In the current financial climate, when the going gets tough the tough get going on a hunt for cheap entertainment. For instance, it costs nothing to be entertained for hours by Facebook or Twitter where a female friend of mine landed in deep water this week by posting “I just got paid”, only to discover that her fat fingers had typed “paid” with an L instead of a P.
You’ll be pleased to hear this week then that I’ve found a safer and better way to spend a few hours and be royally entertained at the cost of absolutely zero.
Now I do realise that when I say “royally entertained” you may be worried that I’m going to suggest something boring and turgid like the Royal Variety Show where Her Maj almost certainly pays an aide to dig fingernails in to the royal palms to keep her awake. If anyone ever says The Queen doesn’t earn her money just mention the dreadful shows she has to sit through, smiling, as doddery old variety turns, all as topical as a Leo Sayer tribute act, suck up. They’re Old Boring Entertainers, OBEs hoping to get an MBE. I went to one of these shows once and I’ve had a more fun evening scalping dry skin off my feet.
So no, my free day out is not as boring as the Queen’s social calendar. This free day out has entertainment by the barrel load, but I advise you to wear comfy shoes as there will be standing room only.
If you’re one of the lucky ones who says “what credit crunch?” these days and are still coasting along buying Ferraris and Sunseeker yachts to make your holiday home in Portofino look flashier, then good luck to you and the bank you work for.
A quick walk down any high street today tells a gloomy story as one shop after another lies empty, usually with a sad notice in the window thanking customers for past loyalty. Landlords have not woken up to reality and are desperately hiring out their places to charity shops, cheaply, just to avoid paying taxes on empty property. I’m going to open a cafe called Paul and avoid high rent by telling the landlord it stands for Protecting Animals Using Latté. They’ll snap me up.
As a serious aside, I noticed a very large fish and chip restaurant in Wimbledon is closed with notices in the window saying it’s because one of the family has a brain tumour. It’s all the more poignant because the family has arranged all the get well cards from customers on the restaurant floor, and they stretch as far as the eye can see. There’s always someone worse off isn’t there?
Looking at empty high streets just now even the good old post offices have suffered, with two I regularly use closing recently. This is personally sad as I got to know the families who ran them very well. But, if you look very hard, there is a bit of a bonus, and this brings me back to my free day out.
Yesterday I went to one of the few remaining post offices to post a parcel and, because so many have closed, the line of waiting customers was out to the street. I had no option but to wait in the queue feeling annoyed. But once I had resigned myself to fate, it turned out to be the most entertaining day out I had had in a while. Forget the surly people who work there. They’ve been told in training that if they smile they’ll contract malaria, and if they apologise for your waiting time then they’ll get a Fast Lane ticket to the bad fire. It can only be a matter of time before someone re records those post office queueing announcements to say “Cashier Number Four Will Belittle You Now Please.”
Anyway, as I stood there (see why I said standing room only?) I became engrossed as the man behind me took a call from his wife. I only heard half the conversation, of course, but he was so apologetic I think he must have done something really, really bad. He ended it with “ok, I’ll give you five minutes and do my married duty tonight”. I can only guess what that means!
Then I overheard a girl buying Jamaican dollars who couldn’t quite get the hang of the buying and selling prices quoted and thought it was a choice. “I’ll just take that one”, she said as the cashier tried to explain the difference. A baby in front of me started giggling and we bonded. One guy sang out loud unaware, because of his earphones, that he could be heard, another told his mate a funny joke about football, a well dressed woman had a sack full of risque underwear to post as she ran an E Bay site, and so on. By the time I was served I was disappointed the free show was over.
So next time I have to stand in line, instead of being wrapped up in what I’m doing I’ll open my eyes and ears and see that the motley collection of strangers brought together by queueing really do provide great entertainment.
It’s a bit like Twitter and Facebook, but with real people.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Sunday, January 22, 2012
I Put A Spell On You
If you want to get through life thinking that the sun shines out of your backside, then here’s a tip. Never have kids.
These little humans grow from thinking you’re the funniest person ever into teenagers who believe that everything that comes out of your mouth is as boring as a pneumatic drill flying through soft cheese. I have just discovered, thanks to my fourteen year old, that I’m more pointless than dust, and that my opinions are like trapped wind – painful, pointless and best kept to myself.
I helped my youngest with her homework last night and was told I was just plain silly because I made her change some wrong spellings. Apparently “ideas and feelings count more than spelling” and I am a real old fuddy duddy pain who knows nothing. Of course it could be true but, at the risk of sounding like a retired schoolteacher, spelling seems to be going down the drain at an alarming rate.
Near where I live is a pub named The Cavern in Raynes Park, and to entice customers they proudly have a sign outside saying “Anyone buying a drink can bring there own food” . I may be a bit sad but, as I drove home today I really had to fight the impulse to stop and deface it by making the spelling correct. Once home I had just about calmed down when I received a Facebook picture from a friend who has a new book coming out soon. She had proudly sent the jacket cover which had an apostrophe missing and the word “unravelling” spelled with only one “L”. It’s endemic.
My local David Lloyd sports club put a flyer through our door last week offering special discount but saying “Free new member package VARYS from club to club”. This is a multi million pound turnover company yet they won’t even pay for a spell check on their computers.
