I love gadgets. New shiny things enthral me. I don’t care if it’s the latest Ipod or Laptop, Blu-ray player or Pampered Chef Apple Slicer, I love them all. The problem is that I get so caught up in sheer panic about making the right choice that I almost always wind up making the wrong one.
I blame my parents of course, they started it all, the love of seeing something new and magical sitting in the lounge and the ability to always wind up with the wrong version. I couldn’t believe it when I came home from School one day to discover a new machine sat under the T.V. Something I’d never even heard of was sat there. This metal coloured box was about to make a bigger impact on my life than anything I could imagine. I was absolutely mesmerised as the little cassette was slotted in and the “remote control” as I soon learned that it was called, was proudly stretched out on its cable to my Dad’s chair. I’d never even seen a remote control before, so that alone made my head spin with anticipation wondering what it would do. I no time at all there was David Essex getting on the fanciest motorbike I’d ever seen, and he could be stopped and rewound or forwarded – fantastic. It was one of the most exciting evenings of my life, but the next day my elation started to dwindle as my proud boasting about the playground uncovered the fact that not only did everyone else already have one, but also theirs had bigger cassettes in it because theirs weren’t Betamax!
Whilst my friends were listening to the orchestral sounds of Manic Minor loading onto their Spectrum, I was sitting in wonder and awe as my Dad connected up our brand new box that did a truly wondrous thing, it let you play a kind of stick version of football, or a stick version of squash, even a stick version of tennis was available and all in glorious colour; yet another fruitless boasting session at school for me. Many years have passed and now I feel ready to pass the baton over to my boys, because I’m every bit as bad as my Father, my boys will also undoubtedly feel the pleasure of being the kid with Roobok trainers or a Soony Walkboy. I just can’t bring myself to do it though, pay the over the odds prices for something when there is an identical version next to it for half the price, perhaps I’m just tight. The Internet has made my problem far worse than it ever was for Dad though, because now I can search the World for a cheaper version, rather than Newark Currys. Not for me the thrill of receiving a brand new Bose Sounddock at my door from Amazon, with it’s deep joyous sound quality - oh no. It took me minutes to click away from that and find another page on the store had a Boosey Sounddocker for a fraction of the price, my mouse moved so fast that before I knew it the doorbell was ringing – Amazon taking no chances that I’d change my mind. All in all I think I managed to do well, admittedly my Sounddocker doesn’t actually have a speaker as such, just a plug point for you to insert your own speakers, also it doesn’t actually let me watch the videos that I have on my Ipod either (yes an actual Ipod not an Ipood), as you are supposed to have a special Apple cable for that, but otherwise it works a treat at charging the battery. To watch the video I eventually cracked and went back on line to fork out the ridiculous £15.99 for a proper Apple video cable, right up until I noticed an Apfel video cable promising to do exactly the same thing for £2.99. I have to say I’m quite happy with it though, it only took 2 days to arrive and works a treat – as long as I disconnect my Boosey system altogether and just connect it straight into my Ipod.
It’s so odd to lust after a gadget so much but never be able to bring myself to buy the actual one that I want. I can spend months planning a purchase, nose glued to Currys window like I used to at Woolworths as a child, but at the very last click of the mouse I open my eyes to see an unbranded version of far inferior quality sat in my basket. I have a house full of nearly decent equipment that will almost deliver the amount of excitement as the real thing might have done. If I were to decide that I ‘needed’ a Sony Bravia HD T.V. I’d almost certainly wind up getting the latest Soony instead. The closest I’ve come to a WII is the fun little plug in golf game that Daniel was given for Christmas, but on the leader board of which he has never yet been able to get his name onto since his Mum and I had a tournament on it. It’s so embarrassing how competitive my wife is, I don’t think any of us are going to be able to wipe ‘MUM_IS_ACE’ from the top of that list for a long time.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
Meeting Susan Boyle
Oh dear, I think I’ve just managed to put my foot in my mouth again. I’ve dug myself down deep without a ladder and allowed words to come out without asking my brain for permission again.
Paddington Station is supposed to be quite a good place to go to see celebrities coming and going, their masks removed and engaging in their daily routine. This is what I’m told, but I’m so unobservant and rubbish at remembering a face that I never see any. The best star spot I’ve had so far was Justin Lee Collins getting off the train from Bristol, all very good but no Tom Cruise. I’ve always been this bad at noticing people around me, when we watched my Brother-In-Law run the London Marathon I spent the whole day looking for celebs but came away with a tally of just one star to my wife’s enviable twelve, and to be honest I only really saw Paula Radcliffe as a blur from behind.
With the above in mind, you can imagine how exciting it was for me this morning when I bumped smack bang into Susan Boyle. I was just stood in the queue waiting to get off the train, we were about a hundred yards outside of the station waiting for the green light to park up. When I looked to my left I’m certain that I saw Susan Boyle sat reading Harry Potter, I’d only just been reading about her exploits in The Metro. This is actual news I thought, this is current, Susan Boyle is the nation’s favourite to win so I was quite impressed. Before my brain had chance to take in the full picture and think for a minute, my mouth sprang into action.
Glen: “Hey, good luck in the final tomorrow”
Susan: “What’s that Boyo?”
Glen: “Good luck with tomorrow and everything with the Britain’s Got Talent final. What are you singing – Christina’s Beautiful?”
Susan: “I don’t know what you are talking about bach”
Glen: “Oh sorry, I didn’t mean to draw attention to you, you probably need to rest, I’m just a fan”
At this point my ears were trying to point out to my mouth that the Welsh accent was wrong (especially the way I write it), also I was starting to notice that quite a few people around me were suffering from a nasty cough, but I continued anyway.
Glen: “So who do you think is your biggest rival then, Flawless or Diversity?”
Susan: “Look see I don’t know what you are going on about, now p**s off!”
Fortunately the doors opened and we all surged forward off the train at this point, how rude she appears to have become after such a short spell of fame. I have definitely decided that she has lost my vote and that I’ll now be phoning for Diversity instead, or maybe even Stavros Flatly. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, the Father from Stavros Flatly is sat opposite me on the tube right now; I think I’ll say hello…
Paddington Station is supposed to be quite a good place to go to see celebrities coming and going, their masks removed and engaging in their daily routine. This is what I’m told, but I’m so unobservant and rubbish at remembering a face that I never see any. The best star spot I’ve had so far was Justin Lee Collins getting off the train from Bristol, all very good but no Tom Cruise. I’ve always been this bad at noticing people around me, when we watched my Brother-In-Law run the London Marathon I spent the whole day looking for celebs but came away with a tally of just one star to my wife’s enviable twelve, and to be honest I only really saw Paula Radcliffe as a blur from behind.
With the above in mind, you can imagine how exciting it was for me this morning when I bumped smack bang into Susan Boyle. I was just stood in the queue waiting to get off the train, we were about a hundred yards outside of the station waiting for the green light to park up. When I looked to my left I’m certain that I saw Susan Boyle sat reading Harry Potter, I’d only just been reading about her exploits in The Metro. This is actual news I thought, this is current, Susan Boyle is the nation’s favourite to win so I was quite impressed. Before my brain had chance to take in the full picture and think for a minute, my mouth sprang into action.
Glen: “Hey, good luck in the final tomorrow”
Susan: “What’s that Boyo?”
Glen: “Good luck with tomorrow and everything with the Britain’s Got Talent final. What are you singing – Christina’s Beautiful?”
Susan: “I don’t know what you are talking about bach”
Glen: “Oh sorry, I didn’t mean to draw attention to you, you probably need to rest, I’m just a fan”
At this point my ears were trying to point out to my mouth that the Welsh accent was wrong (especially the way I write it), also I was starting to notice that quite a few people around me were suffering from a nasty cough, but I continued anyway.
Glen: “So who do you think is your biggest rival then, Flawless or Diversity?”
Susan: “Look see I don’t know what you are going on about, now p**s off!”
Fortunately the doors opened and we all surged forward off the train at this point, how rude she appears to have become after such a short spell of fame. I have definitely decided that she has lost my vote and that I’ll now be phoning for Diversity instead, or maybe even Stavros Flatly. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, the Father from Stavros Flatly is sat opposite me on the tube right now; I think I’ll say hello…
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Are there any good pubs in Harrogate ?
A friend of mine has invited me to a hefty sounding night out in Yorkshire and this has really sent my head down memory lane again. I did 2 separate 6 month stints at a quiet little communications base near Harrogate called H.M.S. Forest Moor, the first in ‘94 the second in ’96. The personnel on a base like that change round frequently and so the vibe on the base was quite different between the two visits, but the town stayed very much the same both times. I loved Harrogate night life, The pubs were great, the clubs were fun and the kebabs were large. The best thing about Harrogate were the people though, I think I’ve always quite liked Yorkshire folk, hard, blunt, unforgiving but very warm and welcoming to strangers; they may well decide very quickly whether or not they like you and have no issue with letting you know their decision, but at least they give you a chance and decide for themselves, not what someone else tells them. There was no automatic dislike of the Navy lads like you got in Portsmouth, nor was there the same apathy and lack of interest as there was in Plymouth (though it has to be said I really loved Plymouth, I still do). The Harrogate locals were every bit as daft and beer friendly, up for making fools of themselves and ready to party as most sailors that I’ve met.
Sticking a small group of sailors here was inspired. We could carry on and do all the daft things that we liked on a night out, talk to as many people as we wanted and make absolute prats of ourselves without ever ( well nearly) finding some bitter local coming swinging for a fight, or getting thrown out of Carringtons for falling asleep. It was in this old Spa town that I first worked out that the old myth is true, women really can be laughed into bed by lads that don’t take themselves too seriously, but only if that lad also happens to be good looking. I theorised that for someone that looks like me to make a women laugh so much that she suggests a night cap I was going to have to make some real big money as well. I first came upon this truth when Wigfield started singing about her Saturday nights. I quickly noticed that whenever this was played, as it was – often, all the men disappeared from view headed to the bar, whilst the girls stayed up and laughed as they danced. I’ve never feared a little mocking from my peers so I promptly watched and studied the dance moves (childhood Saturdays at Dawn Denman’s Dance School not wasted after all), in no time at all I’d worked them out – it’s not as if they were complicated. In about 4 songs time it was on again and up I went, what a laugh, the moves I was pulling were out of sight, clearly I was born for this. The ladies were impressed; you could see them looking, pointing and laughing. Some of the girls were shaking their heads in disbelief at how long they had waited for someone like me to turn up, I imagine. I came off the dance floor feeling good, the lads were impressed but I think the women must have been a little too intimidated to come and talk to me, I made a mental note to tone it down a bit next time, maybe just the one 360 spin between claps. One of my mates in particular had seen the potential of it though, and so it was that in the middle of a large HF receiver site the next day, I spent 20 minutes teaching a 6 foot 6 muscle bound, chisel jawed, blue eyed lady magnet how to do this rubbish dance. That night we were back and several beers later we were stood chatting when that memorable start to the record played out. The two of us jumped up and got dancing; to be honest I was a little disappointed with my protégé, I don’t think he had been paying full attention during his lesson. On two occasions I noticed my friend turn left instead of right, he clapped instead of just waving his arms and frankly his front lunges were appalling, even with a toned down shimmy I was still leagues ahead of him, the sequins I’d spent an hour sewing onto my jeans were sparkling in the disco lights. Slowly I noticed myself being danced to the side of the floor by the girls who were desperately trying to cop an eyeful of the man with the Hollywood looks’ sense of humour.
