If you watched the film Downfall, it may have been because you watched the parodies which have popped up on You Tube. There's been a veritable avalanche of them...and the boy and I have been watching them for months...my favourite remains the Michael Jackson one..his, one about being given the wrong motorcycle.
But no more, as the film makers are having them all removed. So this may be the last opportunity for you to watch:
I love the last line.
How sad when they are all gone.
Friday, 23 April 2010
Thursday, 22 April 2010
Grown up
April 1st was an important day for me. I passed from young and ambitious, to old and settled. The cause of this was not a birthday, but it was indeed an anniversary...and it brought a present with it.
It turns out, as I discovered by letter sometime in early March, that 25 years ago I took out a mortgage; my first mortgage. And this was in the days of endowment mortgages. And whilst the first flat is long gone, the endowment has been hanging around gathering cobwebs in the dusty cupboards. Like all those investments we were sold at the time, I was promised a very handsome return on my investment, and unfortunately, as we now know, I'm not a banker and my reward is less than it should be. I'd like to say that my endowment is smaller than it should be, but I realise that will only get Auntie Gwen tittering. She's like that.
My first flat was in Brighton. Hove Actually. And was typical of the local architecture - bow fronted, with a balcony. Beautiful. It had just been modernised, so I had central heating. But like most of the properties in Brighton and Hove it had been refurbished by the sort of builder that might otherwise be described as a cowboy. I was quite lucky - my biggest problems were radiators that would develop little holes, showering the room with water of various temperatures. If I'd wanted a fountain, I'd have asked for it. Whenever my upstairs neighbour flushed her loo, it filled with hot water. Within six months, my neighbour at the back of the building had all her tiles fall off the bathroom wall. And there were other horrors in every flat.
And like the rest of Hove, the residents were a little eccentric. The somewhat secretive man on the top floor disappeared in his rusting Porsche one day, never to be seen again. The flat had been abandoned, and his creditors when they reclaimed the flat, had to call in the council because he had kept a pet owl which flew around depositing whatever owls deposit all over everything.
Still it was a nice flat, with fifteen foot high ceilings. And it was mine. I felt proper grown up, when on my first morning I placed an order with the milk man for a pint a day. Only grown ups did that.
The endowment is now safely deposited in my bank. It wouldn't buy a flat these days. It wouldn't buy a room even. Some will go to paying off debts. And some will go to new flooring in the Brighton flat that I bought when I sold this one.
But it feels as though this was a significant moment. The sort of thing that only real grown ups have.
Copyright note: these are not my pictures and the copyright of the owners is acknowledged
It turns out, as I discovered by letter sometime in early March, that 25 years ago I took out a mortgage; my first mortgage. And this was in the days of endowment mortgages. And whilst the first flat is long gone, the endowment has been hanging around gathering cobwebs in the dusty cupboards. Like all those investments we were sold at the time, I was promised a very handsome return on my investment, and unfortunately, as we now know, I'm not a banker and my reward is less than it should be. I'd like to say that my endowment is smaller than it should be, but I realise that will only get Auntie Gwen tittering. She's like that.
My first flat was in Brighton. Hove Actually. And was typical of the local architecture - bow fronted, with a balcony. Beautiful. It had just been modernised, so I had central heating. But like most of the properties in Brighton and Hove it had been refurbished by the sort of builder that might otherwise be described as a cowboy. I was quite lucky - my biggest problems were radiators that would develop little holes, showering the room with water of various temperatures. If I'd wanted a fountain, I'd have asked for it. Whenever my upstairs neighbour flushed her loo, it filled with hot water. Within six months, my neighbour at the back of the building had all her tiles fall off the bathroom wall. And there were other horrors in every flat.
And like the rest of Hove, the residents were a little eccentric. The somewhat secretive man on the top floor disappeared in his rusting Porsche one day, never to be seen again. The flat had been abandoned, and his creditors when they reclaimed the flat, had to call in the council because he had kept a pet owl which flew around depositing whatever owls deposit all over everything.
Still it was a nice flat, with fifteen foot high ceilings. And it was mine. I felt proper grown up, when on my first morning I placed an order with the milk man for a pint a day. Only grown ups did that.
The endowment is now safely deposited in my bank. It wouldn't buy a flat these days. It wouldn't buy a room even. Some will go to paying off debts. And some will go to new flooring in the Brighton flat that I bought when I sold this one.
But it feels as though this was a significant moment. The sort of thing that only real grown ups have.
Copyright note: these are not my pictures and the copyright of the owners is acknowledged
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
The brand issue
I've always made it a principle not to use the blog for any PR or advertising...it's for my pleasure and not for anyone's commercial gain. But that hasn't stopped me being inundated by offers from PRs. The e-mails usually go..."I've been reading your blog, it's really interesting and I was wondering if you'd like to write about blah blahs product". Usually, blah, blah's product is something for a two year old or for a girl or something that is otherwise completely irrelevant. So they get ignored. As a PR myself it's brought home to me the horror of how bad my profession is at what it does.
