Speak English!

I get frustrated with some people who talk on mobiles while on public transport. Okay, it’s not what you think. Plenty of people moan about being bothered by people having mobile conversations on buses, trains, even on the Tube, when it runs above ground. I have no problem with it. In fact, in these tough economic times, I think it’s a golden opportunity for free entertainment. Instead of berating these travelling talkers, listen in on their conversations. You get endless hours of free amusement, then. Why waste money on an iPod, when you can hear one half of a juicy conversation, free? The songs on your iPod you’ve heard before anyway. This is fresh, real life, and it’s drama!

I’m sure there are some of you, out there, who’ll claim that earwigging is rude. “Nonsense,” I say. If people are going to talk loudly, in public spaces, they should expect people to listen. It’s fun trying to guess who the person on the other end is, when you only have half the conversation to go on. This can be especially useful, when you’ve completed the easy and intermediate sudokus, and are stuck on the hard one. As you listen in on the conversation, you can try to figure out if it’s to a spouse, boyfriend or girlfriend, parent, employer, employee, business associate, or just a friend.

However, as no good column would be complete without a moan about something, I do have one complaint. As London is a cosmopolitan city, with people from all sorts of nations and ethnic backgrounds, you do get some spoilsports who insist on talking, on their mobiles, in a foreign language. It is to these people that I say, “Speak English!” Otherwise, how are the rest of us supposed to listen in? I will defend to the death (yours, not mine) your right to talk loudly into your mobile, on the public transport network, as long as you do it in English. Otherwise, you can sod off, back to where you came from. I’m an immigrant too and if I can do it, so can you. Those of us born into families that speak English are notoriously bad at going on to learn other languages. Therefore, it’s up to you lot, who learned English as a second language, to speak it whenever you’re talking on your mobile, in public. Have a nice day.

