Coia round for dinner then feed your kids before he arrives or ask him to bring pizza. I don’t want to steal food from kids’ mouths, but it’s a two way thing and I don’t expect them to steal from mine.
Of course, one other secret to a great dinner party, apart from loads of food, is relaxing company. This week, chances are you’ll be having dinner at home with friends or family. If you’re lucky you’ll be wearing comfortable clothes, if you’re unlucky you might be wearing the leftovers thrown at you because you’re home late, but conversation won’t be strained and you can pick your teeth or lick your plate if you fancy.
I’m not sure I’ll be able to do that on Thursday.
I’m joining a select party of about twelve for dinner in a restaurant where plate licking will be frowned upon and teeth picking may lead to me being thrown out. But the real behaviour limiter will be the company. I’m having bread sticks and profiteroles with three members of the House of Lords, one former MP and London Mayor candidate, the head of the Arts Council and various senior television heads.
And I know you’re asking the same question as I am – why on earth is he being invited to a dinner like that? Do they want a bit of rough? Someone who can fill in if the waiter gets sick?
I’ll have to learn the etiquette of posh eating very quickly. I know not to speak with my mouth fulI, and I realise it’s not good form to say to the waiter “I’ll just use the same plate for all the courses – save on the washing up”. But what I desperately need to know is this. Is it ok to turn to a peer and say “if you’re not eating the rest of your steak Baroness, can I have it please?”
Now you see what a problematic life I have. But at least with the TV heads being there I can pitch the show Burger Off to them over the canapes. I’ll let you know how it goes.
But this new boarding house competition has given me an idea for a show. In a tense climax to my new format that will have the nation glued to its seats, odd looking owners of burger vans will have a play off on the M25 motorway to decide who makes the best fry up. It’s going to be called Burger Off.
If someone had told us even five years ago that TV would be as bad as it is today we would have laughed, but it seems there will always be an audience for food programmes, good or bad. I remember making a Delia Smith recipe from one of her shows years ago to impress a girlfriend and it was a disaster. Queen Delia was adding a “handful” of this and a “fistful” of that but, being a woman, her fists were smaller than mine so my dish exploded in the oven, and then in the mouth, like those starburst crystals kids eat.
The secret of a good dinner party for me is easy, and it’s not necessarily about good cooking. It’s simply having enough food to offer extra portions. I can just about play the game of listening to boring conversation and insipid background music, but if you don’t offer me more after I’ve cleaned my plate, then the night’s a write off. I am the Oliver of dinner parties.
One recent dinner at a friend’s house went really well and there were plenty of leftovers, but as soon as I was ready for more the hostess picked up the serving dishes saying she was off to feed the kids with them. Well pardon me, but if you’re having Coia round for dinner then feed your kids before he arrives or ask him to bring pizza. I don’t want to steal food from kids’ mouths, but it’s a two way thing and I don’t expect them to steal from mine.
Of course, one other secret to a great dinner party, apart from loads of food, is relaxing company. This week, chances are you’ll be having dinner at home with friends or family. If you’re lucky you’ll be wearing comfortable clothes, if you’re unlucky you might be wearing the leftovers thrown at you because you’re home late, but conversation won’t be strained and you can pick your teeth or lick your plate if you fancy.
I’m not sure I’ll be able to do that on Thursday.
I’m joining a select party of about twelve for dinner in a restaurant where plate licking will be frowned upon and teeth picking may lead to me being thrown out. But the real behaviour limiter will be the company. I’m having bread sticks and profiteroles with three members of the House of Lords, one former MP and London Mayor candidate, the head of the Arts Council and various senior television heads.
And I know you’re asking the same question as I am – why on earth is he being invited to a dinner like that? Do they want a bit of rough? Someone who can fill in if the waiter gets sick?
I’ll have to learn the etiquette of posh eating very quickly. I know not to speak with my mouth fulI, and I realise it’s not good form to say to the waiter “I’ll just use the same plate for all the courses – save on the washing up”. But what I desperately need to know is this. Is it ok to turn to a peer and say “if you’re not eating the rest of your steak Baroness, can I have it please?”
Now you see what a problematic life I have. But at least with the TV heads being there I can pitch the show Burger Off to them over the canapes. I’ll let you know how it goes.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Hurt
We’re just back from a week in Portugal where the sun shone brightly, and now as the suntans fade and slide down the colour charts from the colour of teak to milky coffee, they seem to have settled on a shade which I can only describe as being like an unhealthy cat’s litter tray. Very attractive.