However, this week, I received a missive from a PR who had actually read the blog, and got the targeting spot on:
As a Dad, you may not get the chance to become a Nana one day - but you certainly might be a Papa and can appreciate the affection the UK public have for their nans nationwide. And with your son's nan being in Cyprus, I'm sure he'd love a way to show how much he cares. As such, I am emailing you to tell you about a campaign I'm currently working on with Shreddies that gives people the chance to honour their nanas by asking the question - Does your nana have what it takes to get the position of best Nana Job in the World!
The Shreddies campaign, which was launched on Facebook last week, will see the UK's best nana knitter win the opportunity to be the Official On-Packet Knitting Nana for Shreddies. Full details of the campaign can be found on facebook. You can also see more about how nanas make Shreddies and spend their time in the factory at the interactive, video, game and fact-filled site at knittedbynanas.com.
The current frontrunner for the job is Madge Waken from Stevenage, Hertforshire who has already generated over 1,300 votes. We'd love some more entries from Scotland and there is plenty of time to drum up support.
I have attached the release below for your information. If you have any questions or need video links or photography for use in the blog, please don't hesitate to contact me.
Best,
Ryan Levitt
Anyway...it seems fun to me. I might even nominate Grandma in Cyprus...although she gave up knitting a while ago....I used to get some spectacular jumpers...in the meantime, I'm going to go and get a box of Shreddies for tomorrows breakfast.
And on a different note altogether, the boy got a new mobile phone this week...his last one had an enormous crack on the screen and was looking decidedly the worse for wear. As mobiles are just about the most important accessory a teen can have, I couldn't face the thought of the tears and tantrums if it died altogether. Many of his friends have iphones...which seems a ridiculous extravagance to me - but that's Essex for you. He was given a Samsung B2110. The box has a mountain biker picture on it, and it can be dropped into water. In fact it can be dropped onto concrete. It is a tough phone. It has a torch. And an SOS function which will text four of your nearest and dearest if you're in trouble. But, as we now have discovered, it has one function that all phones should have. It has alarms to remind you if you are a Muslim, Christian, Sikh, or Hindu to pray. The Muslim one goes off five times a day. Each alarm has a ringtone that to my ignorant mind sounds exactly as it should and is accompanied by an image of your favoured deity.
May the Lord be praised.
However, this week, I received a missive from a PR who had actually read the blog, and got the targeting spot on:
As a Dad, you may not get the chance to become a Nana one day - but you certainly might be a Papa and can appreciate the affection the UK public have for their nans nationwide. And with your son's nan being in Cyprus, I'm sure he'd love a way to show how much he cares. As such, I am emailing you to tell you about a campaign I'm currently working on with Shreddies that gives people the chance to honour their nanas by asking the question - Does your nana have what it takes to get the position of best Nana Job in the World!
The Shreddies campaign, which was launched on Facebook last week, will see the UK's best nana knitter win the opportunity to be the Official On-Packet Knitting Nana for Shreddies. Full details of the campaign can be found on facebook. You can also see more about how nanas make Shreddies and spend their time in the factory at the interactive, video, game and fact-filled site at knittedbynanas.com.
The current frontrunner for the job is Madge Waken from Stevenage, Hertforshire who has already generated over 1,300 votes. We'd love some more entries from Scotland and there is plenty of time to drum up support.
I have attached the release below for your information. If you have any questions or need video links or photography for use in the blog, please don't hesitate to contact me.
Best,
Ryan Levitt
Anyway...it seems fun to me. I might even nominate Grandma in Cyprus...although she gave up knitting a while ago....I used to get some spectacular jumpers...in the meantime, I'm going to go and get a box of Shreddies for tomorrows breakfast.
And on a different note altogether, the boy got a new mobile phone this week...his last one had an enormous crack on the screen and was looking decidedly the worse for wear. As mobiles are just about the most important accessory a teen can have, I couldn't face the thought of the tears and tantrums if it died altogether. Many of his friends have iphones...which seems a ridiculous extravagance to me - but that's Essex for you. He was given a Samsung B2110. The box has a mountain biker picture on it, and it can be dropped into water. In fact it can be dropped onto concrete. It is a tough phone. It has a torch. And an SOS function which will text four of your nearest and dearest if you're in trouble. But, as we now have discovered, it has one function that all phones should have. It has alarms to remind you if you are a Muslim, Christian, Sikh, or Hindu to pray. The Muslim one goes off five times a day. Each alarm has a ringtone that to my ignorant mind sounds exactly as it should and is accompanied by an image of your favoured deity.
May the Lord be praised.
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
Did you pack the bag yourself?
I'm sorry. I'd like to apologise to my fellow Russian travellers. But as they say, "Sorry is as sorry does" I've never known what that means....
Ideally I'd like to pass quickly over my scheduling challenges and move on, but selfishly, Kellogsville chose to ask the question in her comment on my Russian post....did we manage to get back and deliver the boy 'oop north' OK...
Apology no1: I didn't mean to padlock my suitcase shut for you to carry through customs at the airport. Two security checks. Wasn't it lucky that those Russian security people chose to open someone else in our party's luggage, and not my suitcase?
Apology no2: I didn't know that BA would only allow each person to have one piece of hold luggage. I thought that was Ryanair. I'm so glad you could take our bags through as cabin luggage. I do realise that means the boy and I could have brought it with us.
