Trading Faces

Today, as happens quite often, was an Ugly day on the Tube.

Not ugly in the sense of an ugly or nasty event happening, but Ugly in the sense of the faces of my fellow travellers. It's not down to the way they actually look, but really down to the mood I'm in.

I've noticed that if I'm tired or grumpy, or if I've got up extra early, the denizens of those early trains appear disfigured, blotchy, asymmetrical even.

Yet, if I'm in a good mood - for instance; post-coitially glowing, all and sundry appear radiant, beautiful, Swedish even.

I wonder if I appear the same to them according to the mood they are in. I'm often told that I look worried, older than I am, down in the mouth. Quite often, this happens when I'm in good spirits, happy.

I put this down to just simply being ugly, wrinkled, and heavy-jowled. Bulldoggy even.

But maybe it's because they're all in a bad mood...in fact I'm an East Anglian Adonis.

Woof woof.

Sergei.

Glitter Balls

Attending this week the Annual Congress of The Glitter, Gaudy Paper and Bauble Manufacturers, I could detect a distinct air of expectancy mingling with the cigar smoke and alcohol fumes. One could almost hear the rubbing of gleeful palms and over-enthusiastic handshaking of the delegates as they busily self-congratulated each other over quotas reached, profits predicted and margins stretched during the run-up to Xmas.

I was due to be the last speaker of the night - the graveyard delegate who would be battling to be heard over the din of smashing glasses and sirens.

Tonight though, was to be different. Tonight, I had been shoved up to the top of the bill due to an unfortunate incident involving my Boss, who was to be the main after-dinner speaker and a small bag of sample baubles which he had accidentally left on the drivers seat of his Porsche earlier that morning.

I decided to throw away my own painstakingly prepared speech, and go for the laughs with an off-the-shoulder, off-the-cuff, straight for the throat address, kindly donated by my now-indisposed CEO. I hadn't had time to read the eight pages, but my colleague told me it was a cracker.

A hand-bell rang, and the Master of Ceremonies raised his white-gloved hand for silence. A small nod from him brought me to the podium to face the motley red faces and varicosed noses of the Captains of the Tinsel Industry.

I was sure I could detect a small ripple of mirth weaving it's way through the front few tables, but put it down to my own paranoid nervousness and dismissed it.

The speech started well; my Boss's undoubted wit shining through, with knowledgeable winks to various Industry Heavyweights, and congratulations to various brown-nosed Sales Reps who had hit their Xmas targets by August. The middle section was hard going, with some serious side-swipes at bitter rivals, and a pointed poke at the Office of Fair Trading for their not-insignificant investigation into the fire hazards of cheap tree decorations, most of which made up the vast profits of our firm.

The final paragraph my Boss had written concerning his wife sleeping with his Junior Partner proved a little more difficult to handle; also the spy cameras he had had installed in his master bedroom, and the very theatrical PowerPoint presentation of the resulting pictures seemed a little harsh for an Xmas speech.

Still, everyone seemed to be laughing.

I, for one, was amazed at the quality one can achieve from such little tiny digital cameras.

Mrs. Mounter from Personnel told me I really should consider waxing though.

Sergei.

It's a Royal Knockout

It's funny how Ministers don't like Royalty speaking out on political issues.

I mean, to become an MP, you must surely believe in freedom of speech, the right to protest, and democracy as a whole.

And even His Royal Heiriness has that right. No more or no less than the rest of the population.

Forget that Charles, debateably, has a position of power; his subjects can still choose either to listen or to ignore his point of view, and anyone that can be bothered might still write a letter to an Editor to agree or protest in the public domain. And perhaps in these increasingly Republican times, they'll be more likely to ignore anyway.

The singular point that does disturb me however, is that his comments - despite being made in a private memo not for publication - were taken so very seriously, even personally, by a very senior Minister.

If I may humbly recall, Right Honourable Gentlemen of HMG only start throwing their toys out of the pram when there is actually some truth to an allegation.

Fungus the Bogeyman MP should keep quiet. It would allow him to give the impression that HRH's comments weren't worthy of expensive - taxpayers - time and consideration.



Sergei

Creeping Vandalism

Rustle, skid, sounds of bicycle in full flight.

~~

Remote laughter.

Scrape of wood on wood as yours truly wrestles with garden gate.

Sounds of cursing as Yours Truly trips over in haste to catch offender.

Further cursing as Yours Truly fails to catch offender.

Sound of blood rushing to fill gap deserted by common sense.

Zen-like calm returns to Yours Truly.

Fizzing sound, as ideas for apocalyptic retribution briefly flit past the lightbulb of practicality in the steely mind of Yours Truly.



