I do think it’s unfair that the name Assange doesn’t rhyme with Strange and Derange. The Wikileaks founder Julian Assange may pronounce his surname to rhyme with Duck a l’Orange but he has turned out to be a uniquely bonkers fowl indeed. Currently, he’s completely ducked.
His original pledge, that he was going to share rare secrets we really needed to know through Wikileaks by dispersing government papers, promised we would all sit up and realise what a freedom loving, marvellous human being he was. I think the idea was that the Pope would canonise him, he would ascend to Heaven, then come back while The National Lottery gave all charitable monies to him as the only “good cause” worth preserving. He would probably also take over presenting duties on Who Wants To Be a Millionaire and marry Jennifer Aniston while finding a cure for verrucas, cancer and Jeremy Clarkson.
In the end, of course, there was little new in his paper catharsis and this self proclaimed trailblazer of righteousness and freedom of information now finds himself fighting to avoid extradition to Sweden where he faces rape charges. The Australian activist, who looks like a debauched incarnation of Captain Scarlet’s buddy Blue, has claimed asylum from the Ecuador government, a country with a national anthem that sounds like “Here Comes The Bride” and a system that imprisons journalists who don’t agree with it.
Last July three directors and one writer from the El Universo newspaper were jailed for three years and told to give forty million dollars to the President for questioning his decisions in print. No hypocrisy there then, eh? Mr Strange may want to save us all, but he wants to save himself even more.
Anyway, I bring this up because Assange walked in to the South American country’s embassy in London and has been living there for weeks, unable to leave without being arrested. An internet campaign to raise money for someone to set off the fire alarm and get him on to the street has so far raised £6,500, while the UK could engineer a sewage problem, perhaps feed George Galloway in to the water and block up their toilets, and that might get him out.
But meantime he’s confined to the inside of the embassy, not allowed to leave.
This may sound OK, almost as if he’s having a bit of a holiday, but I doubt it. Once you’ve counted the number of Galapagos tortoises on the dining room wallpaper and had a pee in every single one of the embassy's many bathrooms, what’s left to do?
I can imagine it makes for a very poor diary. “Woke up, had breakfast, tried not to molest the embassy secretary, looked out of the window at those nasty police people, had lunch, then afternoon nap followed by a bit of internet porn, then sent out for a curry and up to bed.” Not much of a life is it? It must be like working from home but without the distraction of a quick trip to Starbucks.
Perhaps I’m too cynical and the guy is actually well intentioned rather than self obsessed. Perhaps he didn’t carry out the sexual assaults, but he’s got to show his own belief in humanity by allowing twelve good men and true to decide his guilt or innocence in a court room. The longer he stays holed up, as welcome as a bad smell in Coco Chanel’s bathroom, the more sympathy he loses.
If all he’s guilty of is believing in his own puffed up importance then that’s not a crime. Self delusion is easily fixed by getting out and joining the real world.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Monday, August 13, 2012
Walking On Sunshine
The capital of Portugal is Dublin, the Portuguese drink nothing but Guinness, and from Lisbon to Faro you’ll see people looking out for leprechauns and singing traditional Iberian folk songs like The Wild Rover.
That’s the only conclusion I can come to after spending a few weeks of summer on the Portuguese coast where every person I met sounded like they were auditioning for Boyzone or Westlife. There can’t be many people left in Ireland right now, as the number of Algarve karaoke bars resonating to ‘Danny Boy’ will testify.
I blame Ryanair, the Irish airline that takes its business plan from Fagin and its charm from Lord Voldemort, forgetting to tell you the add ons such as an actual seat, or toilet paper, or oxygen to breathe, increase the bill enormously. The Irish seem to have fallen for it, and Ryanair’s destination boards may read London, Lisbon, Paris etc, but I suspect that once in the air the pilots are all changing their minds and landing at Portugal’s Faro airport. Maybe it costs extra if you want the pilot to use his GPS.
The big trend on the continent this summer is not designer tops or shorts, but flip flops. If you haven’t got Havaianas you haven’t got anything worthwhile. These fashion must haves look like ordinary rubber shoes from the Pound shop but they have a small flag of Brazil on the strap, so cue everywhere selling rip off footwear with the little blue globe flag proudly stamped. Those photos of you lying flat on your back outside the holiday karaoke bar will make you look like Hollywood royalty if you get your feet in the picture.
Before Portugal we spent a week in Spain and flew in to Gibraltar. If you’ve never been there imaging setting a plane down on Oxford Street in a typhoon and you’ll get the picture. As we landed, passing the huge mountainous rock on our right hand side, we suddenly accelerated and took off again. A very novel way of arriving in a country. Turns out the captain wasn’t sure he’d miss someone’s house and decided to try again. If he only worked for Ryanair he’d never have to worry.