It was a hectic and busy week in the tropical heat what with having to oil myself up and get up and down from the sun lounger to pour cold drinks. Then there were restaurant buffets to be cleared, bars to be inspected, packets of Ibuprofen to be consumed in the name of the god Hangover, and it would have been rude not to do a tour of every shopping centre in the area. And people think my life is easy.
The holiday came at a good time for me as I had injured my back at the gym and needed a break somewhere other than my lower spine, and I’ve learned since returning from holiday that there are two things about having a back problem that are very annoying. The first is that it’s painful of course, but the second aspect hurts even more. It seems that back pain is a bit like Colonel Gaddafi. Everyone has an opinion on what you should do to get rid of it.
I have been advised to do yoga, Pilates and swimming. I have also been told to sit in a sauna, have a chiropractor visit the house, make friends with a physiotherapist, change my diet, have someone rub my back with tennis balls, stretch out more, buy new shoes, wear a back brace, get down the local DIY store, buy Easter eggs and have more sex. Hang on, now I’m getting carried away and reading from the “to do” list on my desk.
Silently and stealthily there has been an explosion of growth in the “fix it” side of keeping fit. We’ve all gone daft for the gym without us realising that this health kick is really a big swindle. We’re being conned in to doing fitness to bankroll physios and sports scientists who simply know the words to “Your Hip Bone’s Connected To Your Thigh Bone” a bit better than the rest of us.
If healthy living really IS healthy then why does it take two weeks to get an appointment with a physiotherapist? Why do most gyms have a masseur and masseuse wafting the smell of eucalyptus round the place all day as they count the cash coming through the doors of their consulting rooms?
I love the gym but I’m starting to feel that in future running machines and spinning bikes will only be seen by my great grandkids when they’re taken on school trips to see how people once lived. In a museum somewhere a gym will be reconstructed with an authentic sweat smell conjured from oils like that old Viking town at the Yorvik museum.
I can imagine the history books now. “You may find this hard to believe children but some ancient Brits not only used to prefer vegetables to a good pepper steak, they used to punish themselves by running and cycling without actually moving or going anywhere. Some even used to wave their arms around and wiggle their bottoms to a type of music known as Aerobics. Apparently some women didn’t like the fact this made them sweat and they invented something called Pilates so they could have a good sleep on the floor instead.”
My back still hurts but my ears hurt more from listening to everyone’s opinion on what I should do about it. Surprisingly, none of the health brigade has suggested I give up the gym. That would put them out of business in the future.
For the moment I face a choice – keep on going to the gym or give it up and save money which I can then spend on more chocolate. Put like that there’s no real choice to be made is there?
It was a hectic and busy week in the tropical heat what with having to oil myself up and get up and down from the sun lounger to pour cold drinks. Then there were restaurant buffets to be cleared, bars to be inspected, packets of Ibuprofen to be consumed in the name of the god Hangover, and it would have been rude not to do a tour of every shopping centre in the area. And people think my life is easy.
The holiday came at a good time for me as I had injured my back at the gym and needed a break somewhere other than my lower spine, and I’ve learned since returning from holiday that there are two things about having a back problem that are very annoying. The first is that it’s painful of course, but the second aspect hurts even more. It seems that back pain is a bit like Colonel Gaddafi. Everyone has an opinion on what you should do to get rid of it.
I have been advised to do yoga, Pilates and swimming. I have also been told to sit in a sauna, have a chiropractor visit the house, make friends with a physiotherapist, change my diet, have someone rub my back with tennis balls, stretch out more, buy new shoes, wear a back brace, get down the local DIY store, buy Easter eggs and have more sex. Hang on, now I’m getting carried away and reading from the “to do” list on my desk.
Silently and stealthily there has been an explosion of growth in the “fix it” side of keeping fit. We’ve all gone daft for the gym without us realising that this health kick is really a big swindle. We’re being conned in to doing fitness to bankroll physios and sports scientists who simply know the words to “Your Hip Bone’s Connected To Your Thigh Bone” a bit better than the rest of us.
If healthy living really IS healthy then why does it take two weeks to get an appointment with a physiotherapist? Why do most gyms have a masseur and masseuse wafting the smell of eucalyptus round the place all day as they count the cash coming through the doors of their consulting rooms?
