...ruffles...

The conference dinner and awards in Poland was a masterclass in the surreal. It was held in a castle some fifty minutes from the city centre. I was hoping for ramparts, but it was actually a mansion house built by a randy old bugger to house one of his mistresses – one of fifty shag pads he built throughout Poland, each one installed with an ensuite mistress.

For reasons unclear, the host chose a didactic style and rather than explain what was going on in the entertainment, chose to tell us what we were feeling. Therefore we were subject to a mechanistic dance of men shaving women’s legs, and of women dancing with a human head in a bucket, all without a word of introduction or explanation. However, when it came to the prize giving we were told that ‘this is an emotional moment for all of us’. A useful cue.

Two special awards were presented, again without real explanation. Firstly to the Polish (the main conference sponsor took a special version of the special award) and then to the Chinese. Nope, I didn’t get it either.

The main award took about an hour to present with each of the nine judging levels, eight judges and seven finalists being explained or called onto the stage in minute detail. Each finalist had a promotional video which was often a more generic TV advert than anything to do with the actual award contestant. Then there was a little vignette played out where the main judge searched his pockets pretending to have lost his envelope which he also did when presenting the Polish and Chinese awards earlier. Oh the hilarity.

With the envelope eventually found, the thirty-five people on stage and everyone checking their watches in gasping anticipation of the announcement, the host and main judge decided, in a pique of autism, to cut the proceedings to get everyone on stage more neatly arranged. Judges on the left, finalists on the right. In groups. Much confused shuffling and bowing ensued. A jazz band, which obscured most of the screen, played a groove in the background.

Eventually the announcement was made, and it was a major shock to hear the prize was shared between the growing economic superpower that it would be good to sidle up to: China and the host nation who had many influential dignitaries in attendance: Poland. Perhaps it was no irony that one of the graphics contained the typo ‘Price winners’; one speculates, what price the winners might have paid.

The evening closed with the serving of plates of what looked like entrées and a laser show with the loudest soundsystem I’ve ever heard. Nobody quite explained what the diplodocus or birthday cake had to do with the presentation, but at the time it seemed somehow wholly appropriate.

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Labels: Work

Dateline: Cracow

I’m here in Poland with work, which makes me an international business person. The purpose of my visit is an international conference. Cracow is beautiful, and not at all like I’d envisaged, but I’d rather be at home. Or here on holiday. Why people enjoy this I don’t know.

For all the platitudes about reaching beyond borders and nations meeting nations, in truth the nations stick together, the English keep it particularly tribal even though everyone else speaks English as the common language. When they’re feeling gregarious they will pass the time with the odd American or Australian but in truth, everyone stays with their own and scoffs at each other. It’s largely indistinguishable from International It’s a Knockout. I keep expecting to hear Stuart Hall screaming “LOOK AT THE FRENCH, LOOK AT THE FRENCH!”

Either that or a teenage party; for the uninitiated, like me, I shake hands with Olaf and Vladimir and they seem OK. Then you find that there’s some almighty fall out and that Dave didn’t like the way Olaf said something to Vladimir and that as a result Beatrice is crying in the toilet. For those who live in this world, it all seems terribly important; but it just appears to be a self perpetuating round of inconsequential bickering.

The conference had an opening ceremony; the only opening ceremony I’ve ever seen is at the Olympics, and that usually involves elfin imps dancing incomprehensibly to signify the development of youth or something. It wasn’t quite like that, but we had the local mayor, the main sponsor and Lech Walesa, plus a classical music recital which culminated in the playing of the wedding march. Everyone sat stoney-faced; did nobody see the absurdity of it all?

I’m only here for a couple of nights, giving me one whole day at the conference and the delight of the main conference dinner. Some of the English contingent, who flew out earlier, appear to be treating their trip like a stag weekend. So it should be interesting to see what happens at the dinner, apparently, it’s not unusual for the nations to sing their national songs… I think ours is going to be ‘You’re going to get your fucking heads kicked in’.

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Labels: Work

The Wireless festival, of which I now count myself a regular having attended Depeche Mode last year, New Order the year before and Faithless this year, delights and disgusts me in equal measure. Whilst the principle spirit of any festival is achieving some kind of 'connection' at Glastonbury its with your own inner spirit or something, at Wireless it's with your mobile phone brand.

Apart from the opportunity to bond with your O2 phone provider by texting for a "VIP" pass to their tent thing. You can walk along neat concreted pathways between various heavily sponsored areas, rather than through a bog of your own swill. Even the burgers are nice, the beer queue short and Spanx had a convenient and safe locker to store his rucksack. It is all very wrong.

But, it's convenient, it's within 30 minutes of all main stations out of town and it finishes at a reasonable time. Its like a lady choosing to discard her foxy lingerie for a pair of three pack big knickers because they're comfortable. You can't argue with the logic.