Have you noticed that one downside of our increasingly jaded lives is that a great old holiday tradition seems to have died out? No one claps and applauds the pilot any more when the plane lands. It was always a reassuring sign of being posh by deliberately, and snootily, refusing to join in, but now it seems we’re all sophisticated so I may have to start the tradition again on my next flight.
Our place on The Algarve is near Tavira, a quaint fishing town with 25 churches, 6 chapels and 5 convents. If you think you’re overworked, these are all served by 1 priest. As my daughter said “he must do a church crawl every Sunday”. I think it’s like a pub crawl but with a less varied wine choice.
As usual tattoos were in abundance on the beach, and my prize winners included a Scottish guy who had full size angel wings running the length and breadth of his back and The Mona Lisa wearing a clown nose on his arm. He tied for first place with An Essex bloke who, classily, had the word DEVIANT on his fat belly and a barcode on his back. I’m sure Jeremy Kyle is making the calls now.
We took part in a holiday quiz and actually won it, though I’m not sure how. Daughter number one was writing down the answers, and to the question “which organisation has the motto Per Ardua Ad Astra” I told her to write The RAF, and she then asked how to spell it. Seriously! She also refused to accept a question about the famous song The Londonderry Air as she couldn’t believe anyone had written a song called The London Derriere. Remind me to check how much we’ve spent on her education.
Anyway, it’s good to be home. We flew back from Faro airport and all the wannabe Boyzone people were there again, this time literally! Ronan Keating was waiting for a flight to Dublin with his kids, and even though he probably has a private jet he chose Ryanair. He must have a sense of humour.
Holidays are great, and they’re educational. I now know Ireland decamps to the Algarve for two months every year, everyone on our beach knows now that a tattoo of the Mona Lisa wearing a red clown nose is funny for just ten seconds, and my daughter has now learned how to spell RAF.
Holidays should be compulsory.
That’s the only conclusion I can come to after spending a few weeks of summer on the Portuguese coast where every person I met sounded like they were auditioning for Boyzone or Westlife. There can’t be many people left in Ireland right now, as the number of Algarve karaoke bars resonating to ‘Danny Boy’ will testify.
I blame Ryanair, the Irish airline that takes its business plan from Fagin and its charm from Lord Voldemort, forgetting to tell you the add ons such as an actual seat, or toilet paper, or oxygen to breathe, increase the bill enormously. The Irish seem to have fallen for it, and Ryanair’s destination boards may read London, Lisbon, Paris etc, but I suspect that once in the air the pilots are all changing their minds and landing at Portugal’s Faro airport. Maybe it costs extra if you want the pilot to use his GPS.
The big trend on the continent this summer is not designer tops or shorts, but flip flops. If you haven’t got Havaianas you haven’t got anything worthwhile. These fashion must haves look like ordinary rubber shoes from the Pound shop but they have a small flag of Brazil on the strap, so cue everywhere selling rip off footwear with the little blue globe flag proudly stamped. Those photos of you lying flat on your back outside the holiday karaoke bar will make you look like Hollywood royalty if you get your feet in the picture.
Before Portugal we spent a week in Spain and flew in to Gibraltar. If you’ve never been there imaging setting a plane down on Oxford Street in a typhoon and you’ll get the picture. As we landed, passing the huge mountainous rock on our right hand side, we suddenly accelerated and took off again. A very novel way of arriving in a country. Turns out the captain wasn’t sure he’d miss someone’s house and decided to try again. If he only worked for Ryanair he’d never have to worry.
Have you noticed that one downside of our increasingly jaded lives is that a great old holiday tradition seems to have died out? No one claps and applauds the pilot any more when the plane lands. It was always a reassuring sign of being posh by deliberately, and snootily, refusing to join in, but now it seems we’re all sophisticated so I may have to start the tradition again on my next flight.
Our place on The Algarve is near Tavira, a quaint fishing town with 25 churches, 6 chapels and 5 convents. If you think you’re overworked, these are all served by 1 priest. As my daughter said “he must do a church crawl every Sunday”. I think it’s like a pub crawl but with a less varied wine choice.
As usual tattoos were in abundance on the beach, and my prize winners included a Scottish guy who had full size angel wings running the length and breadth of his back and The Mona Lisa wearing a clown nose on his arm. He tied for first place with An Essex bloke who, classily, had the word DEVIANT on his fat belly and a barcode on his back. I’m sure Jeremy Kyle is making the calls now.