Miniature cameras, microphones, PIR-activated floodlights, nets dropping from trees. All considered fleetingly.

Make the punishment fit the crime. That's it.

You see, some little ComputerUserNonTechnical has slowly been snapping bits off my fence as he goes past on his bike.



I've nearly caught him three times now. But he is canny. Teasing me by changing the time he does it every night.

Poetic Justice - that's the ticket.

Splinters of fence hammered up under his fingernails. Creosote poured over his trousers and lit. Trellis nailed to forehead.



It's amazing, actually, what lengths one thinks one might go to if one catches the offender.

Whereas in reality, Sensible Sergei, what you should do is completely ignore him. And when he stops getting a reaction, he'll get bored.

It's just a case of which snaps first - me or the fence.

Sergei

Agony Gigolos

Within one's marriage in these enlightened times, it should be perfectly acceptable for a wife and her man to discuss sexually related matters. To share likes, dislikes, fantasies, worries and clinical treatment.

It hasn't always been like this, as I'm sure we are all aware. Before the Highgate Clinic opened in North London, the local quack prescribed Dettol and a Wire Brush.

So it struck me as odd that in one of the most technically advanced nations on the planet, Japan, there are widespread taboos covering those sorts of subjects. Even relatively young couples are finding it hard to talk to each other about this most wonderful of natural pleasures.

Of course, Japan is famed for it's conservatism. After several thousand years worth of history along with the Chinese, Egyptians and Romans, perhaps certain customs become pretty well entrenched.

Therefore, it's nice to see Japanese woman leading the Sexual Revolution. After years of simple acceptance, they are looking to Outsource to third parties.

Not content with simply writing to a newspaper column to be regaled with platitudes and lectures, they are simply inviting the local Gigolo around for tea and sympathy. For most, actual intercourse is not an option. Just a good old-fashioned chinwag over Jasmine infusions with someone who can offer sexual advice based on real-life experience.

The Japanese have contributed many great ideas, gadgets and philosophies over the centuries, and I believe this is one of them.

I think I'll suggest it to the bos domesticus when she gets in later.

Or maybe I'll ring the local Escort Service myself, just to make sure there's mileage in it.

Sergei

The Human Condition

Here on Earth, men and women go about their daily lives generally unmoved by events that do not, at first glance, seem to concern them. Busying themselves with the smaller details of life that can take up so much of one's time such as work, houseplants, children, gardening.

There are very few of us that think beyond the realm of ordinary averageness. Very few who really seem to understand the vast, timeless, grandiose scheme of real life and how man and woman fit into that plan as the mere - short lived - animals we really are.

Those of us who are religious believe perhaps in the Afterlife. In Reincarnation, or Martyrdom even. Those who are not might misquote Karl Marx's idiom regarding the 'Opium of the masses' and with a sigh, consign the whole entire history of humanity to a cosmic dustbin.

So let's just look at what it would take to really live life as nature intended.

1) Remove all clothes.
2) Never take contraception.
3) Disavow all technology.
4) Hunt and be hunted.
5) Unilaterally disarm ourselves.
6) Live together in small sociable groups.
7) Disband all governing bodies.
8) Let Mother Nature take over anything she can.
9) Lose any conception of Time.

There is one more point I wish to make.

10) Build the Republic of Heaven where you stand.

Don't wait to die before you experience true happiness. You can't realistically follow points 1-9 above, you'd be Sectioned. All that stuff is too late for humankind now.

But point 10 - that is something you can do. Pretend that there is no afterlife, and create your own happiness right here, and now.

Why should we do this?

Because God is what you make it. And that sentence is grammatically correct.

Don't wait. If you want to know exactly how to create Heaven here on earth, watch your children. They know exactly how to do it.

With innocence, curiosity, laughter, simple childlike kindness, and pure, trusting love.

With Love to all my friends, Sergei.

Heavy Words Mean nothing to me, Autumn winds can blow right through me...

It's finally happened.

Our chums in the USA have sent us their latest edict upon workplace ethics, in the form of an elvish Being named Barbara.

Barbara is a Management Consultant. She stands four-feet nothing in her heels, and has a voice like a cracked whip. Actually she is quite jolly, although she isn't here to trade niceties with her new colleagues in the Old Country (for that is what we are to them).

She is here to propound the latest theory of how to avoid harassment in the workplace. Or, more exactly, how to harass your underlings without them feeling they'll see you in court before getting you a coffee with the rest of your team.

I met Barbara this morning. All Tweed and Charlie, (the perfume, that is) and I conducted her on a fragrant tour of our team area.

Her first comment was - 'How many women work in this team then?".

"MANTRAP" something screams inside me. "KILL THE DWARF" also surfaces, but is quickly beaten down to my subconscious level with a large moral iron bar.