If Faithless were a football team, you'd say that in Maxi Jazz you've got a man up front who will guarantee you goals. They came on and snatched an early goal with 'Can't Get No Sleep', just before half time 'God Is A DJ' ensured victory. For most of the second half they defended deep and in numbers without really pressing their advantage home. In the final minute they broke away to slot home 'We Come 1'; flattering the score line a little.

I'd never seen Faithless before, but they look amazing on TV and when they're good, they're really good. But it wasn't quite the stellar experience I hoped it might be and it turns out that I don't know as many of their tunes as I thought.

Still, they've enough in their locker for you to go home happy and there's little better than pounding live music and a big crowd to get your spirits up. Even if it is Mark Ronson name dropping Amy Whinehouse and playing a series of anodyne covers.

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Labels: Music

Yesterday, because we were in the area, we went to designer retail outlet discount centre Bicester Village. We're in the area about once every eighteen months and will drop in with increasingly low expectations of what we might find.

Last time we were there I bought a pair of Camper shoes which turned out to be from a range called 'Twins'. Sadly these weren't identical twins, they were subtly, though noticeably different. At first, probably because I'd just spent fifty quid on odd shoes, I justified this as an appropriately quirky manifestation of my character. Eventually they simply became a pair of odd shoes; odd shoes are worn by Big Brother contestants and sixth form students trying to amplify their brittle teenage characters onto a thankless peer group. My odd shoes just slipped to the back of the cupboard, to become crushed by pairs of shoes which looked the same. A sort of shoe based Darwinism.

Not that Bicester Village is totally without value. If you are morbidly obese to the point that a barrage balloon is considered to pinch a little under the arms, or skeletal to the point that risks full multiple collapse of your internal organs as a result of your bowing pipecleaner bones, then you will indeed find some of the latest fashions at discounted rates. We saw a pair of wedge healed open toed sandals at LK Bennet which are the very height of fashion, but sadly much as we tried to jam them on, they were just too small for Millie's thirteen month old feet.

If you're within a normal size range - and for this I mean that you don't have feet so big that skis are unnecessary when wintering in Whistler, or that they appear to be mere stumps. If you are within this range the shopping is rather more hit or miss. Occasionally you will find a pair of well tailored trousers, but on pulling them off the rack you'll realise that there has been a scale embroidered picture of a cat having a vasectomy stitched onto the left thigh as a design flourish. In the Camper store, Emma found a pair of men's slip-on shoes which looked like they'd been made from a neon pink cauliflower. Someone, somewhere, drew a picture of that and someone somewhere said; 'we're going to sell millions of those'.

Apart from Japanese tourists, of which there are loads, the other noticeable tribe trawling the village are fashionistas who obviously subscribe to the concept of enhancing their persona by wearing designer gear. However, they don't appear to be able to actually afford any of it at regular price and buy exclusively from the Village's hideous discounted ranges. So next time you see someone in a baseball cap made from a Lion's mane, a coat with a silver picture of hippo eating a Wagon Wheel, a skirt which spins round and changes colour with variations in temperature and shoes with horns sticking out of them. Ask them if they found anything nice at Bicester Village that weekend.

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Labels: General me

As someone who has been on the receiving end of those ‘a child could have done it’ accusations regarding design work, I have some sympathy with the people who came up with the London 2012 logo.

Of course, theoretically, anyone with fingers can create an image. Rulers are useful for straight lines, compasses good for circles and curvy bits, and your itty bitty fingers are good for when you want to get all freestyle on yo’ hairy black ass.

But in the end someone has to make a decision about what it is they’re going to put on that bit of paper that encapsulates everything there is to say about London, Britain, Olympic-ses, and a whole heap more.

A true waste of money would have been something hideously conservative and corporate. Pretty much anyone with a copy of Quark or PhotoShop can produce a logo, and most will do it for some way under say, £250,000; so to spend £400,000 on something nondescript and vanilla would have been worse than being brave and taking a risk.

Where a good designer is worth his salt is in the thinking behind the logo – and how it might be applied and I trust whoever it was who came up with the thing has thought this through. In time we will, if not love it (how many logos do you truly love?); recognise it; which is ultimately what it should do.

Aside from the aesthetics, there’s been some criticism of the video that accompanies it. GMTV were screaming about the millions of epileptics who have been slain by the flashing lights and colouring. I don’t know, I’m not sure it’s quite been quite the cull they’re claiming, I mean, it appears to have taken its inspiration from the opening credits of Going Live and I don’t remember that being a problem.

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Labels: Sport

Periodically, Emma's sister brings around a bag full of old magazines for us to read. Mostly, it's Heat with the odd Now. We've had to odd Hello and OK but it would be misleading to say that this was the norm. They tend to travel around the house and find homes by the side of the bed, toilet and bath before, eventually, being thrown away.

Why? I don't know why, I have an MBA, am head of a marketing department; I'm in the higher tax bracket and I'm considering the benefits of buying a second property, I have a cleaner, I read books about Islamic militancy and spend £6000 a year on nursery fees. But I also need to read Heat to find out whether Lyndey Lohan has a fat arse this week.

