Wednesday, May 03, 2006

Corporate entertainment

For the second time in six months my Powerbook has had to go in for repair. This time the backlight has stopped working making the screen too dark to see.

As before I phoned the Apple helpline and was instantly transported to a call centre somewhere in the world. I find being consumed by global corporations disconcerting. Its not natural to phone a helpdesk in California, talk to someone, then ring back five minutes later to continue the exact same conversation with someone completely different in Mumbai. This is magnified further by the fact it’s Apple, who are little short of a religious cult in computing terms.

Last time I chose to send the Powerbook off for repair; within what felt like minutes a man from UPS with a Powerbook sized box appeared on the doorstep and took it away. Days later it reappeared all fixed. In between I watched its progress via Apple’s repair tracking service online.

Brilliant though the process was, I found the experience quite troubling. It was too slick an inhuman.

This time I talked to Priya, who then helpfully sent me emails I couldn’t properly see (because my backlight isn’t working) these explained what we’d been doing. She was later joined by ‘David’ a product specialist who didn’t speak. Instead, Priya ended every sentence with “David agrees”. I wondered whether David was really there, or whether they can achieve greater credibility amongst middle Americans if every “foriegner” is supported by someone resolutely Christian.

Priya: “How can I help you today?”
Me: “When I turn on my computer the back light flickers, then it goes off so I can’t see the screen anymore.”
P: “OK, can you do a hardware test.”
Me: “I would, but I can’t see the pointer on the screen to move it to start the test”
P: “OK, let’s recap, you have a flickering screen problem, a backlight problem, and no pointer.”
Me: “There all part of the same problem, there’s no problem with the pointer, it’s just I can’t see the screen properly because the backlights not working.”
P: “David believes you have a hardware problem, but we haven’t isolated the pointer problem.”

I was tempted to throw in a few random words to see if Priya would process them.

"Yes and when I check my email I can't CHICKEN IN WELLINGTON BOOTS when I then hit send"
"Let me recap, you have a back light problem, a flickering screen, no pointer and a chicken in wellington boots?"
"Yes."
"We haven't isolated the chicken in wellington boots"
"Surely that's the easiest bit; Chickens can't go very fast in wellington boots"

Eventually David concluded, and then told Priya who then told me that the PowerBook should come in for repair. I chose the option to use one of their local service centres (basically a computer shop with a licence to fix Apple products). I phoned one in High Wycombe, there was no answer, as it was a bank holiday I wasn’t surprised, in fact I was rather comforted by the poor service.

Sunday, April 30, 2006

Tension and trauma

This week we will have a baby; this will change our lives forever. Everything will tilt on its axis, and I will be responsible for keeping a little person alive.

Next weekend if Oxford win at home to Leyton Orient we stay up. If we don't we are no longer a football league team. An Oxford win would mean we'd have 52 points. Then the loser of the Notts County Vs Bury game will go down; if it's a draw then Notts County go down because of their inferior goal difference. That's if Stockport, Barnet, Torquay and Macclesfield don't go lose and Notts get at least a point. Then one of that quartet will go down, probably Stockport, unless they win in which any of the other three will have to look over their shoulders nervously. For Oxford its simple, we just have to win. They're at home, and they're playing Leyton Orient. If Orient win they will be promoted. This makes them a. good and b. determined. Expecting a win is a big assumption, but at least its simple.

It's not the thought of Oxford slipping into the black hole of the Conference that concerns me. Many teams come back to the football league rejuvenated, and Oxford have a good set up so I wouldn't expect the stay to be that long (that's not to say we'll walk it next season, though that may be the assumption). It may be an opportunity to refresh things. The Conference is mostly professional and not that different to League 2. Its the tour of ignominy and humiliation that we will undertake if we drop down; playing Canvey Island, competing in the FA Trophy and qualifying for the FA Cup. For now, the humiliation isn't a factor, we know we've been rubbish, we've been through defeat after defeat; other fans telling us this doesn't register. Now we've set up this cup final scenario its exciting and I'm looking forward to it.

Now, I know the two events aren't comparable, but I've never had a baby and I've watched Oxford since I was three. This makes them both significant. I know where my priorities lie, should the baby start to come on Friday or Saturday, I know I'll be at the hospital not on in my seat at the Kassam. I know there will be those out there who are not interested in babies or football and who will read this in bewilderment. All I can say is that the timing is terrible and its building up a lot of nervous tension.

Not much is happening at work, thank god, because it's going to be quite a week.

Saturday, April 29, 2006

Getting more than you bargain for

Mining to the bottom of Emma's mum's daftness is a thankless and endless task, but it may be worth dedicating a whole website to it, if I wasn't dedicating a whole website to me that is. Aside from announcing that the cat has leukaemia and identifying my iPod as a baby monitor much of her time is spent letter writing. Usually this involves writing to Marks and Spencer to complain about how their pleated skirts are not navy but dark blue. She once wrote to the Times in response to an article about Eddie Stobart trucks to say she preferred Nobert Dentressangle. She even wrote to the head of a large charity to complain that the gold medals given to the best fundraisers was a misappropriation of charitable funds, the head of the charity being the Queen.

She reads This England; 'Britain's loveliest magazine' a fanzine 'celebrating' an England of yore; of teas, vicars and white people. The England they depict is based on a complete fantasy of harmony and nobility where the global empire was based on the exportation of scones and music hall. They don't like shopping centres, baseball caps and foreigners. Every day is sunny in This England; and slightly racist and jingoistic. Emma's mum doesn't see it, she just sees its loveliness.

Word reaches us that she's now decided to join The University of the Third Age, a community for the retired. Technically its for for those 'no longer in full time gainful employment'. Presumably the term 'economically useless' wasn't appropriate. A quick scan of their website reveals that the Lincoln chapter's programme of events is scrabble, history and bird watching. Go to Peterborough, however, for Shakespeare, patchwork, geological matters and swimming on Monday mornings alone. You actually have to apply to join the, *cough*, U3A; not everyone gets in. Emma's mum is applying because she 'never went to University', I think she knows that this isn't a real university, but she may be in for a shock if my suspicions about links to swinging and scientology are in any way founded.

* please note picture not Emma's mum

Thursday, April 27, 2006

Waiting 2

Still nothing. There was progress on Sunday when Emma experienced something inelegant that signalled something was happening. Ater that, nothing, nada, nowt. This movement eased the midwife’s mania for an internal prod, she was more interested in what Emma was wearing. The girls at yesterdays baby class coffee morning agreed that she shouldn’t be pushed into anything she wasn’t comfortable with, so the waiting game continues. This advice may change at today’s baby class coffee morning. Or next Wednesdays.

This advice could be from The Maker himself in comparison to Emma’s mum’s imparted wisdom this week. On Friday, 24 hours before the due date, she scared Emma silly by declaring with some vigour that the cat had Feline Leukaemia (prompting me to ask, with more vigour, ‘exactly how many years of veterinary training have you done?’). This was followed up yesterday with her saying that our new baby monitor was very neat… a baby monitor that is, in fact, my iPod.

Sunday, April 23, 2006

Twaddle

A extract from Chris Waddle's expert analysis of the FA Cup semi-final between Liverpool and Chelsea on the radio on Saturday...

Commentator: "Free kick to Liverpool just outside the box, Riise, Alonso and Gerrard are over the ball"

Waddle: "This isn't for Riise, its more a free kick for a right footer for me."

Commentator: "There's a lot of jostling in the wall, Makele has broken off ready to charge the ball down."

Waddle: "I hope they're not going to tap it, Makele will be two feet from it by the time they hit it, it'll be a massive waste."

Commentator: "Riise taps it to Gerrard who tees is up for Riise who curls it round Makele... GOOOOAAAAALLLLL!"

Saturday, April 22, 2006

Waiting

Today is supposed to be The Day, although all is quiet so far. Admittedly I'm sitting blogging this with headphones on listening to my first mix created on Ableton Live; which may be available as a download in enormous file-o-vision soon. I s'pose Emma could be upstairs rolling around in agony; but I doubt it. I'll go check in a bit, if I've got the time.

The midwife seems very keen to get the baby out before the bank holiday; maybe she has plans. She seemed a little disappointed that Emma's bump is not yet hard (and therefore ripe). Her solution, it seems, is to threaten bigger, more intrusive and rustier implements, all in the hope that Emma will be able to reach a pact with the baby and get pushin'

The baby is relatively (though not unhealthily) small which means it won't grow to the size of a small teenager as the days tick by, its also perfectly positioned for exit so there's nothing to worry about. it's not usual to go 10 days over.

The baby group had seven bumps, we have news that two have popped. The first to arrive was the last due; four and a half weeks early. At some point I will get onto the baby group's obsession with coffee mornings, but in the meantime, I go to the football, we wait.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

It was twenty years ago today

I can't let the day pass without marking the 20th anniversary of Oxford United's greatest ever day. Oxford beat QPR 3-0 to win the Milk Cup at Wembley in front of 100,000 people. I was 13, it was my first visit to Wembley and it was vast.

Oxford fans still sing "When Shots* went up to win the Milk Cup we were there, we were there" when you know most weren't. I was though, with my flag, Oxford shirt and my silky blue and yellow flatcap. I looked like a teenage football casual. Well, it was the 80's.

I still remember driving down the M40 with 35,000 Oxford fans, watching the Oxford team bus steam past with a police escort, seeing Trevor Hebberd take about twenty minutes to line up his shot and put away the first goal and being worried about losing despite being 3-0 up with 5 minutes to go.

Great days. Dad had watched Oxford since their non-league days so the transformation was even more startling. We're now 3 points off the bottom of League 2 with three games to go, it's not inconceivable that I too will be able to boast that I've seen the mighty U's at Wembley and Woking.

* Shots was Malcolm Shotton, the Oxford captain.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Ready for blast off

The house has never been more sorted out. You can walk in straight lines from a to b. There are no piles of washing, extraneous cables, cobwebs or rogue pasta swirls crunching under foot on the kitchen floor. We are ready to receive a baby.

