I went to a conference the other day. Some witless twonk got up and started blah-ing on and at the end of his speech said "and now without further adieu". This idiot had a pretty good job at a major software company. What pisses me off most though is the thought process that I reckon he must have gone through to mangle the language in such a way - he must have heard someone say 'without further ado' and decided that they had got it wrong and has therefore corrected the phrase for further use. I can also start to imagine what convoluted logic he must be running to stop him from noticing what is an obvious error but if I do that I start to suffer such an attack of squirming embarrasment that I can't go any further.
Ed Baines reckons he trained in Milan and Tuscany. On his latest advert he can't pronounce tagliatelle.
That drippy bint on the New Zealand advert, she says she was "awe inspired" by the scenery.
And another drip at this conference came out with one I've heard before. "If I could just say on that aspect" by which he meant (I presume) 'in that respect' or similar.
Trouble is nobody gets challenged when they come out with crap like this. Usually doing so would just make people feel uncomfortable and that is bad manners. Still, if the American who came out with "Oh, my bad" at the conference had said it directly to me I don't think I'd have been able to resist a "your bad what?".
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Funny smells
The bloke that sits next to me drinks that ‘Kick’ drink from Tesco. When he has a glass the smell of it wafts over my desk .
Next to him sits our boss. He smokes. When he’s been for a fag the smell of that wafts across both our desks.
Earlier today boss got back from having a fag just as bloke poured himself a glass of ‘Kick’…the stench was fucking staggering.
Next to him sits our boss. He smokes. When he’s been for a fag the smell of that wafts across both our desks.
Earlier today boss got back from having a fag just as bloke poured himself a glass of ‘Kick’…the stench was fucking staggering.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Not true
I do enjoy a nice long train journey but twice a week and having to stay away is a bit of a pain. Anyway the recession can't last forever can it. One day soon I'll have a nice cushy job near home.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
Jude is 2.617 years old
Jude loves to use the Cbeebies website and can get around himself quite well now only asking for help occasionally. He called me over a while ago and had got to a wallpaper download for Razzle Dazzle. Razzle Dazzle is his favourite character and has even been something of an imaginary friend (who spilt this?...Razzle Dazzle did it) although I am assured that "Razzle Dazzle has gone on holiday". Anyway, I thought he might like Razzle Dazzle wallpaper so I installed it for him. Then a couple of minutes ago he called me over. "I don't want Razzle Dazzle picture" he said. "Why not?" I asked. "Don't know...it's just a pain in the arse" he replied. That's my boy!
Friday, September 05, 2008
Excited
Dunno about you but I'm really interested in the impending switch on of the Large Hadron Collider. Not quite as dramatic to the eye as the Apollo missions that captivated me as a child but far more significant.
I think this clip is fantastic.
I think this clip is fantastic.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Relativity
On Friday evening Waterloo was heaving due to a lack of trains caused by a "fatality at Surbiton", to use South West Trains speak. I don't think that means someone died in Surbiton in the general sense, I think it means someone threw themselves under a train (you see, even I can't resist a melodramatic euphemism in these circumstances). I stood on the packed train uncomplaining in humanistic deference to this tragedy along with everyone else.
On Monday it was the same scene at Waterloo. A longer wait. An "incident at Wimbledon" was announced. The bloke next to me started to chat, Dunkerque spirit, we sympathised over another suicide (I must admit my stance was a little less humanistic than his already). Finally a train and by pure chance I got a seat. 30 minutes late for an appointment now.
Then an announcement by the guard with apologies etc. due to a "trespassing incident at Wimbledon".
Hang on. Trespassing? Fucking trespassing? Run the cunt over.
On Monday it was the same scene at Waterloo. A longer wait. An "incident at Wimbledon" was announced. The bloke next to me started to chat, Dunkerque spirit, we sympathised over another suicide (I must admit my stance was a little less humanistic than his already). Finally a train and by pure chance I got a seat. 30 minutes late for an appointment now.
Then an announcement by the guard with apologies etc. due to a "trespassing incident at Wimbledon".
Hang on. Trespassing? Fucking trespassing? Run the cunt over.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Racism
Firstly there was a city type on the tube this morning reading a hardback book about business in China. He took a step backward and trod on a womans foot but he didn't acknowledge that nor did he apologise. If only he had turned round he would have seen she was Chinese.
Then I typed the word ciabatta into Word, it said it was wrongly spelt and made a few suggestions which included chapatti.
Then I typed the word ciabatta into Word, it said it was wrongly spelt and made a few suggestions which included chapatti.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Still arsy after all these years
In bed, in pain - food poisoning. Phone rings.
Swiss: “Hello”
Caller: “Hello this is Argon Dog from Vodafone, how are you?”
Swiss: “Not very well actually, but thank you for asking”
Argon: “Oh, well I could always call back another time…”
Swiss: “I’d really rather you didn’t”
Argon: “Oh! So you want the call now?”
Swiss: “Are you trying to sell me something?”
Argon: “It’s an offer…”
Swiss: “ARE YOU TRYING TO SELL ME SOMETHING?”
Argon: “Yes”
Swiss: “Right, well fuck off then”
Following day.
On train, just about comfortable and trying to keep it together when the chair back feels like it’s being forced backwards and forwards. Unbelievably this is not uncommon (there is a bloke on the 06:00 that will do it every day – I had to move seats in the end), so I ignore it. A few seconds later and my head bounces off the headrest from the impact, and I jump with fright at the noise, as the person behind me literally smashes the seat back table down. I turn round and at first think it’s a schoolboy, actually it turns out to be a particularly unappealing looking trout with an ‘urchin’ haircut who is busily trying to avoid eye contact. “Thanks for that” I say and turn back to my coffee and newspaper. “Well I had to move the table down, that’s all I was doing, blah blah blah”… her whining rambling stream of barely consciousness that sought to excuse her lack of excuse would have been embarrassing to anyone with any grace. I took no notice. A very brief pause and then she’s muttering something else a little quieter but raises her voice enough for me to hear the final phrase “Some people”. Quelle cheek methinks! I wait a beat and allow myself a calm and measured “Yes, some people” in response. That seems to have done the trick and she doesn’t hassle me any more. Well except for having an annoyingly loud musical ring tone which presaged a loudly spoken, yet mercifully short, telephone conversation in which all she said was “Well I said not Cannes because it will be busy for the Grand Prix”, oh dear, how desperately embarrassing. Racing cars on La Croisette? I think not. Still it gave us the back story to her rudeness, arrogance and lack of grace – limited intellect coupled with overblown self assessment of same; the social scourge of the 21st century. I was expecting a parting shot from the unapologetic mental midget but sadly she eschewed the chance, despite having to wait by my seat for a minute or two in the queue that forms for the door on the approach to Waterloo. Shame because I had a nice line worked out for her “Madam, manners cost nothing, perhaps that is why you attribute no value to them”.
Swiss: “Hello”
Caller: “Hello this is Argon Dog from Vodafone, how are you?”
Swiss: “Not very well actually, but thank you for asking”
Argon: “Oh, well I could always call back another time…”
Swiss: “I’d really rather you didn’t”
Argon: “Oh! So you want the call now?”
Swiss: “Are you trying to sell me something?”
Argon: “It’s an offer…”
Swiss: “ARE YOU TRYING TO SELL ME SOMETHING?”
Argon: “Yes”
Swiss: “Right, well fuck off then”
Following day.
On train, just about comfortable and trying to keep it together when the chair back feels like it’s being forced backwards and forwards. Unbelievably this is not uncommon (there is a bloke on the 06:00 that will do it every day – I had to move seats in the end), so I ignore it. A few seconds later and my head bounces off the headrest from the impact, and I jump with fright at the noise, as the person behind me literally smashes the seat back table down. I turn round and at first think it’s a schoolboy, actually it turns out to be a particularly unappealing looking trout with an ‘urchin’ haircut who is busily trying to avoid eye contact. “Thanks for that” I say and turn back to my coffee and newspaper. “Well I had to move the table down, that’s all I was doing, blah blah blah”… her whining rambling stream of barely consciousness that sought to excuse her lack of excuse would have been embarrassing to anyone with any grace. I took no notice. A very brief pause and then she’s muttering something else a little quieter but raises her voice enough for me to hear the final phrase “Some people”. Quelle cheek methinks! I wait a beat and allow myself a calm and measured “Yes, some people” in response. That seems to have done the trick and she doesn’t hassle me any more. Well except for having an annoyingly loud musical ring tone which presaged a loudly spoken, yet mercifully short, telephone conversation in which all she said was “Well I said not Cannes because it will be busy for the Grand Prix”, oh dear, how desperately embarrassing. Racing cars on La Croisette? I think not. Still it gave us the back story to her rudeness, arrogance and lack of grace – limited intellect coupled with overblown self assessment of same; the social scourge of the 21st century. I was expecting a parting shot from the unapologetic mental midget but sadly she eschewed the chance, despite having to wait by my seat for a minute or two in the queue that forms for the door on the approach to Waterloo. Shame because I had a nice line worked out for her “Madam, manners cost nothing, perhaps that is why you attribute no value to them”.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Houmous and Feta agree ceasefire
Good news at last. Now these Greek delights can once again share space on the refrigerated shelf at the supermarket. They will sit together on buffet tables all over the land and celebrate their renewed friendship as mainstays of meze.
Good news at last. Now these Greek delights can once again share space on the refrigerated shelf at the supermarket. They will sit together on buffet tables all over the land and celebrate their renewed friendship as mainstays of meze.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
New year - same old canteen
They've surpassed themselves this time:
They've surpassed themselves this time:
Back to your Roots
Workplace restaurants are celebrating root vegetables throughout January. Look out for our special meals containing root vegetables - they're marked with an *.
Root Vegetable & Lentil Curry*
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Boredom, boredom, boredom.
With little incentive to do much at work except earn money in this gap between Christmas and new year I have sunk to the depths of looking at the Southwest Trains website where I whiled away a few moments making a spurious lost property enquiry.
Hopefully whoever receives it will be slightly less bored themselves after reading of the mishap that befell the Reverend Edward Pencil on his trip from Boxhill & Westhumble to Cobham & Stoke D’Abernon yesterday where he lost his mind.
They ask for details of shape, size, material and colour. I said it was 'Y' shaped, of average size and made of hessian in a fetching shade of aquamarine.