In the latest batch we had a couple of copies of Cosmopolitan (there's always a rogue Glamour in there too). They were on the bed, so I picked one up to flick through it.

I came across a page which gave a minute by minute account of how to prepare for the hottest sex you've ever had. Apparently it only takes 12 minutes.

Each minute was detailed, so for your benefit, if you want to have mind blowing sex, and have less that quarter of an hour to get ready for it, make sure you... put naughty messages in his wallet, rummage your hand in his trouser pocket, put on a pair of satin knickers, do a salsa dance, have mutual oral sex (1 minute each, ladies should be wearing sheer knickers), watch a female friendly erotic film (or read a passage from an erotic novel... come on, come one, you don't have time to decide which), have a massage, snog like teenagers, play with your sex toy, eat something (can't remember what), do a strip tease and a sexy dance.

That was it, all that in 12 minutes - at least three dances and two pairs of knickers. Does anyone follow this advice? It must be like a game of It's A Sex Knockout, great preparation for sex? Great preparation for a cup of tea and copy of Heat more like.

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Labels: General me

I don't wish to rain on anyone's parade; particularly if that anyone happens to be old. After all, raining on an old person's parade is simply mean - they're old, and its unlikely there'll be many more parades for them to enjoy.

Nor do I disagree with the sentiment of the (wholly overrated) documentary that lead to the 'Internet phenomenon' The Zimmers. It doesn't appear right to shove old people in ropey care homes once their economic worth has been expended. But the choice of My Generation to raise the issue of their plight is a touch ironic, no?

OK, the general sentiment of the song appears to fit nicely, but like all great art you have to understand it in context in which it was written. My Generation was written by a 21-year old Pete Townshend as a call to arms for a nation of youthful Mods. Look at the lyrics and my explanation of what they probably meant when they were written...

People try to put us down

We are disaffected and ignored section of society, and our views are belittled by the powers that be.

Just because we get around

We are being actively ignored by society because we are an increasingly powerful underground force.

...good so far...

Things they do look awful cold

They are the establishment, who by definition are the older generation. What this is saying is; old people are boring.

I hope I die before I get old

I'd rather die than be old and one of them.

Why don't you all fade away

I wish old people would die a quiet death.

And don't try to dig what we all say

Don't even try talking to me, I'm not interested.

I'm not trying to cause a big sensation

I don't want you to listen to me.

I'm just talkin' 'bout my generation

It's just people like me won't listen to you.

I could be reading this wrong , but isn't this song really about everything the Zimmers are protesting about?

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Labels: Music

We're recruiting at the moment. I haven't done much interviewing, and do feel like I'm making it up as I go along. When sifting through CVs I did find that I was able to convince myself that, in the main, people with older names like Diedre were less able than people younger fresher names like Gemma.

Last week we had one person whose interview performance was no more than moderate, but I found myself constructing an argument that suggested she had hidden depths. An argument predicated on little more than she had terribly smart shoes on (by the way, if you're a bloke with terribly smart shoes on, you don't have hidden talents, you are arrogant - fact).

Such is my amateurism at this, I am paranoid of being caught up in some discrimination case. In the end you can't help but discriminate; you're making a judgement on a 2 page CV. 50 years old, 25 years working for IKEA, Wembley which followed a 10 year career managing a major oil company in Nigeria? No thanks.

It is quite reassuring reading CVs. In moments of darker paranoia, I doubt my own abilities and assume somebody is plotting my downfall (which they probably are). There's a deep seated fear that I will be fired, leaving me to find another job and that I will finally be found out meaning the only job I will be able to get is collecting trolleys in Tesco car park. But, having read a pile of CVs, you realise that if you are slung back into the job market, that despite your own weaknesses there's an enormous number people out there more desperate than you.

I'm of the view (because I'm lazy, perhaps) that what you're really looking for in someone to work with is somebody you can get on with. And for this, I look to the 'other interests' bit of the CV. Some will list every interest they've ever had - Playing with cars in my back garden, Under-8 tennis champion. Others will try to impress significance and relevance of their extra curricular activity on the job - I like to go to the gym, which I find fascinating, looking at the way the gym manages its profit margins through the use of a small number of trained staff and flexible contractors who take my Body Pump class. Some, are downright scary - World heavywieght Ultimate Fighting Champion and some, you think, are lying I like needlecraft and weaving when you know they are binge drinking and flashing their thongs at men with pattern shirts and eyebrow rings. Above all, however, most people with a richness of opportunity out there, and little I can do to verify their claims will sell themselves as a person with spark and drive as spending their spare time Socialising with friends, watching TV and reading'.