The last remaining room to be sorted out was the cupboard under the stairs. We got everything out, had arguments about the difference between what things are worth and what they cost (old dresses are not worth £300, they cost £300, they are only worth £300 if someone is prepared to pay £300 for them) and threw away 38 bottles of booze (mostly free wine they give away with at the Chinese takeaway). The kitchen was a mess of ironing boards, laptop bags, paint pots and videos which had things like “Dirty Dancing – do not erase” written on the side.

At this point Emma announced that she was having an ‘unusual twinge’. I pleaded for her to not go into labour because a) there was junk everywhere and b) giving birth in the cupboard under the stairs would present a raft of unique problems not considered at the ante natal class.

“It’ll be fine”, she said, “Jesus was born in a stable”.

Friday, April 14, 2006

Normal service will be resumed shortly...

Any of you who uses my feed to keep up with this site, and you should, it's terribly clever, you'll be impressed by my prolific morning of updates. Hundreds of them. You may also be disappointed to see the net result of all this work being this measily post. Sorry, I've been doing a bit of maintenence on my archives and hitting update blog too much. You won't see any differences unless you look really hard, but it makes me feel better.

And for anyone who thought I had a car crash on Monday (see post below). I didn't, IT WAS A METAPHOR.

Monday, April 10, 2006

Car crash Mondays

There are few greater experiences than a car crash Monday. Its what happens when you exit Sunday too quickly, usually having been propelled by a fantastic Saturday, or in this case, Friday. This weekend spat me out at a such a velocity I don't think I landed until Monday lunchtime.

Friday was Katie and James' superb wedding, surrounded by my favourite people in the whole world. Saturday was our baby class, which despite all expectations to the contrary, has been excellent. We are now fully licenced to turn our lives inside out. Then I had a sleep deprived out of body experience at the football, which was absolute garbage, but I no don't care. Saturday night was more time with my favourite people (sadly not all of them, this time). Sunday, I had to endure some extreme nesting from Emma (which basically involves smashing the house to pieces), then over to mum and dad's for dinner, then...

Petoowee! car crash Monday. Ace. Again! Again!

Sunday, April 02, 2006

Not many men can wear cuban heels

Ah bless, one cherubic poster on the Depeche Mode message board was ruing the fact so few people turned up to Friday's NEC gig in iconic Violator era Dave Gahan leather jacket, Aviator sunglasses and white jeans. Apparently this was his garb du jour. Some years ago it wasn't unusual to see Depeche fans dressed like this, but now they're defined by their girth, not their dress. Many still wear tour merchandise of various vintages (generally speaking Devotional t-shirts have survived years of wash and wear best) but most freakish obsessives limit themselves to comedy Gestapo leather coats because they're more slimming than white vests.

Despite the tired, lazy, media coverage about their doom laden Essex boy electro pop, The Mode still give great show. It's a little grungier than the polished electronica from the first time we saw them sixteen years ago, but sometimes its good to indulge in proper portentous stadium rock. Gahan makes no excuses for his well rehearsed rock god performance; happy to lead an arms in the air clap-a-thon or screech "C'MOWN!" in an odd LA drawl. He appears to have added a subtle Spanish theme to his stage show for this tour, and a 'bolted horsey' foxtrot. Ah well, he's 44, even he has to be embarrassing dad once in a while.

Of course he's supported by the awkward, but brilliant, Martin Gore who now seems permanently attached to his lead guitar. Conversely, the band's other stalwart, Andy Fletcher, sticks with what he knows; bouncing behind his space aged console on lead, em, Excel. His presence on stage disguising the fact his principle role is actually as the band's accountant.

The beauty of stadium rock is its slickness; video, song and sensible health and safety regulations meld as one. Films of demure, usually half naked, models bathed in brooding coloured light are interlaced with live action band close ups that reveal years of drug abuse and peculiar sex are not without consequence. Like the venue, the show is convenient, safe and well thought through. The live drums and guitar mean they're a bit more ragged than usual; they have to restart Personal Jesus after attempting to play the whole song in the intro, but even this cock up is suspiciously slick. In the end the set is predictable; a song from the new album, an couple of classics, a couple more songs from the new album, then classics right through to the encore; pop gems Just Can't Get Enough and Everything Counts are rounded off by the ever tumultuous Never Let Me Down Again. At the end Gore and Gahan stroll out to a small stage in the middle of the arena to do the ballad Goodnight Lovers. Its an unusual choice to end a show, but it reveals that, perhaps for the first time in years, they seem to enjoy playing together. Art, its not. A stupendous night out? Well, yes.

The baby enjoyed the show, dancing most to Enjoy The Silence. Emma, just three weeks from the pop, hobbled valiantly from the car park to the arena over a walkway. On the way back one of the stewards stopped us from going back the same way; "You're not walking over there again, I saw you coming down. There's a shortcut down there, ask my mate (another steward) to show you". The pain and suffering seemed to capture the mood perfectly.

Saturday, April 01, 2006

Some lies I tell about my friends

Penny was a 16 stone teenager
Jo was a teenage goth
Katie is the member of a mafia family running a small Buckinghamshire village
Willy rents her husband from an agency

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Geographically challenged

I've heard some stupid things shouted at football matches, but Saturday capped it all. The triumphant return of Jim Smith to Oxford lit up what would have been a drab end of season meander against Peterborough, that's Peterborough in Cambridgeshire. Half way through the first half the Oxford crowd quietened, allowing the 'borough fans an opportunity to sing out. The bloke behind me shouted...

"SHUT UP YOU COCKNEY SOUNDING TWATS"

Sunday, March 26, 2006

Birthing partners

Although I like the idea of community hospitals and community shops; I'm not really a community person. I don't find myself on committees campaigning for new flower beds to be placed in the middle of the road or saving historic wheelbarrows (used by some dead bloke during the war). I guess I'm the kind of person that's destroying communities, I live in my own bubble of friends and family and shop at Tesco. My non-community milieu is probably the reason I have little need for community centres.

The uncomfortable plastic chairs and scuffed magnolia paint job was exactly what I expected, but probably not for the spiritual contemplation that was to be our ante natal class. I wasn't sure what to expect to be honest (which didn't help given that the first session was to write down what we expected). My only reference point was the midwife who made thinly veiled comments about how National Childbirth Trust classes would be more appropriate for people of our, ahem, background. This made me think that we might end up spending hours discussing homeopathic remedies and chi... on a Saturday morning.

The session opened with a bit of getting to know you. Whilst the girls compared twinges, the men made lame jokes about football, pints and pies; posturing whilst sounding each other out.. I can't remember who broke the deadlock of actually admitting we did care and that we weren't there under duress, but when it happened we all loosened up.

Thankfully, it wasn't all beanbags and scented candles, the class was pretty straightforward; we had lots pictures of wombs and foetuses in that 'Joy of Sex' 1970's line drawing style and simply worked through the birthing process. Some people were able to quote the parts of the womb in Latin and support their arguments with a rich supply of statistics and research papers, some (me) looked blankly and cracked jokes.

People I know who have done these classes have talked about the friends they've made through it. Personally I was wary of being enveloped in a little clique of baby bores. It's nothing like that, thankfully, it's a good group that's happy to have a laugh at what is a whole world of goop and poo. Maybe I am a bit of a community person after all.

Monday, March 20, 2006

Word of the wise

Emma’s grandma offered us a plethora of parenting advice yesterday, my favourites were:

‘Of course, you get no joy from your first’ (number of children she had? One)

‘Well, in my day Family Allowance was a Crown a week, nowadays they get POUNDS!’

The latter comment sparked a(nother) diatribe about the state of the social welfare system. Apparently people now get their benefits delivered 'to their door' (these people being all lazy good-for-nothings). When asked if she went to the Post Office to collect her pension she replied “Oh no dear, I get it paid straight into the bank”.

Sunday, March 19, 2006

Get rich or lie trying

I like the Money Programme's pop economics editorial policy - analysing the strategies of Tesco rather than meticulously tracking the nuances of futures and derivatives. Their slightly one dimensional analysis of Fifty Cent's 'business empire' was a bit of a let down though. It seemed to have been driven almost exclusively by the fact they'd managed to gain a brief audience with the man himself. For this read; they stood around some palatial hotel room while he absent mindedly played his own PS2 game. The programme basically concluded that Fiddy made a lot of money by putting his name to a lot of merchandise. This was validated by asking a self-confessed Fiddy obsessive, Chanice. They asked whether she would buy a pair of trainers with his name on. The answer was, it seems, yes, which is strange that from an obsessive fan. The conclusion was neither damning, praising or explanatory, the 50 Cent success story was just, y'know, a thing.

Lucien, a brand consultant with a public school education and an American drawl who pronounced leverage as beverage not lever as diva, concluded that Mr Cent had a gangster image, made a lot of money and that the corporations who associated with him may be taking a risk but it may be one that's worth taking. Thank you Lucien. DJ Semtex was equally enlightening when trying to explain why McDonalds had failed to attract a hip hop star to endorse their burgers. His explanation went something like "McDonalds, like, no way, its wack". They failed to mention that Destiny's Child and Justin Timberlake had both been successfully recruited by Maccy D; admittedly they're not very hip hop, but they are very big.

Chanice's mum didn't mind her daughter's obsession with the ex-drug dealing gangster so much (although she doesn't like it when he says "Mother F"). She said that 'he's only reflecting what's happening on the streets'. Really? asked the presenter who they'd deliberately dressed in achingly conservative brogues and Thomas Pink shirts. "Yes", said Chanice's mum, "In Rainham", she qualified with some force. They live in Gillingham, where presumably drive-by shootings are less frequent.

