Wednesday 27 November 2013

Big Brother

(Written 30/08/2010)


Maybe I'm thick - don't all rush to post, I'm about to qualify that - but I have never seen the point of Big Brother from the audiences' point of view. From Endemol's point of view, it's brilliant, extremely cheap TV and a great vehicle for selling advertising. From the contestants' point of view, brilliant too, a chance to join the lowest rung of celebrity and make a few bob if you get the right agent.

For the rest of us, though, it's the equivalent of watching rats in a cage without the excitement of seeing them fight or eat their own young. In other words, boring - immediately boring, too.

There was a feature on "Woman's Hour" (a fine left-wing programme) the other day about instant turn-offs. In other words, some aspect of a chap that, when revealed on a date, would cause a woman to put an egg in her shoe and beat it. Well, if a woman praised Big Brother and tried to explain what was so fascinating about each inmate, that would be my cue to end things. It would reveal a gulf in intellect so vast that it could never be crossed.

Why, on God's green earth, would I be in the slightest bit interested about whether some lunkhead has managed to bonk another one? Or whether some mouthbreather has developed a dislike for some fuckwit? Goodness knows, I don't give a damn one way or the other for the aspiring actors who play the guests on the Jeremy Kyle show, and they at least have some kind of rudimentary talent, from the few bits that I've seen. Truth be told, I don't care that much about anyone who allows themselves to be seen on TV. (Babba's onscreen CV: "Blind Man" - Tommy, "Dockyard matey" - Warship, "Radio DJ" - Hospital Watch, "Guest" - Noel Edmond's The Time Of Your Life. No current agent.)

Remember that Attenborough documentary with the Orcas catching seal pups and throwing them around for ages before eating them? It was an interesting, well-shot few minutes that illustrated Nature "red in tooth and claw". Well, that's Big Brother. Endemol grabs whatever pups it can reach, plays around with them for as long as it possibly can, then devours them. Why that should be of interest for more than a minute or two is, as Toyah put it so well, a mythtery to me.

Dvina to the rescue - again...

(Written 31/08/2010. I'm not a natural DIY-er...)

A curious thing happened on Sunday. I opened the back door, and a panel fell off the bottom, rotted through. My immediate reaction, of course, was to call Dvina and find out how difficult hanging an exterior door would be.

"It's not that difficult," she replied. "All you have to do is chisel out slots for the hinges, drill some holes for the handles and lock, then paint it with waterproof stain, rub it down when it's dry and apply a second coat. Then you just screw it to the hinges the old one hung on and you're done." There was a pause. "And my day off is tomorrow."

Thank goodness, because I well remember my old Woodwork Master at school looking at my attempts to chisel and saying "I think we'll make something of you yet, Mark. My money's on a set of medical notes that will amaze and bemuse generations of doctors yet to come, but carry on holding a chisel like that and you may achieve greater things, like a post-mortem." (Always go to a Grammar School, if you can. The insults are so much better worded.)

However, by the time I picked Dvina up this morning, I had A Plan. I'd been charged with measuring up the door, and while doing so, I found that the side pieces and central area were still perfectly sound. So no need to buy a new door, then, just screw a couple of thin boards to the top and sides of the hole, job done!

Dvina looked at the hole and agreed, looking wary. Not because she didn't think that the plan would work, but because she's not used to me arriving at practical solutions when repairing things. I could see her mind working - "Surely there's some flaw that will later appear, leading to him electrocuting himself, setting the house on fire or breaking some kind of arms limitation agreement...?" (To be fair, my solutions usually include such flaws.)

No - apparently The Plan would work, so off we went to B&Q for what I thought we wanted, wood and screws. Then we bought what Dvina wanted, wood glue, a drill bit that corresponded with the screw size, some waterprooof stain and that triangular thing that goes on the bottom of an exterior door to shove the rain away. Finally, we had the wood cut to size, and crikey, that was a revelation! A B&Q operative takes the sheet of wood, hangs it on a wall, slides a big circular saw into place, sets certain ratios on a dial, then zoink, zoink, here's one panel, zoink, zoink, here's another, one final zoink and there's your triangular thing cut to size, too.

Back at my place, wood was glued, then Dvina drilled the holes through panel and door. We have an understanding on this kind of thing, which basically comes down to "Babba doesn't hold a drill." The exterior panel was glued and screwed into place, then I took her out to lunch. Later, the triangular thing went on, the interior panel was glued and screwed into place, and Dvina insisted on applying the wood stain as well, probably because she thought I'd suck the wrong end of the brush.

Thus, I had a repaired door. What's more, while it opens easily, it clears the bottom of the doorframe by scant millimetres, a testament to the precision Dvina works to. As I've remarked many times, the woman is a ruddy marvel. Speaking as one who believes that if it can't be fixed with gaffer tape and nails you have to get a new one, plus A Man to fit it, probably - she's once again saved me a lot of money, time and annoyance.

I'll add that DVDs of The Clangers series one and two will shortly be dropping through her letterbox.

If I ever achieve enough fame, or, more likely, notoriety, to be invited onto "Desert Island Discs", I shall insist on my luxury item being Dvina, and I shall put up a spirited defence for her inclusion. My final argument will be that without her, I'll die. Probably as I step ashore.

I have been allowed to rub down the wood stain and apply another coat tomorrow. It seems like a simple job, but keep your eyes on the news. "Portsmouth In Flames!" is still a potential headline.

Tuesday 26 November 2013

My Dad

(Written 10/09/2010, in response to a continuing discussion in the little group of writers I'm pleased to belong to.)

> My father's never had any desire to revel in old glories, march in
> parades, wear his medals or join a veterans network. When he was
> demobbed, he wanted to put the war behind him and build a new life. I
> think a lot of his contemporaries thought in the same way.

My father was exactly the same. In fact, for most of my life, he didn't talk about his part in the war, beyond the barest details. He began to offer more details as he turned 70, and developed a wish to see some of the places where he'd been. Over time, that became an idea to tour Italy, following the route he'd taken with the Army, and to that end he joined the Burma Star Association, because they offered discounted travel and a lot of information from people who'd done the same trek.