Easier Christmas Shopping

Yesterday, I awakened to find that my racist, Italian housemate, Nando, had the day off from work. I rushed downstairs in my robe, to see if he was going out. Sure enough, he was sitting at the kitchen table, fully dressed in house leaving attire and smoking a cigarette. In front of him was a cup of one of his coffee concoctions.
In response to my inquiry, he informed me that he was going into town, to do some shopping. I asked him if I might tag along, if I got dressed quickly. After cautioning me that he would be out shopping for a couple of hours, he agreed that I might accompany him. The advantage for me is that Nando has a car, so I would get free, door to door transport, between home and the town centre. I'm not sure what the advantage would be for Nando, but that was his problem, not mine.
As Nando pulled into a pay, multi-storey car park, it occurred to me that we could enjoy free parking in Camberley. When I suggested going to Camberley instead, Nando said he couldn't be bothered. He's willing to pay a couple of quid for parking, rather than make the effort of driving a couple of extra miles. His first errand was to go to the bank and pay a bill. There are so many ways that Nando's life is less convenient, as he refuses to get a computer and and internet access. So much of what he goes out to do, I can do over the net, from the comfort of my bedroom.
After the bank, our next stop was a card shop, where he started looking for Christmas cards. It was so crowded, I decided to wait for him outside, where I managed to find a bench to sit on. As I sat, I addressed a Christmas card to my mother, back in America. Most likely, this would be the only Christmas card I would send, this year. Having finished addressing the envelope, I read a book, as I continued waiting for my Italian friend. When he finally appeared, he told me not to get up, as he wanted to sit and have a cigarette.
After his nicotine break, Nando walked over to a store, diagonally across the pedestrianized square. This emporium boasted massive discounts, on large, red signs in all its windows. At the entrance, I told Nando that I was going to the post office. I might as well get my mother's card in the post, as soon as possible. While Nando had been in the card shop, I had tried to find my voucher for a free eye exam, from one of the high street, optical chains. Having my eye exam was one of the tasks I was hoping to complete on this trip. Sadly, I had been unable to find it. I would have to print off another one, so that was one task that would need to await another trip.
Arriving in the post office, I was shocked to discover a very long queue. This was a Thursday afternoon. Where were all these people coming from? Don't they have jobs? Also, why is it there are about nine windows in the post office, but they never seem to have more than three of them staffed, at any one time? One staff member was standing near the front of the queue, asking people if they wanted to apply for a Post Office credit card. Everyone was turning him down. Surely, he would have been better employed manning another one of the windows, so the line could be serviced quicker. As chance would have it, I ended up with the only female working the windows. She charged me £1.22 to send my card to my mother. That seemed a bit higher than I used to pay. Usually, it's under a Pound. At least she stamped and posted it for me. That's much better customer service than in the past, when they hand me some stamps and my envelope back, which I have to put in the post box myself.
Having escaped the postal ordeal, I then visited my bank, which is just across from the post office. I checked the exchange rate for Dollars. Then a young man in a bank uniform asked me if he could help. I asked what the current fee was for international money orders. It had been years since I had sent one to my mother. While he didn't know, he asked a beautiful, female member of staff and she informed me that the price was £1 more than it was the last time I used the service, over five years ago. It was still £5 cheaper than a wire transfer. The young man proceeded to engage me in conversation. He admitted that the bank was quiet and there was definitely a business slowdown, for them. We discussed the pros and cons of my getting another loan, next year, to finance a motor vehicle purchase. Then we talked about the economy and the futile attempts of politicians to control it.
Eventually, the young banker was needed, to do some actual work. I left to find Nando. Checking my mobile phone, I discovered that Nando had sent me a text, about twenty minutes earlier. At that time, he was heading to HMV. He could have been anywhere after twenty minutes, so I called him. When he answered, he informed me he was at W. H. Smith, so I told him I'd meet him there. After I caught up to him, we went to Boots. There, he purchased several items, including four of the same thing. He said that item was buy three, get one free. I suggested that his friends might get annoyed if he gave four of them the exact same Christmas present. Undeterred, he rationalized that none of the four knew each other and like he felt about most things, when it came to Christmas shopping, he couldn't be bothered. Since Nando didn't have a Boots loyalty card, he agreed that I could have the points from his purchase. As we were near the car, he decided to put the purchases he'd made so far in the car. I waited in the warmth of Princess Square shopping mall, reading my book.
When Nando returned, he led us to Argos. He informed me that he was looking for a CD rack, for his girlfriend's daughter. I suggested that he try Woolworth's, as they were closing down, or Bentall's, although the latter would not be cheap. I also suggested that he try the discount shop, run by the geezers in the turbans. As Bentall's was closest to our position, we went there first. Nando found some crystal wine glasses he wanted, there, but thought they were a bit pricey. Leaving the glasses, we went to Costa Coffee. Nando wanted a cup of coffee and a cigarette. He bought me a hot chocolate. I wonder if he'd forgotten that I now earn more than him? We sat outside, European style, where he could smoke. Over our refreshments, he informed me that the planned regeneration of Bracknell town centre had been put on hold, again, due to the credit crunch. We agreed that the town centre looked dismal and needed a regeneration. There seemed to be fewer Christmas lights, this year, and fewer children's rides.
Having refreshed, we made our way to Woolie's. I looked for bargains in the CD section, while Nando went off in search of a CD rack. I resisted the temptation to buy any CDs and Nando found nothing there he wanted. This might end up being the last time I step into a Woolworth's. The chain closed in America, over a decade ago. On to the discount store, run by the turban wearing geezers. After browsing awhile, Nando inquired. One of the non-turban wearing staff agreed to show us their selection of CD racks. The Italian picked out a wall mounted unit, which happened to be the cheapest.
With CD rack in hand, we returned to Bentall's, so Nando could purchase the wine glasses. While we waited to pay, Nando looked over the CD rack. Puzzled, he asked me how it stood up. "It's a wall mounted unit," I replied. "You screw it into the wall, just as it shows on the picture." It was then that I discovered that Nando hadn't realized that his purchase wasn't a free standing CD rack. He's not very good at this shopping stuff, I suppose. I suggested that he return to the discount shop and ask to exchange it for one he preferred. He had doubts about the willingness of the shopkeepers to exchange it, but I reassured him that, given that he wasn't asking for a refund and that he'd be purchasing a more expensive one, they'd be fine with it.
Back we went to the discount shop, which was in the opposite direction to the car. Several times, Nando expressed doubts about being able to exchange the CD rack, but each time I reassured him. Once we were at the store, the exchange went off without a hitch, as I expected. We headed back towards the car and I helped Nando carry his packages. So, I turned out to be some use to him, after all. In the car, I helped pay for the parking, as Nando didn't have enough change. I ended up covering about 35% of the cost, which was less than my hot chocolate cost.
As Nando drove us home, I reflected on what lessons could be learned about Christmas shopping, from our day out. Use the internet, whenever possible, so you don't have to gown into town, if it can be avoided. Be careful that what you buy is what you want, what you really, really want, like the Spice Girls. It then occurred to me that I had only looked at things to buy myself, during the outing. Christmas shopping is much easier if you only shop for yourself. They say it's better to give than to receive, so surely it's best to give AND receive. Buying gifts for yourself would ensure that. Nando experienced frustration, while I had an enjoyable day out. I spent a minimal amount of money, looked at several purchases, but didn't make them, and I even got my mother's Christmas card into the post. Santa Claus could take lessons from me. So, if your tempted to buy anything in this run-up to Christmas, don't. Have a cup of hot chocolate instead, preferably at your friend's expense. Have a merry Christmas and if no one gets you the gift you want, buy it yourself, during the after Christmas sales.