This is a common assertion made by hip hop stars, that their gansta flow is street commentary. But this makes no sense, Fifty Cent isn't reflecting what's happening on the streets. The reason he's hauled moderate talent onto a world stage is because he's been shot nine times. It's a fantastical story upon which an all action vigilante image has been built. He seems like quite a nice guy and understands his business, which helps; but the reason we know he's been shot nine times because most people are not shot nine times in their lifetime. He may be able to mumble humourlessly about his own life, but he's not reflecting what's happening in everyone else's life. If being shot nine times were a reflection of what's typically happening in the world; it would be the equivalent of me leveraging the fact I shop at Tesco in order to foster a multi-million pound music career.

On the otherhand, if Fiddy can rap about Candy Shops, maybe there is something to lever here... "I'm going to the Tesco shop, it has adequately varied stock"

Sunday, March 12, 2006

The geeks come out

E4's Beauty and the Geek is a majestic programme. OK, the geeks aren't quite as geeky as they're portrayed - they're university graduates, but one presents a radio show, another is a comedian and Will managed to end up on the front of the Sun snogging Christine Hamilton. The beauties aren't really that beautiful either; they're mostly second division lad mag standards managing to tick all the right boxes (tall, slim, good fetlocks) but never quite achieving that Keira Knightley natural allure. None the less, both sides play their roles with aplomb; the beauties are shockingly shallow, the geeks awkward and cerebral.

Anyway, like all great reality TV shows, Beauty and the Geek is a straight forward gameshow with a dark brooding undertone. Ably narrated with sneering cynicism by David Mitchell of Peep Show, what starts as a straight forward game where the beauties and geeks pair up for a series of science (for the beauties) and pop/fashion tasks (for the geeks) slowly evolves into a ferocious melodrama depicting the evils of greed over emotion (and we all know what a laugh that can be). Will "My idea of getting ready for a big night out is putting on a slightly stripier shirt" starts to fall for Elissa. Who in turn, realises that "not all geeks are, y'know, bad people" - because she claims that Will's massage (one of the early challenges) was 'like sex'. Will's partner, Alex, has other ideas and when it comes to nominating someone for eviction (the prize for winning a task is to nominate two couples for a survival play-off). Will wants to prolong Elissa's participation, having once brushed her arm or something equally intimate, but Alex views Elissa and partner, Ben, as strong contenders so she wants them off. Will's only opportunity of going out with a 'beauty' slips away, but hilariously, he's incapable of persuading Alex to change her mind. "I have a very strong affection for her" is the best he can do.

When Elissa and Ben survive; Ben, becomes a confidante for the permanently moody (and crying) Sam; whose basic beef is that Ed, her partner, is the gawkiest geek of them all. Ed wasn't very good in the massage challenge, mainly because Sam would let him touch her when they were supposed to be practising. Ben's gentle unrequited romanticism towards Sam ("I just want to envelope you in my arms") is roasted when Elissa wants Ed and Sam out (again, for being a threat to the £40k prize money). This causes Ben, the woosy sap, to burst into tears and run off. Ed, cast as the obtuse social commentator, believes the girls are simply seducing the boys for the purposes of survival - possibly because he's right, possibly because everything all he knows about girls is what he's read in books.

Quixotically, Ed and Sam survive, giving Ben more time to envelope Sam in his arms. Incidentally, that week's challenge was for the geeks to dress the beauties without the benefit of knowing their size etc. When Ed produced a dress Sam liked she burst into tears in relief; "I'm so proud of you, I didn't think you could do it" - she said as though he'd just returned from an unarmed mission deep into Iraq. At this point she crumpled on the bed and sobbed loudly; Ed could only stare, rock from one foot to the other and self consciously take his hands in and out of his pockets. The following week, however, the beauties were charged with giving the geeks a make-over. Jon, Teri's partner, who typically dresses in bright puffer jackets, elaborate hats and vintage sportswear like those jazz funk Svengalis you see bouncing around the back of the stage at a Bent or Young Disciples gig, is made over like a mid-table Premiership fringe player - all fake tan and multi directional hair.

Sam proving that she is not shallow at all, instantaneously announces Jon to be 'hot' and without warning cheers up and, with the power of hypnosis or perhaps drugs, lures Jon to her milieu. This instant switch marginalises Ben even further. Then they're presented with a challenge for the geeks to go to a club and collect telephone numbers. Newly galvanised Jon beats Ben to every girl in the club causing him to retreat to the toilets for a cry. Jon then attempts to progress his relationship with Sam, usually by deliberately dumbing himself down; but when he makes a physical advance she rebukes him, turfs him out of the room they're in and asks Ed to come back - which the dutiful puppy does.

Last week the challenge was to solve a series of puzzles which appeared more complicated than they actually were (neat, because they appeared to be aimed at the geeks, but they were more suited to the beauties). When faced with the challenge of getting a key from a block of ice, whilst Ed cursed himself for not remembering the molecular structure of ice, Sam kept asking why they didn't just "'Frow it against the wall?". She was right. Ed and Sam have a beautiful chemistry, making them my favourite couple for next week's final.

Come on you dozy geek and moody sow.

Monday, March 06, 2006

Sophie

“Auntie Emma, when you wee will the baby fall out?”

For a three year old to understand the link between giving birth and the hole through which it comes out of is impressive. Apparently my Grandma was unsure moments before she had my uncle because nobody told her what was going to happen. What’s less impressive is that although we know it won’t fall out, we’re not wholly sure why.

Tuesday, February 28, 2006

I fought the law

Ah human resources, what a fine profession you are. HR is all about taking an interest in people - this is an important point, to be addressed later. Originally, this interest was in a time and motion context; basically sickness and holiday records. It was little more than a mundane admin process. Like all admin processes; it was a cost to the business; there is very little benefit apart from making sure that people weren't off work too much and didn't take too much holiday. When times are lean, big bosses drive costs out of their business by reducing the amount of admin cost it has to saddle. This made HR people vulnerable to redundancy as well as generally unvalued (and therefore poorly paid).

In an attempt to protect these people-beancounters, the professional discipline of Human Resources was invented. HR people did more than holidays and sickness, they brought direct value to the business by hiring and firing (more admin) and providing training and development structures. Now, training has a very linear relationship between a need and how that need is satisfied - can't use Excel? do some Excel training - again, not hard to do if you put your mind to it. Development, on the other hand, is like spiritual enlightenment; no one knows what it is, how you achieve it, but you're afraid if you don't have it you're missing something. It's like trying to heard cats... cats made of jelly. Development is the emperors new clothes of HR; Did you know that Waitrose staff can actually get trips to the cinema and theatre paid for by the partnership because its viewed as a "developmental opportunity"? Development is such a rampant and conveniently amorphous beast, if you don't provide "developmental opportunities" you're a bad company. Why should we believe this? Because it's on every job advert... adverts that are written by HR people. And so HR's self fulfilling prophecy is complete; we're important, because we say we're important.

Every company is now expected to have an HR function to show what a progressive company they are. If you're a small company it's unlikely that you can afford a properly trained HR person or justify employing them full time. This means the role inevitably falls to someone who has an interest in people (i.e. the fundamental pretence of HR); what they earn, what their problems are and so on. In other words, this is a perfect role for the office gossip.

Being a gossip of any kind is all about power; having something that others haven't got. If you hold something others haven't got, that gives you one degree of power, if you're mandated to have some control over people then power increases exponentially. A mandate to write HR rules that dictate peoples lives is manna from heaven for an office gossip.

So why am I telling you all this? well, working for a small company and being the first person in its history to need paternity leave means I've get first hand experience of the small company HR person in action. Our HR person was detailed with writing a paternity leave policy. I'm the only person this policy applies to because I'm the only man in the company of a realistic child bearing age who isn't gay.

HR Woman comes in to tell me the policy is written and it basically says I get 2 weeks at £100 a week - what is known as the statutory minimum allowance. Like all statutory rates they're basically set to give some protection from unscrupulous employers to sweat shop workers whilst protecting small businessmen from being bankrupted with onerous payments. I'm not a sweat shop worker and my employer is not on the brink of bankruptcy, therefore our policy should reflect the attitude of the company towards its employees. However HR Woman is not enlightened to such thinking, she sees that the policy should reflect her ability to wield her power over others. The more onerous the policy, the more powerful she is. The joy of telling me I was about to lose nearly half my monthly salary on her whim was unconfined. I began my challenge, I questioned why the company has taken on board a punitive policy when a. it's a financially sound company, b. we readily spunk the said amount on a hopeless procession of consultants (including, it turns out, a consultant who suggested the policy to her in the first place) and c. that my salary was all budgeted for and effectively a sunk cost... and d. and e. and f. and so on.

In challenging her legitimacy in having and applying this power over me she began to recoil; she smiled broadly, suggested I talk to our MD, shrugged her shoulders and said... "there's nothing I can do... it's the law". I composed myself, gathered my thoughts and told her that was "fucking rubbish" and that did she really think that it was illegal for the company to pay over the statutory minimum. She shrugged. Then I realised that maybe she wasn't talking about the law of the land, but the law of the HR person; what she was actually saying was "Sorry, I have to ignore your personal situation and apply a rigid regressive policy just to make you unhappy... it's my job" her smile, however, reminded me that the company was at least supportive of my overall development. And for this, at least, I am grateful.

Monday, February 27, 2006

Pointless Ruffles activity number 4,507

I could be painting the nursery but I'm not, of course, I'm compiling my second annual top 50 albums. Compiled with no reference to last year's list, I'm impressed, at least with the consistency. Only 9 albums made the list last year that didn't make this year's list, highest ranked being 26th, Louder Than Bombs by Smiths. Congratulations to 2 Many DJ's for shooting in at number 10... although why it wasn't in the top 50 last year I couldn't tell you.

Still, no logic or reasons given, here's the list.

