Hug a hoodie?

Dear Dave,

'Hug a hoodie' was an ill-conceived soundbite and boy, has it come back to bite you. As for the 'Big S' – less 'Big Society', more 'Big Shi2'. Your fingers are not so much on the pulse but in your ears.

An alien visiting Britain for the first time last week could be forgiven the confusion, given the bedlam that has taken place up and down the country. Yet in amongst the violence, the thuggery and the looting there was an oasis of calm that allowed a cricket match to take place in a city that had been besmirched by gangs of youths rampaging through the streets barely 24 hours before.

It reminded me of the scenes of the orchestra playing on while the Titanic was sinking.

Undoubtedly the aliens have as much understanding of the rules of cricket as anyone has as to why carnage should suddenly erupt on the streets.

It is gratifying to see the way in which some of the communities have responded, pulling together to clear up the wreckage and protect their community, but this in itself opens up another series of questions - how far does it go before it descends into vigilanteeism? So far no government has properly addressed the extent to which an individual can protect their own property. Equally, the police whose job it is to protect the public are increasingly being placed in positions where they are reluctant to carry out their duties for fear of prosecution for their own actions.

I would like to think that the majority of people living in this country are honest and law-abiding, if that is not the case then we may as well all pop off and join the aliens. Within any community there will always be a minority of individuals who are hell bent on mindless thuggery for any reason.

There have been as many reasons given for the disturbances as there have been solutions put forward. A lot of attention has been focused on the young, who make up the larger part of those who have been arrested for the various offences.

Undoubtedly there are issues that need to be addressed, and quickly, but this has nothing to do with protest and youth culture. I would not wish to be a teenager these days, with high youth unemployment, a high cost of living, intolerable peer pressure and poor prospects of getting onto the housing ladder. It is very difficult to accept having so many doors shut in your face at a time when most youngsters are trying to work out in their heads just what type of person they are or would like to be. It doesn't help when you see fat-cat bankers being rewarded for screwing up the economy and politicians fiddling their expenses.

Some of the excuses given by numerous perpetrators have been as disgusting as their actions. “We showed the rich and the police that we could do what we like;” “People should show us more respect”. When someone travels from Winchester to Manchester to go on a looting spree it doesn't sound like a cry for help from someone stuck in the poverty trap. So many excuses given to try and justify the mayhem; what I found particularly frustrating was that none of the interviewers ever asked any of the perpetrators how they would have felt if they had been the one who had been beaten up or had their property stolen.

One particularly smug looter claimed that they were not making a stand against society because 'they were only attacking the rich shops, they left the butchers and the grocers alone because they were needed by the people' – Sorry, they were pillaging PC World, Phones4U, JB Sports, Debenhams, the jewellers and the chemists because these places had high worth goods that were more desirable and easier to sell. If the market for fondant fancies was as large as it is for hookey Rolex then perhaps the bakers would have been ransacked.

It is not just the young who feel aggrieved, there are millions of people of all ages who are struggling to make ends meet. They too feel frustrated, they too have been promised things in life that have not materialised. Theft, vandalism, the wanton destruction of property or giving someone a beating solves nothing.

This is not a class struggle because there is no such thing. There will always be those 'who have' and those 'who have not'. In an utopian society everyone would be equal, though there would always be those who are more equal than others.

People talk about gang crime and gang culture – my dad was in a gang in his late teens. No one wanted to be in the gang and everyone tried to get out of it. He spent his formative years cooped up in a filthy room with a group of lads with no money, little food and very little to do. His incarceration was at the behest of Adolf Hitler and you could say he was slightly more than frustrated by his position.

Similarly, my grandfather never mentioned his youth, he did have a few books about the Great War, though they seldom came out and he never discussed any of his teenage years with anyone. Stories he recounted to me seemed to stop at around the age of 12 and pick up again when he was in his mid-20s.

Fortunately my own youth was not beset by global conflict, there were jobs but you always had to start at the bottom and it could take years to work your way up. By the time you reached your 20s you realised that the opportunities of advancement were largely reliant on someone leaving, retiring or dropping dead. It still wasn't easy to find your place in society, I guess we all strived to advance our position in life but we were not under the pressure that is ever present these days. The mantra of the day, if there was one, was 'if you worked hard, things would get better, eventually'. Nowadays from an early age kids are force-fed this ideal of 'get a degree and a £40K+ job is your for the taking'. Everything is geared towards instant gratification, immediate results, immediate reward – I want it, I need it, I must have it – NOW.

Perhaps the fact that there were no credit cards when I was growing up meant that there was less pressure on individuals. If you needed something you saved for it, bought it cash and savoured the experience. Today it is too easy to make impulse purchases, slap it on a credit card and grow bored with your purchase within days.

I struggle to comprehend how rioters/looters can claim that they acted the way they did out of boredom. I never had a computer, an ipod, a playstation, fancy clothes or my own TV when I was growing up. My first car was nearly 20 years old and I had to pay for my own driving lessons. What little money I could set aside was spent doing up the car. I never felt any compulsion to steal, to set fire to or destroy anything, nor beat some innocent bystander to a pulp for the hell of it. I was not bored, there was always something I could do – sport, read, listen to the radio or talk with friends.