Sadly, he died very suddenly and with no warning a few months before he and Mum intended to leave for Italy. That was fifteen years ago. Obviously, I miss him a lot, and I'm sorry that he didn't live to see the founding and success of <my company name> - indeed, I daresay I could have got some good business advice from him. I'm particularly sorry, too, that he only started opening up about the war in the last few years of his life, because there are so many questions I'd like to ask him.

Dad left school at 14 because he had to, his own father having deserted the family. When he was conscripted, he was working as a cleaner/sweeper/tea maker and general "Hey, you, hold this!" person in a garage, so naturally, the Army put him down as a mechanic. He spent most of the war repairing tanks, which meant following them across the top of Africa (visiting El Alamein in the process), through Egypt and into Palestine, then to Italy, taking the Monte Cassino route, all the way up to Trieste, then running supplies down through what would become Yugoslavia. Along the way, he had his face burned off and was nursed in an Italian convent - it grew back, thanks to an excellent surgeon and some very tough nuns - and the closest he came to a living German was when he bumped into one, on a very dark night. (They both ran in opposite directions, he said.)

He saw lots of dead Germans, though, and on one occasion when he really opened up, he wondered how it had been possible to stop his lorry for lunch on a road where there were many German dead lying around, and eat his sandwiches while watching, with only slight interest, the flesh of the corpses rippling as maggots got to work. Dad offered that as an illustration of what war did to people.

As you'll understand, pals, I wish I could have asked him more questions, because there was much that he didn't tell us. Mum tells me that he really didn't think that it was all that important, and he rarely spoke about the war with her, either.

I can't resist adding that when Dad was demobbed, he went back to the garage as a time-served mechanic, graduated to guv'ner, left to be Parts Manager with a small chain of garages, created the first computerised stock ordering system in the UK in 1961 (with the assistance of a long-gone business machine company), and ended up as Parts Director and Board Member for a huge garage chain before retiring. Not bad for a kid who left school at 14 with no qualifications.

He is my hero, as every son's father ought to be.

A woman's place in the Church

(Written 12/09/2010)

Quite a lot of years ago, those of us who worship at Portsmouth Cathedral were told that we were going to get a new deaconess, Jane. At the time, deacons were usually blokes who were aiming to become vicars, and deaconesses were ladies who wanted to do a bit more than sit in a pew, like handing a chalice to the celebrating priest, reading the Lesson, that sort of thing.

Jane was different. She wanted to be ordained, something that was impossible at the time, given that the Church of England didn't allow women priests. Nevertheless, Jane worked very hard in the parish, and worked harder in her spare time supporting the movement for the ordination of women. She and I met up often, as she edited the Cathedral newsletter, and I wrote most of it.

When the General Synod approved the ordination of women in 1992, Jane was the first woman to be made a vicar in our cathedral, and I remember with great affection joining the crowd who wanted to embrace her on that happy day. Not long after, she became a Canon, one step up from a vicar.

We couldn't keep her, of course - Jane was transferred to Westminster Abbey, promoted to Canon Steward. She's done well, and she deserves her success.

You might see her in the papers or on TV next week, pals... because Canon Steward Jane Hedges will, as part of a service at the Abbey, be presented to the Pope, and shake hands with him. For those who have little or no interest in Church of England or Roman Catholic matters, it will have little significance. For those of us who worship in either church, it will be groundbreaking stuff. The Pope will greet a fellow priest, and for the first time, he'll be acknowledging the priesthood of someone with a uterus.

I'm so pleased for Jane.

Friday 22 November 2013

I don't do politics much, these days...

(Written 5/10/2010)

I lost the last vestiges of any faith I may have had in the political process with the Blair administration.

I spent most of the 80's and early 90's trying to persuade the public not to vote for selling off absolutely core industries that would be snapped up in a trice by foreign companies, did they listen? No, they grabbed the shares, sold them the next day, took the money, had a holiday on it and now they're complaining that the bills they pay go out of the UK and enrich foreigners. When they find that I was a Trade Union official in one of the utilities, they say "Well, you should have fought a bit harder for them, if you ask me."

In 1983/4, I tried to get more left-wingers to fight for the miners, not necessarily because they were right, but because it seemed that only organised labour could defend the manufacturing base of Britain against cheap imports and lower-quality products, and breaking the miners was the first step along the road of destabilising collective bargaining. I raised money, wrote many newsletters, even wrote a pro-miner song that I sang in folk clubs to raise a few bob, went to many a demo, and one of my proudest possessions is an "Orgreave - we were there" enamel badge. The parliamentary party sold us out, though (don't start me on Scargill) and now I hear people moaning about how "all our electrical goods come from China, why can't we manufacture anything these days, I'll tell you why, mate, it's because the unions wrecked it all.

Then, from 1995 on, I worked like stink to get a reforming Labour Party elected and served, with others, as an unpaid adviser on the electricity industry and company pensions, probably spent more evenings in the House than I did on union committees - even though I was Secretary of my Branch committee, a member of several regional ones, and one of 12 members of the National Electricity Committee - handed out leaflets, wrote yards and yards of promotional material... and went back to the House two weeks after the election to see a newly-elected MP who I'd previously called by his first name, driven him to and from places where he gave speeches, even written a few of his jokes... only to be told by some civil servant that "Mr (I won't name him) can spare you 45 seconds, so be quick."

And then they took us into Iraq.

So, and please do forgive the cynicism, I gave up on political action at that point, because it doesn't bloody work. The British public are their own worst enemy, they prefer grumbling and having a chip on their shoulder to actually doing something, and if they ever get around to doing anything, they can be bought off for far less than you'd think. "It is completely wrong that our water is owned by the French and the Germans, someone should do something about it!" they'll say. Soon, the Govt will ask "Would you like to make some cash by buying cheap shares in Royal Mail, then selling them a week later for a quick profit?" Will they narrow their collective eyes and say "Selling them to who, exactly?" No, they'll say "Oooh, yes please!" while reserving the right to blame everyone but themselves in five years time when they have to collect their post from the nearest Mail Centre, which is owned and run by the Spanish, for fuxsake, and how did that happen, eh, I'll tell you, it was all the fault of them unions.