"Er...none at present" is the only sentence that actually make it out of my clenched jaws.

"I should think that's something to do with the Pirelli Calendar on the wall." She smiles, sharklike, waiting hungrily for my discomfort to manifest itself.

"Actually..." I begin smugly, "that was given to us by the HelpDesk girls last Xmas".

"Are they dykes then?" she offers the hook, line and float to my sense of humour.

Its too much for my humour to not take the bait.

"Well, they've had a lot of fingers stuck in them". Winning smile, rueful shrug of the shoulders, wink for imaginary camera.

"See you in the training room at 10am then".

Someone sprays me with crushed ice.

Oh sh*t.

I bet I'm going to be bad example number one all morning.

I'll never make US President now. Sorry Monica.

PS: I've already sent off my order for next year's calendar - 'Buffy, Uncut'.

Black Harvests

If you believe in witchcraft, you might believe in it's healing power. Can it have a place in today's society, with all it's modern laissez-faire, antipathy and sudden flights of violence? Could witchcraft be the one true answer, where politics, wars and righteous words have so often failed?

Buffy at least brings the White Art to the fore in recent times, and the resultant upsurge in Girl-Power can be measured on the Richter Scale.

Wars are fought in a series of epic battles, enormous set-to's between Good and Evil are played out in heroic scale.

Good doesn't always win. That's true life if ever I saw it.

Perhaps we should take it more seriously. Witchcraft in general that is.

Medicine was born out of it. Religion relies upon it's ancient controlling balances to survive. Gunpowder from Alchemy. The written word from Runes. Astrology. Astronomy, therefore rocketry.

It's more than a reading of the tea-leaves - we've got nothing else left. Have we.

Sergei

University Challenged

I don't know about you, but I get the impression that the bastion of youth culture known as University Challenge, has been dumbing down of late.

Why?

Because I find I can answer so many of the questions asked by the venerable Mr. Paxman.

I didn't scape together enough brains to go to Uni. I have never studied advanced biology, physics, chemistry, although an absolute love of the English language has stood me in good stead over the years.

However, sitting in front of the box whilst pairing socks tonight, I answered more questions correctly than the four combined brains of the St.Johns College - Cambridge team.

Now, I haven't recently been swallowing large amounts of Omega 3 essential fish oil tablets, and I haven't taken to scanning the Encyclopaedia Britannica in my spare time.

So something must have changed.

Perhaps it's life experience.

Maybe not.

I have yet to pair up one pair of socks correctly.

Customary Proceedings

Play. Playschool. School. Schoolwork. Work. Workout. Outsource. Out. Laid out.

Innocent children playing in the sandpit, with our heads full of dreamy nothings - an ice-cream cornet topped with a sprinkling of Enid Blyton adventure stories. Excitement's just a street away in the greensome park. Conkers, pitched battles in muddy puddles, hot baths and smiley scolding Mums with steaming cocoa.

Primary school beckons with it's painty fingers, and letters home tell of accidents and spare trousers, Christmas plays and sunny sports days.

Hard edged buildings with flint-grey walls, sharp-cut classrooms, and over-tired Teachers tell the story of High School diplomas, boffins and bullies the haves and have-nots.

Crazed pupils, crazed Pupils, proud parents and fluttering hearts, grinning Masters with winning classes, trophies, sentimental chalk-dust marks, Graduates gradually graduating.

Top-notch jobs with top-notch firms, top-notch fortunes notched-up, interest and experience gained, houses bought and gardens dug, nurseries painted for baby bugs.

Greying temples, Directors' addresses, temples grazed and missing tresses, pressures building on precious buildings, higher rises for the higher risers, penthouse lifts for millionaire misers, stoney pavements for company strivers.

Mahogany coffins, too early to bed, waiting silently to claim their dead, dusty ashes fill golden mugs - favourite golf course scatterings by grown-up bugs; Software, Hardware to avail but naught, what you didn't believe in can't be bought. Can't be stored and frozen until, someone invents the perfect pill.

Live young, die old, forget your birthday, cut your losses - for dreamy nothings, and candy flosses.

Sergei.

Where Is The Gap In Watford?

Things just didn't work out for me on Sunday.

8am start, taking Ivanovitch Jr to Rugby, in Watford.

"I know" says I, "I'll drive over to the Rugby Club and follow the Coaches down to Watford, cos they know where they are going". "Good idea" replies Shortstop, "cos you got lost last year, didn't you Dad?"

Only trouble is, said Coaches have got large, fast cars, and Yours Truly does not.

So, I'm soon on my own, making my way down the fast-moving motorway.

Actually, not quite on my own.

