Have you ever played Chubby Bunny?
There's no bunnies involved.
And no animals were harmed in the writing of this post.
It's a drinking game. Although I can't quite work out where the drink fits in. But I do know that it is a game best played when drunk.
The objective is to see how many marshmallows you can stuff in your mouth before you can't say "Chubby Bunny" anymore.
Unfortunately, as I gave up eating marshmallows last year, it's a game I fear I shall never play again.
It was fortunate, therefore that we went to see Matthew Bourne's Nutcracker yesterday. If you enjoy dance, you'll enjoy Bourne's modern twist on things traditional. Most famous is his Swan Lake with an all male cast. Startling. Anyway, back to the Nutcracker, no longer set in a sumptuous house, but instead Mrs Dross' home for children. It's more like a prison. Mrs Dross is the epitome of bad, as is Mr Dross and their children. It's a completely different, and more coherent tale than you would normally witness at a performance of Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite, and all the better for it. Of the various highlights I shall pick out the dancing Knickerbocker glory and, of course, the Marshmallow Girls
I was planning to stay at home this week, but it says a lot about how relaxed the Christmas period has been that I felt positively enthusiastic about coming back to the office earlier. Obviously I was in a minority of one as the roads were almost completely empty this morning. Not that I was looking too closely as I fought to control the motorbike in gale force winds....but it must have been much easier for me than it was the brave souls on bicycles.
Most people in the media seem to be making predictions for the year...none anything other than gloomy. But my one and only prediction is that it will be the unpredictable that will be interesting, the rest just plain tedious.
Of my particular areas of interest, I suspect we should all be praying for an Obama victory in the Presidential elections. He may be as much use as a wet fish on a bicycle, but that may just be better than electing the Nazi alternatives. In the Middle East, we haven't really seen as much change as we might have hoped, but that is typical of the region. Egypt may yet implode, the Iranians are unlikely to be attacked overtly by the Israelis (but expect a few mysterious explosions caused by 'equipment failures), Libya is now a country ruled by various militias, and there will be blood in Syria. Oh dear. I'm still keeping my fingers crossed for Palestinian Statehood, although the wait may just give me arthritis. Russia is gradually slipping backwards politically, although not economically, and that may be no bad thing...at least everyone knows where they stand. Slowly but surely China will continue to make its presence felt....and that will do more to change the world's outlook than anything else. Europe will muddle along...the Greeks will be ejected I suspect, and that will be no bad thing. Here in Blighty, it will be all pain and no gain...but realistically it would be no different (perhaps worse even) if the Millibands were in charge. At least we have the Olympics to look forward to...and the Queen's Jubilee which means another bank holiday...
Tuesday, 3 January 2012
Sunday, 1 January 2012
2012 and all that
And so to 2012. A Happy New Year to everyone.
It may seem a little strange.
It may be a little unorthodox.
It may not have been quite what we were expecting.
But our New Year was brought in by a near-naked fire-eating stripper gyrating on top of a grand piano with a vajazzle to preserve the last vestigies of her modesty, and flaming tassles to highlight her well-endowed chest.
We had spent the evening watching, from the "posh seats", La Soiree - contemporary circus that would make the most liberal of us blush. it was more burlesque than Billy Smarts. At the far-end of our row of tables, the younger members of our eighteen-strong party had set the pace by ordering Jager-bombs, whilst we supped more gently on red wine. The event took place at the Roundhouse in Camden. Even the men hadc been most impressed by the 'Singing in the rain' man who could hold himself horizontally on a lamp post whilst his legs 'walked' up an invisible wall to a near vertical position, but probably, on balance favoured the hula hoop girl. For certain The Boy was still dreaming of her the next morning. Honourable mentions to all the other acts too. Camden is an interesting part of the world...I do remember a previous visit and Auntie Gwen being chased down the underground platform by an unknown Irishman asking for her hand in marriage.
On the drive home, many memories were brought to the fore - the new year is always a good time to remember times past. The journey took us past The Boy's old home, and my father's old factory. How times have changed. It's probably forty, maybe forty five years since I'd been near the factory. If he was still alive he'd not recognise the area.
New Year's Eve, marks the beginning of the end of the Christmas season, and it's been so busy that I've not been near the blogosphere for the duration sadly. Christmas Day was as hectic as hectic could be with eighteen people for dinner. It's lovely to have folks from the age of six through to eighty a round, the the busy hustle and bustle reminded me of my own special childhood Christmases, the memory of which I still cherish. Whilst we emjoyed a big Christmas gathering, it was much quieter for Grandma in Cyprus. Many of the ex-pat Brits return to Blighty for the duration, so Grandma and Grandad in Cyprus went out for lunch together. There's more than a twinge of guilt about that, but I hope they know I was thinking about them throughout the day.
It was good to see my brother on the 27th before we retreated to Brighton for that strange, slightly mystical period when time seems to grind to a halt for a few days. We didn't really manage to do anything...not even go on the very, very magical skating rink at Brighton Pavillion, because skating in the rain cannot be a good thing. We did, however, get to enjoy our new bathroom. Actually shower room. the builders finished a day or so before Chritsmas, so the air was still flush with builders dust, but a few days of steamy showers seems to have settled the matter.
We returned in our fastest ever time - one hour twenty three minutes, with practically no other vehicles on the roads. And then readied ourselves for New Year's Eve.
And now I've written his, I'm going to try and catch up with everyone else's adventures over the last two-weeks. I hope everyone has a splendid year ahead.
It may seem a little strange.
It may be a little unorthodox.
It may not have been quite what we were expecting.
But our New Year was brought in by a near-naked fire-eating stripper gyrating on top of a grand piano with a vajazzle to preserve the last vestigies of her modesty, and flaming tassles to highlight her well-endowed chest.
We had spent the evening watching, from the "posh seats", La Soiree - contemporary circus that would make the most liberal of us blush. it was more burlesque than Billy Smarts. At the far-end of our row of tables, the younger members of our eighteen-strong party had set the pace by ordering Jager-bombs, whilst we supped more gently on red wine. The event took place at the Roundhouse in Camden. Even the men hadc been most impressed by the 'Singing in the rain' man who could hold himself horizontally on a lamp post whilst his legs 'walked' up an invisible wall to a near vertical position, but probably, on balance favoured the hula hoop girl. For certain The Boy was still dreaming of her the next morning. Honourable mentions to all the other acts too. Camden is an interesting part of the world...I do remember a previous visit and Auntie Gwen being chased down the underground platform by an unknown Irishman asking for her hand in marriage.
On the drive home, many memories were brought to the fore - the new year is always a good time to remember times past. The journey took us past The Boy's old home, and my father's old factory. How times have changed. It's probably forty, maybe forty five years since I'd been near the factory. If he was still alive he'd not recognise the area.