1. It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back - Public Enemy (1)
2. 101 - Depeche Mode (2)
3. Tricks of the Shade - The Goats (3)
4. Live at the Heavenly Social Vol 2 - Jon Carter (9)
5. 70 Minutes of Madness - Journeys by DJ - Coldcut (7)
6. The Stone Roses - The Stone Roses (5)
7. (What's the Story) Morning Glory - Oasis (23)
8. Nevermind - Nirvana (20)
9. Pills 'n' Thrills and Bellyaches - Happy Mondays (6)
10. As Heard on Radio Soulwax Vol.2 - 2 Many DJs (-)
11. Music for the Masses - Depeche Mode (-)
12. O.K Computer - Radiohead (10)
13. Orbital 2 - Orbital (4)
14. Rage Against the Machine - Rage Against the Machine (8)
15. Paul's Boutique - The Beastie Boys (28)
16. Songs of Faith and Devotion - Depeche Mode (48)
17. Technique - New Order (17)
18. The Chronic - Dr. Dre (16)
19. Abbey Road - The Beatles (24)
20. Licensed to Ill - The Beastie Boys (-)
21. Dummy - Portishead (21)
22. Black Sunday - Cypress Hill (30)
23. Copper Blue - Sugar (37)
24. Hunky Dory - David Bowie (11)
25. Parklife - Blur (42)
26. The Beatles [The White Album] - The Beatles (25)
27. Republic - New Order (15)
28. Hatful of Hollow - The Smiths (-)
29. Leftism - Leftfield (12)
30. The Bends - Radiohead (13)
31. Violator - Depeche Mode (19)
32. MTV Unplugged In New York - Nirvana (14)
33. Raising Hell - Run DMC (27)
34. Low Life - New Order (-)
35. White Room - KLF (38)
36. Blue Lines - Massive Attack (29)
37. Protection - Massive Attack (18)
38. 3 Years, 5 Months and 2 Days in the Life of... - Arrested Development (-)
39. Bizarre Ride II the Pharcyde - The Pharcyde (40)
40. The Queen Is Dead - The Smiths (22)
41. 3 Feet High and Rising - De La Soul (44)
42. A Rush of Blood to the Head - Coldplay (45)
43. Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld - The Orb (33)
44. Debut - Bjork (32)
45. Connected - Stereo MCs (50)
46. Screamadelica - Primal Scream (-)
47. The Prodigy Experience - The Prodigy (-)
48. Straight Outta Compton - N.W.A. (-)
49. Teaser and the Firecat - Cat Stevens (36)
50. Definitely Maybe - Oasis (-)

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

United nations

German, Ivorian, Ivorian, Swiss, French, Belorussian, Brazilian, Spanish, Swedish, Spanish, French, French

The nationalities of Arsenal's starting eleven tonight; the first English club to beat Real Madrid in Madrid. Don't get me wrong, I have a soft spot for Arsenal, call me old fashioned, but just how English is this team? 


Sunday, February 19, 2006

Never mind the Brits, here's the Ruffs

The music scene is pretty good at the moment and this year's Brits was a demonstration of its general good health. Things are still a bit polite for me, though, I like to live vicariously through our naughty pop stars. Coldplay have mastered that MTV swagger (copyright: US MTV friendly 'alternative' bands); ramshakling onstage like a gang 'o' lads whilst ensuring the aesthetic of the camera's arena wide sweep isn't upset. James Blunt is such an endearingly bewildered buffoon you want to beat his legs with a bike chain and make him cry. And, if the world has to have a KT Tunstall, then this KT Tunstall is better than most. The Gorillaz were great because they're a multimedia project suited to multimedia performance. Unlike, say, the exceptional Kaisers, who play indie pop better suited to dark sweaty venues. I particularly enjoyed the (intentional?) irony of Paris Hilton announcing American Idiot as the best international song.

Anyway, in the spirit of all things celebratory; here's the Top 10 of Ruffles' 2005 purchases (Last year's winner: Felix Da Housecat).

1. If You Can't Join Em, Beat Em - DJ Format
2. A Bugged Out Mix - Erol Alkan
3. Silent Alarm - Bloc Party
4. Hot Fuss - Killers
5. Playing the Angel - Depeche Mode
6. Taste the Secret - Ugly Duckling
7. Fabriclive 19 - Freestylers
8. Brassbound - Ordinary Boys
9. Push The Button - Chemical Brothers
10. LCD Soundsystem - LCD Soundsystem

And whilst I'm fiddling around with iTunes, some random facts from my iPod...

Shortest tune: Runaway Dreamer - Felix Da Housecat (0 minutes 0 seconds)
Longest tune: Timeless - Goldie (21 minutes 3 seconds)
First in alphabetical order - A Ballad to Forget - Soulwax
Last in alphabetical order - Zuton Fever - Zutons

I could, theoretically, makes a compilation CD (74 minutes) with 125 songs on it. The shortest compilation would have 5 songs.
It currently has 13.6 days of music on it, which is 4,704 tunes, which averages out as 4 minutes 9 seconds... there are 15 'average' songs, two of which are by 50 Cent. Hmm.

Sunday, February 12, 2006

36 different ways of sliding

The games of the 20th winter Olympiad; an opportunity to take an obsessive interest in sports you wouldn't normally glance at if they were played naked. In truth there are precious few winter activities that can be made into sports; ski-ing, skating, sledging, snowboarding. It's a wonder they haven't found a way of competing in snowballing or snuggling up with a big cup of cocoa. The Games are packed with derivations of these four principle activities with some differences invisible to the naked eye; downhill skiing is about skiing downhill, slalom is about skiing downhill with lots of twists and turns, giant slalom is about skiing downhill with less twists and turns than slalom but more than downhill skiing. They also have super giant slalom; which I'm sure is just a test to see if anyone's really paying attention.

Still, there's a lot to enjoy about the Games; not least their soporific quality. Most of the sports involve the competitors taking turns one by one dressed head to toe in a curious mix of Lycra cat suit and motorcycle protective wear. It's impossible to tell one competitor from another. What's more, they don't even wear anything like their national colours. Skiers from Austria are most likely to wear pink and yellow, figure dancers wear sequinned boob tubes. Add this anonymity to the indistinguishable differences between first and last - fractions of a second - it makes it fantastically undemanding to watch.

Secondly, British commentators rarely know what they're talking about, usually they rely on a 'British number 1' to provide expert analysis; even though they attained their status as the best UK speed skater through a rollerskating competition in a Tesco car park. For reasons I've yet to fully fathom I prefer Eurosport coverage to the BBC; perhaps because of their wide-eyed relentless 24/7 coverage. They seem so pleased to cover the event that they don't care whether anyone is watching the Nigerian cross country skier or Egyptian luge champion, they show it all in full regardless.

Last night we watched the final thrilling (probably) rounds of the Women's Freestyle Skiing. At first this simply looks like slalom in big trousers because the competitors wear cool urbanwear over regulation Lycra. Closer analysis reveals this is a sport that seems to involve skiing over knee-crunching bumps (moguls) until you hit a ramp and do a jump; this is followed by more moguls another 'air' and over the finish line. The winner is not the quickest; it's judged by a panel of anonymous judges (although for all I know it could be by a Scandinavian TV text poll). Originally invented for the cool snowboarding set, it's become detached from its roots because those who look coolest are the ones who are penalised for making it look really difficult and fast - those who are most tediously efficient win. Disappointingly, for the marketing men at least, It was won by the (comparatively) plain looking Canadian Jennifer Heil. Heil is a Matrina Navartilova to the Chris Evert Lloyd of Norwegian hotty Kari Traa who claimed silver. Traa spent most of the competition sparkling into the camera whilst her fellow competitors tried, and failed to beat her score. As the competition progressed the commentator's filling became more desperate. Finally he resorted to; "There she is, Kari Traa, with her classic Norwegian looks - blonde hair, blue eyes and a casual freestyle skiing technique"

Yup, you can tell a Norwegian a mile off by their casual freestyle skiing technique.

Sunday, January 29, 2006

Gallows humour

I like to think of myself as a democrat who is liberal minded. This would suggest, therefore, that I'm a good fit for the Liberal Democrats. I know, however, that liberalism is kinda boring, so I try to take a side if I can, to the left in the main. Inside, though, I know I'm a bit boring; I don't climb mountains, grow giant mangoes or go seagull racing at the weekends. This is OK, not being very interesting allows me to exist within my own comfort zone.

Then the cuddly boring Liberal Democrats disintegrate in a storm of alcoholism, rent boys and secret bisexual-ess-ness. This is just not my brand of boring; this is not the dull uneventful middling life I signed up to. None of it adds up, how do you find the time to watch low impact reality TV and find Tesco Self-Scan exciting when you're buggering rent boys in an alcohol soaked stupor?

Then, just when I thought my belief system was more aligned to Leigh Bowry than, ahem, Lea-fy Buckinghamshire; George Galloway erupted in the Big Brother house and it all became clear to me. I spent the last couple of weeks trying to spot what was so distasteful about Galloway. I hadn't read that much about him, so my thoughts weren't coloured by the press. He was against the war and spoke a common man rhetoric that was easy to subscribe to. He pissed off the Americans, which didn't seem a crime. He just seemed like a intelligent, thoughtful, slightly conservative middle-aged man. Not a million miles from where I'll end up, I think. But he's friends with Pete Burns and Saddam Hussain, am I really more aligned to these people than cuddly Charles Kennedy and his merry band of terribly sensible people? It seems, perhaps, my naiveté lulled me into a false sense of security becuase when Galloway opened up it was quite evident that he wasn't really interested in the substance of the debate; he was simply interested in his role in it. It's not a question of whether his argument is stronger, its more that if he's in control then he's winning.