I love the gym but I’m starting to feel that in future running machines and spinning bikes will only be seen by my great grandkids when they’re taken on school trips to see how people once lived. In a museum somewhere a gym will be reconstructed with an authentic sweat smell conjured from oils like that old Viking town at the Yorvik museum.
I can imagine the history books now. “You may find this hard to believe children but some ancient Brits not only used to prefer vegetables to a good pepper steak, they used to punish themselves by running and cycling without actually moving or going anywhere. Some even used to wave their arms around and wiggle their bottoms to a type of music known as Aerobics. Apparently some women didn’t like the fact this made them sweat and they invented something called Pilates so they could have a good sleep on the floor instead.”
My back still hurts but my ears hurt more from listening to everyone’s opinion on what I should do about it. Surprisingly, none of the health brigade has suggested I give up the gym. That would put them out of business in the future.
For the moment I face a choice – keep on going to the gym or give it up and save money which I can then spend on more chocolate. Put like that there’s no real choice to be made is there?
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Word Up
As my chauffeur had the day off and the Aston Martin was having its gold wheel trims studded with fresh water pearls, I ended up waiting for a tube train on Wednesday at Vauxhall underground station when I started reading the posters on the wall across the tracks.
How on earth they get these big adverts up there is a mystery to me but secretly I’d love to believe there’s a wee man who runs across with his paste bucket between departures, desperately running to get the advert up before the next train squashes him.
Anyway, however it’s done it must be rushed. All the sheets are badly put together with overlaps that cause unintentional hilarity and I had a good laugh at the new giant advert for the local Virgin Active gym. The poster man had hastily overlapped the sheets, obscuring some letters. This didn’t matter till the final line which now reads “I love to swim at a gym with a big poo”. I’m almost sure the letter “L” has gone missing beneath the next sheet, but perhaps it’s some new swimming game launched by the environmental lobby.
Posters tell their own story and at Oxford Street station, on the escalators, you instantly get a snapshot of the recession. Apart from the empty poster boxes as you rise towards street level, there are still any number of adverts for Christmas sales and west end shows that closed a year ago. Perhaps I just imagined the advert announcing the sale of commemorative dinner plates for the upcoming royal wedding - of Victoria and Albert.
Advertising must be a rubbish business to be in. You spend all day thinking up a slogan like “go to work on an egg” and it’s used for decades but you don’t get a single penny extra, while whoever writes Cheryl Cole’s songs gets royalties for years, which presumably helps lessen their embarrassment.
We all know the great advertising slogans like “A Mars A Day Helps You Work Rest And Play” or “It Does What It Says On The Tin” but I think the duff ones are more interesting. Nothing brings a dose of humility to an ad agency more than the smell of failure. For instance, a hotel in Plymouth that specialised in weekend breaks for pensioners wondered why their new agency’s slogan failed to bring in the punters five year ago. It concentrated on the relaxing sleep waiting for the oldies in their luxury beds but said “Stay with us for the rest of your life”.
Warsaw tourist bosses allowed a slogan in the Seventies which went “Poland, you’re welcome to it” and during the SARS epidemic, which claimed the lives of many in the Far East, I saw in Hong Kong a tourism slogan that described the city as the place that “Takes Your Breath Away”.
Clairol introduced a curling tong called The Mist Stick to Germany and literally translated the product name without realising the German for Mist is also a slang word for Manure. Funnily enough the “manure stick” bombed. Then the Coors beer slogan “Turn It Loose” appeared on posters in Latin America translated in to Spanish as “Suffer From Diahorrea”.
Perhaps then advertising isn’t a boring drudge of a career after all, so long as you have a sense of humour and can laugh at your mistakes. And when you get bored there’s always that great game to play using someone else’s successful slogan but putting it with some other product. For instance “If You Like A Lot Of Chocolate On Your Biscuit Join Our Club” worked well for Jacobs Biscuits but would work even better for Weight Watchers don’t you think?
How about ”Every Little Helps” for an enhancing bust cream, or maybe that liquid coffee slogan, “Camp, It’s Best”, being used by west end theatres. I’ll leave it to you to decide which of the curry eating, beer drinking blokes you know should get to use “High Speed Gas”, or where you’d reuse Burger King’s “It Takes Two Hands To Hold A Whopper”.