Was I any different from anyone else of my age – I don't think so. We all have childhood dreams, I still do, but I recognise them as what they are – dreams. Dreams as large as our imaginations could take us. We all start out with dreams, in my case it was motor bikes and fast cars. My bedroom was bedecked with posters of massive amounts of chrome and metal yet I have never ventured beyond the realm of a sensible family car, and probably never will do. As I grew older so the realisation of my dreams drifted from aspirational towards achievable. No one starts out in life with posters of a rusting Ford Fiesta or The Red Lion Sunday League 4^th XI plastered on their wall.

Today the margins of reality and the virtual world seem all too often blurred. In my virtual world I was a sporting god, my Norton superbike drew admiring glances in the street and gorgeous women were constantly beating a path to my door, but there the fantasies ended. I was never destined for greatness in any category, though I still can dream of winning the Ashes with the last ball of the game turning at right-angles to remove a batsman's middle stump.

Sadly, using one's imagination has long since been dropped from the curriculum, we have computers to do that for us these days. If we were to harbour any grandiose ideas of becoming a professional sportsman / musician / investment banker or whatever others are obliged to accept this ideal without question, irrespective of the individual's aptitude or ability. I would not be so churlish as to knock a person for having a dream but there is a lot of effort that goes into every achievement before they reach the top; it seems to me that in this instant, consumer-driven, throw-away society that we live in there is an expectation that people can make the transition from novice to top of the tree without breaking stride. It seems to me that nowadays there are too many knockers, not enough people offering encouragement and fewer people prepared to put in the hard work necessary to achieve their goals.

When people are spoon-fed the belief that this is 'Easy Street' from an early age it is understandable that disillusionment and resentment will occur as reality kicks in and the realisation dawns that life is never that simple.

I would like to believe that all people are intrinsically good spirited; no one is born bad, though sometimes circumstances mean that individuals will stray. Most people go about their lives in a quiet and unassuming way. They will work hard and pursue their dreams, often subconsciously, in an orderly way. The human spirit is capable of great things, we all achieve some of our goals but few achieve all of their goals. The important thing is to recognise and celebrate our achievements no matter how small. If you set yourself a massive target then it may appear to be unachievable but if you then break that target into a series of stages then the task becomes a lot less daunting.

As far as I can make out man has remained pretty much the same since creation. The primary needs of food, sleep, somewhere to live, heat, love, communication and appreciation have not changed throughout history. That being the case then it must be something else that has changed which has fuelled the disrest that has led to this breakdown of law and order.

Growing up, food formed a high percentage of a family's expenditure, unemployment was low, housing affordable and transport relatively cheap. Only about 10% of school leavers went on to university and it was not that difficult for schoolleavers to find work. The country still had a manufacturing base and a vibrant engineering sector. There were apprenticeships and jobs in banking and the public sector were considered to be jobs for life. Vocational jobs in teaching, nursing and the police were highly respected and saught after. Today you would think twice before opting to enter any of these professions. Long hours, poor morale, lack of respect and unfathomable bureaucracy have seen a steady exodus of long serving staff frustrated at no longer being able to carry out the core work that first attracted them to the job.

The corporate view has changed dramatically over the years, privatisations have changed the perception of the way we do business. It used to be acceptable for companies to take 'the long view', not any more. You can't 'build' a business any more, everything is geared towards instant results. Shareholders expect to see healthy returns year on year – How can this be sustainable in an climate where there are finite resources and so many intangibles? Life is all about investing for the future, as individuals we do this by gaining an education, planning our lives and saving for the future. The rush to produce growth has seen not only employers but the country as a whole stop their investment in the future and we are now seeing the reaction to this shortsightedness. It is not by chance that fuel prices and transport costs have rocketed over the past few years, it is because the companies have failed to invest in maintaining the infrastructure that supports the network.The lack of investment in affordable housing has meant that property prices are now beyond the reach of so many.

What opportunities do schoolleavers have these days? Not a lot. The engineering and manufacturing skills base has gone, the public sector faces a massive reduction in staff in an effort to reduce costs, employers are no longer prepared to pay for training and the school system is not producing students with the qualifications needed by employers. Jobs have been moved overseas in an effort to reduce costs and some sectors have been decimated by foreign competition.

It is understandable that so many schoolleavers now want to go on to university because there is precious little else for them to do. To what extent tuition fees will reduce this number only time will tell. Even low skilled work is difficult to find since many employers now choose to employ part-time staff simply because the employee does not then have the same protection afforded to full-time employees. It is not unusual for someone to have 3 or 4 part-time jobs these days, but this is no way to build a career.

The country cannot afford to have 1 million+ unemployed people between the ages of 16 and 24, especially when we have an aging population and there will be an expectation of experienced people to replace these staff as and when they retire.

I can only speak for the short period time that I have inhabited this planet. Maybe my views have become jaded with age, maybe my expectations too have risen, though I concede that there have been many changes during my lifetime, some for the good, some for the bad. Perhaps this is the time for society to take stock of the situation and decide what type of society we want to be in the future.

Soccer Suffrage

So England's dear ladies have taken a leaf out of their male counterpart's book and crashed out of the world cup on penalties. Those of you have read any of my ramblings on the subject of our national team in almost any sport will appreciate that I am usually underwhelmed by our lack of achievement, whether it be a friendly against the Faroe Isles or a major championship.

Normally our lacklustre performances are put down to tiredness, lack of preparation time, undertraining, overtraining, poor pitch, bad weather, wrong type of equipment, biased refereeing, injury or absence of key players, food poisoning, unsuitable hotel facilities, partisan crowds or plain bad luck – in effect, any old excuse so long as it doesn't equate to lack of talent.

