Stop press: I save the world

As I have matured, I have increasingly seen it as my place to lead the world to a better place. I emphasise the word matured...it is not as if I am ageing, of course. Tuesday will be my birthday. At the moment I am 37 and on Wednesday I will be 37. I don't have any issues or hang-ups with my age...it's just other people that do.

Obviously, my concern with the state of the world has much to do with the realisation that I have brought another human being into this world, and it is my duty to make sure that he inherits it in as good a condition as possible.

So, as I have previously mentioned, the Beemer has gone. Now, at this point (and indeed many points henceforth) I'm going to ignore Miss Spoilsport Auntie Gwen's comment in my last post. After careful consideration I felt the need to address the dual world crises of the environment and the economy. So this reduced my choice of new vehicle considerably. However, I am pleased to say that having researched the matter considerably, I have chosen wisely.

Firstly, I have moved from petrol to diesel power. I am told by my green friends this is a good thing. Secondly I selected an engine that is 40% smaller than the last one - so no longer a gas guzzling 4.5 litre V8 monster, a mere 2.8 litres of pure environmental friendliness. Most importantly, it has won a Gold Award in the leading Green Award Scheme. And just as importantly, its simple construction means that its manufacturing carbon footprint (dust to dust is the phrase) is lower than that of the famous enviro-wagon beloved of Hollywood celebrities, the Toyota Prius. And I have made significant steps to improve fuel consumption...in fact by 25%

This you may well say is sufficient to elevate me to saintliness. But I say no. This is not enough. I want to do more.

So in the spirit of the current recession...the worst since the 1930's I hear...I have chosen a much better value vehicle. In fact the cost is just 25% of the Beemer (yes that was one of the more extravagant ones)...so I think a cut back lesson our government would do well to follow. And according to the manufacturer it costs less to run per mile than a Toyota Yaris (that's the small one in case you don't know the model range of every car company by heart) by almost 20%.

I hear you now trying to lift my halo above my head. But wait, I'm not yet ready.

I could have bought second-hand as a further economy measure, but no I was thinking of other people. So buying new has enabled me to sustain employment here in the UK at the dealership, and overseas where it was manufactured. Thereby helping develop improved international relations too.

Even now, I am not yet quite ready for my elevation.

I have indeed pointed out that here in the land of plenty (of gold, suntan and bleached blondes) BMWs are poor man's transport, and it is true with every house having a combination of Mercedes, BMW, Porsche, Aston Martin and Bentley parked on the driveway. I feel there is a need to redress the balance, and to make a stand for social equality, by making the people around me recognise that flashing your cash is not the way to achieve worthy recognition. Indeed, our new transport is so rare (you can count on the fingers of one hand the number that have been sold this year) that it turns heads wherever we go. In their eyes, I can see the flash of green...although as I'm colour blind some may say it is red. Whatever.

Yet more. The boy has lusted after one for decades (he's 14 you know) and in acquiring this vehicle I have significantly boosted his self-esteem and indeed standing amongst his peers.

So now I am ready.

And below is a picture for you to have and to hold.

Farewell fond friends

Parting is such sorrow, even though I always knew it would happen. I knew this day would come - and in all honesty the date has been known to me since the day we met. Truth be told I didn't want us to part, but you are being taken away from me. I admit that you're being replaced with something younger...but you must understand that the appeal of youthfulness never fades. Through good times and bad, I know you've always been there for me, and I know we've had our ups and downs, but you've never deserted me. Although I can't say you've always been a reliable friend.

However onwards and upwards.

So goodbye to my Nokia phone, your contract came to an end, so you're replaced with another so complicated that it'll take me a year at least to work out how to call my friends. And goodriddance to Vodafone and hello to T-Mobile - I like your adverts, so I hope the service is as good.

And goodbye to fat plutocrat autobahn express BMW. A lovely, speedy beast which has taken us on many wonderful adventures. Auntie Gwen thought it was far too flash...but actually in this neck of the woods, a poor man's car. So now replaced with sometthing, erm different. erm.

