Don't mention the war

We are on tenterhooks because tonight our home will be invaded by the Germans. When I say Germans, I mean German. The boy is doing German to GCSE, so we have the privilege of a German exchange student. I'm not sure it's an entirely fair exchange as he comes to us for 10 days, and the boy only gets to go there for a week. Still if they don't get on (and a few exchanges on Facebook have yet to establish any common ground) that may not be a bad thing. The visitor will occupy the spare room, and that's where I keep all my clothes, so I've had to decamp and shove a room's worth of clothes into two small drawers. I think we were slightly conned - it appeared when the boy chose German as a subject that the exchange was a compulsory part of the deal...but it transpires that in fact there are only 11 doing the exchange - leaving some 20 who ducked out. So I think I slightly had the wool pulled over my eyes.

Actually I think we're quite lucky - the boy's best friend is getting a girl. She's two years older than him, and in her communications is asking about the local nightclubs, etc whilst he is asking her which XBox games does she like...

Generally the exchange students will be spending time in school...poor them...but will also be treated to trips to see the sights of London. Actually there seems to be so much building work going on that they may be getting to see the sites of London. I'm not sure such things have been arranged in Germany as the school there is pretty much in the middle of nowhere in particular. As our finale, we're all trooping off to see Florence and The Machine....which might be brilliant or it might be a disaster depending on his musical tastes...imagine if he only likes jazz....

Of one thing I'm certain, the boy will benefit enormously. Not only will he be able to talk for an extended period with a native speaker, but when he goes there in July he will be totally immersed - and if I know the boy well, then that is something which will totally appeal. He already has much affection for the country - we went there on holiday last year and loved it. If you want to you can read about that little adventure here I'm already a complete fan of the country having spent many happy childhood holidays there and some amazing times as a student...I hope the boy will feel the same.

Naturally we're going to be serving traditional British food - lasagne, pizza, coq au vin, etc, etc. So I hope he enjoys the change in diet...after all they only eat sausages, don't they. We thought we shouldn't watch re-runs of Dad's Army, but Fawlty Towers would be OK. And we're not going to make jokes about who is going to get their towel down to the bathroom first. That would be tasteless.

Slipping up on banana skins

"All credit to the original photographer who retains the copyright"

I'm having trouble with bananas again. It seems bananas have always given me problems, but these days they're a real challenge. The thing is, I like to eat a banana for my lunch...pretty much every day given the chance. But for some reason, the days of buying yellow bananas seems to be over. All our local shops sell are green ones. It wouldn't be so bad if they were supposed to be green, but it's just that they're unripe and inedible. Ah I hear you cry, why not buy in advance and let them turn yellow on your desk. A good point well made, but these bananas turn from green to black swifter than you can imagine. And anyway, I'm not so good at planning ahead. So my daily lunchtime routine involves treking round every sandwich shop (don't bother with Sainsbury's because there they are always very, very green) until I find something that might just be edible. What has happened? Have the banana boats got quicker so they arrive very quickly after they've been cut off the banana tree? I just don't know, but it is a right pain.

I had heard that there will be no more bananas in 50 years because a disease is killing them off, but it turns out this is just another one of those urban myths that do the rounds and trip up the gullible like me.

There's also been a trade war waged by Europe and America because of bananas..something to do with us favouring the products from our old colonies.

Stepfather in Cyprus told us tales of when he used to work unloading bananas...presumably from the bateaux de bananes...and just occasionally you'd find poisonous snakes and poisonous spiders woken up from their slumbers by the sudden cold. I think he ran a mile, but I can't really remember so well.

Bananas have always been a problem for me. My earliest banana memory was whilst at a two day interview for a place at St Edmunds College Oxford. I'd done ok, but not brilliantly at the entrance exam....I'd been distracted by the discovery of girls..one in particular, and my interest in her hadn't helped my exam technique. Anyway, over lunch one of my fellow applicants, a rather enticing girl, said, "What is it about bananas...you can't eat them without it seeming rude." I blushed, but didn't decline her offer of seeing round her room. I may have been distracted again as I ended up going to Exeter University.

On the other hand, I get on quite well when I read Bateau de Banane...may be I should stick to blogs and eat apples instead

On reflection

Only in Chigwell...would you find a £120,000 sports car finished in chrome (yes it reflects just like your bath taps should)...with an advertising slogan for a local business down the sides. Chigwell is the most ridiculous place in the whole world, of that I am convinced!