New Day Job

I am so happy with my new "day" job. No more working at the restaurant, for me. Okay, I miss the free food, but I have doubled my income. I'm now saving money to send my mother and I have money in my pocket. For those of you who don't already know and are curious as to what I am doing, I am driving a bus, in London. A big, red double-decker, London bus. Hey! it's fun.
Of course, I can't help thinking about the negative attitudes that used to be directed my way, by a number of women, at the paltriness of my old salary. One old girlfriend referred to me as someone "with no prospects." Now I earn more than her, ha, ha, ha. Another female friend, desperate to get married and/or have a baby, turned her nose up at me, because I didn't earn enough to, in her words, support her, while she took time off from work, to give birth. Although she wanted to wait five years, before getting pregnant. I used to ask her, "why do you assume I will be making the same in five years time?" Then, there was the woman I was seeing, last year, who stopped all contact with me, because I said I would marry someone rich, for money. Why was she bothered? She's not rich. Anyway, this "indecent proposal" conversation was only academic. There was another woman, who turned her nose up at dating me, in part, because I don't own a car. Well, I am planning on buying a car again, next year.
Sod all of them! I'm on my way back up. While the world has a financial melt-down, my financial situation is vastly improving. It's going to be a happy new year, indeed.

Third Time Unlucky?

It's been almost six months since I posted a blog article. Traveling by public transportation uses up a lot of the free time I used to spend blogging. Also, I've been very busy, doing radio, TV, and my new day job. In any case, I wanted to share something with you, my lovely readers, for some time. I've finally taken the time to write about it.
The details are a little fuzzy, now, as this actually happened last spring. In my last two postings, I explained how I had helped total strangers. The first time was a beautiful, young woman. Then I helped an old lady, but as I got something out of it, cynics among you have cast doubt on that as an act of chivalry. It happened again, but this time, I helped a man.
I was on my way North, one Saturday morning, to do my radio show. I stopped at Egham Train station, to by a ticket to Victoria, since my season ticket didn't cover travel to London stations. Ahead of me, there was a muscular young man at the ticket window. He seemed to be having trouble communicating with the woman behind the glass. He was asking for directions to Victoria Station and I suddenly realized that he was speaking in an American accent. After a bit of hesitation, my impatience got the better of me and I interrupted them. "I can show you how to get to Victoria. That's where I'm going," I said.
The young man accepted my offer of assistance and, more to the point for me, got out of the way, so I could buy my ticket. The next train was due in minutes and I didn't want to miss it. After getting my ticket, I told the fellow to follow me, onto the next train. As I explained that he needed to change at Clapham Junction, he gave me an unsure look. "Just come with me, as I'm going that way," I instructed. It seemed the simplest way to solve his problem.
So, we ended up sitting together, on the train. He explained that he was a soldier, serving in Iraq, but was in the UK on leave, visiting some friends. Although I was interested in finding out about Iraq, he seemed reluctant to talk about it. I relented and we talked about what he'd seen on his vacation, so far. Once I had safely escorted him to Victoria, I showed him where to catch the coach he was looking for, then headed to my own.
Having now helped a man, so that it can't be excused away by my weakness for women, what does this signify? Am I getting soft as I get older? Was it just because he was American? Or, merely the result of me wanting to get him out of my way, at the ticket window? What will become of my reputation, now?

Oh No, Not Again!

