www.paulcoia.com
As 2008 comes to a close here’s my annual, tongue in cheek, look back at the year gone by.
January
Paul Burrell, former butler to Princess Diana, stole a march on the Press when he sneaked out of the inquest into her death. He also stole a cloakroom ticket, two ashtrays and a letter from the canteen lady. After his testimony Burrell’s hard earned reputation was ruined when someone thought they spotted him telling the truth.
February
Britney Spears was sectioned for the second time in a month after bizarre behaviour led to her being separated from her kids. She shouted at the judge after the verdict but was spared prosecution when it was later proved that she had mimed.
March
Windsor Castle played host to French leader Nicholas Sarkozy and his glamorous, beautiful wife as well as the glitterati with their glamorous, beautiful wives. Also in attendance were Prince Charles and his glamorous, beautiful, er, mum.
Heather Mills divorced Paul McCartney after being divorced from reality for years.
April
As the Olympic flame made its way to Beijing it passed through the streets of London. With London’s no smoking policy, various public spirited citizens mobbed the runners in a friendly attempt to put it out.
John Prescott revealed he had spent ten years as a bulimic. The forgetful politician ate as much as he wanted but couldn’t remember what to do after that.
May
A Letter to The Guardian newspaper reported that since Boris Johnson had been in power as London’s mayor the sun had shone continuously. He responded that it temporarily disappeared each time he sat down.
June
Zimbabwe held an election to tell Robert Mugabe that he is a tyrant, a corrupt despot and that he should go. He thanked everyone for their vote of confidence and the wave of love, and said he will be glad to stay on for ever.
Children were confused when newspapers were filled with pictures of Mr Potato Head getting married. Parents tried to explain that it was actually a footballer named Wayne Rooney.
July
After years of waiting and lack of success, Britain celebrated it’s biggest ever triumph at Wimbledon as several families managed to sneak in for nothing.
Bosnian Serb leader Radovan Karadzic was arrested on a Belgrade bus. Next time he promises to pay the fare.
August
The Olympics went out on a high with fireworks and record breaking ceremonies as organisers decided that, in these cash strapped times, there is no point in having any form of spectacle, or indeed transport, at the next Olympic finals in London.
Paris Hilton, when asked about rumours she will be backed by an anonymous donor to run for President, said she finds it hard to swallow. Several hundred American males begged to differ.
September
Sarah Palin, a potential American vice president, said she likes to hunt moose. The Spice Girls went in to hiding.
Banks went in to meltdown, financial analysts and investors committed suicide, and companies went bust as Simon Cowell moved his accounts overseas.
October
As Madonna and Guy Ritchie said they would divorce, the singer reflected that she’s gained so much from each of her marriages and announced a “thank you” gig exclusively for all her previous husbands. She booked Madison Square Gardens, with the overflow to be seated in the car park.
November
Barack Obama is elected as the next President of The United States. Outgoing George Bush says he will do all he can to make Obama’s start in office as easy as possible. He then gives away all America’s money to car salesmen.
Lewis Hamilton becomes the youngest champion in history to win the world bragging rights for sleeping with one of the Pussycat Dolls.
December
Sarah Symonds says she’s had an affair with chef Gordon Ramsay following a previous affair with Jeffrey Archer. She believes her lovers are getting progressively better looking. Andrew Lloyd Webber worried he’s next on the list.
Protestors block Stansted airport as hundreds of flights are cancelled. Budget airline Ryanair cancels fifty two flights costing around three pounds seventy in lost ticket revenue. “There was very little information”, said a Ryanair spokesman. “Now he knows how it feels”, says every Ryanair customer.
That’s it for 2008. Have a very Happy Christmas and a Healthy and Happy New Year. See you in 2009.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Christmas (W)Rapping
I felt the suffocating panic of Christmas looming this week as more and more cards arrived through the letter box from the usual mixture of nice people, daft people, local Indian takeaways and my newspaper delivery girl who, though I’ve never met her, wants me to have Season’s Greetings.
Once upon a time you knew where you were with Christmas cards as they all had a ‘Happy Christmas’ inside, but we now are so wary of upsetting everyone from Zoroastrans to people who don’t want to smile, that we now avoid the mention of Christmas and happiness to avoid any offence. I received a double whammy today with a Season’s Greetings inside a card that wished me a Happy Winterval on the front.