When I used to go to the park with a few of my mates after school for a kick around we didn't spend our time rolling about in the mud in feigned agony then march off expecting to receive shed loads of cash and a modelling contract for our effort, which seems to be the overwhelming objective for any professional sportsman/woman these days.

Of course times have changed, sport is big business these days, especially the TV rights. I grew up in an era of 'Pot Black' and 'World of Sport' – 'Pot Black' – one frame of snooker once a week, primarily scheduled to take advantage of the latest technological breakthrough, colour television. Who can forget Dickie Davies wiggling his quiff with glee at the delight of the World Kite Flying or barrel rolling championships. Who would have thought that the likes of snooker and darts would have become such money-spinners for both participants and promoters.

More recently cricket has tried to grab a slice of the action with the extensive promotion of 20 over cricket. As a cricketing traditionalist I detest this bastardisation of the glorious game, though I can see how it is a far more attractive proposition to sponsors and merchandisers.

Having dipped in and out of the Women's Soccer World Cup throughout the tournament it is plain to see how desperate the TV moguls and sponsors are to raise the profile of the women's game. Previously Women's international games have been the preserve of highlights only shown after 11pm on BBC2. This year, not only have we seen international matches on BBC1 at prime time but also the women's cup final and even the occasional live club game.

At the risk of offending a great many people I fear to suggest that there is a degree of desperation about the whole project – Where the public are being asked to buy into the concept of this latest 'cash cow', I am still seeing 'Dead Donkey', and judging from opinions around the offices I have visited lately I do not appear to be alone in my view.

I hear that it the fastest growing sport in this country, there's a new professional league and that the women's game is huge in the USA, but I still find it virtually unwatchable after only 5 minutes; I've even been known to switch channels to watch the fishing programme (it was a very bad day).

Don't get me wrong, I welcome the participation of both men and women in sport, especially at a professional level, where achievements can be so inspirational to youngsters, but when it comes to soccer there is something definitely not right and I cannot put my finger on what it is.

If you consider the likes of tennis, gymnastics, athletics, hockey, judo – women display incredible strength, stamina, dexterity, determination, control and skill but put them on a football pitch and they look like a herd of stampeding wilderbeest. Originally I thought it might be a team game issue, but I don't think that is where the problem lies, hockey after all is a team game. My recollections of hockey are that it is not a game for the feint-hearted of either sex, so I don't consider gentility to be the problem either.

Steffi Graf used to glide around a tennis court, Martina Navratilova had a delicate touch to her game and Maria Sharapova manages to make her gangly 6' 2” frame appear elegant when she plays (even if she does grunt too much). I reserve judgement on the Williams sisters – they are just scary.

Many female athletes demonstrate dexterity that would lead you to believe they do not have a single bone in their body, often at the same time displaying strength that is way out of step with their perceived physique.

Women's cricket used to be plagued by immobility. There was often more rigidity in the players than there was in the bat they wielded like an axe. Thankfully the game has now moved on and there is a healthy athleticism about the modern game that would put some of the male players to shame.

I still come back to football – there is something about the way many of the female players move, the way they kick the ball that is different. When Wayne Rooney kicks a ball it looks as if he has been kicking a ball all his life, when most of the top women players kick a ball it looks as if they have their boots on the wrong feet, or at least they've still got their platforms on. Please don't tell me it's the boots - I can't see how the presence of a few studs on the sole of a shoe could affect the ability of a woman to kick a football. Women's feet are generally hardened through years of abuse, and given their predilection for high heels you would imagine that their sense of balance would be greater than a man's. (A picture of Gareth Southgate in stilettos just entered my head, not a nice thought and not a great penalty taker either).

The goal celebrations in the men's game do not sit well with me, I have never been keen on the hugging and kissing, let alone the acrobatics and robotic dancing. You would have thought it would have been different in the women's game but I regret to say that their antics don't do much for me either.

Many years ago I was invited to attend a women's rugby international match, and since it was a nice day I accepted the offer to stand on the touchline of a private sports ground in South London. Strangely the game was very watchable. I can't remember who was playing (I have a suspicion that it was the South Africans, but I could be wrong) or who won but the style of play was not dissimilar from the male's game. The girls got stuck in, tackled hard, passed well and ran purposefully when they had the ball. There were no tears, no screaming or squealing, no punch-ups and tries were celebrated with a polite handshake, a wave to a friend in the crowd and an appreciative ripple of applause from the couple of hundred people who had turned up to watch.

I am not so much of an armchair sports fan that I would consider purchasing a Sky sports package, I mourn the loss of so many sports to the digital channels and would deplore the concept of barrel rolling ever making a resurgence on terrestrial TV. Sadly, until the standard of women's soccer improves it will forever remain a minority interest sport for me, one that is welcome to that 11pm slot on BBC2.

The changing face of the annual holiday.

For years as a confirmed bachelor I routinely had my preferred Summer holiday dates declined by personnel departments on grounds that the months of July, August and September were strictly the preserve of those employees with families whose leave needed to coincide with the school holidays. Now that I am married I find that requests to take my holidays out of season are increasingly being challenged because families with kids can no longer afford to take their holidays in the Summer months and would rather face the wrath of the education system by taking their little darlings out of school during term time.

As a consequence Lam, my long suffering wife (her words not mine), and I have just taken a short Spring vacation in July. This was not as we would have wished but the first week in July was the earliest week that our respective employers could accommodate our request for 5 days of leave (this was booked in March, just so that you don't think we left it until the last minute).

