Santa, snow, sales, students, sport, spoonerisms, statistics and sprouts

This weekend 17 million people watched the live 50^th Anniversary episode of Coronation Street, another 17 million watched the semi-final of Strictly Come Dancing; the same number that watched the conclusion of 3 months of Simon Cowell’s self-promotion, otherwise known as the X-Factor.  With Channel 5 screening the film ‘Dirty Dancing’ it was reckoned that over 32 million people in the UK watched TV at some point on Sunday evening. Those of you who have simply lost the plot or whose idea of physical exercise extends only so far as a digital workout on the handset will have been only to aware that with it was well within your capabilities to watch all of the action live and still have time to send out for a takeaway. Look at it as a dry run for the 4-day Christmas break box fest.  

Unfortunately, the amount of snow and ice on the roads, part of the reason why so many people were stuck at home this weekend, may have prevented you from ever receiving your pizza/curry/kebab or whatever. If you happen to live in Scotland the chances are that you will have already forgotten the name of the X-Factor winner by the time your meal arrives (sometime next week).

According to the National Retail Consortium trade was down by 22% last week because of the inclement weather. This is the UK, the weather is our national obsession and no amount of bad weather will ever deter a rampant shopper from the right bargain.

You try explaining to a petulant 7 year-old who has talked of nothing but visiting Father Christmas since August that it won’t be possible this year, because Santa has been frozen into his car on the M8 motorway for the past 3 days.

How come in countries like Russia and China where temperatures in various parts can, on the same day,  range from +40 degrees to -40 degrees  yet you never hear of any great disruption to the food chain, factories, schools or the transport systems. Here, in a country only a small fraction of the size, with a climate significantly less challenging, it only takes 2 inches of snow or rain to fall in any region for the entire country to come to a grinding halt.    

  

Approximately  4.2 billion pounds has been lost to the UK economy due to the bad weather over the past few weeks. Considering the number of companies  that are dependent on the increased trade in the run up to Christmas, you can’t help but feel sorry for those who must now be fearing the worst.

Unfortunately the only people who do seem to have got out and about recently are students, the very people who normally have problems getting out of bed no matter what the weather. From the coverage I have seen and heard in recent days I’m not sure that anyone knows exactly what they are protesting about. It would appear that groups with any number of differing causes have suddenly come together for a collective moan. In part they do have a grievance, it is not a particularly good time to be a student. How many of them have been sold the idea that a good degree is a passport to a £40k pa job? Sorry, if only life was that easy. Many employers offer (or used to offer) a management track for graduate employees. With a government target figure of 50% of school-leavers going onto university or further education, that is a huge number of managers that will be looking for jobs, and with a growing number of workers now approaching retirement (if they can afford it) I wonder exactly who these future managers are intending to manage since by the time they graduate there will be no one left in the country with any marketable skills.

Saving the planet or questioning why Nick Clegg reneged on the Lib Dem education policy may be laudable though I don’t think either is a valid excuse to go on a violent rampage around the country. Where I do find a weakness in the student argument is the belief that many of them have that a university education is a right – I am sorry it is not, it is a privilege. Not as elitist as some would have us believe but a privilege none the less. Not everyone wants to, or can afford to, go to university, so why should the tax payer foot the bill for the privileged few that do wish to pursue this path to increase their career prospects. There never was such a thing as a free lunch and if the students who have already found a place at university believe that they should be entitled to a free education then I fear they are too stupid to be there in the first place.   Good quality tuition does not come cheap and not all the universities will be charging the maximum of £9000 pa. No one welcomes the idea of leaving education with a debt but thankfully the mechanism for repaying this amount will not kick in until  a reasonable level of income is achieved. In an ideal world everyone would be allowed to go to university for free, and I would be opening the batting and bowling for England. This is not utopia and I am stuck at home watching the sky darken as further downfalls of snow edge towards the UK from all directions.

Think of all those people whose blushes have been saved through the inability to get to this year’s office Christmas party because of the weather. No staggering home bleary eyed, having assured the colleague who has made your life a misery for most of the year that they are your bestest friend in the  office (if not the world). No ending up in the broom cupboard with the new recruit from accounts. That was always my greatest fear, the dreaded conundrum of knowing you will have to confront  not only that person, but also your other colleagues the next day. I used to feel guilty even when there was no chance of any ‘action’ taking place. Often I would simply grab a couple of beers and a bag of peanuts and lock myself in the broom cupboard until I heard people starting to clear up.  

The run up to Christmas has always been an aspect of life that I have struggled with. How come managers who give their staff a hard time for most of the year only have to loosen their tie and put a bit of tinsel in their hair to suddenly become the life and soul of the party, at least  for a few days. Which part of the Christmas story or pagan celebration involves  photocopying your backside and emailing it to half the offices in Europe? Pantomime didn’t do much for me as a child and it has even less appeal when re-created in a work environment.

Looking back on life, as people tend to do when the year starts to draw to a close it is easy to see now where the dread of Christmas first embedded itself into my psyche – MY FAMILY.  Much of my childhood involved being dragged around various working men’s clubs and bingo halls, spending time with my father’s large array of relatives. The only comments ever elicited in my direction were ‘ere go give this glass to Uncle Bern and ask ‘im to get me another pint of Red Barrel’ or ‘My ‘aven’t you grown’. As if I had grown at all in the week since I previously met any of them. I didn’t grow at all between the ages of 11 and 16, so I don’t know who they were mistaking me for. I just thought I was going to remain 5’ 4”. I grew 7” in between 16 and 17 and not one comment from any of them, very weird, but only if you judge that by other family’s standards. 

