Stretch Ivanovitch

My son, you seem to grow much longer
Without a doubt, you appear much stronger
Why, in your room the other night
I saw you reach - switch on the light
I'm sure you couldn't reach last week
I had to lift you to my cheek

Perhaps you're stretching towards the sun
A sapling looking out for fun
You simply couldn't be the one
That little dot in Mother's tum
Though drinking milk, through straw so loud
Your head will soon be in the clouds

I wish I was your age again
I wish I'd have you for my friend
We'd play, and laugh, and play some more
And have slumber parties upon your floor
Still, I'm your Dad, and young enough
To play hide and seek and other stuff

The pip has to an apple grown
A son I'm proud to call my own
A funny, lively, happy guy
Exciting, loving, smallish-fry
My partner in crime, my mini-me
A happier man I cannot be.

Sergei

Cat's Cradle anyone?

Television at Christmas. There’s a rum thing. You would think that the march of progress would have reached the Television Station Authority by now. That TSA1 and TSA2 would come up with some new offerings for us all instead of The Flying Nanny and Celebrity Generation Grime.

They know we won’t complain – that’s the reason. We are too full of cheap sherry and expensive mints to raise any kind of popular front against them. Perhaps instead we should choose not to watch – just switch off altogether.

Could you survive the Yuletide ordeal without such crumbs of comfort as Ready Steady Burnt, or Coronation Square being spewed forth from your surround-sound, home cinema complex?

Well I'm going to try.

With my telly having been made by Lada in the 70's, I think I might have to...

Sergei

The Butler Did It

Ivanovitch Jr., being of sound mind and sharp wit, was busily giving me the run-down of his Xmas top-ten this week.

Noticeably lacking in board games I thought. All electronic gadgets, action toys, and DVDs or PS games.

"What about Scrabble?" says I.

"Don't like scrabble - I always beat my Sister".

"Any board games you do like?"

"Well, for goodness' sake don't get me Cluedo"

"Why's that then?"

"You can't trust anybody in that game".

Another Cucumber Sandwich, Mr. Bond?

One of the outgoing Home Secretary's achievements being trumpeted by Labour yesterday was the doubling in size of the Secret Service to cope with the heightened security threat. I was just wondering though, where did they advertise these positions then?

My invitation must have got lost in the post, I guess.

I've got exactly the credentials they might be looking for...competant, discreet, loyal, an ardent fan of Royalty.

Perhaps it was the name.

Ivanovitch.

Listening Without Predjudice.

Funny thing they say - 'what goes around, comes around'.

I always thought they were talking about those little kiddies' roundabouts you sometimes find in municipal parks. Of course, that's not what they mean. Whoever they are.

In this instance, I'm referring to my local pub landlord. After several months suffering regular petty theft, he has gone to expense and trouble of installing cameras around his substantial premises, accompanied by hidden microphones. Each night, as he and his wife go to bed, they quickly review the tape of the last shift. "No doubt", he said to me the other weekend, "I'll catch the little tea-leaf now". The staff are aware that they are now being filmed, although they don't know they are also being sonically recorded.

He caught and sacked the Assistant Manager last week. Happy as Larry, he celebrated by going Christmas shopping. He also decided to leave the cameras and mikes installed, as a safeguard against further theft.

Upon his return, and his wife being out shopping, he emptied his wife's presents out onto the bar. Amongst the usual choccies and jewellery, he showed the regulars a large bottle of exclusive perfume he had bought his wife. "Got it half-price" says he with a wink. "but she doesn't need to know that bit - does she?".

I wouldn't have minded being a fly on the wall when his wife reviewed the video tapes that night.

I guess he'll be going out doing a bit more shopping this weekend.

Sergei

What the Eye Sees...

Oftentimes, sitting in long boring meetings, I find myself wishing that something out of the ordinary would happen. Perhaps the Chairperson could break wind. Someone might spill their coffee on the minutes; the girl taking notes will stand up, shake her hair free, and carry out a striptease.

Anything in fact.

One thing that did happen today was worth a giggle though.

One of our contract Web Designers had been working on a new form for our customers to fill in when they wanted to update their address details. He had spent quite a few days perfecting the functionality behind every button, field and setting. Sorted out the corporate logo, and generally did an excellent job.

Except for one thing.

When he did a demo today, yours truly pointed out that mid-blue writing on a light-blue background didn't seem to be very easy to read.

He disagreed, saying he could see it perfectly well, and it wasn't a blue font anyway, it was green. After a few minutes of to-ing and fro-ing, he mysteriously changed his mind, and sat down.

Suddenly, I recalled speaking to him a few days earlier, when he had told me he was, in fact, colourblind.

Ah.

Cringe.

Sergei

Complain 'cos it's easier...

...than actually doing something about anything.

My colleague complains about everything and anything. The angle of his chair each morning, the batteries in his mouse. The temperature of the coffee, the state of the carpet. The office aircon, the poster on the wall, the lighting, the noise, the lift, the screen on his PC. His wife, his kids, his SatNav system, his lunch, his phone, his colleagues.

In fact, despite his contant whinging, he is actually a very popular and well loved character in our team. If ever we want a few minutes light relief, all we have to do is light the blue touchpaper and retire to a safe distance to watch the fizzing and the spluttering reach a crescendo, then slowly die away as he stomps off to make yet another cup of filthy tea for himself in the company-provided kitchen.

Where would we be without him?

Well, without a decent kettle for one. New lights above our heads. De-static'd carpets. Clean desks. Bins emptied twice daily. Full recycling facilities for every team, including plastic bottles and metal. A chocolate machine. A very decent coffee machine. A microwave, and a new fridge - in every kitchen thoughout the building. New mobile phones, and a laptop each.