Some time later in Naples I finalised my thesis whilst out wearing a dress. Women are no different to men after all, funny is funny but phwoarr is everything. The three of us had wound up dressed as women, as you do, in the bar. Within minutes John and I were sat lighting our Sambucas by ourselves as a swarm of ladies crowded round our fit Army pal telling him how important a sense of humour was to them and how great it was to meet a man who can laugh at himself whilst squeezing his biceps and pinching his tight Army backside. Carl spent the rest of his tour wearing that dress and never stopped smiling.
So the question I’m slowly working my way towards is should I go back in time and head out to the Harrogate pubs when I’m nothing like the boy I was then? I worry that trying to recapture my youth will only wind up depressing me. It won’t be the same hitting the Smirnoff in The Dungeon if it’s now a Gastro Pub. There’s no point going to Montpellier if Gyrating Jeff the dancing DJ pensioner is no longer with us. More importantly, I’ve changed; I’ll be walking around asking if there are any family friendly pubs in Harrogate, worrying if Wetherspoon’s toilets will be clean, when exactly did I start caring if a pub toilet is clean anyway? If we go for something to eat will I be ordering garlic bread the second I reach my seat and checking to see if there are any sugar free drinks included with my main? I’m so out of practice being out on the tiles that I can’t even remember if I drink Lager or Bitter, can anyone reading this let me know please? Whilst I make my mind up as to what I’m going to do, I think I’d better Google the dance steps for Saturday Night as I have forgotten those too.
Sticking a small group of sailors here was inspired. We could carry on and do all the daft things that we liked on a night out, talk to as many people as we wanted and make absolute prats of ourselves without ever ( well nearly) finding some bitter local coming swinging for a fight, or getting thrown out of Carringtons for falling asleep. It was in this old Spa town that I first worked out that the old myth is true, women really can be laughed into bed by lads that don’t take themselves too seriously, but only if that lad also happens to be good looking. I theorised that for someone that looks like me to make a women laugh so much that she suggests a night cap I was going to have to make some real big money as well. I first came upon this truth when Wigfield started singing about her Saturday nights. I quickly noticed that whenever this was played, as it was – often, all the men disappeared from view headed to the bar, whilst the girls stayed up and laughed as they danced. I’ve never feared a little mocking from my peers so I promptly watched and studied the dance moves (childhood Saturdays at Dawn Denman’s Dance School not wasted after all), in no time at all I’d worked them out – it’s not as if they were complicated. In about 4 songs time it was on again and up I went, what a laugh, the moves I was pulling were out of sight, clearly I was born for this. The ladies were impressed; you could see them looking, pointing and laughing. Some of the girls were shaking their heads in disbelief at how long they had waited for someone like me to turn up, I imagine. I came off the dance floor feeling good, the lads were impressed but I think the women must have been a little too intimidated to come and talk to me, I made a mental note to tone it down a bit next time, maybe just the one 360 spin between claps. One of my mates in particular had seen the potential of it though, and so it was that in the middle of a large HF receiver site the next day, I spent 20 minutes teaching a 6 foot 6 muscle bound, chisel jawed, blue eyed lady magnet how to do this rubbish dance. That night we were back and several beers later we were stood chatting when that memorable start to the record played out. The two of us jumped up and got dancing; to be honest I was a little disappointed with my protégé, I don’t think he had been paying full attention during his lesson. On two occasions I noticed my friend turn left instead of right, he clapped instead of just waving his arms and frankly his front lunges were appalling, even with a toned down shimmy I was still leagues ahead of him, the sequins I’d spent an hour sewing onto my jeans were sparkling in the disco lights. Slowly I noticed myself being danced to the side of the floor by the girls who were desperately trying to cop an eyeful of the man with the Hollywood looks’ sense of humour.
Some time later in Naples I finalised my thesis whilst out wearing a dress. Women are no different to men after all, funny is funny but phwoarr is everything. The three of us had wound up dressed as women, as you do, in the bar. Within minutes John and I were sat lighting our Sambucas by ourselves as a swarm of ladies crowded round our fit Army pal telling him how important a sense of humour was to them and how great it was to meet a man who can laugh at himself whilst squeezing his biceps and pinching his tight Army backside. Carl spent the rest of his tour wearing that dress and never stopped smiling.
So the question I’m slowly working my way towards is should I go back in time and head out to the Harrogate pubs when I’m nothing like the boy I was then? I worry that trying to recapture my youth will only wind up depressing me. It won’t be the same hitting the Smirnoff in The Dungeon if it’s now a Gastro Pub. There’s no point going to Montpellier if Gyrating Jeff the dancing DJ pensioner is no longer with us. More importantly, I’ve changed; I’ll be walking around asking if there are any family friendly pubs in Harrogate, worrying if Wetherspoon’s toilets will be clean, when exactly did I start caring if a pub toilet is clean anyway? If we go for something to eat will I be ordering garlic bread the second I reach my seat and checking to see if there are any sugar free drinks included with my main? I’m so out of practice being out on the tiles that I can’t even remember if I drink Lager or Bitter, can anyone reading this let me know please? Whilst I make my mind up as to what I’m going to do, I think I’d better Google the dance steps for Saturday Night as I have forgotten those too.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Skydiving for beginners
1000, 2000, 3000, WOW! I’m not entirely sure how I’d come to this, what was it that had finally gone right to put me here? I was having the best moment of my life to date, one that will stick in my mind forever. A memory so solid that when I’m wetting my chair in excitement for the next game of bingo, I’ll still be boring the nurses of the Sunshine Home for lecherous old men with my tales of this one single moment. Since this time of course, I’ve witnessed the birth of two amazing, wonderful boys and also I saw my own two being born. I’ve heard Daddy being said to me for the first time, seen them crawl, walk and run, these moments have to take precedence in my mind now, but on this day all of those things were not even an idea.
I was currently about 2500 feet above Paderborn, falling through the sky at an ever increasing pace currently approaching 60MPH. Four of us had set off 3 days earlier after a Lager-fuelled discussion had signed us up for this trip. A 10-day skydiving course was available on an Army base in Germany for £20, absolutely no way were we going to miss this. We were the 2nd batch of our crew to go, the first bunch provided an interesting omen when one of them arrived back on crutches. A somewhat poorly judged pull on the parachutes brakes whilst still quite a way over the drop zone had caused a faster than predicted landing. Omen number 2 came as we were sat on the train, a crate of Becks on the table that we were slowly working our way through was just beginning to get warm, we’d been stopped at a signal for a while when we noticed a policeman stood on the tracks next to us getting very excited and animated indeed. It dawned on us that he was pointing to something on the track; the something was a leg, just a leg. It seems someone had head-butted the previous train and the Police were frantically trying to locate all the pieces. Needless to say we got an hours worth of body part jokes out of that.
Things had gone well so far though, my naturally aerodynamic shape and increased weight were proving Newton right and I was finding falling down in a straight line fairly easy. I’d sailed through the first steps with ease, the static-line jumps had been straightforward enough (you are connected to the plane and the parachute opens itself straight away), these on their own had been exciting enough but you are thrown around so violently that the first thing you know is that the chute is open and you have to start un-twisting the ropes fast if you are to have a hope of controlling your landing. One swift self-opened parachute test later, no static-line but you pull the cord almost immediately, and I was ready for what was to be my first real skydive.
This time it was different. This time something truly awe-inspiring was about to happen. This jump included 5 seconds of free-fall. 5 seconds does not sound a lot, but in that first 5 seconds you’ve fallen about 500 feet already and from here on in you are getting faster, from 3000 feet it would probably only take a total of 20 – 25 seconds to be landing on the ground at 120MPH. About 3 seconds after leaving the aircraft my world shifted forever. Suddenly I found I had levelled off into the traditional skydive position, all of a sudden I could see the whole of the Earth and yes, it does curve! Everything was stretched out below me, the stomach rush had gone and I just felt like I was floating in the air. Famine, poverty, war and women were forgotten - MAN CAN FLY!
Below I could see the triangle of the drop zone where I would soon be aiming to land. The 3 sides which we had been taught to miss were clearly visible, the golf course, the deep lake and the firing range. We were on an Army base after all, complete with massive rifle, mortar and tank firing ranges - all conveniently located next to where a bunch of idiots were trying to learn to fly a parachute. I for one found the lecture on what to do if you land in the firing range much more frightening than the one about the chute not opening. I was engrossed in all this, feeling like an immortal with wings en-route to some far off world, when something knocked onto my consciousness from deep within. I’m sure there is something I’m supposed to be doing, what was it again – think man, think. It hit me like a stone; I was supposed to be sailing under a parachute right now, instead of falling at nigh on 80MPH I should have been doing 15.
I was still counting, I’d just temporarily forgotten why. And so finally on 8 seconds instead of 5 I pulled the cord and opened the chute, instantly deciding to take more care about how I dress under the lower straps next time. An extra 3 seconds may sound like nothing but it sure put the willies up my instructor I can assure you. I floated down slowly under the canopy taking every breath of the clean air into my body whilst operating the parachute with such precision and utter control that I landed slap bang next to the golf course on my face. I did not care one bit, I simply whooped and gibbered, gathered up my canvas and set off on the long walk back to the rest of the gang. The rest of the week was much the same, I made it through 10 second skydives after a few tumbles and was about to start at 15 when the time was up. What a laugh, what an experience, what on Earth was I thinking jumping out of perfectly good aircraft?
I was currently about 2500 feet above Paderborn, falling through the sky at an ever increasing pace currently approaching 60MPH. Four of us had set off 3 days earlier after a Lager-fuelled discussion had signed us up for this trip. A 10-day skydiving course was available on an Army base in Germany for £20, absolutely no way were we going to miss this. We were the 2nd batch of our crew to go, the first bunch provided an interesting omen when one of them arrived back on crutches. A somewhat poorly judged pull on the parachutes brakes whilst still quite a way over the drop zone had caused a faster than predicted landing. Omen number 2 came as we were sat on the train, a crate of Becks on the table that we were slowly working our way through was just beginning to get warm, we’d been stopped at a signal for a while when we noticed a policeman stood on the tracks next to us getting very excited and animated indeed. It dawned on us that he was pointing to something on the track; the something was a leg, just a leg. It seems someone had head-butted the previous train and the Police were frantically trying to locate all the pieces. Needless to say we got an hours worth of body part jokes out of that.