It's been a while since I posted a blog article. I'm sorry about that, but I'm so busy these days, it's hard to find the time. I want to mention something that happened the day after the events in my last post ("A Bit of Chivalry," April 30, 2008). To review, that article is about me helping a total stranger, on the way to Victoria Bus Station, in London.
On the following day, I was on my way back home, from Withernsea. It was raining and cold, so I decided to treat myself to a taxi ride home, from the Bracknell train station. When I walked out of the front of the station, all the taxis had pulled off with other passengers. There was one couple who'd missed the last taxi. For some strange reason, these two rocket scientists were standing at the end of the taxi rank, where they had just missed the last cab. They weren't moving to the front of the queue, so as to be in place when the next cab pulls up. This left me in a dilemma. Should I go stand with them, being that they were there ahead of me, or should I go stand at the front, where they should have moved?
After a brief few moments pondering this, one of life's profound questions, I decided to stand at the front, where they should have been. I figured that if they noticed me at the front, they might wake up and come there. If they did and said anything about being in queue first, I'd defer to them. On the other hand, if they were too stupid to cotton on and move to where they were supposed to be, and they didn't say anything, I'd take the first cab that comes.
Fortunately, the taxi rank is covered by the upper floors of the station building. This meant I was sheltered from the rain, while I waited. During the wait, I pondered the irony that the one time I wanted a cab, there were none there, available. That's quite unusual for Bracknell train station. There's usually plenty waiting when the trains arrive. All of the sudden, I noticed this tiny, little, old lady, who had walked up and stood to my right. The rocket scientists were still at the wrong end of the queue. This old lady had gotten in queue behind me, seeing that I was at the front. Like me, she'd left the idiots down the other end to fend for themselves. She was carrying a little bit of shopping and I started wondering if I should let her take the first cab, when it arrived. It's too bad we weren't going the same place, then we could share it and split the cost. As I stood there, my curiosity grew. Where was she headed? Was it to anywhere near my house?
Eventually, a taxi approached, returning empty from dropping of a previous customer. The old lady saw it at the same time I did. She looked up at me and said, "this is your cab."
For some unknown reason, I overcame indecision and my strong tendency not to speak to strangers. I asked her, "where are you headed to?" It turned out she was going to the same street as me. She lived about fifty houses up the road. So, I suggested that we share the cab between us.
"Are you sure?" she inquired, in response. I reassured her that I was certain. What a wonderful outcome. I was able to get her on her way, so she wouldn't have to stand there and wait longer, while at the same time, getting my own journey home for half price. The driver dropped her off first, then me. As I paid him, my sheer joy at saving half the fare was interrupted by a tiny, negative thought. This was the second time I had helped a total stranger, in two days. Was there something wrong with me? Was I ill? Had I lost my mind? If news of this gets out, what will happened to my reputation?

Open and Shut Case

Last Thursday, I was working on a film shoot, on location, in London. It was my fourth day on the same project and, just as on the previous project I worked on with the same director, he seemed to keep us waiting around a lot. As long as I'm getting paid, I couldn't care less. On Thursday, I didn't do anything all day, but sit around, sleep, play sudoku, read the paper, eat, and chat with fellow background artistes.
Barbara, the Hungarian woman I met about eleven months ago, on the director's previous project, was also on the current shoot. This time, she'd gotten her son on the job, as well. He seemed like a nice young man and is very "into" films. Each day, I carry my black shoulder bag, to keep my "stuff" in. For the shoot, it contained flapjacks, newspapers, a book, my hat, plus back up pen, train schedules, bus schedules, my portable radio, and a few other "bits." The bag is actually an old, leather, laptop case. Someone was throwing it out, last year, when I rescued it. As I tend to pick up any free newspaper I can get my hands on, but don't throw them away until I have completed the sudokus in them, there are usually several newspapers sticking out of the top of one of the compartments of the case.
When we wrapped for the day, I happened to be walking out at the same time as Barbara's son. Suddenly, he says to me, "your bag is open."
After looking down to check it, I say, "I know." Of course it's open. I usually leave two or three of the top compartments open, because I have so much "stuff" inside, I can't close the zippers. Several newspapers were sticking out of one of the compartments, as normal. Was he really concerned that someone might steal one of my several days old newspapers, or was he just teasing me? I walked to the Tube station and didn't give the matter any more thought.
After taking the District line to Richmond, I crossed over to the Southwest Trains platform, to catch the next Reading bound train. When the train arrived, it was very full. I pushed past several people standing in the doorway. I had spotted one empty seat, between two people, facing backwards. I hurried to get to the seat, before someone else grabbed it. I was tired and wanted to sit for the journey to Bracknell. As I started down the aisle, towards the seat, one of the people who had been standing in the doorway grabbed my arm. It was a young man I had squeezed past. It had better be important, as he'd just violated the taboo against touching a stranger. Feeling annoyed, I turned to see what this person wanted. "Your bag is open," he said.
"Yeah, I know," I said feeling exasperated. That's it? This muppet grabbed my arm on a crowded train, delaying me from reaching the only available seat, to tell me my bloody bag is open? It's always open! Every day I travel, one or more of the compartments is unzipped. There's nothing valuable inside. Usually, no one says anything about it. In fact, I have been travelling on public transportation since last July and no one has ever told me my bag was open. Until last Thursday. Now, two young men had told me in the same day. What's with these guys and my open bag? Leave me alone! I hate when strangers who aren't beautiful women disturb me, in public. I hate it when people tell me something I am already fully aware of, as if they've done me this massive favor. Why me? Why that day? I can hardly wait till I can afford a limousine.