Two other nervous parents are following me. Oh Dear. One car, and one van, filled with the familiar black and yellow hoops of smallish rugby players.

Don't follow me, I'm lost too!!

This is the only time I wish I had one of those stoopid stickers in my rear window.

I toughed it out for 30 miles, before pulling in to a layby and admitting I was a f$%kw*t.

"That's ok" says Dad-In-The-Van. "It's over there, behind that school. I saw the sign about 100 yards back"

I felt so guilty. I'd also told everyone that there was a clubhouse there where you could get coffees and bacon sarnies. That was last year. It's not there now.

And I was the only one who'd brought a flask of hot beverage.

But no tea-bags.

It rained on the way home.

And the brakes started grinding.

Full Circle

I met my family yesterday for lunch. A rare treat indeed. They all live many leagues hence from my place of travail, so catching up with one another was the fun thing of the week. Walking arm-in-arm with with Mum, Sister and Dad, pointing them in the general direction of lunch had me beaming from ear to ear.

After lunch, when all family news was expended, and lunch was weighing heavily upon my burgeoning waistline, we decided to have a stroll through the melee of an antiques fair, just browsing, chatting.

I discovered a wonderful thing. I'm turning into my Father. Walking a few paces behind him, I could see the gait, the demeanour, the smile for each stallholder, the wit and most of all the interest in the exact same stalls as me.

First rootling around the auto-memorabilia, then the philatelists corner, then looking at the antique jewellery, it was an absolute revelation.

Some folk my age might feel concerned about such things as growing old.

I don't now.

Because if I am half as fit, jolly and robust 31 years hence, as my own Father is now, I have got something to look forward to.

The orchestra always have one eye on the Conductor, even when performing a solo movement. That's as it should be.

Well, even though the leader of my band is growing more tired, and his eyes are growing old - his blood runs though my fingertips, and his song is in my soul.

Sergei

You Can Fool Some of the People some of the Time

True story heard on the train this morning...

Friend of mine, Blodwen, was sitting at home watching a Welsh soap-opera 'Pobl-Y-Cwm' on her TV.

Her friend walks in, stands behind her sofa, and is utterly amazed that he can't understand what is being said.

'That's because it's a Welsh television set' answers Blodwen. 'You can only get them in Wales, and it only broadcasts the Welsh language. And it's tube is going, so when it does I've got to drive back to Aberystwyth to pick up a new one'.

Kept him going for weeks apparently.

Nice to know innocence is still alive-o.

Genetics vs Civilisation

It struck me the other day - whilst having a conversation with a colleague who claimed not to be a racist but clearly expounded views from that side of the fence - that evils such as Racism, Adultery, Rape and perhaps even Sexism might be genetically rooted in Mankind. Particularly amongst men.

Can I therefore throw the question open to the general readership...

When a man commits racism, is he displaying a 'natural animal instinct' against what appears to be an animal from a different pack?

In other words, when a wolfpack from one area meets another wolfpack, a massive fight will probably ensue. They are the same animal, but their inner instincts rebel against 'playing nice'. Of course, I realise that today's society is far removed from wolves, and mankind as a whole has one thing which the rest of the Animal Kingdom does not - civilisation.

For myself, I do not believe that Racism is a basic animal instinct. I believe that all those evils above have been born out of civilisation.

And it's up to us to make sure that civilisation is also the death of them.

And this isn't a political statement, just playing Devil's Advocate perhaps, but...?

Sergei

Funny Bones?

The phrase 'Funny Bones' usually conjures up images of bumped elbows, or can be used as a description of a favourite comedian.

Tell you what though - it's difficult being funny all the time. Funny 'Ha Ha' not funny 'Odd'. I'm the latter far more than the former.

All the great comedians and comediennes I've ever read about don't seem to be that funny after all. Sad in fact. All had some kind of trauma in their deepest, darkest childhood that causes them to 'act up' when in front of an audience. The funnier they are, the deeper the hurt inside.

I'm not funny. I can't tell a joke to save my life. I can't even remember many jokes at all, let alone re-tell them in a comical manner.

So the phrase 'Funny Bones' could mean something else then? 'Funny' as applied to the general career of being 'Odd'. 'Bones' signifying 'Death'.

Leading you all gently to my logical conclusion then, 'Funny Bones', to me anyway, means Dead Odd. Seems to apply to some of the sketches on Little Britain. Shooting Stars even.

I've picked up a good piece of advice for all the newly-crowned TV Comics though, and it comes from one of the finest, subtlest, wittiest men to have ever lived since Shakespeare.

"Wit ought to be a glorious treat like caviar; never spread it about like marmalade" - Noel Coward.