Enough of the damned apologies...I'm sure you didn't mean it when you said that I could never travel with you again. And I'm hoping the comment that I'm a drug runner using you as mules was made in jest....wasn't it?
Remarkably, our flight left bang on time, and with a following wind we arrived half an hour early. With no luggage to collect we sailed through formalities, caught the Paddington Express, and with only a small delay on the new and improved Circle line arrived early enough at Euston to put the the boy on a train an hour earlier than expected, meaning an nine-thirty arrival time.
I don't in any way resent having to pay an excess on the train which was more than double the original fare. humph.
And naturally, I was not in anyway panicked by not being able to get hold of the teacher who was going to pick the boy up from the station at the far end. Until just a couple of minutes before he arrived. That was three hours of calling without a response. humph
.....
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
The five dollar shake
If only the five dollar shakes were like that in Moscow!...
Russia by numbers:
2 - the two policemen who laughed when they saw my Putin-inspired passport photo. Who said the Russians had no sense of humour?
30 - the cost of our first burger when we arrived. Not roubles, but Pounds sterling. It was inedible. The cost of dining was a major challenge throughout the week - and we never found a good meal in Moscow, although St Petersburg was a lot better on that front. In Moscow, I'm afraid in desperation we ended up having coffee in Starbucks. They'd run out of mugs, even though there were just six people in there.
12 - the number of girls sitting in the hotel lobby that we assumed were prostitutes - when we saw them for breakfast next day we realised they were a gaggle of English students. Prejudice is everything
4 - the actual number of prostitutes that 50 Cent had sent up to his room by his bodyguards. Fortunately our rooms were on a different floor
11 - the number of football players in a team. Jose Mourinho seemed to have a lot more than that waiting in the lobby of our Moscow hotel. They all seemed very bored. He needed a haircut according to the women in our party
1 - the number of ex-German Chancellors we saw. Herr Schroder. His hair didn't look dyed. An awful lot of the great and good had stayed at the hotel. And many of the bad too. See the pics, make your choice! Of course the other leader we saw was Lenin. he didn't look too good.
14 - the number of people in our party. Two of the adults were American. Both are convinced that Elizabeth Taylor isn't British, and never has been. As part of the conversation, I mentioned that Santa wasn't real, much to the distress of their 11 year-old boy...
61 - either the year of my birth, which is completely irrelevant, or we were shown round the Space Museum by the 61st Russian astronaut...he's now the deputy director there. How exciting was that...I shook hands with a real cosmonaut. Don't ask me his name. It was Russian and therefore unpronounceable. We liked the two stuffed dogs who had done their turn in space/ They were preserved for eternity looking skyward - perhaps wondering where they'd buried their bones.
1110 - the number of photos I took. Anyone fancy coming round for a slide show?
1942 - evidently the year we, and the Americans, decided to join in the Great Patriotic War according to our guide. One of our party exploded, before pointing out the proper date. As recorded in our history books. Which are probably more accurate than theirs.
1 - the number of over slippers that Bob kept losing in the museums and palaces. You have to wear them to protect the beautiful floors. He became known as One Boot Bob, which was kind of funny. If you were there. He also had a habit of wandering off, so there was the regular cry of 'Where's Bob?' We think it may make a book to replace Where's Wally. He also asked a lot of questions. Some of these were interesting. Most weren't. Bob is in his late fifties, so neither a tear away teen, or a demented OAP.
3 - the approximate interval in minutes between trains on the amazingly beautiful Moscow Metro system. By comparison, we had to wait four times that for our Circle line train in London
8 - the number of hours it took for our sleeper train to travel from Moscow to St Petersburg. It was beautifully appointed, and the staff brought food and beverages for us all night.
4 - the number of bottles of vodka we drank on the train. Ouch
2 - the number of hours sleep we managed as we partied all night
15 - the temperature we enjoyed in Moscow and St Petersburg. Unseasonably warm, it was lovely, and the blue skies mean we have a probably quite distorted view of the Russian climate.
4 - the number of Russian dolls we painted at a bizarre Russian-style Disneyland which appeared to have been built on an industrial estate on the outskirts of Moscow. We had fun, but weird is a complete understatement
2 - the number of active churches we visited. And lots and lots of in-active ones. Each and everyone was absolutely beautiful. Even St Basil's which our guide described as "Nothing much inside!"
12 - the number of Palaces we saw. Actually it may have been less. Or more. There were many and a testimony to the extravagance of the Russian Tsars. No wonder the peasants revolted. But you can't deny they're stunning and we could have spent longer seeing more if we'd had the time
3 - The three steer bar - we needed a drink during our travels and stumbled on this one. It wasn't called that, but it had three life size cows outside. And a life size plastic horse - so I took my shirt off for my Putin pose. There were no other women in the bar, and the waitresses all wore very short skirts. Perhaps there was a shortage of cloth.
0 - the number of world-class paintings displayed in the Tretyakov Gallery according to our resident expert. Evidently the Church disapproved of painting (except icons) so it didn't develop as art did in the West. Mind you, that didn't stop the aristocracy acquiring great works of art.
0 - apparently the number of sea battles the Russian fleet has ever won. They seemed to keep losing their fleet to various foreigners. The Naval Museum in St Petersburg is not a glorious place.
