James Bond arrives

After a period of being a company of 'no fixed abode' due to my failure to organise us when the lease of our old office came to an end, we moved to Bermondsey St...half way between Tower Bridge and London Bridge three years ago. To be entirely fair to me, we had started the process of buying the office six m months before...but evidently that wasn't long enough. It clearly wasn't helped by my solicitor asking four months into the process "Do you want a break clause?". On a 999 year lease. Yes I think so, about year 423 please. We found a new solicitor.

Anyhoos, we moved in having furbished an empty shell which was a modern addition to the old London warehouses that are a feature of the neighbourhood. I'm sure that at the height of the Port of London's success, the whole area must have been an amazing hive of hustle and bustle. Surprisingly there are very many old buildings which still exist and exude charm on the neighbourhood. I love it, and so do most people when they come visit - it's one of the least recognised places in London. There are old windy streets, a village hall, scruffy pubs, the antiques market, restaurants, real, local people and a sense of community, Bermondsey food market, parks and well anything you want in life. Apart from Marks and Spencer.

And that may be why our new neighbours have chosen to occupy the office opposite, which has been empty for the entire time we've been here. When we met the guys on their first visit there was a certain 'air' about them. Ever so slightly intimidating, but not in anyway unfriendly. A certain unexpected calmness. They exude confidence and they look extremely fit. There's a slightly militaristic way to the way the walk, speak and hold themselves.

We swapped cards, as you do. And I checked them out. They are a specialist security consultancy. They provide 'protection teams'. They provided a security cordon after the Baltic Exchange bombing. A foreign government employed them for surveillance of an arms dealer. They find corrupt South American government officials. They trace 'assets'. They seize counterfeit goods. And these are just examples from their website. I suspect that Mud is part of their team given all her foreign travels off the beaten track.

Their office is currently being fitted out. I probably shouldn't mention the floor which is being installed. It's made of one and a half inch thick steel plates. They've mentioned they are lining the ceiling as well. I wonder with what?

Never one to let my imagination run away with me, I expect to be reporting back shortly with tales of balaclava-clad soldiers abseiling in through the windows. Of local power outages as their complex systems for monitoring every radio message broadcast around the world drain the electricity grid. Burly blokes with holdalls casually thrown over their back delivering bags of used notes. And of suave agents arriving to collect details of their latest mission. Perhaps I could volunteer. After all there's nothing wrong with a bit of action and adventure, eh? See you in the Congo. "Call me Bene. Nota Bene."

Not guilty as charged

Has anyone got a good word to say about Islington Council? My encounters with them have never been good.

When we lived in central London Town, I rented a car parking space in an underground car park. It cost a lot to rent. I had to pay Council Tax on it too. To Islington Council. To the tune of £800 a year. Yes that is indeed more than many people pay for a whole house. When we moved to our cottage in the Forest (I think Little Red Riding Hood lives close) we got our own garage. In fact it's part of the cottage. Some people would turn it into a living room. We haven't becasue we like to fill it with Boy things. As we have this garage, we didn't need the one in London Town. So I wrote to Islington Council and told them we didn't use it anymore. They sent me a Tax Demand. Over the course of several months I wrote again and again, I telephoned them and I even went to visit them. Same story every time: I don't use this parking space anymore. That didn't stop them issuing a court summons. And refusing to withdrawing it. So I went to court. On the day I was supposed to be going to a friend's wedding. When I stood up in court the judge asked why I was pleading not guilty. I produced the letters, the dates of correspondence and the dates I had visited Islington Council. The judge asked Islington Council why they had issued the summons. They explained that they hadn't had time to check the space was not occupied. The judge dismissed the case. The court made the Council pay the costs and refund the Tax they had made me pay. If you live in Islington you paid for that.

When the boy's Mum died, he inherited, with his sister, a nice house in Finsbury Park. Finsbury Park is in Islington. Council Tax has to be paid on the house. When it is occupied by tenants, the tenants pay the tax. When it's vacant, the Trustees are responsible for the Council Tax. Not me. I don't own the house, I simply find tenants for it. The Trustees live in Wales; its a long way away so I help them out - why wouldn't I? It's my son's inheritance. I have explained that to Islington Council many times over the last several months. By phone, e-mail and by letter. I even have a letter from them telling me that they have removed my name from their records and I am no longer associated with the house. I've got e-mail apologies from them. But that hasn't stopped them issuing a Court Summons for next Thursday. This time I shall ask for compensation. This time I will ask the Court to make them stop harassing me. This time I expect the Court will make Islington Council pay the costs. If you live in Islington you will pay for that.