At Christmas time we would all descend on the 3 bed-terrace of a particular matriarchal aunt.  The men would always gather in the front room and the women in the back, with the stairs doubling as both  buffer zone and queue for the toilet. I can still taste the rancid air from the back room, a heady mix of Elnette hairspray and Silk Cut. The room was over-packed with grim-faced aunts and family friends all checking each other’s jewellery out across a pile of vol-au-vents and a large salmon mousse.  Perhaps wrongly, I assumed that the mousse was there for decoration purposes since it invariable remained intact throughout the night’s festivities. In the front room my beer-swilling uncles and their friends were hooting and hollering along to a Mrs. Mills Piano Party LP, while cradling a glass of a yellow goo, with a cherry in it!  The air wreaked of Brylcreem and Old Holborn and for some reason that I associated with freemasonry they were all wearing paper hats or silly  masks. It was all too surreal for a young man of my sensibilities, and I sought solace in the only place I knew I could get any peace. Having undergone the first round of ‘my, haven’t you grown’ I would disappear at the earliest opportunity to the makeshift cloakroom and hide under the pile of coats that had been deposited on my aunt’s bed.  If I was very lucky I would remain undetected until the end of the evening.

I think I must have OD’d on the Alphabetti Spaghetti this week since my head is spinning with statistics. Apparently the UK has slipped down the global education league once again – Based on O-level standard English and Mathematics we now rank in the late 20s out of the 65 countries who took part in the study. I am not sure how that fits in with the government’s claims that the number of students achieving higher grades has been increasing year on year for the past 30 years. Whichever way you look at it I am sure that prospective employers are desperately keen to do something to keep the number of unemployed 18 – 24 year olds below 20% unemployment. 

This year has seen more than its fair share of disasters – not only the economic ones but also the natural ones – Oil slicks in Mexico and China, forest fires in America, mining accidents in Chile and New Zealand and devastating floods on most continents. We have also suffered man-made disasters such as England’s woeful performance at the football world cup and their failure to win the bid to host the 2018 tournament following allegations of corruption within FIFA. Given the way the team under-performed in South Africa it wouldn’t surprise me if we even had to bribe our own committee representative to vote for us in Switzerland. 

I would have quite liked to have seen the world cup in this country. I can remember  1966 though my dribbling skills were more slimy than slinky and chances are that I may not be here in 2030 if we are successful next time around.

Much to my delight this week I have enjoyed the feigned indignation of the moral masses at the furore caused by the untimely slip of the tongue when Radio 4’s James Naughtie tried to introduce the Culture Secretary, Jeremy Hunt, on the ‘Today’ programme. The intervention of Dr. Spooner ensured that the gaffe made the front page of the tabloids on an otherwise slow news day.  Quite apart from the possibility that Mr. Naughtie may have inadvertantly enunciated the views of a great many of the listeners I fear that the protectors of the public conscience, as is often the case, are too quick to throw themselves in front of a perceived offence. If you happen to be blessed with the surname ‘Hunt’ then Dr. Spooner is an occupational hazard. I like to think that the former  MP for Ravensbourne held a more adult view of his predicament. On more than one occasion I  heard him introduce himself at meetings as ‘Sir John Hunt, the well-known misprint.’  It is both refreshing and reassuring to hear from a politician who doesn’t take themself too seriously. It lends credence to the fact that they might be human after all.

At least this year on television we have witnessed the last hoorah of ‘Big Brother’, until it is resurrected on one of Rupert Murdoch’s more obscure satellite channels. Watching Bruce Forsyth regurgitate his act of the past 60 years throughout ‘Strictly’ is as demeaning as I am prepared to let myself go in terms of TV viewing. ‘Wossie’s’ departure from the Beeb seems to have left the manicured fingers of Graeme Norton and Claudia Winkelman to plunder the spoils of the BBC’s flagship programmes (sorry, still no suitable showcase for Patrick Kielty. Who?). With X-Factor approaching its sell by date and  ‘I’m a celebrity’ struggling to attract Z-listers  it can only be a matter for time before we see Ant and Dec coming the other way.  

What is it that makes schedulers believe that the public are interested in watching fly on the wall documentaries about teenage tearaways, Peter André, Katy Price, Kerry Katona, embarrassing body parts or in particular Kerry Katona’s embarrassing body parts. Its not that I am squeamish, I just don’t find ritualist humiliation very entertaining (except when the English give the Aussies a good thumping at rugby or cricket). I can just imagine the programme makers pitching the idea for ‘I’m a celebrity…’ to Lord Reith. ‘Yes, your Lordship we believe the public will be fascinated to watch the likes of Richard Dimbleby, Alvar Liddell and John Snagge eat a plate of bat pooh in the jungle.’ I somehow can’t see him approving that idea, even if the contestants are still required to appear in full evening dress.   

Many of the plethora of cookery programmes have come and gone, as have a number of the house and property make over shows. Alright, so I accept that cost is a major factor in television production and stations are committed to providing X many hours of output but there is presently a dirth of good quality entertainment both in daytime and peak time programming. Thankfully TV sets still have an off button.   

On the subject of food I can’t help noticing how much food prices have gone up this year, especially fish, meat and dairy products. The weather may account for part of this, as well as increasing demand from the BRIC countries. With so many more mouths to feed, definitely no free lunch there. It should come as no surprise that allotments are so oversubscribed. There is no fear of me turning vegan just yet, though it may be some time before you will catch me drooling over the lamb counter at any butcher.  I am not an avid watcher of where my food originates from, though I will try to buy local produce if it is clearly marked and competitively priced. It is often hard enough to locate the price of things let alone their country of origin or calorific value. As for e-numbers forget it - far too small to read, I wouldn’t know what they meant and I have no intention of paying for a degree just to find out. 