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Labels: Work

The Cup Final was a turgid affair from the opening minute. It's not the first time the spectacle has failed to live up to expectations, but I can't remember an opening 10 minutes as tepid as this one, or the concluding 110 for that matter. John Terry afterwards claimed that both teams were 'scared to give the ball away', which seems a pretty lame excuse to me. After all, it's like a musician coming on stage and playing CDs because they're scared they'd play a bum note. With the game itself turning over £8 million and TV revenues and so forth dwarfing that amount, it would be polite, if at least the players could put away their 'fear' and try and have a game.

Plenty of things were blamed; the occasion, the pitch, the long season; but nobody touched on the real problem. Top flight football is just not competitive anymore, look at the stats; In the last 10 years 9 teams have made the final and only 4 have won it - the supposed Big Four of Chelsea, Manchester United, Arsenal and Liverpool. Compare that to ten years before that: 1988-1997, where there were 12 different finalists and 7 different winners, 1978-87 12 teams and 8 winners, 1968-1977 14 teams and 10 winners. The game has become increasingly concentrated around a small number of teams.

The Big Four all claim some kind of dominance based on a spurious set of self referencing criteria - Liverpool's 5 European Cup wins, Manchester United's global brand, Chelsea's money, Arsenal's purist qualities. Maybe Oxford could claim to be the best team in the country that play in a ground where you can see people going into a multiplex cinema during the game (although, knowing Oxford, they probably aren't). These four teams, with their big claims are increasingly fearful of actually testing who's best on the field itself; especially when facing each other. When they meet in the League Cup they compete to see who can field the weakest team; which gives them the perfect excuse when defeat comes. Arsenal even fielded a weakened side for this year's League Cup Final - their only hope of a trophy. It's getting to a point where the big players will be rested permanently only to be brought out in a big glass box on special occasions. When they do meet, like yesterday, the teams don't so much want to win the game as avoid losing it. Losing equals failure, so don't give the ball away Mr £100,000-a-week.

But English football is the best in the world - we're told this interminably. This year three (of the Big Four) English teams made it to the Champions League semi-final, which was considered a glorious success and widely lauded to be a credit to English football. Which part of English football should take credit? The managers? - well the big four are managed by a Scot, Portugese, Spaniard and Frenchman. The players? - less than half the players yesterday were English and the other two teams have a handful of homegrown players between them. Nope, the real credit must go to the English marketing men and footballing administrators who have turned the game into a closed shop and a money machine where everyone is ingrained with a fear of failure. Even further down the Premiership, teams are incapable of bridging the gap into the super big time, so they simply work to consolidate their position. It's one massive cycle of negativity.

Of course, it's also very successful. The reason could be seen just after half time on Saturday; there was a great wedge of vacant seats just on the half-way line. Slowly the section began to fill and you could vaguely make out men in suits easing their way back to their seats. The half time corporate buffet was clearly delicious. The equation is perfect; Football the brand is sexy, the first Cup Final at new Wembley is 'history', companies pay thousands to buy a lump of history (a seat) and pass it onto their clients as a sweetener for future corporate deals. Let's face it; when you've bought your lump of history, what's the point of actually experiencing it; especially when it's rubbish. Where does this end? Perhaps they should do away with 'historic events' completely - after all they can be quite tiresome and in the really good ones people tend to die - maybe you could simply sell shares in historic events over the Internet, I Was There certificates with a small supporting anecdote. Then you could just get them out at dinner parties - "Battle of Agincourt? Yes, I was there, I have the certificate of authentication".

When it comes down to it, uninteresting football is being sold to disinterested people with heaps of money. The football men aren't going to admit it, they're making too much money, the corporations aren't going to let on that they're paying fortunes for shite. This sorry state of affairs it's not the players' or managers fault, they are out to win, it's not even the evil spectres of Abramovich or the Glazers who are just taking a piece of the enormous pie. It's the marketing men who have structured the game in such a way that it makes huge amounts of money, and rewards those who succeed with even more huge amounts of money. No other sport does this, actively reduces the competitiveness of the game. SKY may market football heavily like some sort of gladiatorial encounter, a thrill a minute orgy of endeavour. But whereas showbusiness is flamboyant, risk taking and outgoing, football is prudent and measured to the point of suffocation. It's a corporate mindset dressed in a spangly boob tube. Give us our bloody game back for Christ's sake.

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Labels: Football

Emma’s birthday was on Saturday and in celebration we headed to the Mole and Chicken for a rack of ribs/warm duck salad/half a sheep. The Moley holds particular significance amongst my friends. It is a gastro-pub, and has been since before the term was invented. It serves quality, plentiful, hearty pub food. It’s the place we headed when we were old enough to eat in restaurants. We’ve never really graduated any further.

It’s also the scene of plenty of great nights out; as Spankee once described it; 10 people having 14 conversations all at the same time. Loud, boozy, delicious, funny; that’s the Moley.

Getting a table is hard; it’s very popular in the area and has a reputation that attracts people from far and wide. Emma booked six weeks in advance which was the first time in over a year that we’d actually succeeded in getting in.