I've done my time, I've not only bought the T-shirt, I picked the cotton, bleached it, wove it, stitched it, printed it, and then had to pay for the sodding thing, too. These days, I tend to sit on the sidelines and pour scorn on all of them, knowing from experience that I can shout my head off, be ignored or ridiculed, and then eventually blamed for not shouting my head off at the time.

Thursday 21 November 2013

Health and safety - conkers!

(Written 8/10/2010.)

Thanks to my friend Sue for the link - http://tinyurl.com/39x8dzu

In short, a council has placed a health and safety notice on a conker tree, warning that the fruit of the horse chestnut may fall at this time of year, and that members of the public may be struck by them. And when they placed the sign, I daresay they were feeling pretty silly, but they had little choice in the matter. Why? Because some sharp-eyed and dim-witted people had reported the hazard to them, and if they had done nothing and someone, however improbably, had been injured after a potential hazard was reported, the council might be liable. So someone in Environmental Health banged out a quick notice on MS Word, laminated it, then got someone else who passed the tree on their way home to pin it up. Total cost to council tax payers, time included, about tuppece.

Expect this one to hit the Daily Mail quite soon, with the cost "estimated" at hundreds of pounds, the usual jibes about H&S being out of control, likewise accusations (by association) that all council employees lack common sense and throw "our" money away on spendthrift schemes like this, while a photo will show a disabled pensioner pointing to a pothole in the road, with the caption "'Here's the real safety problem!' says 80 year-old Doris Bonkers."

There are many things the dim don't understand, yet think they do - quite a lot of science, University Challenge, art, the law, how to drive a car (this is not an exhaustive list) - but Health and Safety is high on that list. "It means not being able to take risks, dunnit! Like using a stapler, I heard about this council where..." It is by pandering to the dim that Michael Gove was able to gain a huge ovation at the Conservative Party conference by announcing the repeal of the "no touch" rule for teachers - a rule that didn't exist! Next, he'll probably announce comprehensive legislation to allow children to play conkers in school playgrounds, thereby repealing... um... well, nothing, really, because kids play conkers in playgrounds, just like they have done for decades.

Let's talk proper Health and Safety, though. A couple of weeks ago, I read a report of a man who was inside an industrial mixer, cleaning it. Yes, you already know that this won't end well. A colleague, not knowing of the cleaning operation, switched the mixer on, and was quite surprised at the screams and pink goo that emerged from different ends of the machine.

The company was fined many thousands of pounds, and the person whose job it was to ensure that the mixer couldn't be operated when someone was inside was also fined quite a lot of thousands of pounds. Yet, despite strong criticism from the judge, no director of that company went to prison.

This may be controversial, but I have argued for many years that top directors of companies that have seriously breached H&S legislation ought to serve a little gaol time, and by "seriously breached", I mean loss of arms, legs, or vital signs. My goodness, we wouldn't need H&S inspectors then, would we? If the boss thought there was a chance that they'd end up in chokey, they'd learn the law forwards, backwards and sideways, and they'd make sure that it was applied rigorously - which might reduce the industrial accident statistics.

What's more, if someone came to them complaining that their chestnut tree might be a bit dangerous, what with the risk of two ounces of spiky nut falling on them and that, they'd probably be able to come up with an appropriate response.

Like - "So don't walk under it, you useless tosser."

Wednesday 20 November 2013

New TV

(Written 18/10/2010.)

A week ago, I had an email from Sainsburys to let me know that "Nectar points are worth double at Argos" for a few days. Now, this aroused my interest somewhat, because I have quite a lot of them. For three years, I've been putting my expenses on a Sainsbury's credit card, and paying the balance as soon as it was due. Given that I've had a little international travel during that time, the points fairly rocketed up. Anyhow, the gist of the email was that I could shop at Argos to the tune of £300+ and simply swipe my Nectar card in payment.

I've been thinking for some time about getting a flat-screen TV, but I wanted to wait until I could afford HD too. Having consulted the online Argos catalogue, I found that HD flat screens now go for less than £200, so I nipped off to Argos, chatted with a knowledgable cove and selected a 22" job for £170. Or £85, given the "double points" deal. Or free, given that it was paid for with a tangible recognition from a grateful supermarket for purchases I'd made that had been refunded by the people who pay my expenses.

No wonder this country is in such a mess.

The TV was delivered the other day, and I'd set aside The Archers Omnibus yesterday morning for installing it - not a job I was looking forward to, given my technical expertise. I fully expected to either get no channels at all, or Moscow Direkt, Live Jewellery Auctions, 24 Hour Sheep, The Welsh Assembly, a handful of fortune tellers, ghosthunters and fat American preachers, a sports channel so underfunded that it constantly trails the highlight of the week, the Danish Wife-Carrying Championships, several music channels devoted to men shouting at lots of women in bikinis, a business channel where the latest share prices from Wall Street, Tokyo and Azbekistan roll across the bottom of the screen (ATK 38, FV 50, DFL 126, M&W 92, goat 47), The Estate Agent Channel, a comedy channel that thinks that the height of wit was achieved with Only Fools And Horses and Last Of The Summer Wine - and none of the stations that I actually watch. (I may have got slightly carried away there, but you get my drift.)

So, as the rumpty tumpty tumpty tum, rumpty tumpty tum tum of our alternative National Anthem burst forth at 10 a.m., I unplugged the old TV, unpacked the new one, connected all the plugs, switched it on and prepared to do battle.

An on-screeen question - "Langauge?" There were lots of options, including Finnish, but luckily I knew the right answer. (Unlike some poor Finn, who would probably have preferred the question "Kieli?" What's more, they wouldn't have found "Suomalainen" in the options either, so they'd have been bamboozled right from the start. Toshiba may have missed a trick here.)