My taste in food is fairly basic, I am pretty easy to cater for, strong tea with a little milk is all I ask for.  I don’t do posh nosh, so widgeon and quail’s eggs will not be adorning the family platter this year.  I was planning to bolster the depleted Christmas turkey  offering this year with a larger portion of vegetables, including  every child’s turn off, sprouts.  There are 2 main varieties of sprout, a derivative of which dates back to Roman times, though  their association with Brussels probably only goes back to the 13^th Century.

Unfortunately the likelihood of the ground being too frozen to allow the sprouts to be harvested could throw a spanner into my preparations, in which case the family will have to make do with a traditional Dickensian Christmas as we pig out on gruel.

Undoubtedly, whatever eventually hits the dinner table will be devoured in its entirety before we settle back in front of the telly with a nice cup of tea and probably fall asleep. My suspicion is that the sprouts will not be the only things being repeated this Christmas. 

Seasons greetings to one and all.

Kalashnikovs and lipstick

My wife and I have just returned from a holiday in Egypt where, among the many enjoyable pleasures of the Red Sea resort, my wife was able to catch up with the delights that are Russian television, available in glorious technicolour on a wide screen TV in our hotel room. Choosing not to subscribe to satellite TV in the UK it is only rarely that she is able to watch television in her native tongue. Being unable to speak a word of the language has never proved an issue for me since I tend to put my own words to the pictures and Lambeth has told me that often my plot lines are better than the actual script.
 

To be honest technicolour is rather wasted on Russian TV since sets generally come in one of two varieties. Either the sets and the costumes are varying shades of brown or the entire screen looks like a psychedelic nightmare which even the most modern TV sets cannot cope with.
 

Let me make it clear that we did not go on holiday simply to watch Russian TV, though it did prove a useful distraction while winding down from a hard day of snorkelling and flopping out on the sunbed.

Russian TV may not be the greatest spectacle in the world though it does have its moments which strike a chord for all the wrong reasons.

Perhaps the makers of ‘Judge Judy’ could learn from their Russian counterpart – not only do the cases invariably descend into a verbal free-for-all but the police guard, toting a Kalashnikov rifle from his hip, stands meekly by looking completely bored by proceedings.

They have their own forensic crime series, The Force, (or as prefer to call it ‘The Farce’) which is just as glossy and high-tech as CSI though the actors seem to be unaware of what they are trying to achieve. No one appears to wear gloves when collecting evidence. Obviously contaminated evidence doesn’t count for much in a criminal system of questionable moral stature. I love the way that one of the senior female investigators routinely turns up at a crime scene in her 6 inch stiletto shoes.

Russian cosmetics must be the best in the world, especially the mascara. Whereas English soaps are predominantly a series of shouting matches linked by a few weak plots, Russian soaps consist largely of people crying. I am not sure whether there is actually any plot or story line, it just seems that each episode focuses on a different member of the cast crying for one reason or another. The strange thing is that this never seems to affect their makeup – no streaks or red eyes and not even a hair out of place. Every expense seems to have been spared on these soaps because not only are the sets very basic but it is not unknown for some of the actors to wear the same costume throughout. I guess it makes continuity easier but it is hard to take a character seriously when they wear the same thick roll-neck sweater in all conditions, be it Summer or Winter, rain or shine. One of my favourite soap characters is ‘Boris’, a middle–aged man who always wears the same black trousers, black shirt and plain brown tie. Even in a passionate love scene the tie would not be removed. He always seemed to be given a hard time by most of the other characters. I guess I felt sorry for him because, when I last stayed in Russia, I almost sent him a new tie because he appeared in a new series in the same clothes as he had worn in every episode of the previous one.

In truth, none of the TV channels was particularly good and the exterior walls of Shanks’ Palace will remain unblemished by cables or satellite dish.

By way of fostering a spirit of entente cordiale, and to pass the time, Lam and I would daily play a game where we would assess the merits or demerits of individual nations in a global tourist league. This largely consisted of nominating 2 particular nationalities to be love and hate figures for the day. We would then spend the day thinking of all the good and bad things about those countries. Initially it was to be restricted to countries that we had visited, though this rule was later relaxed to allow the inclusion of certain countries that we considered worthy of scrutiny. Each country selected was given the opportunity to be assessed as the love and hate figure for a day, those considered favourably in the first week being subject to the reverse assessment in the second. Not only did this provide us with 2 champions as favourite and least favourite nation but a whole raft of other awards to individual countries for selective traits, such as natural beauty, friendliness, transportation, cuisine, historic interest, etiquette, dress sense or culture.

To prevent the Eastern block countries ganging up against the rest of the world only Russia and Croatia were taken into consideration. Belgium was excluded on grounds that (other than giving the world Tintin and Jacques Brel) it is not really a country, just a place that people drive through on the way to somewhere else. This may come as a surprise to most Belgians but could explain why they treat their roads as a race track. 


Australia scored highly as the penal colony of choice, fighting off a strong challenge from Cuba. The natural beauty and number of tourist attractions were a positive selling point though the country lost ground because of bush tucker and the number of creepie-crawlies. While air miles was deemed a bonus travelling to the other side of the world to be insulted by  whinging, tattooed, lager-swilling, sport-obsessed bar staff was considered a trek too far and one that could be experienced for a fraction of the cost in almost any Earls Court pub.   