With little incentive to do much at work except earn money in this gap between Christmas and new year I have sunk to the depths of looking at the Southwest Trains website where I whiled away a few moments making a spurious lost property enquiry.
Hopefully whoever receives it will be slightly less bored themselves after reading of the mishap that befell the Reverend Edward Pencil on his trip from Boxhill & Westhumble to Cobham & Stoke D’Abernon yesterday where he lost his mind.
They ask for details of shape, size, material and colour. I said it was 'Y' shaped, of average size and made of hessian in a fetching shade of aquamarine.
Location, location, location.
Yes, who indeed. What else could there possibly be in the aspirations of each of us than this? A library or a pleasant park? A nearby market? Something of a view from the window even?
Flat to rent
Quiet location in Shirley, close to amenities. Blockbusters, off-licence & Sainsburys all within 5 mins walk - who could ask for more?
Yes, who indeed. What else could there possibly be in the aspirations of each of us than this? A library or a pleasant park? A nearby market? Something of a view from the window even?
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Steam Locomotive Participation“
No, quite frankly I wouldn’t. I’m far too self absorbed and I also have issues with all this ‘disabled’ business. Why have we got to make sure that they can all participate in activities that they are, well, unable to participate in? There are plenty of things that you or I cannot do but I don’t see a queue of people waiting to ‘make it happen’ for me.
Where do we draw the line, should we hook ugly blokes up with £1,000 hookers so that they don’t have to go through life shagging munters?
I’ve got an idea. I’m thinking of offering the disabled a ‘real Christmas shopping experience’ where they get to park their car, after a long wait in queue, in a tiny space half a mile from the shopping centre to which there is no footpath. I’m quite prepared to
I'm heading a small group who have bought a steam engine from Bosnia to convert for disabled access. It is the same class as the Southampton Dock shunters from WWII. Like to help?”
No, quite frankly I wouldn’t. I’m far too self absorbed and I also have issues with all this ‘disabled’ business. Why have we got to make sure that they can all participate in activities that they are, well, unable to participate in? There are plenty of things that you or I cannot do but I don’t see a queue of people waiting to ‘make it happen’ for me.
Where do we draw the line, should we hook ugly blokes up with £1,000 hookers so that they don’t have to go through life shagging munters?
I’ve got an idea. I’m thinking of offering the disabled a ‘real Christmas shopping experience’ where they get to park their car, after a long wait in queue, in a tiny space half a mile from the shopping centre to which there is no footpath. I’m quite prepared to
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Head’s up
I’ve just been in one of the most pathetic ‘team briefings’ I have ever seen – and believe me I’ve seen some shitters. This one was a triumph in the latest trends in business-speak.
Business speak, for those of you lucky enough not to have to endure it, is a loose collection of buzzwords, phrases and sentence constructions that are grasped for and overused by the pitiful hordes of middle managers and aspirants to those roles that have to substitute what they imagine are snappy phrases that hint at greater hidden endeavour for any actual ability or understanding.
I won’t bore you with the vast majority of what I have just had to sit through (although actually I stood due to a bit of a cock up on the seating front) mainly because most of it was true gibberish that cannot be repeated as its meaning was never clear.
I also can’t tell you about the wonderful slides that would have accompanied it as the display screen announced that it was going to ‘go to sleep’ and asked if the presenters if they would like to delay that action, but they just ignored it until it switched itself off and then spent a hilarious five minutes trying to turn it back on. Our Head of IT Development actually thought that waving the remote control in the air was a better strategy than pressing any of the buttons on it, so convinced was she of this that she slid it down to the other end of the board table and asked a colleague to wave it from there as “it might work better from there”. Strewth.
It strikes me that our management are intending to do rather a lot of:
which sounds like its from the Ladybird Pre-School Book of Management.
Whilst writing this I’ve also heard someone say “In terms of your hours you’ll be doing less this week won’t you?”. Sadly the person to whom that was directed answered as if it actually made sense. I would have just looked at them blankly until they said “Will you be doing less hours than normal this week?”.
Thick bastards.
I’ve just been in one of the most pathetic ‘team briefings’ I have ever seen – and believe me I’ve seen some shitters. This one was a triumph in the latest trends in business-speak.
Business speak, for those of you lucky enough not to have to endure it, is a loose collection of buzzwords, phrases and sentence constructions that are grasped for and overused by the pitiful hordes of middle managers and aspirants to those roles that have to substitute what they imagine are snappy phrases that hint at greater hidden endeavour for any actual ability or understanding.
I won’t bore you with the vast majority of what I have just had to sit through (although actually I stood due to a bit of a cock up on the seating front) mainly because most of it was true gibberish that cannot be repeated as its meaning was never clear.
I also can’t tell you about the wonderful slides that would have accompanied it as the display screen announced that it was going to ‘go to sleep’ and asked if the presenters if they would like to delay that action, but they just ignored it until it switched itself off and then spent a hilarious five minutes trying to turn it back on. Our Head of IT Development actually thought that waving the remote control in the air was a better strategy than pressing any of the buttons on it, so convinced was she of this that she slid it down to the other end of the board table and asked a colleague to wave it from there as “it might work better from there”. Strewth.
It strikes me that our management are intending to do rather a lot of:
“having conversations”
“ticking boxes”
“seeing results”
which sounds like its from the Ladybird Pre-School Book of Management.
Whilst writing this I’ve also heard someone say “In terms of your hours you’ll be doing less this week won’t you?”. Sadly the person to whom that was directed answered as if it actually made sense. I would have just looked at them blankly until they said “Will you be doing less hours than normal this week?”.
Thick bastards.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Ortolan? Bunting? Dirty bastards
Tired of turkey for Christmas? Looking for an alternative bird? How about the Ortolan Bunting?
The ortolan weighs only 20 to 25 grams so it’s just enough for one person by the time you’ve force fed it to four times its normal size. It’s reputedly the zenith of French gastronomy (it was Francois Mitterand’s last meal) although many a first timer pukes before finishing their ortolan. In case you’re interested here is the recipe and tasting notes:
Tired of turkey for Christmas? Looking for an alternative bird? How about the Ortolan Bunting?
The ortolan weighs only 20 to 25 grams so it’s just enough for one person by the time you’ve force fed it to four times its normal size. It’s reputedly the zenith of French gastronomy (it was Francois Mitterand’s last meal) although many a first timer pukes before finishing their ortolan. In case you’re interested here is the recipe and tasting notes:
You catch the ortolan with a net spread up in the forest canopy. Take it alive. Take it home, poke out its eyes and put it in a small cage. Force-feed it grapes and millet and figs until it has swollen to four times its normal size. Drown it in Armagnac. Roast it whole, in an oven at high heat, for six to eight minutes. Bring it to the table. Place a cloth over your head to hide your cruelty from the sight of God. Put the whole bird into your mouth, with only the beak protruding from your lips. Bite. Put the beak on your plate and begin chewing gently. You will taste three things: First, the sweetness of the flesh and fat. This is God. Then, the bitterness of the guts will begin to overwhelm you. This is the suffering of Jesus. Finally, as your teeth break the small, delicate bones and they begin to lacerate your gums, you will taste the salt of your own blood, mingling with the richness of the fat and the bitterness of the organs. This is the Holy Spirit, the mystery of the Trinity—three united as one. It is cruel and beautiful. Chewing the ortolan takes approximately 15 minutes.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
'Cold turkey' pay-out of £750,000
That’s all very well but I wonder how much of that money will actually be spent on cold turkey? Precious little, I’ll wager. For me this excerpt from the news item was most illuminating:
Yeah, I can hear the sound of an arm being ripped off there! All I can say is that if I am ever unlucky enough to spend anytime in prison I shall claim addiction to Fortnum & Mason hampers.
That’s all very well but I wonder how much of that money will actually be spent on cold turkey? Precious little, I’ll wager. For me this excerpt from the news item was most illuminating:
Lawyers said all 197 can now expect to receive over £3,750 each. They said all inmates had agreed to the deal, except for two who have yet tocome roundmake their decision.
Yeah, I can hear the sound of an arm being ripped off there! All I can say is that if I am ever unlucky enough to spend anytime in prison I shall claim addiction to Fortnum & Mason hampers.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Pot Noodle Bowl
I did say that I wouldn’t be going to the new stadium but the lure of a free ticket proved too much, so I swallowed my pride and went. I’m glad I did because now I know I’m not really missing much. Don’t get me wrong, the stadium is really fantastic, the team can sometimes play one touch football at pace in a way that we could only dream about 30 years ago, there’s no violence in the crowd and no running battles in the streets outside afterwards. There’s also no magic left.
I had the use of my brother-in-law’s season ticket and in a spooky fluky turn of events found myself sitting in the a corresponding position in the new stadium to the one I used to sit in at the old; in the stands on the opposite side from the Director’s box, just to the right of the half-way line. The difference was that I was much, much higher than before, three quarters of the way up the top tier as opposed to four rows back from the bottom of it.
The view of the pitch was fantastic with completely unhindered sight lines. It was just like watching a massive high definition plasma screen. And that is a bit of a problem because you can do that in a pub, at a match you want to sense the real atmosphere.
OK, back at Highbury I might have had to bob my head about a bit to avoid the pillar that held the roof up, but I could also clearly see the hook to Terry Yorath’s jaw that got Malcolm McDonald sent off as well as the huge flap of flesh that Sammy Nelson took off his shin in the second half to even things up.
I could hear the players shout to each other and the thump of the ball as it was kicked. The ball coming to me for a catch and throw back in was a real possibility (although it never happened), at the Pot Noodle Bowl there is no chance of that, the ball would burst like a weather balloon at high altitude before it reached me.
Although the sight lines to the pitch are unhindered there are others that are not. For example from where I was sitting I couldn’t see the entire seating area of the stadium; due to the slope of the roof the seat opposite me and thousands of others near it were obscured. I had never considered that before, but when I found I couldn’t see everyone it mattered.