I will accept that the general behaviour of children on planes is a lot better than it used to be. More streamlined check-ins, faster turn around times, quieter aircraft and better facilities at airports seems to have reduced the number of tantrums (if only from the the kids). What has been very noticeable over recent years is the liberal approach taken by many 'Adults only' hotels. In a difficult economic climate it is understandable that tour operators are keen to fill vacant rooms with anyone they can but why should someone who has researched and paid for their holiday in the expectation of spending quality time in a child free environment have their peace and quiet disturbed by children running amok in an environment that was not designed to accommodate them.

I can't recall the last time I took a holiday in July but needless to say we were both looking forward to the break and getting away from the stress. That lasted as far as the airport lounge – What I had not made allowance for is that the college term for many has ended. We were in a queue waiting to board the plane ahead of a group of 3 male students, who not only stood behind us but had the seats behind us on the plane. We were in the queue for 30 minutes, boarded the plane and endured a 4 hour flight to Gran Canaria with these individuals who seemed oblivious of the strange looks and glares that were being cast in their direction by fellow passengers and cabin crew. I had an inkling of what lay ahead when they had a heated collective discussion before deciding that 50 x 200 equalled 1000 – definite future treasury department material. Not for a second throughout the entire journey did their jaws stop moving. It wasn't even chat, it was a constant stream of banal garbage conducted at very high volume, and when they weren't debating which of them had the largest lunch box they would be serenading each other with eclectic selections from their ipods. It was like sharing a cab for 5 hours with Dumb and Dumber.

I was so worn out by the time we touched down that I hardly had the energy to drag my suitcase to the waiting taxi to transfer us to our apartment.

This was the first time that either of us had visited Gran Canaria, it seemed a good thing to do before the Spanish economy followed Greece down the tube. I had visited Tenerife and Lanzarote in the past; most notably I was in Tenerife during the Barcelona Olympics and I was at a resort in Lanzarote with a large Belgian contingent during Italia 90 when David Platt scored a goal in the last minute of extra-time against Belgium to put England through to the Quarter-finals of the World Cup. Since there has never been anything that the English soccer squad has achieved that has surprised me the presence of a sole Englishman sitting in the corner, supping his pint with a rye smile passed unnoticed.

In some ways Gran Canaria was a strange choice of destination, we both like swimming in the sea and relaxing on the beach, though personally I prefer seclusion and listening to the waves lapping on the shore. I was impressed how clean the beaches were and enjoyed our evening meals at the various restaurants / cafés that abutted the beach were a relaxing venue from which to watch the sun set. What to me was a new, and unwelcome, experience was the overcrowding on the beaches. My natural tendency is to find as quiet a space as practicable – it may not be the best location or the most convenient but as long as there is room to breathe I will be OK. We had a choice of bays in the resort where we were staying and soon realised that there was one that was much nicer than the other. Every day we would turn up find a clear spot away from the masses and within 10 minutes we would find ourselves surrounded by several groups who for no apparent reason seemed to think there was something special about the area we had decided to occupy.

I have attended many sales courses during my career where the topic of personal space has been raised. How people find it intimidating when people encroach into their personal space. For most people this is around 18 inches, though my preference would be at least 6 feet. So you can imagine my displeasure at having some hairy-arsed Spaniard in a posing pouch waving his sun-kissed cheeks within an arms-length of me. Every time he stood up and reached into his ice box for a beer I wished that I smoked, ideally a fat, smelly Cuban cigar with a red hot tip.

It amuses me the seriousness with which people approach their relaxation. Most people had umbrellas to shelter them from the heat, though I guess some simply used them to stake out 'their territory'. A brave few chose to lie on their towels all day, flicking over occasionally as if they were on a rotisserie. What intrigued me was the number of people who would turn up day after day with umbrellas, tents, chairs, tables, inflatables, cold boxes and picnic baskets (I am sure there must have been people who brought their fridge and TV with them as well). We spent one day watching this group of around 8 people who set up camp not far from us. The centrepiece of their camp was the dining table with a central umbrella. They were difficult to ignore since, like the students on the plane, they all appeared to suffer from verbal diarrhoea. The Spanish language is not a pleasant one to listen to. To my untrained ear a conversation between 2 Spanish women sounds like 2 chickens having a scrap over a few grains of corn. What is more, every time we looked in their direction they were eating. Maybe there is something wrong with me but I find that I lose my appetite in the heat but for this family the day on the beach was spent shovelling food down their necks ad nauseam. I truly believed that this was a magician's box because I could not work out where all this food was coming from – I could see where most of it was going – into this bikini clad Mrs. Creosote wedged precariously on a plastic seat that formed part of this elaborate table. It is a toss up between her sizeable backside and Hairy-arse's thong which image is most likely to haunt me for the rest of my days.

Before we knew it we were back on the plane facing another 4 hours of tedium listening to the same students wittering on about nothing in particular while my luggage was despatched on another plane destined for the far end of the country. Thankfully it was eventually returned to me a few days later.

The world may be shrinking, it may be spinning on an unstable axis and it may throw up all sorts of surprises but the big question remains, if I can't take my Spring vacation until July, the Summer months are effectively off limits and the Autumn months are deemed by my employer so important that no one can take any leave how and when can I book a Summer vacation by the end of the year? By the time I have solved that conundrum I will have earned my 2 weeks' R and R.