Our conclusion was that ultimately money talks, which meant that the wealthier nations tended to rank highly in both leagues for all the wrong reasons. The USA may have a great number of worthy attractions though this needed to be offset against the crime of introducing the world to McDonalds and Kentucky Fried Chicken. The fact that the country is a financial powerhouse does not give their citizens the right to behave as if they own the entire world. The Germans may have lost their desire for global domination though their appetite to commandeer the sunbeds remains undiminished. Rich, loud Muscovites, splashing the cash did little to endear the Russian tourist in either league. Needless to say, the England never wins anything; Britain is expensive, the weather is awful, transportation unreliable, and the English are too polite or lazy to argue about the results. Surprise winners of the Hate League for 2010 were, Iceland, on grounds that neither of us has ever met an Icelandic tourist, we have no wish to visit a geyser, glacier or mud pool, and their gifts to the world seem to have been a major banking crisis, a cloud of volcanic ash and Bjork – all of which would lend weight to the argument that they are worthy winners of this accolade.

On a completely different note I must mention the incident that took place regarding a film we purchased for our camera. I was casually relaxing in the sun one afternoon when Lam strolled up dangling the camera from her wrist, disappointment etched across her face. “You would think that you would get more than 27 pictures on a 10 metre roll of film, and why hadn’t I purchased the 30 metre film instead.” Now I may not know my Digital zoom from a Box Brownie but, as I was able to point out to her while suppressing a wry smile, the 10 metres is a reference to the depth at which this underwater camera would operate and since neither of us was ever likely to swim deeper than 10 metres any extra could be considered an overkill. It is always hard to take someone seriously when they are wearing a snorkel and goggles.

Has someone found the cure for split ends?

The fact that I have not seen a TV or magazine advert extolling the virtues of such and such a product for controlling the problem of split ends for nearly a decade would suggest that this condition has now been confined to the annals of medical history. Did someone find a cure for it? I never read about it in the Lancet. Surely such a discovery would make that person a shoe-in for a Nobel prize for Medicine.

I contemplate this weighty issue as I examine the appalling state of my nasal hair. Yes, I know I should really get out more, only it is raining and I don't 'do' rain unless I have to. Have I really gone that grey? Why are my eyebrows and armpits still dark when the rest of my body hair is grey (You will have to take my word on that fact)? Could I end up looking like Alastair Darling – God, please do not make me look like AD – I'll dye my hair green if you do.

To return to my original question – There was a time when the social faux pas of split ends was only surpassed by that other heady issue, Dandruff – and boy did the advertisers love to get under our skins by harping on about these subjects. For years I thought that dandruff was a by-product of friction between strands of hair (OK, I never claimed to be the brightest candle in the church). As a teenager my black school blazer was constantly coated in a layer of snow. Why didn't these white particles emanate from my nose whenever I sneezed? In hindsight I guess that an avalanche from my hair resulted every time I did, so an accompanying blast from the schnoz might be considered to be an overkill. It was only years later that I learned that dandruff was a skin condition that by coincidence happened to appear on one's scalp.

Maybe hair conditions go in cycles, much as washing powders and the like. I grew up in the era of hair gels and perfumed anti-dandruff treatments. Where hair was supposed to remain in place no matter what the weather condition, people washed their locks in natural brooks and no one in their right mind would contemplate taking a shower using a separate shampoo and conditioner. Farrah Fawcett gave us all the volume, bounce and the windswept look. Since then we have been treated to different phases of stiffness, freshness, herbal, organic, medicated, mineral extracts, strengtheners, thickeners, de-tanglers and de-stressers. Currently the buzz words seem to be 'luxurious' and 'lustre', with manufacturers keen to market the idea of routinely dying your hair in an effort to make it 'shine' or 'radiate'. OK Cheryl Cole, Davina Macall, David Ginola, Penelope Cruz et al's locks may glisten like a mirror under studio lights, shimmering like blown corn by an industrial sized fan but ask yourself – is the product they promote really worth it?

Thinking of my father, and my grandfather for that matter, their concept of gentleman's grooming consisted of a safety razor, a comb, a toothbrush, toothpaste, coal tar soap, a shaving brush, talcum powder, a small bottle of Old Spice (for special occasions) and a tub of Brylcreem. I can't recall either of them owning any deodorant or anti-perspirant (either can or stick) though I guess they did use something as they were both fairly active workers and I don't remember either of them as being particularly pungent.

I don't think my attitude has differed so much from theirs. My hair having been subjected to years of abuse through noxious green fixing gel by my over-enthusiastic mother I choose to leave what remains of my hair to flourish or flounder as nature intented, apart from a little assistance from whichever brand of shampoo is on special offer at the supermarket this week. I remain faithful to my trusty safety razor despite the injuries it has inflicted upon me over the years. Personal hygiene demands I use an anti-perspirant and toothpaste and my dentist has convinced me of the benefits of mouthwash (something I readily agreed to on grounds that I am not prepared to argue with someone who has the capability of inflicting so much pain). In addition to soap I also use shower gel, perhaps because my forebears were more used to taking baths than they were showers. I can't remember the last time I used talcum powder and I would hesitate to think how old some of the few after shaves I possess are. In truth, the fact that I keep them in the bathroom cabinet is more a question of staking out my territory, which is forever under threat from my wife's increasing collection of artifacts that now rivals a Superdrug stockroom.

I am sure that there are those who will be horrified by my lack-lustre collection of toiletries. I don't frequent the gym as often as I would wish these days though for some guys it would seem that conveying their collection of essential grooming tools is a more strenuous workout than an hour or so of dumbbells and treadmills.