Two programmes outside cost me £6. That’s just wrong. And they weren’t little 20 page pamphlets with a few photos and the team sheets. No, they were 96 page glossy mini magazines, so thick you couldn’t fold them in half like you used to and slip them in your pocket for halftime without the thing trying to burst your pocket open. So you had to carry them round for the rest of the day. That is a pain, especially when you have to stand to eat your hot-dog (nearest thing to edible food available from one of the charmless, fast-food outlet style snack bars) and drink your gassy pint of keg ‘beer’ from a plastic ‘glass’ (actually no different from the 70’s) that you are not allowed to take to your seat (which you were back then).
A bag of freshly roast peanuts in their shells didn’t cost me anything outside – because they weren’t available. You don’t spend the 20 minutes before kick-off eating peanuts and reading your programme anymore, instead you stare at one of the plasma screens liberally sprinkled throughout the place. Instead I wandered over to the panoramic windows and looked across to the old stadium just a few hundred yards away.
Some things were the same though. In the first half the quality and effectiveness of the play was as dour and unexciting as anything I saw in the 70’s. Three goals and a win livened up the second half but even that wasn’t really exciting. Maybe stiffer opposition would have made things better as this bottom of the league team had nothing to offer, and at such an early stage of the season no sense of anything to fight for yet either. You accepted dourness back then when a ticket cost a couple of quid or less. Fair enough, I didn’t pay then and I wasn’t paying today. But if I had it would have cost me about the same as going to the opera. Now that’s not something I would actually want to do, but if I did I could bank on some ear piercing warbling from start to finish; I wouldn’t spend the interval wondering why I had payed so much to see the cast trying to sing but not succeeding.
Half time entertainment used to consist of the Met Police band marching around the pitch and their leader/conductor throwing his long, heavy staff high in the air before catching it again to cheers from the crowd. Ironic cheers of course as we were all willing him to drop it, and occasionally he would oblige, although you could easily go a whole season or more between each slip-up. Now, apart from the clips and adverts showing on the huge screens inside the stadium, half time entertainment is someone dressed as a big green fluffy dinosaur (Gunnersaurus or something) walking around with a large compressed air powered Cannon (geddit?) from which he fires goodie bags into the stands. We didn’t have to wait long to see that go wrong, the first three attempts failed and it was 50/50 after that. The thing doesn’t have the power to reach anywhere except the first two tiers (there are five in all) so most of us had no chance of getting one. When that guy dropped his staff we all got to share in the fun.
Half time chat between neighbouring supporters used to be witty, informed, laid-back and amusingly cynical. Now it is boorish, unbelievably stupid, over-loud and in the case of one oaf near me designed purely to show how he is such a long standing supporter. Suffice to say he wasn’t. Having said that, he did at least stay to the end of the match. Huge numbers of people didn’t. There may be profit in having a full 60,000 seater stadium at kick-off but pride comes from seeing it still full at the final whistle. That isn’t totally the club’s fault; the top level game has changed beyond recognition in many ways. It has become another commodity, a possession to have, where the possessing is actually more important than the possession. Witness the third of the crowd wearing replica shirts, five quid’s worth of plastic cloth they have paid fifty pounds for. No scarves anywhere, nobody putting the colours forward really, just putting themselves forward.
There are no real ends anymore. No North Bank, no Clock End. I’m sure I heard the crowd behind the goal to my left singing that the ‘were’ the North Bank. That made sense, they were to my left and the Director’s box was opposite. But from the lobby area behind my seat where I could see the old stadium, the back wall of the west stand where I used to sit was facing me; so that would be wrong. Maybe what I assumed to be the director’s box wasn’t, perhaps it’s just another five-star, first-class zone for improved profitability. Who knows?
On the way out I stopped at the window again. Highbury sat there looking as dejected as I felt. Ghosts of a generation ago swirled in the air across the roofs of the houses between the two grounds. They were homeless now. They didn’t fit in the 21st century stadium and they didn’t want to either. They were left to drift way with their memories. I know how they felt.
I did say that I wouldn’t be going to the new stadium but the lure of a free ticket proved too much, so I swallowed my pride and went. I’m glad I did because now I know I’m not really missing much. Don’t get me wrong, the stadium is really fantastic, the team can sometimes play one touch football at pace in a way that we could only dream about 30 years ago, there’s no violence in the crowd and no running battles in the streets outside afterwards. There’s also no magic left.
I had the use of my brother-in-law’s season ticket and in a spooky fluky turn of events found myself sitting in the a corresponding position in the new stadium to the one I used to sit in at the old; in the stands on the opposite side from the Director’s box, just to the right of the half-way line. The difference was that I was much, much higher than before, three quarters of the way up the top tier as opposed to four rows back from the bottom of it.
The view of the pitch was fantastic with completely unhindered sight lines. It was just like watching a massive high definition plasma screen. And that is a bit of a problem because you can do that in a pub, at a match you want to sense the real atmosphere.
OK, back at Highbury I might have had to bob my head about a bit to avoid the pillar that held the roof up, but I could also clearly see the hook to Terry Yorath’s jaw that got Malcolm McDonald sent off as well as the huge flap of flesh that Sammy Nelson took off his shin in the second half to even things up.
I could hear the players shout to each other and the thump of the ball as it was kicked. The ball coming to me for a catch and throw back in was a real possibility (although it never happened), at the Pot Noodle Bowl there is no chance of that, the ball would burst like a weather balloon at high altitude before it reached me.
Although the sight lines to the pitch are unhindered there are others that are not. For example from where I was sitting I couldn’t see the entire seating area of the stadium; due to the slope of the roof the seat opposite me and thousands of others near it were obscured. I had never considered that before, but when I found I couldn’t see everyone it mattered.
Two programmes outside cost me £6. That’s just wrong. And they weren’t little 20 page pamphlets with a few photos and the team sheets. No, they were 96 page glossy mini magazines, so thick you couldn’t fold them in half like you used to and slip them in your pocket for halftime without the thing trying to burst your pocket open. So you had to carry them round for the rest of the day. That is a pain, especially when you have to stand to eat your hot-dog (nearest thing to edible food available from one of the charmless, fast-food outlet style snack bars) and drink your gassy pint of keg ‘beer’ from a plastic ‘glass’ (actually no different from the 70’s) that you are not allowed to take to your seat (which you were back then).
A bag of freshly roast peanuts in their shells didn’t cost me anything outside – because they weren’t available. You don’t spend the 20 minutes before kick-off eating peanuts and reading your programme anymore, instead you stare at one of the plasma screens liberally sprinkled throughout the place. Instead I wandered over to the panoramic windows and looked across to the old stadium just a few hundred yards away.
Some things were the same though. In the first half the quality and effectiveness of the play was as dour and unexciting as anything I saw in the 70’s. Three goals and a win livened up the second half but even that wasn’t really exciting. Maybe stiffer opposition would have made things better as this bottom of the league team had nothing to offer, and at such an early stage of the season no sense of anything to fight for yet either. You accepted dourness back then when a ticket cost a couple of quid or less. Fair enough, I didn’t pay then and I wasn’t paying today. But if I had it would have cost me about the same as going to the opera. Now that’s not something I would actually want to do, but if I did I could bank on some ear piercing warbling from start to finish; I wouldn’t spend the interval wondering why I had payed so much to see the cast trying to sing but not succeeding.
Half time entertainment used to consist of the Met Police band marching around the pitch and their leader/conductor throwing his long, heavy staff high in the air before catching it again to cheers from the crowd. Ironic cheers of course as we were all willing him to drop it, and occasionally he would oblige, although you could easily go a whole season or more between each slip-up. Now, apart from the clips and adverts showing on the huge screens inside the stadium, half time entertainment is someone dressed as a big green fluffy dinosaur (Gunnersaurus or something) walking around with a large compressed air powered Cannon (geddit?) from which he fires goodie bags into the stands. We didn’t have to wait long to see that go wrong, the first three attempts failed and it was 50/50 after that. The thing doesn’t have the power to reach anywhere except the first two tiers (there are five in all) so most of us had no chance of getting one. When that guy dropped his staff we all got to share in the fun.
Half time chat between neighbouring supporters used to be witty, informed, laid-back and amusingly cynical. Now it is boorish, unbelievably stupid, over-loud and in the case of one oaf near me designed purely to show how he is such a long standing supporter. Suffice to say he wasn’t. Having said that, he did at least stay to the end of the match. Huge numbers of people didn’t. There may be profit in having a full 60,000 seater stadium at kick-off but pride comes from seeing it still full at the final whistle. That isn’t totally the club’s fault; the top level game has changed beyond recognition in many ways. It has become another commodity, a possession to have, where the possessing is actually more important than the possession. Witness the third of the crowd wearing replica shirts, five quid’s worth of plastic cloth they have paid fifty pounds for. No scarves anywhere, nobody putting the colours forward really, just putting themselves forward.
There are no real ends anymore. No North Bank, no Clock End. I’m sure I heard the crowd behind the goal to my left singing that the ‘were’ the North Bank. That made sense, they were to my left and the Director’s box was opposite. But from the lobby area behind my seat where I could see the old stadium, the back wall of the west stand where I used to sit was facing me; so that would be wrong. Maybe what I assumed to be the director’s box wasn’t, perhaps it’s just another five-star, first-class zone for improved profitability. Who knows?
On the way out I stopped at the window again. Highbury sat there looking as dejected as I felt. Ghosts of a generation ago swirled in the air across the roofs of the houses between the two grounds. They were homeless now. They didn’t fit in the 21st century stadium and they didn’t want to either. They were left to drift way with their memories. I know how they felt.
Friday is egg day
Slightly unusual makes a change I always find and today has been a great example so far. A power failure at Micheldever meant all the signals were out between there and Winchester so we came to a halt and had to shuffle along between each signal under telephone control from the signalman. In the end it took nearly an hour to do that short section but the view from the windows of the Hampshire countryside was fantastic and so it didn’t really matter. I watched the mist boiling off in the hollows of the rolling fields as the low sun grew stronger.
Luckily I had picked up a newspaper on the train that someone had left which not only gave me something to read but had an advertisement for a gig by The Feeling at the BIC in Bournemouth next February. Theirs is our favourite album at the moment. The advert said tickets go on sale today, so I phoned up and booked. Second row of the balcony; didn’t want to stand and get beer spilt on us, just want to enjoy the music. Mobile phones, yeah, pretty cool invention.