8 - the number of times I was stopped and asked questions by people who apparently thought I was Russian. I'm not sure what that means.
10/10 - what a brilliant and fascinating country Russia is. We barely scraped the surface, and I hope one day to return.
Sunday, 4 April 2010
Nearly there
School broke up on Thursday...the boy had been away for a two day Geography filed trip. Well I assume it was Geography, because he came back with a 'Work Bookelet'...I've put a big green ring round the offending 'e'. I hope that doesn't lose him any marks...we hurtled down to Brighton to see a performance of the History Boys'...a fine performance, a modest production and we could happily say all the lines for the actors as we've watched the film so may times...
And now we're back. The boy is packed for Russia...well "apart from jeans, T-shirts and pants" he says. So I'm guessing that's a completely empty suitcase then. And he is also packed for adventurous training. I guess apart from "jeans, T-shirts and pants".
We have our visas. Hurrah! We're spending a few days in Moscow, a sleeper train will then take us to St Petersburg...and it's all very exciting for us. There are 14 in the party. And that will be interesting as neither the boy nor I normally travel in a group larger than two. As we're intolerant beasts, we will have to be on our best behaviour.
When we fly in next Monday, we arrive at Heathrow at 5.30 and have just two hours to get to Euston for him to take a train up to Windermere where a school master will hopefully collect him and drive the 20 minutes to Coniston. With a prevailing wind I think it will work. That is my optimistic side...because the alternative is to drive him overnight. And I really don't want that.
So assuming I shan't be near a computer for the next week, I will say "До свиданья. Держите безопасную"
And now we're back. The boy is packed for Russia...well "apart from jeans, T-shirts and pants" he says. So I'm guessing that's a completely empty suitcase then. And he is also packed for adventurous training. I guess apart from "jeans, T-shirts and pants".
We have our visas. Hurrah! We're spending a few days in Moscow, a sleeper train will then take us to St Petersburg...and it's all very exciting for us. There are 14 in the party. And that will be interesting as neither the boy nor I normally travel in a group larger than two. As we're intolerant beasts, we will have to be on our best behaviour.
When we fly in next Monday, we arrive at Heathrow at 5.30 and have just two hours to get to Euston for him to take a train up to Windermere where a school master will hopefully collect him and drive the 20 minutes to Coniston. With a prevailing wind I think it will work. That is my optimistic side...because the alternative is to drive him overnight. And I really don't want that.
So assuming I shan't be near a computer for the next week, I will say "До свиданья. Держите безопасную"
Wednesday, 31 March 2010
Outside my front door: The Gallery
As I get older I get an increasingly morbid fear that technology will overwhelm me...so in doing this post for StickyFingers, I am completely confident that I will create more black holes than the Hadron Collider, and the world will end before the start of Doctor Who...
...anyway here are two views from outside my front door - one from Brighton during the snow, and the other from beautiful Epping Forest. Having two front doors is a good thing methinks....
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
One lump or two?
With our trip to Moscow just a matter of days away, the bombings on the metro there have an increased poignancy. 38 people dead on their way to work is a terrible thing where ever - much sympathy to their friends and families. However, as this sort of thing can happen anywhere these days, our plans remain resolute.
A couple of weeks ago I was out clothes shopping as stocks of shirts without frayed cuffs and collars was wearing low. For the first time Zara Men came to my rescue and I picked up some nice stuff. Of course, as a Spanish retailer, their clothes are cut more for the smaller mediteranean frame, rather than my northern european shape. It couldn't possibly be that I have put on any pounds in recent months.
I also got a rather splendid T-shirt that had both collar and cuffs in 'normal' shirt cotton. The thing is when I popped it on at home, it was painful. No I hadn't left a tag in it. Or a pin. I discovered I had a painful swelling (perhaps even a lump) on my chest. It was very tender indeed. And I didn't hesitate to get down to the doctor as soon as possible...confounding the statistic that men tend to leave these things for far too long.
He pushed and prodded and decided he would refer me to the local hospital within what seems to be called the two week rule. A biopsy for me. A man with a morbid fear of needles.
The consultant didn't spend much time with me...he too pushed, prodded and made me wince....just some tissue growth he said. Actually he said breast tissue growth and this will settle down within weeks. That doesn't mean I'm growing a splendid pair of moobs. Nothing to worry about and quite common. The relief was palpable.
I have to go back in eight weeks just to be certain sure.
But it has been a tense couple of weeks...and the positive out of it (apart, obviously from the positive result) is that I recognise I'm at 'that age' when I need to be aware of my health more than before...but not to panic.
So I will quietly forget all those aches and pains from an hour of playing five a side soccer at the weekend....
A couple of weeks ago I was out clothes shopping as stocks of shirts without frayed cuffs and collars was wearing low. For the first time Zara Men came to my rescue and I picked up some nice stuff. Of course, as a Spanish retailer, their clothes are cut more for the smaller mediteranean frame, rather than my northern european shape. It couldn't possibly be that I have put on any pounds in recent months.