Having selected "English", the TV then did an astonishing thing. It asked "Do you want to set up this TV?" Having considered the possibility of a trick question, or further questions of a technical nature, possibly involving RGB values, I gingerly pressed the OK button. The TV then did lots of things for several minutes, found hundreds of occasionally bizarre channels (The Surgery Channel, Lesbian Live PPV, Woodwork Now, Vacuum Forum, Bingo Zingo, Mali Today!, Be Saved You Sinner with Fat Sweaty Johnson, ITV, and Live Sheep Auctions, to name just a few)... then stopped - and it was just like my old TV! Except cleaner, and some channels were in HD.

Now, there are some folks who will think that I'd be quite proud of this achievement. New telly installed in less than ten minutes while listening to Vicky's future veal coming home, not bad, eh?

You'd be wrong, though. Oh, I'm very pleased with the new telly, and I'll be even more pleased after I've called Virgin and they start piping lots more HD into it, but there's one aspect of the process that has added to my general gloom.

You see, it's dawned on me that I have brought into the house one more thing that is considerably cleverer than I am.

Bumbles

(Written 22/10/2010. The restaurant no longer exists. Man alive, though, it was a good place to eat!)

I really can't recommend Bumbles too highly, and it seems that others feel the same, because it was well-patronised this lunchtime. Soon, either the foodies will discover it and I'll have to book weeks in advance, or an influential reviewer will write about it, the monied set will adopt the place as their own and it'll become too expensive for the likes of me.

Need I say that Dr Chris was amazed? He'd been a little sceptical when he saw the prices, which look too cheap for what I promised was one of the best restaurants in Town. I was delighted, though, that I was greeted by name by the manageress and one of the waitresses, who chided me for staying away for so long. Indeed, it's been over a year since I was there.

Chris was happy for me to advise him on his starter, and I directed him to the dish I regard as the biggest challenge to the chef's skill of all the starters - ravioli with pea mousse, sauteed mushrooms, air-dried ham and pea foam. There is just one, large, ravioli, but when Chris cut into it he found a whole soft-boiled egg yolk within. The skill required to make the pasta thin enough so that it is cooked just right when the egg yolk reaches "soft-boiled" consistency, let alone loading the raw yolk into the pasta shell and sealing it is remarkable, as Chris acknowledged.

As for me, I had an old favourite, Omelette Arnold Bennet, with smoked haddock and cheese sauce. "Very tasty", Chris said, as I prepared to stab him if his fork came over to my side of the table once more.

A bottle of Bumbles excellent house white had disappeared by the time our plates were cleared - refreshingly dry, from the South of France - so we ordered a bottle of its red companion. Chris wavered in his choice of main course, as I urged him towards the Devonshire lamb rump cooked for four hours, bolognaise, buttered baby potatoes, carrot royale and liquorice sauce, but he finally went for the prime Aberdeen Angus ribeye steak with  cauliflower cheese, button mushrooms and watercress puree, which he pronounced to be excellent.

I chose something I'd not had before, "Coronation" Cornish mackeral with pickled carrot, French beans, curried broth and potted brown shrimps. I was initially surprised to see the skeleton of the mackeral body and tail adorning the dish, but the waiter explained "It's edible. Chef has developed a method of cooking the bones so that they can be eaten too." By golly, he was right! Crunchy, slightly oily, but a very different taste of the sea, and a nice contrast to the fishy fillet. The pickled carrot was an inspired accompaniment, and the shrimps were tiny chewy bullets of flavour. It's a dream of a dish, offering a big range of flavours and textures.

Now, Chris wimped out at the dessert stage, but I know that anything that includes the word "surprise" on the menu will be worth seeing. Accordingly, I chose the pineapple crumble suprise. When presented, all that was on the plate was a heap of crumble with a large ball of chocolate resting on it. Immediately, though, the waiter poured a small jug of hot salted caramel sauce over the chocolate ball, which melted to reveal an interior of pineapple with a scoop of banana icecream topping it. Yes, it was gooey, yes it was yummy, and yes, Chris was astonished.

And now... the bill. For this magnificent exhibition of the chef's art, a simple formula is applied. £19 for two courses, £22.50 for three courses. Same price, lunch or dinner. It's a stone-cold bargain, I tell you. House wine is £12.90 a bottle, which, for an establishment that is but a stone's throw from Buckingham Palace in one direction and Victoria Station in another, is very reasonable.

"Bugger!", Chris said, as we left the place. "Now I'm going to have to find an excuse to eat at Bumbles at least once every time I come back to Britain!" Given that he's one of the owners of The Blue Elephant (best Thai place in London, according the the Evening Standard) and La Porte Des Indes (in the top ten best Indian restaurants in Britain, according to the Curry Club), that's high praise indeed.

Tuesday 19 November 2013

Daily Mail trolling

(Written 23/10/2010 for a group that I am a member of.)

I have done A Bad Thing...

I occasionally look at the online Daily Mail, to read the hilarious reader comments that the Mail allows for nearly every story. These are mainly written by people who believe the Jeremy Kyle show is real. Last night,  I noticed that Wayne Rooney was their latest target for spittle-flecked rage because he has increased his salary when "ordinary", "decent" people are having to make savings. (For anyone who is unfamiliar with said Rooney, he is, I understand, a potato-faced friend of elderly prostitutes. And he plays football.)

I was particularly amused when I read one comment calling for "bringing back wages that are proportional to what these people actually do". It rang a bell in my head... Why, if it's not our old friend, "From each according to his talents, to each according to his needs", by noted sport commentator K. Marx! And this is where the unworthy thought entered my head, which has become a Bad Thing - I added a comment of my own, carefully worded to blend in with the general tone of the debate, gently steering along the idea of revolutionary socialism. Here it is:

Couldn't agree more. The Govt ought to put a cap on what can be paid to footballers, others too, like overpaid pop stars, and especially bankers. Then they ought to take the money saved and give it to nurses, carers and others who do REAL work. Rooney "earns" £1m a MONTH! That would pay for 20 nurses on £50,000 a year! And if we could offer nurses that kind of money, the NHS would be swamped with applications!