We took part in a holiday quiz and actually won it, though I’m not sure how. Daughter number one was writing down the answers, and to the question “which organisation has the motto Per Ardua Ad Astra” I told her to write The RAF, and she then asked how to spell it. Seriously! She also refused to accept a question about the famous song The Londonderry Air as she couldn’t believe anyone had written a song called The London Derriere. Remind me to check how much we’ve spent on her education.
Anyway, it’s good to be home. We flew back from Faro airport and all the wannabe Boyzone people were there again, this time literally! Ronan Keating was waiting for a flight to Dublin with his kids, and even though he probably has a private jet he chose Ryanair. He must have a sense of humour.
Holidays are great, and they’re educational. I now know Ireland decamps to the Algarve for two months every year, everyone on our beach knows now that a tattoo of the Mona Lisa wearing a red clown nose is funny for just ten seconds, and my daughter has now learned how to spell RAF.
Holidays should be compulsory.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Running With The (K)night
I just bought a new dictionary and looked up the word Olympics. I may have remembered it wrongly but I’m almost sure it went something like, “Pain in the ass sports day for show offs. Useful for bankrupting countries, upsetting locals, and leaving wildlife legacy (see White Elephants).”
For those who don’t live in the English capital city let me give you an insight in to the conversations all Londoners seem to be having right now as we get ever closer to the opening of the 2012 Olympics.
People here fall in to one of two camps. The Mayor and his pal, organiser and knight of the realm Lord Coe, say something like “Isn’t it great? It will put us on the world map. It’s worth every penny”. Everyone else says “Bloody waste of time. Traffic will be horrendous and we won’t get to work. We’re paying for some jumping and running with sticks. No wonder the country has no money.”
As far as I’m aware London is already on the world map – left of Paris, right of Dublin – so if this is a glorified advert I want my money back. It all seems so short sighted that it was surely pre ordained that the 2012 Olympics mascot would turn out to be a cuddly toy with one eye. Presumably Mr Magoo turned them down.
Already signs have gone up warning us all not to drive in London from next week as congestion will be apocalyptic, ground to air missiles have been installed on top of apartment blocks, and there’s a no fly zone over the east of London.
Stadium security, we now know, will have to be handled by our army because the original company, G4S, which is headed by the worst mullet haircut this side of 1985, has decided they can’t, after all, provide the right number of properly trained security guards. They’ve left it to the very last minute to let us know, of course, with their P.R. and Communications department stuck in the dark ages - a bit like their boss’s hair style.
Near to us the Wimbledon tennis championship courts have been turned over to the organisers of 2012 so they can change the floral hanging baskets to Olympic colours. A necessary expense I’m sure you’ll agree. Better to throw out the thousands of pounds of arrangements that looked so brilliant last week for the Championship finals so that everyone will leave the Olympics saying “the tennis wasn’t up to much but at least the flower hues replicated that of the running track.” Being colour blind may I say “thanks for nothing”.
As spectators we are paying for this sports day twice – once through taxes and again through ticket prices. My friend has bought two tickets for the swimming races costing just under one thousand pounds, and for this he gets to sit and watch the splashing for two hours and then he’s thrown out and replaced by others. He’s been told he can’t take food or even water in to the stadium as he has to buy from official vendors, and the only credit card he can use is from Visa.
Meanwhile sponsors and their connected clients, with their kids and grannies twice removed, have been battling with great British sportsmen like Will. I. Am and Japanese clients of Samsung to run with the torch through rain soaked streets of Britain spreading the good news.
Personally I’m giving it all a miss. Rightly or wrongly though, I’ll be there in the stadium watching the Paralympics which seems to me to be more about the original Olympic ideal than watching Usain Bolt preen and kiss himself all over. I’ll make sure to set out for the stadium a month ahead to get through the traffic.
So, if you want to annoy this London resident, or any other, right now just start the conversation with “you must be so excited about the Olympics.” Then run away as fast as Lord Coe used to. Or just duck!
For those who don’t live in the English capital city let me give you an insight in to the conversations all Londoners seem to be having right now as we get ever closer to the opening of the 2012 Olympics.
People here fall in to one of two camps. The Mayor and his pal, organiser and knight of the realm Lord Coe, say something like “Isn’t it great? It will put us on the world map. It’s worth every penny”. Everyone else says “Bloody waste of time. Traffic will be horrendous and we won’t get to work. We’re paying for some jumping and running with sticks. No wonder the country has no money.”
As far as I’m aware London is already on the world map – left of Paris, right of Dublin – so if this is a glorified advert I want my money back. It all seems so short sighted that it was surely pre ordained that the 2012 Olympics mascot would turn out to be a cuddly toy with one eye. Presumably Mr Magoo turned them down.
Already signs have gone up warning us all not to drive in London from next week as congestion will be apocalyptic, ground to air missiles have been installed on top of apartment blocks, and there’s a no fly zone over the east of London.