So what is a Season’s Greeting? Would a quick “My it’s cold” do the trick, or is it “I see fuel bills are up?”. There’s also “Got to pay my tax next month”. All these are greetings used frequently at this time of year so it seems to me that Season’s Greetings is a useless non message meaning either nothing at all or, in the case of my newspaper girl, “Don’t forget to tip”.
With all these cards I had to admit that putting Christmas off was no longer an option and I needed to face up to the annual climb in to the loft for the decorations. So, we now have our tree up, the wreath’s on the door with a few sweeties stuck in just in case anyone’s late and confused for Halloween, and my desk is covered in boxes of Christmas cards as I agonise over who will get the whole Bethlehem and Three Wise Men scenario, and who receives Santa relieving himself behind someone’s chimney.
I also started my Christmas shopping and more or less finished it on the same day. But before you despise me for being a right little clever clogs, the truth is I had already done most of my annual present buying online – everyone is getting Viagra, their bank details sent to Nigeria, and a degree from some American university this year – but I had to go out and get one or two personal items.
I knew that the shops would be busy so I was ready for the long queues in some stores which seemed to be selling off their stock, their premises, their staff and their future by desperately throwing stuff at us, most of which looked as if it had first seen the shelves when Santa was an elf. I didn’t know whether to join in and scramble around for bargains as it seemed to be dancing on the graves of the staff who were doing their best to look cheerful, but in the end the bad angel overcame the good one on the other shoulder and I filled my basket.
Joining the lines to pay, I waited for just under an hour in a shop I’ve always liked and I stood chatting to fellow waiters as we made the most of our time. It was a bit like being locked together in a broken down lift but without the worry of enclosed spaces. Or flatulence. After fifty five minutes of pleasant banter we reached the till and, as I went to get my wallet, I discovered I’d left it in my car. I could have cried.
There was one bit of light relief however as, after I came back and rejoined the line, a six or seven year old boy was misbehaving in front of me and, despite pleas from his mum, he just carried on pulling Christmas decorations off the shelves, dancing around madly and colliding with other shoppers while generally being a nuisance. His dad finally managed to control him with a line I wished I’d thought of when my kids were a bit younger. “Stop mucking about”, he said, “or I’ll phone Santa and tell him we’ve moved house”. He was good as gold after that.
As a youngster I loved the wonder of Woolworths, especially on Easter Monday when their Easter eggs were reduced to half price, so I took a nostalgic trip this week to look at their beautiful Christmas decorations hanging from the store’s ceiling. As I read them – Closing Down Sale, Fifty Per Cent Off, We’re All Doomed, Got A Job Going? – I hunted around for one last bargain. If I’d had a couple of pounds more in my wallet I would have taken the special offer of Buy One Store Get One Free, but opted instead for some chocolate.
For some reason, probably one of taste, amongst the rows of empty shelves they still have lots of pink, fluffy, artificial Christmas trees for sale and you can even buy pink fluffy logs to place around them. But, don’t go redecorating just to fit around the pink fluff when you proudly place it in your lounge. Remember, a log is for Christmas, not just for life.
I’m one of the world’s optimists but even I found the Woolworth’s receipts a bit hopeful. Bearing in mind they’re closing after Christmas and going to the great shopping mall in the sky, the receipt I was given proudly boasted that “Christmas gift returns will be refunded from December 28th.”
Christmas shopping has to be done right. It should be done in groups so you can share the pain and, after a few stores, it’s time for a coffee break to regroup, cross things off the list and compare notes. It’s also amazing what you can overhear as other groups go over their lists. “I got your mum those invisible suck in knickers for fat people” was just one, and I can only guess what Christmas morning is going to be like in their house when she opens that. Perhaps she’ll use it to keep the stuffing bound inside the turkey.
I’m off now back to my desk to dream of a few days off next week and to finish writing my Christmas cards. I see that you’re next on the list, so Season’s Greetings.