Mind you it pays not to be too snotty. A very nice lady who coaches me in the gym, and who should know a lot about Sigmund Freud as she has a degree in Psychology, apologised the other day to our class for making “a fraudulent slip”. I actually found that quite cute.
But back to my rant! As well as bad spelling, the wrongly placed apostrophe is now everywhere, even on an old pal’s album. Graeme Clark is the bass player with Wet Wet Wet but the sleeve notes of his new, solo, album which is out in March, don’t mention choruses and verses but “chorus’ and verse’s”. And the great guitarist and singer Chris Rea has a new box set out called Santo Spirito Blues, but his newspaper adverts say the set contains “2 DVD’s and 3 CD’s”. Why is this so difficult? If there’s more than one then you just add an S. Why also add an apostrophe?
My favourite spelling mistakes are the ones that change a meaning completely. Back in November the Yorkshire newspaper Local Link carried an advert for a fireworks display with “toffee apples, hot dogs and buggers.” An on line biog posted on the LinkedIn page of one of my contacts tells us he’s looking for work whilst “redecorating my horse” - presumably he can’t paint his house as it is running in the Grand National. Dr Eric Schmidt, CEO of Google in California, gave out business cards detailing he was also “Chariman”, Tesco had a batch of loin chops which didn’t sell as they were labelled “Lion Chops”, and a riverside restaurant on the Thames allows boats to berth for a couple of hours with a notice saying “Two Hour Birthing Limit. All Birthing At Owner’s Risk”.
But, fusspot that I am, I may have found my perfect job for life. An advert in The Guardian newspaper last Monday is seeking to offer training to people who find “errers jump out at yew while reading,” leading to “the wright career working full or part thyme. You can urn up to £24 an hour”. The end result, hopefully, is a job as a proof reader working for a publisher and getting paid to point out spelling mistakes before stuff is published. Now that’s the kind of job I want.
To have a pet hate is one thing, to make money out of it seems like bliss. Wouldn’t it be ironic if my daughter ends up doing this for a living?
These little humans grow from thinking you’re the funniest person ever into teenagers who believe that everything that comes out of your mouth is as boring as a pneumatic drill flying through soft cheese. I have just discovered, thanks to my fourteen year old, that I’m more pointless than dust, and that my opinions are like trapped wind – painful, pointless and best kept to myself.
I helped my youngest with her homework last night and was told I was just plain silly because I made her change some wrong spellings. Apparently “ideas and feelings count more than spelling” and I am a real old fuddy duddy pain who knows nothing. Of course it could be true but, at the risk of sounding like a retired schoolteacher, spelling seems to be going down the drain at an alarming rate.
Near where I live is a pub named The Cavern in Raynes Park, and to entice customers they proudly have a sign outside saying “Anyone buying a drink can bring there own food” . I may be a bit sad but, as I drove home today I really had to fight the impulse to stop and deface it by making the spelling correct. Once home I had just about calmed down when I received a Facebook picture from a friend who has a new book coming out soon. She had proudly sent the jacket cover which had an apostrophe missing and the word “unravelling” spelled with only one “L”. It’s endemic.
My local David Lloyd sports club put a flyer through our door last week offering special discount but saying “Free new member package VARYS from club to club”. This is a multi million pound turnover company yet they won’t even pay for a spell check on their computers.
Mind you it pays not to be too snotty. A very nice lady who coaches me in the gym, and who should know a lot about Sigmund Freud as she has a degree in Psychology, apologised the other day to our class for making “a fraudulent slip”. I actually found that quite cute.
But back to my rant! As well as bad spelling, the wrongly placed apostrophe is now everywhere, even on an old pal’s album. Graeme Clark is the bass player with Wet Wet Wet but the sleeve notes of his new, solo, album which is out in March, don’t mention choruses and verses but “chorus’ and verse’s”. And the great guitarist and singer Chris Rea has a new box set out called Santo Spirito Blues, but his newspaper adverts say the set contains “2 DVD’s and 3 CD’s”. Why is this so difficult? If there’s more than one then you just add an S. Why also add an apostrophe?
My favourite spelling mistakes are the ones that change a meaning completely. Back in November the Yorkshire newspaper Local Link carried an advert for a fireworks display with “toffee apples, hot dogs and buggers.” An on line biog posted on the LinkedIn page of one of my contacts tells us he’s looking for work whilst “redecorating my horse” - presumably he can’t paint his house as it is running in the Grand National. Dr Eric Schmidt, CEO of Google in California, gave out business cards detailing he was also “Chariman”, Tesco had a batch of loin chops which didn’t sell as they were labelled “Lion Chops”, and a riverside restaurant on the Thames allows boats to berth for a couple of hours with a notice saying “Two Hour Birthing Limit. All Birthing At Owner’s Risk”.
But, fusspot that I am, I may have found my perfect job for life. An advert in The Guardian newspaper last Monday is seeking to offer training to people who find “errers jump out at yew while reading,” leading to “the wright career working full or part thyme. You can urn up to £24 an hour”. The end result, hopefully, is a job as a proof reader working for a publisher and getting paid to point out spelling mistakes before stuff is published. Now that’s the kind of job I want.