New Year's Eve, marks the beginning of the end of the Christmas season, and it's been so busy that I've not been near the blogosphere for the duration sadly. Christmas Day was as hectic as hectic could be with eighteen people for dinner. It's lovely to have folks from the age of six through to eighty a round, the the busy hustle and bustle reminded me of my own special childhood Christmases, the memory of which I still cherish. Whilst we emjoyed a big Christmas gathering, it was much quieter for Grandma in Cyprus. Many of the ex-pat Brits return to Blighty for the duration, so Grandma and Grandad in Cyprus went out for lunch together. There's more than a twinge of guilt about that, but I hope they know I was thinking about them throughout the day.
It was good to see my brother on the 27th before we retreated to Brighton for that strange, slightly mystical period when time seems to grind to a halt for a few days. We didn't really manage to do anything...not even go on the very, very magical skating rink at Brighton Pavillion, because skating in the rain cannot be a good thing. We did, however, get to enjoy our new bathroom. Actually shower room. the builders finished a day or so before Chritsmas, so the air was still flush with builders dust, but a few days of steamy showers seems to have settled the matter.
We returned in our fastest ever time - one hour twenty three minutes, with practically no other vehicles on the roads. And then readied ourselves for New Year's Eve.
And now I've written his, I'm going to try and catch up with everyone else's adventures over the last two-weeks. I hope everyone has a splendid year ahead.
Saturday, 24 December 2011
Thursday, 22 December 2011
Betrayal
I've lost a follower. My number has dropped by one. I don't mind, but I wish I could work out who it is.
Occasionally I've been known to rant and rave about governments, bankers and the state of the world's economy, but often it's a little out of context. So I found this piece on the BBC very interesting and useful. If you get bored over the next few days have a read here. The only thing it doesn't do is say that the bankers all started lending ridiculous amounts to people who could never repay the debt...and they did that because of the lax regulatory framework set by the politicians. So whilst it's simple to look at and understand...it still comes back to bankers and politicians who betrayed us all.
Last night we went to Secret Cinema - me, The Cat's Mother, The Cat and her friend Hopeful. Now one of the rules about Secret Cinema is that it's SECRET. To my immense frustration, the run has been extended through January...and that's a long time for me to hold on to a SECRET. So in the spirit of the thing, I can't tell you what we saw, but I can tell you that it's a film I've wanted to see for years...an absolute classic...and it completely lived up to expectations. I also can't tell you where we saw it either. But I can say that it took place in a building that I've been walking past for the last fifteen years without realising it is kept in a semi-derelict state for use by film companies. It's also next door to a pub which features heavily in one of my favourite films. We ate in a pop up restaurant catered by one of the best restaurants in London, so not only did we see one of the greatest movies ever made, we also dined well too. I think that it's OK for me to show you some of the photos I took, so you can see for yourselves that Secret Cinema is an amazing experience which creates an all-embracing night that we'll be talking about for months ahead.
If the pictures disappear, it's only because I've been accused of betrayal. And we wouldn't want that. if you have any ideas, please don't put it in the comments box, but do email me direct!
Occasionally I've been known to rant and rave about governments, bankers and the state of the world's economy, but often it's a little out of context. So I found this piece on the BBC very interesting and useful. If you get bored over the next few days have a read here. The only thing it doesn't do is say that the bankers all started lending ridiculous amounts to people who could never repay the debt...and they did that because of the lax regulatory framework set by the politicians. So whilst it's simple to look at and understand...it still comes back to bankers and politicians who betrayed us all.
Last night we went to Secret Cinema - me, The Cat's Mother, The Cat and her friend Hopeful. Now one of the rules about Secret Cinema is that it's SECRET. To my immense frustration, the run has been extended through January...and that's a long time for me to hold on to a SECRET. So in the spirit of the thing, I can't tell you what we saw, but I can tell you that it's a film I've wanted to see for years...an absolute classic...and it completely lived up to expectations. I also can't tell you where we saw it either. But I can say that it took place in a building that I've been walking past for the last fifteen years without realising it is kept in a semi-derelict state for use by film companies. It's also next door to a pub which features heavily in one of my favourite films. We ate in a pop up restaurant catered by one of the best restaurants in London, so not only did we see one of the greatest movies ever made, we also dined well too. I think that it's OK for me to show you some of the photos I took, so you can see for yourselves that Secret Cinema is an amazing experience which creates an all-embracing night that we'll be talking about for months ahead.
If the pictures disappear, it's only because I've been accused of betrayal. And we wouldn't want that. if you have any ideas, please don't put it in the comments box, but do email me direct!
Wednesday, 21 December 2011
I read somewhere...
...that this has been the busiest year ever for news. I'm not really sure what that means, but boy does it feel as though 2011 has been full of political, social and economic unrest. Add to that are the natural disasters which only go to show that Mother Nature is still master of the human race.
Worryingly it was only this week that Japan announced that the reactors at Fukushima had been brought under control. Remember the Japanese disaster? No barely...it was months ago, it's off the front pages. In fact it's off the news pages all together. We may well all be evolving into goldfish I think, so it's good that Google Street View took the time to do a series of before and after which you can see on the BBC here Sobering isn't it? Whilst we assume it's business as usual (except for me because the new camera I wanted is STILL not available because the Sony factory was disrupted...I've got my priorities right eh?), there are still thousands of Japanese who are displaced, and tens of thousands who lost friends and family.
I was very glad this week at the return of Millennium Housewife. Her blog was always most amusing, and helped me to become an enthusiast to go out and find blogs that have be come my staple reading. Have a read here
I was genuinely saddened to see that Vaclav Havel has died....his velvet revolution made an enormous impact on me when I was younger, and brought about many of the changes that have so shaped the world today. Without doubt he was a good man, a clever man, and some one who should be remembered as a great statesman. Here are some of his sayings.
The newspaper headlines have roared out this week that it was a lack of police planning that lead to the summer riots spreading. May be it did, may be it didn't, but I can't but help feel that whatever they do the police get criticised...certainly the suggestion that the police should have shot rioters seems more like a Jeremy Clarkson comment than something written by a learned enquiry. It's certainly not British...but then perhaps it is the collapse of any sort of British identity that has led to the underlying problems in our society
One of my favourite books this year has been 'Skippy Dies'. The title may not give you an idea that it's a humourous tale. It's long...pushing 700 pages, and took me a long time to read...not because it was difficult, but it was certainly dense...hardly a word wasted. If you get bored at all over the Christmas break I'd recommend it, as does The Guardian here
Hardly surprisingly I despair at the state of the world's economy. Actually less at the state of the economy, but more at the failure of the politicians to set out a vision, act with resolve and deliver a compelling solution whilst at the same time the banks continue to parade their arrogance in our face. By banks I mean the wider financial community which is still flaying around looking for an opportunity to land the killer blow. I can only say that my fourth favourite street artist Banksy has done well to encapsulate it in his latest work...and yes that is The City you can see in the background
On a lighter note...tonight is Secret Cinema...first one since I don't know when, last one this year. We're going dressed as rogues...and have been told to wrap up warm. Too excited for words.