At Winchester I had a long wait for the next train because it too was delayed. The sky was blue and bright and there were lots of very high altitude clouds. I wandered up and down the platform as it was a little chilly and looked at them. Most of the other passengers just stared up the tracks, willing the train to arrive. When it’s head light did show they all started jostling for what they thought would be the most advantageous spot on the platform to allow them to get a seat on what would no doubt be an overcrowded train because all the passengers for the next few trains were already there. That was another stress I could avoid because of the golden ticket in my pocket and gave me even more time to cloud gaze.
There was a small problem though; time was slipping away and the cooked breakfast service at work would stop at 10 o’clock. On arrival I dashed straight up to the canteen. As I entered the door I saw four staff behind the counter switching off the overhead heating lights on the buffet that signals the end of the service. They were hovering on the other side trying to clear away the various food containers; one was even trying to grab her own breakfast. I had to hold them at bay with the bean ladle while I filled my polystyrene tub with a goodly selection of the lardy treats there displayed, all the while grimacing, growling and swinging the dripping utensil at them like a battleaxe. I take my cooked breakfast on a Friday very seriously!
Slightly unusual makes a change I always find and today has been a great example so far. A power failure at Micheldever meant all the signals were out between there and Winchester so we came to a halt and had to shuffle along between each signal under telephone control from the signalman. In the end it took nearly an hour to do that short section but the view from the windows of the Hampshire countryside was fantastic and so it didn’t really matter. I watched the mist boiling off in the hollows of the rolling fields as the low sun grew stronger.
Luckily I had picked up a newspaper on the train that someone had left which not only gave me something to read but had an advertisement for a gig by The Feeling at the BIC in Bournemouth next February. Theirs is our favourite album at the moment. The advert said tickets go on sale today, so I phoned up and booked. Second row of the balcony; didn’t want to stand and get beer spilt on us, just want to enjoy the music. Mobile phones, yeah, pretty cool invention.
At Winchester I had a long wait for the next train because it too was delayed. The sky was blue and bright and there were lots of very high altitude clouds. I wandered up and down the platform as it was a little chilly and looked at them. Most of the other passengers just stared up the tracks, willing the train to arrive. When it’s head light did show they all started jostling for what they thought would be the most advantageous spot on the platform to allow them to get a seat on what would no doubt be an overcrowded train because all the passengers for the next few trains were already there. That was another stress I could avoid because of the golden ticket in my pocket and gave me even more time to cloud gaze.
There was a small problem though; time was slipping away and the cooked breakfast service at work would stop at 10 o’clock. On arrival I dashed straight up to the canteen. As I entered the door I saw four staff behind the counter switching off the overhead heating lights on the buffet that signals the end of the service. They were hovering on the other side trying to clear away the various food containers; one was even trying to grab her own breakfast. I had to hold them at bay with the bean ladle while I filled my polystyrene tub with a goodly selection of the lardy treats there displayed, all the while grimacing, growling and swinging the dripping utensil at them like a battleaxe. I take my cooked breakfast on a Friday very seriously!
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Mediation for Selfish Teams
It may or may not surprise you to know dear reader that from time to time Swiss Toni has a bit of an issue with losing his temper.
Yeah, I know. Not.
Anyway, it’s a bit of a pain for everyone concerned including, not least, me because it means I feel crap for long periods when I really don’t need to. So from time to time I try various methods of curbing my splenetic tendencies.
I haven’t quite got to the stage of attending Saxondale style anger management classes but I am attending ‘Meditation for Self Esteem’ of a Thursday evening in the town in which I work.
Today being such a Thursday I drove in rather than catching the train so as to make my journey there and home easier. Some guy cut me up badly enough for me to fix him with the withering death ray that is a Swiss stare as we sat stationary at the traffic lights just afterwards (following a very mild ‘Sweeney’ manoeuvre to get me back in front). Do you know what? The cheeky blighter had the temerity to start mouthing off at me for my trouble. I’ve no idea what he said as we both had our windows closed. I invited the gentleman to wander over to me to further pursue his point but he declined. He also shut up.
Anyway, he had pushed the button marked ‘Angry’ and I was keeping an eye on him in the mirror as we approached the next set of red lights some 100m further on. I then saw him turn off onto the wide pavement opposite and park up in front of what was obviously his Opticians shop. Never wise to shit on one’s own doorstep I thought to myself.
Hang on, shit, doorstep…that gives me an idea…
You see this shop is only a few doors away from tonight’s meditation class and a cunning plan of revenge soon flashed, lightening quick, through my mind. I could slip a dog turd through his letter box on the way there. Brilliant!
Then I realised the irony of that.
Maybe I’m not quite cured yet.
It may or may not surprise you to know dear reader that from time to time Swiss Toni has a bit of an issue with losing his temper.
Yeah, I know. Not.
Anyway, it’s a bit of a pain for everyone concerned including, not least, me because it means I feel crap for long periods when I really don’t need to. So from time to time I try various methods of curbing my splenetic tendencies.
I haven’t quite got to the stage of attending Saxondale style anger management classes but I am attending ‘Meditation for Self Esteem’ of a Thursday evening in the town in which I work.
Today being such a Thursday I drove in rather than catching the train so as to make my journey there and home easier. Some guy cut me up badly enough for me to fix him with the withering death ray that is a Swiss stare as we sat stationary at the traffic lights just afterwards (following a very mild ‘Sweeney’ manoeuvre to get me back in front). Do you know what? The cheeky blighter had the temerity to start mouthing off at me for my trouble. I’ve no idea what he said as we both had our windows closed. I invited the gentleman to wander over to me to further pursue his point but he declined. He also shut up.
Anyway, he had pushed the button marked ‘Angry’ and I was keeping an eye on him in the mirror as we approached the next set of red lights some 100m further on. I then saw him turn off onto the wide pavement opposite and park up in front of what was obviously his Opticians shop. Never wise to shit on one’s own doorstep I thought to myself.
Hang on, shit, doorstep…that gives me an idea…
You see this shop is only a few doors away from tonight’s meditation class and a cunning plan of revenge soon flashed, lightening quick, through my mind. I could slip a dog turd through his letter box on the way there. Brilliant!
Then I realised the irony of that.
Maybe I’m not quite cured yet.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Outsourcing and pan-continental communication: a case study.
Hi Corinna,
I am in office today.
I need to discuss one of the CR raised with you.
If you have time can I come on your desk and discuss that now.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
There’s no fool like a self deluded fool.
This place I work at is bursting at the seams with some real idiots. They’ve got themselves an office job paying something just over the national average wage but in their head they are urbane young executives, superior to the plebs they find themselves amongst. The giveaway of this condition is always the same; having an idea of one’s standing (be it intellectual, moral, financial or whatever) far in excess of one’s real position, and more crucially, far in excess of one’s ability to actually live up to one’s own bullshit. Witness this exchange I heard in the lift this morning:
This place I work at is bursting at the seams with some real idiots. They’ve got themselves an office job paying something just over the national average wage but in their head they are urbane young executives, superior to the plebs they find themselves amongst. The giveaway of this condition is always the same; having an idea of one’s standing (be it intellectual, moral, financial or whatever) far in excess of one’s real position, and more crucially, far in excess of one’s ability to actually live up to one’s own bullshit. Witness this exchange I heard in the lift this morning:
First cretin: “Yes it was rather cringe-worthy listening to their conversation as neither of them knew what they were talking about.”
Second cretin: “Ha ha, yes, it must have sounded quite jilted.”
First cretin: “Ha ha, exactly.”
Friday, October 06, 2006
Bettered Haddock Fillet with Lemon
National Customer Service Week 2006 is being celebrated here at work. A special web site has been set up and every day we have news of the latest ‘winners’. Here’s a representative example:
National Customer Service Week 2006 is being celebrated here at work. A special web site has been set up and every day we have news of the latest ‘winners’. Here’s a representative example:
"It's Chris's first day on the phone today and already he has taken well over 20 calls with minimal assistance, I think this fact alone is worthy of a mention."It may have become a lot worse as this is a gem from Tuesday. Despite being told that “Wednesday’s Winners are coming soon” they haven’t turned up and it’s now Friday.
Chicken & Bacon File Pie
We decided that a day out was in order so we decided to go to the theatre. There are some good provincial theatres within reasonable driving distance of us but they were all booked up at short notice. So that meant it had to be the West End. We like going to Saturday afternoon matinee performances in preference to the evenings. In the evening it’s always a rush to eat either before or after and then you have to get a late train home and they are never that pleasant. Matinees allow lunch before or dinner after or for that matter neither. So I booked up to see The Producers which is just coming towards the end of it’s run, it finishes in January. Tickets for the theatre aren’t cheap and because I’m trying to save money at the moment I went for the cheap (well £20 ain’t really that cheap) seats right up in the gods. We’ve been looking forward to it all week and the big day is tomorrow the 7th. So imagine my joy when I get am email this morning from the same people I bought the tickets from saying that starting from the 9th the most expensive £50 tickets are reduced to £20! We don’t care and will defiantly sit sit in the stratospheric circle with our binoculars!
We decided that a day out was in order so we decided to go to the theatre. There are some good provincial theatres within reasonable driving distance of us but they were all booked up at short notice. So that meant it had to be the West End. We like going to Saturday afternoon matinee performances in preference to the evenings. In the evening it’s always a rush to eat either before or after and then you have to get a late train home and they are never that pleasant. Matinees allow lunch before or dinner after or for that matter neither. So I booked up to see The Producers which is just coming towards the end of it’s run, it finishes in January. Tickets for the theatre aren’t cheap and because I’m trying to save money at the moment I went for the cheap (well £20 ain’t really that cheap) seats right up in the gods. We’ve been looking forward to it all week and the big day is tomorrow the 7th. So imagine my joy when I get am email this morning from the same people I bought the tickets from saying that starting from the 9th the most expensive £50 tickets are reduced to £20! We don’t care and will defiantly sit sit in the stratospheric circle with our binoculars!