Stadium security, we now know, will have to be handled by our army because the original company, G4S, which is headed by the worst mullet haircut this side of 1985, has decided they can’t, after all, provide the right number of properly trained security guards. They’ve left it to the very last minute to let us know, of course, with their P.R. and Communications department stuck in the dark ages - a bit like their boss’s hair style.
Near to us the Wimbledon tennis championship courts have been turned over to the organisers of 2012 so they can change the floral hanging baskets to Olympic colours. A necessary expense I’m sure you’ll agree. Better to throw out the thousands of pounds of arrangements that looked so brilliant last week for the Championship finals so that everyone will leave the Olympics saying “the tennis wasn’t up to much but at least the flower hues replicated that of the running track.” Being colour blind may I say “thanks for nothing”.
As spectators we are paying for this sports day twice – once through taxes and again through ticket prices. My friend has bought two tickets for the swimming races costing just under one thousand pounds, and for this he gets to sit and watch the splashing for two hours and then he’s thrown out and replaced by others. He’s been told he can’t take food or even water in to the stadium as he has to buy from official vendors, and the only credit card he can use is from Visa.
Meanwhile sponsors and their connected clients, with their kids and grannies twice removed, have been battling with great British sportsmen like Will. I. Am and Japanese clients of Samsung to run with the torch through rain soaked streets of Britain spreading the good news.
Personally I’m giving it all a miss. Rightly or wrongly though, I’ll be there in the stadium watching the Paralympics which seems to me to be more about the original Olympic ideal than watching Usain Bolt preen and kiss himself all over. I’ll make sure to set out for the stadium a month ahead to get through the traffic.
So, if you want to annoy this London resident, or any other, right now just start the conversation with “you must be so excited about the Olympics.” Then run away as fast as Lord Coe used to. Or just duck!
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Yesterday
I note that the mother of Prince Charles’ maid has put a piece of toast up for auction that she made for the Royal on the day he married Lady Diana. Not exactly a good luck charm then. She’s asking five hundred pounds for it which, coincidentally, is what a piece of toast will cost in most London hotels during the Olympics.
Meantime an African mine worker has been jailed after being caught smuggling precious stones which he’d stolen from his work. This impressive man was arrested at an airport in the Congo with 127 diamonds hidden up his bottom. Now that’s what I call a diamond ring.
I came across these news stories while reading at the airport today, waiting for my daughter and her friend to take off for Spain on a working holiday.
Years ago when I left school, I took a job for the summer working with my mates in a brewery where I spent weeks watching labels stick to bottles, addresses stick to packing cases, and demented lifers stick two fingers up at us “new boys” and make our lives miserable every day from eight a.m. till five p.m.
My daughter on the other hand has used her summer to fly to Spain to work in the sunshine at a kids’ club in Marbella. Her arduous day consists of swimming and playing with children of wealthy parents from ten o’clock before checking off and heading to the beach at twop.m. That’s even fewer hours than an MP works. Can’t be fair can it?
My first day in the brewery involved me smashing bottles against a wall, sweeping up the broken glass, shoving it in a skip and then starting all over again. My daughter’s first day consisted of having coffee with a famous singer whose dad is an equally famous Russian cosmonaut, then playing with the woman’s son and bodyguard at the pool before handing the offspring back to a nanny. Where did I go wrong?
Well, I was obviously born at the wrong time for a start. When I took the bus in to the brewery all those years ago, on wet Glasgow summer days, I had never been in an aeroplane before. Holidays were always taken in Britain and ‘suntan’ was the leader of Brunei. How times have changed.
Now sixteen year old girls arrive at their prom (another story I caught up with in that newspaper) in helicopters and limousines, with two turning up this week in full evening dress in Barbie boxes on the back of a trailer. In my day we wore matching patterned shirts and ties and caught the bus, then we stood at one side of a hall for the whole night avoiding eye contact, or indeed any contact, with girls till it was time to go home.
But there are downsides to being a teenager today, as shown by Britney Marshall in that same paper. The poor girl is only fourteen but is getting pressurised by her mum and sisters in to getting a boob job. Between them, Britney’s female family have ten breasts, three litres of silicone, thirteen operations, and one brain cell. Britney’s mum says she’s a psychic, so no doubt she can read my mind right now and see what I think of her.
Add to this pressure of looking good the problems of drugs, unemployment, student loans, etc, and I certainly don’t grudge kids their trips to the sun to look after the Russian billionaires’ offspring for a few weeks, but I guess the part of me that’s still back in that Glasgow brewery has a tear in his eye. I’m simply jealous.