In the morning we got a call from the pub checking we were still coming. It wasn’t unreasonable, the booking was for 12 people and if we hadn’t turned up it might have left a significant hole in the evening’s takings.

“Can you turn up earlier?” said the waitress of our 8pm booking. This was impossible – the chances of getting 12 people to turn up earlier than planned was about as possible as getting them to turn up on time. There were added complications of children and babysitters to organise and people coming from various corners of the shire.

“Well, you have order by 8.15 or you’ll get your food late” she said “we’re very busy”. What she didn’t seem to understand was in a pub which has about 10 tables, we would be taking up a significant proportion of her busy-ness.

As its always full it should be easy to predict the number of staff needed. What’s more, it’s one of those places that because it ain’t broke has had the same menu for a decade. Everyone orders the same thing every time. As these places go, it’s the most predictable business you can hope for.

Anyway, we all turned up at 8pm as arranged and the place was packed. We were seated and ordered by 25 minutes past – which was good going. The food turned up in good order and it was delicious. Fun was has by all. As always.

At 9.30 it became apparent that something was up… the place was empty apart from us. The staff were wiping table tops and staring at their hands in that way people with nothing to do do.

It appears that the reason tables are hard to come by is that they only have one sitting which is a strategy designed to get through the busy period as possible. Being full and busy all night in a restaurant is a bad thing, it seems. So they make hay for an hour and a half and then remain open for another 3 hours waiting to lock up. Gordon Ramsay would have a field day.

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Labels: General me

Another disgraceful performance at Eurovision, I see. We were out for Emma's birthday and didn't see the actual performance or voting, but we were doomed to failure from the outset.

The UK have got Eurovision all wrong; we have an intensely kitschy perception of the competition. As a result we pitch up increasingly woeful parodies of past success on the assumption that the rest of Europe share a desire to relive the hedonistic days of Bucks Fizz. Even the show where the UK representative is chosen is no longer called; 'A song for Europe' it's called 'Making your mind up'.

Scooch were one such parody with a lineage that stretches back to Abba. They were originally formed as a Steps clone. As Steps became successful, two things happened - they became popular around the world and were unable to be in all the places they needed to be at the same time. Secondly, the more successful they became the more ragged they got and the more they believed in their own talents. It's the typical lifecycle of a pop band. Scooch were there to squeeze a few more dollars from the Steps cash cow after they split to pursue catastrophic solo careers, and sell a few CDs whilst the originals were saying 'Konichiwa, we're Steps, we hope you like our new single' in unison to the vast Japanese market.

Steps, of course, were firmly positioned as family fun, smiley pop. They had nice singalong choruses, didn't say motherfucker, and did simple dance routines that everyone from 8 to 80 could learn. They were perfect for weddings. Which is exactly what Abba have been distilled into. A criminal injustice, in my view, because they were probably the greatest song writers since the Beatles. The Abba brand has been so dumbed down it is no longer possible to give them the credit they deserve.

The rest of Europe don't see this, they don't get the irony or build the link back to days of yore. Sure, a Eurovision winner can look quite cheesy to UK eyes, but the common factor is a song which is universally 'fun', and has a transfer value across all nations. The spoken-word double entendres that punctuate the Scooch song; 'Some salted nuts sir', will mean nothing to a majority of Latvians.

It's unlikely that the UK will ever win Eurovision again - firstly, we're not a member of the new school. The Eastern Bloc invasion means that there is a voting cabal that the UK will never be able to penetrate. Secondly, whilst no bad song is going to win the title, the voting is not on the song alone. It's a commentary on global social and economic politics. Our ongoing occupation in Iraq is not going to bode well with the voting public. So it's not really advisable to have a song which claims to be 'flying the flag all over the world', they might as well sing 'we invaded Iraq and we don't give a shit'.

Morrissey and Jarvis Cocker were both mooted to be writing songs for Eurovision, which may be a worthwhile experiment. But we're more likely to simply attract an increasing band of desperadoes trying to drag themselves out of their showbiz mire and onto the heady heights enjoyed by, em, Katrina and the Waves.

I'm fascinated by these people; the basic economics of scraping a living from anything that is vaguely related to showbusiness. Take band member Russ Spencer (oh, and compare the picture of him here, with the one on their official site), who's main career credits are being in Scooch, a second rate imitation of a second rate imitation, and coming second last in Eurovision. Prior to that he was in the TV show Boys Will Be Girls, which involved creating a girl band made up of boys in drag. At what point will Russ realise that his dream to be Bono, Robbie Williams and John Lennon is likely to remain unfulfilled.

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Labels: Music

Millie was 1 on Sunday - a year on from the weirdest day of my life. She's hilarious and everyone seems to enjoy her company. People are probably being kind, but they often comment on the fact she's the happiest baby they know. She changes constantly, and not just her nappies. I know that babies grow up fast, but nobody told me just how fast fast is.

From day 1 Millie has been part of the gang. We've always tried to have an open house policy with our friends; if they want to come round for something to eat or a cup of tea, they can. Even if there's 15 of them, which recently, there was. Emma knocked out a vat of lasagne and three desserts and we were off.