To have a pet hate is one thing, to make money out of it seems like bliss. Wouldn’t it be ironic if my daughter ends up doing this for a living?
Monday, January 16, 2012
Scotch Missed?
The big news for the people of Scotland at the moment is the fact they will soon get to vote for or against independence from Great Britain. For those reading this outside the UK, it’s a bit like Texas voting to leave the United States, but with fewer vegetables.
In Scotland the vote is seen either as being ‘long overdue’ or ‘turn the lights out, I’m leaving’. Depending who you speak to in England it’s a chance to eliminate an annoying weed or to encourage a wild plant to bloom and blossom. Things in the UK garden are really hotting up.
It seems that Scotland’s First Minister, Alex Salmond, wants his bit of the garden fenced off. He would like to be able to have his own budgets, planting seasons and stock control, and to take care of any pests and bugs himself. But the debate amongst Scots now is whether this will also mean watching the Flower Of Scotland ultimately shrivel from lack of care, leaving more manure than thriving seedlings.
As a Scot living in London I won’t get a vote, which seems to me to be the right thing as, whatever the decision, I won’t have to live with the consequences. I’m not going to turn in to a hectoring old granddad like Sean Connery who tells everyone what’s good for them while sipping cocktails under a parasol in the Tropics and waiting for a passing yacht, rather than downing Bovril under an umbrella in icy Edinburgh while waiting for trams that will probably never come.
The arguments are well rehearsed for and against Scottish independence. To sum up badly, for the pros it’s about history and John Knox, battles, perceived subjugation and tradition, for the antis it’s simply rooted in the worry that the finances just won’t work. If they needed campaign songs one side would have Abba’s ‘I Have A Dream’ whilst the others would opt for ‘S.O.S.’ The chants of ‘Take A Chance On Me’ will compete with ‘Money Money Money’ while cynical folk south of the border will roll their eyes and say it’s the usual case of ‘Gimme Gimme Gimme’ again.
As a media native I wondered this week what would happen with the BBC. They’re the BRITISH Broadcasting Corporation after all and therefore can’t stay in an independent Scotland that’s not part of Britain. They exist in Wales and Ulster but don’t have a presence in Ireland other than through subscription TV or Freeview boxes. So, do they pack up and go, leaving behind a huge building and putting hundreds out of work? I asked some broadcasting friends this on Facebook this week and the answer is...no one knows, although one pal, Julian, who works with the BBC’s lawyers, suggested Scotland will go back to its Calvinist roots with black and white TV pictures and talent shows like Opportunity Knox. Nice one Julian.
And what happens if those who vote against independence want to leave Scotland? As the country will no longer be part of Britain or the European Community (it will have to wait for that) will they need to apply for immigration status to move to England? Will we have customs officers at Gretna Green looking for stowaways hiding under Barrs Irn Bru lorries?
About three months ago I had dinner with a very nice lady who runs her family business from headquarters in Scotland. It so happens that the business bears her surname and is a worldwide, huge, multi million pound success. She told us at the beginning of the meal that if independence goes ahead she will move her headquarters abroad. By the end of dinner, after people had put their varying views, she wasn’t so sure.
So, there will be a lot of uncertainty and heart searching. There are many imponderables and it’s probably a time to sit back and let the politicians convince us one way or the other. The vote is in two years time, and that’s a lot of weeks of smiley politicians smarming us all to convince us they have the right answers.
But we will have to grin and bear it. The decision is too important to get wrong.
In Scotland the vote is seen either as being ‘long overdue’ or ‘turn the lights out, I’m leaving’. Depending who you speak to in England it’s a chance to eliminate an annoying weed or to encourage a wild plant to bloom and blossom. Things in the UK garden are really hotting up.
It seems that Scotland’s First Minister, Alex Salmond, wants his bit of the garden fenced off. He would like to be able to have his own budgets, planting seasons and stock control, and to take care of any pests and bugs himself. But the debate amongst Scots now is whether this will also mean watching the Flower Of Scotland ultimately shrivel from lack of care, leaving more manure than thriving seedlings.
As a Scot living in London I won’t get a vote, which seems to me to be the right thing as, whatever the decision, I won’t have to live with the consequences. I’m not going to turn in to a hectoring old granddad like Sean Connery who tells everyone what’s good for them while sipping cocktails under a parasol in the Tropics and waiting for a passing yacht, rather than downing Bovril under an umbrella in icy Edinburgh while waiting for trams that will probably never come.
The arguments are well rehearsed for and against Scottish independence. To sum up badly, for the pros it’s about history and John Knox, battles, perceived subjugation and tradition, for the antis it’s simply rooted in the worry that the finances just won’t work. If they needed campaign songs one side would have Abba’s ‘I Have A Dream’ whilst the others would opt for ‘S.O.S.’ The chants of ‘Take A Chance On Me’ will compete with ‘Money Money Money’ while cynical folk south of the border will roll their eyes and say it’s the usual case of ‘Gimme Gimme Gimme’ again.