From Redcar wit' luv.

Now that the financial future of MGM has been secured plans are underway to resume production of the latest in the James Bond franchise, 'Bond23', with a release set for November 2012. Unfortunately, the restructuring of the finances has meant that future plans for the intrepid secret agent will see significant changes to character, storyline and personnel.

In what is perceived to be a major change in direction that will undoubtedly upset a great many fans the next James Bond outing will be an All-Yorkshire production, shot entirely on location in Leeds, York, Scarborough and the North Yorkshire Moors. It was hoped to film the underwater sequences at Sea World in Scarborough, though these will now be filmed at The Deep in Hull.

Dame Judi Dench is being retained as M, since she claims there aren't enough decent roles for older actresses, though it was felt better that she keep the cut glass accent she has used in her previous appearances. Sean Bean steps into the shoes vacated by Daniel Craig with Sir Patrick Stewart snarling menacingly as Bond villain, Tiddles McVeigh (His mother wanted a cat), alongside fellow baddies, the Chuckle Brothers and John Simm. (Sir Ben Kingsley being deemed too expensive and Sir Ian McKellern rejected on grounds that he is a Lancastrian). In a further bid to reduce costs it has been promulgated that the entire soundtrack be a reworking of John Barry's original Bond scores played by the Black Dyke Mills Band.The initial idea had been for a title track to be performed by The Kaiser Chiefs though plans were dropped as it was decided that Bond required something more lyrically challenging than 'Na-na-na-na-na'.

MI6 HQ has now been relocated to Castle Howard near York, in keeping with the government's desire to be seen as less London-centric, yet maintaining the department's reputation for opulence and excess.

The screenplay will be a collaboration between Alan Ayckbourn and Alan Bennett on grounds that not everyone can understand what Bennett is wittering about and Ayckbourn is a lot quicker at producing scripts. (The fact that Ayckbourn has lived in Scarborough for so long and won't have far to travel excuses him from not being born in the county).

Adrian Edmondson (Young Ones) will be taking over from John Cleese as boffin extraordinaire, Q. (Who else would let Ade lose with explosives?)

Jane Horrocks will play Miss Moneypenny. Kimberley Walsh (Girl's Aloud) will be Bond's love interest with models, Nell McAndrew, Adele Stevens and actress, Jennifer Metcalfe (Hollyoaks), also contributing to the glamour. Mel B. (Spice girls) will play the token female villain, Opal Copperbotham, whose psychotic tendencies and fish fetish mean that even the sharks are scared to swim in the same water. Having formerly worked for Harry Ramsden as a fish filleter she was recruited by Tiddles McVeigh who, recognising the skilled way she handled the knife, assigned her the task of overseeing his expanding interests in North Sea fish farming.

Without giving too much of the plot away, my own spies tell me that masterly mogul McVeigh (Patrick Stewart) has 2 great passions in life, money and rhubarb. From his fortress base in Redcar Steelworks the Rhubarb Baron controls his growing empire. The missile silos have been increased to allow protective coverage of his latest acquisitions, Wembley Stadium, the 02 Arena and the Millennium Stadium which he has now converted into giant greenhouses for his prized crop. He further plans to extend the Rhubarb triangle from Bradford to Harrogate from Wakefield to Hull and from Morley to Sheffield. While The prospect of turning Harrogate and Sheffield into a rhubarb patch might be considered a major disaster there will undoubtedly be some who would say that Hull has long been overdue a make-over. Not content with these dastardly deeds McVeigh has also set his sites on turning the North York Moors into the world's largest Shopping Complex. In his way stands Sir Jimmy Savile who is funding an army of eco-warriors from his secret horde of Gold 'Jim'll fix it' badges to oppose the mighty Baron.

PLONCA (Please Leave Our Natural Countryside Alone), the campaigning group of eco-warriors and tree-huggers supported by Sir Jimmy has set up a defence HQ in the former RAF Fylingdales site, that the government have been forced to sell off as part of the MoD cutbacks. Their regular quad-bike patrols are constantly being ambushed by John Simm and his team of killer wippets. The group have also sustained heavy losses in the Rhubarb Triangle itself, which is policed by McVeigh's ruthless henchmen, the Chuckle Brothers. A large number of the Rambler's Association members as well as several government sponsored task force community police officers have also gone missing in the triangle (though this may have been due to faulty satnav systems).

In a show of defiance Paul and Barry Chuckle have kidnapped PLONCA leader (Brian Blessed) and suspended him upside down from Bempton Cliffs, leaving him to the mercy of the birds.

Parliament recognising the destabilising effect that the ultimate shopping experience would have on the British economy if all the shoppers suddenly descended upon Whitby and Goathland; the devastation it would bring to the countryside and the traffic that would see the A64 busier than the M25, have done what they usually do in such circumstances and passed the buck to MI6, or as it is now known 'HSBC MI6 Direct'. The Ministry in turn has called upon 007 to save the national park, destroy the Rhubarb Triangle, restore the iconic stadiums to their former glory and if at all possible stop Brian Blessed from scaring the bird population. They have also drafted in some of the countries top trackers, elite members of the Jehovah's Witness, to help find the lost ramblers.