Worryingly it was only this week that Japan announced that the reactors at Fukushima had been brought under control. Remember the Japanese disaster? No barely...it was months ago, it's off the front pages. In fact it's off the news pages all together. We may well all be evolving into goldfish I think, so it's good that Google Street View took the time to do a series of before and after which you can see on the BBC here Sobering isn't it? Whilst we assume it's business as usual (except for me because the new camera I wanted is STILL not available because the Sony factory was disrupted...I've got my priorities right eh?), there are still thousands of Japanese who are displaced, and tens of thousands who lost friends and family.
I was very glad this week at the return of Millennium Housewife. Her blog was always most amusing, and helped me to become an enthusiast to go out and find blogs that have be come my staple reading. Have a read here
I was genuinely saddened to see that Vaclav Havel has died....his velvet revolution made an enormous impact on me when I was younger, and brought about many of the changes that have so shaped the world today. Without doubt he was a good man, a clever man, and some one who should be remembered as a great statesman. Here are some of his sayings.
The newspaper headlines have roared out this week that it was a lack of police planning that lead to the summer riots spreading. May be it did, may be it didn't, but I can't but help feel that whatever they do the police get criticised...certainly the suggestion that the police should have shot rioters seems more like a Jeremy Clarkson comment than something written by a learned enquiry. It's certainly not British...but then perhaps it is the collapse of any sort of British identity that has led to the underlying problems in our society
One of my favourite books this year has been 'Skippy Dies'. The title may not give you an idea that it's a humourous tale. It's long...pushing 700 pages, and took me a long time to read...not because it was difficult, but it was certainly dense...hardly a word wasted. If you get bored at all over the Christmas break I'd recommend it, as does The Guardian here
Hardly surprisingly I despair at the state of the world's economy. Actually less at the state of the economy, but more at the failure of the politicians to set out a vision, act with resolve and deliver a compelling solution whilst at the same time the banks continue to parade their arrogance in our face. By banks I mean the wider financial community which is still flaying around looking for an opportunity to land the killer blow. I can only say that my fourth favourite street artist Banksy has done well to encapsulate it in his latest work...and yes that is The City you can see in the background
On a lighter note...tonight is Secret Cinema...first one since I don't know when, last one this year. We're going dressed as rogues...and have been told to wrap up warm. Too excited for words.
Tuesday, 20 December 2011
'tis the time to be jolly tra la la la la la la
I seem to be unable to keep up with everyone's posts over the last few weeks...I've done my best, but it's just impossible...so sorry for that.
Christmas has kicked in with a vengeance in our world. At home on Sunday we had sixteen people round the table....that's a lot. They're all old friends of The Cat's Mother, but after three years I'm getting to know them quite well. At least I can remember most of their names. And that's a good start for me. They usually remember mine too. Lunch eventually finished at nearly eight in the evening, and the next day various of the guests spent at least the morning in bed recovering from a dose of over-indulgence. We spent the time after they left trying to clear up.
It was a good job then that yesterday was our office lunch. These things have always been important to me, I don't know why, but the office Christmas knees up always just bring the year to a happy close. Last year we didn't have a lunch as everyone kept chopping and changing so eventually I just cancelled the whole thing. This year we had ten of us round the table at Pizarro (a new Spanish restaurant in Bermondsey street)...it sells Spanish food, not pizzas as the name might imply. It was delightful. Strangely, the wine seemed to take up three-quarters of the bill, and only half of us were in this morning.
I've been trying to book a restaurant for my brother and us to meet up after Christmas. Remarkably every time I've rung over the last two weeks the line has been engaged. I've rung so many times I know the number off by heart. If it was a celebrity, I'd be in court for stalking by now. Eventually I sent them an e-mail. 48 hours later they rang back, I was driving so they left a message to say if I rang them back they would take my booking. I did. They were engaged. I'd have given up, but around us most places seem to be closed on the 27th. Anyway, in the same way that you can struggle for hours trying to open a stuck bottle of ketchup without any success and then hand it over to someone who does it immediately and with ease, The Cat's Mother rang, got through and booked. In the space of 30 seconds.
I was hoping to write a post about our fabulous new bathroom in Brighton. It may not be a major event in anyone's lives, apart from us, but it is the final and finishing step in modernising the Brighton flat. Alas and alack, the builders have done what builders do best. Sending the bill 'on completion' when the shower remains a hole in the ceiling, the electric light is still hanging at knee level, the shower screen is still flying free, the sink is at a tilt so empties its contents on to your lap when you fill it...and so on and so on. I won't comment on the radiator that has been carefull positioned so that when you sit on the toilet, you are guaranteed to burn your knee on it. I may need a cold shower to calm down. Oh. Er. Oh.
Meanwhile at home, and for the record (I don't want to be reading this in thirty years time with important bits missed out completely), one of our number is apparently determined to make our lives a misery and ruin what should be a splendid Christmas full of humour and good will. So if you want an extra person for Christmas time, just let me know....
Monday, 19 December 2011
21st Century living
Winter has officially arrived. Yes last week we, in London and the South East, saw a snow flake fall. Inevitably the tube trains stopped running, the buses were consigned to their depots, cars crawled along at less than walking pace, shops immediately sold out of plastic sledges, people wrapped up in clothes that would keep them warm in the Antarctic, supermarkets ran low on stocks as hoarding took hold, employees of some of the leading businesses were unable to make it in to work and many homes were left freezing as boilers broke down one after another. You may well say that where you are had inches of snow and Arctic temperatures to match, but carried on as normal. Well of course you did. You all live near the North Pole and are hardy folk used to the privations of less refined living. Here inside the M25 bubble, we are different. Civilisation has reached a pinnacle, and we live cossetted, man-made comfortable lives untroubled by Mother Nature. The change in weather has hit us hard. Send food parcels...well luxury hampers in Range Rovers at the very least. Please.
Driving back from Brighton (yet again) I felt that 21st Century motoring had truly arrived. I opened an app on my smart phone to listen to internet radio station Q radio. The smart phone was plugged into the car stereo so I could blast out the latest songs at deafening volume. The phone was connected by bluetooth to the SatNav, enabling me to have hands-free phone calls throughout the journey. Of course I could have added yet more technology by using the phone as a WiFi Hotspot for my HP TouchPad to connect to. I could have then used the TouchPad to tune into the internet radio station and connect it to the stereo. But that would have been ridiculous.