But be careful. The Nike slogan “Just Do It” might be great for sport, but it wouldn’t be so good for The Samaritans, would it?
How on earth they get these big adverts up there is a mystery to me but secretly I’d love to believe there’s a wee man who runs across with his paste bucket between departures, desperately running to get the advert up before the next train squashes him.
Anyway, however it’s done it must be rushed. All the sheets are badly put together with overlaps that cause unintentional hilarity and I had a good laugh at the new giant advert for the local Virgin Active gym. The poster man had hastily overlapped the sheets, obscuring some letters. This didn’t matter till the final line which now reads “I love to swim at a gym with a big poo”. I’m almost sure the letter “L” has gone missing beneath the next sheet, but perhaps it’s some new swimming game launched by the environmental lobby.
Posters tell their own story and at Oxford Street station, on the escalators, you instantly get a snapshot of the recession. Apart from the empty poster boxes as you rise towards street level, there are still any number of adverts for Christmas sales and west end shows that closed a year ago. Perhaps I just imagined the advert announcing the sale of commemorative dinner plates for the upcoming royal wedding - of Victoria and Albert.
Advertising must be a rubbish business to be in. You spend all day thinking up a slogan like “go to work on an egg” and it’s used for decades but you don’t get a single penny extra, while whoever writes Cheryl Cole’s songs gets royalties for years, which presumably helps lessen their embarrassment.
We all know the great advertising slogans like “A Mars A Day Helps You Work Rest And Play” or “It Does What It Says On The Tin” but I think the duff ones are more interesting. Nothing brings a dose of humility to an ad agency more than the smell of failure. For instance, a hotel in Plymouth that specialised in weekend breaks for pensioners wondered why their new agency’s slogan failed to bring in the punters five year ago. It concentrated on the relaxing sleep waiting for the oldies in their luxury beds but said “Stay with us for the rest of your life”.
Warsaw tourist bosses allowed a slogan in the Seventies which went “Poland, you’re welcome to it” and during the SARS epidemic, which claimed the lives of many in the Far East, I saw in Hong Kong a tourism slogan that described the city as the place that “Takes Your Breath Away”.
Clairol introduced a curling tong called The Mist Stick to Germany and literally translated the product name without realising the German for Mist is also a slang word for Manure. Funnily enough the “manure stick” bombed. Then the Coors beer slogan “Turn It Loose” appeared on posters in Latin America translated in to Spanish as “Suffer From Diahorrea”.
Perhaps then advertising isn’t a boring drudge of a career after all, so long as you have a sense of humour and can laugh at your mistakes. And when you get bored there’s always that great game to play using someone else’s successful slogan but putting it with some other product. For instance “If You Like A Lot Of Chocolate On Your Biscuit Join Our Club” worked well for Jacobs Biscuits but would work even better for Weight Watchers don’t you think?
How about ”Every Little Helps” for an enhancing bust cream, or maybe that liquid coffee slogan, “Camp, It’s Best”, being used by west end theatres. I’ll leave it to you to decide which of the curry eating, beer drinking blokes you know should get to use “High Speed Gas”, or where you’d reuse Burger King’s “It Takes Two Hands To Hold A Whopper”.
But be careful. The Nike slogan “Just Do It” might be great for sport, but it wouldn’t be so good for The Samaritans, would it?
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Somethin's Cooking In The Kitchen
Here’s an idea for a TV show. We get Bruce Forsyth to solve world poverty, Lady Gaga to work in Iran with NATO’s nuclear disarmament inspectors, and then Nicholas Cage and Kerry Katona can lend their expertise to the next World Economic Forum at Davos to tidy up Third World debt. Good idea, eh?
Well, no, of course not. It’s a ridiculous idea, stupid and childish. Put it forward as a TV programme format and you would be, rightly, laughed out of the commissioner’s office and forced to watch boxed sets of Benidorm as punishment.
Yet this week we have the pleasure of Channel Four’s Jamie Oliver setting up a school to see if unteachable kids can be controlled, interested in education, and ultimately taught to love learning. So, forget about all the years of academic research and millions of pounds of analysis by the Department of Education, social scientists and university doctors struggling with their theses on education failure.
All we ultimately needed for the answer was a television cook.