As a media native I wondered this week what would happen with the BBC. They’re the BRITISH Broadcasting Corporation after all and therefore can’t stay in an independent Scotland that’s not part of Britain. They exist in Wales and Ulster but don’t have a presence in Ireland other than through subscription TV or Freeview boxes. So, do they pack up and go, leaving behind a huge building and putting hundreds out of work? I asked some broadcasting friends this on Facebook this week and the answer is...no one knows, although one pal, Julian, who works with the BBC’s lawyers, suggested Scotland will go back to its Calvinist roots with black and white TV pictures and talent shows like Opportunity Knox. Nice one Julian.
And what happens if those who vote against independence want to leave Scotland? As the country will no longer be part of Britain or the European Community (it will have to wait for that) will they need to apply for immigration status to move to England? Will we have customs officers at Gretna Green looking for stowaways hiding under Barrs Irn Bru lorries?
About three months ago I had dinner with a very nice lady who runs her family business from headquarters in Scotland. It so happens that the business bears her surname and is a worldwide, huge, multi million pound success. She told us at the beginning of the meal that if independence goes ahead she will move her headquarters abroad. By the end of dinner, after people had put their varying views, she wasn’t so sure.
So, there will be a lot of uncertainty and heart searching. There are many imponderables and it’s probably a time to sit back and let the politicians convince us one way or the other. The vote is in two years time, and that’s a lot of weeks of smiley politicians smarming us all to convince us they have the right answers.
But we will have to grin and bear it. The decision is too important to get wrong.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Happy New Year
Happy New Year. As always I start the year by looking back, tongue in cheek, at the twelve months gone by. Here’s a reminder of what you missed.
January – Ricky Gervais surprised and outraged Hollywood during his Golden Globes hosting duties by doing something he hasn’t done since – making people laugh. Richard Keys and Andy Gray lost their jobs at Sky TV after making sexist remarks. Head of Sky Sports said “I won’t have my staff saying women only work here because of their looks. That’s my job, and I’ve said so to all those blonde, big lipped, busty birds I employ to read the sports news.”
February - Colin Firth won an Oscar for The King’s Speech, the tale of a man who has to overcome a very large handicap to get on in public life. John Bercow, speaker of The House Of Commons, says he knows how that feels after his wife appears naked in a magazine with only a strategically placed sheet. Unfortunately it failed to cover one particularly upsetting part of her anatomy. Her mouth.
March – David Cameron and western allies impose a “no fly” zone over Libya. Millions of flies protest. Charlie Sheen, the highest paid TV actor in Hollywood gets sacked from his show Two And A Half Men after his consistent alcohol and drug taking is deemed too much for producers. On his consequent bender, Sheen gets so high he is shot down over Libya.
April – Prince William and Kate Middleton at last get married and are given the titles Duke and Duchess of Cambridge - as well as a house, a cook, several maids, a valet, a chauffeur, a bodyguard, official photographer, etc. Kate’s sister Pippa is voted Rear Of The Year after her bum gets its own fan club. Prince Harry is disappointed when she turns down the offer to become his BUTTler.
May – Ryan Giggs and Andrew Marr are exposed for having affairs. Suddenly every man wants big ears, and Page Three girls start dating elephants. Cheryl Cole, a singer whose IQ can be counted on one hand of a broken clock, is axed as a judge on The X Factor. When asked what she’ll do next, she says she’s confused but will ask her agent. When asked what day it is she says she’s confused but will ask her mum.
June – Bruce Forsyth is honoured by his knighthood from The Queen, and thanks his fans, his wife, his agent, his producers, Viagra and his embalmer. Labour leader Ed Miliband surprisingly gets hitched at last to Justine Thornton. He said he wanted to reward all his supporters, friends and voters by marrying them. Meantime Hugh Hefner, 85, is jilted at the altar by his 25 year old fiancée Crystal Harris. He set off down the aisle at 6am but by mid day she got fed up waiting.
July – A year for despots and dictators meeting grizzly ends continues with Rebekah Brooks, editor of The News Of The World, stepping down after ‘phone hacking allegations. In a clever PR effort to quickly get her resignation letter out to as many journalists as possible, she leaves the message on boss Rupert Murdoch’s ‘phone.
August – London suffers at the hands of rioters, with David Starkey saying it’s because “whites have become black”. Meantime musicologists blame Michael Jackson’s back catalogue on the fact that “blacks have become white”. Kate Winslet rescues Richard Branson’s mum from a fire. When congratulated afterwards Winslet weeps, says it’s so unexpected, and thanks her mum, her dad, her agent, her co stars and the fire fighters without whom she would not be where she is today.
September – Scottish rugby fans at last have something to cheer and celebrate as England get knocked out of the World Cup after taking part in a dwarf throwing contest. Paul Daniels is said to have recovered. Kweku Adoboli makes history whilst losing £2bn for UBS bank after very bad trading. This beats the world’s previously worst trade when Liverpool bought Andy Carroll.
October – Shane Warne and Elizabeth Hurley do their bit for charity as they save another man and woman from a lifetime of misery by getting engaged to each other. In Libya, much loved Colonel Gaddafi welcomes his worshipping supporters who pull him reverentially from a drain and honour his deity by bestowing gifts of fists and bullets. In Heaven he tells reporters they were just excited to see him.
November – Silvio Berlusconi resigns as prime minister of Italy after stories of his womanising get more and more outrageous. He pledges to devote his new found spare time to good deeds. It eventually transpires that he means Carmella Deeds, Giovanna Deeds, Angelina Deeds and Sophia Deeds, as well as their mother Brigitta Deeds, aunt Nancy Deeds and granny Gina Deeds.