Enter the revamped, no nonsense James Bond, or as he is known locally 'Our Jimmy'. Gone are the Tux, fast cars, designer clothes and the Martinis. 007 2013 is 'Primark man' with an eye for the budget as well as the ladies. Not only does he dress appropriately for the occasion, but he wears sensible underwear in all weathers. His Nissan Micra 4x4 is plenty fast enough for the Yorkshire roads, is fuel efficient and holds it value well. Plaxtons have agreed to supply the buses for a showpiece chase through the moors though they have insisted that the buses must stop to pick up passengers if bystanders indicate their intentions clearly.

One of the aims of the new film is to encompass the working class background of our hero and show a grittier edge to the Bond character. This will be reflected in the dialogue which will by and large remain true to the area's dialect and culture. “Now then, gizza brew, Lass,” is the favoured approach offered towards the long suffering Miss Moneypenny, whose response is “gerr 'un yersen” (get one yourself). Other Yorkshire idioms that you can expect to hear are “A jar o' John Smiths, nowt ice an' shaken not stirred,” “ee bah gum!” (oh my god!), “tha'uns got me reet flummoxed” (confused), “Oh aye? Ahm jiggered, nithered an radged ” (Oh, yes? I'm very tired, cold and angry). “Stun buck izer loaded ferrets doon me kegs!!” - “un I tort youzza jus pleased t'sees'ee”. “ow do, flower, can thee ride croggy?” (Hello miss, do you fancy a ride on my crossbar?), “ahl threp thee int' watter.” (I'll hit you into the water). “seethee summat?” (can you see anything?)”, “ey up, I've paggered t' Micra” (oh bother, I've wrecked the car).

James Bond – 'e's proper champion!!! Coming to a screen near you in 2013 – James Bond in 'From Redcar wit' luv' - By 'eck, it's a belter!!!

What's in a name.

The BBC has a lengthy history of utilising staff like tissue paper. Presenters and reporters come and go with alarming regularity. In a very competitive industry it has long been the practice to employ freelances as a means to reducing costs. There will always be a hardcore of staff reporters and journalists, who form the backbone to any schedule; what particularly irks me is the glorious titles that now seem to be handed out like confetti. My understanding is that the role of Senior Political / Sports / Health / Education / Crime / Local Government Editor has always been a permanent position. We now appear to have a situation where everyone is a Senior Correspondent / Reporter / Analyst or Editor of something (strange how there don't appear to be any junior members on any of these teams, if teams is what they are). It would seem a new face emerges almost every week in each of these roles. Either these journalists have incredibly short careers or they must share the roles in rotation. I can't believe they can all reach burn out before they turn 30; being shipped off to some regional backwater from where they can supplement their income through ghost writing D-list celebrity memoirs.

Seeing so many job titles being banded about willy-nilly has prompted me to look at the company for which I work. We similarly are inundated with numerous Managers, Specialists, Analysts, Consultants, Assistants, Engineers, Professionals, Controllers, Co-ordinators, Designers, Technicians and Architects. I don't suppose we are any different from any other medium-sized company. There is ultimately a management hierarchy within the company but most of the 'Business Development Analysts' and 'Senior Implementation Consultants' are in reality fulfilling the same role. I am not sure where this curious desire to pigeon-hole people stems from but it seems a curiously outdated concept in an age where employees are required to wear a great many hats. Perhaps in an ideal world we could all focus on our chosen skills but necessity demands that we all undertake a variety of duties from time to time which often have very little in common with our designated role.

Whenever I have turned up at a customer site my arrival has usually been announced as “Is anyone expecting the IT man?”, “The Computer guy's in reception” or "That man's 'ere again to fix the computers". I have never met a customer who has gone into raptures because he has come to face to face with a 'Senior Network Telephony Design Consultant' instead of some plain old 'Engineer'.

Personally, I stick to the generic title of 'Network Engineer' which broadly outlines the work that I undertake, though occasionally I will, in conversation, describe my role as a 'Consultant' purely on the premise that a lot of people choose to lump anything related with IT under one umbrella and expect you to deal with every aspect of it. This is often the easiest way to explain that different companies may be responsible for providing differing services to customers, we may be supporting the network hardware while another company may deal with issues relating to the pcs and other office equipment. No matter how well-intentioned you may be as an individual it is important to be aware of the repercussions of stepping beyond your company's remit.

The public are a great leveller and basically we all are categorised generically, whether we be “IT guys”, “plumbers”, “doctors”, “gardeners”, “mechanics”, “policemen” or “journalists”. The bottom-line is “If your job title is too long to fit on your business card then you are either in the wrong job or you are taking yourself too seriously”.

Passports

Often when carrying out my duties on behalf of my company I am requested to provide evidence of identity beyond my usual company ID for inspection by some suit and enough brocade to decorate the entire US fleet. This invariably means offering up my passport. I have nothing against carrying this cumbersome little item with me at all times, what bugs me is the time that it takes for 'Jobsworth' to scrutinise the document. Is it perhaps part of their duty to commit my passport number to memory or are they trying to feign intellectual capacity beyond their calling by pretending to read the little red book cover to cover.

Human nature dictates that the more people there are to be attended to in what is usually a lengthy queue, the longer it takes 'Jobsworth' to process the information for each individual. I don't expect him, or her, to smile at my photograph. I am not smiling so why should they – at least I had an excuse to look miserable in my photograph – the weather had been awful, I was cold, wet, windswept, and had managed to drop Coronation chicken on my shirt at lunch; thank heaven for monochrome, I say. Passport photos are not meant to be flattering anyway. I suspect 'Jobsworth' is always miserable.