P.S. I've learnt through experience that Courts have a habit of making sure they upset everyone, so disregard the bravado above....I'm not counting my chickens, yet

Plastic surgery

I've never really understood the appeal of cosmetic surgery... especially when applied to parts of the body that seem perfectly fine to me anyway. I have chortled away at the idea of men having 'six-pack' inserts, and buttock inserts for both sexes. Be happy with what you've got, or you'll end up looking like Michael (RIP) Jackson's nose. For anyone who's suffered a misfortune, well, that's a different matter. Still we're a free country and we should be able to treat our bodies as we like - it's one area that the government hasn't though fit to delve into yet. For me, my body is a temple at which I worship with frequent offerings of food and drink.

So it came as a mild shock to find that without my knowledge, behind my back and without any care or concern for my feelings, a friend has surgically enhanced me, and pasted the results on Facebook. I hope you like NB version 2.0.

Guilty as charged

The boy and I are a pair of criminals; we've taken to walking around in stripy shirts carrying swag bags.

After my stopping in the bus lane incident, I've now been caught driving through a red traffic light. No excuse, I was lost in Chelmsford...trying to find a game of rugby...and after missing a good chunk of it was not concentrating as much as I should have been. When I rang the police to check on the photo evidence, I had to end the conversation with 'Fair cop'. He nearly laughed.

The boy has also had to face the consequences of the ruckus on the rugby field. A disciplinary committee was convened in line with RFU rules. And the result is....
....a three week ban. "It's the rules" he says. Stiff upper lip, gritted teeth whilst churning internally (I suspect). He's man enough to take his punishment, understands why and will have learnt from it. He'll get over it and then onwards and upwards to bigger and better things.

Fight Club (2)

The boy is a mild-mannered lad. Always has been. He gets by with easy-going charm, and a smile that makes the opposite sex swoon. Instead of competitive, he has a steely determination to succeed on his own terms. He's happy to see and help others succeed, confident that he will too. I've always thought that his lack of competitiveness was down to spending his first few years at a primary school in Finsbury Park where the word 'competitive' had been deleted from the dictionary; for Islington Council, it always seemed that taking part was good enough, and then only if you really, truly wanted to. And winning was shameful unless you were disadvantaged in some way.

Rugby has become one of the boy's great loves, and he has worked damned hard to get into the first team and stay there. Over the last four years he has focused on improving his skills, and this year he has been rewarded by a permanent place in the U15 squad. Second Row. And in return, I have been going to watch not just the home games, but the away ones as well. Although sometimes not knowing that the away game was being played on fields away from the school has made actually seeing the game a tad tricky.

What I have noticed, has been a revolution in the boy's performance. And more importantly a noticeable change in approach and attitude. In going for the ball, tackling and driving forwards, he has a look of absolute determination. Adrenalin has been pumping and you know he wants to WIN. It is a look to be admired and respected.

Saturday's game followed on from a hard fought and close win the week before, and a thumping victory (61-0 with the match abandoned twenty minutes early to save the other team's blushes) on Thursday. So their tales were up.

Within a couple of minutes of the start, I mentioned to a fellow parent that the game seemed different, and I even suggested that it would end in a bundle. My view appeared to be shared by everyone around. Including the medic. Which is strange because the opposition claim a distinguished alumni of 20 canonised saints and 133 martyrs. I'm sure they feel that God is on their side.

Fred's team played well, and took a good lead into the second half, complaining over the break about the cheating and provocation from the other team. And as the final whistle got closer, so did the tension rise. It finally erupted and much to my surprise, it was my boy that landed the first visible punch. His reasoning that he was having his eyes gouged and hair pulled may, or may not, seem reason enough. In the mayhem, fists flew, teachers got stuck in to pull youths apart, and floor (by tackling) the ones that were going to add to the chaos. It was a scene and a half. The receiver of the punch was carted off to A&E (martyr 134?).