Millie is part of that culture and I would say that our social life, though different, is better than it ever has been. We still see all our old friends and we have a bunch of new ones. We haven't had a clear weekend for weeks.

I've also realised of all the things I like doing, the thing I like doing most is sitting around drinking tea with my friends. On Monday we sat in Katie and James' dining room sheltering from the rain that abruptly ended their BBQ drinking tea and chewing the fat.

These are people I've clubbed with, drunk with, partied with, holidayed with and been to school with. Yet of all the great things we've done together I enjoy nothing more than drinking tea with them. We still joke around in the same way we always have; about zonal babysitting strategies, Willy's plans for the holiday in the summer and Jo's new job buying soft furnishings for oil rigs in South America. It's where I feel the most comfortable.

What's more, not only do we sit around drinking tea like we have for years, we have babies hanging around with us; and I love it - it's the epicentre of my comfort zone.

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Labels: Friends

Cricket is a funny sport; it's played all day, sometimes all week, usually at a time that nobody can watch because they're at work. It is obsessed with nuances of changeable weather and is structured to ensure that you can take both lunch and tea without disturbance.

To a non-believer like me, the first week of the World Cup was quite interesting. Players were thumping sixes all over the place, village players from the Netherlands and Scotland were playing superstars from South Africa and Australia, working ridiculously hard for every run and bowling like five years old on a beach. 19 stone lumps from Bermuda were taking flying catches from the slips. The boozy Irish tied with Zimbabwe then beat Pakistan. Then the Pakistan coach got murdered and there's a myriad of conjecture about match fixing and snake venom poisoning. Brilliant. And all at a convenient time; games started at 2pm meaning you didn't have to watch the dull bit at the start; you could watch the interesting bits after you've finished your tea.

The cricket purists' view of this: rubbish.

Then we get to the 'Super Eights' - which weren't the slightest bit interesting. Only Australia were in any way good. The top 4 teams predictably beat the bottom 4 teams, in empty stadiums. The games seemed to all finish by about 4.30pm. Then the final is delayed by rain; they start late, then play through torrential rain, then come off, recalculate the scores to accomodate, come back on, play in the dark, come off, come back on again even though it's obvious who's won to finish the game. Even the presentation of the cup takes 45 minutes because long speeches were needed and the everyone including the groundsman needed to be given a medal.

The sort of sport that can only have been invented in England.

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Labels: Sport

Bad week in the Ruffles' house. Millie's been struck by a double blow of baby bug and uber-teething, which has made her very unhappy indeed. I had always assumed that when children were ill and they had to be off school or nursery that there was some sort of magic solution that is only revealed once you are with child.

There's not, it's very simple, when baby is ill you guiltily scratch around friends and relatives for help or leave work to tend to her using up holiday time and then, of course, you feel guilty for leaving work, even though you know that some things are more important than your monthly report.

Of course, Millie's illness means she's a 'poor little mite' but when I was struck down with it on Thursday, the instant accusation was that I was suffering from manfluenza.

If the bug that I caught off Millie remained Millie sized then it would barely have registered, but bugs don't work like that. They expand to the size of body they choose to occupy. I had the same illness as her, proportionally sized, yet I wasn't allowed to crawl around crying and filling my nappy because I was A Man.

I object to this simplifying of gender roles. I've had one day off work and school in at least 18 years. I've been ill on other occasions, but I've managed to get to work or I was on holiday in the first place. I don't really see why I should be tarnished with whatever convenient brush people choose to use. If I'm feeling crap, I don't need anyone else to tell me I'm not.

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Labels: General me

You have absolute control when naming a baby; the moment you settle on a name you put them on a trajectory that will dictate huge portions of their life. You have no idea what you're letting your offspring in for.

Some naming issues are fairly minor; both Emma and I have younger sisters whose names are products of apparently dyslexic parents - my sister - Annia should have been Anya, whereas Sara is pronounced as in Sarah. Still, at least it's not quite as bad as Kirsty, who had she been born a boy would have been called Devron.

When we told people that we were thinking of Amelia for a girl and Hamish for a boy most people responded with "Oh, Amelia's lovely". One out of two isn't bad. The reason we chose Amelia was because she could be Millie with her friends and Amelia when she's a QC. And it was a classic name that had a certain timelessness about it.

Not all names share this quality; not so long ago we had a temp working with us called Kylie; every time she opened her mouth - which was a lot - my mind harked back to Angry Anderson. No doubt a few Britneys will turn up at work in the next five years or so.

Emma had a girl called Holly-Blue in her class - named after a butterfly. It's a nice enough name, but it presents a challenging naming strategy. The Dobscrubs went with India for their first, which in itself is a very beautiful name - but you can't call your second Bangladesh, nor can you go to the other end of the spectrum and plump for Dave. They went with Elliot, which seems to fit perfectly.