On the other hand, I love East London...it feels entirely real. And I'm lucky enough that when I wake up and feel energetic (admittedly not as often this year as last) I can cycle a full 30km to work - along the canals that wind their way through to the heart of London - I pop out just by the Rotherhithe tunnel. I have mentioned this before - although the distance has gone up somewhat this year (for reasons to be explained in the fullness of time). Along the canals, I see the old Matchbox toy factory - recently reduced to a pile of rubble, the Olympic site - going up so quickly, that you might think it'll be finished this year. And a big pink modern building with the sign H Forman on the side. I kept meaning to google it, but didn't. Fortunately, Griff Rhys Jones last year did a series on TV about our riverways and happened to head down this canal. It turns out that this is London's last salmon smokery and had been relocated after a fight with the Olympic organisers. I was pleased to know this, and yet more pleased when I cycled past and saw a banner declaring there is now a restaurant. We went there on Friday night, and it rocked - to get to it you drive through one of the eastend's old industrial estates - much in decline. The location is on Fish Island...I'm not sure it's an island, and strongly suspect the fish upped and left sometime ago...even though they're returning now. Naturally we had smoked salmon to start and the whole meal was absolutely delicious. As was the truffle mash, and the bubble and squeek I had with my lamb. The best restaurant I've been to for ages. But on Friday night, the place was practically empty - what a shame - no doubt it will begin to fill as 2012 nears, but I'm sure it should have more people now. You sit looking out over the canal directly over the Olympic stadium which is amazing - I hope that soon they will illuminate it and it will become a beacon. There's also an art gallery if you feel the need. They also do Saturday and Sunday brunch...so I strongly suggest that if you get the opportunity, and can find your way, then give it a try. Formans. Here's a picture of the smoking room...as clean as a whistle.

Grandma in Cyprus

I would like to declare here, publicly that I have bought Grandma in Cyprus a birthday card. It is written. It is signed. It has the right postage on it (£1.14). It is posted. It is her birthday on Wednesday.

I say this because earlier this year I had to write this post.

So I wouldn't want everyone to think that I'm a bad son. I have learnt my lesson.

Unfortunately, she won't be whooping it up, as she'll be flat on her back in a Cypriot hospital as she's got to have an operation on Monday. I'm sure it'll all go well as I hear good things about the Cyprus Health Service. But do wish her well on Monday. And Happy Birthday on Wednesday.

The politics of racism

It's good to see that on the day of the election, Nigel Farage of UKIP is involved in a plane crash, presumably in the hope of garnering some sympathy votes. For me, it's shame that it didn't hit the ground a bit harder. It's also been reported that the BNP candidate Bob Bailey was involved in a fracas whilst canvassing in an area with a large Asian population. I have a friend called Bob Bailey. They're not related.

I won't be voting for a variety of reasons. I'm not on the electoral register having failed to fill in the form. I might have done, but they have a habit of selling your details off to any old junk mail company. I'm not really a fan of democracy in a world which is so complicated that generally we don't have the foggiest about the real issues of the day. But I'm not suggesting I know of a better alternative. And finally, I'm loathe to vote for a party, any party, where I might support some of their policies but not all of them...so in effect I'd be voting for something I don't believe in. Call it a cop out if you like, but I don't think so. Where we live, is a very very very deep shade of blue. Last time round we lived in Bermondsey and I voted for the very nice Simon Hughes.

I will be staying up 'til the crack of sparrow watching Election night coverage in the hope of there being another Portillo moment...although this time I gather the most likely thing is for Gordon to lose his Balls...one or both I'm not sure. I may need to rethink my approach as I am a student of politics (2.1 Hons) and should be encouraging the boy to get involved.

On the subject of politics,I'd just like to raise the issue of political correctness. We're all used to behaving properly these days and avoiding is 'isms'...for me it often goes too far, and we have to be so PC it takes out much of the colour and joy of living. BUT,I am completely confused by what's OK amongst our youth and what isn't. At school,any thing that is bad is 'Jewish'. As in "That's so Jewish". I recoil in horror, but evidently its common parlance amongst the lads and lasses of every creed. And no malice is meant by it so evidently it's OK. I don't understand. By comparison, a friend (yes honestly it wasn't me) whilst waiting for someone who was late described them as being on 'African time' and that was derided with accusations of casual racism.

And tomorrow is the annual Whites vs Asians football match. Again I recoil. It gets doubly confusing because you have non-Asians playing in the Asians team. It's all good fun evidently. I'm totally confused. Any help here would be much appreciated.