Now Jamie seems a lovely bloke and his autograph proudly graces my kids’ playroom wall but, how can I put it? I repeat - he’s a flippin’ cook for goodness sake. A chef. He can surely tell you how to drizzle vinaigrette artistically on your Cos lettuce, make fluffy cous cous or cook pasta al dente, but run a school? What’s he qualified to do? Bin the frogs from Biology and have the students dissect wild guinea fowl instead? Returf the five a side pitches in lemongrass? Have the woodwork class make sculptures from polenta?
Perhaps he’d be happy if I ask our local sixth form college headmaster to work for a few weeks as chef of his restaurant in Kingston. It’s the same principle. No doubt we’ll get a book – Jamie’s Ten Minute School Makeover – and a themed restaurant out of it where noisy diners are given lines.
Nice fella but hopelessly out of his depth and remit. Mind you, I wish I had his agent.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My older daughter watched the Spy Kids movie and was fascinated by the idea of retinal scanners for security. These devices check your unique eye print to see if you are who you say you are. Now she’s decided she wants one of these for access to her bedroom, but she hasn’t quite heard the name properly. She asked me if she could get a “rectal scanner” for her birthday.
Bottom line is I’ve said no.
Meantime my other daughter has started freaking out over recycling. She was all in favour until she picked up the new pack of toilet tissue from the supermarket and saw the recycled logo on the wrapper. “Does this mean the toilet paper’s been used before?” she asked with a horrified look.
Kids constantly make you laugh and then remember how innocent those years, long ago, really were. When I was a kid someone told me that a certain type of garden pebble had coins inside and I used to waste days trying to wear them away by rubbing them on the garden wall. I also believed I’d become a millionaire if I left home at six or seven but was back in my bedroom after five minutes because I didn’t know how where the bus stop was.
Life was simpler in those days as there were no retinal scanners or recycling ideas around then. But I guess nothing really changes. Perhaps technology is just today’s old stones with sixpences hidden inside.
Well, no, of course not. It’s a ridiculous idea, stupid and childish. Put it forward as a TV programme format and you would be, rightly, laughed out of the commissioner’s office and forced to watch boxed sets of Benidorm as punishment.
Yet this week we have the pleasure of Channel Four’s Jamie Oliver setting up a school to see if unteachable kids can be controlled, interested in education, and ultimately taught to love learning. So, forget about all the years of academic research and millions of pounds of analysis by the Department of Education, social scientists and university doctors struggling with their theses on education failure.
All we ultimately needed for the answer was a television cook.
Now Jamie seems a lovely bloke and his autograph proudly graces my kids’ playroom wall but, how can I put it? I repeat - he’s a flippin’ cook for goodness sake. A chef. He can surely tell you how to drizzle vinaigrette artistically on your Cos lettuce, make fluffy cous cous or cook pasta al dente, but run a school? What’s he qualified to do? Bin the frogs from Biology and have the students dissect wild guinea fowl instead? Returf the five a side pitches in lemongrass? Have the woodwork class make sculptures from polenta?
Perhaps he’d be happy if I ask our local sixth form college headmaster to work for a few weeks as chef of his restaurant in Kingston. It’s the same principle. No doubt we’ll get a book – Jamie’s Ten Minute School Makeover – and a themed restaurant out of it where noisy diners are given lines.
Nice fella but hopelessly out of his depth and remit. Mind you, I wish I had his agent.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My older daughter watched the Spy Kids movie and was fascinated by the idea of retinal scanners for security. These devices check your unique eye print to see if you are who you say you are. Now she’s decided she wants one of these for access to her bedroom, but she hasn’t quite heard the name properly. She asked me if she could get a “rectal scanner” for her birthday.
Bottom line is I’ve said no.
Meantime my other daughter has started freaking out over recycling. She was all in favour until she picked up the new pack of toilet tissue from the supermarket and saw the recycled logo on the wrapper. “Does this mean the toilet paper’s been used before?” she asked with a horrified look.
Kids constantly make you laugh and then remember how innocent those years, long ago, really were. When I was a kid someone told me that a certain type of garden pebble had coins inside and I used to waste days trying to wear them away by rubbing them on the garden wall. I also believed I’d become a millionaire if I left home at six or seven but was back in my bedroom after five minutes because I didn’t know how where the bus stop was.
Life was simpler in those days as there were no retinal scanners or recycling ideas around then. But I guess nothing really changes. Perhaps technology is just today’s old stones with sixpences hidden inside.
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