At the other end of the car, the exhaust pipe continued to belch out black clouds of diesel smoke.
So it may have been a case of civilising cannibals by giving them knives and forks.
Driving back from Brighton (yet again) I felt that 21st Century motoring had truly arrived. I opened an app on my smart phone to listen to internet radio station Q radio. The smart phone was plugged into the car stereo so I could blast out the latest songs at deafening volume. The phone was connected by bluetooth to the SatNav, enabling me to have hands-free phone calls throughout the journey. Of course I could have added yet more technology by using the phone as a WiFi Hotspot for my HP TouchPad to connect to. I could have then used the TouchPad to tune into the internet radio station and connect it to the stereo. But that would have been ridiculous.
At the other end of the car, the exhaust pipe continued to belch out black clouds of diesel smoke.
So it may have been a case of civilising cannibals by giving them knives and forks.
Tuesday, 13 December 2011
Into battle we go...
There is a fabulous shop in Bermondsey Street Called Lovely British. It is indeed lovely, and as far as I can tell after some significant nosing around that everything in it is British. It is irony in no small measure then that the shop is run by a lovely lady with a heavy French accent.
One of the recurring themes in my life is the constant need I have to get into tussles, fights, disagreements with people and organisations. It's monotonous, and causes me to question why it happens. If I won some and lost some then I would just think of it as the ups and downs of life. If I lost them all, or nearly all, I would think of it as just me being a scrapper. But as it happens, there's hardly an occasion when I'm wrong, when I lose. That means to me, at least, that just to get through the mundanities of life I have to fight, fight, fight. Of course over the years this has made me, probably, more aggressive than I should be. This I'm convinced is nurture vs nature and at the moment nurture is the thing.
I wrote some time ago...we may be talking years here rather than months and certainly weeks...that I had taken on the management company for a flat I owned. The result was eight, nearly nine thousand pounds in my pocket. The tribunal had sided with me when they hadn't produced any accounts as required in the lease. The management company then did as they were told and started producing 'accounts'. I was suspicious so I had a look. A close look. They didn't look right. In fact they looked distinctly wrong. The Cat's Mother who is a Chartered Accountant agrees. The management company wouldn't budge, and so after a bit of a hiatus...and a threatening solicitor's letter from them (obviously a firm based in Liverpool - well why not when the property is in London, the managing agent is in Essex, the freeholder is in Surrey or there abouts?), I'm back filing a claim at the Residential Valuation Tribunal. We're fighting over £5000.
In March I changed energy supplier from EDF to OVO...you may not have heard of Ovo, but do look them up, they're one of the smaller suppliers, and it will make your heart feel good. I heard nothing more from EDF until the beginning of November (yes that's a full eight months since I switched supplier. It was a final gas bill - they owed me just under £500. I'm still waiting for the final electricity bill. They would send me a cheque. Come the middle of December nothing so I rang them. Yes they said they haven't sent me a cheque they will. By the time I get the money it'll be nine months since I stopped have energy supplied by them. I find this unacceptable, as I bet they do that to everyone. That's a fat pile of cash they're sitting on which they don't deserve. They offered me £40 to go away. I said more. They offered my £50 if I don't rat on them to the Ombudsman. I took their 40 quid and told them I would complain to the Ombudsman. I have. I think they are a disgrace. I don't much care for the forty or fifty quid, but I seriously object to multinational companies taking consumers for a ride.
I still have an outstanding complaint with the Financial Ombudsman over Lloyds TSB.
I'm popping over the road now to buy something lovely and British.
One of the recurring themes in my life is the constant need I have to get into tussles, fights, disagreements with people and organisations. It's monotonous, and causes me to question why it happens. If I won some and lost some then I would just think of it as the ups and downs of life. If I lost them all, or nearly all, I would think of it as just me being a scrapper. But as it happens, there's hardly an occasion when I'm wrong, when I lose. That means to me, at least, that just to get through the mundanities of life I have to fight, fight, fight. Of course over the years this has made me, probably, more aggressive than I should be. This I'm convinced is nurture vs nature and at the moment nurture is the thing.
I wrote some time ago...we may be talking years here rather than months and certainly weeks...that I had taken on the management company for a flat I owned. The result was eight, nearly nine thousand pounds in my pocket. The tribunal had sided with me when they hadn't produced any accounts as required in the lease. The management company then did as they were told and started producing 'accounts'. I was suspicious so I had a look. A close look. They didn't look right. In fact they looked distinctly wrong. The Cat's Mother who is a Chartered Accountant agrees. The management company wouldn't budge, and so after a bit of a hiatus...and a threatening solicitor's letter from them (obviously a firm based in Liverpool - well why not when the property is in London, the managing agent is in Essex, the freeholder is in Surrey or there abouts?), I'm back filing a claim at the Residential Valuation Tribunal. We're fighting over £5000.
In March I changed energy supplier from EDF to OVO...you may not have heard of Ovo, but do look them up, they're one of the smaller suppliers, and it will make your heart feel good. I heard nothing more from EDF until the beginning of November (yes that's a full eight months since I switched supplier. It was a final gas bill - they owed me just under £500. I'm still waiting for the final electricity bill. They would send me a cheque. Come the middle of December nothing so I rang them. Yes they said they haven't sent me a cheque they will. By the time I get the money it'll be nine months since I stopped have energy supplied by them. I find this unacceptable, as I bet they do that to everyone. That's a fat pile of cash they're sitting on which they don't deserve. They offered me £40 to go away. I said more. They offered my £50 if I don't rat on them to the Ombudsman. I took their 40 quid and told them I would complain to the Ombudsman. I have. I think they are a disgrace. I don't much care for the forty or fifty quid, but I seriously object to multinational companies taking consumers for a ride.
I still have an outstanding complaint with the Financial Ombudsman over Lloyds TSB.
I'm popping over the road now to buy something lovely and British.
Sunday, 11 December 2011
Dereliction of duty
It probably sounded good in the brainstorming meeting which no doubt was run by an expensive marketing consultant, but I somehow felt that the trucking company may not have spent their money well when the side of their lorry was adorned with the line (in italics):
"We couldn't care any more"
I hope they weren't carrying someone's precious antique grand piano.
Europe's a mess isn't it? Whilst I can applaud Merkozy for getting tough about countries' budgets, I doubt that further integration is a good idea whilst the various pan-European political bodies remain shambolic at best and completely incapable at worst. Personally after many years of trecking round Europe changing currency every time I crossed a border I was delighted with the Euro, but it's a bad concept, badly implemented. It's frying pan and fire time though isn't it, and quietly The City must be smirking again as they realise how subservient the British Government is to it.