Shame I don't like fish. Love Jaffas though. Safer.

Sergei

Eavesdropping

Thats an ugly word. I prefer to say that I was 'Testing a new and vital piece of play equipment' before anyone brings a lawsuit against me.

Whats it all about, Sergei?

Well, I recently took Ivanovitch junior into a toy shop to help him spend some hard-earned pocket money. Whilst he was grazing the shelves with the usual boyish enthusiasm, I took a peek around the shop. On the 'Action & Adventure' shelf, my magpie mind was attracted to a pair of plastic handcuffs. Moving on before I caught the attention of the attractive Shop Assistant, I then noticed a little 'Super Spy' pack, containing plastic binoculars, secret code book, light-up pen, and tucked away in the corner, an eavesdropping device, which basically consisted of an earphone and a miniature microphone.

I found this little gem again last night whilst sorting out Junior's bedroom, and took it downstairs to replace the battery in it. Then I took it outside into the garden to see just how good it was.

I switched it on, turned up the volume, and started hearing my neighbour talking quietly to his wife in their kitchen. Very clearly.

Pointing the device towards my other neighbour, I could hear his teenage son tapping on his computer keyboard.

Further down the row of houses, one chap was putting his new conservatory together, listening to Radio 2. He must have been about 50 yards away.

Amazing!!

What a laugh.

They say that eavesdroppers hear no good of themselves. And I can now testify to that well used maxim.

Mr. DIY dropped his hammer onto his concrete path from the roof of afore-mentioned conservatory.

*@C* ME!!!

My ears are still ringing.

Pardon?

Too Fake

There is something in this world that has the potential to cause more pain, more heartache, more misery than any war, political ideology or even divorce.

It's far worse than a broken finger, a hot coffee spilt in your lap, or an intimate search by a Customs Officer.

Anyone can get it, even though it can't be caught from anyone else. You are the carrier. Period.

You can't even share it with anyone else, despite many people around you suffering when you have it.

And do you know the worst thing?

The only way you can get rid of it is to make an appointment with the person you hate the most in the entire world. More even than Saddam.

And I can't get an appointment until a week Wednesday.

OhmigodIcantstandthisanymorepassthewhiskeybottle.

** Calendar Reminder for Sergei Ivanovitch - Dental Appt 14:30 01/12/2004 **

Beep Beep.

Its The Law

I wonder. Quite often in fact. Wondering is my job. And this morning, I was wondering about waste. As opposed to wandering about waste, which would certainly raise a few eyebrows in my neighbourhood.

I digress. Forgive my digressions, as I will forgive those who digress against me. Or something like that.

Away from my digressatorial wonderings, and back to the plot. Well, the landfill.

Walking down to the railway station this morning, I noticed it was the day for placing one's bins out onto the pavement ready for collection. Did mine last night in fact. In wonderment, I tried to imagine what waste some of my neighbours had put out today. I wasn't going to lift the lids on any of my friends wasteful lives or anything - let alone their wheeliebins - but I did have a fanciful flight in my mind about whether we should have waste collection at all. Would it be that horrific if we didn't? A few of the vistors to this journal might remember the strikes of the binmen during the 70's, and the amount of rubbish sitting on the streets at that time.

What if, for argument's sake, the powers that be passed a law stating that everyone had to recycle everything from now on. 'Bin the bins' would be the advertising slogan, and all we would be left with would be the recycling boxes, to be filled with paper, glass, plastics, metals, bio-degradeable waste, and fabrics.
I mean, we all do it when we visit the local Tidy Tip - sort things out into different categories, and then get shouted at by a spotty youth with a High-Visibility vest and an inordinately inflated sense of self-importance - when we accidentally drop a plastic bag into the garden waste skip.

So let's do it. Write to your local Potentate with the idea. Make your town the first, fully recycling town in the area.

By the way, an area of Denmark, called Sjelland, already did this a few years ago. They also built a small incinerating plant for each town, which, by burning the town's waste, and stubble from the fields, provided enough power to light the town each night. So it is possible, if we want it to be.

As a postscript, please be aware that, as yet, there are no recycling facilities that can cope with chewing gum, so would the Doublemint Degenerate that spat his out on the pavement en-route to the station, and which I duly stepped in whilst inspecting the wheelie bins, please take it home next time and stick it on his bedpost.

It won't lose it's flavour overnight, so the song goes.

Anyone got a scraper?

It's Love. Actually.

It might just interest everyone to know that I rediscovered love today. Not in the 'Friends Reunited' manner, but in the true, old-fashioned Bolt From The Blue way.

It wasn't an old flame, or even a gorgeous curvy blonde.

It was simply a realisation of what I was put on the planet for.