Cameron - take note. There are many footballers who "earn" similar sums, many pop stars who receive millions for a few hours in the studio, and the less said about bankers the better. Cap their wages, divert the money to hard-working people whose contribution to Britain is greater than their wage packet, and watch the poorest workers vote for you in their millions!"


I know, it's nonsense, if Rooney wasn't paid so much, his club would keep the money, and I fully expected someone to have said as much when I looked at the thread this morning. And yet...

As at 23:00 tonight, there had been 974 comments on the story - and mine is the 23rd best rated, having received 379 "green arrows"! Yes, proud right-wing DM readers seem to be in favour of total government control of wages, with pay structures biased towards the poorest. Oh, now I'm tempted to try to sneak state control of the means of production past them...

I'm going to Hell, aren't I?

(And a friend commented...)

> Brilliant!!!

Cheers! Actually, Dave Nicol from Portsmouth (my DM-baiting alter ego - 2013 update: I no longer use this name on the DM site) has posted before, on quite a number of subjects, including the need to equip fat unemployed people with pedometers so that their benefits can be subject to them taking a Govt-required amount of exercise designed to reduce their weight. Note the preference for Govt control, which Dave thinks is a good idea, because he has a natural deference to The Government, even if he has a bone to pick with the government. Same goes for royalty, he won't take any criticism of Prince Charles, who is our Future King, and therefore deserves our respect, no matter what.

Dave is in receipt of a pension, owns a small business outside Portsmouth, has a daughter who is banned from using Facebook, which he hates with a vengeance (although he doesn't actually understand what it is, and is frequently corrected), and has a pretty good standard of living. He shoots lots of animals and birds, and eats most of them, although he draws the line at foxes because they don't taste too good. (So many red arrows on that one!)

Before the Rooney post, his best effort was in trying to answer a DM reader's question regarding the national deficit, which was along the lines of "Just who do we owe this money to?" His response began with Well... amongst others - ME. Dave went on to explain that he had lent some of his money to the Govt on a long-term basis, that they were paying him 9% on the loan, and that anyone could do the same, they're called Government Bonds.

DM readers work on simple terms, so this was a little difficult - Govt borrowing money, BAD, paying through the nose for doing so, SUPER BAD, opportunity for DM readers to make better profits than swindling bankers pay on savings accounts... uh... hang on... GOOD... but that makes them... ... ... at which point, several readers exploded.

Friday 15 November 2013

The Queen has a Facebook page!

(Written 14/11/2010)

I doubt you'll have missed this news item, folks, it's been mentioned by many news sources, but how many of you have seen Her Majesty's page? It's fascinating!

Here's a cut and paste job of her recent posts.

< The Queen> is off to bed now, night night cyber subjects!
1134 people like this.
<CharleyWales> Night, Mama!

< The Queen> would like another whisky, but the bottle is empty.
28 people like this.
<BuckHouseFlunkey> Another bottle is on the way, Ma'am

< The Queen> enjoyed that programme about the High Street, and is considering visiting one.
3071 people like this.
<RepublicNow!> Try working in one, you skiver!
<MI5agent7> Action has been taken, Your Highness.
See 21 other comments.

< The Queen> likes Save Our Woodlands, John Cage for Christmas No. 1, Why Does No Freakin' Crown Ever Fit Properly? and 5 other pages.

< The Queen> had duck for dinner, and a peach yoghurt for afters.
<AnnieHorse> I had peacock. Finally found a way to shut the bugger up. Anyone want the tail feathers?
<CharlieWales> had mung beans, organic carrots, a macrobiotic herb salad and a swan.
See 692 other comments.

< The Queen> took the test "How Royal Are You?" and scored 100%! Click here to take the "How Royal Are You?" test.
<Harry_The_Hardest> only scored 36%, there's something wrong with it.
<JamesHewitt> Nothing wrong with the test, it's because
<MI5Agent7> Action has been taken, Your Majesty.
502 people like this.
There were other comments, but they are no longer available.


< The Queen> please ignore earlier tip on Blue Boy in the 4:30. One wishes to find a good, cheap jeweller who can work accurately and at top speed.
<AspreysLondon> Already in hand, Your Majesty. Expect the usual replacement in 48 hours.
<WilliamHill> We're prepared to forget the whole thing in return for a Royal Warrant, Your Majesty.
<The Queen> Naff off.
<RichardVirgin> Happy to offer a short-term loan?
<The Queen> Go away, you annoying little squit, we don't need a Royal Plane, we have the RAF. For at least another year.
<RAFLeader> Actually, we're down to half a dozen Eurofighters, the Red Arrows and a restored Vulcan. Take your pick.
<CoolDaveCam> We're all in this together!
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5389 people like this.


< The Queen> was poked by <GreekPhil>
< The Queen> has been poked by 274 people this week.

< The Queen> is building a palace in Farmville, and would like your help!

< The Queen> is watching Jeremy Kyle. How is shouting at tattooed people considered entertainment?
<WilliamTheSecond> Switch to Dave, Gran, they're showing the only QI that doesn't have Jo Brand on the panel!
<The Queen> Will do - just waiting to find out if Pete is the father.
<LinleyTheChippie> Pete? Group Captain Peter Townsend?
<The Queen> No, some badly-shaven Northerner. No need to worry. Go back to your chiselling.
2570 people like this.

< The Queen> is lunching with senior members of her Govt while receiving a briefing on plans to reduce public spending. They keep contradicting each other. I have asked <BuckHouseFlunkey> to open three more bottles of Chateau Heseltine, because this gets better by the minute.
823 people like this.

< The Queen> likes Radio 3, BBC 4, Terry Wogan and The Revolutionary Communist Party.
<The Queen> How the hell did that happen? I thought RCP stood for Royal Club of Prussia. No matter, I'll have them round for tea and explain the mistake. They'll understand. Must remember to brief the staff that one has already bought this week's "Socialist Worker".
<Harry_The_Hardest> I can let you have one, Gran - the chaps keep leaving copies in my locker. You can fold it so that "Take the fucking hint!" doesn't show.
<CoolDaveCam> Actually, Your Highness, Sam tells me that socialist chic is very "in" at the moment.
<The Queen> Look, let's do a deal. You limit our contact to once a week, and I won't go all Charles I on your arse.
4376 people like this.