Even middle names are tricky; Millie's is Winifred - after Emma's maternal grandmother - which means she'll have to avoid any of Brian Mawhinney's family when it comes to marriage. Could she live with Millie Winnie Mawhinney?

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing; especially in baby naming. Someone I know has just had a daughter, Mia, which is a very pretty name in itself. The middle name they've chosen is Amora; which they say is Italian for love. Except it's not, it's amore. Even if it was Amora, Mia is Italian for 'Mine' which would make her name "Mine Love" - as in "Is that my cup of tea, dear?", "No, it's mine, love". But it's OK, because Amora isn't Italian for love; it's a sex academy in London - whatever a sex academy is and its dictionary definition is... 'a group of rabbis'.

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Labels: Babies

Following the massacre by the crazy Korean in Virginia, questions about gun control are back on the agenda. Us bleeding heart Brits with our admirably low gun crime statistics are on the game. This morning GMTV were interviewing a tubby pro-gun chappy with a bow tie live from Seattle.

Andrew Castle suggested that it was time to review gun laws in the US. The tubby man agreed, which seemed to be a breakthrough. The problem, he said, was that some college campuses are gun free zones. Your heart sinks when this is described as a problem.

If, he said, everyone was allowed to have guns on campus basically everyone would be armed and therefore able to defend themselves. Ultimate game-theory; if everyone is armed to the teeth, then nobody is going to attack anyone else for fear that they, themselves, will be shot. Stability will be maintained through fear.

I may be wrong, but I’m guessing that Cho Seung-hui probably didn’t have much interest in whether others were armed or not. Once the voices in his head got going, he would probably have blown people to kingdom-come whether it resulted in a shoot-out or not. He was clearly a troubled man; which is one of the key issues – what makes young people want to kill others in US schools. The more simple issue to solve is the fact he could legitimately buy a gun with his daily Starbucks Frappichococino. Wouldn’t it be a good idea to try and restrict the people who want to kill from accessing things that kill people?

This pro-gun logic is so ludicrous; you almost want to agree with it to see what else they come up with.

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Labels: News

The sensible people from the Internet reassure me that I'm not middle aged; I know I'm not. I'm comfortable with this. Then, I get home tonight to find that the corporates have hit back; a letter from Tesco saying 'thank you for using Tesco loans (18 months ago), as your circumstances change...'. Grrr.

On a not unrelated note; I suffer from cold feet due to bad circulation, which may be a sign of oncoming middle-age. Thing is, I can't remember a time when I didn't suffer. During the cold months it's particularly uncomfortable. Emma has a solution; buy slippers, which seems obvious. But I have an aversion to slippers. In fact, some limited market research reveals that I'm not alone. Men don't like slippers, and I know why.

Take away generations of the nurturing of the human race; of social programming, strip away the roles we have been given by society and the empowerment that recent generations have been given to kick against these roles. If you get back to the very essence of existence, you're left with two principle facts. Woman need to reproduce, if they don't the human race will stop, in order to do that, men need to hunt for food.

So, deep inside every man is a requirement to hunt sabre tooth tigers for tea and you don't do that in soft indoor slip-on shoes. To wear slippers emasculates you of all those hunting instincts; it says 'I'm at home, with my tea on my knees'. This does not make you a primed killing machine. The men I know who do wear slippers seem far more balanced with life in general; more in line with the rhythm of modern living. They seem to have suppressed the instinct to hunt sabre tooth tigers. I envy them, because if I was able to do the same, I would be wearing slippers and wouldn't have cold feet.

Think I'm wrong about this? Tell me for what purpose would you actually need a pair of 'active sports slippers'? Are slippers the quintessential non-active, non-sport footwear? The slipper companies are trying to dupe all us sabre tooth tiger hunting men into buying slippers (it doesn't work; they've been reduced by £2)

My research tells me that woman are much more comfortable with the concept of wearing slippers. This isn't a surprise, by definition slippers bind you to the home; the best place to reproduce. What's more, slippers are viewed as attractive on women, sexy even. This is because men need woman to want to reproduce because they can't and a penchant for slippers communicates a homely willingness to do so.

So, I've got cold feet because I'm waiting to go out and hunt sabre tooth tigers, yet Tesco Direct means you can, in a very modern sense, actually go hunting in your slippers. I think it might be time to put away my loin cloth.

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Labels: General me

I got a letter from the bank today, hand written blank envelope, business card stapled at a jaunty angle. A personal letter to me, lovingly prepared by my own financial adviser. I have a financial adviser? Who knew? He's invited me to make an appointment for a free financial health check; a bit of 'advice' to sell me a financial product that funds Guatemalan whorehouses or an East African guerilla army.

The letter included the line "as you enter a new stage in life, you need a different financial strategy". What friggin' stage of life am I entering? Family life? Middle age? I'll be 35 in August and I have a daughter; these facts alone appear to have triggered something deep inside their marketing machine.