Things had gone well so far though, my naturally aerodynamic shape and increased weight were proving Newton right and I was finding falling down in a straight line fairly easy. I’d sailed through the first steps with ease, the static-line jumps had been straightforward enough (you are connected to the plane and the parachute opens itself straight away), these on their own had been exciting enough but you are thrown around so violently that the first thing you know is that the chute is open and you have to start un-twisting the ropes fast if you are to have a hope of controlling your landing. One swift self-opened parachute test later, no static-line but you pull the cord almost immediately, and I was ready for what was to be my first real skydive.
This time it was different. This time something truly awe-inspiring was about to happen. This jump included 5 seconds of free-fall. 5 seconds does not sound a lot, but in that first 5 seconds you’ve fallen about 500 feet already and from here on in you are getting faster, from 3000 feet it would probably only take a total of 20 – 25 seconds to be landing on the ground at 120MPH. About 3 seconds after leaving the aircraft my world shifted forever. Suddenly I found I had levelled off into the traditional skydive position, all of a sudden I could see the whole of the Earth and yes, it does curve! Everything was stretched out below me, the stomach rush had gone and I just felt like I was floating in the air. Famine, poverty, war and women were forgotten - MAN CAN FLY!
Below I could see the triangle of the drop zone where I would soon be aiming to land. The 3 sides which we had been taught to miss were clearly visible, the golf course, the deep lake and the firing range. We were on an Army base after all, complete with massive rifle, mortar and tank firing ranges - all conveniently located next to where a bunch of idiots were trying to learn to fly a parachute. I for one found the lecture on what to do if you land in the firing range much more frightening than the one about the chute not opening. I was engrossed in all this, feeling like an immortal with wings en-route to some far off world, when something knocked onto my consciousness from deep within. I’m sure there is something I’m supposed to be doing, what was it again – think man, think. It hit me like a stone; I was supposed to be sailing under a parachute right now, instead of falling at nigh on 80MPH I should have been doing 15.
I was still counting, I’d just temporarily forgotten why. And so finally on 8 seconds instead of 5 I pulled the cord and opened the chute, instantly deciding to take more care about how I dress under the lower straps next time. An extra 3 seconds may sound like nothing but it sure put the willies up my instructor I can assure you. I floated down slowly under the canopy taking every breath of the clean air into my body whilst operating the parachute with such precision and utter control that I landed slap bang next to the golf course on my face. I did not care one bit, I simply whooped and gibbered, gathered up my canvas and set off on the long walk back to the rest of the gang. The rest of the week was much the same, I made it through 10 second skydives after a few tumbles and was about to start at 15 when the time was up. What a laugh, what an experience, what on Earth was I thinking jumping out of perfectly good aircraft?
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Commuters under pressure
Why can such a simple thing as catching a train, give so many people so much stress. Mild mannered Janitors become rampaging Hong Kong Phooeys if they stand on a platform edge for more than 5 minutes. I’m not a massive fan of my daily commute to be fair, I already spend a total of 3 hours a day getting to and from work, for a significant chunk of my pay, and it doesn’t take much to go wrong before that time can increase to 4 hours or more. To me this journey is inconvenient, I don’t really like it - the time or the crowds – but I know that a lot of people have it worse and at least I am working, so I can keep it in perspective. To an awful lot of people though, my commute would be their living hell. Daily, I see people losing their grip on reality as their wait on the platform increases due to a piece of track in Bristol being the wrong shade of steel. When the train finally arrives they have lost their identity and become the animal that is the British Commuter, pushing, shoving, moaning and swearing. Respectable looking men in smart suits forcing their way past you, pushing you back off the step in a desperate attempt to be first on the train. Well dressed women stamping on your toes and using Pepper Spray, cursing like Dockies to ensure they get sat by a window. The whole journey is spent tutting and moaning every time the train slows, tension blowing up over the slightest things, people using tape measures to prove that your elbow is on their side of the armrest.
Arriving at London causes the tension to rise tenfold, there seems to be something about the fact that there isn’t a specific timetable to follow that creates stress out of thin air. Without a fixed schedule to blame when a train is not on the platform the second that you arrive causes people to flap around un-focused, looking for something else to be angry at.
Today my line was already severely delayed as I arrived at Paddington, which I could tell straight away due to the large crowds of miserable people milling around the bottom of the stairs by the screens. I managed to squeeze and bribe my way to a semi-decent spot and got comfy for the wait. As we waited I noticed the guy to my left, Pinstripes and Telegraph, getting more and more irate. It started with his paper being ruffled over and over again with an ever increasing vigour, slowly I witnessed him spiral downwards, like Michael Douglass in the excellent Falling Down, but with considerably less cool and guns (thankfully). You could see that his eyes were disconnected from his brain, his head orbiting a different world to the rest of us, the force of yet another delay to his journey, pushing his perspective over the edge of reality. As the announcements began, describing the single puddle of water through which no train could pass, my friend started with the stalwart of the British under pressure, he tutted in every 2nd pause of breath, and huffed in the other. You could see people around us starting to look at him, the entertainment taking their minds off their own situation, some nodded in approval at his daring display of emotion, others condemning him for it. Fearing that things could get hairy I inched slightly away. As the announcement continued Pinstripe had moved right past tutting and had started quietly muttering “Ucksake” which is the last rung of the ladder before full blown swearing begins.
As time went by, Muttering Mike passed the point of no return. We had been stood for 20 minutes by now and he was broken. He began to rock back and forth chanting “come on, come on” the volume and frequency of the chants rising with each rotation. I felt an urge to show him some Brotherly support in order to try and help him out of his deep thoughts, I was on the brink of joining in the chant, waving my arms about to try and get the crowd involved, and hoping this show of solidarity would bring his perspective back from the brink of despair. Just as I was drawing the face on an effigy of Boris Johnson I’d knocked up out of my gym kit and a mop that I’d noticed next to a puddle leaked from the roof, he moved up another gear, which had me reaching for my note pad instead. A woman to my right picked up her mobile and phoned work, oddly loud against the hushed crowd of people excitedly trying to hear the fun. As Telephone Girl finished informing work that she would be half an hour late, he jerked rigid, clearly shouted “BIT*H”, then dug in his pocket to fetch out his Blackberry. I think the whole crowd had agreed that the woman was a bit behind the times; actually calling people to say you’re late is quite old hat in London, for the last 5 years a simple text reading “tubes v bad will B L8” sent to Personnel has been more than sufficient, surpassed recently by being able to craft a full email from your Blackberry straight onto the laptop of your Boss. Pinstripe was about to make the mistake that many of us have made over the years, sending an email whilst absolutely furious, without stopping to re-read it later on first – type the email yes, but never send it until you have calmed down. As he punched in each keystroke he loudly spoke the words that he typed, wrapped up in so many swear words that it was impossible to know if he was actually typing them or just saying them, as he finished the email he sent it with an exuberant shout of “FU**!”.
As far as I could work out, his smiling Boss arrived at work this morning, flipped open his Dell, opened up Microsoft Outlook and spat his Starbucks all over his finely pressed trousers to the following message from his employee.
“The fu**ing tubes fu**ing sh*t, 20 fu**sake fu**ing minutes late bas**rds FU**!”
The train pulled in, rammed solid with people, the doors opened and the crowds surged. Pinstripe was behind me barely able to breathe, I saw that the last gap on the carriage was mine, ½ an inch of valuable tube train real estate waiting to be taken, but I also knew that if this guy failed to get on this train then he was going to start swinging the mop about, so I did the only thing that I could do, I stepped aside, the look of sheer joy on his face as the doors slid to a close, crushing his nose, his bag straps flapping in the wind as the train pulled away, will stay with me forever. Just 2 minutes later the next train came into the station practically empty, I stepped on board and sat myself down smugly taking the lid off my pen to write this all down – good old Karma!
Arriving at London causes the tension to rise tenfold, there seems to be something about the fact that there isn’t a specific timetable to follow that creates stress out of thin air. Without a fixed schedule to blame when a train is not on the platform the second that you arrive causes people to flap around un-focused, looking for something else to be angry at.
Today my line was already severely delayed as I arrived at Paddington, which I could tell straight away due to the large crowds of miserable people milling around the bottom of the stairs by the screens. I managed to squeeze and bribe my way to a semi-decent spot and got comfy for the wait. As we waited I noticed the guy to my left, Pinstripes and Telegraph, getting more and more irate. It started with his paper being ruffled over and over again with an ever increasing vigour, slowly I witnessed him spiral downwards, like Michael Douglass in the excellent Falling Down, but with considerably less cool and guns (thankfully). You could see that his eyes were disconnected from his brain, his head orbiting a different world to the rest of us, the force of yet another delay to his journey, pushing his perspective over the edge of reality. As the announcements began, describing the single puddle of water through which no train could pass, my friend started with the stalwart of the British under pressure, he tutted in every 2nd pause of breath, and huffed in the other. You could see people around us starting to look at him, the entertainment taking their minds off their own situation, some nodded in approval at his daring display of emotion, others condemning him for it. Fearing that things could get hairy I inched slightly away. As the announcement continued Pinstripe had moved right past tutting and had started quietly muttering “Ucksake” which is the last rung of the ladder before full blown swearing begins.
As time went by, Muttering Mike passed the point of no return. We had been stood for 20 minutes by now and he was broken. He began to rock back and forth chanting “come on, come on” the volume and frequency of the chants rising with each rotation. I felt an urge to show him some Brotherly support in order to try and help him out of his deep thoughts, I was on the brink of joining in the chant, waving my arms about to try and get the crowd involved, and hoping this show of solidarity would bring his perspective back from the brink of despair. Just as I was drawing the face on an effigy of Boris Johnson I’d knocked up out of my gym kit and a mop that I’d noticed next to a puddle leaked from the roof, he moved up another gear, which had me reaching for my note pad instead. A woman to my right picked up her mobile and phoned work, oddly loud against the hushed crowd of people excitedly trying to hear the fun. As Telephone Girl finished informing work that she would be half an hour late, he jerked rigid, clearly shouted “BIT*H”, then dug in his pocket to fetch out his Blackberry. I think the whole crowd had agreed that the woman was a bit behind the times; actually calling people to say you’re late is quite old hat in London, for the last 5 years a simple text reading “tubes v bad will B L8” sent to Personnel has been more than sufficient, surpassed recently by being able to craft a full email from your Blackberry straight onto the laptop of your Boss. Pinstripe was about to make the mistake that many of us have made over the years, sending an email whilst absolutely furious, without stopping to re-read it later on first – type the email yes, but never send it until you have calmed down. As he punched in each keystroke he loudly spoke the words that he typed, wrapped up in so many swear words that it was impossible to know if he was actually typing them or just saying them, as he finished the email he sent it with an exuberant shout of “FU**!”.