I was at home this evening, doing a simple, menial household chore, when I was consumed by an almighty flood of wellbeing, of boredom with complication, and of a mixture of winning a marathon, getting a gold at the olympics, and a massive uplift of spirit.

I discovered that, never mind the buzzcocks, I possess a true, astounding, and fantastic love for someone.

Can't wait to tell her.

After I've finished the vacuuming.

Sergei Through The Looking Glass

Terrible haircut. Looks like I cut it myself with a pair of blunt scissors, when slightly inebriated. Fading tan, left over from a two-week holiday in the rain, in a caravan. Left eyebrow slightly raised due to piratical scar gained free and gratis from a car accident a few years ago. One eye slightly higher than the other. My mother used to call me Isiaah, and I never understood that until I held a ruler horizontally up to my face. Marginal double-chin, gained through mid-thirties pigging on chocolate. I'm working on it all, though I can't afford plastic surgery yet. Perhaps that blunt pair of scissors might come in handy.
It all seems so trivial when one writes about it, but I know I'm not alone. Everyone has some things they hate about themselves, and that list contains mine.

It was all put into perspective today however, when I visited my local Accident & Emergency Dept for a badly twisted ankle.

There were people with learning difficulties; someone had burnt their eyebrows off in a cooking accident; someone else with a severe eye injury sustained from a glass shard; one lady with a prosthetic arm; toddlers with encephalopathic heads. It was, for want of a better term, a real eye-opener.

I'm thankful for what I've got, skew-wiff or not. I looked in the mirror again when I got home. I could see a modern spikey haircut, a good bit of colour in my cheeks, an eyebrow I can raise just like Roger Moore, brown eyes - slightly passionate if you like, and if I look up slightly, a chin without a single wrinkle or crease.

Everyone should have a day like I had today. Busted ankle notwithstanding.

Sergei.

It's a puppet!!!

I bin thinking. I'd just seen Philip Schofield touting his latest offering to beef up the lottery ratings, and I was recalling his erstwhile sidekick from a few years ago - Gordon the Gopher. This brought on other memories of favourite TV puppets, ranging from Muffin to the recently resurrected Basil Brush. I then began thinking - what exactly would it be like to really live with a small fox, who constantly told very bad jokes, and then proceeded to laugh like a Morris Minor trying to start on a cold morning? How annoying would that be? Or sharing a bedsit with an egomaniacal rat called Roland, who kept inviting his stupid mates around to run errands for him? The accent alone would drive me to stuff him in a small orange bucket, freeze him, then pack him off to KFC to join his mates in the fryer.

You see, it's not practical to live with someone whose habits drive you up the wall. Whose very presence triggers a sneezing fit. Whose laugh would tempt you into voting against banning fox-hunting.

Perhaps, though, there are benefits to such a co-habiting arrangement. Puppets don't leave acidic puddles and piles of evil smelling excrement on the floor. They don't squeeze the middle of the toothpaste tube. They wouldn't leave their used knickers on the bedroom floor for days.

They would, however, keep very quiet until you shoved a finger or two up their ass and wiggled.

Well, wouldn't we all...

Class Wars

Where exactly does one sit in society? Do you care? Do you want to be pigeon-holed? Most people in the UK would, I suspect, prefer not to be placed into some kind of category, unless it was one which contained Lottery winners.

But we are. Others do. And money, or lack thereof, doesn't alter the process. It appears that only accent, breeding, and grammar seem to be influencing factors. Does it matter? Well, yes, it bloody well does. Actually.

My point is this: in my spare time, I used to deliver parcels for a bit of extra pocket money, in addition to a stable and respectable job in the city it seemed like a bit of fun.

I had to deliver some important papers required for an AGM at the local Golf Club one evening. I arrived early, and rang the bell at the Members Only door, which is where the manifest specified the delivery had to be made to. A rather red-faced gentleman opened the door and inquired unpleasantly what the bloody hell I was doing ringing the doorbell as a non-member. I started to explain that I was making a special delivery for their benefit, but was cut short with a bellow of disapproval from Brick-Face and told that Members were not errand-boys, and should not be treated as such by Tradesmen.

The Club Captain, upon hearing the commotion, asked what the problem was from across the room, where he was busily filling the decanter with Port. 'No problem' answered Brick-Face, 'I'll just get rid of this boy'.

Get Rid of me? Did he mean he was going to shoot me and then bury me under the fairway of the 18th?

I steamed gently, and didn't come off the boil for at least a day and a half.

Approximately a year now after this incident, I have begun to analyse the situation. Apparently, I was not a class of gentleman that warranted polite response. Or even a modicum of civility. Lower-class bounder. I felt humiliated, and angry enough to fight. Of course, this would have landed me in Nick for a night, so was not an option. It did have me wondering though, exactly what the Kett Rebellion meant to the peasants. And why Civil War erupts every now and then across the world.