I’ll look and see if I might still have a salmon paste sandwich somewhere from my school leavers’ dance. Maybe I’ll cheer myself up and put it on eBay alongside Prince Charles’ toast.
Meantime an African mine worker has been jailed after being caught smuggling precious stones which he’d stolen from his work. This impressive man was arrested at an airport in the Congo with 127 diamonds hidden up his bottom. Now that’s what I call a diamond ring.
I came across these news stories while reading at the airport today, waiting for my daughter and her friend to take off for Spain on a working holiday.
Years ago when I left school, I took a job for the summer working with my mates in a brewery where I spent weeks watching labels stick to bottles, addresses stick to packing cases, and demented lifers stick two fingers up at us “new boys” and make our lives miserable every day from eight a.m. till five p.m.
My daughter on the other hand has used her summer to fly to Spain to work in the sunshine at a kids’ club in Marbella. Her arduous day consists of swimming and playing with children of wealthy parents from ten o’clock before checking off and heading to the beach at twop.m. That’s even fewer hours than an MP works. Can’t be fair can it?
My first day in the brewery involved me smashing bottles against a wall, sweeping up the broken glass, shoving it in a skip and then starting all over again. My daughter’s first day consisted of having coffee with a famous singer whose dad is an equally famous Russian cosmonaut, then playing with the woman’s son and bodyguard at the pool before handing the offspring back to a nanny. Where did I go wrong?
Well, I was obviously born at the wrong time for a start. When I took the bus in to the brewery all those years ago, on wet Glasgow summer days, I had never been in an aeroplane before. Holidays were always taken in Britain and ‘suntan’ was the leader of Brunei. How times have changed.
Now sixteen year old girls arrive at their prom (another story I caught up with in that newspaper) in helicopters and limousines, with two turning up this week in full evening dress in Barbie boxes on the back of a trailer. In my day we wore matching patterned shirts and ties and caught the bus, then we stood at one side of a hall for the whole night avoiding eye contact, or indeed any contact, with girls till it was time to go home.
But there are downsides to being a teenager today, as shown by Britney Marshall in that same paper. The poor girl is only fourteen but is getting pressurised by her mum and sisters in to getting a boob job. Between them, Britney’s female family have ten breasts, three litres of silicone, thirteen operations, and one brain cell. Britney’s mum says she’s a psychic, so no doubt she can read my mind right now and see what I think of her.
Add to this pressure of looking good the problems of drugs, unemployment, student loans, etc, and I certainly don’t grudge kids their trips to the sun to look after the Russian billionaires’ offspring for a few weeks, but I guess the part of me that’s still back in that Glasgow brewery has a tear in his eye. I’m simply jealous.
I’ll look and see if I might still have a salmon paste sandwich somewhere from my school leavers’ dance. Maybe I’ll cheer myself up and put it on eBay alongside Prince Charles’ toast.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Happy - ish Birthday To You
I take a lot for granted – that daylight will follow nightime, that my kids think I’m clueless and embarrassing, and that British footballers will always play the game as if they have arthritis, their shoe laces tied together, and gold bullion hidden in their boots.
But, if I was in danger of taking good luck for granted I had a wake up call this week all, unfortunately, at my daughter’s expense.
Yesterday was the day before her 18th birthday. (I know, you are about to say I look too young aren’t you? Er, aren’t you? Please, take your time.) So what could go wrong?
Well, for starters we had a complete electricity cut for the whole day after a stupid neighbour employed cowboy labourers to erect a post outside his house. They drilled down through a power cable and left the whole street without electricity till night fall. No hot water for showers means, to a teenage birthday girl, the equivalent of no oxygen, light, heat or life. It’s a disaster. Forget the no electric kettle for cups of tea, no TV or lights, no cooking or microwave, a total lack of computer action, silent radio and a perfect excuse not to shave. Actually that last bit was good if I’m honest. It may be a disaster for teenage legs but for dads it’s heaven sent. I suppose even hell might have a corner away from the fire that has an ice cream van.
But, being a paid up snob, I had one extra problem that the other neighbours didn’t experience. The gates to my house are electric so, although I could climb over them with a bit of care and effort, I couldn’t get my car out. This, on the day Debbie had organised to take our daughters and her mum to The Ritz for afternoon tea as a pre birthday celebration. As you do.
Seriously, the Ritz was meant to be a day my daughter would remember forever. I’d promised to drop everyone off then motor on to pick up some special surprise helium balloons before driving to do my radio show. So what to do? Kindly, a neighbour drove them to the station after they scaled our gates with stiletto heels, and I took a taxi for the rest of the day. The birthday surprise was saved in the end but at the cost of a few rips in dresses which appeared after the gate climbing.