As far as I could work out, his smiling Boss arrived at work this morning, flipped open his Dell, opened up Microsoft Outlook and spat his Starbucks all over his finely pressed trousers to the following message from his employee.
“The fu**ing tubes fu**ing sh*t, 20 fu**sake fu**ing minutes late bas**rds FU**!”
The train pulled in, rammed solid with people, the doors opened and the crowds surged. Pinstripe was behind me barely able to breathe, I saw that the last gap on the carriage was mine, ½ an inch of valuable tube train real estate waiting to be taken, but I also knew that if this guy failed to get on this train then he was going to start swinging the mop about, so I did the only thing that I could do, I stepped aside, the look of sheer joy on his face as the doors slid to a close, crushing his nose, his bag straps flapping in the wind as the train pulled away, will stay with me forever. Just 2 minutes later the next train came into the station practically empty, I stepped on board and sat myself down smugly taking the lid off my pen to write this all down – good old Karma!
Friday, May 22, 2009
being a man
I am a man. Being a man is great. I’m in charge of my life, my house and my kids. I make all the important decisions concerning my family and I have a lovely little lady at home who keeps the place looking smart and knocks up a nice bit of tea now and again, never complaining should I require it a little later than expected due to accidentally popping for a beer en route to home without remembering to mention it. Oh yes finding that extra Y Chromosome was the best thing I ever did.
Actually, I guess manhood isn’t exactly like that anymore, perhaps it never was. The legend that men were once the actual bosses is a seductive dream, but just that, a dream. Fortunately, however, there are still a few perks we can hang onto, higher salaries and being taken seriously when saying what we believe the problem might be with our cars at a garage, to name just two. Let’s face it though, there are still a few better perks than that, we may have to help with the housework now and again, sometimes do the ironing or order the tea, but that’s all it really is – helping. In reality, more often than not, we can still dodge those chores with relative ease, as long as we remember that there are rules to follow. The rules of man are set firmly in stone and must be obeyed at all times to keep the Status Quo from ever releasing an electro funk version of Rocking All Over the World. It’s quite simple really; the women in our lives will agree to portray the illusion that the men are in charge, that we are more important, that they are responsible – under careful management – for the more mundane chores around the house while the men do the important jobs, such as cutting the grass or washing the car. They will agree to this just as long we do exactly what we are told, when we are told, and how we are told.
Despite what the 1980’s tried to destroy, women still want their man to be in charge, to make the tough choices and to be rubbish at doing anything traditionally seen as “women’s work”. This is because the real power behind any throne understands the importance of duping the patsy into believing he has the control. When the latest Royal is being beheaded by an angry mob of peasants, you can be sure his chief advisor has already changed robes for rags and is sidling up to the one at the front of the crowd doing the shouting. We are expected to loudly choose to do the things that the woman has already decided that we should be doing this week. As long as we are able to pick up on exactly what it is that she wants to do, then we are freely permitted to demand to do it. The man can still expect to make the big decisions about his children. Decide if they will have their MMR, choose the best school in the area for them, work out how soon after birth it is ok to palm them onto their Grandparents so you can both go out for a drink. These decisions are absolutely the man’s to make, but only – and I can’t stress the importance of this enough – if the man has actually been listening for a change. The man must become like Sherlock Holmes, swiftly unravelling the clues presented to him, no matter how well hidden and confusing they may be. We must study the woman, know all of her Poker ‘tells’, we must be able to filter out the majority of the chatter that endlessly comes forth and pick out those bits of information that actually mean something. When we make that decision about the welfare of our kids, or the layout of a new kitchen, it absolutely has to be the same as the one that the woman has already made, and usually already acted upon.
Any man who is so foolish as to proffer an opinion about what kind of bread his children should be eating without bothering to look in the bread bin first, will soon see the tornado of fury that a woman can become – even in the ‘safe’ weeks! Look round and you’ll find yourself at Tescos without a clearly written list. Comment over freely about the slightly odd taste in your bolognaise and before you know it, you’re stood holding some oven cleaner in your Marigolds. Next, you notice the toilet starting to get a bit friendly and you know that she is trying to wait you out, though this is one war she will never win. Women never win the toilet cleaning stand-off, I for one was once asked why I never clean the toilet, my honest reply was simply that it never needs doing. You have to resolve this problem fast, regain the trust in the silent agreement, let her get into the back seat driving position before it’s too late and you wind up looking after the kids on your own for a whole weekend, whilst she goes shopping with her parents knowing full well that your parents are on holiday. This nightmare must never be allowed to come true – repair the damage now. Wine, chocolate, flowers, for heavens sake walk upstairs un-asked with a bottle of bleach and clean the toilet – anything. The unspoken pact must be remade as soon as possible before the truth comes out once and for all and you are broken forever.
In future you will learn to read the signals and listen to the specific feed of info that she is giving you. I suggest getting her to raise her hand when her current topic needs to be remembered, saves a lot of hassle. We must stay sharp men; we must be ready to implement the rules that we have been given that day so that we can all continue to enjoy the good life of being a man. Well, maybe the acceptable life of man, once we have made sure that it’s ok for us to do so.
Actually, I guess manhood isn’t exactly like that anymore, perhaps it never was. The legend that men were once the actual bosses is a seductive dream, but just that, a dream. Fortunately, however, there are still a few perks we can hang onto, higher salaries and being taken seriously when saying what we believe the problem might be with our cars at a garage, to name just two. Let’s face it though, there are still a few better perks than that, we may have to help with the housework now and again, sometimes do the ironing or order the tea, but that’s all it really is – helping. In reality, more often than not, we can still dodge those chores with relative ease, as long as we remember that there are rules to follow. The rules of man are set firmly in stone and must be obeyed at all times to keep the Status Quo from ever releasing an electro funk version of Rocking All Over the World. It’s quite simple really; the women in our lives will agree to portray the illusion that the men are in charge, that we are more important, that they are responsible – under careful management – for the more mundane chores around the house while the men do the important jobs, such as cutting the grass or washing the car. They will agree to this just as long we do exactly what we are told, when we are told, and how we are told.
Despite what the 1980’s tried to destroy, women still want their man to be in charge, to make the tough choices and to be rubbish at doing anything traditionally seen as “women’s work”. This is because the real power behind any throne understands the importance of duping the patsy into believing he has the control. When the latest Royal is being beheaded by an angry mob of peasants, you can be sure his chief advisor has already changed robes for rags and is sidling up to the one at the front of the crowd doing the shouting. We are expected to loudly choose to do the things that the woman has already decided that we should be doing this week. As long as we are able to pick up on exactly what it is that she wants to do, then we are freely permitted to demand to do it. The man can still expect to make the big decisions about his children. Decide if they will have their MMR, choose the best school in the area for them, work out how soon after birth it is ok to palm them onto their Grandparents so you can both go out for a drink. These decisions are absolutely the man’s to make, but only – and I can’t stress the importance of this enough – if the man has actually been listening for a change. The man must become like Sherlock Holmes, swiftly unravelling the clues presented to him, no matter how well hidden and confusing they may be. We must study the woman, know all of her Poker ‘tells’, we must be able to filter out the majority of the chatter that endlessly comes forth and pick out those bits of information that actually mean something. When we make that decision about the welfare of our kids, or the layout of a new kitchen, it absolutely has to be the same as the one that the woman has already made, and usually already acted upon.
Any man who is so foolish as to proffer an opinion about what kind of bread his children should be eating without bothering to look in the bread bin first, will soon see the tornado of fury that a woman can become – even in the ‘safe’ weeks! Look round and you’ll find yourself at Tescos without a clearly written list. Comment over freely about the slightly odd taste in your bolognaise and before you know it, you’re stood holding some oven cleaner in your Marigolds. Next, you notice the toilet starting to get a bit friendly and you know that she is trying to wait you out, though this is one war she will never win. Women never win the toilet cleaning stand-off, I for one was once asked why I never clean the toilet, my honest reply was simply that it never needs doing. You have to resolve this problem fast, regain the trust in the silent agreement, let her get into the back seat driving position before it’s too late and you wind up looking after the kids on your own for a whole weekend, whilst she goes shopping with her parents knowing full well that your parents are on holiday. This nightmare must never be allowed to come true – repair the damage now. Wine, chocolate, flowers, for heavens sake walk upstairs un-asked with a bottle of bleach and clean the toilet – anything. The unspoken pact must be remade as soon as possible before the truth comes out once and for all and you are broken forever.
In future you will learn to read the signals and listen to the specific feed of info that she is giving you. I suggest getting her to raise her hand when her current topic needs to be remembered, saves a lot of hassle. We must stay sharp men; we must be ready to implement the rules that we have been given that day so that we can all continue to enjoy the good life of being a man. Well, maybe the acceptable life of man, once we have made sure that it’s ok for us to do so.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
A teacher is for life..
Those who can, teach! The advert is quite certain of this but never really explains what it is that they can do. They can certainly complain about being overloaded with work, they can take holidays like no one else whilst complaining that this time off they get always seems to fall in school holidays, thus making their holidays more expensive. They can draw their pension quite a few years earlier than most. If that’s all it takes to be a teacher then count me in.
Whoever you are, wherever you were brought up, you will have some very strong memories of your teachers. The simple fact is that for most people, after your parents, they are the single most important factor in your development to the person that you are today. For so many years, during which we are at our most impressionable, we spend more of our waking hours with a teacher than anyone else. This amount of time spent with these people is why they can’t help but burn an impression of themselves into our heads which can never really be shaken. We remember some teachers more than others, some with fondness some with hatred.
I can’t remember very much more about my early teachers other than their names. Miss Wilkie ( when I was 5 ) was beautiful and kind, and Mrs. Town was like a grumpy Granny but still very kind. The first real, proper teacher memory would be Mr. Brooks, he was a real old school thinker, the type to think that wasting a good bit of Birch on a child is far too extravagant when a the back of the hand is more than good enough. The thing that really sticks out though was his passion, perhaps he wasn’t truly able to connect this passion with the youth of the day, but he truly loved his subject. What he loved most was the land, farming, agriculture and history of all things to do with rocks and plants. All I can remember is hours of copying down notes from the blackboard as he stood with his back to us chanting away about harvesting. We would be getting less and less interested and distracted until thwack, the board rubber would suddenly smack you between the eyes, if this guy had ever gone on Bulls-eye he would have been both the quiz brains and the darts player in one. Compare that with my next teacher, Miss Taylor, fresh from teacher training college, young and with a wild 1981 attitude to fashion she sparked something new, an interest in learning.
The reason I mention these memories is to stress that in all schools there is always a huge range of difference between the teachers who work there. They bring different qualities to their role that, hopefully, means that they can reach in and grab the attention of at least a few of the massive range of children that each class will contain. If they were all the same then only a limited number of the kids in their care would ever respond. The fact remains that these people do so much to influence our lives that it is not possible to forget them, even if you hated them.