December – Britain heads in to 2012 ready to play host to the world at the London Olympic Games. Mayor Boris Johnson sets expectations by reminding the public that there is a global monetary recession and announces new events such as the 100 Metre Sales Sprint, The Financial Hurdles, The You’re For The High Jump, The Shares Diving and Synchronised Just About Staying Afloat. He asks spectators to bring their enthusiasm and support as well as seats, packed lunches, and a few St Christopher medals for the winners’ ceremonies.
Let’s hope 2012 is a better, and cheerier, one for us all.
January – Ricky Gervais surprised and outraged Hollywood during his Golden Globes hosting duties by doing something he hasn’t done since – making people laugh. Richard Keys and Andy Gray lost their jobs at Sky TV after making sexist remarks. Head of Sky Sports said “I won’t have my staff saying women only work here because of their looks. That’s my job, and I’ve said so to all those blonde, big lipped, busty birds I employ to read the sports news.”
February - Colin Firth won an Oscar for The King’s Speech, the tale of a man who has to overcome a very large handicap to get on in public life. John Bercow, speaker of The House Of Commons, says he knows how that feels after his wife appears naked in a magazine with only a strategically placed sheet. Unfortunately it failed to cover one particularly upsetting part of her anatomy. Her mouth.
March – David Cameron and western allies impose a “no fly” zone over Libya. Millions of flies protest. Charlie Sheen, the highest paid TV actor in Hollywood gets sacked from his show Two And A Half Men after his consistent alcohol and drug taking is deemed too much for producers. On his consequent bender, Sheen gets so high he is shot down over Libya.
April – Prince William and Kate Middleton at last get married and are given the titles Duke and Duchess of Cambridge - as well as a house, a cook, several maids, a valet, a chauffeur, a bodyguard, official photographer, etc. Kate’s sister Pippa is voted Rear Of The Year after her bum gets its own fan club. Prince Harry is disappointed when she turns down the offer to become his BUTTler.
May – Ryan Giggs and Andrew Marr are exposed for having affairs. Suddenly every man wants big ears, and Page Three girls start dating elephants. Cheryl Cole, a singer whose IQ can be counted on one hand of a broken clock, is axed as a judge on The X Factor. When asked what she’ll do next, she says she’s confused but will ask her agent. When asked what day it is she says she’s confused but will ask her mum.
June – Bruce Forsyth is honoured by his knighthood from The Queen, and thanks his fans, his wife, his agent, his producers, Viagra and his embalmer. Labour leader Ed Miliband surprisingly gets hitched at last to Justine Thornton. He said he wanted to reward all his supporters, friends and voters by marrying them. Meantime Hugh Hefner, 85, is jilted at the altar by his 25 year old fiancée Crystal Harris. He set off down the aisle at 6am but by mid day she got fed up waiting.
July – A year for despots and dictators meeting grizzly ends continues with Rebekah Brooks, editor of The News Of The World, stepping down after ‘phone hacking allegations. In a clever PR effort to quickly get her resignation letter out to as many journalists as possible, she leaves the message on boss Rupert Murdoch’s ‘phone.
August – London suffers at the hands of rioters, with David Starkey saying it’s because “whites have become black”. Meantime musicologists blame Michael Jackson’s back catalogue on the fact that “blacks have become white”. Kate Winslet rescues Richard Branson’s mum from a fire. When congratulated afterwards Winslet weeps, says it’s so unexpected, and thanks her mum, her dad, her agent, her co stars and the fire fighters without whom she would not be where she is today.
September – Scottish rugby fans at last have something to cheer and celebrate as England get knocked out of the World Cup after taking part in a dwarf throwing contest. Paul Daniels is said to have recovered. Kweku Adoboli makes history whilst losing £2bn for UBS bank after very bad trading. This beats the world’s previously worst trade when Liverpool bought Andy Carroll.
October – Shane Warne and Elizabeth Hurley do their bit for charity as they save another man and woman from a lifetime of misery by getting engaged to each other. In Libya, much loved Colonel Gaddafi welcomes his worshipping supporters who pull him reverentially from a drain and honour his deity by bestowing gifts of fists and bullets. In Heaven he tells reporters they were just excited to see him.
November – Silvio Berlusconi resigns as prime minister of Italy after stories of his womanising get more and more outrageous. He pledges to devote his new found spare time to good deeds. It eventually transpires that he means Carmella Deeds, Giovanna Deeds, Angelina Deeds and Sophia Deeds, as well as their mother Brigitta Deeds, aunt Nancy Deeds and granny Gina Deeds.
December – Britain heads in to 2012 ready to play host to the world at the London Olympic Games. Mayor Boris Johnson sets expectations by reminding the public that there is a global monetary recession and announces new events such as the 100 Metre Sales Sprint, The Financial Hurdles, The You’re For The High Jump, The Shares Diving and Synchronised Just About Staying Afloat. He asks spectators to bring their enthusiasm and support as well as seats, packed lunches, and a few St Christopher medals for the winners’ ceremonies.