"Punk is destructive. Society does not need it" was a piece of graffitti recently seen. Some literate wag had added underneath "Oh but it does. Society is made up of minorities".

Is the same true of the class system?

Desktop Drama

I had a visit from the PC Desktop team this morning. My PC has been playing up recently, so I placed a call with the Helpdesk, asking for someone from the Dark Side of IT to come and help me.

Dave (not his real name, but that's what everyone calls him) arrived at the break of dawn today, and pronounced my PC to be short of RAM.

When I asked him what this meant, he replied that he can't be bothered to explain to all the users what all the technical terms mean, so I just had to use my imagination...
 

ram.jpg

Vauxhall Viva Vegas

One of the saddest things about attending any kind of conference or seminar in the US is watching how the Americans conduct themselves at such events. Not all of them it's true - that would be far too much of a generalisation, but the majority, certainly.
 
If you have never attended a large conference in the US before, there are some facts you need to know.  You, as an attendee, are handed a formal ID badge with your name, company, and country of origin writ large upon it. This ID card is usually lodged within a clear plastic wallet, several times the size of the card, and hung about your neck. Also attached to the card are a series of ribbon-like tabs, announcing that you are also a VIP (purple ribbon) or perhaps a Reference Partner (yellow ribbon) or maybe even a member of a User Group or Council (Green ribbon). In fact, the more closely your company is tied into the conference, the more ribbons you end up with. And you really do need some of those ribbons, so you can gain access to special areas of the conference.
 
Americans delight in this nonsense. Not even the first morning of conference had been completed before I was being approached by the Burberry Army offering to swap my yellow ribbon for a purple, or being offered some piece of marketing tat for my badge at the end of the conference. Leg it. Quick.
 
There is worse to come, because not only do you get these infernal cards and tags, you also get given a specially made enamel badge, with your national flag emblazoned upon it. This is to enable you to take part in the 'Pin Swapping' competition that runs for the length of the conference, and Americans in general are fanatical, nay, evangelical about pin swapping. If you ever want to acquaint yourself with all the saddo's, wierdo's and freako's of US Conference Culture, simply attach your Union Jack badge to your lapel, stand in the corridor, and wait.
 
Bluebottles around a freshly-laid turd are no competition.

From Penthouse to Pavement

Sometimes, just to see if we are all awake, my company makes what appears to be minor changes to it's employees' terms of employment. It just occurred to me, as I read the latest missive from personnel, that I had lost out on something, almost without realising it. The bulletin to all employees informed us that the annual pay review was being moved from January each year to April. This was aimed at bringing the UK offices into line with the rest of the global offices, who have always had their pay review at the beginning of the financial year. 
Two years ago, they moved our pay review date to January from April, to bring us into line with our Jersey offices.
 
Wait a moment!?! That means that I've lost a whole year's pay review. How did they get away with this?
 
And this year's review was a measly 2%, across the board.
 
So I've had a pay cut in real terms.
 
"Let us honour, if we can, the vertical man. Though we value none but the horizontal".
 
So I'll be dead before I realise my full worth.
 
Lovely jubbly.

Veni Vidi Vici Vegas

I'ts been six weeks since I flew back from Las Vegas, yet still the feeling of overwhelming desperation pervades the cluttered mind of the writer. You might recall that I didn't enjoy my visit to LV. What with the nefarious goings-on in the MGM Grand and all, I almost completely forgot to fill you in on the other aspects of the city, which - all in all - nearly overshadowed the original purpose of the visit - work.

The first thing that occurred to me as I strolled past the famously huge MGM Lion outside of the hotel, was how many touts there are. Hawkers, selling everything from cut-price tickets for the adult peep-shows, to balcony seats for Penn & Teller. Every tout has a particular pitch, but they all had one thing in common at least, the 'Tout-Slap'. This is not some kind of free-for-all for the Anti-tout Vigilantes, but in fact the phrase describes the sound made when a tout slaps his wad of printed invitations into the palm of his hand to attract your attention as you walk past his chosen spot. It's very disconcerting. It makes you jump and look around - which is exactly what the tout wants you to do - then he's got your attention, and starts his pitch.

Another thing I learnt very quickly to avoid was walking into the nearest drugstore, and asking the teenage shop assistant whether the store sold fags. I think she giggled for about forty seconds, which is an awfully long time for the rest of the customers in the queue behind you to wonder what exactly you asked her for. "Did you mean cigarettes?" she managed to croak behind the tears of laughter. At which point I remembered that the word 'Fag' in the USA is roughly equivalent in meaning as when it is used by Dons to describe submissive Under-Graduates at Oxford and Cambridge.