That's when it dawned on me that Galloway isn't like me; we may claim to stand for similar values, but our motives are different. Whereas he chooses to ride on these values for his own self aggrandisement, my motives are rather more simple. I think these values are right because its better to be good to people than to be bad, because life is better that way. Perhaps this is one of life's great failings, the argument is too simple. You can't work into a passionate tirade about going about your normal business, not bothering too many people and generally being nice, polite and straight forward. Instead people who have something else to promote; themselves, for example, can use this liberal minded language as a screen for another, more sinister, agenda. Galloway uses it to promote himself and people like me are seduced into being supportive because they're not otherwise represented in the circuses of the mainstream media and politics. Who is more the fool, eh?

Sunday, January 22, 2006

Maybe baby

I haven't really talked much about the baby and its impending arrival in April. I remember reading that Norman Cook asked his label boss to drop him should he produce an album of peans to his son and I'm acutely aware I could fall into the same trap. I'm paranoid of talking incessantly about 'precious gifts' and 'special times'. In truth, six months in, the whole pregnancy has been rather uneventful. Emma is slowly changing shape (though still in her own clothes she'd want me to point out), and I have sung more songs to her belly than anyone else's (December: Christmas carols, January: Beatles, February: I'm thinking Yardie ragga). Otherwise, you tell people, then you wait a bit, then the baby turns up.

Sort of. As the year turns, our thoughts are becoming crystalised on getting ready. Once you enter the baby economy, you realise the baby business is big business. Put 'baby' in front of a product name and you can mark it up by about 10 times. Take this baby bath from Bloomin' Marvellous. According to the blurb, it puts the baby into a position that simulates the baby in the womb thus providing a sense of safety and blah. In essence it's a bucket; 99p from B&Q, £18.99 from Blooming Marvellous.

We're also booked onto ante-natal classes; albeit several months late. We're going with the National Childbirth Trust classes rather than NHS. This was recommended by the mid-wife who viewed our uber-middle class house as a sign that we shouldn't be pitched in with the teenage mothers on the NHS class (lesson one: how to tell your headmaster you'll be missing next Tuesday's double French). Apparently you should be booked on after three months, we left it until 6 months so now we're on an overflow class at the end of March. I'd like to go in with no pre-conceptions; but try as I might I can't.

Most recently we had a tour around the hospital. Well, nearly. We went last week with Vicki (due March), arriving at 6pm and then waiting nearly an hour to be told that the hospital had sent out leaflets all over the county saying that the tour was every Thursday (it's actually Wednesday). An hour in a maternity ward gave us ample opportunity to observe the many freaks and dweebs who are populating the country (says the man who, from an outsiders point of view, looked to have fathered two children with two women without any apparent problem to either party). Watching the enormously pregnant fourteen year old waddle out the door to have a cigarette makes you realise how lucky you are. Still, this is not as surprising as hearing from one of the people complaining to the big boss of the maternity ward about the tour mix-up that "It's disgusting, there are heavily pregnant women here".

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

All seeing Ruffles

Things I've noticed about Big Brother...

  • Celebs smoke strangely; Pete Burns smokes out of the corner of his mouth, probably for good reason, Sam Preston puffs like a spiv, holding his fag like a dart, presumably to enhance his Mod credo,

  • Though it pains me, George Galloway, comes over as quite a rounded individual. Although Ihis assertion that Sadam Hussain was loved by the Iraqi people, does at least give me one hook to hang my hat of hate on,

  • You Spin Me Round is a TUNE! (so is King's Love and Pride, jesus, how easy is iTunes?)

  • It is secrectly reassuring to find out that d-list celebs like Jodi Marsh are exactly how you want them to be: perma-tanned big titted gobshite on the outside, broken human being on the in,

  • When people talk to Dennis Rodman they talk like Dennis Rodman, for this read: Jodi Marsh talking about 'lickin' hot pussy', and Fariah Alam going on about "fucking a Paki bitch"

  • Pete Burns; who looks like a cgi character from a Playstation Game, and Barrymore who looks like every other fifty something on the planet, are essentially the same person and if either ever realised this they would explode.

Monday, January 09, 2006

Hunka hunka burning mouse

OK, so you come out of your little house, looking for some cheese. Without warning some bastard picks you up and slings you out the window. You know you're doomed, your life is slowly slipping away... what do you do?

Sunday, January 08, 2006

Ghost wars - Steve Coll

This is a superb book charting the history of the CIA's involvement in the Middle East from the Afghan war through to September 10th 2001. The narrative is a chronological look at how the US covertly supported the Mujhaden , via Pakistan's secret service, when the Soviets moved in to support Afghanistan's faltering government. The mujahaden was made up of a pathwork of warlords fighting in the area. The US, sensing a Soviet march to oil in the middle east, supplied political, humanitarian and eventually, military aid to the resistance. They chose not to back an Afghan nationalist warlord, General Ahmed Massoud, because he did deals with the Russians. Instead they chose to back the General Hekmatyar; an Islamic radical and a ruthless idealogue.

By supporting Hekmatyar the US failed to recognise how the increasing surge in political Islam could grow to threaten all non-Islamic nations, including the US. When the Soviet Union withdrew so did the Americans, allowing the civil war to continue. Political Islamists; Hekmatyar, Osama bin Laden and the Taliban built a foundation from which al Qaeda could build its strength. What's more they were able to spread their influence through Pakistan, the Islamic world and through terrorist networks - employing tactics which attracted a high media profile and using modern technology to spread the word.

The Afghan war jihadists came from all over the region, including Saudi Arabia, partly attracted by the concept of religious war against the Soviet infidels, and also disillusioned by the increasing westernisation of traditional Muslim nations, modernisation which arose from the oil wealth in the region. Afghanistan, its chaos and poverty, represented an opportunity for a fundamentalist version of Islam to be built; the birth of the Umma - the community of Islam. with the fall of the Soviet Union, American interest in the region was limited to speculative commercial opportunities such as tapping the gas fields of Uzbekistan. Even when concerns were released reactions were stymied by relations with Islamic states including Pakistan and Saudi Arabia, a poor understanding of the region or political islam, and their residual commercial interests in the region (a lot of time was spent trying to do commercial deals with the resolutely pious Taliban).

Having let al Qaeda's influence fester for years, when the US government finally decided that Osama bin Laden was a serious threat to the US, Bill Clinton, paralysed by the Monica Lewinsky impeachment, got the yips when it came to an assasination. Several opportunities were missed. By September 10th 2001, President Bush had become tired of 'swatting flies' when it came to Osama bin Laden and the Taliban and decided it was time to take affirmative action. As the wheels began turning to provide arms to Massoud's Northern Alliance; Massoud was assassinated by al Qaeda suicide bombers and the 9/11 mission was commencing...

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

The one which starts as a chat and ends in a rant

It's clearly rock-u-mentary time on telly at the moment, with BBC, ITV and Channel 4 all screening big behind the scenes documentaries of three of the big pop music stories of the year.

First up was Madonna's 'I going to tell you a secret' all exquisitely shot in black and white real-o-vision. Aside from the introduction of the children Lourdes and Gastap, she rather neglected to tell any of her secrets. In fact it was basically a complete re-run of her previous backstage documentary; Truth or Dare, albeit with a Guy Ritchie cameo replacing Madonna deep throating a coke bottle. We pretty much learnt that she still hangs out with greased up gay teens and burlesque dancers, she still does a silly prayer before each show "Please let God protect our hairstyles whilst we fornicate and blaspheme on stage", and that's pretty much it. Although you can't deny she puts on a good show for an old bird.

The jury remains out on whether Take That can recreate the magic as a foursome without the charismatic one. It's a shame they feel the need to reform because they carry the grace of people who have been there, done that, and moved onto other things. Recreating teen pop magic seems all a little tragic. On the other hand, the one who won't be there, Williams, is a desperado when it comes to being loved by crowds of 30 somethings. In response to the question 'are you jealous of Gary Barlow' he responded with "14 Brits? Fuck off", because that's how he values his life it seems. Barlow's life nowadays revolves around his mansion, home studio where he still make diabolical MOR pop, his beautiful ex-dancer wife and his three year old daughter. Their former manager, Nigel Martin Smith nailed it when he said that Williams' obsession with discrediting Barlow after the split did Barlow a favour; it drove him off the popstar treadmill away from all the paranoia, obsession and isolation that fame provides.

Then there's the story of Live8; or, the story of how Richard Curtis, Bono and, of course, Bob Geldof slipped from a good cause into narcissism. Geldof's contradictions were writ large; whilst trying to convince people that Live8 had nothing to do with a rock show, he was also obsessional about avoiding being viewed as naff. Curtis and Bono, who have made careers out of naff-ness, had no such pretensions. They wanted to recreate Live Aid for their nebulous 'poverty' cause (poverty is bad, bad things are bad, bad things shouldn't happen, let's stop bad things), and slide into the history books whilst they were at it. To his credit Geldof's resistance was fierce; he wanted "something different" eventually caved-in when Bono painted his 'different' vision. 63 year old Paul McCartney on-stage with 45 year old Bono and U2 who released their first album in 1979, singing the 1968 hit Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Heart Club Band. Fuck yes, that's different.

Once Geldof was on board however, his obsessional induglencies took over. It was all wrapped up in a fiery exchange between Geldof and Harvey Goldsmith. Goldsmith was sitting with a list of bands that looked like one of those GQ greatest ever trad rock band lists. Geldof was insistent that The Killers had to be fitted in somewhere. They couldn't, it was a physical impossibility. They had to, said Geldof, The Killers are the coolest band on the planet (really?), Goldsmith said that something had to give, suggesting The Cure or UB40 could make way. Geldof obsessed that both bands we integral to the whole plot. I wouldn't like to underestimate the power of the cod reggae massive or the balding goth community in making poverty history, but surely Geldof had to get real. "we can create our own reality" he said. If you like, Bob.