I know the stupid neighbour who booked these cheap workers didn’t check if they have insurance, and I also know they won’t even know what insurance is, so do I go to the guy and ask him to pay me back for the cab journeys, the wasted food in our freezers, and the dress repairs? Or am I being mean? Do you think he’s likely to pay up?
With one disaster out of the way the actual birthday today had to go without a hitch, didn’t it? Well almost.
We hired a boat as a surprise, complete with champagne and banners, and the whole family set off up the Thames. Within two minutes the engine broke down and we drifted aimlessly until another boat came to our rescue. Our hour on the river consisted of us being towed up and down with one of our party dangling over the front to keep the rope taught.
Annalie tells me the disasters ensured she won’t forget her 18th in a hurry, which is kind of her. Once I get hold of my neighbour and the boat owner I doubt if they’ll forget either.
But, if I was in danger of taking good luck for granted I had a wake up call this week all, unfortunately, at my daughter’s expense.
Yesterday was the day before her 18th birthday. (I know, you are about to say I look too young aren’t you? Er, aren’t you? Please, take your time.) So what could go wrong?
Well, for starters we had a complete electricity cut for the whole day after a stupid neighbour employed cowboy labourers to erect a post outside his house. They drilled down through a power cable and left the whole street without electricity till night fall. No hot water for showers means, to a teenage birthday girl, the equivalent of no oxygen, light, heat or life. It’s a disaster. Forget the no electric kettle for cups of tea, no TV or lights, no cooking or microwave, a total lack of computer action, silent radio and a perfect excuse not to shave. Actually that last bit was good if I’m honest. It may be a disaster for teenage legs but for dads it’s heaven sent. I suppose even hell might have a corner away from the fire that has an ice cream van.
But, being a paid up snob, I had one extra problem that the other neighbours didn’t experience. The gates to my house are electric so, although I could climb over them with a bit of care and effort, I couldn’t get my car out. This, on the day Debbie had organised to take our daughters and her mum to The Ritz for afternoon tea as a pre birthday celebration. As you do.
Seriously, the Ritz was meant to be a day my daughter would remember forever. I’d promised to drop everyone off then motor on to pick up some special surprise helium balloons before driving to do my radio show. So what to do? Kindly, a neighbour drove them to the station after they scaled our gates with stiletto heels, and I took a taxi for the rest of the day. The birthday surprise was saved in the end but at the cost of a few rips in dresses which appeared after the gate climbing.
I know the stupid neighbour who booked these cheap workers didn’t check if they have insurance, and I also know they won’t even know what insurance is, so do I go to the guy and ask him to pay me back for the cab journeys, the wasted food in our freezers, and the dress repairs? Or am I being mean? Do you think he’s likely to pay up?
With one disaster out of the way the actual birthday today had to go without a hitch, didn’t it? Well almost.
We hired a boat as a surprise, complete with champagne and banners, and the whole family set off up the Thames. Within two minutes the engine broke down and we drifted aimlessly until another boat came to our rescue. Our hour on the river consisted of us being towed up and down with one of our party dangling over the front to keep the rope taught.
Annalie tells me the disasters ensured she won’t forget her 18th in a hurry, which is kind of her. Once I get hold of my neighbour and the boat owner I doubt if they’ll forget either.
Monday, June 25, 2012
The Birdie Song
To Tweet or not to Tweet, that is the question - in less than 140 characters of course.
My God how I’ve come under pressure this week to join the rest of the world and share with Twitter users (Twits?) every useless thing that happens to me. I don’t like it. Do you really want to know my every bowel movement, how many odour eaters I’ve bought and how I make my porridge in the morning?
I’m not a Luddite as I feel I have embraced social media – I blog, I use Facebook, etc - so I think I’m committed to technology. But it’s not good enough for some who think you can be just a little bit pregnant. These technology midwives tell me I have to go the whole way and join Twitter in order to enjoy what today’s technology delivers. It’s not enough to be boring in just a few places, I apparently now have to bore people on every social outlet.
The latest pressure has been caused by my wife starting to Tweet this week. @debgreenwoodqvc started sharing her words of wisdom on Monday, encouraged by her employers at QVC. This now makes me the only member of my household who doesn’t wear a bra, use fake tan, or Tweet. My two daughters have done it for a couple of years, though God knows why. I can’t imagine the world is dying to know about spot cream and the Jonas Brothers.
But now I’ve reached rock bottom. A guy who set up the Twitter name #thefakepaulcoia is following my wife, and I feel I’ve slipped in to a Wes Craven movie with reality just a thing of the past.
What would I share on Twitter, and how often are you supposed to post these things? Today for instance consisted of me buying a table and chairs for the garden, liaising with the Middle East to finalise a price on a job I’m doing, going to Costa for a hot chocolate, and pulling out a few weeds from my garden. Would any of that get me followers? If so, they’re not the kind of people I would want as followers.