It seems to me that the more technologically advanced we all become (however reluctant we may be) the more we seem to become dependent on the old fashioned means of identification. Could this be part of a public backlash against fingerprints, keyfobs and iris scans? Are the newer technologies fatally flawed, are they less secure than they are made out to be, is it an issue of civil liberties or are we all afraid that placing your eyeball in close proximity to a photo lens will see our soul sucked into the aperture.

All these questions cross my mind as I watch 'Jobsworth' thumbing his grubby fingers through the pages of my passport. I probably have more fingerprints in my passport than I have stamps for the numerous countries that I have visited.

I don't want a new passport,or ID card all I want is that when they finally get to the crucial page, the one displaying my picture, I want them to flip the page and the photo to say BOO!!!!

Spring has sprung

It has been a strange few week for any number of reasons. The Easter break, coupled with numerous bank holidays being accompanied by unusually good weather for the time of year has brought fresh impetus to what was becoming an insipid year. Back in January 2010 I suggested that the nation had 4 options for reviving the feel good factor needed to see us through the recession, these were 1: Hope for a Take That / Robbie Williams reunion tour, 2: Win the World Cup at any sport, 3: Discover that the UK will not be affected by climate change,  4: Marry off one of the Royals. 

Unless you have been living in a 3rd world country you may have spotted that 2 of these events have since come to fruition, the nation is still steering a shaky path towards economic oblivion and we are now reduced to 2 remaining options. Our sporting prowess would indicate that we are no nearer winning a World Cup in any event and growing talk of hose pipe bans would suggest that we have not been excused the effects of climate change.

In spite of  my wife's protestations I have studiously avoided most TV and newspaper coverage of Prince William and Kate Middleton's wedding, not because I have anything against the couple or the monarchy; in my estimation they seem to be a very well suited couple and I wish them both well. In all honesty I quite like the royals and the theatricality of the monarchy. What particularly irks me is the hype and the bandwagon that goes with it. The media has spoken of nothing but the royal romance since before the couple's engagement, generating millions of column inches and broadcasting hours of largely regurgitated observations, theories, rumours and speculations.

I have turned a blind eye to Mrs. Shanks' nibbling the occasional Duchy Shortbread from the vastly overpriced Kate and Wills decorated biscuit tin but have drawn a line at the Kate and William monogrammed sick bag and toilet seat.  Other than the ardent royalist and/or dubious collector, who exactly are these manufacturer's targeting their goods at? 

It grieves me in this day and age where so many colleges and universities offer degree courses in media studies that the TV stations are saturated with the same old performing 'parrots' getting their fix in the spotlight on yet another Royal Bash.  The arc lights come on, delivering yet another shot of adrenalin into the veins of the wearied professional as they launch into the same tried and trusted list of clichés and platitudes that they have been using for the past 30 years. 

The number of people in London for the wedding was reportedly 35% higher than for the Charles and Diana wedding, with close to 1 million people lining the streets along the route (200,000 of which I suspect were either commentators or pundits). Maybe I was missing something but I don't really wish to know what size shoes the 3rd footman wears, listen to appalling anecdotes from Bloggins Minor, who went to primary school with William or question whether Sophie Wessex was really wearing a pheasant on her head.

There is plenty more mileage in this Royal romance which arguably will be good for the country's balance of payments, it is just a pity that it is the very spectacle of the occasion that makes the couple of so bankable. I am sure that given the opportunity Kate and William would welcome a break from all the press attention. I certainly would.

Thanks to the glorious weather I chose to spend a fair amount of this welcome break preparing my garden for the Summer months to come. This task now requires significantly more planning than it used to. As a child I recall the weekly bonfire to eradicate the detritus cleared from the family garden. These days even a barbecue is deemed an unacceptable pollutant of the atmosphere. What is more, you now have to work out which bin you can put your grass and weeds in, where to put the twigs and branches – not forgetting that you must not overfill your bin and remember on which day of which week to put it out for collection. This being  based on an algorithm created by some pre-pubescent whizkid who has never set foot in  a real garden, preferring to water his geraniums in a virtual world created for his playstation.

Having criticised journalists and presenters alike I must confess that I did watch the BBC documentary on David Coleman, whose 85th birthday is this month. Undoubtedly a 'parrot', but a very gifted one, he would spark into life on cue and continue to talk until the final credits rolled. What made him so different from the rest was his knowledge of his subject matter and his ability to put it across in a manner that would enthuse others in the same way that he was enthralled.

From the comments of those he worked with and those who he commentated on it was very clear that he set very high standards for both himself and those he worked with. He was quite forthright with some of his opinions, which were usually right, yet I will forever have this mistaken image of him setting the bar for UK sporting achievement back 30 years. I think it is because he always came across as such an affable man or it might just be due to the timing of his arrival on the scene.

David was not public school, nor did he speak like someone whose collar was 2 sizes smaller than it needed to be. I was at school when he started commentating on athletics. Athletes who still wore baggy shorts, a  thick wooly jumper and a cravat when they ran. Similarly, I wore baggy shorts when I was forced to run at school, though this was because I had short legs and my parents naively believed that a pair of shorts for a 12 year-old would fit the same child adequately from the age of 7 up to 16, not because I wanted to emulate some sporting god from a bygone age.

Athletics was always an enigma to me. At least there seemed to be a point to cricket, football or rugby - scoring a goal, making a tackle or taking a wicket, I could understand but running as fast as you can around a track that brings you back to exactly where you started seemed a futile gesture that I failed to get my head around.