Firstly, I'm sorry

To all and everyone who is till waiting for a Christmas card from the Nota Bene household. You may have given up on it by now, and you may have struck us off your Chrsitams card list for next year; please don't - we don't get that many in the first place, so even one fewer is a hardship for us. We are having to clear out the car...and it is truly remarkable what you can find in the mobile filing cabinet after four years. And I'm afraid to say that we have discovered all our 2008 Christmas cards, signed sealed and stamped. But not posted. At this stage I will point out that they were on the boy's side of the car, and I distinctly remember giving him clear instructions to post them. So it's all his fault. But as a minor, I think you'd be wrong to hold it against him. That is my job.

And so, in the interests of the environment and the economy, we will be using the cards for this Christmas. So expect your card early....and if you're worried you're not on our list, simply send us your address and we'll sign, seal and stamp the card for you. I'm not guaranteeing though whether late entries will get their card this year, next year or even the year afterwards.

Men are from Mars

I'm very delighted indeed to report that after weeks of dropping subtle hints, I was rewarded with two poached eggs on toast and a cup of tea in bed this morning. Pretty cool eh? Admittedly half past seven was a little early, but the boy was determined to make sure that he had it all sorted before I woke up. Ten out of ten.

On a different note, I learnt a long time ago not to argue with a woman. Well women in general actually. They come at things from such a different perspective that even if by all the rules of nature I'm right, I'm wrong. What I hadn't realised is that if men are from Mars and women from Venus, well boys are from a different universe altogether.

Like all responsible parents (there's at least three of us in the country, we have a rule that if the boy goes out he needs to tell me where he's going and when he'll be back. After many hours of lecturing on the subject he's got it. So time for a cheer. Sometimes though for a variety of reasons the rule gets bent either by the boy or me. When that happens, I send a text asking when he'll be returning. Sometimes this works, sometimes I get the panicky text back to say he's on his way home. If I've explained it once I've explained it a hundred times, I'm just asking for a time of arrival, I'm not making a demand for return. And so it was today...he'd been invited for a lunch time party with the parents of his girlfriend. No time of return had been determined, so as I was getting hungry by 8ish, I texted wanting to know if he'd be back for supper. Twenty minutes later a taxi had been ordered by the hosts and the boy rematerialised. Grrrrrrr. I didn't want to curtail his social life. Grrrrr. Grrrrr. I'm sure I've explained it in words of one syllable, but perhaps I should try using a language he can understand. I'll try texting.

Feckers

I just need to get some things off my chest. Sorry.

1. What is it with the constant stream of people coming and going throughout a gig? I know it's about the 2 Ps. Piss - well if you need to go, go before the concert starts. I was taught that when I was still a babe in arms. Pint - if you need to drink beer at a gig, buy it at the bar before the start and make it last. In both cases you've paid forty squids for your ticket, which is a complete waste if you spend half the time not actually listening to the band. These are surely the same people that can't get through a couple of hours at the cinema without munching their way through a ton of sweets and crisps and a lake of cola. Or get on a European flight without a three course meal, crisps, nuts and beer, wine and and and.

2. To the man standing next to me last night checking the e-mails on his Crackberry. Get a life you fecker

3. If you go to a gig, don't leave ten minutes before the end so you miss the rush for the tube afterwards. That's like not reading the last ten pages of a novel. Feckers the lot of them

Right. Sorted.

Oh yes, Kings of Leon? Brilliant.

Travelled down the river from London Bridge to the O2.



My apologies to Glasvegas who were the support. I love your music, it was everyone else's fault that we only caught the last song in your set. It was a very good song.

And when KoL came on everyone, even in the seated area, stood and danced from beginning to end.



Hope they're playing again soon.

Old as old could be

Old age has a nasty habit of creeping up on you unexpectedly. Whilst still feeling like a teenager in the head, you gradually realise that your skin is wrinkled and saggy, you have more aches and pains than before, you can no longer consume a skin-full of booze and get up easily the next morning, policemen (and traffic wardens) start looking younger and you prefer Magic FM to Radio 1. You realise that all those hopes and ambitions...the ideas of conquering the world (or saving it...) have long gone, and all you want to do is sit in the rocking chair with a mug of cocoa watching an episode of your favourite soap.

The boy found his first grey hair today

Fullsome Friday

Friday was a busy day. I disturbed the boy at crack of sparrow by firing up the MLC just underneath his bedroom window for a quick jaunt down to the seaside. Arriving there, the man from the gas board took delight in telling me yes I could move the meter and no I didn't need to ask him. Any Corgi could do it. So a 160 mile round trip was for not much really.