Let’s hope 2012 is a better, and cheerier, one for us all.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Another Rock 'n' Roll Christmas
For my last blog of the year I thought I'd share with you the "round robin" letter I placed inside our Christmas cards this year. The purpose of these things seems to be to boast about your kids and your achievements, but we've had a quiet year. So, I just made it up. I hope you enjoy it.
Happy Christmas from me and the family.
Christmas 2011
Dear Friends,
What a year we’ve had.
After winning the Nobel Prize, Annalie turned seventeen this year and took her driving test. We are very proud and happy to say her examiner is now out of hospital, and hopes are high that his breakdown will soon be just a memory. Two of the three elderly pedestrians who swerved their zimmer frames in to her car are now walking again. At school we’re delighted that Annalie is working really, really hard at getting to classes on time and she is now in the top five per cent of her year alphabetically.
Luisa is now fourteen and spent an afternoon signing books in Waterstones recently. Unfortunately they threw her out as it appears you need to ask permission first. She has started a singing career and performs weekly in Convent Garden – that’s the small back yard at the Holy Cross nunnery. The nuns’ chickens are now laying profusely, showing that Luisa has the Eggs Factor. She plays competitively for her school at Statues, otherwise known as Netball, and has earned the nickname “Beaujolais” from her team mates as she has matured in to a good whine.
Debbie is still working at shopping channel QVC and was head hunted this year by a household name retailer who said her image suited their business perfectly. After careful consideration Debbie turned the 99p Store down and now has her sights set higher; she is hoping for an offer from Poundland. Debbie has recently taken up Zumba classes and has earned the nickname Nijinski, not because she dances like the Russian ballet dancer but because she moves like a dead racehorse.
Paul spent a lot of time indoors this year, but after his release he travelled extensively, setting off airport security alarms with his brand new ankle bracelet. He very much appreciates Debbie and says a more vivacious, intelligent, beautiful carer he could not wish for. He has taken to social media and his ambition is to grow his number of Facebook friends, though he says four is apparently quite respectable.
Molly, our cat, did some stunt double work in the new Puss In Boots movie this year and, after putting on a bit of weight, is currently on loan to Edinburgh Zoo’s Panda enclosure. If you wish to make a donation to her food bill please contact them directly.
All the Coias wish you a very Happy Christmas and a Healthy 2012.
Happy Christmas from me and the family.
Christmas 2011
Dear Friends,
What a year we’ve had.
After winning the Nobel Prize, Annalie turned seventeen this year and took her driving test. We are very proud and happy to say her examiner is now out of hospital, and hopes are high that his breakdown will soon be just a memory. Two of the three elderly pedestrians who swerved their zimmer frames in to her car are now walking again. At school we’re delighted that Annalie is working really, really hard at getting to classes on time and she is now in the top five per cent of her year alphabetically.
Luisa is now fourteen and spent an afternoon signing books in Waterstones recently. Unfortunately they threw her out as it appears you need to ask permission first. She has started a singing career and performs weekly in Convent Garden – that’s the small back yard at the Holy Cross nunnery. The nuns’ chickens are now laying profusely, showing that Luisa has the Eggs Factor. She plays competitively for her school at Statues, otherwise known as Netball, and has earned the nickname “Beaujolais” from her team mates as she has matured in to a good whine.
Debbie is still working at shopping channel QVC and was head hunted this year by a household name retailer who said her image suited their business perfectly. After careful consideration Debbie turned the 99p Store down and now has her sights set higher; she is hoping for an offer from Poundland. Debbie has recently taken up Zumba classes and has earned the nickname Nijinski, not because she dances like the Russian ballet dancer but because she moves like a dead racehorse.
Paul spent a lot of time indoors this year, but after his release he travelled extensively, setting off airport security alarms with his brand new ankle bracelet. He very much appreciates Debbie and says a more vivacious, intelligent, beautiful carer he could not wish for. He has taken to social media and his ambition is to grow his number of Facebook friends, though he says four is apparently quite respectable.
Molly, our cat, did some stunt double work in the new Puss In Boots movie this year and, after putting on a bit of weight, is currently on loan to Edinburgh Zoo’s Panda enclosure. If you wish to make a donation to her food bill please contact them directly.
All the Coias wish you a very Happy Christmas and a Healthy 2012.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Torn
This time of year tests the cheerfulness of even the nicest shop assistant, forced to wear Santa hats and apologise to every crabby customer for the wait in line whilst also suffering again and again from listening to the same old background Christmas songs that have been on repeat play in store since July.
I’m amazed these people don’t let off steam every few minutes by putting on a Grinch mask and shouting “Rudolph is a drunk” or “Santa’s going to throw up on your carpet”.
With the High Street going crazy just now, these customer helpers are doing a great job and, if I’m in a store that has as feedback button, I’ll always give it a punch with a smile that says “Happy With The Service”.
But now this “service comment thing” is spreading everywhere. Call up any company with a query and you’ll find that Customer Service people have sneakily become the best emotional blackmailers in the world.
Yesterday I had a problem with my mobile ‘phone, so I called Orange. The service agent was very helpful and resolved my query but, just as I was thanking him, he said “you will receive a text asking to rate me for my help today. I hope you will give me full marks as that would help me a lot in return”. Of course I should have said something like, “I’ll be the judge of that”, but instead I summoned up all my reserves of courage and strength and meekly said “Of course. No problem.”