The Gallery...graveyard shift

I rather like Tara's Gallery - it's fun to see what everyone does for the weekly theme. This week, it's Paint a Picture of the World we live in...and I see there are lots of exotic places people have chosen. For me though, I've chosen the local graveyard near my office in Bermondsey. Very few people know Bermondsey, and it's a delightful place, off the beaten track - amazing considering we are just spitting distance from the big bad City. Anyway, the graveyard is used as a park now, and people come here for their lunch when it's sunny. I love it - peace and quiet, away from the roar of the traffic. The boy managed to find a fig tree, and scrumped a few last year...

It's all in the name

Sometimes timing is everything. Yesterday morning I went along to a 'breakfast briefing'. The speaker was Hugh Pym. You may not know that name. But you should. He is the Economics correspondent at the BBC. When I arrived, I asked for the event and was directed towards 'Patrick Keilty's event'...that was confusing, because as far as I was aware he is just a gameshow host and comedian. And if I remember rightly not very good at either. Fortunately it turned out that the reception was just confused...the event was being organised by Patrick Kelly...a man of no consequence, other than he was organising the event.

Hugh Pym was equally not who I expected him to be - in my mind he was short, roundish and heading towards retirement. So when the real Hugh stepped forwards and was a lanky 50 year old, I was slightly non-plussed.

Yesterday, of course, was the morning after the night before...the previous day Greece had been declared a load of Junk, and both Spain and Portugal had been downgraded (presumably to economy class). So we were lucky to have his time. And most enlightening it was too. Essentially he said, don't worry about which party has the best economics policy, because the only difference in terms of spending plans is £6 billion. That might seem a lot to the likes of you and me, but when we're sitting on a £trillion deficit, the odd £6 billion doesn't make any difference one way or t'other. So throw your vote at one party or the other..or indeed the other one, but do it because you like the colour of their tie rather than the slant of their economic policy. Whichever party is voted in, it is the boy and his generation that will be paying off our debts...so I say "Thanks" to the boy.

I wanted to ask a question, but I was in a room full of important people with MBAs and thought I might be asking a dumb one, so just held my fire...but now I wish I hadn't. I wanted to know why the ratings agencies - Standard & Poor, etc are so highly regarded...after all it was my understanding that it was they that fed the property boom and bust by giving AAA ratings to these rather strange 'Collateral Debt Obligations' which have brought the world economy to its knees. Effectively iot was their word that gave the bankers a head of steam to bring misery and despair on us all. Anyway, when I returned to the office, Robert Peston had written something about it here

So another lesson learned...'Just Do It'

I sat next to a man from Goldman Sachs...and surprisingly he didn't seem that avaricious...but who knows, appearances can be deceptive.

Anyway, Hugh Pym was very good indeed. And I'm glad I know who he is now. Here's a picture of him for good measure...I expect the copyright is owned by the Beeb

Boy on a bench...for The Gallery

Another week...another challenge from Tara's Gallery

I've got two favourite pictures of the boy. Actually, I've got loads...but this one is nice because it was a particularly happy time...in 2008 we drove from one end of the A5 (Marble Arch) to the other (Hollyhead), and then camped in the shadow of Snowden. We arrived as most people were packing up and leaving the campsite following overnight wind and rain that had blown more than one tent away...but we were not to be deterred...in fact although it was damp for most of the week (and I gather that Snowden is generally damp), we managed to cook outside and watch the sun go down every evening. We walked up Snowden through the fog and clouds...which was probably a good thing as I get giddy at height. This was taken at Portmeiron which I'd wanted to go to ever since seeing The Prisoner. There were no bouncing spheres...but we did walk along the estuary until we returned and saw a sign saying 'Danger! Quicksand'. We trod more carefully after that. Aren't the colours beautiful?

Happy Birthday

Remarkably, it's the boy's birthday again...he's 15 on Saturday. I'm not sure how it happens that this comes round every year. If only we'd had the foresight to have him delivered on 29th February, then I'd only have to worry about it once every four years. I wonder if I could shift it to February 29th and see if he minds...after all the first year he would get an early birthday. I'm sold on the idea.

As usual, it's a trial to think of things to get him. His brief is 'something to do with cycling or skiing'. Which is fine, except the skiing season has finished, and what he means by something to do with cycling, is the new bike he's got his eye on: £2500. There's just no chance. I could by myself something nice for that.