Stalkers maybe, but not followers.
On the other hand if I share with you that I flew somewhere exotic, bumped in to a famous showbiz pal or took in a private live performance by an artist, all of which I do regularly, then I sound up myself and boastful. So what do I do?
Facebook seems to me to be about my limit. I posted on that this week that I might start Tweeting, and asked if it was a good idea. Almost all replies said Twitter was rubbish and to avoid it, apart from one lady who encouraged me to join, ending with “....but just ignore the nutters”. Eh?
Facebook seems sociable and friendly. Because you can use lots more words, everyone can communicate better. I also had over five hundred messages on my page on Tuesday wishing me a Happy Birthday. That seems kind of nice and uplifting. Much better than “Hpy bday 2 @paulcoia. Av a gr8 day. Njoy yr cake and prezs.”
So, I don’t really think I have to give this any serious thought at all. I can say I’m modern and embrace social media without Tweeting. Tulisa, X Factor judge, Tweeted yesterday “F*** all the F*****s who diss me. Kiss my a**. #F***em”. I don’t need Twitter to hear that kind of stuff, I can watch the Sopranos which is much more entertaining.
I think I can be just a little bit pregnant, unlike people who are so addicted I am sure they would Tweet during conception. So, I’m going to avoid Twitter, at least until the fake Paul Coia starts getting a serious following. Which, please God, will be never.
My God how I’ve come under pressure this week to join the rest of the world and share with Twitter users (Twits?) every useless thing that happens to me. I don’t like it. Do you really want to know my every bowel movement, how many odour eaters I’ve bought and how I make my porridge in the morning?
I’m not a Luddite as I feel I have embraced social media – I blog, I use Facebook, etc - so I think I’m committed to technology. But it’s not good enough for some who think you can be just a little bit pregnant. These technology midwives tell me I have to go the whole way and join Twitter in order to enjoy what today’s technology delivers. It’s not enough to be boring in just a few places, I apparently now have to bore people on every social outlet.
The latest pressure has been caused by my wife starting to Tweet this week. @debgreenwoodqvc started sharing her words of wisdom on Monday, encouraged by her employers at QVC. This now makes me the only member of my household who doesn’t wear a bra, use fake tan, or Tweet. My two daughters have done it for a couple of years, though God knows why. I can’t imagine the world is dying to know about spot cream and the Jonas Brothers.
But now I’ve reached rock bottom. A guy who set up the Twitter name #thefakepaulcoia is following my wife, and I feel I’ve slipped in to a Wes Craven movie with reality just a thing of the past.
What would I share on Twitter, and how often are you supposed to post these things? Today for instance consisted of me buying a table and chairs for the garden, liaising with the Middle East to finalise a price on a job I’m doing, going to Costa for a hot chocolate, and pulling out a few weeds from my garden. Would any of that get me followers? If so, they’re not the kind of people I would want as followers.
Stalkers maybe, but not followers.
On the other hand if I share with you that I flew somewhere exotic, bumped in to a famous showbiz pal or took in a private live performance by an artist, all of which I do regularly, then I sound up myself and boastful. So what do I do?
Facebook seems to me to be about my limit. I posted on that this week that I might start Tweeting, and asked if it was a good idea. Almost all replies said Twitter was rubbish and to avoid it, apart from one lady who encouraged me to join, ending with “....but just ignore the nutters”. Eh?
Facebook seems sociable and friendly. Because you can use lots more words, everyone can communicate better. I also had over five hundred messages on my page on Tuesday wishing me a Happy Birthday. That seems kind of nice and uplifting. Much better than “Hpy bday 2 @paulcoia. Av a gr8 day. Njoy yr cake and prezs.”
So, I don’t really think I have to give this any serious thought at all. I can say I’m modern and embrace social media without Tweeting. Tulisa, X Factor judge, Tweeted yesterday “F*** all the F*****s who diss me. Kiss my a**. #F***em”. I don’t need Twitter to hear that kind of stuff, I can watch the Sopranos which is much more entertaining.
I think I can be just a little bit pregnant, unlike people who are so addicted I am sure they would Tweet during conception. So, I’m going to avoid Twitter, at least until the fake Paul Coia starts getting a serious following. Which, please God, will be never.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Rockin' Pneumonia and the Boogie Woogie Flu
Greetings from my sick bed, and apologies for the untidiness as you look around my bedroom. The carpet of tissues and those dirty socks stuck to the curtains will be removed as soon as I’m back on my feet, which I haven’t seen for days as they’ve been playing hide and seek under the duvet.