The very thought of moisturisers, flossing, waxing, manicures and pedicures turns my stomach; As for ex-foliating? Seeing hair growth from one's ears or nose is not particularly pleasant I would agree, but what is the point of waxing or any of the other overrated treatments. What is the attraction of a ‘Brazilian’ or a 'Back and Crack'? Why suffer the pain when there is so little to be gained?

Is it a generational thing? Are we all being hoodwinked by the consumerist society or am I just a natural born wimp with a low threshold of personal vanity?

Blast of the Dumber Swine

No sooner has Spotlight’s personal retirement fund for geriatric members of the acting profession been dispatched to UK Gold than a new generation of more youthful reprobates have taken to the small screen in the guises of Campo, Clegg and Boris ‘Foggy’ Johnson.

The accents and the attire may be slightly more up market (except for poor old Foggy) but the hair-brained schemes, pretentions and aspirations are just the same. Perhaps Ann Widdicombe might make the occasional guest appearance as the ghost of Nora Batty, and Vince Cable could be ‘Smiler’. Lady Thatcher would be excellent as Auntie Wainwright, peddling her brand of now discredited ideas as worthless tat.

I am looking forward to the episodes where Campo realises that he can’t afford to keep having accidents because there aren’t enough hospitals to treat him and when he seeks fresh ideas from Billy Hardcastle for his defence spending plans; where Foggy tries to introduce a new cycle scheme for the North Yorkshire Moors and when Clegg is forced to admit to Campo that he has misgivings about Billy Hardcastle’s proposal for every able bodied man to fire at least one arrow every day, as a replacement for the Trident missile programme. Auntie Wainwright could be very busy over the next few years selling off the country’s silver at rock bottom prices.

It is to be hoped that this latest incarnation of the BBC favourite doesn't run for the next 37 years.

Down with Skool

I can only assume that the little darlings are once more ensconced in their pillars of learning judging by the increased amount of traffic that greets this travel weary commuter each morning.

Tired with the incessant babble of John Humphries and crew on Radio 4 I opted to amuse myself while sandwiched between 2 over-sized rugrat transporters in a queue that I knew to be well over 3 miles, with little sign of movement, by challenging myself to recall what I regret most about my own school days.

In modern parlance you could say that I was scholastically challenged, in so far that my regular attendance at a large gothic monstrosity that formed the centrepiece of an otherwise non-descript secondary establishment of learning presented a greater challenge to the teaching staff than those fellow pupils who chose to ease their workload through lengthy periods of truancy.

These days it would appear that simply attending a class on a regular basis guarantees you at least a C grade at GCSE. In my days your reward was a warm classroom (heating system permitting) or 6 of the best if you opted not to put in an appearance for whichever class was thrust upon you.

My regrets, I could only come up with three, are:

That the so called ‘hardnuts’, who regularly threatened retribution on the school for putting them through so much pain, never, to my knowledge, even attempted to inflict the damage to the school buildings that was the focus of their wrath.

The principle aim of the school, as was so often pointed out by the governors, was to produce ‘well rounded individuals, ready and able to fit into a modern world’. To this extent the curriculum was remarkably bland and over-achievers in one subject would be given additional tasks in their weakest subject to compensate for their zealous enthusiasm. My regret is that if it was truly their intention to produce well-rounded individuals why did they opt to bar 50% of the species from sharing the benefits of their insightful goals?

It is not that I had anything against my fellow students but the concept of an all male environment seemed as alien then as it does now. Is it any wonder that there is so much misunderstanding between the sexes when there is so little interaction between them during our formative years. Growing up in a neighbourhood with an average age of 57 (the locality had a high density of nursing and care homes) I was well into my teens before I even realised that there were such creatures as girls. Up until then I feared that women were deposited on this earth in their 40’s and whisked away in their 80’s, I guess it never crossed my mind to think how they got here. All I knew was that you hardly ever saw any girls in the park and I didn’t really view my sister as a girl since it often fell upon her to make up the numbers when a group of us met up for an impromptu kick around.

My third regret is symptomatic of the era in which I grew up. As someone who enjoys listening to music it is to my eternal shame that I have to admit to growing up in the 70’s, a period that brought us the ‘concept album’, lengthy instrumental solos, dodgy fashion, heavy metal, even heavier make-up, punk and glam rock. There were a group of ‘choristers’ within the school, who shall remain nameless for their own protection, who would regularly meet early each morning to test the acoustics of the vaulted playground. 4 guys, wailing like banshees in falsetto homage to Lol Crème of 10cc and Thijs van Leer from Focus. Such pretentious tunes as ‘Donna’ and ‘Sylvia’ were never destined to be classics, and thankfully no one has thought to revive them. The fact that I can remember these particular tracks is largely due to the images that still haunt me of these individuals letting rip at full volume, in all weathers at 7.30 in the morning.

A few of my colleagues who had more liberal parents went so far as sporting the look perpetuated by icons of the day, in particular Marc Bolan, David Bowie and Rod Stewart. I trust these individuals are suitably proud of their family photo albums. Thankfully there are no dubious perms, mullets or eye-liner in mine. (not that I would admit it even if there was).