So, how come the three biggest events in pop last year involved a 47 year old mother of two, a band reforming after 10 years and the most middle of the road social protest in history (backed by the prime minister for christsakes)? Music and television needs to constantly evolve. That means people with new ideas need to come in all the time. The problem is that the people who were the cutting edge in the mid eighties, early nineties are now 30 and 40-somethings with kids and mortgages. So no longer do you get programmes like the Tube and The Word, you get Location Location Location and House of Tiny Tearaways. Interesting to adults trying to bring up their kids and move up the property ladder. Dull as ditchwater to teenagers. There's no chance of another Acid House or Madchester because we're too busy re-inventing the last 10 years and presenting it to the Kids as something new. The drive to eradicate poverty is being done in a thoroughly sensible way, Pink Floyd and The Who and Madonna and Take That are the kings of pop and rock? How can I think differently if all I'm hearing and seeing is the same old stuff. I don't want to understand today's music, I want it to be noise, but it's all so lovely and palatable, how will we ever progress if everyone is so bloody nice about it.

And breathe.

Monday, December 12, 2005

Ker-ha-boom shanka

I was the only person in the south of the country who didn’t hear the oil explosion at the Buncefield Depot. Emma remembers hearing what she thought was thunder. Otherwise, all was quiet in our house.

Although I do feel I’ve missed out, I’m pleased so many other people around me experienced the blast. Listening to their harrowing stories brings a chill to my bones. Their graphic accounts have given me the feeling of almost being there. They go a little something like this…

“I woke up and I thought a plane had crashed, I turned to [insert partners name here] and said ‘what’s that’ and they said ‘I dunno, what do you think it is’ and I said ‘I dunno’ and I got out of bed to see what I could see and I couldn’t see anything. So I went back to bed, but in the morning I saw [insert name/relative or neighbours name here] and they said did you hear that explosion last night, and they said ‘yeah, what was it?’ and I said ‘I dunno, what do you think it was’ and they said ‘I dunno’.”

This type of story goes on for a while before concluding with a few tasty facts plagarised from the BBC’s new coverage (they heard it in the Netherlands, the atmospheric conditions are making it a nightmare, they need 32,000 litres of water per minute to put it out). I don’t know, surely everyone knows the way to put out a oil fire is to place a damp tea towel over it.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Pride before a fall

The Thatchers, a summary: Denis, the father, self made multi-millionaire. Margaret, the mother, iconic global figurehead, an idealogue who left an indelible mark on British culture and world affairs.

Mark, the son, arrested for his part in planning a military coup. Carol, the daughter, winner of 2005 I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here reality TV show.

If I were their parents, know how proud I'd be.

Thursday, December 01, 2005

And finally, here is the news

Having put the test in her “urine flow” as the instructions so quaintly put it, we waited four minutes. I flicked through teletext whilst keeping an eye on the clock, rounding it up to the next minute to be certain.

We shook hands, turned the stick over and it was positive. Within the next hour both sets of parents, Emma’s sister and best friend were all on the phone asking about the holiday we’d just got back from. Emma bit her lip and kept a straight face. She spent the rest of the day reassuring herself that she was “having a baby” by imitating what it'll be like to stroke the cat when it sits on her tummy eight months from now. We order the Rough Guide to Pregnancy (and a copy of Bloc Party’s remix album for good luck); the Rough Guide served us well in Cuba and Vegas and Toronto and Boston and Florence and Dubrovnik and New York. It's rubbish, of course. We decided the next step was to get everything confirmed and checked out with the doctor. We also decided we need plans for money, the house and who we told and when. Then we got on with today's life.

That was the end of August, we'd just got back from Havana, we'd sat for nearly 36 hours in a terminal full of cigar smoke where the rain was coming in through the light fittings. Unbeknown to us, Emma was 5 weeks pregnant; it would have been safer if she'd injected MRSA bug in her eyeballs.

Telling people has been a long process; it's hard, we've waited for the conversation to come around, we've stopped other conversations mid-flow, we've tried being direct, we've tried being cryptic, we've even told people straight away to avoid "spoiling a perfectly good night out". We've tried telling people face to face, by email, by telephone. In groups, one to one. Over Thai food, Italian and good old fashioned English pub grub. We had to delay telling the people who we knew couldn't keep a secret until we'd told the people who could. Eventually we got everyone; not always how we wanted to, but we did it.

The technicalities; 20 weeks gone, due 22nd April, Sex: unknown (we both thought we'd spotted some boy-like elements on the scan, but it turns out it's the umbilical cord - like a bad joke, but true). We've had 2 scans and everything is going dandy. Emma's in excellent shape. She's developed a multi-dimensional sense of smell and sleeps a lot. But she hasn't been sick. There's already a wardrobe full of maternity wear from Isabella Oliver and La Redoute, not that any of it is needed at the moment. Her initial concerns that she'd lose her shape have been replaced with the realisation it offers a whole new set of shopping opportunities.

Me? Well, apparently I'm instantly more attractive to woman, my evident virility releases chemicals that make me a more appealing catch. Apparently, I'm more likely to spread my seed (done it once, can do it again, see?). The truth is more prosaic, we're hurrying along a few outstanding jobs, we're getting a bigger car, we've got a baby bank account. And then we wait; we wait for the baby to grow. I go to football, we've got tickets for Depeche Mode 2 weeks before the due date, we carry on doing what we're doing. To quote my dad; "You need to be ready because nothing can prepare you". And nothing can, so I won't be ready, I'll just be there waiting for it to leap on me. I can't wait.

Friday, November 25, 2005

Not the best

I seem to have caused some consternation around the office with my reaction to George Best's death. I expressed my relief at his demise; pleased that his ugly tawdry story had come to an end. When Princess Diana died, her beauty excused her of her indulgences and flaws. Best's footballing talents have excused him of his. The common premise seems to be that to be a genius, you have to be slightly unhinged, mentally ill even, cursed with inner demons. Look at Paul Gascoigne and Diego Maradona and... erm.

George Best can be ranked amongst the best players the world has ever seen, but to say his drink problem was an inevitable consequence of his genius is utter rubbish. Pele never had it, Johan Cruyff, Franz Beckenbauer, Bobby Moore, Bobby Charlton, Zinedine Zidane, Thierry Henry, Ronhaldino, Eusebio. The list of great players whose lives haven't descended into a farcical pantomime is far longer than those who have.

So Best has been excused his self-indugance in drink because of a fleeting, wasted talent at football. In the end his slow, painful and ugly death was the result of his own actions. A suicidal addiction to drink. He had every chance to get out of it, more chances and support than most. In the end he chose to abuse the help that was offered to him. He deserves to be ignored in the same way he ignored the endless warnings about what he was doing to himself. At least now we don't have to endure this endless tabloid voyeurism anymore, that should be a relief to us. And him.

And now it seems I will have to endure a minute's pious silence at the football tomorrow. Gadzooks.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Story from two weeks ago: Man loses keys

...Is probably not a headline recently featured in the Jersey Evening Post, but it is that kind of place. Like so many others, we'd have overlooked Jersey if it wasn't for the fact Penny and Mike live there. It's got a kind of parochial, old persons holiday vibe about it (underpinned by unfathomable amounts of bankers' gold). The truth is, of course, very different. Penny and Mike, like their friends, are comfortable and confident people, the kind of comfort and confidence that is bred from health, (relative) wealth and the obvious safety of a small island.

It's an odd place (that's odd as in, not like most places), the island is a myriad of roads and it takes an age to get anywhere, you sometimes feel that you're being drive around in circles whilst someone sets up the next destination - "OK, they're gone, take down the beach front surfers cafe, and put up the sports centre". On Saturday I sat in a pub all afternoon with Mike's Hockey buddies, old school friends of his, one of whom I met three years ago, the others I didn't know at all. On paper an afternoon with strangers would have filled me with dread, but we sat discussing the nuances of their five-a-side league and the politics of Jersey hockey. They bantered about the old days, less a series of jokes, more keywords about the past to trigger various guffaws - "Biology" [pause] "Ha Ha Ha". It's great that people can have friends like that, they're just like me and my friends, but whilst I was clearly the interloper, it never felt exclusive, there was no pretence or performance, they were just hanging out (though they admitted with a wry smile that Saturday afternoons down the pub after Hockey were unheard of).

The rest of the weekend; a party for Mike's birthday, a coastal walk, breakfast a Big Vern's, Blow Karting on an isolated golden beach and of course, simply hanging out with some of our oldest friends (and Penny's recently grown bump) left me feeling that all was well and good in the world. We flew home relieved of the stresses and hassles of our everyday world, and for a few days at least, it was like we'd left the hassles behind permanently.

Story from one weekend ago: schlep

So I decided that regardless of where it was in the country, I was going to watch Oxford in the 1st round of the FA Cup. When the draw came up as Eastbourne Borough away, it seemed almost perfect. An unusually early 12pm kick-off was the final building block of my plan. It was the pointlessness that appealed - a game a very long way away; if Oxford won nobody would would have blinked, if they lost, they would have been ultimately humiliated. I couldn't leave the game feeling satisfied, apart from, of course, the satisfaction of knowing that I had done it. The pointlessness protected it from being no one else's triumph but mine.

Having practically circumnavigated the M25 I joined the A22; almost imediately I lost Radio 5 Live in a swirl of interference just as Michael Howard was expounding his fanatical support for Liverpool, Swansea City, Welsh rugby and Folkstone Invicta. I tuned into 3 Counties Radio and warnings about traffic around the Lewes fireworks display. Lower Dicker was less eventful than it's name promised, Upper Dicker may have been a different story, but it was a couple of miles up the hill. The ecclesiastical dyslexia of Boship's Roundabout made me chuckle.

I stopped in East Grinstead to get a sandwich, two women, one in a blue mac and lime green beret, talked in some hurdy gurdy Dutch hybrid language, maybe I'd drive too far. Eventually I reached Eastbourne, Eastbourne Borough have a neat, compact ground and is "run like all non-league clubs should be" according to the radio. We were repeatedly informed of the fireworks display that night and the "top cabaret duo" Just A Chance (you suspect that one of the duo is called something like Justin Adams, the other Gary Chance). Once I was in the ground I was sold a poorly printed programme full of typos and three tickets to the half time draw. Still, everyone, including the turnstile operators hoped that I'd enjoy the game. At half time the stadium announcer apologised that the stadium clock was broken and that we should time the game "using the stopwatch on your mobile phone", blimey they think of everything.