I also got a rather splendid T-shirt that had both collar and cuffs in 'normal' shirt cotton. The thing is when I popped it on at home, it was painful. No I hadn't left a tag in it. Or a pin. I discovered I had a painful swelling (perhaps even a lump) on my chest. It was very tender indeed. And I didn't hesitate to get down to the doctor as soon as possible...confounding the statistic that men tend to leave these things for far too long.
He pushed and prodded and decided he would refer me to the local hospital within what seems to be called the two week rule. A biopsy for me. A man with a morbid fear of needles.
The consultant didn't spend much time with me...he too pushed, prodded and made me wince....just some tissue growth he said. Actually he said breast tissue growth and this will settle down within weeks. That doesn't mean I'm growing a splendid pair of moobs. Nothing to worry about and quite common. The relief was palpable.
I have to go back in eight weeks just to be certain sure.
But it has been a tense couple of weeks...and the positive out of it (apart, obviously from the positive result) is that I recognise I'm at 'that age' when I need to be aware of my health more than before...but not to panic.
So I will quietly forget all those aches and pains from an hour of playing five a side soccer at the weekend....
Friday, 26 March 2010
Road hogs
In the Nota Bene family, we have a good record of passing our driving tests - all of us have managed it first time having spent relatively small amounts of money on lessons. With Grandmother In Cyprus learning to drive was a necessity...and I'm not sure she has ever really enjoyed it, but needs must...especially now that she lives in a country where a car is the only realistic way of getting to a shop. And when I sit in the passenger seat I feel I am in safe hands.
My brother was car-crazy from a very young age, and I suspect he could drive before he could walk. He could certainly drive before he took his 11-plus. I wouldn't like to hazard a guess as to whether he took advantage of this skill at such a young age - I do remember him sitting on our father's lap when he was small enough that his legs couldn't reach the pedals. But he could steer and change gear. Naturally as a very practical lad, he could also fix engines with ease. A very helpful skill. Since then he has raced all sorts of cars.
I was altogether different.
Taking an academic approach, I was a car enthusiast and could tell you every model in every range from every manufacturer any where in the world. I could also tell you which were the good cars and which were rubbish - I knew because I'd read all the test drives and their word was gospel. I didn't understand it when my cousin claimed that you can't really know what a good car is until you've put your foot on the accelerator pedal. Pah! I passed my driving test whilst at University...I learnt in a Mini (as did everyone in those days, before they got posh) and I liked it as the front of the car went up when the clutch reached its biting point. My test was fine even though I did manage to get in a queue for a car park in the middle of it. I also managed to pass my motorcycle test first time some seven or eight years ago.
In the not too distant future it will be the boy's turn to learn. He has a too much of an interest in motorcycles...but I've sternly told him he's not allowed one until he's 35. And at that age he still will not be too big to put over my knee if he defies me. He is now to be found every morning sitting in the driving seat of the car, waiting to leave. He turns on the engine 'to warm it up' he says. Reluctantly, he climbs in the back seat when it is time to go. This morning though, the wait was a little too long, and that left him fiddling. With the gear stick. Just as I was walking in front of it. I jumped a mile. He looked sheepish...but with a big grin on his face. He won't be doing that again. Mind you, as it's a Toyota, I feel a call to the media followed by a call to my lawyers will elicit vast compensation...I'm sure it must have been the accelerator that stuck.
Wednesday, 24 March 2010
50%
Yesterday I was riding the MLC* and followed a car with a flat rear tyre. When we pulled up at traffic lights - just 100 yards from a garage - I tapped on his window. A slightly terrified man wound the window down and listened to what I said. As the lights turned green, he shot off onto a dual carriageway, tyre still flat. I stopped for petrol, and then took a different turning. I assume that somewhere on the dual carriageway this man was stopped with his tyre ripped to shreds. Hopefully he didn't cause an accident. I do understand that a gnarly biker tapping on your window may come as a little bit of a shock, but sometimes it seems it doesn't matter how much you want to help someone, they just don't listen.
At the office we have a selection of radio stations we listen to...Q Radio and XFM vie for favourite station....but sometimes if I have a heavy head Smooth does the trick...
The biggest problem with XFM is the advertising...I'm not adverse to the odd ad or two...indeed if I'm heading to the cinema, I need to get their early enough to see the ads as I just love them. No, the problem with the ads on XFM are that they are all government ones. And that makes my blood boil. Whilst most commercial businesses are moving away from broadcast advertising because (as I believe Henry Ford once said, "Half my advertising is wasted, I just don't know which half), the government are now the UK's biggest advertising spenders. That's your money, my money and our children's future tax bill.
It wouldn't be so bad, but many of these are simply ridiculous things to be advertising. Most annoying was the ad I heard whilst travelling in the West country for an NHS hospital - it's key selling point was that it had he lowest infection rates....no doubt that's very nice, but when I have an accident, I just want the nearest hospital to fix me up. And fix me up good. Ads I've heard this week include reminding parents to sort out the MMR jab, putting up a stair gate to stop their child tumbling down, putting a battery in your smoke alarm, for the Blood Bank, car tax, getting back to work, apprenticeships, health and safety executive, transferring your vehicle registration when you sell the vehicle, children's accidents in the home, know your consumer rights, level crossing and paying your VAT on line.