On Saturday we had a party (a dinner party, naturally) with ten of our closest friends. There was a screech from the other end of the table. I didn't quite get the gist of the conversation but someone said "we're not middle aged!". From what I can gather, someone had resigned themselves to middle age because they were married with children, whilst others (also married with children) consider themselves to be anything but.

On Thursday, I was out with friends discussing how life is nowhere near as linear as it's made out to be. Without warning, having burnt off your twenties having fun and working hard you're confronted with a surprisingly small window of opportunity in which you're then expected to enter the conventions of 'settling down'. If you choose this path but haven't put in the ground work of meeting The One, getting married, being fertile, having babies (and of course, establishing the career trajectory to fund the whole thing) the window can wind shut leaving you with what looks like a blank scorecard.

It seemed to be a recurring theme; we're getting old, life is different to what we imagined and now time is slipping through our fingers like sand. Some of my friends have all the trinkets of settling down, some have none, some have some and some had them and lost them. The only common factor is that they're my friends and I enjoy spending time with them; I'm delighted with what they have, I don't judge them on what they don't. And, fuck it, we're all getting old all the time.

I tell you what though, although it's something about not worrying too much as long as you're happy, I am wrestling with trying to find the point of this post...

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Labels: Friends

We went and bought a duvet today, and pillows and a bed sheet. We spent a lot of money on it. We're not frugal people, nor are we ostentatious, we buy good quality, but not very often.

The justification for spending the money was thus; we're not married so we've never had the opportunity to ask our friends and relatives to fork out £95 on pure Egyptian cotton sheets. We also have Millie; which means we get less sleep, so it might as well be the best sleep we can afford.

The duvet we were going to buy wasn't in stock; so we bought an even more expensive one. After a bit of hand-wringing we justified the expense as a long term investment.

"I can't even remember the last time we bought a duvet" said I.
"We never have" replied Emma "You don't want to know where ours came from"

It turns out that the duvet we use came from Emma's Grandma when she passed away many years ago. I swear, I'm sure I can now see a face in the mysterious brown stain that's been on it for years.

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Labels: General me

A friend of mine does a lot of work in China and Korea. One of the things he talks about is how difficult it is to understand the fundamental logic system adopted in these countries. About how much harder it is to work out how action a. lead to action b. His British schooling and logic system sometimes appears completely incompatible with that of South East Asia.

I saw him last night and he had more stories of derring-do in the region; when I got back I turned on the TV; there was a repeat of the Louis Theroux weird weekend "The most hated family in America". I saw the programme on Sunday, but found myself compelled to watch it again.

The Westboro Baptist Church believe, I think, that "God hates fags", "America loves fags", American troops represent America, they are therefore defending fags, therefore God tricked George Bush into invading Iraq so that he could pick off the troops with his wrath. Ergo; troop deaths are to be celebrated; so amongst other things, they picket troop funerals.

The logic is not nearly as simple as that, the whole belief system is encased in a shell which says; if you hate this logic, you're doomed to hell. Naturally, everyone hates the logic, therefore the Westboro Baptist Church are the only people who are going to heaven. In short America is doomed. Hate (or at least anger), which they receive in spades, makes them more righteous and good. Like a boa constrictor, the more you struggle the tighter the system is.

And then, on top of this, being friends with people is a slippery slope to hell. In part because you become tainted by the evil that America does. Also, friendship leads to fornication (if only, eh fellas?) The Pastor, Fred Phelps a confused old man who develops this amorphous philosophy, has sired thirteen children. None of which through fornication, one assumes.

Nor do they actually want to convert anyone to their way of thinking because everyone is doomed to hell already. Which, presumably makes the whole activity of picketing US troop funerals, Swedish vacuum cleaner factories and 'Jew' churches with signs that say 'God Hates Fags' and 'Fag Troops' completely pointless. They go out into the community to shout things without any reason or desired outcome.

At which point the logic unravels into a heap on the floor. It's not so much extremism, which, at least has a political logic to it. It just doesn't have a logic system; it doesn't want to grow, it doesn't want to change things, it doesn't want to explain anything. Theroux's other programmes attempt to get to the nucleus of the issue, an element which is causing the bizarre behaviour. But, partly due to the impenetrable belief system and partly because Phelps was barely articulate (at one point, Theroux sweetly wraps him up in knots with a question to which all Phelps can do is drop into his "I know all about you, you're evil and doomed to hell" rhetoric), he could only conclude that there was some kind of anger at the core of the whole thing. What kind of anger, he couldn't say. In which circumstances you have to just smile sweetly and move along. Which is what he did. Due to his 'fag' fixation, one may assume that Phelps himself has had a serious buggering at some point in his past. But that's mere speculation on my part.

Oh God, to compound it all; Ben Shepherd on GMTV (who's favourite band is Jesus and Mary Chain) has just introduced G4's last ever live performance. All this and G4 splitting up? What is the world coming to?

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Labels: TV and radio