I've driven to Brighton and back in one day twice this week...which is probably the most the place has been visited in the last three years. We're having some work done there, and it always difficult to do it from a distance. I'm sure that builders are not malicious, but they have a habit of doing exactly what you don't want unless you keep the leash very short. And indeed, my list of corrections after the first visit was very long indeed, so much as I didn't want to, I was up early on Sunday morning to check on progress. No corrections this time, just some concern writ large that the work won't be done before the Christmas break. I still managed to be back within yawning and stretching time of the offspring arising.
There's a stretch of the A23 dual carriageway which has a double bend in it. I remember that when the road was upgraded, probably some fifteen or more years ago, this double bend was left as it was because the trees around it were ancient and protected. Sadly that doesn't appear to be the case anymore, and the whole lot have been chopped down. Perhaps they were diseased, perhaps the needs of road users were deemed too important, but whatever the case, they've gone, which is a real shame, even if it makes the road a little safer.
The Christmas season is well under way...tree up in the office, and now one at home too. To get us in the mood, we all trecked up to town to see Simon Callow re-tell Dickens Christmas carol. A completely bewitching performance managing to wring out every piece of emotion (from laugh out loud humour to tear inducing sadness) that's. That Simon Callow is a genius.
Friday night saw us walking the streets of London with Paul Talling. I'm not quite sure how I first came across him, but I'm glad I did. He is the author of two books - London's Lost Rivers and Derelict London. I have a fascination with old London and changing London, but am a complete junior school boy compared to Paul who has taken his passion beyond a hobby and now writes(Derelict has sold 13,000 copies) as well as running some very well-informed walks and talks during the summer months. We persuaded him to walk us up the old river Fleet, which essentially, is hidden in a sewer underneath Farringdon Road. Even in the freezing cold, the walk was fascinating...from the opening undiscovered (by us, at least) view of the Thames by night just near the remarkable Black Friar tavern (built on the site of a Dominican monastery), past Henry VIII's Bridewell Palace, through Smithfields meat market and on up to Clerk en Well, where we lay down in the middle of the road to peer a down a drain where we could hear and see the fast flowing river all the way to Kings Cross where he bade us farewell. Over three hours he didn't stop regaling us with the history and stories of the Fleet...mostly they seemed to involve nasty smells and carcasses floating down the river. The Boys particularly liked the (surely soon-to-be-revived) tradition of putting women in barrels and rolling them down the hills, the girls seemed to enjoy the more genteel history of the Venetian-like canal that Wren wanted to turn it into. If you get the chance go to Paul's web site here, and join one of his tours next summer...as we will.
The only downside is that I forgot to ask him to autograph the two books we had carried with us all evening
"We couldn't care any more"
I hope they weren't carrying someone's precious antique grand piano.
Europe's a mess isn't it? Whilst I can applaud Merkozy for getting tough about countries' budgets, I doubt that further integration is a good idea whilst the various pan-European political bodies remain shambolic at best and completely incapable at worst. Personally after many years of trecking round Europe changing currency every time I crossed a border I was delighted with the Euro, but it's a bad concept, badly implemented. It's frying pan and fire time though isn't it, and quietly The City must be smirking again as they realise how subservient the British Government is to it.
I've driven to Brighton and back in one day twice this week...which is probably the most the place has been visited in the last three years. We're having some work done there, and it always difficult to do it from a distance. I'm sure that builders are not malicious, but they have a habit of doing exactly what you don't want unless you keep the leash very short. And indeed, my list of corrections after the first visit was very long indeed, so much as I didn't want to, I was up early on Sunday morning to check on progress. No corrections this time, just some concern writ large that the work won't be done before the Christmas break. I still managed to be back within yawning and stretching time of the offspring arising.
There's a stretch of the A23 dual carriageway which has a double bend in it. I remember that when the road was upgraded, probably some fifteen or more years ago, this double bend was left as it was because the trees around it were ancient and protected. Sadly that doesn't appear to be the case anymore, and the whole lot have been chopped down. Perhaps they were diseased, perhaps the needs of road users were deemed too important, but whatever the case, they've gone, which is a real shame, even if it makes the road a little safer.
The Christmas season is well under way...tree up in the office, and now one at home too. To get us in the mood, we all trecked up to town to see Simon Callow re-tell Dickens Christmas carol. A completely bewitching performance managing to wring out every piece of emotion (from laugh out loud humour to tear inducing sadness) that's. That Simon Callow is a genius.
Friday night saw us walking the streets of London with Paul Talling. I'm not quite sure how I first came across him, but I'm glad I did. He is the author of two books - London's Lost Rivers and Derelict London. I have a fascination with old London and changing London, but am a complete junior school boy compared to Paul who has taken his passion beyond a hobby and now writes(Derelict has sold 13,000 copies) as well as running some very well-informed walks and talks during the summer months. We persuaded him to walk us up the old river Fleet, which essentially, is hidden in a sewer underneath Farringdon Road. Even in the freezing cold, the walk was fascinating...from the opening undiscovered (by us, at least) view of the Thames by night just near the remarkable Black Friar tavern (built on the site of a Dominican monastery), past Henry VIII's Bridewell Palace, through Smithfields meat market and on up to Clerk en Well, where we lay down in the middle of the road to peer a down a drain where we could hear and see the fast flowing river all the way to Kings Cross where he bade us farewell. Over three hours he didn't stop regaling us with the history and stories of the Fleet...mostly they seemed to involve nasty smells and carcasses floating down the river. The Boys particularly liked the (surely soon-to-be-revived) tradition of putting women in barrels and rolling them down the hills, the girls seemed to enjoy the more genteel history of the Venetian-like canal that Wren wanted to turn it into. If you get the chance go to Paul's web site here, and join one of his tours next summer...as we will.
The only downside is that I forgot to ask him to autograph the two books we had carried with us all evening
Friday, 9 December 2011
Monday, 5 December 2011
Banana sandwich
The BBC has published a map of every road death in Great Britain since 1999 here. As a regular cyclist I felt obliged to look at my route. I wish I hadn't. The morning route along the canals is fine...of course...but my winter evening route along the A11/Mile End road is a different story. It's not quite like the Somme, but the tarmac is littered with bodies. I'm not surprised...it terrifies me as cars, vans, lorries and buses duck and weave without a care for anyone around them. Aggressive drivers are the norm; the timid just get cut up. As a cyclist I pedal hard and have a 'positive' attitude to maintaining my ground...but owning the territory is challenging, especially in the dark.
I'm thinking of suing Danny Boyle.