The atmosphere was great, 3,800 fans packed the ground, 2,000 more than they'd ever attracted before. They had horns and drums, wracking up a raucous noise. Every time their strikers got over the halfway line you could hear the shrieks of people who had been to as many Borough games as I had (i.e. none). Oxford were the better team throughout, if a little un-inventive, Steve Basham's goal was quality. Then in the last minute, the Eastbourne striker, a little bundle of energy with a low centre of gravity, who was quick but generally useless was bundled over by Oxford's titanic centre back Chris Wilmott and it was a penalty. They scored and the place erupted. Despite the half hearted catcalls of displeasure, most Oxford fans, like me, enjoyed the drama of the whole thing. After all they were on a pointless jaunt themselves, and this was great entertainment. We should tank them in the replay.

1-1 was fittingly inconclusive for my pointless venture, it took two and a half uneventful hours to get back, perfect really.

Friday, November 04, 2005

Fireworks are ace

Having inherited pyromaniac tendencies of my dad, I have come to the conclusion that fireworks are ace. They’re great when you go and see them in an organised display, but even better when you do them yourself.

Emma won’t let me do my own displays. She’s seen my dad idly sling a dud firework into a lit incinerator and seen me accidentally light a rocket upside down causing it to bury into the ground before resurfacing and launching at a jauntier angle than intended onto some dry bracken on the garage roof.

As a family we’re generally hopeless and unsafe when it comes to fireworks, we’ve regularly had temporary deafness foisted upon us as a rogue rocket bounces off the wall of the house onto the patio. When I was about 4 I picked up the wrong end of a recently extinguished sparkler burning my hand to a crisp… when I was 5 I did it again.

Most of all, I like the fact for this weekend, as a nation we engage in a low level, entirely sensible civil war. Kids let off fireworks in the streets, throw them at each other and neighbourhoods club together to bombard other neighbourhoods into submission. I know it’s wrong, but I love it.

Sunday, October 16, 2005

The (in)credible opposition

On the first ever episode of The Young Ones, Rick insisted that he watch a programme called “Nosin’ Around” which was for young adults by young adults. It was all wobbly camera shots and snotty critiques of modern day living. One section saw a selection of disaffected youths explaining all the things you can do before you’re 18 (having sex with a partner of your choice, joining the army etc.) and the irony that, despite all this, you still can’t drink in pubs.

There was a debate on Radio 5 this morning about that reminded me of that sketch. It was about the banning of smoking in pubs. It degenerated into farce within seconds; the anti-ban lobbyist asking why we ban smoking when we still have people working in (dangerous) coalmines. His opposition claimed that there were many health and safety regulations regaring coalmines that protected miners, and there were none protecting non-smokers. This was quickly followed up with “I can’t BELIEVE he’s saying that coalmines are safer than pubs”. From here it basically became a debate on all the things that were more dangerous than smoking (bothering elephants, playing Netball on the M69, invading Iraq).

Eventually Nicky Campbell interrupted them; he asked the anti-ban lobby (a Tory) whether the government were screwing up on this issue. The bloke responded by saying “The Labour party are hypocrites, if they truly believed this they would ban all smoking and why don’t they do this? Because they make millions in taxes from smoking and because most Labour supporters in the north are smokers.”

You have got to love them, haven’t you?

Havana nice time (or what I did on my holidays several months ago)

The taps said it all. The hot tap in our hotel room turned clockwise, the cold, anti-clockwise. This is Cuba, a country pulling in opposite directions and yet, somehow, pulling together at the same time.

Take the Cuban economy, or should I say economies. Pesos for the Cubans and Convertible Pesos for tourists. There are separate shops for pesos and convertibles which work to different pricing structures. This is necessary because the average Cuban earns about £10 a month but the tourists can afford to buy a whole street at peso prices. Having two economies is the only way of getting in money and protecting against tourist driven inflation. The cheapest tickets for La Tropicana rock in at £40. The tourist industry is so potent within the Cuban economy that taxi drivers earn more than doctors. 3% of GDP is generated from US based Cubans sending home money.

The city itself is made up of perfectly restored colonial squares linked by wide leafy boulevards. These are punctuated within with slum-like alleyways where locals sit playing chess listening to loud salsa on poor quality stereos.

The streets are dark and could be perceived as menacing, but Cuba is surprisingly free of crime, especially violent crime. That said, you can’t walk down the street without a street hustler trying to sell you cigars, accommodation or prostitutes. Some simply shout at you (one broke off a date to try to talk to us). Others are more sophisticated spinning a yarn about needing milk for their babies. Apparently if you buy milk for them the shop will try to charge you about 6 pesos (£2). If you fall for that, the Jinetero simply returns the milk to the shop and splits the difference on the over inflated price with the shopkeeper. We were actually hustled by the same guy twice in two days; the first time we fell for it (he asked the time and said he had a friend in Cornwall; they all have friends in UK), second time we ignored him and he shouted “So you don’t speak to the Cuban people then?”.

The country is desperate for outside investment, and everyone is looking for money (the bellhop said he was quite happy to take our pounds when we arrived and our room cleaner told us that Friday was her day off, so we should remember to leave a tip on Thursday). Despite this, communism and Fidel is everywhere meaning the Americans and Japanese (the biggest source of tourist income) are notably absent. At the airport there are three TV’s showing departure times and 8 TV’s showing Fidel speeches. There are pictures everywhere that use brilliant revolutionary rhetoric of “glorious victories” and “gallant heroes”. Then is the CDR, a neighbourhood watch scheme designed to ensure that no Cuban gets too rich; anyone who gets above their station is reported to the authorities. Oh and there is an oppressive and pointless bureaucracy; 2 minutes per passenger going through customs (that’s 3 hours to process a jumbo jet of tourists).

Tell people you’re going to Cuba and they’ll tell you about the immaculate 1950’s vintage cars, the beautiful buildings, the salsa, the cigars and the rum. But this is re-branded Cuba and tells only part of the story. The real Cuba is sometimes like that, but the 1950’s cars are often seem held together with jam, the streets stink of diesel from the inefficient engines, the food is sometimes absolute garbage. These contradictions are what make it so interesting, it won’t last, the dollar is too seductive and the Cubans too desperate. When the US and Cuban governments finally grow up Cuba will undoubtedly become a more pleasant, but decidedly less interesting place to visit.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

Cutting ties

We have recently employed a student on his year out to gain some work experience. His job is a slightly ill-defined admin role; not necessarily the best way of enriching your working experience. The thing is we’re busy, so he gets to do stuff that makes us less so. In fact, the hardest thing, he says, is the fact he’s supposed to work 9am-5pm, presumably without a nap, or a beer. Bless.

Aside from the half-projects placed before him, probably the meanest thing we do is allow him to wear a suit. I don’t wear a suit to work unless I’ve something important on, but at least when I do I look like I should wear it.

Young men in their early twenties don’t wear suits well. They look all awkward, like they’re about to receive another ASBO. Part of the reason is economic; a lack of money means that they probably have only one, which is cheap, will get dirty and is probably slightly too big (they’ll grow into it). There’s also something about ties; young men don’t like wearing ties. I don’t like wearing ties. But, again, my cool, if I have any, is left at home; I am culturally indoctrinated to wear my tie, clean my shoes, tidy my hair, and make appallingly dull small talk with work colleagues. Doing my top button up and making sure the knot is straight is all part of Work-Me.

You don’t see people shopping on a Saturday wearing a suit and tie, a majority of people would not choose to wear one. You have to change your mindset, compromise who you are to wear one. Younger men have not been matured into this sad state of affairs. It is this, not the fact they’re brought in to enrich their working experience then left moving boxes and getting sandwiches, that makes internships most cruel.

Monday, October 03, 2005

Minor celebrity, get me out of here

Back when I worked for the Little Publishing Company on the Hill we were involved in putting on events about the Internet. This was before the dot-com boom, around the time when people knew that the web had potential but didn’t know how to realise it. It was all American gurus with pink hair, professors from NASA and loony Norwegian information specialists. Companies would try to sell technologies that nobody really understood. Unique selling points rarely featured anything to do with the product. Companies would turn up with Lamborghinis and Spice Girl look-a-likes to make themselves known; one woman enlisted the help of her friend Mick Jagger who wafted into our conference and became the most famous person I’ve seen at close quarters.

On occasions my job puts me in front of minor celebrities; Tony Hawks, Nicholas Witchell, Andrew Castle. I also come across senior professionals who seem to receive an even bigger celebrity treatment than Jagger did that day.

We were once visited at the Little Publishing Company by a big cheese from the company’s Dutch parent, we were given various instructions about how we should behave. In our youthful exuberance, we fantasised about running around the building riding a Bernie Clifton style ostrich outfit. In the end, the cheese was rolled in, and out. And nobody but the most important people saw him.

Last week I was at an exhibition, I was talking to someone on the edge of our stand. Behind me there was a flurry of excitement, flash bulbs and chatter. I turned around to see my Chief Executive shaking hands vigorously with a very senior civil servant who had been ushered in from a conference presentation he’d just made. He was a normal looking middle-aged man, surrounded by personal assistants and PR representatives holding clipboards. The photo opportunity over, he was ushered away, his team of six or seven moving as one choreographed unit with him. Assuming he can tie his own shoe laces and hold his winky when going to the toilet, you wander what all these people do. And then you realise; they spend an awful lot of time keeping their teeny weeny niche of responsibility clean.