< The Queen> was tagged in <DukeWestminster>'s album, "Karaoke time!"
<The Queen> I'm warning you - post the video on YouTube and you're a dead man. I have contacts. Anyway, Ann Widdecombe's banjo intro was flat, and it put me off. What's more, Patrick Moore and his xylophone really aren't up to the demands of "Firestarter".
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< The Queen> I've travelled to 93% of the world! - about 12 hours ago via Travelbuddy.

< The Queen> Trust me on this one - Blue Boy in the 4:30 at Doncaster. It's a copper-bottomed cert, safe as a Pakistani cricketer. Nobody lets me have any folding money, but I've managed to prise the Cullinan diamond out of the crown and stick it on at long odds. It'll be large drinks all round tonight!
830263 other people like this.

< The Queen> is having a cup of coffee and a biscuit.
<SunReporter1> Is it a chocolate one? I've got seven column inches to fill and it's a slow news day.
<HelloMag> It'll be a Digestive. Well known fact.
<CountryLifeEd> Bollocks. Her Majesty likes Gypsy Creams.
<DailyMailReader> Gypsy Creams are what happens when you allow Romania to join the EUSSR. Vote UKIP!
<UnwashedScrote> I'm hoping it's a Garibaldi, I bet my mate a can of lager that it's a Garibaldi.
<JeremyKyle> Is it a Wagon Wheel? Do you have issues with your partner's choice of biscuits? Are they eating too many of your biscuits? For a chance to appear on the show, text "Inadequate" to 65031.
<SunReporter1> Actually, a Hobnob would work better from a headline point of view.
<WilliamHill> Go online now for the best odds - 2/1 digestive, 5/1 Hobnob, 10/1 wafer, 20/1 Jammie Dodger, 50/1 Wagon Wheel, 100/1 Garibaldi, 500/1 ships, and evens on chocolate-covered. Except for ships, which is 2000/1
<The Queen> Sorry, everyone... but <RoyalFlunkey> tells me that it's a "We bake our own" biscuit.
<The Queen> is now friends with <BuckHousePastryChef4>
2601 people like this.

< The Queen> is reading a digest of all the major newspaper reports, the urgent overnight communications from her Ambassadors, the daily security briefing and the 1951 "Bunty" annual.
<The Four Marys> like this.
920 other people like this.

< The Queen> breakfasted on half a grilled grapefruit, two cups of Lapsang Souchong tea, bacon, scrambled eggs and something called a "Potato Waffle". Tell chef to drop them from the breakfast menu, they taste like cardboard. Oh, and get that bagpiper to stop, I'm awake, for goodness' sake. What's keeping Phil? Send someone to remind him that it's not a T-shirt and jeans day, he's doing that Admiral of the Fleet thing this morning, then lunching at Sandhurst, so he'll need the Field Marshal uniform. No, he can change in the back of the car... Quentin, you're not still typing, are you? Stop, you cu

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Saturday 9 November 2013

Another funeral

(Written 27/01/2011)

One of the benefits of this delay in my current project is that today it allowed me to say farewell to a man who could mix with Royalty, peers, showbiz folk, clergy, monks, the dispossessed, the lost and lonely, and the people who, by accident or their own failings, have fallen through the safety net the Welfare State is intended to provide.

Kenneth Stevenson was Bishop of Portsmouth until ill-health forced his retirement a couple of years ago. He had leukaemia, which he faced with tremendous courage, and wrote about it with candour, humour, humility and many well-turned phrases. He beat the cancer, but his immune system was shot by the treatment, and he succumbed to several infections, the last one carrying him off earlier this month.

His funeral Eucharist was this morning. Mum called last night - "I've booked the taxi for 9:30." The service was due to start at 10:45, so I thought Mum's mania for never being late was in overdrive. We arrived at the Cathedral at 9:50... and joined the queue of around a hundred people entering. Had we got there much later, we wouldn't have got a seat. The pews were already full, but the Cathedral staff had filled every available space with chairs. Even so, many had to stand. There were easily a thousand there.

The place was stiff with clergy of all kinds, and five bishops led the worship,.including one representing the Bishop of Denmark. Kenneth was half Danish, and when the Lutheran Church of Denmark fell out of communion with the Church of England, it was Kenneth who worked his socks off to find a way to bring our churches back together. Not only did he succeed, he was decorated by the Danish government for his efforts.

He sat in the House of Lords, and I had the pleasure of meeting him there a few times when I worked in That Place. He wrote eleven well-respected books, and as one of the most senior bishops in the CofE, helped steer the church through some tricky times. And yet...

For all his intellectual qualities, his mastery of the fine political line in church matters, he was always someone who walked with the Christ who simply commanded "Follow Me". He hated discrimination of any kind, whether it be discrimination against women playing as full a part in church as men, discrimination against other faiths who are climbing the same mountain by a different path, or discrimination against people who are a bit ragged around the edges, don't smell so good and are losing the fight against addiction. He was very down to earth. Indeed, there was a point in my life where I needed very immediate spiritual help. While I won't give details, as that's a part of my life I never want to revisit, Kenneth happened to be the only person available when I went to the Cathedral - and he heard my confession.

I found the best kind of friend, the one who will tell you that you're wrong and that you need to do something about it, the one who won't tell you that it's alright, the one who doesn't deal in platitudes like "God forgives all sins if you're sorry" but talks about the hard path to redemption... and then urges you on to it with much encouragement, and both sympathy and understanding for how you've stumbled. He was a true friend.

So that's the person we said farewell to today. The actor Patricia Routledge read one of the Lessons, the fabulous choral setting was by Mozart, there was plenty of the incence that he loved (although the censer didn't whirl the thurible over his head, as Bishop Kenneth often did, prompting many startled looks from anyone near him), and champagne was served afterwards, at his request.