This is not the first time this has happened to me. In fact it’s the fourth time in just a couple of weeks.
We had a new gas boiler installed by British Gas and, as he left, the engineer told me I would receive a questionnaire asking how he had done. He informed me he would be most grateful if I gave him full marks as it affects his Christmas bonus. Again I said I would help out, but inwardly I began to wonder what the point of these things is. If all of us are asked to give top marks then it’s a bit redundant, isn’t it? Why don’t they save time and effort and just let the engineer fill it in himself?
We also bought a new car a few weeks ago and I must confess the dealer was very helpful and kept us informed throughout. “In the next few days you will get a call asking how we did”, he told me. “Can I presume you’ll give us five out of five?”. Frankly, you can assume whatever you want but I’m going to give you zero just for presuming I thought, but when the call came I rolled over and had my tummy tickled, then gave him five. I only hope he’s getting his Christmas bonus too.
Perhaps all this charity I’m dispensing means I don’t have to tip the bin men, the postman or the paper girl this year. I’ll just pop in to my local council, post office and newsagent and tell them I’m giving their staff five out of five, and no need to come round my house for a tip and, by the way, a very Happy Christmas to one and all. Think it might work?
Last week my technical problem of the week was with my internet provider so, one chat with a call centre in India later, I was back on track with my problem solved. “Please stay on the line Paul as you will be asked a question about my service” said my new Indian buddy. “I would appreciate you giving me full marks.” Again, I did exactly as he asked so I think I’ve managed, indirectly, to give a Christmas tip in the Far East. Happy Diwali to you all over there.
But enough is enough. I don’t mind this nonsense in December – good will to all mankind and all that – but come January the gloves are off. Anyone who asks for feedback is going to get it in a string of words last put together by a freezing docker hanging naked from a frozen drainpipe when his girlfriend’s husband came home unexpectedly. I’ve had enough. My new year resolution will be that I’m not going to be bullied any more. You want feedback mister, you’re going to get it, big time.
I do hope you enjoyed the blog this week. The guy who looks after my internet site will be calling you tomorrow to give me a rating out of five. I assume you’ll give me full marks? Thank you.
I’m amazed these people don’t let off steam every few minutes by putting on a Grinch mask and shouting “Rudolph is a drunk” or “Santa’s going to throw up on your carpet”.
With the High Street going crazy just now, these customer helpers are doing a great job and, if I’m in a store that has as feedback button, I’ll always give it a punch with a smile that says “Happy With The Service”.
But now this “service comment thing” is spreading everywhere. Call up any company with a query and you’ll find that Customer Service people have sneakily become the best emotional blackmailers in the world.
Yesterday I had a problem with my mobile ‘phone, so I called Orange. The service agent was very helpful and resolved my query but, just as I was thanking him, he said “you will receive a text asking to rate me for my help today. I hope you will give me full marks as that would help me a lot in return”. Of course I should have said something like, “I’ll be the judge of that”, but instead I summoned up all my reserves of courage and strength and meekly said “Of course. No problem.”
This is not the first time this has happened to me. In fact it’s the fourth time in just a couple of weeks.
We had a new gas boiler installed by British Gas and, as he left, the engineer told me I would receive a questionnaire asking how he had done. He informed me he would be most grateful if I gave him full marks as it affects his Christmas bonus. Again I said I would help out, but inwardly I began to wonder what the point of these things is. If all of us are asked to give top marks then it’s a bit redundant, isn’t it? Why don’t they save time and effort and just let the engineer fill it in himself?
We also bought a new car a few weeks ago and I must confess the dealer was very helpful and kept us informed throughout. “In the next few days you will get a call asking how we did”, he told me. “Can I presume you’ll give us five out of five?”. Frankly, you can assume whatever you want but I’m going to give you zero just for presuming I thought, but when the call came I rolled over and had my tummy tickled, then gave him five. I only hope he’s getting his Christmas bonus too.
Perhaps all this charity I’m dispensing means I don’t have to tip the bin men, the postman or the paper girl this year. I’ll just pop in to my local council, post office and newsagent and tell them I’m giving their staff five out of five, and no need to come round my house for a tip and, by the way, a very Happy Christmas to one and all. Think it might work?
Last week my technical problem of the week was with my internet provider so, one chat with a call centre in India later, I was back on track with my problem solved. “Please stay on the line Paul as you will be asked a question about my service” said my new Indian buddy. “I would appreciate you giving me full marks.” Again, I did exactly as he asked so I think I’ve managed, indirectly, to give a Christmas tip in the Far East. Happy Diwali to you all over there.
But enough is enough. I don’t mind this nonsense in December – good will to all mankind and all that – but come January the gloves are off. Anyone who asks for feedback is going to get it in a string of words last put together by a freezing docker hanging naked from a frozen drainpipe when his girlfriend’s husband came home unexpectedly. I’ve had enough. My new year resolution will be that I’m not going to be bullied any more. You want feedback mister, you’re going to get it, big time.