Last year I appealed here on the blog and got heaps of lovely suggestions...so that's a head start (if I can find them again that is). But I'm still struggling.

We're taking some friends go-karting in the morning. I had better win. And in the afternoon, its a bbq...come rain or shine.

And on Sunday we'll go and see a 15 certificate film...tough choice at the moment - Kick Ass, Ghost, Cemetry Junction, Centurion, Date Night, Extract are doing the rounds....but not a classic amongst them I suspect...

But we won't be singing Happy Birthday......click here to see why

Culture vulture

There is endless entertainment to be had from watching the British worker at, erm, work. Here is a delivery being made on Friday afternoon. The tail lift had got stuck...and no end of bouncing up and down by the driver was going to make it work as it should. As you can see, the contents of the pallet are about to make their presence felt all over the man on the ground. This went on for about twenty minutes and was priceless.

By comparison, there was a cost to the rest of our weekend's entertainment...it was a weekend of unadulterated culture for us...and here I am Monday morning, completely exhausted. We spread ourselves across the full spectrum of culture, and the boy will go back to school this morning, 'cultured up', which is no bad thing as it's exam term. Hope he has fewer nightmares than me.

Friday night was Rhod Gilbert - we were taken by friends to the Hammersmith Apollo. It was like facing a German machine gun encampment...and we left feeling that funny as he can be when talking about broken luggage and tog ratings, three hours of being shouted at by an angry Welshman was probably not a good thing. Going home we lost one of our number...hopefully he'll materialise sooner or later.

Saturday we were celebrating Shakespeare's birthday with a trip to Stratford (the boy's face fell when he realised that meant Upon Avon, rather than Home of the 2012 Olympics). Romeo, oh Romeo was top notch - an Apocalypse Now first half kept us going through the second as it hurtled towards its tragic end. Our souvenir is a manga-style version of Othello, which the boy is studying for GCSE...

...and then last night was Star Wars on DVD. No4...the first one. It's not fared well with the passing of time...but perhaps that's because I'm not an aficionado, just a casual observer.

My Downfall

If you watched the film Downfall, it may have been because you watched the parodies which have popped up on You Tube. There's been a veritable avalanche of them...and the boy and I have been watching them for months...my favourite remains the Michael Jackson one..his, one about being given the wrong motorcycle.

But no more, as the film makers are having them all removed. So this may be the last opportunity for you to watch:



I love the last line.

How sad when they are all gone.

Grown up

April 1st was an important day for me. I passed from young and ambitious, to old and settled. The cause of this was not a birthday, but it was indeed an anniversary...and it brought a present with it.

It turns out, as I discovered by letter sometime in early March, that 25 years ago I took out a mortgage; my first mortgage. And this was in the days of endowment mortgages. And whilst the first flat is long gone, the endowment has been hanging around gathering cobwebs in the dusty cupboards. Like all those investments we were sold at the time, I was promised a very handsome return on my investment, and unfortunately, as we now know, I'm not a banker and my reward is less than it should be. I'd like to say that my endowment is smaller than it should be, but I realise that will only get Auntie Gwen tittering. She's like that.

My first flat was in Brighton. Hove Actually. And was typical of the local architecture - bow fronted, with a balcony. Beautiful. It had just been modernised, so I had central heating. But like most of the properties in Brighton and Hove it had been refurbished by the sort of builder that might otherwise be described as a cowboy. I was quite lucky - my biggest problems were radiators that would develop little holes, showering the room with water of various temperatures. If I'd wanted a fountain, I'd have asked for it. Whenever my upstairs neighbour flushed her loo, it filled with hot water. Within six months, my neighbour at the back of the building had all her tiles fall off the bathroom wall. And there were other horrors in every flat.

And like the rest of Hove, the residents were a little eccentric. The somewhat secretive man on the top floor disappeared in his rusting Porsche one day, never to be seen again. The flat had been abandoned, and his creditors when they reclaimed the flat, had to call in the council because he had kept a pet owl which flew around depositing whatever owls deposit all over everything.

Still it was a nice flat, with fifteen foot high ceilings. And it was mine. I felt proper grown up, when on my first morning I placed an order with the milk man for a pint a day. Only grown ups did that.

The endowment is now safely deposited in my bank. It wouldn't buy a flat these days. It wouldn't buy a room even. Some will go to paying off debts. And some will go to new flooring in the Brighton flat that I bought when I sold this one.

But it feels as though this was a significant moment. The sort of thing that only real grown ups have.