The boy was distraught and contrite at being sent off, and I hope I rallied round well enough for him. He knows when he's in the wrong and is admirable at accepting fault.

It helped that with one man down, they held onto their victory.

Afterwards it transpired there has been a long history of over-competitiveness.

Amongst his peers, he currently has no equal. It was a good punch, well-landed with good reason. Amongst the teachers? Well it would be unfair to say. Of course he was given a dressing down. But I don't expect there to be any lasting damage to his career prospects. In fact the unusual show of aggression is to be admired amongst the rugby-playing fraternity. But do it out of sight.

So perhaps this is the day my boy grew up in a less than saintly way. But please. NO MORE FIGHTING.

Fight club (1)

This week has been House Play competition week. And for the first time the boy had landed a plum part. He's enjoyed dramatics throughout his school life, but this was a real opportunity to shine. His House is unlike the others in that they have a tradition of writing their own play. Quite an achievement in itself. And this year they were competing against Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead, Arsenic and Old Lace and an episode of Black Adder. The play was called The Script, and involved a clever conceit about a school where life was ruled by a Script, which accidently falls into the hands of the pupils, who then start altering it to suit themselves. It was, like all the plays, vetted by the head of drama who saw it twice before the performance. At the end of the play, the judges were due to give their verdict, and indeed they did. The play was disqualified for being inappropriate...one too many close resemblences to school masters and the head of drama was piqued. The decision has caused uproar...and not just amongst the pupils. You should see the Facebook page...it's blue. Staff walked out of the judging, and the general view is that the decision was unreasonable. I bet the staff room was a fun place to be the day after. I got my chance to see a 'modified' (censored) version on Friday. It was fall off your seat funny...and everyone gave a performance they should be proud of. But there's a lasting sense of injustice....although I suspect this particular play will be talked about long after the winning performance of Arsenic is long forgotten. And as a final note, it would have been better if the external judge hadn't talked about Rosencrantz and Guildenstein.

Ding Dong...I'm getting married in the morning

Sorry Grandma in Cyprus if that comes as a shock (again) - I know you met my first (and only, so far) wife only after we'd tied the knot. But I like to keep you on your toes.

I was much pleased when a rather attractive young woman asked me to marry her yesterday. She is, as I say, young and attractive. More than that she knows what I like, and feeds me fine food. So I feel it is the right thing to do. Her head has no doubt been turned by my charm, my good looks, my simple being. And tush to any of you who suggest for one moment it's because she works in the local sandwich bar and is struggling to get a visa. I'm sure we will live happily ever after. And I'm sure the boy will like his new step-mum, who is at least five years older than him.

This is the first time someone has asked me to marry them, but I have been asked out on several occasions. It's always good for me. I'm not sure it's good for them.

I was once the lucky owner of a rather gorgeous soft-top sports car (one of the first Audi TTs in Britain - it always turned heads) and once when driving back to town from a weekend at the beach, a car with two women pulled alongside. Remarkably as we cruised along the motorway at speeds likely to incur the wrath of the local constabulary, one of them reached out of her window and passed me a note with her phone number on. We did indeed meet up, and that's when I discovered that you can't tell how tall someone is when they're sitting in a car. I looked up to her six foot from my five foot eight and admired her blond locks.

On our recent trip to the Fatherland, the boy and I chatted to a couple of women as we climbed one of the mountains. When we came down to breakfast the next day, there was a note for me that had been left at reception. The waiter said he had no idea what it said, which I took as meaning he had devoured every bit of it. And so he should. It was a name, a number and the suggestion of some nocturnal activity. I've kept the note for posterity.

And earlier this year as I dropped the boy off for a school friend's party, the mum came across and suggested it would be fun to go out for a drink. I ran away giggling.

It's nice to feel wanted.