Backwards People Vs Forwards People

One thing about travelling on the train is that a lot of seats face away from the direction of travel. This seems to be the case more for trains than for any other form of transport. When you fly on an airline, generally, all the seats face forwards. In some smaller planes, like corporate aircraft, and in helicopters, there are sometimes backwards facing seats, but not on airlines. One exception is the jump seats for cabin crew. These are often backwards facing. Some people don't like travelling facing backwards. They insist on facing forwards. I call these people, "forwards people." A minority prefer facing to the rear, so I call them, "backwards people." Others don't care, but I don't have a label for them.
Some forwards people claim they will throw up, if they ride in a backwards facing seat. I prefer facing forwards, myself. When I was younger, I went o great lengths to avoid riding backwards, but I never threw up because of it. As I have gotten older, I have found that I am less concerned with whether I end up in a backwards seat, or not. My main concern is to get where I am going and to have a seat. During my trip to Paris, at Christmas, I learned that my good friend, Barbara is a forwards person. She is one of those who claim riding backwards will make her vomit, so on the Eurostar, she insisted on moving from our reserved seats, which were backwards, to some forwards ones. I let her get on with it and stayed put.
The other day, I was on a crowed train. I ended up riding backwards. As there were so few seats available, I took the first one I could find. Looking to my right, across the aisle, I noticed that there were three blond women riding backwards, facing three brunettes riding forward. Is there a correlation between hair color and direction of travel preference? I feel empowered, because I can ride in either direction. Forwards people sometimes seem like a pain in the ass, when they start stressing over a seat. I've noticed one man, on the first train I take in the morning, who seems to be a backwards person. Even when a forward seat is available, he will take a backward one. I wonder if he'll be sick, if he rides forward? As I am a person who can ride in either direction, I wonder if that's why I haven't come up with a name for us?
So, which are you? Are you happy the way you are? Do you think direction of travel preference is due to nature or nurture? Can a forwards person ever be cured of his limitation? I just thought of something! Rowboats are primarily backwards facing. I wonder if forwards people are more susceptible to seasickness? Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily...life is but a dream.

Bench Man

Having spent the past three months commuting by train, I've started to recognize some of the same people travelling at the same time, every weekday. One of these is a guy I have dubbed, "Bench Man." He wears a suit and looks like a business type. My suspicion at his profession is reinforced by the fact that he heads towards London every weekday morning. That's not unusual, as there are lots of business types on the eastbound train, in the morning. Many of them fumble with Blackberrys.
What's so special about Bench Man? Every time I see him, he's standing in front of one of the benches provided for passengers to sit on,while they wait at the station. That's his unique selling point. He stands in front of a bench. He stands so close to the bench, that he blocks one of the spaces on it, yet I never see him sitting, just standing in front. So why does he do it? This inconsiderate goon wastes one of the limited bench spaces and hes not even using it himself. If he would just move a couple of feet away from the bench, someone else could have a seat. Are you a Bench Man, blocking other people from using something, while deriving no benefit for yourself? Am I the only person who is considerate of others? I enjoy a small thrill when I arrive before Bench Man and sit in the spot where he usually stands. Gosh, the benches are ugly and not very comfortable, either.

Slow

Researchers have determined that London is the slowest city in Europe. Traffic in the UK capital averages just 11.8 miles-per-hour. For years, I have suspected that London traffic is particularly bad. The traffic seems much worse than that in New York. One major problem is that the city is so old. The roads are not laid out in any sort of pattern, but seem to go this way and that, like a twisted mound of spaghetti. I think a lot of London was built back when there was only horse-drawn traffic.
New York City streets follow a pattern. Through most of Manhattan, streets go east and west, while avenues go north and south. Most roads there are one way, alternating direction. Additionally, lower numbered streets are in the south, with numbers getting higher as you travel North. The north-south avenues are very wide, with several lanes of traffic. Even the streets are more than twice the width of typical London streets. With such simplicity, almost no one who lives in New York owns an atlas of the city. By contrast, every Londoner owns a London A-Z atlas. It's virtually impossible to find your way around without one.
London traffic is hindered by the absence of any cross-city motorway. Thus, there's no quick way to get from the west side of town to the east. Some roads turn ninety degrees, then dead end, leaving a driver to follow a very convoluted path to navigate on his way. When you add up the traffic, the congestion charge and the difficulty, and expense, of finding parking in central London, if I lived in the city, I wouldn't bother owning a car. As far as the slow average speed goes, maybe everyone could just hurry up ands raise the average?