Vegetable Past Bake
I’m not usually one to fall for the old ‘link to a BBC news item’ style of blogging; frankly I think it’s pathetic. I’m here to make the news, not read it. Yes, I know that my newsmaking is shit and sporadic to say the least but at least I’m trying. Anyway, I must doff my cap to Jack Straw and his ‘take your veil off’ comments. Bloody right. Far from these veils being a way of being modest and retreating from society they are actually a way of saying ‘hey, look at me, I look weird and threatening’. The real threat though is the tacit one of retribution should you dare say anything. You know, like the Pope got when he quoted some ancient bloke who had pointed out that islam was spread with the sword (sounds like an advert for margarine) – what was the response…oh yeah, kill him! Anyway, there’s no need to get too wound up by this anti-social behaviour. If we react too strongly then we are falling into the trap that is being laid for us. My advice is to combat it with good old British humour and gentle lampooning. One of my favourites when suddenly confronted with a ‘head-to-toe’ job in black when walking round Asda is to exclaim “Fuck me, it’s Darth Vader!” which amuses me no end. Of course that can be modified in many ways, try gathering together as many children as possible while enthusiastically telling them about the free Star Wars show that is about to start and loudly enquiring about the whereabouts of Chewbacca and the robot things. I’m still waiting for one of them to speak to me (I think I might be waiting for a good while longer) but if they do it’s going to be a hammed up comedy moment of looking all around me with a confused look on my face saying “Who said that”, then turn to someone not masked and say “Was that you? I didn’t see your mouth move”.
I’m not usually one to fall for the old ‘link to a BBC news item’ style of blogging; frankly I think it’s pathetic. I’m here to make the news, not read it. Yes, I know that my newsmaking is shit and sporadic to say the least but at least I’m trying. Anyway, I must doff my cap to Jack Straw and his ‘take your veil off’ comments. Bloody right. Far from these veils being a way of being modest and retreating from society they are actually a way of saying ‘hey, look at me, I look weird and threatening’. The real threat though is the tacit one of retribution should you dare say anything. You know, like the Pope got when he quoted some ancient bloke who had pointed out that islam was spread with the sword (sounds like an advert for margarine) – what was the response…oh yeah, kill him! Anyway, there’s no need to get too wound up by this anti-social behaviour. If we react too strongly then we are falling into the trap that is being laid for us. My advice is to combat it with good old British humour and gentle lampooning. One of my favourites when suddenly confronted with a ‘head-to-toe’ job in black when walking round Asda is to exclaim “Fuck me, it’s Darth Vader!” which amuses me no end. Of course that can be modified in many ways, try gathering together as many children as possible while enthusiastically telling them about the free Star Wars show that is about to start and loudly enquiring about the whereabouts of Chewbacca and the robot things. I’m still waiting for one of them to speak to me (I think I might be waiting for a good while longer) but if they do it’s going to be a hammed up comedy moment of looking all around me with a confused look on my face saying “Who said that”, then turn to someone not masked and say “Was that you? I didn’t see your mouth move”.
Apple & Sultan Strudel with Custard
The bastard council tried to rip me off by not paying me back my council tax after a downward rebanding. I had to write a letter complaing and working it all out for them before they said they would pay it. No apology. No explanation of why they attempted to cheat me out of £250. Bastards. I’ll remember that.
The bastard council tried to rip me off by not paying me back my council tax after a downward rebanding. I had to write a letter complaing and working it all out for them before they said they would pay it. No apology. No explanation of why they attempted to cheat me out of £250. Bastards. I’ll remember that.
Changing rooms were horrid
The changing rooms of the sports ground were the most depressing of all the places. The Hall during hymn singing assembly, the RE lesson or a visit to church (notwithstanding Christmas) were all in the same vein but didn’t quite match the changing rooms for sheer desperation.
A couple of windows, which were nothing more than dirt streaked slits of chicken wire embedded frosted glass high on the wall, hardly lit the interior and were joined in that task by the steel clad door which was always left open once unlocked. Not that there was much to see inside apart from the plainest of benches, hooks and walls.
But it wasn’t just the bleakness of its form; it was the blank, echoing staleness of its very existence. It was as if the building itself was unhappy at being left empty for most of the time, and took it’s revenge in the form of a brooding malevolence that sapped the last of the little confidence a sensitive boy hoped he would carry with him on the sports field. Maybe the kids that played sport confidently never felt it, they certainly didn’t look like they did as they clattered out en masse to staccato cracks of the studs of their ‘George Best’ boots on the concrete floor, as you were left behind to feel the sadness of the walls weeping into your soul as the echos of their stamping feet receded.
Every week this ritual would take place to the olfactory accompaniment of last session’s stale sweat and drying mud dropped from the boots on their return. Every week that is except for the time when the teachers found that vandals had broken in and trashed the place. They were livid with rage and insisted on us all trooping round the interior in a crocodile reminiscent of a coachload of tourists viewing Anne Hathaway’s cottage; but instead of seeing Anne’s preserved bed all we saw were some kicked in benches, litter, graffiti and the obligatory human turds left on the floor. On exiting we were assured by the teachers that what we had seen was ‘absolutely disgusting’, just in case we had been in any doubt.
The changing rooms of the sports ground were the most depressing of all the places. The Hall during hymn singing assembly, the RE lesson or a visit to church (notwithstanding Christmas) were all in the same vein but didn’t quite match the changing rooms for sheer desperation.
A couple of windows, which were nothing more than dirt streaked slits of chicken wire embedded frosted glass high on the wall, hardly lit the interior and were joined in that task by the steel clad door which was always left open once unlocked. Not that there was much to see inside apart from the plainest of benches, hooks and walls.
But it wasn’t just the bleakness of its form; it was the blank, echoing staleness of its very existence. It was as if the building itself was unhappy at being left empty for most of the time, and took it’s revenge in the form of a brooding malevolence that sapped the last of the little confidence a sensitive boy hoped he would carry with him on the sports field. Maybe the kids that played sport confidently never felt it, they certainly didn’t look like they did as they clattered out en masse to staccato cracks of the studs of their ‘George Best’ boots on the concrete floor, as you were left behind to feel the sadness of the walls weeping into your soul as the echos of their stamping feet receded.
Every week this ritual would take place to the olfactory accompaniment of last session’s stale sweat and drying mud dropped from the boots on their return. Every week that is except for the time when the teachers found that vandals had broken in and trashed the place. They were livid with rage and insisted on us all trooping round the interior in a crocodile reminiscent of a coachload of tourists viewing Anne Hathaway’s cottage; but instead of seeing Anne’s preserved bed all we saw were some kicked in benches, litter, graffiti and the obligatory human turds left on the floor. On exiting we were assured by the teachers that what we had seen was ‘absolutely disgusting’, just in case we had been in any doubt.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Don’t believe the hype
When I was a kid there were monsters to be scared of. According to what the mainstream media told me one of them was called Wedgie Benn and he was a very bad man who wanted to make me a communist. When I grew up I discovered that, as far as I can tell, he is a very nice man who wants the best for me and everyone else.
Sadly I haven’t completely learnt my lesson and the media hype still informs my opinions. I never thought much of Clare Short when she was a minister, not bad thoughts, but nothing that positive either. She was painted as a bit of a troublemaker and a slight nutter and I suppose that was what, without thinking, I “thought” of her.
But when she made her statement earlier this week that she wasn’t going to stand as a Labour candidate at the next election she couldn’t be spun, the story carried it’s own truth and impressed me greatly. For some reason I felt I should send her a message saying thanks for being an honest politician, so I did, I sent her an email.
And she was kind enough to reply which is lovely. Yes, I know an assistant has just pasted a stock reply under my name, but even so it’s a real touch of class.
And because now I’m all grown up I have become, as a blogger, part of ‘the media’, I’m going to tell you all about it. I’m telling you all about it because it’s all that we can do, there’s nobody to vote for so I think we should get a bit more active. Maybe one day I will. If I do that will be because of people like Clare…and Wedgie Benn.
And in the meantime I should remember what George Clinton taught me “Think, Think, It Aint Illegal Yet”.
From the office of
the Rt Hon Clare Short MP
House of Commons
London SW1A 0AA
Dear SwissToni
Thank you for your message.
I enclose a copy of my statement which sets out the reasons for my decision and an edited version of which was printed in yesterday’s Independent.
Best wishes
Clare Short
When I was a kid there were monsters to be scared of. According to what the mainstream media told me one of them was called Wedgie Benn and he was a very bad man who wanted to make me a communist. When I grew up I discovered that, as far as I can tell, he is a very nice man who wants the best for me and everyone else.
Sadly I haven’t completely learnt my lesson and the media hype still informs my opinions. I never thought much of Clare Short when she was a minister, not bad thoughts, but nothing that positive either. She was painted as a bit of a troublemaker and a slight nutter and I suppose that was what, without thinking, I “thought” of her.
But when she made her statement earlier this week that she wasn’t going to stand as a Labour candidate at the next election she couldn’t be spun, the story carried it’s own truth and impressed me greatly. For some reason I felt I should send her a message saying thanks for being an honest politician, so I did, I sent her an email.
And she was kind enough to reply which is lovely. Yes, I know an assistant has just pasted a stock reply under my name, but even so it’s a real touch of class.
And because now I’m all grown up I have become, as a blogger, part of ‘the media’, I’m going to tell you all about it. I’m telling you all about it because it’s all that we can do, there’s nobody to vote for so I think we should get a bit more active. Maybe one day I will. If I do that will be because of people like Clare…and Wedgie Benn.
And in the meantime I should remember what George Clinton taught me “Think, Think, It Aint Illegal Yet”.
From the office of
the Rt Hon Clare Short MP
House of Commons
London SW1A 0AA
Dear SwissToni
Thank you for your message.
I enclose a copy of my statement which sets out the reasons for my decision and an edited version of which was printed in yesterday’s Independent.
Best wishes
Clare Short
I have been thinking long and hard about whether to contest the next election as a Labour candidate and decided that I will not. For me it is a big decision. I have given my adult life to the Labour Party as the best way I could see of increasing social justice at home and abroad. I have enjoyed the 23 years’ service to my constituents whom I have loved greatly and from whom I have learned much. I worked hard in the House of Commons in the Thatcher years to resist the government’s destructive policies which hurt so many people. I served for ten years on the National Executive Committee, working with Neil Kinnock and then John Smith to ready the party for power. I was deeply honoured to serve as the Secretary of State for International Development and to work with my officials to establish the new Department for International Development. We demonstrated that extra funding, clarity of purpose and high morale can create quality public sector organisations. DfID was and is widely respected across the world and I am proud to have been given the opportunity to help build such a fine organisation.