On one occasion I recall a cricket match where the 6th form common room was situated within earshot of the playing fields and our teacher was forced to call a series of no balls to one of our bowlers who was struggling to maintain composure since most of the team were ‘head banging’ in unison to a particular LP during his run up. The volume of the music would seem to rise with each delivery and drop as the bowler stomped back to his bowling mark, shaking with mirth. Our teacher did complain to his counterpart from the opposition, umpiring at square leg that this was hardly a sporting gesture, to which the young teacher replied that the behaviour of the 6th form was beyond his jurisdiction. His plaintive cries to the amassed group of 6th formers were met with signals of incomprehension, due to the volume of the music. (Secretly, I believe he was a Yes fan and was enjoying the distraction of the music, which prolonged the thumping his charges were being given by the Under-13s).

I would like to think that my taste in music has improved (or should that be mellowed) over the years, as has my hearing. It is a wonder my ears never bled during these outbursts though the recollection of these performances still send a shiver down my spine.

MAMILS

It is with mixed feelings that I have recently read several articles on the increasing number of mamils (middle-aged-men in lycra). As a member of the relevant age group I feel I should be supportive of their effort to maintain a healthy lifestyle. I can appreciate the health benefits but cannot somehow see these faddish cycling converts forsaking their 4x4s as a green issue. Call me a cynic but in terms of carbon footprint I can’t help feeling that the drive to the countryside, where most mamils appear to congregate, greatly outweighs that of the journey undertaken on 2 wheels.

From a health perspective I can understand that strenuous exercise can assist blood flow, aid digestion, reduce fat, improve concentration, boost confidence, strengthen muscles and increase stamina, however I can think of no other activity or occupation, with the possible exception of the porn industry, where it is necessary to raise your bottom higher than you head for a sustained period. Maintaining the racing position during the Tour de France may be photogenic but must ultimately lead to a rushing of blood to the head (which may account for the number of accidents during the race). Being someone whose physique could do with a little toning I shall not dwell on the negative aspects of exercise, or lack thereof.

I genuinely think it is a good thing that more people are taking the opportunity to experience the countryside. So long as they ride in single file they are as welcome to go about their business as any rambler, backpacker, biker or tree-hugger (sorry, my bon homie  does not extend to caravanners or groups of cyclists who insist on riding 3 abreast down the middle of  a busy dual carriageway).   

I have lost count the number of times this Summer (I use the term loosely) when I have been forced to slow to a crawl behind an aging cyclist, sweat pouring from every orifice, wobbling precariously up a steep hill more suited for mountain goats, torn between the mischievous thoughts of ‘is he going to fall off’ or ‘should I lean out the window and giving him a helping hand with my trusty fly swat’.

What amazes me is the lengths that some of these mamils go to in the name of their ‘sport’.  Mirror sunglasses, helmets that look like bedpans, bikes that cost more than a small car and  have more technology than a NASA spacecraft; and what is it with shaving the legs? I can’t  buy into the argument that it is a pre-emptive measure in case you fall and require medical attention. Footballers don’t shave their legs in case they need stitches to their gashed calves, they do it for aesthetic reasons. Please don’t tell me that it makes you look good. It is very difficult to take any comment seriously from  someone dressed in Lycra. Not even Eddie Merckx could make Lycra look sexy. Not prepared to settle for squeezing your expanding waistline into a very unforgiving sausage skin you then insist on wearing the most garish colours in order to draw attention to the fact that the costume barely fits where it touches and draws attention to regions of the body that most sensible people would prefer to keep covered.

Lycra is very much of the middle-aged-man generation, having been invented by Dupont in 1959. For reasons that still elude me many of the glam-rock, and heavy metal bands of the 70’s and 80’s chose this stretchable fabric to make a fashion statement. In time they, or the public, concluded that watching grown men, and women, flounce around the stage in sweaty catsuits just wasn’t sexy any more. Why couldn’t the cycling community take the hint.   

Thinking back to my childhood, I remember cyclists with sensible attire – cycle clips, trousers with crease you could cut butter with, sensible shoes (freshly polished) and a flat cap or hat that would be doffed to passing ladies in a gentlemanly manner.  There were no cycle lanes in those days and the only safety equipment you had was a bell (freshly polished – hooters were for plebs!). The only gears most bikes had were your legs and pavements were for pedestrians, not the cyclist’s equivalent of the fast lane.   
 
Sacré bleu! I hear you cry (belatedly). What does this buffoon know about the  Tour de France and Eddie Merckx.  My reply is simply that Eddie Merckx was as much a part of my childhood as George Best, Bobby Charlton, Barrie John, Cassius Clay, Dennis Lillee, Garry Sobers and countless other sporting greats. I would have dearly loved to have emulated the feats of the great Baron Merckx though by quirk of birth I had neither the skill nor the bike with which to achieve this. Like most of us whose key ‘bike years’  were from the age of toddler up until the time we first realise that it goes a lot faster if you attach an engine to it. In this respect the bike of choice for any self-respecting schoolboy of my generation was a ‘Raleigh Chopper’. Not, in retrospect, one of the world’s greatest inventions but an icon of its age nonetheless.  Sadly, my parents were far too sensible to purchase anything so ‘racey’ for their progeny and so forsaking my plaintive wails, having outgrown my existing bike, they opted one Christmas to purchase a bike so hideous that I was too embarrassed to ride it in the streets lest my friends saw me. Whilst other kids were tearing around the streets doing ‘wheelies’ and screeching around bends at unlikely angles I struggled to get this dinosaur of a bike out of first gear.