In a separate incident, a couple of days later, we received a complaint about something that had been printed in our magazine. We’d put the word ‘terrorism’ in the same paragraph as the name of a senior bod in a major defence contractor. A hysterical press officer phoned up demanding a series of actions which would actually serve to draw attention to the piece. I tried to calm her down; I asked whether the bod had seen the piece. She assured me he would be apoplectic if he did. I asked whether it might be possible to talk to the bod himself, perhaps he would see the damage a page long retraction could do; “Further to the minor piece you probably didn’t read last month we would like to assure all readers that Big Defence Company thinks terrorism is bad and that this retraction should not be viewed as a company protesting a little too much”. I wasn’t going to talk to him; didn’t I know who this guy was? I didn’t, I suspected that he was, in essence, a logical and educated man, but to her he was God, someone who would share her panic and disgust.

Working in a big company, it seems, people are assigned jobs which allocate almost a binary set personal of objectives. You must achieve x, if you don’t, you have failed. The equivalent of employing a joiner to do nothing more than hit a nail into wood, if you miss the nail, you’re fired. Don’t think about it, just do it, your job is not to think about how your objectives relate to the real world, that’s someone else’s job. This woman’s whole job was to ensure that her company is only seen in a positive light, anything, however remote, that might suggest she hasn’t achieved that goal puts her in a flat spin. So specific was her goal that all her concentration was focussed on this one objective, she becomes detached from the real world and those around her. Her boss is an untouchable deity, a celebrity with which she has developed an almost personal relationship with through her single objective. To fail is to let him down. You wonder what would happen if businesses were run on normal human emotions and relationships.

Monday, September 26, 2005

Monday 5

Five football pundits were asked in the Guardian what five things they would do to improve football. Martin Tyler, commentator for SKY Sports, in a breathtaking degree of short sightedness or loyalty to the company who have caused a lot of the problems listed ‘reduce swearing’ as his number one priority. Still, it made me think, what my five things are:

1. Reduce ticket prices
Reduce tickets means increased demand. Whilst this is often cited as a mechanism for bringing back t’working classes to the game, my reasoning is a little more hard nosed. If a football stadium is simply a backdrop for corporate hospitality or TV entertainment, a full ground makes a much better product.

2. Limit squad sizes
If a club is limited to, say 24-26 players which can be changed and refreshed during the transfer window, a few injuries and suspensions for the top clubs will even things out. This will open up an element of luck to the season. It will also put more focus on managers because chequebooks will not solve all their problems. And it will prevent larger teams from negative buying i.e. buying up talented players to sit on the bench, depriving others from playing them, or buying to ‘enhance our global brand’.

3. Reduce live TV coverage
Or more specifically reduce the amount of Premiership coverage. There are four professional divisions in England, five including the Conference. One live game per division per weekend will allow a majority of games to kick-off 3pm on a Saturday, will increase the coverage of lower league clubs and enhance the build up to the big Premiership game of the weekend.

4. Only the champions get into the champions league
The Champions League has polarised football. Next season Arsenal, Manchester United and Chelsea will be in the Champions League. So will Real Madrid and Barcelona, AC Milan and Juventus, Bayern Munich, blah de-blah de-blah. The most interesting thing about European qualification is who will come fourth in the Premiership; and even that is getting predictable. Let the champions benefit from the Champions League.

5. Redistribute money throughout the divisions
Wayne Rooney, Michael Essien and Michael Owen cost a combined total of £71 million. Their combined weekly salary could easily top £180,000. Senior professionals in League 2 earn in the region of £40k a year and their clubs are struggling to stay afloat. Not so long ago Watford, Swansea, Oxford and Wimbledon all went from the lower leagues to the top division and did well. There is no realistic chance of that happening at the moment.

Monday, September 19, 2005

Interloper

When England won the rugby world cup, after the game Spanx and I went to watch Oxford play, I think, Lincoln. At half time he phoned Baz, not a rugby fan, to see how Reading were getting on. “What did you think of the rugby?” Spanx asked, “It was OK, a bit gay.” said Baz.

That’s kind of how I feel about The Ashes. Like a lot of people, I watched and listened to more cricket this summer than ever before. And it was great, like a classic novel, which ebbed and flowed, from dark to light, despair to joy.

Not that I’m a particular authority on this analogy because I really don’t read enough. I wish I did, like I wish I was a cricket fan. But it just isn’t my sport; I would be a fraud if I were to nod sagely about ‘reverse swing’ and ‘playing for the light’. I know enough to see that Shane Warne is, perhaps, the greatest cricketer that ever lived, simply because he is so much better than anyone else and that Andrew Flintoff is a charismatic swashbuckling everyman. But I couldn’t be so bold to refer to him as ‘Freddie’.

I wish I was into Cricket, during the recent tour of the Windies, Spanx and I spent an afternoon hypnotised by England’s fierce attack which culminated in Matthew Hoggard taking a hat-trick. But I walked away, now, to care about it seems inappropriate, to get excited about something I didn’t care about 2 months ago doesn’t seem right.

It’s a shame, because my sport, football, is sliding into recession. Chelsea is making the Premiership a tedious procession; the premiership is widening the divide between the rich and the poor, so the 16 teams that could conceivably go down this season are more concerned about losing than winning, the roots are being ripped from the branches making dreams about taking clubs from obscurity to silverware obsolete. It’s no longer interesting to watch the giants of Europe clash in the Champions League, simply because they do it so often. Cricket will never overtake football as the national sport, but it does make for a more interesting spectacle, I just feel like I’m gate crashing someone else’s party.

Friday, September 09, 2005

Is it just plain mean or plain ironic?

The woman next to me in the gym was reading one of those magazines that promises to reveal the secrets behind Martine McCutcheon’s new bikini body. The page she was reading was a story of a woman who thought she was a man because she had no vagina. Having read that, she turned to an article on the next page on how to achieve the ultimate orgasm.

Monday, September 05, 2005

(Going) home is where the heart (ache) is

Dateline: Havana. Project: getting home from holiday. We woke and it was raining; raining quite hard. This was the outer edges of Hurricane Katrina that was sweeping across the Florida Keys. We checked out from our hotel, as scheduled at 12pm.

+1 hour – The rain means a trip to La Plaza de la Revolution is replaced with a trip to the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes

+3 hour – Back at the hotel, lunch

+4 hours – Walk to Parque Central Hotel to leave a message for a parent from Emma’s school that is in Cuba doing some work for Simply Red.

+5.5 hours – Bus picks us up; on the bus are Angharad and Drew. Angharad drives a drug education bus that visits Emma’s school every Summer. Not only is this slightly bizarre, it’s actually the second time this has happened; we bumped into them in Dubrovnik last year.

+6 hours – Arrive at the airport; informed that there is a four hour delay and the flight will not leave until 1am. We’re given lunch vouchers as compensation.

+7 hours – Go to the restaurant to get free lunch, turned away because of recently invented and obviously arbitrary rule that the free lunches were for the first 30 people only.

+8.5 hours – Go through passport control (two minutes per person). Drew is questioned as to why he has a British passport but was born in LA.

+9 hours – Arrive in departures; the restaurant options are manky hotdogs, manky hamburgers or manky pizza. I have a manky pizza.

+9.5 hours to +15 hours – Rain. No flights. No seats. No news. Rain starts coming through the roof filling up bins. Rain starts to come through light fittings, lights start to short out. Bins fill up and flood the floor. Messages and rumours start to circulate; the airport has been closed for hours, no it hasn’t, yes it has.

+15 hours – Departure time. No plane. Rain.

+16 hours – London flight called to gate B1, passengers go back through passport control, reclaim their bags and their visas (Emma, in a moment of trickery Paul Daniels would be proud of, manages to somehow pick my visa up and then put it back in the pile causing a momentary panic that it’s lost).

+16.5 hours – 500+ passengers with associated luggage stand outside Havana airport looking at coaches.

+18.5 hours – a long charade of people getting on coaches, then off coaches, then on coaches again. All of which is punctuated by false alarms, stampedes and one man shouting “PRESENTE” every two minutes. Rain is now lashing down.

+19.5 hours – Eventually board a coach which takes us to a deserted resort in Kholey. One couple complain that the mini-bar is locked and unplugged; some of us are grateful for a dry, clean bed to sleep in.

+24 hours – Wake up, miss breakfast, wander around resort.

+28 hours – Lunch, due to awful selection I have a plate of rice and pasta. Drinks are extra; then they’re free and give everyone their money back.

+29 hours – Coach arrives.

+30 hours – Arrive at check in desk, check in desk is closed.

+31.5 hours - Check in, plane due to leave at 4pm, delayed until 6pm.

+33 hours – Passport control (2 minutes per person)

+37 hours – Plane delayed from 6pm to 9pm.

+38 hours – 9pm. Plane delayed until 11pm.

+40.5 hours – Man with his head wrapped in toilet paper, wanders around the airport with an empty bottle of rum and a sign saying ‘28 hours’. Whoops and cheers all round.

+42 hours – No announcement and the wrong gate is showing the London flight but the plane begins to board. Emma is so demoralised she seriously suggests we don’t get on, after all, “we’ll just have to get off again”.

+42.5 hours – Flight CUB400 for London takes off 27 hours late.

+51 hours – lands London Gatwick (although it’s announced by the pilot as Heathrow)

+52 hours – Passport control, bags.

+52.5 Coaches. Car

+54 Home.

Thursday, September 01, 2005

Road rage

Do you know how to re-surface a road? Well, there’s a big machine that looks like a mechanical elephant that skims the surface off, then another machine with a big tray spreads out the new tarmac, then a big roller flattens it out, and a big sweeping machine cleans the surface and gets rid of any debris.

They’re re-surfacing our road at the moment, because it’s a busy road it’s being done overnight so not to inconvenience rush hour commuters (the poor lambs). We asked the burly workmen if we'd hear anything while they worked; “Not a squeak” said burly workman #1.

We certainly haven’t heard a squeak; probably because it was being drowned out by the thumping, roaring and banging noises.

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