However, my mind was elsewhere.

My friend in the North (well it's north to me) was asking for positive thoughts as she winged her way through a job interview for which she didn't feel qualified. As my motto is never to let the facts get in the way of a good story, I couldn't see the problem. As she was offered the job later the same day, I hope it was something to do with my motivational thinking.

In the opposite direction....many thousands of miles away...I was also thinking positive thoughts. My friend's teenage son (and his friend) had been killed by a drugged-up drunk driver some eighteen months ago. Friday was the day of sentencing. The driver was given a long sentence without the possibility of parole for eight years. Whilst you can't feel pleased about this, it does seem that for once the justice system has delivered as best it could. And of that I'm glad.

Connecting with the people you serve

GPs 'may not work amid pandemic'

And in the same vein (sic):

soldiers will not work if they're being shot at
police will not work if there's criminals on the street
firemen will not go near a burning house
ambulance drivers will not pick you up if you might die in the back
the RNLI won't come out in case they sink
Formula 1 drivers will not drive if everyone else is going too fast
...and politicians will not go to the ballot box if they think they'll lose

All quiet on the western front (2)

I'm annoyed. Really annoyed. The boy has really p*ssed me off.

We went to a school meeting this week - planning for the school's sports tours for the next three years - anyone for cricket in Namibia? Rugby in Malaysia? Netball in Australia? We bumped into the Deputy Head. Mr Bromfield to the boy. Jeremy to me. When I was at the school he was my history teacher and boarding house master. We all thought he was ancient...turns out he was just half a dozen years older than us. He still looks the same.

Jeremy said to me, "He's taller than you now."

How dare he. The boy, not the teacher. How dare he. I've told him time and time again that he will never be taller than me. Even if he reaches the height of 6', my 178cm will always tower over him. Always. My little boy will always be my little boy.

P.S. Four days to the Kings of Leon

All is quiet on the western front

The boy has been quite low profile in recent posts. And in just the same way as the newspapers never report good news, so it is here.

After some challenging moments through the spring, he's turned the corner. Every day I get a text shortly before I leave work to say what he's been doing after school, and what homework needs to be done/is being worked on.

Domestic chores are being completed without chasing....well nearly without chasing. Almost.

And generally all is well.

On the one hand, that's just fantastic. But on the other I hope the teenagerness has not been too tamed. And teenage years are the time for rebellion, and character formation. I hope he will continue to challenge and push the boundaries...he'll need to do that when he's older, so he needs to get the practice in now.

But I have to say it's a nice calm atmosphere around the house which I'll enjoy whilst I can....

Vive la revolution (2)

On the other hand, I've just come back from a speech by Lord Digby Jones. Who made more sense than anyone I've heard for a long time. On just about all the issues that get me going. He gets my vote. Except as a Lord he doesn't need it.

It may have something to do with him being Lord Digby Jones of Birmingham. A place not known for its airs and graces.

So I can cancel the boy's application to the Socialist Workers Revolutionary Party (I wonder if I should have told him that I sent it in).

As for the previous Lord, a letter to David Cameron has resulted in a call from 'Dave's' office...hopefully there'll be a result in this peasents revolution.

Vive la revolution

Time to re-introduce the guillotine and storm the Bastille.

We had a call from someone purporting to be Lord Tim Cavendish today.

He was demanding some information we didn't have.

Poor Clementine who answered the phone was verbally abused. Anyone called Clementine who works for a company called Mandarin should never be abused.

I took over, deciding to call him firstly Tim, then Mr Cavendish and then Mr Cavendish again.

He bellowed "Fuck off you little oick".

I know where he lives. I know where he works. He'll be one of the first lined up against the wall when the revolution comes.

Another night on the town

Friday night was Shakespeare night. And in responsible parenting mode, the boy was left home alone with the usual box of matches, sharp knife, drugs, cigarettes and porn. This week he allowed to bring a friend, so there was an expectation of twice the mayhem.

They decided to cook themselves supper...and did a fine job of grilling bacon and 'soss' and heating Heinz finest. I know they did because the evidence left behind wouldn't have troubled the CSI team too much. Nothing that a couple of days scrubbing won't fix.