The wheel’s radius was about half that of a normal bike and the tyres twice as thick. The frame was made of disused scaffolding and it had a small purse / tool kit holder on the handlebars and a pannier the size of a small fridge on the back. It had 3 gears, akin to a throttle, which were useless to a weakling like me who needed all their strength to get the bike to move. I was forever changing up and down the gears involuntarily as I leant my body forward to try and get more purchase on the pedals. It took all my strength to lift it in and out of the shed where it spent the greater part of its working life.  My guess would be that my father saw this as a dual purpose purchase, in so far that I would not be needing it during the week to commute to school, which meant that my mother could use it nip round the shops. No kidding, on occasions I would occasionally accompany her on these shopping expeditions during the school holidays and found that I could walk the 3 miles quicker than she could cycle.

I did eventually manage to procure a more appropriate cycle in my mid-teens, which saw good service conveying me to and from school. I never felt the need to have a pannier and my bell, though rusting, was used sparingly. If I thought I looked ridiculous on my ‘Raleigh Dinosaur’ imagine the embarrassment I would feel now should I ever decide to become a mamil and don bedpan and Lycra.

World Cup Fever

Much as I love all sports, especially those involving a ball of any shape or size, I can’t help but be under-whelmed by the prospect of the upcoming Soccer World Cup.

My memories of 1966 are still vivid. The family racing down the A21 in an overloaded Wolseley 1500 in order to reach the camp site on the South Coast in time to set up our black and white TV before the final kicked off. 2 young boys, mum and dad, my sister, still a babe in arms, our luggage, groceries and a TV set the size of a modern washing machine. Even with a roof rack that is still quite a feat.

History has proved how difficult a task it will be to recapture the excitement of that day. Over the years my view of the World Cup has become jaded by indifferent performances from England teams of supposed world beaters. Looking back to 1966 those were naïve times which regrettably will never be repeated. The game itself has changed, the way it is played and marketed is as different as a modern family car is to a Wolseley 1500.

For me the tournament is no longer the festival of football that it purports to be. Accountants and broadcasters have been fattening the golden goose year on year, teasing out ever larger eggs with each successive tournament. This is nothing exclusive to football, most professional sports have gone, or are going, the same way. Rugby seems to spend most of its time in the gutter for one misdemeanour or another, as does motor sport and cycling. Snooker and darts, if they can be called sports, have lost their way and cricket in all its dubious forms is becoming a joke.

I have no problem with sportsmen and women taking advantage of every legal opportunity to enhance their earnings in what is for most of them a short career. I am delighted for Peter Crouch that he can be paid to kick a crisp carton into a litter bin, I just wish his attempts with a ball in front of goal were equally as productive.

Back in 1966, managers, the likes of Bill Shankley, Matt Busby, Bill Nicholson, Harry Catterick, Ron Greenwood and Jock Stein, were ‘the club’ – I can’t recall the name of a single club chairman from that period. Nowadays the chairman or owner(s) appear to be grabbing more of the headlines than the players.

I don’t doubt the pride that any player would feel when pulling on the shirt for their country but with so many millionaires strutting their stuff on the global stage I worry that on occasions the commitment might be tempered by the split loyalties of club and country. No doubt accountants will be pawing over the club books as chairmen wince nervously at every mis-timed tackle.

Yes, there was commercialisation in the 60’s but nothing on the scale that we are likely to see over the next few weeks. Players may be fitter these days but you needed to be tough in those days. Remember, there was only 1 substitute allowed (or reserve as the 12^th man used to be called), no water bottles, steel toe-caps, metal studs and none of this falling over in the box if a player so much as brushed your expensively coiffeured hair.

If your side had already used their reserve player and you took a knock then even concussion or a broken leg was frowned on as a valid excuse for leaving the field of play.

Players were not rotated or rested because they were exhausted having played 10 games in a month. I recall reading that in one year Pele played in over 150 games, including friendly and exhibition matches. Thankfully that sort of exploitation has now disappeared from the game.

It is sad to see such a large percentage of the available seats being earmarked for corporate clients, sponsors and the press and can only hope that these people at least have the decency to utilise their allocation at some of the less attractive games. There will undoubtedly be a great atmosphere at all of the games, if for no other reason than the wretched vuvuzela horns. Infuriating as these things are I would rather see 60,000+ fans blowing their lungs out than a half empty stadium.

Watching the sports / news channels at any time, night or day, over the past 2 months reminds me of the old chestnut of how many electricians does it take to change a lightbulb. There are ex-players and D-list celebrities, long since forgotten, appearing on all manner of programmes drunk on the hype for this tournament. On the one hand you have the BBC, Sky, etc. pleading poverty and at the same time they are sending huge teams of reporters and camera crew to cover every detail of the occasion from the England plane leaving Heathrow and arriving in South Africa to what colour towels are being provided at the team hotel. Is anyone really interested in hearing the views of some junior reporter and/or pundit giving feedback of the half-time atmosphere from a sweaty Soweto bar surrounded by a group of bemused locals. Having gorged their expense accounts to excess on the frenzy of the election TV executives will have been wracking their brain to find any tenuous link that would justify their programmes presence in South African during the World Cup. Can we expect to see Songs of Praise from Cape Town? Why not Bargain Hunt or one of the many cookery offerings.

It would be nice to think that the 2010 World Cup will be remembered for some amazing skills on the pitch from the likes of Torres, Messi, Ronaldo or Rooney – my fear is that the success of the tournament will be measured by the amount of TV sets, Satellite packages, razor blades, cars, household goods, cans of beer, replica kits and memorabilia sold on the back of the event.

Just think, in 6 weeks time it will all be over, and we will just have another 3 months of re-runs and analysis to look forward to. I am sure that by that stage I will be so sickened by the ceaseless procession of footballing clichés being thrown at me from every angle that I shall have a long list of candidates that would warrant a vivuzela being forcibly inserted where the sun does not shine.