Friday night was audition night, and the man himself was there, smiling away at the 200 odd bodies stretching and gyrating. When I say 'odd' that is a description of the shapes and sizes of the people there rather than an approximation of the number. If I wasn't actually the oldest, I was well up there. At least there were no more leggy, lycra-clad professional dancers to humiliate the rest of us. We had been chosen for our acting abilities/our ability to follow orders in moving our bodies in sync. This time was even harder than the last time but I stretched as far as I could, I twisted right round as I was told and I gyrated but perhaps not in sync with everyone else. It was hard, but remarkably good fun...better than the first time round. Come Saturday though, I had a pain in my back. I've pulled something. Ouch, ouch, ouch. I deserve either a medal or a large compensation cheque.
Saturday The Boy and I went off to Twickenham for a Northern Hemisphere vs Southern Hemisphere match in support of the Help for Heroes Charity. The Boy would have been playing the last match of the season at School, but a shoulder injury ruled him out. Shame. It may well have cost him his colours (again). There were nearly thirty thousand people there and we roared and we cheered...for both teams. It's interesting when you don't have a particular allegiance to either team (yes I know we're northern, but really....). I forgot to take my camera...so just had my phone with me. That doesn't stop me offering you a spot the ball competition. Unlike days of old, there's no £1 million prize...just the satisfaction of knowing you have found it.
And the banana sandwich? I was hungry Saturday morning, the bananas were just beginning to turn, so a banana sandwich it was. Brown bread. Benecol. I seem to remember Grandma in Cyprus making them when I was younger. They may have tasted better then than they do now.
I'm thinking of suing Danny Boyle.
Friday night was audition night, and the man himself was there, smiling away at the 200 odd bodies stretching and gyrating. When I say 'odd' that is a description of the shapes and sizes of the people there rather than an approximation of the number. If I wasn't actually the oldest, I was well up there. At least there were no more leggy, lycra-clad professional dancers to humiliate the rest of us. We had been chosen for our acting abilities/our ability to follow orders in moving our bodies in sync. This time was even harder than the last time but I stretched as far as I could, I twisted right round as I was told and I gyrated but perhaps not in sync with everyone else. It was hard, but remarkably good fun...better than the first time round. Come Saturday though, I had a pain in my back. I've pulled something. Ouch, ouch, ouch. I deserve either a medal or a large compensation cheque.
Saturday The Boy and I went off to Twickenham for a Northern Hemisphere vs Southern Hemisphere match in support of the Help for Heroes Charity. The Boy would have been playing the last match of the season at School, but a shoulder injury ruled him out. Shame. It may well have cost him his colours (again). There were nearly thirty thousand people there and we roared and we cheered...for both teams. It's interesting when you don't have a particular allegiance to either team (yes I know we're northern, but really....). I forgot to take my camera...so just had my phone with me. That doesn't stop me offering you a spot the ball competition. Unlike days of old, there's no £1 million prize...just the satisfaction of knowing you have found it.
And the banana sandwich? I was hungry Saturday morning, the bananas were just beginning to turn, so a banana sandwich it was. Brown bread. Benecol. I seem to remember Grandma in Cyprus making them when I was younger. They may have tasted better then than they do now.
Thursday, 1 December 2011
Not a hint of irony
A very old and dear friend sent me an e-mail yesterday. She signed it off LoL. I think she meant 'lots of love', but maybe she was laughing out loud at her own note, or maybe me. I don't know. I just don't know.
My blood boiled when I read Alastair Campbell's 'evidence' at the Leveson Inquiry into press standards. Here we have the arch manipulator. A man that 'sexed up' a report to clear the way for Britain to go to war in Iraq leading to the deaths of hundreds of young British men and tens of thousands of Iraqis. This man does not speak with forked tongue. He is the devil incarnate, and no amount of charity work will make up for that. Ever.
Of course, one of the things that has come out already is that not even The Grauniad is immune to making up stories if it helps them sell a few more copies. That in itself is shocking and disappointing. Perhaps, if ever there was one needed, that is the strongest argument for an organisation such as the BBC which doesn't have to concern itself with the commercial imperative. I still trust it implicitly and I'm sure many others do too. It does create its own problems - and tales of extravagance are too common. But on balance I think that's not a bad trade off.
It was fortunate that after writing that paragraph I have become quite curmudgeonly, so tried much harder for the rest of the day to put a smile on my face. And that was fortunate as it enabled me to laugh when I might otherwise have grumbled. Last night I had to go to an annual industry event. It must have been important because I blew out Muffin Dad who had a spare ticket for a gig. Sorry. It's always a good evening, giving me the chance to 'network' and indeed just catch up with people I haven't seen for a while. Anyway, if you want to know how the marketing services sector is performing financially, I'm your man. Well at least I can relay second hand news. Pisspoor is the answer. But no more pisspoor than the rest of business. And not as pisspoor as it could be. As well as learning about the financial health of some of our most creative businesses, there were also speakers from various people linked to the Olympics. Including, government-owned Olympic sponsor and bank Lloyds. As you know my pretties, that's not a business I have much time for, although I cannot tell a lie, the presentation was interesting. The best bit was when the man said that they worked with various agencies, but their procurement department had not wanted to work with one that had had a very bad debt the year before. Now I'm sure I wasn't the only one who nearly fell off their seat, because the statement was made without a hint of irony. Not one ounce. Anyway, it made me laugh when I could have come over all grumpy.
I've come across a couple of terms recently that I absolutely love. One is the word popinjay (from SP's blog. It's not that I hadn't heard the word before, but I hadn't heard it for decades. It means various things including a person given to vain, pretentious displays and empty chatter, or a dandy or foppish person. But I shall henceforth use it to refer to the woodpecker that we can occasionally hear beating its brains out at the bottom of the garden.
The other is 'sea dust' which was referred to in Nursemyra's fascinating blog (I think...but I can't now find it, so apologies if I read it elsewhere - please just correct me). What is sea dust? It's plain old salt. But sea dust gives it a whimsical, even magical feel...in future I shall be asking The Cat's Mother to pass the sea dust and pepper - unless someone has another name for pepper?
Tonight I'm off to the school play. In the 'modern way' the audience will participate and have to move around the auditorium. I'm looking forward to it - The Cat has a part, although The Boy has sadly given up his acting career because he doesn't get on with the drama master. Sad. The Cat's Mother will not be there. She's off with the girls to The Stylistics who are playing at the O2. In case you've forgotten who this group are:
I used to love them but that was a long time ago.
My blood boiled when I read Alastair Campbell's 'evidence' at the Leveson Inquiry into press standards. Here we have the arch manipulator. A man that 'sexed up' a report to clear the way for Britain to go to war in Iraq leading to the deaths of hundreds of young British men and tens of thousands of Iraqis. This man does not speak with forked tongue. He is the devil incarnate, and no amount of charity work will make up for that. Ever.