I love the teen mindset. I never switch the mobile off, 'just in case', but it does go onto silent and vibrate mode. So the texts sent during Act 2 went unanswered. After all I'm not sure that Denmark would appreciate me fiddling with my Nokia whilst one death follows another. It was a simple request...could he go and stay at his friend's house. And when I didn't reply, another text 'Dad?' And then another. He's been known to do this when he knows I'm riding the motorbike too. As we tripped out of the foyer, I replied in the affirmative.

By contrast to last week's little jaunt, I was with some of the parents from the boy's school...including his maths teacher. They're a very sociable lot. But it did curtail my 'fecking and blinding'. We started off at a 'pop up' bar designed by Tom Dixon that would probably look fab after dark, but in early evening light looked more like sonething thrown together by the pre-school group. We trundled off to Wydham's theatre to see Jude Law prove he can act (I quite liked him in Mr Ripley and Sky Captain and the world of tomorrow, but I don't think he often troubles the Oscar jury). And I'm delighted to report back that it was fine performance and a beautiful production. Ido have to confess though that sitting in a warm theatre at the end of a hard week after a couple of gin and tonics made for a keeping awake challenge. I can also report that Mr Law has very big hands.

Celebrity spotting was de rigeur in our group. I contributed by offering to get a copy of Hello and poiting to the man on the stage. It seemed the best I could manage.

No eating in the street for us, but a trip to Sheeky's for oysters and fish stew at the bar. And lots of carefully selected Sauvingon Blanc. Very nice, very civilised. And the taxi dropped us all home around about the time that I should have been long asleep.

So no love-lorn Celts jumping tube barriers, no fights at the show, and no touts hanging around trying to flog tickets to Himlat and no new T-shirt. But a nice way to spend a Friday night (given the choice of Hamlet or Jonathan Ross) and a boost to my cunning plan to build a better social life now I'm not quite so tied to being at home with the boy all the time.

Extremely good indeed, I might even say the best Shakespeare play for a long time, though I'm sure not a patch on the Kings of Leon I'm off to see in a couple of weeks. Did I mention the Kings of Leon? I'm very excited indeed.

A night on the town

Friday night was gig night. And in responsible parenting mode, the boy was left home alone with the usual box of matches, sharp knife, drugs, cigarettes and porn.

Auntie Gwen and I travelled to Camden by tube (evidently sitting in my car is too much for her) to see the Manic Street Preachers. Well that was who we thought we were going to hear, but the ticket tout outside was trying to sell tickets for the Maniacs, so perhaps we were mistaken. Anyways, who ever we did see were very good...playing firstly their new album, then popping off for a cup of tea before returning to strum a string of greatest hits. Extremely good indeed, I might even say the best gig for a long time, though I'm sure not a patch on the Kings of Leon I'm off to see in a couple of weeks. Did I mention the Kings of Leon? I'm very excited indeed.

Walking down Camden High Street we grabbed a fajita from a street vendor and scoffed it as we strolled along, some of it went in our mouths, some on to the pavement; fortunately none on my T-shirt. We stopped off to get a drink, and managed to get served, drink our drink (mine a slow-pour Guinness) and leave before the girl who was standing at the bar waiting for her receipt. For a diet coke. On a Friday night. In a busy bar in Camden.

Heading home, and AG met her true love. Well he was a fellow Celt, in a fetching green and white stripey Celtic football shirt that apeared to have lost its sleeves. He was entranced enough by her beauty to leap the ticket barrier and hold her hand all the way down to the platform declaring undying love and shouting loud enough that the whole station was fully aware of her beauty. In chivalrous fashion I knew my place and hid behind her skirts. Eventually we felt it an act of kindness to point out he was heading in the wrong direction. It took a moment or two for him to realise that this was ideed the case at which point he abandoned his lady love and staggered off in the direction from which he came.

Not sure how AG managed to drive all the way back to deepest darkest middle England afterwards, or retain her cheery smile through the evening, having been travelling from sun-drenched Turkey since three in the morning. But she did. So thank you. And thank you for the new T Shirt.





Sorry about the sound quality, and sorry but we could only afford the cheap tickets so had to watch in black and white