I met my wife whilst she was still training to be a teacher, the fact that she was going to be a teacher was as attractive to me, as my being in the military seemed to attract her. I was invited into the student bar and I was amazed. Seeing these people - so fixed in my imagination as to how they should behave ( teachers not students ) - suddenly letting their hair down and be free was fantastic. The place only had a few men in it, of those only ½ liked girls, meaning that there was a small group of men walking about with fixed grins on their face having the time of their lives, I wondered how could get a job behind the bar. Here in this place the future teachers were fun, care-free and ready to take on the world. They couldn’t care less about spelling or grammar or if you have remembered your P.E kit, they just wanted to party. It only dawned on me much later, as Jo struggled to cope with a big class of rough North London kids, why it is that these young folk were letting off steam so much. The reason that teachers are so up for a party is that with a lager in their hand, they are free from the heavy responsibility that otherwise lays so heavy on their shoulders. Also they were students at this point and students do that.
I work hard, I certainly know about working in stressful environments, I’m used to working under tight deadlines and with severe repercussions for equipment and customers alike should you make a mistake. However, going to work every day in a noisy, fast paced, ever changing class with 30 kids, mostly with different backgrounds and different needs, ½ of whom don’t even want to be there, knowing that for this brief period of time that you are there for them, you are able to change them forever has to be a real strain on your mental health. Battling with little Johnny, because after 5 minutes of saying and spelling the word cat he has still tried to rhyme it with potato, day after day has to grind you down eventually. I get cross with my wife sometimes, when she complains that this specific ½ term is a long one and so she is going to have to work for 7 whole weeks in a row, how dare she say that, has she no idea what it’s like for the rest of us? Over the years, however, I’ve come to see why she feels like that. Care though I certainly do about the quality of work that I do, I’ll never really care to the level that she does, that most teachers do about the children in their care. So often teachers just cannot switch off, bleeding their partner’s ears, night after night with tales of the hardship and suffering that these children are putting up with in their homes. The pressure to give a child who has absolutely nothing just a big enough spark of hope and of passion for learning that maybe, just maybe they wont wind up in prison, has to be relieved sometime doesn’t it? If that means they get a little extra holiday to wind down with, and maybe can retire just that little bit sooner then I say good for them. The pressure to provide a genuine start for the kids coming from the heart, the pressure to perform under budgets and targets that block them from doing the very job they are trying to do coming from the government has to be released sometime.
I believe that those teachers who can’t release this pressure valve, who can’t wind down and moan to someone to get it off their chest, are the ones who become bitter and twisted, throwing board rubbers at people who can’t immediately share their passion for windmills. They have lost the love they once had for the actual children, boiled over and tired of the endless un-thanked time that they have spent on everybody but themselves. Maybe there’s no hope for those that have already fallen, but for the others who still really want to make a difference, let them rest, let them party, let them complain when they need to, but most of all for the sake of our kids, let them teach.
Whoever you are, wherever you were brought up, you will have some very strong memories of your teachers. The simple fact is that for most people, after your parents, they are the single most important factor in your development to the person that you are today. For so many years, during which we are at our most impressionable, we spend more of our waking hours with a teacher than anyone else. This amount of time spent with these people is why they can’t help but burn an impression of themselves into our heads which can never really be shaken. We remember some teachers more than others, some with fondness some with hatred.
I can’t remember very much more about my early teachers other than their names. Miss Wilkie ( when I was 5 ) was beautiful and kind, and Mrs. Town was like a grumpy Granny but still very kind. The first real, proper teacher memory would be Mr. Brooks, he was a real old school thinker, the type to think that wasting a good bit of Birch on a child is far too extravagant when a the back of the hand is more than good enough. The thing that really sticks out though was his passion, perhaps he wasn’t truly able to connect this passion with the youth of the day, but he truly loved his subject. What he loved most was the land, farming, agriculture and history of all things to do with rocks and plants. All I can remember is hours of copying down notes from the blackboard as he stood with his back to us chanting away about harvesting. We would be getting less and less interested and distracted until thwack, the board rubber would suddenly smack you between the eyes, if this guy had ever gone on Bulls-eye he would have been both the quiz brains and the darts player in one. Compare that with my next teacher, Miss Taylor, fresh from teacher training college, young and with a wild 1981 attitude to fashion she sparked something new, an interest in learning.
The reason I mention these memories is to stress that in all schools there is always a huge range of difference between the teachers who work there. They bring different qualities to their role that, hopefully, means that they can reach in and grab the attention of at least a few of the massive range of children that each class will contain. If they were all the same then only a limited number of the kids in their care would ever respond. The fact remains that these people do so much to influence our lives that it is not possible to forget them, even if you hated them.
I met my wife whilst she was still training to be a teacher, the fact that she was going to be a teacher was as attractive to me, as my being in the military seemed to attract her. I was invited into the student bar and I was amazed. Seeing these people - so fixed in my imagination as to how they should behave ( teachers not students ) - suddenly letting their hair down and be free was fantastic. The place only had a few men in it, of those only ½ liked girls, meaning that there was a small group of men walking about with fixed grins on their face having the time of their lives, I wondered how could get a job behind the bar. Here in this place the future teachers were fun, care-free and ready to take on the world. They couldn’t care less about spelling or grammar or if you have remembered your P.E kit, they just wanted to party. It only dawned on me much later, as Jo struggled to cope with a big class of rough North London kids, why it is that these young folk were letting off steam so much. The reason that teachers are so up for a party is that with a lager in their hand, they are free from the heavy responsibility that otherwise lays so heavy on their shoulders. Also they were students at this point and students do that.
I work hard, I certainly know about working in stressful environments, I’m used to working under tight deadlines and with severe repercussions for equipment and customers alike should you make a mistake. However, going to work every day in a noisy, fast paced, ever changing class with 30 kids, mostly with different backgrounds and different needs, ½ of whom don’t even want to be there, knowing that for this brief period of time that you are there for them, you are able to change them forever has to be a real strain on your mental health. Battling with little Johnny, because after 5 minutes of saying and spelling the word cat he has still tried to rhyme it with potato, day after day has to grind you down eventually. I get cross with my wife sometimes, when she complains that this specific ½ term is a long one and so she is going to have to work for 7 whole weeks in a row, how dare she say that, has she no idea what it’s like for the rest of us? Over the years, however, I’ve come to see why she feels like that. Care though I certainly do about the quality of work that I do, I’ll never really care to the level that she does, that most teachers do about the children in their care. So often teachers just cannot switch off, bleeding their partner’s ears, night after night with tales of the hardship and suffering that these children are putting up with in their homes. The pressure to give a child who has absolutely nothing just a big enough spark of hope and of passion for learning that maybe, just maybe they wont wind up in prison, has to be relieved sometime doesn’t it? If that means they get a little extra holiday to wind down with, and maybe can retire just that little bit sooner then I say good for them. The pressure to provide a genuine start for the kids coming from the heart, the pressure to perform under budgets and targets that block them from doing the very job they are trying to do coming from the government has to be released sometime.
I believe that those teachers who can’t release this pressure valve, who can’t wind down and moan to someone to get it off their chest, are the ones who become bitter and twisted, throwing board rubbers at people who can’t immediately share their passion for windmills. They have lost the love they once had for the actual children, boiled over and tired of the endless un-thanked time that they have spent on everybody but themselves. Maybe there’s no hope for those that have already fallen, but for the others who still really want to make a difference, let them rest, let them party, let them complain when they need to, but most of all for the sake of our kids, let them teach.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
movie night
Oh my word, I am buzzing. I can’t help it, it’s embarrassing but I’m going to have to admit something and come out of the SCI-FI closet. I’ve just seen the new Star Trek film and I absolutely love it.
I realise that I am crossing a line with this revelation. First of all I’m actually writing about something topical, dragging my head out of the past and openly expressing an opinion about something that is current. Also, I’m socially excluding myself from the cool-club once and for all by declaring an interest in Kirk and his team. Don’t give up on me though, I’m not suddenly going to start whining on about the MP’s expenses row or if Peter and Jordan really do have problems. My next blog won’t suddenly be written in Klingon now that I’m free of the years of repressed Trek love. There is a real sadness in my heart that a bunch of complete nobodies have forced us genuine SCI-FI fans into hiding, these people who try and base their lives on fiction just need to get a real life, perhaps they should give the opposite sex a try, or even the same sex if they like – just got outside and get some!
I was converted to SCI-FI in 1977, like so many people were, when this tiny 6 year old was taken to Lincoln Ritz cinema to see a radical new film called Star Wars. I had absolutely no idea what was coming; once there, in this old fashioned, huge screened, balconied theatre, I didn’t care if the human race were united in religion or creed or if poverty had been eradicated. The message of hope for all of us was completely lost on me. I just sat, jaw agape, as the goodies smashed the baddies in space ships with blasters and sword fights. However old and cynical I’ve become since. However many bad things I’ve witnessed or heard about since. However much despair and hatred I’ve learnt from Jeremy Kyle, this same philosophy will always apply to SCI-FI films for me – I just like seeing the space ships explode!
As a young boy I loved watching the original Star Trek series on BBC2, here I was again not even noticing the colour of Uhura, or the irony of Russian and Japanese crew members taking orders from an American. With hindsight of course, I can understand how radical and important these ideas were at the time, but during the program this was never important for me, the only issue was who might be wearing the red uniform this week. All I cared about was that they had phasers, walkie-talkies and plenty of baddies to blast and women for Kirk to snog. The banter between the 3 men – Kirk, Spok and McCoy enthralled me, as far as I was concerned this is what being a grown up was all about, mates taking the mick out of each other, but always being there when needed.
Why can’t other people see it this way? Why can’t they just enjoy it, rather than looking for deep and meaningful details that will enhance their otherwise empty existence? There are people who actually argue over whether a schematic of the Enterprise would be physically possible or not. They examine every detail to hunt out any slight mistake. Trekkers by the dozen learn a made up language that someone has made a lot of cash by inventing, and then sit in sad little groups pretending to be Klingons. There are numpties out there right now, who declare themselves to be a Jedi for their Religion – I despair.
I’d heard so many good reviews of this film that I knew it was going to be a bit better than the previous Next Generation offerings ( just never really worked for me ), and so I knew I needed to see it somewhere special. Waiting and watching this at home was not an option, nor was seeing it in some shonky 32 screen cinema with shoebox sized screens. I put a little research in and found that it was still being shown on screen 1 at the Leicester Square Empire. I checked it out and could see that this is a real old school theatre type of place, a huge screen with an old fashioned grandeur. As soon as I sat down I knew I’d made the right choice. I was 6 years old again, the vast arena with acres of leg room and little old fellas showing you where to sit sent me straight back in time. As the curtains opened for the last time (yes they actually closed after the trailers and adverts – sadly not Pearl and Dean – before opening for the actual film), I was already in awe, and BANG - goodies were smashing baddies in space ships with blasters and sword fights.