Copyright note: these are not my pictures and the copyright of the owners is acknowledged

The brand issue

I've always made it a principle not to use the blog for any PR or advertising...it's for my pleasure and not for anyone's commercial gain. But that hasn't stopped me being inundated by offers from PRs. The e-mails usually go..."I've been reading your blog, it's really interesting and I was wondering if you'd like to write about blah blahs product". Usually, blah, blah's product is something for a two year old or for a girl or something that is otherwise completely irrelevant. So they get ignored. As a PR myself it's brought home to me the horror of how bad my profession is at what it does.

However, this week, I received a missive from a PR who had actually read the blog, and got the targeting spot on:

As a Dad, you may not get the chance to become a Nana one day - but you certainly might be a Papa and can appreciate the affection the UK public have for their nans nationwide. And with your son's nan being in Cyprus, I'm sure he'd love a way to show how much he cares. As such, I am emailing you to tell you about a campaign I'm currently working on with Shreddies that gives people the chance to honour their nanas by asking the question - Does your nana have what it takes to get the position of best Nana Job in the World!

The Shreddies campaign, which was launched on Facebook last week, will see the UK's best nana knitter win the opportunity to be the Official On-Packet Knitting Nana for Shreddies. Full details of the campaign can be found on facebook. You can also see more about how nanas make Shreddies and spend their time in the factory at the interactive, video, game and fact-filled site at knittedbynanas.com.

The current frontrunner for the job is Madge Waken from Stevenage, Hertforshire who has already generated over 1,300 votes. We'd love some more entries from Scotland and there is plenty of time to drum up support.

I have attached the release below for your information. If you have any questions or need video links or photography for use in the blog, please don't hesitate to contact me.

Best,
Ryan Levitt

Anyway...it seems fun to me. I might even nominate Grandma in Cyprus...although she gave up knitting a while ago....I used to get some spectacular jumpers...in the meantime, I'm going to go and get a box of Shreddies for tomorrows breakfast.


And on a different note altogether, the boy got a new mobile phone this week...his last one had an enormous crack on the screen and was looking decidedly the worse for wear. As mobiles are just about the most important accessory a teen can have, I couldn't face the thought of the tears and tantrums if it died altogether. Many of his friends have iphones...which seems a ridiculous extravagance to me - but that's Essex for you. He was given a Samsung B2110. The box has a mountain biker picture on it, and it can be dropped into water. In fact it can be dropped onto concrete. It is a tough phone. It has a torch. And an SOS function which will text four of your nearest and dearest if you're in trouble. But, as we now have discovered, it has one function that all phones should have. It has alarms to remind you if you are a Muslim, Christian, Sikh, or Hindu to pray. The Muslim one goes off five times a day. Each alarm has a ringtone that to my ignorant mind sounds exactly as it should and is accompanied by an image of your favoured deity.

May the Lord be praised.

Did you pack the bag yourself?

I'm sorry. I'd like to apologise to my fellow Russian travellers. But as they say, "Sorry is as sorry does" I've never known what that means....

Ideally I'd like to pass quickly over my scheduling challenges and move on, but selfishly, Kellogsville chose to ask the question in her comment on my Russian post....did we manage to get back and deliver the boy 'oop north' OK...

Apology no1: I didn't mean to padlock my suitcase shut for you to carry through customs at the airport. Two security checks. Wasn't it lucky that those Russian security people chose to open someone else in our party's luggage, and not my suitcase?

Apology no2: I didn't know that BA would only allow each person to have one piece of hold luggage. I thought that was Ryanair. I'm so glad you could take our bags through as cabin luggage. I do realise that means the boy and I could have brought it with us.

Enough of the damned apologies...I'm sure you didn't mean it when you said that I could never travel with you again. And I'm hoping the comment that I'm a drug runner using you as mules was made in jest....wasn't it?

Remarkably, our flight left bang on time, and with a following wind we arrived half an hour early. With no luggage to collect we sailed through formalities, caught the Paddington Express, and with only a small delay on the new and improved Circle line arrived early enough at Euston to put the the boy on a train an hour earlier than expected, meaning an nine-thirty arrival time.

I don't in any way resent having to pay an excess on the train which was more than double the original fare. humph.

And naturally, I was not in anyway panicked by not being able to get hold of the teacher who was going to pick the boy up from the station at the far end. Until just a couple of minutes before he arrived. That was three hours of calling without a response. humph

.....