Some of these things are just plain common sense and people should be given credit for working it out themselves, some are things that can be better targeted (paying your VAT online - HMRC know who has to do this - businesses are all registered with them, and could communicate directly when sending out the form) and for the rest...well really it's just a complete and utter waste of money.
I'm told by someone who knows that the glut of advertising is because Government departments need to use up their budgets before the end of their budget year, rather than because of any compelling need for these communications. It would be nice if we could all run our finances like that. So perhaps, if like me you have an overdraft and the bank chases you, you can merely explain that you are using up the remainder of your annual budget.....
* that's a KTM SuperDuke motorbike, but Auntie Gwen calls it my Mid-Life-Crisis
At the office we have a selection of radio stations we listen to...Q Radio and XFM vie for favourite station....but sometimes if I have a heavy head Smooth does the trick...
The biggest problem with XFM is the advertising...I'm not adverse to the odd ad or two...indeed if I'm heading to the cinema, I need to get their early enough to see the ads as I just love them. No, the problem with the ads on XFM are that they are all government ones. And that makes my blood boil. Whilst most commercial businesses are moving away from broadcast advertising because (as I believe Henry Ford once said, "Half my advertising is wasted, I just don't know which half), the government are now the UK's biggest advertising spenders. That's your money, my money and our children's future tax bill.
It wouldn't be so bad, but many of these are simply ridiculous things to be advertising. Most annoying was the ad I heard whilst travelling in the West country for an NHS hospital - it's key selling point was that it had he lowest infection rates....no doubt that's very nice, but when I have an accident, I just want the nearest hospital to fix me up. And fix me up good. Ads I've heard this week include reminding parents to sort out the MMR jab, putting up a stair gate to stop their child tumbling down, putting a battery in your smoke alarm, for the Blood Bank, car tax, getting back to work, apprenticeships, health and safety executive, transferring your vehicle registration when you sell the vehicle, children's accidents in the home, know your consumer rights, level crossing and paying your VAT on line.
Some of these things are just plain common sense and people should be given credit for working it out themselves, some are things that can be better targeted (paying your VAT online - HMRC know who has to do this - businesses are all registered with them, and could communicate directly when sending out the form) and for the rest...well really it's just a complete and utter waste of money.
I'm told by someone who knows that the glut of advertising is because Government departments need to use up their budgets before the end of their budget year, rather than because of any compelling need for these communications. It would be nice if we could all run our finances like that. So perhaps, if like me you have an overdraft and the bank chases you, you can merely explain that you are using up the remainder of your annual budget.....
* that's a KTM SuperDuke motorbike, but Auntie Gwen calls it my Mid-Life-Crisis
Monday, 22 March 2010
Russian invasion
There are some countries that you just shouldn't invade. Afghanistan is one. I learnt that at 'O' level (when we did proper exams). It doesn't matter what you do, it cannot be conquered. So why our dearly beloved politicians think we can now, I just don't know. I'll also mention that in some places western-style democracy doesn't suit either. So why we think that like 19th Century Christian missionaries we can spread the word in places that have no history of democratic process I equally don't know.
Another country that is best avoided when conjuring up plans of world domination by invading their land is Russia. Napoleon found that out, as indeed did the Nazis. And now it is my turn. Not that I was planning to do it with the massed ranks of the local regiment. There's just 14 of us. And to date we have failed in our mission.. So far 4 trips have been undertaken to obtain visas. Amongst our many failures have been to leave blank sections of the application that are optional - when the girl behind the counter was asked why they were being rejected for lack of optional information she declared in heavy Russian accent, "You must fill it in". "Shouldn't it it be marked as compulsory?" "Yes. There is a mistake". " Shouldn't you change the form to show it is compulsory?" Response - a simple shrug of the shoulders. You have to list all the countries you have visited in the last ten years and the years. For one of our party that took her application onto three pages. "You cannot have three pages. It is only two." "But you told us to list everything". A shrug of the shoulders. And on and on and on. So we now have to apply on an urgent track - that's £150 Each. Thank you very much...I could have got a holiday in Greece for that. Including breakfast.
Anyway, we're nearly there. The women behind the desk are everything you would expect. Quite pretty, but as stern as stern can be. Completely humorless. And clearly decades of bureaucratic process are part of their DNA. I'm not sure that Russia will ever develop a tourist industry like Marbella.
The boy and I will in any case be beating an early retreat, having messed up with previous arrangements for him to go on adventurous training. At the moment he is odds on for travelling by train to Windermere, assuming that we can get him from a British Airways plane that lands at 5.30 to Euston by 7.30.
Another country that is best avoided when conjuring up plans of world domination by invading their land is Russia. Napoleon found that out, as indeed did the Nazis. And now it is my turn. Not that I was planning to do it with the massed ranks of the local regiment. There's just 14 of us. And to date we have failed in our mission.. So far 4 trips have been undertaken to obtain visas. Amongst our many failures have been to leave blank sections of the application that are optional - when the girl behind the counter was asked why they were being rejected for lack of optional information she declared in heavy Russian accent, "You must fill it in". "Shouldn't it it be marked as compulsory?" "Yes. There is a mistake". " Shouldn't you change the form to show it is compulsory?" Response - a simple shrug of the shoulders. You have to list all the countries you have visited in the last ten years and the years. For one of our party that took her application onto three pages. "You cannot have three pages. It is only two." "But you told us to list everything". A shrug of the shoulders. And on and on and on. So we now have to apply on an urgent track - that's £150 Each. Thank you very much...I could have got a holiday in Greece for that. Including breakfast.