Of course, one of the things that has come out already is that not even The Grauniad is immune to making up stories if it helps them sell a few more copies. That in itself is shocking and disappointing. Perhaps, if ever there was one needed, that is the strongest argument for an organisation such as the BBC which doesn't have to concern itself with the commercial imperative. I still trust it implicitly and I'm sure many others do too. It does create its own problems - and tales of extravagance are too common. But on balance I think that's not a bad trade off.
It was fortunate that after writing that paragraph I have become quite curmudgeonly, so tried much harder for the rest of the day to put a smile on my face. And that was fortunate as it enabled me to laugh when I might otherwise have grumbled. Last night I had to go to an annual industry event. It must have been important because I blew out Muffin Dad who had a spare ticket for a gig. Sorry. It's always a good evening, giving me the chance to 'network' and indeed just catch up with people I haven't seen for a while. Anyway, if you want to know how the marketing services sector is performing financially, I'm your man. Well at least I can relay second hand news. Pisspoor is the answer. But no more pisspoor than the rest of business. And not as pisspoor as it could be. As well as learning about the financial health of some of our most creative businesses, there were also speakers from various people linked to the Olympics. Including, government-owned Olympic sponsor and bank Lloyds. As you know my pretties, that's not a business I have much time for, although I cannot tell a lie, the presentation was interesting. The best bit was when the man said that they worked with various agencies, but their procurement department had not wanted to work with one that had had a very bad debt the year before. Now I'm sure I wasn't the only one who nearly fell off their seat, because the statement was made without a hint of irony. Not one ounce. Anyway, it made me laugh when I could have come over all grumpy.
I've come across a couple of terms recently that I absolutely love. One is the word popinjay (from SP's blog. It's not that I hadn't heard the word before, but I hadn't heard it for decades. It means various things including a person given to vain, pretentious displays and empty chatter, or a dandy or foppish person. But I shall henceforth use it to refer to the woodpecker that we can occasionally hear beating its brains out at the bottom of the garden.
The other is 'sea dust' which was referred to in Nursemyra's fascinating blog (I think...but I can't now find it, so apologies if I read it elsewhere - please just correct me). What is sea dust? It's plain old salt. But sea dust gives it a whimsical, even magical feel...in future I shall be asking The Cat's Mother to pass the sea dust and pepper - unless someone has another name for pepper?
Tonight I'm off to the school play. In the 'modern way' the audience will participate and have to move around the auditorium. I'm looking forward to it - The Cat has a part, although The Boy has sadly given up his acting career because he doesn't get on with the drama master. Sad. The Cat's Mother will not be there. She's off with the girls to The Stylistics who are playing at the O2. In case you've forgotten who this group are:
I used to love them but that was a long time ago.
Wednesday, 30 November 2011
Lancing the Boyle
It seems that we are inexorably sliding to a place where nobody wants to be.
I have heard that Comet, JD Sports and Furnitureland have withdrawn all their representatives following the summer riots. Evidently, the riots were a conspiracy by foreign agents and part of a continuing pattern designed to provoke and inflame a crisis. In Iran, the 'storming' of the British embassy by a rabble has given the diplomats the opportunity of a return home just in time for Christmas. How convenient. And probably useful if you are the Ambassadors wife who doesn't want an Israeli bomb landing in your Christmas pudding. Whilst I don't expect our motley crew of Oxbridge-educated civil servants to solve the Middle East problem, not having them there can only make the situation worse.
After my encounter with Frankie at the weekend, it appears that that I must face another Boyle. This time it's Danny who will be conducting the proceedings at the next round of Olympic auditions. That makes me nervous as hell, especially as someone I know who recently swam the English Channel said it was all a bit much, and doesn't think she'll get through. I somehow can't see it going my way. But, cold, an' all I'll be there dancing, prancing, performing and gyrating until I drop. As I seem to be attracting Boyles like dead meat attracts flies, I expect next week I'll be singing with Susan.
As the kids trooped off to school this morning I couldn't help but wonder about how everyone whose offspring are at state school are coping today. 90% are closed I believe. On the one hand I have every sympathy with the strikers...after all if you've previously agreed the sort of pension that will keep you in the life style to which you've become accustomed, then why wouldn't you feel aggrieved. I know I would. But there's a reality which goes beyond Government policy. As the population ages, and there are fewer people to pay the pensions of the retired, less generous pensions are inevitable. The truth is that one of the reasons there has been so much immigration is that immigrants tend to be younger and more fertile (sweeping generalisation...so shoot me down), and that will help re-balance the ageing issue. But it's not enough and the public sector has expanded enormously in the last couple of decades (I believe that effectively the ONLY growth in jobs has been in the public sector), and the only way to pay theses people will be increasing taxes, and growing public sector debt. And we all know where that gets us don't we? Greece, Portugal, Ireland, and Italy all come to mind. So if you work in the public sector today...I really sympathise, but you really are just going to have to face up to reality. It probably should have happened many years ago - the Conservatives are an easy target of hate, but unfortunately Tony and Gordon lived in cloud cuckoo land.
Talking of boiling, here's a picture of The Cat's Mother. Strangely she's smiling. Strangely because she doesn't really cook much when given the chance. In fact Christmas is the one time she cooks rather than heats. That's no criticism, she heats up lovely. Her philosophy is that too many cooks spoil the broth. And one is too many. This picture was taken amazingly two years ago. MY kitchen as it was then was brand spanking new. This was the first time The Cat and The Cat's Mother had come down to Brighton for the weekend. It was lovely. And it gets better and better. So now its OUR kitchen, and strangely we regularly cook together. Sunday breakfast. Eggs, bacon, sausages, tomato and toast. The kitchen is really the heart of the home.
This picture is for Tara's Gallery
I have heard that Comet, JD Sports and Furnitureland have withdrawn all their representatives following the summer riots. Evidently, the riots were a conspiracy by foreign agents and part of a continuing pattern designed to provoke and inflame a crisis. In Iran, the 'storming' of the British embassy by a rabble has given the diplomats the opportunity of a return home just in time for Christmas. How convenient. And probably useful if you are the Ambassadors wife who doesn't want an Israeli bomb landing in your Christmas pudding. Whilst I don't expect our motley crew of Oxbridge-educated civil servants to solve the Middle East problem, not having them there can only make the situation worse.
After my encounter with Frankie at the weekend, it appears that that I must face another Boyle. This time it's Danny who will be conducting the proceedings at the next round of Olympic auditions. That makes me nervous as hell, especially as someone I know who recently swam the English Channel said it was all a bit much, and doesn't think she'll get through. I somehow can't see it going my way. But, cold, an' all I'll be there dancing, prancing, performing and gyrating until I drop. As I seem to be attracting Boyles like dead meat attracts flies, I expect next week I'll be singing with Susan.