The actors have captured the relationship between those 3 key roles to perfection; there is no doubt in your mind that this is exactly how they were as young men. Surely no stalwart members of the ‘SCI-FI is not really fiction’ brigade could argue with that. I don’t care if the multiplexing overmodulator was on the port side of the bridge in this film but on the starboard in the series - I am hooked. I genuinely have not felt this giddy leaving a cinema since that day in Lincoln, nor have I had so much fun watching a Star Trek film since getting comfy on the back row of Newark Odeon during a Star Trek triple bill, I was 13 and was there with an actual real-life girl. In fact, this may be the reason why I never really got into the ‘conventions’ side of SCI-FI ; dressing up as Spok, Kryten or Yoda. Thankfully I was shown another path to follow, she wasn’t all that enthralled by the ‘Search for Spok’. Actually, I’m not entirely sure she liked Star Trek at all…
I realise that I am crossing a line with this revelation. First of all I’m actually writing about something topical, dragging my head out of the past and openly expressing an opinion about something that is current. Also, I’m socially excluding myself from the cool-club once and for all by declaring an interest in Kirk and his team. Don’t give up on me though, I’m not suddenly going to start whining on about the MP’s expenses row or if Peter and Jordan really do have problems. My next blog won’t suddenly be written in Klingon now that I’m free of the years of repressed Trek love. There is a real sadness in my heart that a bunch of complete nobodies have forced us genuine SCI-FI fans into hiding, these people who try and base their lives on fiction just need to get a real life, perhaps they should give the opposite sex a try, or even the same sex if they like – just got outside and get some!
I was converted to SCI-FI in 1977, like so many people were, when this tiny 6 year old was taken to Lincoln Ritz cinema to see a radical new film called Star Wars. I had absolutely no idea what was coming; once there, in this old fashioned, huge screened, balconied theatre, I didn’t care if the human race were united in religion or creed or if poverty had been eradicated. The message of hope for all of us was completely lost on me. I just sat, jaw agape, as the goodies smashed the baddies in space ships with blasters and sword fights. However old and cynical I’ve become since. However many bad things I’ve witnessed or heard about since. However much despair and hatred I’ve learnt from Jeremy Kyle, this same philosophy will always apply to SCI-FI films for me – I just like seeing the space ships explode!
As a young boy I loved watching the original Star Trek series on BBC2, here I was again not even noticing the colour of Uhura, or the irony of Russian and Japanese crew members taking orders from an American. With hindsight of course, I can understand how radical and important these ideas were at the time, but during the program this was never important for me, the only issue was who might be wearing the red uniform this week. All I cared about was that they had phasers, walkie-talkies and plenty of baddies to blast and women for Kirk to snog. The banter between the 3 men – Kirk, Spok and McCoy enthralled me, as far as I was concerned this is what being a grown up was all about, mates taking the mick out of each other, but always being there when needed.
Why can’t other people see it this way? Why can’t they just enjoy it, rather than looking for deep and meaningful details that will enhance their otherwise empty existence? There are people who actually argue over whether a schematic of the Enterprise would be physically possible or not. They examine every detail to hunt out any slight mistake. Trekkers by the dozen learn a made up language that someone has made a lot of cash by inventing, and then sit in sad little groups pretending to be Klingons. There are numpties out there right now, who declare themselves to be a Jedi for their Religion – I despair.
I’d heard so many good reviews of this film that I knew it was going to be a bit better than the previous Next Generation offerings ( just never really worked for me ), and so I knew I needed to see it somewhere special. Waiting and watching this at home was not an option, nor was seeing it in some shonky 32 screen cinema with shoebox sized screens. I put a little research in and found that it was still being shown on screen 1 at the Leicester Square Empire. I checked it out and could see that this is a real old school theatre type of place, a huge screen with an old fashioned grandeur. As soon as I sat down I knew I’d made the right choice. I was 6 years old again, the vast arena with acres of leg room and little old fellas showing you where to sit sent me straight back in time. As the curtains opened for the last time (yes they actually closed after the trailers and adverts – sadly not Pearl and Dean – before opening for the actual film), I was already in awe, and BANG - goodies were smashing baddies in space ships with blasters and sword fights.
The actors have captured the relationship between those 3 key roles to perfection; there is no doubt in your mind that this is exactly how they were as young men. Surely no stalwart members of the ‘SCI-FI is not really fiction’ brigade could argue with that. I don’t care if the multiplexing overmodulator was on the port side of the bridge in this film but on the starboard in the series - I am hooked. I genuinely have not felt this giddy leaving a cinema since that day in Lincoln, nor have I had so much fun watching a Star Trek film since getting comfy on the back row of Newark Odeon during a Star Trek triple bill, I was 13 and was there with an actual real-life girl. In fact, this may be the reason why I never really got into the ‘conventions’ side of SCI-FI ; dressing up as Spok, Kryten or Yoda. Thankfully I was shown another path to follow, she wasn’t all that enthralled by the ‘Search for Spok’. Actually, I’m not entirely sure she liked Star Trek at all…
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Engineering excellence
As I dangled from a 3-story high roof top, screaming like a girl, I came to a single – awful conclusion; I’m a rubbish electrician.
It had taken quite a few years to get to this revelation; the Navy had supposedly trained me, some time ago, to quite a high standard in electrical engineering principles. I’d worked on some frighteningly complex weapons systems and tackled some very challenging faults on a surprisingly diverse set of military equipment.
As I held tight onto the safety rail, which was also acting as the ‘ground’ towards which the 220 Volts were using me as a motorway, I began to desperately try and remember if I’d ever actually fixed any of those systems on my own. Had I ever actually resolved any of those faults or understood any of the wiring diagrams I had studied? The answer was to be as shocking as the AC that was currently sparking through my fingers – NO.
On the Ark Royal I’d been thrown out of a small compartment by 5000 Volts, whilst trying to fine tune a decoy system, much to the amusement of the Leading hand who was supposed to be supervising. On another day I managed to whack the big off switch to the Aircraft Carriers main systems computer when the ship lurched over for a take off and I bumped into the control panel. I was on auto in the middle of the night, so I completely failed to notice the room go quiet. I’d just finished signing the log to say everything was OK and was leaving the room when, half the senior engineering team came hurtling along the passageway towards me screaming. I believe the Harrier made a successful take off in the end, even without the ships sensors on line.
As a spark of electricity left a deep red scar on my forehead I remembered how many hours I’d spent in the Ops room of H.M.S. Coventry trying to fix the Captains mini RADAR display. I was cursing and screaming as every jolt of electricity that surrounded the tuning board lifted my hand up so fast I smacked myself in the face. I never did get it aligned. Later I managed to crash this ship’s main control computer. This time it was my own section. This time I should have known better. The Ops room were closed up working quite a high level air attack scenario, the RAF were doing their thing, coming up close on a bombing run. Meanwhile, downstairs in the Computer room I was thoughtfully showing the young WREN on the section how the mains to back up power switchover works. The power dropped, thinking with lightning speed I shouted, “ Leg it!” and as she disappeared down the passageway, I sped into the compartment to begin the reload procedure just as the whole world and it’s brother came running in to see what was happening. I’m somewhat ashamed to say I accepted full credit for being so fast at getting the reload going after this completely inexplicable crash.
Here I was then, about to fall off the roof of our accommodation block in the middle of a hot Neapolitan summer, just because I’d decided to set up some lighting for a party. It should have been straightforward; the flat roof was a perfect venue for a quality Italian hero costumed night, with hot dogs and Peroni. I’d rigged up the lights and had climbed over the safety rail to pass down the extension lead through a window below. I was hanging onto the rail with my right hand to dangle the lead from my left, casually holding the exposed plug metal. I heard a shout from below, “do you want me to plug it in?” My head, with its City & Guilds and many years experience, said “NO!” My mouth, with its many more years experience of foot swallowing, shouted “YES!” The power surged across my body, my left hand clamped tightly around the plug – unable to let go, burning a detailed picture of the two-pin plug into my flesh that would take months to heal. My screams started to draw quite a large crowd of people from a few of the different forces around us on the NATO base I called home. For a brief moment I must have let go of the safety rail, just for long enough to break the circuit and allow my hand to release the plug, it took an Olympic standard dive back over the rail, and I was safe.
The party, happily, was a success and all attending had much amusement at my electrical prowess. My confidence came back and I forgot all about my conclusion. I settled back into my work, which my boss thought a bit of a shame later on as a Sea Dart missile went missing, on an extremely high profile test firing, but that is a very different story.
It had taken quite a few years to get to this revelation; the Navy had supposedly trained me, some time ago, to quite a high standard in electrical engineering principles. I’d worked on some frighteningly complex weapons systems and tackled some very challenging faults on a surprisingly diverse set of military equipment.
As I held tight onto the safety rail, which was also acting as the ‘ground’ towards which the 220 Volts were using me as a motorway, I began to desperately try and remember if I’d ever actually fixed any of those systems on my own. Had I ever actually resolved any of those faults or understood any of the wiring diagrams I had studied? The answer was to be as shocking as the AC that was currently sparking through my fingers – NO.
On the Ark Royal I’d been thrown out of a small compartment by 5000 Volts, whilst trying to fine tune a decoy system, much to the amusement of the Leading hand who was supposed to be supervising. On another day I managed to whack the big off switch to the Aircraft Carriers main systems computer when the ship lurched over for a take off and I bumped into the control panel. I was on auto in the middle of the night, so I completely failed to notice the room go quiet. I’d just finished signing the log to say everything was OK and was leaving the room when, half the senior engineering team came hurtling along the passageway towards me screaming. I believe the Harrier made a successful take off in the end, even without the ships sensors on line.
As a spark of electricity left a deep red scar on my forehead I remembered how many hours I’d spent in the Ops room of H.M.S. Coventry trying to fix the Captains mini RADAR display. I was cursing and screaming as every jolt of electricity that surrounded the tuning board lifted my hand up so fast I smacked myself in the face. I never did get it aligned. Later I managed to crash this ship’s main control computer. This time it was my own section. This time I should have known better. The Ops room were closed up working quite a high level air attack scenario, the RAF were doing their thing, coming up close on a bombing run. Meanwhile, downstairs in the Computer room I was thoughtfully showing the young WREN on the section how the mains to back up power switchover works. The power dropped, thinking with lightning speed I shouted, “ Leg it!” and as she disappeared down the passageway, I sped into the compartment to begin the reload procedure just as the whole world and it’s brother came running in to see what was happening. I’m somewhat ashamed to say I accepted full credit for being so fast at getting the reload going after this completely inexplicable crash.