Anyway, we're nearly there. The women behind the desk are everything you would expect. Quite pretty, but as stern as stern can be. Completely humorless. And clearly decades of bureaucratic process are part of their DNA. I'm not sure that Russia will ever develop a tourist industry like Marbella.
The boy and I will in any case be beating an early retreat, having messed up with previous arrangements for him to go on adventurous training. At the moment he is odds on for travelling by train to Windermere, assuming that we can get him from a British Airways plane that lands at 5.30 to Euston by 7.30.
Friday, 19 March 2010
A shambles
Just for a change...nothing from me about another mistake....but instead a picture:
The Shambles in York has been voted Britain's prettiest street. I remember going there as a student to visit some friends at the Uni. Well yes, the buildings are lovely, and the narrow, twisty street is quite endearing. But for heavens sake...look at all those estate agent boards and the ice cream signs...they don't exactly enhance the look of the place. Naturally, I'm biased twoards the Lanes in Brighton anyway. But in any case, shouldn't this street clutter be controlled?
Sorry...bad night's sleep last night. Need to let off steam!
The Shambles in York has been voted Britain's prettiest street. I remember going there as a student to visit some friends at the Uni. Well yes, the buildings are lovely, and the narrow, twisty street is quite endearing. But for heavens sake...look at all those estate agent boards and the ice cream signs...they don't exactly enhance the look of the place. Naturally, I'm biased twoards the Lanes in Brighton anyway. But in any case, shouldn't this street clutter be controlled?
Sorry...bad night's sleep last night. Need to let off steam!
Tuesday, 16 March 2010
Covered in glory
I've always enjoyed the cinema, but when the boy came to live with me on a permanent basis it became difficult to juggle single-fatherhood with an active social life. As a consequence I became a regular buyer of DVDs, and watched them on a projector that would beam a picture six foot across on to the sitting room wall. If I'd bought a popcorn machine, I'd have been in seventh heaven. This arrangement worked pretty well when he was younger and going to bed at 8, then 8.30, 9.00 and even 9.30. But by the time he was heading up to bed at around 10, my film watching days seemed to be over - it didn't seem fair (or something I wanted to happen) for him to be consigned to another room whilst I indulged in the latest 15 or 18 certificate movie. So although I've continued to buy DVDs, they seem to pile up on the shelf unopened, unwatched and unloved. A friend lent me a fabulous Korean film called Oldboy which after three months I've returned...unwatched.
It was with some excitement that I sat down last night and opened a Christmas present and slotted it into the DVD player. I'm a great fan of Tarantino, and having missed his latest at the Odeon, I was really looking forward to seeing Inglorious Basterds. And indeed, it pretty much started as I expected - a pastiche of everything that's bad about American War movies - poor title graphics, mono soundtrack...and I really liked the touch of having all the production team given Italian names...very good. It carried on, and the voices were nearly synced, the acting was the prefect take on B movie woodenness. The characters were caricatures - and the acting suitably wooden. I loved some of the explosions with bodies flying up into the sky obviously attached to wires - and the bit which made me laugh out loud was when the renegades came across a group of naked women, who turned on them with machine guns. Gratuitous it was and well done - although a bit like Deathproof, it was a joke difficult to sustain over the course of the whole film.
After an hour I was puzzling about the absence of Brad Pitt, and couldn't quite figure out who had won an Oscar for best supporting actor...I called to the boy and asked if he could Google it. He picked up the packaging and asked what I was watching. "Inglorious Basterds" I said. "Oh the one with Brad Pitt?" he replied. "Uh huh" I said. He looked at the packaging to reveal the terrible, terrible truth. "This isn't the one with Brad Pitt in. That's Inglorious Basterds. This is the original Inglorious Bastards. You're watching the wrong film."
Indeed I had been. For a whole hour. A whole hour of my life in a state of confusion and mis-understanding.
He was quite matter of fact about it. Obviously parents are stupid, so mistakes like that are inevitable.
I blame Santa. He has a lot to answer for.
It was with some excitement that I sat down last night and opened a Christmas present and slotted it into the DVD player. I'm a great fan of Tarantino, and having missed his latest at the Odeon, I was really looking forward to seeing Inglorious Basterds. And indeed, it pretty much started as I expected - a pastiche of everything that's bad about American War movies - poor title graphics, mono soundtrack...and I really liked the touch of having all the production team given Italian names...very good. It carried on, and the voices were nearly synced, the acting was the prefect take on B movie woodenness. The characters were caricatures - and the acting suitably wooden. I loved some of the explosions with bodies flying up into the sky obviously attached to wires - and the bit which made me laugh out loud was when the renegades came across a group of naked women, who turned on them with machine guns. Gratuitous it was and well done - although a bit like Deathproof, it was a joke difficult to sustain over the course of the whole film.