We like him. A lot.

Keep complaining about everything Ivan...it's working.

Sergei

Girls Aloud

I don't know why, but an embarrassing but true moment from my past came back to mind today.

Going to college one morning circa 1985, travelling with about 40 other sixth-formers on a double-decker bus, I was immersed in finishing an assignment not completed the night before. The bus drew up to a giddy halt at the next stop, and my friend hopped on board. My friend was Suzy, an American girl who had joined my class the previous year, and we had hit it off pretty well.

So well in fact, I had fallen for her - big time.

Having spent the previous night wallowing in teenage angst, I had written her a love note, telling her of my feelings for her, and today was the day I was going to give it to her - slip it into her schoolbag.

Unfortunately, today was not a good day for the confessions of a lovesick admirer.

She saw me slipping the note into the bag, and grabbed me with one hand, holding the note aloft with the other.

She called the other sixth-formers to attention, and then proceeded to read my lust-soaked note out to anyone that cared to listen.

After a couple of sentences, she realised exactly what the note was, and stopped in mid syllable.

I was a puddle on the floor. She was red enough to burn holes in the seats.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry Honey, I thought you were giving me a joke to read like you normally do."

And women wonder why men don't often make those overblown romantic gestures.

Diagnosis: It's plain terror.

Sergei

Life is right here, right now.

I want to draw my life around me even tighter than usual.

Stave off the systematic encroachment of the big 'D'.

Look after me and mine a bit more.

Stop smoking (been there, done that, got the yellow T-shirts)

I can even smell this blog now. And taste it.

It smells of Bovril, thinly spread on a slice of ironic toast.

Sergei

In The Stars

There is a place, here on Earth, where civilisation as we know it came to be - a place of absolutes. A towering, frightening beauty, where bound in soil and rock we can find flawless wealth - and unstoppable death. This cradle of mankind, this clashing firebowl of creation, magically coppered skies, with granite spires and smouldering fires, brewing under the cauldron of hard-ground oatmeal and rice.

This may sound magical, it may sound hellish, but people live here. People surrounded by an ultimate wealth of sights, sounds and smells. But they don't see the scenery any longer. Too hungry you see. Too thirsty even to lift their heads and cry out for mercy from the sun. Too dependant upon others to bring in food or water. Too sick to bury their own dead.

"We be of one blood ye and I"

Whilst others fight over the mangy remains of the Middle East oil fields, the sovereignty of the bullies who perpetrate these injustices is safe. No bible-belt turkey-necks from the home of the brave dares lift their heads above the parapets of these Sudanese hills, lest they lose their seats in Congress next time around.

Don't wait for someone else to do something, they won't. Don't complain bitterly to the government of the day, and blame them for the inaction. Our Government is an extension of our country's soul, and they do what we will them to do.

So will them. When you change, so will they.

Sergei

Non-Ionic Surfactantism - The New Art?

Non-Ionic Surfactantism - the new Art?

Have you heard about Hamian Dirst's latest exhibition? Apparently, it is proving a wow at the Ideal Home Exhibition this month. Never one to mince ideas about his work (usually just minces his subjects) he has turned his artistic 'talents' to the house and home. Forget about dissected cows or sheep, this show really hits the public on the nose. I wouldn't want to spoil the impact of the exhibition before you go to see it, but see it you must.

Mops. Sturdy yard-brooms. Vacuum cleaners. Toilet pans and sinks - every single item one might find in the average British household is represented here. Dirst's beautifully original idea is obviously born out of long experience in the field of Good Housekeeping. Every item has been exquisitely dissected and displayed in huge glass-sided vats of Harpic. Each vat occupies a different section of the exhibition, and all the items within are artistically displayed out of context, for maximum effect.

Look closely, and you will see the the half-cooker gracefully floating next to the spotlessly clean pedestal bath, both suspended in mid-levitation like a David Blaine extravaganza. The washing machine hovers in close attendance, trailing it's waste pipe like some pale digestive tract, apparently in serious conversation with the toaster, which is slowly spinning on it's polar axis in an underwater ballet all it's own.

Moving past the show-stopping synchronised bidet display, one gratefully reaches the end of the exhibition, and removes one's gas-mask - the only necessary thing about the whole charade.

Interviewing Mr. Dirst later, he gives the impression that the whole idea is an attempt to help the public to understand the whole concept of how wrong it is to sanitise one's entire life. Quote: "Forever scrubbing, polishing, dusting and hoovering is the modern equivalent of Paganism. Praying to a false God, in the vain hope that keeping the house clean will provide absolution at St. Peter's spotless gate. Even the original conception was immaculate" Unquote. Gives a new meaning to 'White Goods'.

Sponsorship has, as usual, provided the headlines for the Paparazzi.
Lever Brothers. Well, who'd have thought it. The Mirror howls; 'Dirst Does His Dirty Washing in Public'. 'Clean-cut image Smashed', says the Telegraph. 'I was Dirst's Hygienist' - The Sun. Although his Docklands Garret now smells like a swimming pool, the stench of corporate backhandling pervades the air like rancid sewage.

10cc summed it up succinctly when Kevin Godley wrote the immortal lines 'Im Mandy - Fly Me'. No, not that one, the other one. What was it? Oh yes - 'Art for Art's Sake, Money For God's Sake'.

PS: Don't bother going to the IHE to see the show. I made it up. An artist, cutting things in half, and displaying them in preservative - complete, ineffable hogwash...

Sergei.