Motor madness

Sitting in a supermarket car park the other day (through necessity rather than choice - I am not that sad that I have nothing better to do with my life than sit in car parks for the hell of it) I couldn't help noticing that the car in front of me had a disabled sticker in the left hand corner of his window and an 'Unstable Load' in the right hand corner. This got me to thinking as to what disability would constitute an unstable load. My only conclusion was that it was a reference to the driver's mental state.

Since when has one's mental state had anything to do with one's ability to drive. If there was a law preventing anyone with a mental deficiency from driving then there would be no cars left on the road.  If anything , being one cog short of a cuckoo clock is a requirement for anyone intending to get behind a wheel these days. The very principle of charging through streets too narrow to accommodate the amount of traffic at speeds far greater than nature intended for humans is a fairly alien concept to any rational thinker. To do so in little more than a tin can whilst sitting on a large tank on flammable liquid should set the alarm bells ringing in most well-balanced human beings. Not satisfied with that thought, let's all put our faith in 4 bits of rubber filled with air - now we are truly heading towards the land of the fairies. Perhaps all cars should come with an 'Unstable Load' sticker.  

Wonky Willie and the chocolate swindle

As a confirmed chocaholic there is nothing more that I enjoy than a bar of the sweet stuff so I was delighted to find a large bar of Aero on offer for £1 at the supermarket. This was particularly attractive as I had not tasted that particular brand for some considerable time, I had not eaten since lunchtime and it was now past 10 o'clock.

Bar sizes have altered over the years, with prices rising proportionately, though invariably spiralling upwards, as most things tend to (apart from one's waistline). On this occasion my joy at tasting once more an old favourite was tempered not only by the fact that the bar was larger but so were the bubbles. How do they do that? Even more of the percentage of the cost is paying for the air in the bubble.

I have never been a great advocate of changing the size of the original product. I am not so stupid to think that inevitably prices will rise due to inflation or manufacturing costs. I am satisfied to know that I am getting what I paid for and don't need to be bamboozled by mini bars and maxi bars, re-branding or re-packaging as a cunning means of increasing the companies profit.

Not being a crisp lover I have not suffered the indignities that those people have (and I don't mean Gary Lineker waggling his ears on TV at alternating ad breaks). There was a time when purchasing a bag of crisps meant exactly that, not a handful of crisps in a bag capable of containing 4 times their number.

In today's eco-friendly climate is it right that manufacturers should create these massive bags of air in a shabby pretence that the purchaser is getting more value for their money?

Election follies

It is not that I have deliberately curtailed my exuberance fromcommenting on the political situation that has now been thrust upon us. In fact I have been considering the prospect of an election ever since rumours of Gordon Brown’s demise began some 2 years ago (1 if you wish to be charitable). The only reason that I have not put pen to paper is pure unadulterated apathy, and even though there is no option for the government but to throw itself on the mercy of the country I still find it incredibly difficult to summon up the minutest drop of enthusiasm for political charades.

Given the state of the country this is perhaps understandable, the public having been bludgeoned into a semi-coma by the global recession and the MP expenses scandal are now being asked to elect or re-elect the same people responsible for putting them in the coma in the first place.

Policies aside it is hard to find anything likeable about any of the political leaders in the present contest. It would appear that the option is between an alleged one-eyed bully, a guy who looks suspiciously like Berlusconi’s love child and someone who spends most of his time strolling around the Yorkshire Dales in cloth cap and a nylon mac.

They say that this election will be dominated by personality in a way that no previous election has been before, and looking at the candidates you can understand why so many voters are yet to be convinced by any of them. In Gordon Brown you have a man with the charisma of a used toothbrush, a man who has as much chance of winning a personality contest as Susan Boyle has of being voted Playmate of the Month. David Cameron oozes confidence in the way that a leaky car oozes oil. For a man of his wealth, letting his wife choose his wardrobe from Asda in an attempt to woo the ‘common man’ demonstrates the lack of understanding you would expect from an Old Etonian. As for poor old Cleggy, surrounded by his sidekicks Foggy and Compo, - need I say more?

It has been suggested that this could be a hung parliament, which is perhaps what many MPs deserved given their behaviour. Some say that Scotland and Wales could hold the key to this election. The nationalists may demand devolution, and I say give it to them, especially the Scots, so long as it stops their countrymen from invading Westminster and screwing up our economy.

When Tony Blur and William Vague did battle at the ballot box I thought that politics had hit an all time low in engaging the public interest. This upcoming election seems more likely to surpass even their dismal efforts to capture the imagination of the electorate.

Yet the media are still trying to hype up the contest in the same way that they do most events these days. This is not the X Factor, Strictly, Big Brother or Get me out of here – in sporting terms it is the equivalent of a midweek fixture between Bolton and Stoke towards the end of the season – a game in which the outcome is pretty meaningless since it affects none of the clubs at either end of the table.

I can’t remember the mass media being so excited about a non-event since Tim Henman made it into the second week of Wimbledon.

There is nothing ‘New’ about ‘new labour’ and while other parties can wax lyrical about the need for ‘change’, without a clear idea of what it is they intend to change, the country can only look forward to further years in the wilderness.

How can so many self-promoting, palm-pressing, baby-kissing, buffoons dominate the press and TV for weeks on end, yet essentially have nothing new to say.

Maybe we should adopt a TV style approach. Let’s dispense with the point-scoring, thinly disguised as debate, go straight for a phone-in vote and get the whole anti-climax over with as quickly and painlessly as possible – just as Tim Henman usually did.