Anish Kapoor

You may have to wait for up to 20 minutes to see anything happen, but well worth it:

Click here

I went to a lunch time lecture today - skiving off work - to hear words of wisdom from the curator. And I highly recommend everyone pays a visit at least once before December

It wasn't me

Once upon a time, I worked in the car industry. It was glitzy, it was glamorous. Especially as I was a PR man. A master of spin. I'd got in by default - on the milk round, I'd simply wanted a job with a big company who could train me. I ended up at Rover, in the days just after Red Robbo. It was more peaceful than it had been, but there were still strikes, and when there was a strike, and you had to visit one of the other sites, you always make sure you took a company car, as you were likely to have a brick hurled at you. As I was a snotty, just out of university, the world owes me a living graduate, that was probably not unreasonable. Apart from those exciting days, generally the best parts of the job were the motor show and car launches. I moved to Nissan at the time they were building their factory ooop north, so when we had a launch we did it in style. A week in the south of France, staying in a hotel where every room had its own swimming pool; it was frequented by Kings, Queens and Presidents. But even I blushed when I was tasked with finding a laid of he night for our one of our journalist guests. I loved it.

But not as much as I enjoyed the press trips when we were showing off our 4x4s. A couple of days driving through the mud and ruts in an enormous Japanese tank was my idea of heaven. We used Shugborough in Staffordshire - the home of Lord Litchfield if I remember rightly. It's a beautiful place to visit.

After I left the car industry, I carried on with the 4x4 thing driving a hairdresser's car - a white soft top Suzuki Vitara. The car was fabulous. It was a company car, and I didn't much care if it got damaged. My best and worst moment was getting stuck in the middle of a lake when the whole of the underneath got clogged with mud. The AA towed me out, and there was some explaining to do at the office on the Monday. Most of the other people doing it used Land Rovers and always looked down on my pretty little car.

This year with the purchase of the Tonka Toy, and with the enthusiastic support of the boy, we decided to go to an event and christen the car...another friend with a big 4x4 decided to come too. An off road event near Abingdon, which promised thrills and spills on a 'non-damaging' course. But as the date neared, the boy's commitments at school increased, and for some reason my enthusiasm lessened. It was going to be difficult to fit it in, so I decided that we would give it a miss. Perhaps it was the thought of expensive potential garage bills. So what was planned to be a weekend of camping and mud crawling (and as it turns out, in perfect conditions), has ended up with me watching the boy play rugby, and him rehearsing for the school drama competition. We could have just about squeezed in a trip to the event - a dash round the M25 and along the M40, but we didn't. Perhaps it wouldn't have been wise to have tackled the mud under pressure, but truth is I think I wimped out. So I'm a little annoyed and disappointed with myself. The boy is a little disappointed too. My friend still went and he texted the picture above. He had a brilliant time. Today is a glass half-empty day. Damn it Janet.

The Scottish question. A rant - please feel free to ignore

I've long been known to rant about the state of the UK and I've been known to rant long about this government's interferance in the minutae of our daily lives.

Once upon a time it was quite difficult to break the law, so you could be sure that if you did, you were a signed up member of the criminal fraternity. Ignorance was no excuse. However, these days it is often easier to break the laws of the land than stay within them. There are so many rules and regulations to bind us that I'm sure soon none will have gold stars for behavious, we'll all just have black marks. I've lost count of the rules I've broken by mistake, and fines I've paid as a result...and it starts to make you feel you're a seasoned law-breaker...

My instinct is that our beloved, upright, honest politicians are driving towards a totalitarian state, with each citizen monitored 24 hours a day for their entire life. Fear has been a political tool in this coun try for a dozen or so years, and shows no sign of abating - even for serious issues such as swine flu, the information coming out of the government was designed to cause panic and fear. And most issues, Joe and Joanne Public are treated as guilty until proved innocent. And in case we think we're right, it's only because they know something we don't, so we're wrong and they're right

So I laughed until I fell off my chair at the problems of our Attorney General. I've nothing against Baroness Scotland herself, but as part of the Government she got nothing more than she deserved. I took the opportunity to try and find out what you need to do if you employ a foreign national, and not surprisingly it was a herculean task to work it out. I'm not Hercules, so am still not entirely sure. But what I did find was the documents I was supposed to read. And the nearest I got was List A and List B of documents which 'Provide an excuse'...which to me is the language of "guilty, but you can get away with it", rather than if you want to employ someone these are the documents you should have.

To me it feels that this isn't the country I was brought up to believe in. I wonder if the boy will be feeling the same in 34 years time.

End of rant. Normal service resumed soon.

What shall I buy?