After an hour I was puzzling about the absence of Brad Pitt, and couldn't quite figure out who had won an Oscar for best supporting actor...I called to the boy and asked if he could Google it. He picked up the packaging and asked what I was watching. "Inglorious Basterds" I said. "Oh the one with Brad Pitt?" he replied. "Uh huh" I said. He looked at the packaging to reveal the terrible, terrible truth. "This isn't the one with Brad Pitt in. That's Inglorious Basterds. This is the original Inglorious Bastards. You're watching the wrong film."
Indeed I had been. For a whole hour. A whole hour of my life in a state of confusion and mis-understanding.
He was quite matter of fact about it. Obviously parents are stupid, so mistakes like that are inevitable.
I blame Santa. He has a lot to answer for.
Monday, 15 March 2010
An almighty cock-up
In a Coals to Newcastle moment, we are off to Russia in a couple of weeks, and amongst our party of 14, everyone has decided to bring a bottle of vodka. Not just any vodka, but our list so far includes rhubarb vodka, horseradish vodka, cucumber vodka and (for the kids - allegedly) toffee vodka. No doubt this list will grow longer as the holiday gets ever nearer. And no doubt it will all be a lot cheaper when we get there. I'm taking whisky.
Sometime in the deep distant past last year, the boy was booked to go on Adventurous Training with the school cadets. It was so long ago that we didn't have a calendar or a diary to put the dates in...so we noted them down on a piece of paper kept on the kitchen window.
Our Russian trip was recently booked with the dates having shifted a few times to try and co-ordinate everyone. And that's where the problems started. Although we only noticed last week. I am never the most organised of people, but this is about the worst I've managed.
We return from the land of the Tsars two days after the boy is due to depart to the North of England. And that would mean he will miss the activities he most wants to do do - mountain biking and gully walking.
So we have been searching high and low for a flight to return us early to Blighty. Of the flights on offer, we thought it best to avoid the £4000 British Airways flight - naturally only because they may well be on strike! And I've heard of the safety record of some of the Russian airlines.
There were a variety of cheap flights that would take us to exciting airports for a connecting flight - Warsaw, Copenhagen, Vienna, Paris and so on...and at a not unreasonable cost...so actually it started to become a bit of an adventure (or so I told the boy). The journey time was around six hours, which is not too bad...although Alitalia suggested an 18 hour flight...not sure where it went to, but I'm guessing it was somewhere hot and south of the equator. But as it happens, the travel agent has come up with a direct flight, and the cost of that is saved against the accommodation we no longer require.
The downside though, is that we land at half past five in the afternoon, and to get the boy to his destination we will need to drive directly up to the deep, distant frozen north - the school bus will have left a few hours before. It's a six hour drive...and much as I love the Jeep, it's not a high-speed autobahn cruiser.
This I regard as punishment for my own ineptitude (I have decided to ignore the suggestion from someone who shall not be named, that it is the boy's own fault for not spotting the problem..."Teenagers need to take more responsibility for themselves").
Now all I need to do is work out exactly where we've got to get to...these places tend to be a little off the beaten track...and we'll be trying to find it in the dark. Hopefully with all his training, the boy will be able to read a map...
It will be a long day indeed. I may need that vodka....
Sometime in the deep distant past last year, the boy was booked to go on Adventurous Training with the school cadets. It was so long ago that we didn't have a calendar or a diary to put the dates in...so we noted them down on a piece of paper kept on the kitchen window.
Our Russian trip was recently booked with the dates having shifted a few times to try and co-ordinate everyone. And that's where the problems started. Although we only noticed last week. I am never the most organised of people, but this is about the worst I've managed.
We return from the land of the Tsars two days after the boy is due to depart to the North of England. And that would mean he will miss the activities he most wants to do do - mountain biking and gully walking.
So we have been searching high and low for a flight to return us early to Blighty. Of the flights on offer, we thought it best to avoid the £4000 British Airways flight - naturally only because they may well be on strike! And I've heard of the safety record of some of the Russian airlines.
There were a variety of cheap flights that would take us to exciting airports for a connecting flight - Warsaw, Copenhagen, Vienna, Paris and so on...and at a not unreasonable cost...so actually it started to become a bit of an adventure (or so I told the boy). The journey time was around six hours, which is not too bad...although Alitalia suggested an 18 hour flight...not sure where it went to, but I'm guessing it was somewhere hot and south of the equator. But as it happens, the travel agent has come up with a direct flight, and the cost of that is saved against the accommodation we no longer require.
The downside though, is that we land at half past five in the afternoon, and to get the boy to his destination we will need to drive directly up to the deep, distant frozen north - the school bus will have left a few hours before. It's a six hour drive...and much as I love the Jeep, it's not a high-speed autobahn cruiser.
This I regard as punishment for my own ineptitude (I have decided to ignore the suggestion from someone who shall not be named, that it is the boy's own fault for not spotting the problem..."Teenagers need to take more responsibility for themselves").
Now all I need to do is work out exactly where we've got to get to...these places tend to be a little off the beaten track...and we'll be trying to find it in the dark. Hopefully with all his training, the boy will be able to read a map...
It will be a long day indeed. I may need that vodka....
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