As the kids trooped off to school this morning I couldn't help but wonder about how everyone whose offspring are at state school are coping today. 90% are closed I believe. On the one hand I have every sympathy with the strikers...after all if you've previously agreed the sort of pension that will keep you in the life style to which you've become accustomed, then why wouldn't you feel aggrieved. I know I would. But there's a reality which goes beyond Government policy. As the population ages, and there are fewer people to pay the pensions of the retired, less generous pensions are inevitable. The truth is that one of the reasons there has been so much immigration is that immigrants tend to be younger and more fertile (sweeping generalisation...so shoot me down), and that will help re-balance the ageing issue. But it's not enough and the public sector has expanded enormously in the last couple of decades (I believe that effectively the ONLY growth in jobs has been in the public sector), and the only way to pay theses people will be increasing taxes, and growing public sector debt. And we all know where that gets us don't we? Greece, Portugal, Ireland, and Italy all come to mind. So if you work in the public sector today...I really sympathise, but you really are just going to have to face up to reality. It probably should have happened many years ago - the Conservatives are an easy target of hate, but unfortunately Tony and Gordon lived in cloud cuckoo land.
Talking of boiling, here's a picture of The Cat's Mother. Strangely she's smiling. Strangely because she doesn't really cook much when given the chance. In fact Christmas is the one time she cooks rather than heats. That's no criticism, she heats up lovely. Her philosophy is that too many cooks spoil the broth. And one is too many. This picture was taken amazingly two years ago. MY kitchen as it was then was brand spanking new. This was the first time The Cat and The Cat's Mother had come down to Brighton for the weekend. It was lovely. And it gets better and better. So now its OUR kitchen, and strangely we regularly cook together. Sunday breakfast. Eggs, bacon, sausages, tomato and toast. The kitchen is really the heart of the home.
This picture is for Tara's Gallery
Monday, 28 November 2011
Both sublime and indeed ridiculous/gangbang in a minefield
We were due to be meeting some old friends of mine on Saturday night, but as The Cat's Mother wasn't up to it I went alone. This was dangerous, particularly as history has a habit of repeating itself: when we were younger we used to go out as a group regularly and then spend the next few days recovering from severe hangovers. At our age we should know better. But it seems we didn't - this was just the start of the evening:
The good old days were much discussed: a visit to KFC to get a schlongburger (which was very funny at the time, after a day on the beach pouring beer down our throats); the time CD (he's on the left in the picture) fell off the kerb, smashed his shoulder on the ground and even now has a very large lump where it should be smooth, and so on. We headed to Pizza East...one of London's trendiest eateries, and after a long wait (nearly and hour and a half) I had to explain to them them that one of our number is genuinely a VIP (not me - I wish!). The result was seats within moments, a free plate of charcuterie and some fawning that would impress even Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. I managed to stay quite sober as one of our number just spiralled downhill, quaffing enough to out do Ollie Reid at his best. This was fortunate because when I got back to Loughton (as my friends returned to their Camden abode) there was an argument with the taxi driver. I had agreed to share the cab because it was so late, but then objected to having to pay full price when the couple I'd shared with had also paid full price, getting out just a hundred yards from our house. For one journey the driver thought he should get paid double....in fact triple as there was yet another person who had jumped in as well. Nice work if you can get it.
Saturday morning I was dropping The Cat's Mother off at the hairdressers. The same hairdressers that she has been going to since the dawn of time. As she's been under the weather all week, this was a good sign that all was beginning to get better. As we arrived, across the road was a 'luxury coach' with 'TOWIE tours' signs on it. I'm sure you know my views on The Only Way Is Essex. My heart sank as I could see there was a posse of elaborately made-up blondes and brunettes gathered by it, together with a camera crew.
I parked and whilst The Cat's Mother's hair was restored to its best walked down to Cost Coffee to grab a flat white and a lump of lard with raspberry jam (advertised as a raspberry and almond bake). I suddenly thought that the man standing behind me in the queue was the somewhat extreme comedian Frankie Boyle, and as that thought crossed my mind I got a text from The Cat's Mother to say that Frankie Boyle was indeed following me into the coffee shop. I thought I might say hello, but unusually my courage deserted me. I somehow felt I was beginning to skip into a parallel universe. He bought his juice and left as I sat wondering what was going on.
The rumour at the hairdressers is that this is a Frankie Boyle programme and the citizens of Essex are in for a cruel and vicious mauling. I wait to see and be amused.
The good old days were much discussed: a visit to KFC to get a schlongburger (which was very funny at the time, after a day on the beach pouring beer down our throats); the time CD (he's on the left in the picture) fell off the kerb, smashed his shoulder on the ground and even now has a very large lump where it should be smooth, and so on. We headed to Pizza East...one of London's trendiest eateries, and after a long wait (nearly and hour and a half) I had to explain to them them that one of our number is genuinely a VIP (not me - I wish!). The result was seats within moments, a free plate of charcuterie and some fawning that would impress even Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. I managed to stay quite sober as one of our number just spiralled downhill, quaffing enough to out do Ollie Reid at his best. This was fortunate because when I got back to Loughton (as my friends returned to their Camden abode) there was an argument with the taxi driver. I had agreed to share the cab because it was so late, but then objected to having to pay full price when the couple I'd shared with had also paid full price, getting out just a hundred yards from our house. For one journey the driver thought he should get paid double....in fact triple as there was yet another person who had jumped in as well. Nice work if you can get it.
Saturday morning I was dropping The Cat's Mother off at the hairdressers. The same hairdressers that she has been going to since the dawn of time. As she's been under the weather all week, this was a good sign that all was beginning to get better. As we arrived, across the road was a 'luxury coach' with 'TOWIE tours' signs on it. I'm sure you know my views on The Only Way Is Essex. My heart sank as I could see there was a posse of elaborately made-up blondes and brunettes gathered by it, together with a camera crew.
I parked and whilst The Cat's Mother's hair was restored to its best walked down to Cost Coffee to grab a flat white and a lump of lard with raspberry jam (advertised as a raspberry and almond bake). I suddenly thought that the man standing behind me in the queue was the somewhat extreme comedian Frankie Boyle, and as that thought crossed my mind I got a text from The Cat's Mother to say that Frankie Boyle was indeed following me into the coffee shop. I thought I might say hello, but unusually my courage deserted me. I somehow felt I was beginning to skip into a parallel universe. He bought his juice and left as I sat wondering what was going on.
The rumour at the hairdressers is that this is a Frankie Boyle programme and the citizens of Essex are in for a cruel and vicious mauling. I wait to see and be amused.
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