I have a rule...in fact I have many rules. But the one that's important here is that if I ever get a parking ticket or something of that ilk, whatever the fine, then I will spend the same amount on a treat. I think it's the ideal solution to combat the immeasurable depression that's brought on by the thought of having to donate yet more money to the wasters that occupy many a town hall - with immediate and abject apologies to the public sector staff that do provide a genuine service to the community.

I think I mentioned a fortnight ago, a tenant managed to get himself from here to the States without a valid passport, meaning I spent my Saturday finding a key so his sister could get into the flat and FedEx his passport to him. On my return journey, my phone went, and I pulled over thinking it was the sister who had a problem. And therein lies the problem. I hadn't realised I stopped in an empty bus lane. As evidenced below.

It's cost me £60 (reduced from £120 for good behaviour), so I need to find a £60 treat. And convince myself that in future I should do anyone any favours. At all.

My hero

We live at the top of a hill. Quite a high hill actually. And the tube station is a at the bottom of it, about twenty minutes walk away.

Last night I had to take the tube home because SOMEONE had broken my scooter so it's spending a few days at the garage. I didn't want to go hime in my biker gear, so changed into the linen suit I keep at the office. As the tube got closer and closer to home, the rain got heavier and heavier. Monsoon is an understatement. I had no umbrella, and taxis are few and far between in our neck of the woods.

The boy rang (our tube line is above ground) to see how I was getting on....and without hesitation offered to walk down to the station with an umbrella for me.

How cool is that? He is my superhero.

Crash bang wallop

I've always puzzled at why people smoke, in the full knowledge that it's likely to finish you off early in a nasty way. I guess that at heart we're all gamblers. But I don't smoke.

On the road, I ride either my gorgeous Vespa or my staggeringly scary KTM (MLC - AG). I love the freedom and fresh air and seeing the tarmac disappear beneath the bike. In London, the Vespa is really the only way to get around - I can weave in and out of traffic jams and get from a to b in half the time of any other mode of transport...apart from the cycle. It's a lot of fun, but I'm pretty careful and get left in the dust by teenage tearaways who've just discovered the freedom that two wheels bolted to an engine can give you.

But there is an inevitability with bikes. At some stage, sooner or later you will come off. No matter how careful you are, it's as certain as bears pooing in the woods...

So I've never understood why anyone would ride without appropriate protective clothing. I suspect for boys/men a scar is proof positive of their manhood...like a big tattoo, but more painful to acquire. But it quite breaks my heart to see women/girls on the back of their boyfriend's bike with nothing more than a t-shirt and short-skirt to protect their modesty. I have a pair of motorcycle trousers and the label says, "Helps prevent muscle stripping." That's a powerful visual phrase. A friend told me that if you come off at 30 mph, it takes 0.3 seconds to go from skin to bone. Ouch, ouch, ouch. Sheer agony. And effectively irreperable. Not a good look in a bikini.

I've had three significant tumbles on the Vespa in the last seven years - the first was when I used to take the boy to school on the back. We skidded on gravel at the traffic lights and both tumbled off. I was completely unscathed, he broke his foot. He's forgiven me; I haven't. The second was at the bottom of the Lane, a car hurtled round the corner leaving me to slip on a wet drain cover into the bushes. I carried on to work, had lunch with a client and then went to hospital...and got my broken arm strapped up. No wonder I'd been sweating all morning. Today, I rounded a bend I've been on a thousand times. The wheels just skipped away from me as I crossed some gravel and I tumbled to the floor. I've severely broken my over-inflated ego, but apart from that the only injury is a bruised thigh. The bike is scratched and dented; it'll cost a pretty penny to fix (but not worth claiming on the insurance). My kevlar-reinforced jeans are scuffed, but fine. Hurrah. And the little widget for my phone is dented....deeply upsetting as I dislike my phone, so it would have been a good thing for it to have been flattened. The real peculiarity is that my shirt is ripped to shreds on the left shoulder, even though the jacket was unscathed. Odd.

Oh and sorry, Grandma in Cyprus, I know you don't like reading about these things

Prat

Peter Mandelson today said added that Labour should have "the mindset of insurgents who are restless with the status quo, not incumbents".

Well that's alright then - insurgents in Iraq and Afghanistan are simply restless with the status quo. And it's ok to blow up British soldiers.