One, final, illumination of Bishop Kenneth - he and his wife Sarah entertained twelve members of the CoE Liturgical Commission (a really top group of clerics) at their house in Portsmouth. After dinner, Kenneth opened a box of cigars and offered them round. Nobody took one. Kenneth lit a cigar, sat down, exhaled a cloud of smoke, gazed around, and with great satisfaction said - "Miserable buggers!"

He was just the best representative of a loving, challenging, encouraging and welcoming Christ that anyone could wish for.

Friday 8 November 2013

Bring on the socialist revolution!

(Written 26/07/2011, in response to the question below, asking how a "peoples revolution" against banker's and politician's greed could happen.)
 
 
> To me, the only question is how to bring that about without causing yet more chaos.

> Thoughts?

Bear in mind I'm in the Marxist corner as you read this, inasmuch as I agree with Marx's analysis of society, while accepting that he got the rise of the middle-class completely wrong.

It would be difficult to rebalance things without some chaos - if, by "chaos" you include lawbreaking and other forms of civil action. All the power that the Left has won has always come from some kind of struggle, and taking back that power from the forces of Capitalism will take action of some kind.

Here's where we are with Capitalism. I remember an interview with billionaire Theo Paphitis where he explained that the acquisition of further wealth wasn't really about being greedy. After a certain point, money doesn't make him feel any richer - "It's just a handy way of keeping score." That summed it up for me, Capitalism in a sentence. All them bloated plutocrats, they're not doing it to get richer, they're doing it to increase their scores.

Therefore, anything that reduces profits, like sharing the wealth, implementing shorter hours, offering salaries that are higher than what's necessary to attract just as many people as you need - well, that's just reducing the score, so it won't happen.

I find that attitude completely incomprehensible, but then I'm a Marxist. The power-holders and the money owners clearly are not, and I doubt we'd share many values. So, short-term, those people have to be bound by laws passed by a Government that, for want of a better word, would have to be Socialist (ic). Long-term, it has to be education of the masses so that the wealth accumulators are seen as being the same as a 6 year old at his/her birthday party who, when the cake is handed round, throws a tantrum and screams "No! S'my cake. MY cake! All of it!!!"

The only examples I can give are from my own thoughts and hopes of being well-off. Assume, if you will, that my company was super-successful. The first thing that would happen is that a lot of employees would get a pay rise, because from day one of (my company name omitted) I have had a rule that nobody is allowed to earn less than 10% of my pay packet plus any dividend I pay myself. (OK, I only employ 1 person, but she gets a minimum of 10% of the profits plus a weekend ticket to Fairport Convention's Cropredy Festival whenever she can get there.)

I think the next idea I'd explore would be a four day week. We'd still operate five or more days a week, just with more staff. A decent pension scheme would be important, too, with the company chucking in double what any employee contributed up to, say, 8%, and with a minimum mandatory contribution of 4%. Oh, and one percent of profits, maybe more, goes to charity, the charities being voted on by the staff. Any employee raising money for charity can expect the company to double what they raise. That'll do to start with.

I'd feel pretty good if I could run a company like that, providing employment, spreading the wealth around to both employees and charity - and I could probably rub along on a few hundred thousand a year. Of course I'd have the Villa Piaf Mort near Grasse, but at 9m euros, I couldn't afford to buy it with a dividend, because according to the !0% rule, that means I'd have to pay all my staff a minimum of 900,000 euros. So the company would buy it, and there would be ten weeks spread across the year where employees could use it, and the cars in the garage. Half the places would be allocated by ballot, the other half being awarded by a series of incentive schemes.

See? You don't need to bring the means of production under state control to achieve a fair deal for the workers, you just need an employer/entrepreneur who likes being both well-off and making his/her workers lives better in equal measure.

What, though, of the customers of my company? Well, unless there's some kind of radical change in thinking, such a company couldn't exist in Britain because most Brits hate successful people with a passion and cling to a deep suspicion of education of any kind. They'll condemn the lack of manufacturing jobs as they buy Chinese toasters, and point out that all the jobs go to people from other nationalities, anyway. They put their savings into bank accounts paying 0.1% interest, rather than buying investment bonds in a basket of British industries, or buying Govt debt at a guaranteed 6%, or buying Premium Bonds which, if held for five years with a minimum investment of £5000, will return around 4% in most cases. It seems that the idea that the last three options actually puts money into the economy is too difficult for them. Then they grumble when the bank they've trusted their savings to, the one that rewards them with 0.1% interest, hands out millions of pounds in bonuses to traders who look on those cheques as their score for the year.

When the breathalyser was first introduced, it was accompanied by a massive campaign designed to change attitudes. Drinking and driving went from being something that people boasted about, to being something that people were ashamed of, in around ten years or less. We need the same kind of social campaign that condemns greed at the expense of bringing benefits to the community, and an education programme that explains to the slowest of thinker that when you buy a Chinese toaster, you're - please concentrate here - giving pounds to a Chinese company that doesn't employ any British workers, doesn't advertise vacancies at your local JobCentre, and would make you go and live in China if you secured a job with them. For some people, it has to be explained at a really basic level.

As does socialism, and please note the lower case "s". There's no harm in being rich, but riches need to come with some responsibilites, like looking after the people who make the money for you, putting a bit back in so that the people who fall through the welfare state net can be helped, and making the community around you a better place just because it's nicer that way. How many people think like that, though?

Once you get to a point where you regard the accumulation of wealth as being some kind of score, though, there's no hope. Capitalism has won, and the only real chance is some kind of People's Revolution - which invariably leads to chaos.

So see you on the barricades, comrades, and when we liberate Buckingham Palace for the proletariat, remember that I've got dibs on the bedroom farthest away from that sodding bagpiper.
 

Thursday 7 November 2013

The "Yes" story


In late 1973, when I was 17 and still at school, Yes included Portsmouth Guildhall in their tour schedule. Now, at the time, they were Rock Gods, so several of my pals and I queued all night for tickets, our parents believing that we were all sleeping at friends houses. Oh, how we enjoyed flashing our tickets around school the next day - "They sold out in 30 minutes! I'm seeing Yes, and you aren't!"