It’s been about a month since I wrote my last blog. Actually, that’s not true. It’s a month since I published my last scribblings but I’ve diligently written every week since then yet found myself stuck in places where I couldn’t get on line, so maybe I’ll keep them and slip them in at a later date when no one’s looking.
I was very flattered by the flood of enquiries asking where I’d gone to. Well, not so much a flood as a stream after a particularly long and parching drought. But that email really cheered me up. Thank you mum.
In fact, since we last “spoke” I have flown back and forth to Glasgow, Dubai, Oman and Portugal spending more time in the sky than the ever present rainclouds over the UK. I have hosted charity events, media training sessions, produced and directed a video, done voice overs, and caught pneumonia. I didn’t so much burn the candle at both ends as set it on fire with a flame thrower then threw it in the oven and chucked the whole stove in a furnace just to make sure, so I’m guessing I deserve a bit of illness.
I just wish it could have been acne or athlete’s foot instead.
As far as I know I’ve never had pneumonia before. I think I’d have remembered the coughing and pain, and just how crap daytime TV really is.
Every fibre of my weight depleting body screams that I should “man up” and just get
on with it, but I can’t get my head off the pillow, which will make for an interesting hat when I finally emerge. Maybe I can add some ribbons and a small parasol on top before my holiday. So far I have lost six pounds in six days on the pneumonia diet. It’s like Weight Watchers but with more phlegm.
As a showbiz ham I’m practising multiple roles for the upcoming Christmas season, doing my best impression of Sneezy and the other dwarves who didn’t make the Walt Disney cut including Wheezy, Spluttery and Coughy. If Snow White pops by to cheer me up with her pal Happy, I’m sticking a GPS in her handbag and alerting the woodsman to follow her with his axe.
The problem with illness isn’t the discomfort, it’s the boredom. No one’s invented a pill for that yet. I tried crosswords but couldn’t focus. Sudoko was a failure because I couldn’t count past three, and the book I’m reading about an atrocity during the Balkans war somehow had that “feel good” factor missing. Instead, as I’m trying to get my latest quiz show format commissioned, I lay back and thought up new TV show formats. The only one I think has a chance is “Embarrassing Bodies: The Musical”.
I’ll be back next week, or maybe I’ll be in hospital instead being treated in The Drama Queen Wing for terminal over reaction.
Either way, it’s time for more antibiotics.
It’s been about a month since I wrote my last blog. Actually, that’s not true. It’s a month since I published my last scribblings but I’ve diligently written every week since then yet found myself stuck in places where I couldn’t get on line, so maybe I’ll keep them and slip them in at a later date when no one’s looking.
I was very flattered by the flood of enquiries asking where I’d gone to. Well, not so much a flood as a stream after a particularly long and parching drought. But that email really cheered me up. Thank you mum.
In fact, since we last “spoke” I have flown back and forth to Glasgow, Dubai, Oman and Portugal spending more time in the sky than the ever present rainclouds over the UK. I have hosted charity events, media training sessions, produced and directed a video, done voice overs, and caught pneumonia. I didn’t so much burn the candle at both ends as set it on fire with a flame thrower then threw it in the oven and chucked the whole stove in a furnace just to make sure, so I’m guessing I deserve a bit of illness.
I just wish it could have been acne or athlete’s foot instead.
As far as I know I’ve never had pneumonia before. I think I’d have remembered the coughing and pain, and just how crap daytime TV really is.
Every fibre of my weight depleting body screams that I should “man up” and just get
on with it, but I can’t get my head off the pillow, which will make for an interesting hat when I finally emerge. Maybe I can add some ribbons and a small parasol on top before my holiday. So far I have lost six pounds in six days on the pneumonia diet. It’s like Weight Watchers but with more phlegm.
As a showbiz ham I’m practising multiple roles for the upcoming Christmas season, doing my best impression of Sneezy and the other dwarves who didn’t make the Walt Disney cut including Wheezy, Spluttery and Coughy. If Snow White pops by to cheer me up with her pal Happy, I’m sticking a GPS in her handbag and alerting the woodsman to follow her with his axe.
The problem with illness isn’t the discomfort, it’s the boredom. No one’s invented a pill for that yet. I tried crosswords but couldn’t focus. Sudoko was a failure because I couldn’t count past three, and the book I’m reading about an atrocity during the Balkans war somehow had that “feel good” factor missing. Instead, as I’m trying to get my latest quiz show format commissioned, I lay back and thought up new TV show formats. The only one I think has a chance is “Embarrassing Bodies: The Musical”.
I’ll be back next week, or maybe I’ll be in hospital instead being treated in The Drama Queen Wing for terminal over reaction.
Either way, it’s time for more antibiotics.
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