The LVPD, lovingly referred to by most Las Vegans as the Elvis Blues, have their own amazing method of beating traffic queues in LV - they use the two-wheeled wonders known as Segways. Segways were made infamous recently by George W. Bush, when he stood on one to try it out, only to fall flat on his Texan Hide because he had not worked out that you must switch it on for the gyroscopes to balance before mounting.

Fear and Loathing of Las Vegas

I've just been on what many readers might consider a dream trip. One week in Las Vegas. Hot gambling, hot girls, hot desert nights - what more could one wish for?

Well, actually, a lot.

Decent service, for one. Having visited the USA a few times in recent years, I've always been struck with the great, attentive service that seems to come naturally to waiters, bar staff, hotel staff etc. Las Vegas appears to be the place where the ones who failed their charm school exams end up. Bad manners, slow to attend, vile language are just some of the traits that my hosts displayed last week. And they still expect a good tip. Well they can sod off. I've always tipped generously for good service, but my expenses were safe on this trip.

Poor hotels are next on the list. When one stays at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas, one expects great things from such a huge, well-known entity. What I got was a very basic room, with mould growing by the side of the bath and noisy air-con. The staff appeared to be housed on the same floor, which made for disturbed nights at 5am every morning during the shift handovers. In fact the only redeeming feature of the week was when the room next door to me was taken by a Redneck, his Wife, and his Mother-in-Law. 10pm, Wife and Mother-in-Law decide to go over to Caesars Palace for a flutter. Redneck decides to stay in and watch some TV. 3 hours later, Wife and Mother-in-Law return early, to find Redneck shagging a hooker. It was like listening to Jerry Springer on full volume. All I could do was cry with laughter into my pillow...

Number 3 is food poisoning. It was the first morning, and I and my colleagues have just finished our huge buffet breakfast of melon, followed by sausage, Canadian bacon and eggs easy-over. Two hours later, four out of five of us are doubled up in the toilets in the lobby.

Perhaps I shouldn't be disingenuous. After all, you make your own luck. And I did make a small but tidy profit at the Roulette wheel.

Maybe it was just a bad week, but I hated every second of my time in LV, and have sworn never to return. Next year's trip is Orlando, Florida. Bring it on...

Paperless Kitchen

"Mmmm. Tasty, but could do with more anchovy paste. Someone julienne these baby carrots for me, I've got cramp in my thumb...oh crap! Here comes Chef. Look busy everyone.
Tum-tee-tum. Hey, whats he doing? He's putting up a notice on the kitchen corkboard.
Bet its the latest redundancies. Nah, its the results of last week's cookout. Somebody get the Kitchen Boy to have a look, he's the only one who can read in here. Whats that? Cheeky young thug. Tell us what it says. Paperless office? What kind of rubbish is that? How can you
have a paperless office in a busy kitchen? Where's the paper? Or does he mean toilet paper? Well there hasn't been any in the bog for ages anyway, so we won't miss it. Maybe he's on about the menus. That should be a laugh. Hey, everyone, Chef is going to buy us all PDAs for taking orders on.
Heh heh! What about our Delia library? Books are made of paper, what's he going to do about those then? Read that bit again Boy. A computer? In here? With all Delia's recipes in a database, in PDF format?
Whats PDF? Some kind of new flour? He's going to burn the books? He can't do that! Heretic!! I have to have my recipes down on paper, so's the Boy can read them out to me. Boy, sharpen my Sabatiers, I'm going in to the office to see Chef. Oh, and steam those carrots for me, when you've finished the pot-wash.
Jamie.....are you busy...?!

It's no different from any company. You get reformers, and you get the flat-earthers. Just that fact that you don't get quite so many sharp knives about in the average office. Or burnt salad. I just wasted an entire tree writing this out. And you just might waste another by printing it.
Don't take too much notice of the evangelical boss who berates you for blowing your nose on a tissue. Just do your bit.
Don't print off stuff you don't need. Use your computer for what it was built for - to replace filing systems and reduce over-staffing. Use just one moist wipe instead of a whole roll of loo-paper.
Especially those of you with the hairier arses. You, most of all, need to save the trees. You'll need them. Chimps.

Welcome to Daily Meander

Dear Reader,

This blog is intended to simply be an online diary. Like my real diary, it will contain political, funny, sexual, thoughtful, sweet and engaging entries. Some will be true, and some will be patently untrue. Some of the posts I wrote a while back, and appeared on another, shared Blog. I still write there - WHQTTT.com. Imagination is all part of life. I use mine. Use yours.