Here I was then, about to fall off the roof of our accommodation block in the middle of a hot Neapolitan summer, just because I’d decided to set up some lighting for a party. It should have been straightforward; the flat roof was a perfect venue for a quality Italian hero costumed night, with hot dogs and Peroni. I’d rigged up the lights and had climbed over the safety rail to pass down the extension lead through a window below. I was hanging onto the rail with my right hand to dangle the lead from my left, casually holding the exposed plug metal. I heard a shout from below, “do you want me to plug it in?” My head, with its City & Guilds and many years experience, said “NO!” My mouth, with its many more years experience of foot swallowing, shouted “YES!” The power surged across my body, my left hand clamped tightly around the plug – unable to let go, burning a detailed picture of the two-pin plug into my flesh that would take months to heal. My screams started to draw quite a large crowd of people from a few of the different forces around us on the NATO base I called home. For a brief moment I must have let go of the safety rail, just for long enough to break the circuit and allow my hand to release the plug, it took an Olympic standard dive back over the rail, and I was safe.
The party, happily, was a success and all attending had much amusement at my electrical prowess. My confidence came back and I forgot all about my conclusion. I settled back into my work, which my boss thought a bit of a shame later on as a Sea Dart missile went missing, on an extremely high profile test firing, but that is a very different story.
Monday, May 18, 2009
I'm a Granny magnet
Why am I a Granny magnet on the underground? Do they have a secret club where they sit around swapping photos of soft touches like me, who will offer them our seat, and then hunt us like a pack of wolves who have learnt the chicken farmer’s shotgun is broken?
Everyone knows how tough life as a London commuter can be, the underground is a completely different country to the England under which it presides. It all starts on the platform; years of commuting have taught me the exact best spot to stand, so that the doors will open directly in front of me, leading me through to the closest point ready for when I want to get off. Planning, like this, will give me a good run at the stairs before they get too clogged with the heard of pushing, grunting cattle that we have all become.
The problem is that at least 2 other people are after that same spot too, and so even before the train has arrived you find yourself squeezed between them all, trying to hog the same 10cm spot on the platform, acres of space on either side of you, only the occasional tourists stood in these spaces looking confused and afraid. Etiquette states that you never admit this is happening, and so you all stare directly ahead at the calling card advert, trying to work out how much it costs to call Timbuktu at the moment. The train finally arrives, already packed before it comes to a stop, but the driver has missed his mark again and overshot by ½ a metre, this means that the little old lady who is on her way to see Buckingham Palace, in the hope of seeing a Royal kiss on the balcony, is suddenly slap bang in prime spot, with, seemingly, no idea about the impending stampede that is about to hit her. My two platform friends take flight, cursing the world in general, one of them shouts out that the driver looks like Prince Charles, sliding straight in the door whilst the old lady is distracted, the other opts for the tap on her offside shoulder technique – sliding past on her nearside - and is on. But of course, I just can’t do it, I stand there and let her slowly climb aboard – at which point she cackles wildly shouting “Sucker” and stands just in the way, blocking the doors as they come to a close behind her leaving me stood on the platform. Realising now, that I have to wait for the next train, I turn to see an old man with a walking stick, which seems to have been painted white, dark sunglasses on, and mysteriously stood in my exact spot, mumbling about the cost of calling USA these days.
Finally, I get on, and by kicking a couple of women in the shins and a bit of selective sneezing, I manage to get into the golden zone, slap bang in the middle of the seating area, keeping my eyes on the whole section, I can reach any of the 4 seats around me, it’s surely just a matter of time. Suddenly, I realise that I’m in the SAGA commuting club carriage again. A wizened old dear moves right up to my armpit and shoots a fierce look straight into my eyes, I try to work out if it is determination, hatred, cataracts or if my deodorant has failed again – who knows. I spot a wobble in the seat below. Yet again tube rules have meant that no one else has seen her - everyone with a seat is heads down and earphones in, and no one is getting prized out of their seat. However, the train is approaching Kings Cross and the suit is getting off. I’m ready, I’ve worked out that if I lift my bag a little to my left, it will just put a big enough block in the way to sway the suit into walking past the old lady on his way out, leaving the gap available for me to dive in and - it’s no good, I just can’t do it, she gives me her saddest eyes and I’m gone, I move my bag and beckon her into the seat, whilst at the same time realising that her bag was already on the seat, she had swiftly stuck it there in the same instant that she had been staring me down. I’ve been foiled again, by the Silver Society of Soft Touch Spotters. In despair, I look back up, straight into the eyes of Aunt Bessie, who has taken time out of the kitchen to come and look old and frail, directly into my face on the tube. Behind Aunt Bessie is a queue of 3 pensioners, all tapping each other, smiling and pointing at me, a disabled pregnant woman and a one legged blind pirate, I realise that today, I will not be getting a seat.
Somehow I’ve got to get tough, I need to get a reputation for making the S.S.S.T.S. - as I call them, go without a soft touch – somehow I need to get off their target list. I’ve already cracked the P.W.B (Pregnant Women’s Brigade), this was due to an unfortunate incident where I stood up for one, happily asking her when it was due, only to see her break down in tears, apparently this was the first time she’d been out without her baby since it was born - 8 months ago. Fortunately, this meant I could take my seat back.
Everyone knows how tough life as a London commuter can be, the underground is a completely different country to the England under which it presides. It all starts on the platform; years of commuting have taught me the exact best spot to stand, so that the doors will open directly in front of me, leading me through to the closest point ready for when I want to get off. Planning, like this, will give me a good run at the stairs before they get too clogged with the heard of pushing, grunting cattle that we have all become.
The problem is that at least 2 other people are after that same spot too, and so even before the train has arrived you find yourself squeezed between them all, trying to hog the same 10cm spot on the platform, acres of space on either side of you, only the occasional tourists stood in these spaces looking confused and afraid. Etiquette states that you never admit this is happening, and so you all stare directly ahead at the calling card advert, trying to work out how much it costs to call Timbuktu at the moment. The train finally arrives, already packed before it comes to a stop, but the driver has missed his mark again and overshot by ½ a metre, this means that the little old lady who is on her way to see Buckingham Palace, in the hope of seeing a Royal kiss on the balcony, is suddenly slap bang in prime spot, with, seemingly, no idea about the impending stampede that is about to hit her. My two platform friends take flight, cursing the world in general, one of them shouts out that the driver looks like Prince Charles, sliding straight in the door whilst the old lady is distracted, the other opts for the tap on her offside shoulder technique – sliding past on her nearside - and is on. But of course, I just can’t do it, I stand there and let her slowly climb aboard – at which point she cackles wildly shouting “Sucker” and stands just in the way, blocking the doors as they come to a close behind her leaving me stood on the platform. Realising now, that I have to wait for the next train, I turn to see an old man with a walking stick, which seems to have been painted white, dark sunglasses on, and mysteriously stood in my exact spot, mumbling about the cost of calling USA these days.
Finally, I get on, and by kicking a couple of women in the shins and a bit of selective sneezing, I manage to get into the golden zone, slap bang in the middle of the seating area, keeping my eyes on the whole section, I can reach any of the 4 seats around me, it’s surely just a matter of time. Suddenly, I realise that I’m in the SAGA commuting club carriage again. A wizened old dear moves right up to my armpit and shoots a fierce look straight into my eyes, I try to work out if it is determination, hatred, cataracts or if my deodorant has failed again – who knows. I spot a wobble in the seat below. Yet again tube rules have meant that no one else has seen her - everyone with a seat is heads down and earphones in, and no one is getting prized out of their seat. However, the train is approaching Kings Cross and the suit is getting off. I’m ready, I’ve worked out that if I lift my bag a little to my left, it will just put a big enough block in the way to sway the suit into walking past the old lady on his way out, leaving the gap available for me to dive in and - it’s no good, I just can’t do it, she gives me her saddest eyes and I’m gone, I move my bag and beckon her into the seat, whilst at the same time realising that her bag was already on the seat, she had swiftly stuck it there in the same instant that she had been staring me down. I’ve been foiled again, by the Silver Society of Soft Touch Spotters. In despair, I look back up, straight into the eyes of Aunt Bessie, who has taken time out of the kitchen to come and look old and frail, directly into my face on the tube. Behind Aunt Bessie is a queue of 3 pensioners, all tapping each other, smiling and pointing at me, a disabled pregnant woman and a one legged blind pirate, I realise that today, I will not be getting a seat.
Somehow I’ve got to get tough, I need to get a reputation for making the S.S.S.T.S. - as I call them, go without a soft touch – somehow I need to get off their target list. I’ve already cracked the P.W.B (Pregnant Women’s Brigade), this was due to an unfortunate incident where I stood up for one, happily asking her when it was due, only to see her break down in tears, apparently this was the first time she’d been out without her baby since it was born - 8 months ago. Fortunately, this meant I could take my seat back.
Friday, May 15, 2009
How do Dads know so much ?
When exactly do you get your Dad knowledge? I ponder this often as my boys look up and ask me why the moon changes shape. I mean, I’ve been a Dad for 7 years, surely by now I should know everything? I know I can ask my Dad anything and as long as it’s not maths related I’m bound to get a fairly convincing answer, and most people I know will ask their Dad if they need to know anything important, so when do you get this knowledge?
I first started to note this ability a long time ago in North Carolina. We were doing an open day on the ship, so all the locals were walking around a set route to get a look at the Royal Navy close up. I’d been stitched up at the last minute to be on duty for this, stood by the 20mm gun all day in whites looking military and knowing. I was there next to a big sign saying “this is a sailor, please wash hands after use”, or something like that, on quite a warm day I recall, waiting to be asked stuff about the gun, the ship or Riyal Navy life in general. However, amazingly, all the families coming round the ship had brought their very own Dad with them, either young ones or ex war old ones, and so I was completely superfluous. “ What’s this Dad?”, “ ah well, that is what you call a gyroscopic elongated modulatorizor son, you use it to scare pigeons I expect”, and on the walk right past me. American kids, it seems, believe anything their fathers tell them.
I feel aware that by now, I should be able to provide a lot more help to my boys, and yet I can’t. I have no idea what is the best route to follow, in order to get around the local road works. I only know the road numbers that are in use today – I can’t tell you a single road name where I live that it isn’t still called today. That is not right is it, I should be able to tell you a whole route from A to Z without ever once using a current road name. More proof of my inadequacy came in the form of our mower. A few years ago when we were living elsewhere with a very small garden, we got hold of our mower. At the time the mower had those safety blades on it, which were absolutely useless, and so I embarked upon changing them into a normal blade. This operation took quite a while, as -being a man – I’d long since got rid of anything that looked even remotely like a set of instructions. Eventually I was away cutting the grass again, noting that there was a definite improvement in it’s cutting, though never really thinking it was all that good. A couple of years later and we have moved and I borrow someone else’s mower, this is a revelation as I note just how much better it is than ours. Then we moved again and suddenly I have a very big garden. In no time at all I come to realise just how rubbish and unusable our mower is, how poor a job it’s doing.