   

Masters at my school clearly came from that idyllic period that believed that all sport was a jolly good jape, the principle of which seemed to be the colder it was the fewer clothes required to participate. This I believe is why I found myself more often than not shivering in the rain and mud with temperatures close to freezing in sodden shirt and baggy shorts that acted as a wind tunnel for the force 4 winds that blasted across the school playing fields. In Summer, 2 jumpers were required to play cricket, not because it was particularly cold but because they were required to disguise the fact that I was wearing a massive belt to keep my baggy flannels in place (bought on the same principle by my parents as my baggy shorts). I fear that not a lot has changed since in the attitude towards 'games'. PE teachers generally fell into one of 2 camps - 'Sadists' or 'jolly good eggs' - The sadists spent most of their time studying the skies for the first sign of snow awaiting the opportunity to dispatch their charges on a cross country run in just their shorts and plimsoles. The sadist would invariably coat himself with wintergreen for protection before joining them in the fresh air to bark out disparaging remarks to those lagging behind who were keeping him out in the cold.  The 'good eggs' generally spent their days also studying the skies and praying for inclement weather that would render the playing fields unusable and meant they could arrange a friendly game of 'tossing the bean bag' in the gymnasium (not if you soaked the bags in water first, as we often did!).  In their gentile and less combative world everyone who takes part gets a sweetie and claps politely when the prizes are awarded. This is not the way to make Olympic champions in my book – the way to build champions is to give the bag of sweets and a 10 yard start to the winner – save the clapping till the runner wins a major championship.

Sport seems to have figured quite a bit in my efforts to avoid the endless coverage of the Royal Wedding, in particular old sporting moments. I managed to catch another good TV documentary on Bobby Charlton, who remains an icon and role model, as well as an entertaining radio interview with James Alexander Gordon, now 75 and best known for reading the football results. His voice is so distinctive and it was interesting to hear how he had brought his musical background to his rhythmic delivery of the football scores. I didn't know that he was the announcer on the Morecambe and Wise radio shows so enjoyed his story of Eric who would always refer to him by the sobriquet 'East Fife 4 – Forfar 5'.

A film dramatisation of the Munich air disaster was very watchable even if it did appear to be a slightly distorted picture, given that the focus of the program revolved around 3 main characters, Matt Busby, Bobby Charlton and Jimmy Murphy. A bit too much dramatic licence and a bit of a cold shoulder to the others who were killed or injured in the plane crash.

I even managed to watch The Bert Trautmann Story on Yesterday purely by chance – a real Boys Own story if ever there was one. This I watched because he was playing for Manchester City at the same period as my father was playing, even though he never turned professional. I was not really aware of his background in the Hitler Youth although the story of his exploits during the 1956 Wembley Cup Final against Birmingham City are vividly imprinted in my mind and were often spoken of by my father. It sends a shudder up my spine every time I see the save he made that broke his neck. Hearing him relate how 1mm either way could have resulted in death or paralysis was bad enough but seeing the way that he continued to throw himself into the path of oncoming attackers during the last few minutes of that game was unbelievable. It was a further 3 days before he even got around to having his neck X-rayed.

2 other sporting legends were brought to my attention this week. Sadly, Sir Henry Cooper died at the age of 76. I became aware of his exploits thanks to my grandfather's foresight in ensuring I was woken from my slumbers to watch his famous fights against Cassius Clay. He used to live not far from my school and I never came across anyone in the area who had anything but good to say about the man. He was an immense character both in and out of the ring and it is easy to understand how he inspired so many in his sport.

My grandfather was a great arbiter of world history. It is thanks to him that I was allowed to watch live reporting of the Kennedy assassinations, Martin Luther King, the Cooper fights, all the space missions (with the exception of  Yuri Gagarin), Winston Churchill's funeral, Donald Campbell's ill-fated Bluebird attempt at the land speed record, the Aberfan Disaster. About the only major world event that I was not permitted to watch was the news of Marilyn Monroe's death, which was a bit before my time and I don't think even my grandfather could have predicted the legacy that she would leave behind.

The other legend I refer to is perhaps not a sportsman in the truest sense. I am referring to Eddie Kidd the former stuntman who was severely injured when a motorcycle jump went badly wrong in 1996. Despite being severely brain damaged and paralysed down the left side of his body he is presently in the process of walking the London marathon route in aid of the charity Children with Leukaemia. With the aid of a specially designed walking frame that sends bionic pulses to help keep his left leg going straight he manages ¾ of a mile on a good day.

In his heyday he was famed for fearlessly jumping over 14 buses and leaping the Great Wall of China. Now, having been forced to sell his treasured bikes he lives a modest life, with his wife and carer surviving on benefits in East Sussex.

  

My memories of Eddie stem mainly from my bike mad younger sister who managed to catch one of his shows in London and talked about it for weeks. The stunts that he and his American counterpart, Evel Knievel, used to perform certainly captured the imagination of a great many people of that generation.

In my own tribute to him I did once attempt to leap the garden pond on my battered Raleigh bicycle. It may have lacked the spectacle and panache of his jumps but was none the less dangerous given the wrath I was likely to face if I inadvertently misjudged it and landed in my grandfather's prized rose border.  

It is heart-wrenching to see the pictures of him now and remember the swaggering showman he was in the 1980s and 90s, yet he has clearly lost none of the guts, determination and good humour for which he was famed. It is a truly remarkable feat that he is attempting and I really do wish him well for the future.