There are many good things that New Labour has done since 1997, mostly things that Labour committed itself to before the New Labour coup, but I have now reached a stage where I am profoundly ashamed of the Government. Blair’s craven support for the extremism of US neo-conservative foreign policy has exacerbated the danger of terrorism and the instability and suffering of the Middle East. He has dishonoured the UK, undermined the UN and international law and helped to make the world a more dangerous place. The erosion of the rule of laws and civil liberties has weakened our democracy and increased Muslim alienation. Gordon Brown’s commitment to a replacement of Trident, in one throwaway sentence, without any discussion of the risks of proliferation or discussion of how UK foreign policy might be improved, is an insult to democracy. The approach of New Labour to public sector reform with a plethora of centralised targets, constant re-organisation and now privatisation, has demeaned the precious value of public services. And in addition to the, arrogance and lack of principle of New Labour, there is an incredible incompetence. Policy is announced from No 10 to grab media attention and nothing is properly thought through.
Cabinet government has gone, the House of Commons – with guillotines on all business – is a weak and ineffective check on the executive, and the rise of the third party means that our electoral system is ever more distorted. The vote in 2005 of 9.54 million was the second lowest Labour vote in post-war Britain. Blair won significantly fewer votes than Callaghan or Wilson. With the support of only 22 per cent of the electorate, we see power ever more concentrated in a Number 10 that consults no-one, engages in deceit over matters of profound importance and is not held to account by Cabinet, parliamentary party or the wider party. The Prime Minister’s powers of patronage turn too many MPs into obedient ciphers who await the call to Ministerial office or quiet elders who await the House of Lords.
My conclusion is that the Labour Party has lost its way, our constitutional arrangements are broken and that the gap between the political elite and the country grows ever wider. At the same time Britain has become more unequal, violent and unhappy. And the world is in desperate trouble. The situation in the Middle East will get worse, and global warming threatens massive disruption. The world’s population will increase from 6 billion to 8/9 billion by 2030-50 and 90% of the new people will be born in the poorest countries. There are answers to these enormous challenges but not on the path we are on. To improve the quality of life in the UK, we need to look to the Scandinavian model where they have highly efficient economies, high quality public services, less inequality, violence, crime and other social ills. On foreign policy we need to try to work with the EU and others for stronger multilateralism and greater equity so that the world is capable of reaching agreement to face the challenge of global warming, population growth and environmental strain.
Stay and fight, some argue. But there is no discussion of policy anymore. The challenge to Blair and discussions of a new leadership are confined to personalities and all commit to continue the Blair errors. My conclusion is that the key to the change we need is a hung parliament which will bring in electoral reform. Then we would have a second election. Labour – with existing levels of support – would have one third of the seats in the Commons, the Tories something similar and we would be likely to see some Greens and others added to the Liberal Democrats and nationalists creating a plurality of voices and power centres in the Commons. British politics would then change profoundly. Parliament and in turn the people would have to be listened to, Cabinet government would return, the error prone arrogance of No 10 would end and we would have a chance of creating a new politics, a more civilised country and a more honourable role in the world.
The Chief Whip has warned me that I cannot recommend a hung parliament because it would mean Labour MPs losing their seats. I am standing down so that I can speak my truth and support the changes that are needed. Sad to say it is now almost impossible to do this as a Labour MP.
Clare Short
September 2006
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Beware stupidity
I have a particular problem with po-faced, self-righteous idiots. By definition being po-faced and self righteous means you are an idiot, but these ones are like that because of their inherent idiocy. Generally they are suburban shrews for whom everything in their lives is as ‘lovely’ as their ‘Eternal Beau’ kitchenware. They’re ‘nice’. So nice in fact that they make me sick. I don’t like them because their smug self-assuredness makes me feel like they’re looking down their nose at me and I never know if that is worse coming from someone who possibly could do that with justification (although with very poor manners), or from one of these deluded fools.
These types have always been around, but it’s really only in the last thirty years that their influence has amounted to more than laughable elements of naffness. Since then we’ve had to endure huge changes to our lives based entirely on their warped sensibilities.
The first big problem they caused was voting in Thatcher. She was swept into power long before the stylists and spinners got hold of her and was wafted into Downing Street in a P5 Rover from which she emerged looking like a knitted toilet roll cover that had been brought to horrific life. The entry was entirely fitting given that she was voted in by hordes of idiots whose only rationale for doing so was to ‘give a woman a chance for a change’. And we paid the price, she morphed from bog-roll dolly to ‘iron lady’ but her image always relied on just the simple fact that she was a woman, well, biologically at least. The destruction of communities, the wicked killing of Argentinean youth, the disenfranchisement of large sectors of society, the sleaze, the deaths by exotic wanking, the greed – these were all born of that one stupid rationale.
This was the turning point really; one act of mass stupidity and it opened the flood gates for what was to come. The vast majority of our society was softened up, dumbed down and brainwashed into believing that the synchronised bleating of the herd could not possibly be wrong. Diana’s death and funeral is a classic example of what I’m talking about.
Another example is unleaded petrol. Unleaded petrol annoys me. I’m not against it, but it still annoys me. It was introduced because breathing in lead was making small children in the inner cities get lead poisoning. That’s it, nothing else; it’s not any better or cleaner than leaded petrol except that it hasn’t got any lead in it. But the stupid loved it, here was their chance to preen and pose with comments like “I’m doing my bit for the environment; the air will be cleaner now”. Never before were they so self-righteous as they drove their Volvo to the bottle bank. Of course the oil companies were very quick to notice this blindingly stupid stance and went completely green – well, I mean they painted everything green, even adding little naïve-style flower graphics wherever they could.
Nothing has actually changed but a lot of people can go around feeling safe and sound with their view of the planet as a nice soft fluffy thing. Planet Earth is not soft and fluffy. ‘We’re saving the rainforest’ means thoughts of wandering through balmy woodland where the butterfly’s come and smile at you for being such a friend of the Earth. Yeah right, if they ever did walk through a rainforest they would probably shit themselves, literally, and that’s before some huge bastard insect comes and bites them on the arse.
Talking of saving the rainforest reminds me of a ‘statistic’ that used to be bandied about years ago. They used to say that every day a chunk of rainforest the size of Belgium was destroyed. According to my extensive internet research that means that all the world’s rainforest would have been gone in 367 days which they clearly weren’t. Or maybe I’ve got it wrong and they said years not days. In which case what is the problem, surely even tropical rainforest can get up and running after 367 years, all we need is a few more Germaine Greers and we’re laughing. Hmm, maybe it was months then…or bollocks…yeah months or bollocks, definitely one of the two.
But still, all this softening up of the mass grey matter has opened up another niche for a rip-off, this time governmental rather than corporate. Our local authority has just written to us saying that it will only be collecting the bins once a fortnight except weekly. This complete piss-take is wrapped up in loads of guff about recycling and planet loving to try to make the council tax payers feel guilty about complaining.
You can even request a bigger re-cycling blue bin so you can do your best for the planet. Really that means sorting shite for the council so that they can have a nice little revenue sideline; their rules for what can be recycled don’t have any basis in fact, if it is easily handled and easily saleable they’ll have it. If not they advise you to put it in the black bin that goes to landfill. This even includes shredded paper which they ‘have no facility to process’ at their recycling plant. Quite amazing.
We’ll see what facilities they have for recycling dog shit when they start their fortnightly collections as if I’m still going to have to pay the same eye-wateringly high council tax I’m certainly going to make sure I get my money’s worth. ‘Recycling’ anything I can find on their pavement that hasn’t been cleaned up has a feel of circular justice to it, almost reminds me of the naff ‘three arrows’ recycling logo. Mind you, not much dog shit around these days is there? Maybe I’ll use road-kill instead.
Although I think there is a lot of nonsense spoken about it it’s not actually the recycling that I have a problem with, it’s being conned into doing it and still paying through the nose. If the council or anyone else wants to recycle my rubbish then that’s fine by me – help yourselves. But I don’t want spend any of my time sifting through crap; if I did I would choose a career in waste management. Mind you, if I did choose that then I wouldn’t say to my customers “right, you sort it for me and let me charge you for doing it”. And even if I went that far I wouldn’t expect them to gleefully make several piles of their differing types of crap and then smugly write out their cheques. Sounds like a great business idea though doesn’t it?
I had those Jehovah’s Witnesses at the door the other day going on about how the meek shall inherit the earth. Would that it were true. It’s the stupid that are taking over.
I have a particular problem with po-faced, self-righteous idiots. By definition being po-faced and self righteous means you are an idiot, but these ones are like that because of their inherent idiocy. Generally they are suburban shrews for whom everything in their lives is as ‘lovely’ as their ‘Eternal Beau’ kitchenware. They’re ‘nice’. So nice in fact that they make me sick. I don’t like them because their smug self-assuredness makes me feel like they’re looking down their nose at me and I never know if that is worse coming from someone who possibly could do that with justification (although with very poor manners), or from one of these deluded fools.
These types have always been around, but it’s really only in the last thirty years that their influence has amounted to more than laughable elements of naffness. Since then we’ve had to endure huge changes to our lives based entirely on their warped sensibilities.
The first big problem they caused was voting in Thatcher. She was swept into power long before the stylists and spinners got hold of her and was wafted into Downing Street in a P5 Rover from which she emerged looking like a knitted toilet roll cover that had been brought to horrific life. The entry was entirely fitting given that she was voted in by hordes of idiots whose only rationale for doing so was to ‘give a woman a chance for a change’. And we paid the price, she morphed from bog-roll dolly to ‘iron lady’ but her image always relied on just the simple fact that she was a woman, well, biologically at least. The destruction of communities, the wicked killing of Argentinean youth, the disenfranchisement of large sectors of society, the sleaze, the deaths by exotic wanking, the greed – these were all born of that one stupid rationale.
This was the turning point really; one act of mass stupidity and it opened the flood gates for what was to come. The vast majority of our society was softened up, dumbed down and brainwashed into believing that the synchronised bleating of the herd could not possibly be wrong. Diana’s death and funeral is a classic example of what I’m talking about.