I do hope you enjoyed the blog this week. The guy who looks after my internet site will be calling you tomorrow to give me a rating out of five. I assume you’ll give me full marks? Thank you.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Deck The Halls
It was time to put up the Christmas tree in our house this weekend, a time for family fun, laughter and jollity. The reality, though, is that here it’s been a more stress filled time than when I stripped naked, covered myself in chocolate truffles, and ran through a weight watchers convention. Unlike that memorable occasion, as far as the tree goes this year I haven’t got it licked yet.
Here’s the problem. I’m fed up with the real, freshly cut, trees that demand watering each day and then, ungratefully, drop their needles everywhere so they attach themselves to your carpet, curtains, clothes and even feet. I’ve lost count of the number of times in past years that Debbie’s asked me to cut my toe nails only to find I have half a Norwegian Spruce sticking to my bedsheets.
So this year I made an executive decision. No more cheating the environment of oxygen by cutting down a tree that was once used as an emergency toilet on a ski slope in the Alps. No more getting ripped off by someone who sets up for two weeks in our local car park and then is gone when the branches droop like the shoulders of someone who misses out in the January sales. No more watering and sweeping, no more finding needles in the carpet for months after. No more squeezing the thing out of the front door come January only to find the branches pinging back and firing their missiles in my eye.
This year I decided to get an artificial tree. After all, if God had wanted us to have real foliage in our house Robinson Crusoe would have hosted a makeover series, not written a diary.
But, my God, what a drawn out saga it turned out to be. The problem is that our hallway, where the tree stands, is massive with a high ceiling, and we usually get a ten foot high tree. I tried at least fourteen or fifteen web sites and found that all had sold out, apart from those that wanted over five hundred pounds in payment. Surprisingly they seemed full of unsold stock, despite their very generous offer of free postage. I don’t want a decoration that’s worth more than my house thank you.
Eventually I found a twelve foot high tree in B&Q, paid two hundred and fifty hard earned pounds, lugged it to the car and got it home. Excitedly I unpacked the boxes and started putting it together, taking about an hour to fluff out the branches. I was so proud and it looked magnificent - and then the boss returned home! Debbie decided with one look that it was too big and demanded it was taken down and returned. So I spent Sunday dismantling the scaffolding and packing away the bits of plastic, then trying to squeeze them all back in the boxes. Like all things at Christmas, it seemed to have put on a lot of weight.
And now we’re back to square one.
We have a ten foot high natural tree, bought from the usual dodgy geezer down the road, that demands water like a thirsty liquid fetishist in the desert, and we also have our usual free gift of a new carpet of pine needles all over the hallway. As is usual at Christmas, Debbie’s started asking me to cut my toe nails again, and I’ve booked my appointment with the optometrist for my eye check up in January when I’ll fight to get the dead wood out of our front door and in to the caring hands of the binmen.
Know what? It feels like a traditional Christmas. But next year, to save disappointment, I’m ordering a proper sized fake tree in July.
Here’s the problem. I’m fed up with the real, freshly cut, trees that demand watering each day and then, ungratefully, drop their needles everywhere so they attach themselves to your carpet, curtains, clothes and even feet. I’ve lost count of the number of times in past years that Debbie’s asked me to cut my toe nails only to find I have half a Norwegian Spruce sticking to my bedsheets.
So this year I made an executive decision. No more cheating the environment of oxygen by cutting down a tree that was once used as an emergency toilet on a ski slope in the Alps. No more getting ripped off by someone who sets up for two weeks in our local car park and then is gone when the branches droop like the shoulders of someone who misses out in the January sales. No more watering and sweeping, no more finding needles in the carpet for months after. No more squeezing the thing out of the front door come January only to find the branches pinging back and firing their missiles in my eye.
This year I decided to get an artificial tree. After all, if God had wanted us to have real foliage in our house Robinson Crusoe would have hosted a makeover series, not written a diary.
But, my God, what a drawn out saga it turned out to be. The problem is that our hallway, where the tree stands, is massive with a high ceiling, and we usually get a ten foot high tree. I tried at least fourteen or fifteen web sites and found that all had sold out, apart from those that wanted over five hundred pounds in payment. Surprisingly they seemed full of unsold stock, despite their very generous offer of free postage. I don’t want a decoration that’s worth more than my house thank you.
Eventually I found a twelve foot high tree in B&Q, paid two hundred and fifty hard earned pounds, lugged it to the car and got it home. Excitedly I unpacked the boxes and started putting it together, taking about an hour to fluff out the branches. I was so proud and it looked magnificent - and then the boss returned home! Debbie decided with one look that it was too big and demanded it was taken down and returned. So I spent Sunday dismantling the scaffolding and packing away the bits of plastic, then trying to squeeze them all back in the boxes. Like all things at Christmas, it seemed to have put on a lot of weight.
And now we’re back to square one.
We have a ten foot high natural tree, bought from the usual dodgy geezer down the road, that demands water like a thirsty liquid fetishist in the desert, and we also have our usual free gift of a new carpet of pine needles all over the hallway. As is usual at Christmas, Debbie’s started asking me to cut my toe nails again, and I’ve booked my appointment with the optometrist for my eye check up in January when I’ll fight to get the dead wood out of our front door and in to the caring hands of the binmen.
Know what? It feels like a traditional Christmas. But next year, to save disappointment, I’m ordering a proper sized fake tree in July.
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