Decision made – I’m going to get a new one, a petrol one, a lovely shiny new flash mower to tackle my grass, moving me from the shady outskirts of gardening slap bang into the realms of Diarmuid Gavin. However, I’m currently a bit skint so I think instead I’ll just buy a new blade, which should do the trick. Last plan is just to sharpen the one I already have, and so eventually I plump for the choice that I should have known was coming all along – ask Dad to do it. And so my Dad comes along with his file and flips over the mower to have a look. It takes Dad 30 seconds to casually mention that it would probably work better if the blade wasn’t upside down – WHAT ? As you look at the blade, you can easily see that the actual sharp bits on the blade are pristine, never used, however the other side of it is pocked and chiseled and very used looking. So there is an upside down way of using them is there?
2 weeks later and I finally figured out how to swap the blade over, the difference is amazing, suddenly the mower cuts the grass, rather than trying to pull it out a blade at a time. So I guess it’s going to be a while before I can get my petrol mower then.
And there it is, 7 years into fatherhood and I still can’t even figure out how to set up a mower on my own, never mind tell you what the A4130 used to be called – don’t bother asking me about which paint is best for doors, and I can barely figure out where to put the screen wash in the car. So when does the knowledge start ? Is there an exam you have to take, and if so, where are the course notes? Or will my children forever have to bypass me, and go straight to their Granddad when they need any help with anything remotely practical ?
I first started to note this ability a long time ago in North Carolina. We were doing an open day on the ship, so all the locals were walking around a set route to get a look at the Royal Navy close up. I’d been stitched up at the last minute to be on duty for this, stood by the 20mm gun all day in whites looking military and knowing. I was there next to a big sign saying “this is a sailor, please wash hands after use”, or something like that, on quite a warm day I recall, waiting to be asked stuff about the gun, the ship or Riyal Navy life in general. However, amazingly, all the families coming round the ship had brought their very own Dad with them, either young ones or ex war old ones, and so I was completely superfluous. “ What’s this Dad?”, “ ah well, that is what you call a gyroscopic elongated modulatorizor son, you use it to scare pigeons I expect”, and on the walk right past me. American kids, it seems, believe anything their fathers tell them.
I feel aware that by now, I should be able to provide a lot more help to my boys, and yet I can’t. I have no idea what is the best route to follow, in order to get around the local road works. I only know the road numbers that are in use today – I can’t tell you a single road name where I live that it isn’t still called today. That is not right is it, I should be able to tell you a whole route from A to Z without ever once using a current road name. More proof of my inadequacy came in the form of our mower. A few years ago when we were living elsewhere with a very small garden, we got hold of our mower. At the time the mower had those safety blades on it, which were absolutely useless, and so I embarked upon changing them into a normal blade. This operation took quite a while, as -being a man – I’d long since got rid of anything that looked even remotely like a set of instructions. Eventually I was away cutting the grass again, noting that there was a definite improvement in it’s cutting, though never really thinking it was all that good. A couple of years later and we have moved and I borrow someone else’s mower, this is a revelation as I note just how much better it is than ours. Then we moved again and suddenly I have a very big garden. In no time at all I come to realise just how rubbish and unusable our mower is, how poor a job it’s doing.
Decision made – I’m going to get a new one, a petrol one, a lovely shiny new flash mower to tackle my grass, moving me from the shady outskirts of gardening slap bang into the realms of Diarmuid Gavin. However, I’m currently a bit skint so I think instead I’ll just buy a new blade, which should do the trick. Last plan is just to sharpen the one I already have, and so eventually I plump for the choice that I should have known was coming all along – ask Dad to do it. And so my Dad comes along with his file and flips over the mower to have a look. It takes Dad 30 seconds to casually mention that it would probably work better if the blade wasn’t upside down – WHAT ? As you look at the blade, you can easily see that the actual sharp bits on the blade are pristine, never used, however the other side of it is pocked and chiseled and very used looking. So there is an upside down way of using them is there?
2 weeks later and I finally figured out how to swap the blade over, the difference is amazing, suddenly the mower cuts the grass, rather than trying to pull it out a blade at a time. So I guess it’s going to be a while before I can get my petrol mower then.
And there it is, 7 years into fatherhood and I still can’t even figure out how to set up a mower on my own, never mind tell you what the A4130 used to be called – don’t bother asking me about which paint is best for doors, and I can barely figure out where to put the screen wash in the car. So when does the knowledge start ? Is there an exam you have to take, and if so, where are the course notes? Or will my children forever have to bypass me, and go straight to their Granddad when they need any help with anything remotely practical ?
The day my toddler became a teenager
The freezing-cold, damp, February air, couldn’t ruin the joys of being a father that were still naively strong within me. At this time I still fully believed that I was the best thing to happen to parenthood since Professor Robert Winston first decided to don a comedy moustache. All that was about to change, suddenly my toddler was about to take his first steps on a road, down which he wasn’t due to tread for quite a few years. Today was the day he became a teenager.
We hadn’t really had a big issue with the “Terrible Twos” as such; oh Daniel was always full on and tricky, but following all the standard parent tricks seemed to work just nicely. This repeated success in the handling of minor toddler strops had lulled me into a comfortably secure feeling of parental prowess, until we had child number 2 and Daniel turned to the dark side.
The idea was simple enough, a nice - fresh air – walk around one of those open farms, plenty of exercise and stimulus for child, baby and parents alike, Professor Winston would be proud. Also we had the In-Laws visiting so a chance to impress them with how well we are coping. I soon was in full Dad mode passing on all my knowledge of which animal noises match which animal and failing to mention mint sauce just yet ( Dad jokes sometimes have to wait until the child is old enough to get them after all ).
Then it happened, we had become cut off from the rest of the party, the ladies were off somewhere with the baby and ahead in the distance was my father in law – a man who had already stated that his first job, should he win the lottery, was to ‘pay Glen off’. Daniel stood there looking at the sheep chewing his coat lapel – an act we had been trying to discourage in this nice new coat – and so I knew that now was the perfect time to settle this matter, once and for all.
I asked him to stop sucking his coat, he ignored me. I told him to stop, he ignored me. I gave a very clearly defined instruction to stop, he ignored me. With hindsight, this was probably the point to give it up and worry about it later, hindsight was sadly not available at the time, however. I continued, this time I told him that if he couldn’t look after his coat then I would take it off him, a flicker – great, this nice warm coat was already his favourite and I’d found his weakness, I had him. After a moments pause he went straight back to sucking the coat, RIGHT. I swiftly removed his coat and held it aloft, he had to know my threats aren’t empty after all, the look on his face said it all, I’d won. 33 years of life experience had led to this point, and it was all worth it, Daniel was about to apologize and beg to have his coat back, he would never again suck the lapel, Jo and her parents were about to smother me with praise for sorting out this dire issue when they had failed to manage it. Forever more I would now, finally, be the Man of the house. I felt drunk with the moment and so I pressed on, “ If you promise not to suck it any more you can have it back “ I wisely pointed out, “NO” replied Daniel – what ? what was that – did he just say no ?
Daniel shrugged his shoulders and said “it’s not cold”, onwards he walked away from me. No wait, that’s not what happens! Daniel continued to boldly stride on towards his Grandpa, who I could see looking absolutely bemused as to why on Earth I’d just removed Daniel’s coat on such a cold day. There was absolutely no way it was warm enough to be out with no coat on – now what ?
I ordered him to put his coat back on, he ignored me. I told him to put his coat back on, he ignored me. I asked him to put his coat back on, he ignored me. All the time closing the gap to his confused Grandfather, Ok so I begged him to put his coat on, promised him sweets and said that he could continue sucking it if he liked. At this point Daniel turned, smiled, put his coat on and stuck the lapel firmly in his mouth, his work complete, his Father broken.
And so there it was, my son had become a 3 year old teenager, and has only really continued to abuse his Father since. Even his brother, now 4, has started. Just this morning I was told that I just didn’t understand him, or his music, as he banged his ELC drum on my head…
We hadn’t really had a big issue with the “Terrible Twos” as such; oh Daniel was always full on and tricky, but following all the standard parent tricks seemed to work just nicely. This repeated success in the handling of minor toddler strops had lulled me into a comfortably secure feeling of parental prowess, until we had child number 2 and Daniel turned to the dark side.
The idea was simple enough, a nice - fresh air – walk around one of those open farms, plenty of exercise and stimulus for child, baby and parents alike, Professor Winston would be proud. Also we had the In-Laws visiting so a chance to impress them with how well we are coping. I soon was in full Dad mode passing on all my knowledge of which animal noises match which animal and failing to mention mint sauce just yet ( Dad jokes sometimes have to wait until the child is old enough to get them after all ).
Then it happened, we had become cut off from the rest of the party, the ladies were off somewhere with the baby and ahead in the distance was my father in law – a man who had already stated that his first job, should he win the lottery, was to ‘pay Glen off’. Daniel stood there looking at the sheep chewing his coat lapel – an act we had been trying to discourage in this nice new coat – and so I knew that now was the perfect time to settle this matter, once and for all.
I asked him to stop sucking his coat, he ignored me. I told him to stop, he ignored me. I gave a very clearly defined instruction to stop, he ignored me. With hindsight, this was probably the point to give it up and worry about it later, hindsight was sadly not available at the time, however. I continued, this time I told him that if he couldn’t look after his coat then I would take it off him, a flicker – great, this nice warm coat was already his favourite and I’d found his weakness, I had him. After a moments pause he went straight back to sucking the coat, RIGHT. I swiftly removed his coat and held it aloft, he had to know my threats aren’t empty after all, the look on his face said it all, I’d won. 33 years of life experience had led to this point, and it was all worth it, Daniel was about to apologize and beg to have his coat back, he would never again suck the lapel, Jo and her parents were about to smother me with praise for sorting out this dire issue when they had failed to manage it. Forever more I would now, finally, be the Man of the house. I felt drunk with the moment and so I pressed on, “ If you promise not to suck it any more you can have it back “ I wisely pointed out, “NO” replied Daniel – what ? what was that – did he just say no ?
Daniel shrugged his shoulders and said “it’s not cold”, onwards he walked away from me. No wait, that’s not what happens! Daniel continued to boldly stride on towards his Grandpa, who I could see looking absolutely bemused as to why on Earth I’d just removed Daniel’s coat on such a cold day. There was absolutely no way it was warm enough to be out with no coat on – now what ?
I ordered him to put his coat back on, he ignored me. I told him to put his coat back on, he ignored me. I asked him to put his coat back on, he ignored me. All the time closing the gap to his confused Grandfather, Ok so I begged him to put his coat on, promised him sweets and said that he could continue sucking it if he liked. At this point Daniel turned, smiled, put his coat on and stuck the lapel firmly in his mouth, his work complete, his Father broken.
And so there it was, my son had become a 3 year old teenager, and has only really continued to abuse his Father since. Even his brother, now 4, has started. Just this morning I was told that I just didn’t understand him, or his music, as he banged his ELC drum on my head…
Thursday, May 14, 2009
First Dot Com millionaire
this post was deleted ages ago - it wasn't good anyway - so if you've just joined us - you've missed nothing
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