Another example is unleaded petrol. Unleaded petrol annoys me. I’m not against it, but it still annoys me. It was introduced because breathing in lead was making small children in the inner cities get lead poisoning. That’s it, nothing else; it’s not any better or cleaner than leaded petrol except that it hasn’t got any lead in it. But the stupid loved it, here was their chance to preen and pose with comments like “I’m doing my bit for the environment; the air will be cleaner now”. Never before were they so self-righteous as they drove their Volvo to the bottle bank. Of course the oil companies were very quick to notice this blindingly stupid stance and went completely green – well, I mean they painted everything green, even adding little naïve-style flower graphics wherever they could.
Nothing has actually changed but a lot of people can go around feeling safe and sound with their view of the planet as a nice soft fluffy thing. Planet Earth is not soft and fluffy. ‘We’re saving the rainforest’ means thoughts of wandering through balmy woodland where the butterfly’s come and smile at you for being such a friend of the Earth. Yeah right, if they ever did walk through a rainforest they would probably shit themselves, literally, and that’s before some huge bastard insect comes and bites them on the arse.
Talking of saving the rainforest reminds me of a ‘statistic’ that used to be bandied about years ago. They used to say that every day a chunk of rainforest the size of Belgium was destroyed. According to my extensive internet research that means that all the world’s rainforest would have been gone in 367 days which they clearly weren’t. Or maybe I’ve got it wrong and they said years not days. In which case what is the problem, surely even tropical rainforest can get up and running after 367 years, all we need is a few more Germaine Greers and we’re laughing. Hmm, maybe it was months then…or bollocks…yeah months or bollocks, definitely one of the two.
But still, all this softening up of the mass grey matter has opened up another niche for a rip-off, this time governmental rather than corporate. Our local authority has just written to us saying that it will only be collecting the bins once a fortnight except weekly. This complete piss-take is wrapped up in loads of guff about recycling and planet loving to try to make the council tax payers feel guilty about complaining.
You can even request a bigger re-cycling blue bin so you can do your best for the planet. Really that means sorting shite for the council so that they can have a nice little revenue sideline; their rules for what can be recycled don’t have any basis in fact, if it is easily handled and easily saleable they’ll have it. If not they advise you to put it in the black bin that goes to landfill. This even includes shredded paper which they ‘have no facility to process’ at their recycling plant. Quite amazing.
We’ll see what facilities they have for recycling dog shit when they start their fortnightly collections as if I’m still going to have to pay the same eye-wateringly high council tax I’m certainly going to make sure I get my money’s worth. ‘Recycling’ anything I can find on their pavement that hasn’t been cleaned up has a feel of circular justice to it, almost reminds me of the naff ‘three arrows’ recycling logo. Mind you, not much dog shit around these days is there? Maybe I’ll use road-kill instead.
Although I think there is a lot of nonsense spoken about it it’s not actually the recycling that I have a problem with, it’s being conned into doing it and still paying through the nose. If the council or anyone else wants to recycle my rubbish then that’s fine by me – help yourselves. But I don’t want spend any of my time sifting through crap; if I did I would choose a career in waste management. Mind you, if I did choose that then I wouldn’t say to my customers “right, you sort it for me and let me charge you for doing it”. And even if I went that far I wouldn’t expect them to gleefully make several piles of their differing types of crap and then smugly write out their cheques. Sounds like a great business idea though doesn’t it?
I had those Jehovah’s Witnesses at the door the other day going on about how the meek shall inherit the earth. Would that it were true. It’s the stupid that are taking over.
Friday, May 19, 2006
I'm back...nothing's changed.
Might start blogging again. Might not. Let's start with some classic moaning.
Might start blogging again. Might not. Let's start with some classic moaning.
I needed to renew my season ticket this morning but, unusually, Hook ticket office was closed. This was most inconvenient.
I was met my a large turd on the bridge over the tracks, it looked human judging by it's size, unless of course the Hound of the Baskervilles has moved to Hook. Unfortunately it was unable to sell me a ticket. It did however present a health and safety risk; it was a slip hazard as well as a bio-hazard. It was also a rather revolting sight and smell.
Often the platform is covered with litter and the evidence of small fires in the morning, no doubt evidence of 'teenage activity' overnight.
Do you not think that in consideration of the fare your customers pay you might clear your premises of rubbish and faeces? Perhaps you might also ensure that the station is manned?
Monday, March 20, 2006
Beef au Poire
Ah yes, a real gem for the true pedant and connoisseur of the staff restaurant gaffe. It was hard to find though, the recent takeover has lead to a bit of a re-design of the intranet home page and the fun stuff is now buried…room had to be found for the predator’s logo you see. All very worrying if you give a shit, luckily they actually pay me extra not to – I love my job!
Meanwhile in other food related news, I am proud to announce that nearly all the weight I lost last year has been piled back on. This will delight all the people that came up with various theories as to why my losing weight was a bad idea to start with and no doubt vindicate each of their differing standpoints. I might lose it all again now just to really upset them!
First week back from skiing last week was a bit of a drag but nowhere near the downer it can be. And now there is even the first hint of Spring in the air so I feel like a new born lamb – grilled preferably, still pink.
JudeWatch: Now laughs, smiles and converses in babbles and noises. Slept through the night last night. Weighs over 13lbs. Supports Arsenal.
Ah yes, a real gem for the true pedant and connoisseur of the staff restaurant gaffe. It was hard to find though, the recent takeover has lead to a bit of a re-design of the intranet home page and the fun stuff is now buried…room had to be found for the predator’s logo you see. All very worrying if you give a shit, luckily they actually pay me extra not to – I love my job!
Meanwhile in other food related news, I am proud to announce that nearly all the weight I lost last year has been piled back on. This will delight all the people that came up with various theories as to why my losing weight was a bad idea to start with and no doubt vindicate each of their differing standpoints. I might lose it all again now just to really upset them!
First week back from skiing last week was a bit of a drag but nowhere near the downer it can be. And now there is even the first hint of Spring in the air so I feel like a new born lamb – grilled preferably, still pink.
JudeWatch: Now laughs, smiles and converses in babbles and noises. Slept through the night last night. Weighs over 13lbs. Supports Arsenal.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Why are pirates pirates? Because they arr!
Latest morning routine to have emerged is Jude lying on the bed watching me get dressed and laughing and cooing at the nonsense I’m saying to him. So this morning I decided it was time to explain to him where I go all day. You may mock but I believe very small kids really can understand stuff we say to them – I explained Einstein’s special theory of relativity to my nephew when he was a tiny baby and he went on to get an A* at GCSE Maths a year early.
Anyway, that’s by the by. Not wanting to expose poor Jude to the full horror of the drudgery that is the working day of the IT professional I decided to bend the truth just a little. So, instead of telling him I sit in front of a PC all day and do things so stultifyingly boring that it would, to quote Morrisey, make a shy, bald, buddhist reflect and plan a mass murder, I told him that I sat in front of a PC all day at International Pirate Control and handled requests from pirates all over the world who required assistance. For example today, I told him, I would be helping Bluebeard who has run out of biscuits.
Latest morning routine to have emerged is Jude lying on the bed watching me get dressed and laughing and cooing at the nonsense I’m saying to him. So this morning I decided it was time to explain to him where I go all day. You may mock but I believe very small kids really can understand stuff we say to them – I explained Einstein’s special theory of relativity to my nephew when he was a tiny baby and he went on to get an A* at GCSE Maths a year early.
Anyway, that’s by the by. Not wanting to expose poor Jude to the full horror of the drudgery that is the working day of the IT professional I decided to bend the truth just a little. So, instead of telling him I sit in front of a PC all day and do things so stultifyingly boring that it would, to quote Morrisey, make a shy, bald, buddhist reflect and plan a mass murder, I told him that I sat in front of a PC all day at International Pirate Control and handled requests from pirates all over the world who required assistance. For example today, I told him, I would be helping Bluebeard who has run out of biscuits.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Holidays, package holidays, holidays of the package kind
Fasten your seatbelts says the voice.Ah yes those were the days, John Cooper Clark and mockery of the package holiday. But it’s even worse these days, Spain has gone right downhill, this trend for adventure/activity breaks is to blame. Check ‘dis from today’s Times:
Inside the plane you can’t hear no noise.
Engines made by Rolls Royce.
Take your choice.
Make mine Majorca.
A Briton hiking in Spain survived for six days stranded at 4,000ft with a broken hip, drinking his own urine.Bloody hell – I thought Tortilla and Chips washed down with Double Diamond was bad enough, but this is just going too far.
Now there’s a funny coincidence
The BBC are running a thing on their web site looking back at 60 years of public information films. Great. We all love a public information film don’t we. Anyway, yesterday they featured the Tufty Club which I remember belonging to as a small boy and so I downloaded the image of the Tufty Club badge and set it as my desktop wallpaper.
When I got home my Mum had come to see us and brought some old photo’s so Suzanne could see how alike Jude and baby me are. I was flicking through this photo album and saw a school picture of me aged about six – wearing my Tufty Club badge!
The BBC are running a thing on their web site looking back at 60 years of public information films. Great. We all love a public information film don’t we. Anyway, yesterday they featured the Tufty Club which I remember belonging to as a small boy and so I downloaded the image of the Tufty Club badge and set it as my desktop wallpaper.
When I got home my Mum had come to see us and brought some old photo’s so Suzanne could see how alike Jude and baby me are. I was flicking through this photo album and saw a school picture of me aged about six – wearing my Tufty Club badge!
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Watch the birdie
Funny old game golf. I’ve been playing (I use the term in it’s very loosest sense) for approaching three years now, and I’ve never had much success. For each good shot there have been at least a dozen really awful ones. Then you have to factor in the fact that any infrequent good shot will be immediately followed by a run of truly dreadful ones. When you put all that together it means that actually completing a hole in the regulation number of strokes is very rare for a hacker like me. In fact in all the time I’ve been playing I think it has only happened about four times. I once sunk a 20 foot putt for a par 4 and that was the pinnacle of my golfing career.
On Sunday I played my first round for about five months. I hadn’t practised at all over the winter. As usual I played a fair few bad shots, but at the same time I played more good shots than I can ever remember hitting. More importantly my swing felt right and I could actually get the ball to do what I intended. When I started the round I decided not to keep score and just enjoy the experience so I don’t know what my overall score would have been but it would certainly have been one of my better scores.