Once upon a time you knew where you were with Christmas cards as they all had a ‘Happy Christmas’ inside, but we now are so wary of upsetting everyone from Zoroastrans to people who don’t want to smile, that we now avoid the mention of Christmas and happiness to avoid any offence. I received a double whammy today with a Season’s Greetings inside a card that wished me a Happy Winterval on the front.
So what is a Season’s Greeting? Would a quick “My it’s cold” do the trick, or is it “I see fuel bills are up?”. There’s also “Got to pay my tax next month”. All these are greetings used frequently at this time of year so it seems to me that Season’s Greetings is a useless non message meaning either nothing at all or, in the case of my newspaper girl, “Don’t forget to tip”.
With all these cards I had to admit that putting Christmas off was no longer an option and I needed to face up to the annual climb in to the loft for the decorations. So, we now have our tree up, the wreath’s on the door with a few sweeties stuck in just in case anyone’s late and confused for Halloween, and my desk is covered in boxes of Christmas cards as I agonise over who will get the whole Bethlehem and Three Wise Men scenario, and who receives Santa relieving himself behind someone’s chimney.
I also started my Christmas shopping and more or less finished it on the same day. But before you despise me for being a right little clever clogs, the truth is I had already done most of my annual present buying online – everyone is getting Viagra, their bank details sent to Nigeria, and a degree from some American university this year – but I had to go out and get one or two personal items.
I knew that the shops would be busy so I was ready for the long queues in some stores which seemed to be selling off their stock, their premises, their staff and their future by desperately throwing stuff at us, most of which looked as if it had first seen the shelves when Santa was an elf. I didn’t know whether to join in and scramble around for bargains as it seemed to be dancing on the graves of the staff who were doing their best to look cheerful, but in the end the bad angel overcame the good one on the other shoulder and I filled my basket.
Joining the lines to pay, I waited for just under an hour in a shop I’ve always liked and I stood chatting to fellow waiters as we made the most of our time. It was a bit like being locked together in a broken down lift but without the worry of enclosed spaces. Or flatulence. After fifty five minutes of pleasant banter we reached the till and, as I went to get my wallet, I discovered I’d left it in my car. I could have cried.
There was one bit of light relief however as, after I came back and rejoined the line, a six or seven year old boy was misbehaving in front of me and, despite pleas from his mum, he just carried on pulling Christmas decorations off the shelves, dancing around madly and colliding with other shoppers while generally being a nuisance. His dad finally managed to control him with a line I wished I’d thought of when my kids were a bit younger. “Stop mucking about”, he said, “or I’ll phone Santa and tell him we’ve moved house”. He was good as gold after that.
As a youngster I loved the wonder of Woolworths, especially on Easter Monday when their Easter eggs were reduced to half price, so I took a nostalgic trip this week to look at their beautiful Christmas decorations hanging from the store’s ceiling. As I read them – Closing Down Sale, Fifty Per Cent Off, We’re All Doomed, Got A Job Going? – I hunted around for one last bargain. If I’d had a couple of pounds more in my wallet I would have taken the special offer of Buy One Store Get One Free, but opted instead for some chocolate.
For some reason, probably one of taste, amongst the rows of empty shelves they still have lots of pink, fluffy, artificial Christmas trees for sale and you can even buy pink fluffy logs to place around them. But, don’t go redecorating just to fit around the pink fluff when you proudly place it in your lounge. Remember, a log is for Christmas, not just for life.
I’m one of the world’s optimists but even I found the Woolworth’s receipts a bit hopeful. Bearing in mind they’re closing after Christmas and going to the great shopping mall in the sky, the receipt I was given proudly boasted that “Christmas gift returns will be refunded from December 28th.”
Christmas shopping has to be done right. It should be done in groups so you can share the pain and, after a few stores, it’s time for a coffee break to regroup, cross things off the list and compare notes. It’s also amazing what you can overhear as other groups go over their lists. “I got your mum those invisible suck in knickers for fat people” was just one, and I can only guess what Christmas morning is going to be like in their house when she opens that. Perhaps she’ll use it to keep the stuffing bound inside the turkey.
I’m off now back to my desk to dream of a few days off next week and to finish writing my Christmas cards. I see that you’re next on the list, so Season’s Greetings.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Send In The Clowns
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.
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 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.
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