Come the night of the fabbo concert, the lights went down, other lights went up, "The Firebird Suite" blasted out and Jon Anderson said "Hi, Portsmouth - here's 'Close To The Edge'!" Fantastic stuff, this is what I'd queued all night for, fallen asleep next day during a particularly boring class on Wordsworth, and suffered a detention for.

Close To The Edge done, and with thunderous applause still erupting, Anderson said "And now here's our new album! It's released next month! It's called 'Tales From Topographic Oceans'! Hope you like it!"

Now "TFTO" is a difficult album, and that's being kind. Except that I don't feel like being kind,  because I queued all night and did some detention time for Yes, plus my parents found out that I didn't spend the night at a friend's place and insisted on The Truth, which they felt would involve strong drink, cannabis and gurls. So, in a "not kind" way, I'll say that TFTO is not "difficult", it's an example of the worst that prog/rock descended to.

The album runs to around 90 minutes. The live version they played that night lasted over two hours, and the bar at Portsmouth Guildhall didn't just run out of beer, it ran out of alcohol.

As Yes ended the terrible claptrap that was the previously unheard TFTO, they left the stage, to the applause of the few who were not in the bar. And yet, they came back for an uncalled encore! It was "Fragile" - and then they were gone.

There may be some here who think that TFTO is a fine album, and I won't take issue with you. All I'll say is - suppose you'd never heard it before, that the entire work is presented to you with extra guitar, bass and drum solos... would you enjoy every one of those 120 minutes? Or would you have swopped them all for "The Clap", or "Starship Trooper"?

Playing your new, unreleased album, is a bit patronising to your audience and fans, because it assumes that "You liked us then, so you'll like where we are now".

I still have my ticket from that Yes gig at Portsmouth Guildhall. At last year's Fairport Convention's Cropredy Festival, I was keen to meet Rick Wakeman after his slot, show him the ticket and demand my £2 back.

Sunday 3 November 2013

Portsmouth drivers

(Written 26/3/2011)

Don't know how many papers reported this, folks, but the latest hair-brained scheme from Portsmouth Council is to leave traffic lights on amber, but flashing, overnight. The signal is intended to mean "Proceed with caution", and it has been greeted with much approval by the many accident repair centres in town.

The idea is to be "trialled", after some top councillor saw such a system working on the Continent, and realised that here was the solution to the annoying "having to wait at the lights for a couple of minutes in the middle of the night when there's nothing coming the other way" problem that so plagues traffic flows in Portsmouth.

It will. of course, be a disaster of almost Biblical Proportions, because Portsmouth is the home of the Portsmouth Driver, and a more dangerous road user is hard to find. My police pals in the Portsea Island Traffic Section (yes, they are proud to be the PITS) have often tried to nail down exactly what makes Portsmouth drivers quite so terrible, and the closest anyone ever came to it was to say "It's as if they all wear hats". (Anyone who voluntarily wears a hat - not a cap, a hat - when driving is invariably someone you want to stay away from.)

Imagine a city filled with drivers who are just a shade too cautious, yet at the same time are absolutely certain of not only the best way to drive, but also their duty to stop others from driving badly (i.e. differently, like to Institute of Advanced Motorists standards). Imagine certain "local rules" on the right of way that "everyone knows, you idiot!" Imagine a city where the default speed limit is 20 mph, imposed because so many cars were banging into each other. (They still bang into each other, but fewer pedestrians are injured by the shrapnel.) Imagine a city where people regard it as their civic duty to drive at 60 mph in the third lane of a motorway, in order to stop others "speeding" - and, no, I'm not kidding. Imagine a city where a "Merge in turn" sign had to be taken down, because almost nobody understood it. Imagine a city where observation of traffic ahead, and to the side, is almost non-existent - in other words, if brake lights are coming on 100 yds ahead, it might be a good idea to slow down - and you're in Portsmouth.

Overtake on the left on a one-way street in Portsmouth, and outraged drivers will lean on their horns. Time your arrival at a roundabout so that you can not only overtake a queue in the left-hand lane, but also slip across the roundabout without braking, and fists will be shaken. There's one crossroads in Copnor that driving instructors always include when teaching new drivers, because there are complicated local rules about where you have to put your car to indicate which direction you want to go in. There are certain roundabouts where everyone knows you don't have to use indicators.

Now, chuck something as bizarre as flashing amber traffic lights into that mix, and you'll understand why local garages are doubling their orders for body panels, and local hospitals are doubling their order for body parts. There are only two options for the Portsmouth Driver when s/he encounters them - either stop and wait for the broken lights to sort themselves out, possibly calling the police for advice after five minutes, when "there's a bit of a tailback, officer, can you get someone here to help out?", or driving straight through, because "the lights were on amber, so that other driver must have gone through on red, your... er... Worship? Or is it Your Lordship, I never know what to call a coroner..."

Now, I know what your immediate response will be, folks. It worked on the Continent, people got used to the idea, the same will happen in Portsmouth and it will work here. To which I'll simply say that the Highway Code works in many places, but it's never really caught on in Portsmouth, so you back your horse and I'll back mine.

Yes, in theory, the flashing amber lights will be the perfect solution to the annoying "having to wait at the lights for a couple of minutes in the middle of the night when there's nothing coming the other way" problem. In practise, though, we'll just have to sort out the "waiting at the lights for ten minutes because some fuckwit's not only confused, but trying to borrow a mobile phone, then asking people if they know the number for the local police station, oh, no, not 999, it's not an emergency, is it?" and the "finding a different route because the junction is closed while emergency services and recovery vehicles clear away the wreckage" problems, and all the difficulties of driving in Portsmouth between midnight and 5 a.m. will be solved.

I imagine grateful citizens will erect a statue to the top councillor who thought of this fine idea. Which someone will shortly crash into, because nobody told them about any bloody statue, "and I had right of way, everyone knows that!"