Anyway, I had never played this particular course before; although I had been told about the tricky 17th and 18th holes which are both played over water. Water is a funnier thing than golf and if you add the two things together life gets very difficult. It isn’t particularly difficult to hit a ball straight for 150 yards and reach the green on a par 3 hole. But when that 150 yards is made up of a body of water it messes with your mind and becomes almost impossible. The water becomes a magnet for your ball. This particular lake is the one Barnes Wallace used to test his bouncing bomb scale models and so you’re likely to find yourself recreating the great man’s stone skimming phenomena with your own spherical object…or three.
On Sunday though I didn’t feel too put off by the pressure. In fact I had twice had to play rescue shots from adjoining fairways in front of an audience of other groups of golfers and had done brilliantly; so in fact I was really looking forward to the challenge of the 17th. So I just relaxed, hit my tee shot and watched my ball sail happily right across the lake and land just to the right of the green but pin high. My playing partner Steve, who it must be said is a far better golfer than I, answered the lake’s siren call with a couple of Wallace-esque skimmers. I think his sacrifices to the golfing gods must have helped them to look kindly on my efforts. My chip onto the green wasn’t particularly good and then I two putted, but I was still very pleased with a bogey 4.
So, I approached the 18th tee in a very positive frame of mind and feeling very happy with the round of golf I had almost completed. The 18th is a 324 yard par 4, a narrow-ish fairway opens up at the end to provide an area from which you are to play your second shot back across the lake (slightly shorter this time, maybe about 100 yards) to the green which is effectively a man made island with vertical wooden piles marking the boundary between land and water.
Needing accuracy as well as distance I opted for my 3 wood and hit a perfect looking straight drive right down the middle into the end of the fairway. Excellent. However, just to make things a bit more interesting there is a huge dead tree on the lake shore, so even though you think you have made a perfect drive to get position for the next shot onto the green you actually could have done with another 30 yards to be able to have a clear shot at the pin.
So the second shot would not only have to clear the psychological barrier of the lake but it would have to do it in some style with a ballistic trajectory to take it clear of the 30m tree and stick on the green. Or I could play for the left hand side of the green and not worry about the tree, but that is a very small target and I wasn’t any more confident of making that than getting over the tree. So, death or glory time…thwack, zoom, sail, carry…wait…touchdown in the general area of the pin. Steve magnanimously made another offering of a couple of balls in the lake and we made our way to the green.
It’s a fairly longish walk round the head of the lake and back round to the island, quite long enough for the full realisation that this is a rare birdie opportunity to develop. I must say I wasn’t massively confident but I did feel calm, and then even excited as we reached the green. Had it been a summer’s day the adjoining beer terrace would have been full of people watching, I imagined them murmuring to each other expectedly. In reality on this wet winter’s Sunday afternoon there was only me, Steve and a lone moorhen to conjure up the magical atmosphere.
I had left myself with a 12 footer, maybe a little more. Many of the greens that day had been quite waterlogged. This one, although very wet, at least didn’t have standing water so I was in with a chance. I’ll do my full putt routine I announced as I squatted down ten feet behind my ball and sized up the shot. As I stood over the ball the imaginary crowd hushed and I took up my stance, my eyes ran from ball to hole and back three or four times, grooving the path of the ball into my subconscious, giving some deep and unfathomable part of my brain the raw data it needed to translate that path into the muscle movement needed to make it happen. Then, lock my head and gaze on the ball, and without pausing let all thought go and feel the shot as you play it. A short follow through and now you can look.
A third of the way along it’s path and the ball has settled into a steady roll; it’s looking good, on track.
Two thirds now and still on course but slowing in the wet.
Two feet, looking good.
One foot, really slowing now.
Six inches…oh no, it’s on course but it’s going to hold up short.
It probably had enough energy for two more revolutions as it dropped gently but firmly into the cup. Ecstasy. Disbelief. Did that really just happen to me? A perfect drive, accuracy and distance. The ideal approach shot. A fantastic putt.
So what had changed? How come I could suddenly play golf? I hadn’t practised but I did read a few weeks ago that you can improve sports performance by visualising yourself doing it. So I had done that a little, lying in bed at night I imagine myself swinging the club and connecting well and watching the ball soar, not even every day, just now and then for a minute or so. I actually managed to change my mind, instead of believing I was the spanner who never did well at any physical activity I believed I had all the skills I needed to make perfect shots.
And so I finally realised that it’s true, as Henry Ford said: “If you think you can do a thing or think you can't do a thing, you're right.”
He also said: “One of the greatest discoveries a man makes, one of his great surprises, is to find he can do what he was afraid he couldn't do.” I wonder if he played golf.
Funny old game golf. I’ve been playing (I use the term in it’s very loosest sense) for approaching three years now, and I’ve never had much success. For each good shot there have been at least a dozen really awful ones. Then you have to factor in the fact that any infrequent good shot will be immediately followed by a run of truly dreadful ones. When you put all that together it means that actually completing a hole in the regulation number of strokes is very rare for a hacker like me. In fact in all the time I’ve been playing I think it has only happened about four times. I once sunk a 20 foot putt for a par 4 and that was the pinnacle of my golfing career.
On Sunday I played my first round for about five months. I hadn’t practised at all over the winter. As usual I played a fair few bad shots, but at the same time I played more good shots than I can ever remember hitting. More importantly my swing felt right and I could actually get the ball to do what I intended. When I started the round I decided not to keep score and just enjoy the experience so I don’t know what my overall score would have been but it would certainly have been one of my better scores.
Anyway, I had never played this particular course before; although I had been told about the tricky 17th and 18th holes which are both played over water. Water is a funnier thing than golf and if you add the two things together life gets very difficult. It isn’t particularly difficult to hit a ball straight for 150 yards and reach the green on a par 3 hole. But when that 150 yards is made up of a body of water it messes with your mind and becomes almost impossible. The water becomes a magnet for your ball. This particular lake is the one Barnes Wallace used to test his bouncing bomb scale models and so you’re likely to find yourself recreating the great man’s stone skimming phenomena with your own spherical object…or three.
On Sunday though I didn’t feel too put off by the pressure. In fact I had twice had to play rescue shots from adjoining fairways in front of an audience of other groups of golfers and had done brilliantly; so in fact I was really looking forward to the challenge of the 17th. So I just relaxed, hit my tee shot and watched my ball sail happily right across the lake and land just to the right of the green but pin high. My playing partner Steve, who it must be said is a far better golfer than I, answered the lake’s siren call with a couple of Wallace-esque skimmers. I think his sacrifices to the golfing gods must have helped them to look kindly on my efforts. My chip onto the green wasn’t particularly good and then I two putted, but I was still very pleased with a bogey 4.
So, I approached the 18th tee in a very positive frame of mind and feeling very happy with the round of golf I had almost completed. The 18th is a 324 yard par 4, a narrow-ish fairway opens up at the end to provide an area from which you are to play your second shot back across the lake (slightly shorter this time, maybe about 100 yards) to the green which is effectively a man made island with vertical wooden piles marking the boundary between land and water.
Needing accuracy as well as distance I opted for my 3 wood and hit a perfect looking straight drive right down the middle into the end of the fairway. Excellent. However, just to make things a bit more interesting there is a huge dead tree on the lake shore, so even though you think you have made a perfect drive to get position for the next shot onto the green you actually could have done with another 30 yards to be able to have a clear shot at the pin.
So the second shot would not only have to clear the psychological barrier of the lake but it would have to do it in some style with a ballistic trajectory to take it clear of the 30m tree and stick on the green. Or I could play for the left hand side of the green and not worry about the tree, but that is a very small target and I wasn’t any more confident of making that than getting over the tree. So, death or glory time…thwack, zoom, sail, carry…wait…touchdown in the general area of the pin. Steve magnanimously made another offering of a couple of balls in the lake and we made our way to the green.
It’s a fairly longish walk round the head of the lake and back round to the island, quite long enough for the full realisation that this is a rare birdie opportunity to develop. I must say I wasn’t massively confident but I did feel calm, and then even excited as we reached the green. Had it been a summer’s day the adjoining beer terrace would have been full of people watching, I imagined them murmuring to each other expectedly. In reality on this wet winter’s Sunday afternoon there was only me, Steve and a lone moorhen to conjure up the magical atmosphere.
I had left myself with a 12 footer, maybe a little more. Many of the greens that day had been quite waterlogged. This one, although very wet, at least didn’t have standing water so I was in with a chance. I’ll do my full putt routine I announced as I squatted down ten feet behind my ball and sized up the shot. As I stood over the ball the imaginary crowd hushed and I took up my stance, my eyes ran from ball to hole and back three or four times, grooving the path of the ball into my subconscious, giving some deep and unfathomable part of my brain the raw data it needed to translate that path into the muscle movement needed to make it happen. Then, lock my head and gaze on the ball, and without pausing let all thought go and feel the shot as you play it. A short follow through and now you can look.
A third of the way along it’s path and the ball has settled into a steady roll; it’s looking good, on track.
Two thirds now and still on course but slowing in the wet.
Two feet, looking good.
One foot, really slowing now.
Six inches…oh no, it’s on course but it’s going to hold up short.
It probably had enough energy for two more revolutions as it dropped gently but firmly into the cup. Ecstasy. Disbelief. Did that really just happen to me? A perfect drive, accuracy and distance. The ideal approach shot. A fantastic putt.
So what had changed? How come I could suddenly play golf? I hadn’t practised but I did read a few weeks ago that you can improve sports performance by visualising yourself doing it. So I had done that a little, lying in bed at night I imagine myself swinging the club and connecting well and watching the ball soar, not even every day, just now and then for a minute or so. I actually managed to change my mind, instead of believing I was the spanner who never did well at any physical activity I believed I had all the skills I needed to make perfect shots.
And so I finally realised that it’s true, as Henry Ford said: “If you think you can do a thing or think you can't do a thing, you're right.”
He also said: “One of the greatest discoveries a man makes, one of his great surprises, is to find he can do what he was afraid he couldn't do.” I wonder if he played golf.
Monday, January 23, 2006
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- Outsourcing and pan-continental communication: a c...
- There’s no fool like a self deluded fool. This pla...
- Bettered Haddock Fillet with Lemon National Custom...
- Chicken & Bacon File Pie We decided that a day out...
- Vegetable Past Bake I’m not usually one to fall fo...
- Apple & Sultan Strudel with Custard The bastard co...
- Changing rooms were horrid The changing rooms of t...
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October
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