My Fellow Train Passengers

Every time I book a train ticket to Hull, which is the route I take to get to Withernsea, to perform my weekly radio show, I only seem to be able to get the cheapest fare on a Friday night, overnight routing. This route encompasses taking five trains, with four connections. The timing of the second and third connections places me right in the "witching hour," vis a vis people traveling from Friday night drinking sessions. In other words, I encounter a lot of drunks.
Last night was no exception. Quite the contrary, I think it may have been a record. First, on my second train, the Virgin Trains service to Birmingham New Street, during a stop in Coventry, or there abouts, a couple of dozen 20-somethings poured into the carriage I was sitting in. As it was around 10:30PM, these young men and women were on their way to Birmingham, for a night out hitting the clubs and pubs. Unfortunately for me and the few other people in the carriage, they appeared to have had a head start. Not only did they seem drunk already, they brought cans of beer with them. The boys were bad enough, but how could girls let themselves get in such a state? The amazing thing is that they were only at the beginning of their night. What state would they be in after hitting the nightlife of Birmingham? They were so loud, there was no opportunity for further sleep. Even though the ones sitting around me were the females, I still didn't enjoy their company. Drunken women just don't do it for me. I was happy none of them ended up throwing up on me.
Our arrival in Birmingham couldn't come fast enough for me, but when it did, I waited for the gang of young drunks to exit the train first. I let them clear off the platform before I got onto it. I made my way to platform 7A, for my next train, the 11:10PM to Nottingham, which stops at Derby, amongst other places. I, of course, get off at Derby. The platform was very full with other waiting passengers. I decided to stand near three beautiful, mixed race sisters, who were on their way home from a night out with their father. Sadly, the older two sisters seemed inebriated. At least the middle sister was quiet, sitting on a foot rail, with red eyes. The oldest and most talkative sister got into a conversation with a drunk couple, who spilled out onto the platform, near us, not long after my, sober, arrival. What a waste. I didn't move because the platform was so full and most of the other passengers seemed equally sauced. What is it about the British that so many of them find it necessary to become so inebriated on Friday nights? The girls' father was very dark skinned (kind of like Wesley Snipes) and I found it amusing when the man from the drunken couple asked the father how the girls could be his daughters, when they were lighter skinned (sort of Beyonce colored). The farther seemed shocked and offended. I thought "what do you expect, mate, talking to drunks?"
The train to Nottingham arrived late and was so full, I had to sit on one of the folding seats on the bulkhead, near the doors. To my right was a man with a baby in a stroller, and a dog. The dog was ugly, with tired, red eyes, which made him appear drunk, as well. Thankfully, man, baby, and dog got off at one of the early stops. The man walked in a way that led me to think he was either drunk, or tired. The baby remained asleep and I'm assuming he was just tired, but you never know around here.

Failing the Grade

Last week, the Qualifications and Curriculum Authority, in the UK, announced that new guidelines will be issued, under which pupils will grade each other's homework and will decide what will be asked on exams. Government ministers are studying the plan. Hopefully, they will have sense enough to give the scheme an F grade, for failure. This is the same group of dunces who announced, two months ago, that Winston Churchill would no longer be covered in history classes. Imagine that! In Britain, Winston Churchill would no longer be studied in history classes. The mind boggles. The government schools, in this country, are becoming a bad joke. Anyone who can afford to should send his or her children to private schools. I am sitting here, in front of my computer, holding my head in my hands. Never have the futures of so many been ruined by so few.

A Model of Teen Unemployment

This week has been London Fashion Week, again. That's why there have been so many news items about the fashion industry, floating around. The latest is that the British Fashion Council has decided to ban people under 16 from appearing on catwalks. Recently, a 12-year-old model, Maddison Gabriel, caused a stir in Australia, during their Gold Coast Fashion Week. Australian Prime Minister, felt the need to open his gob and complain that "girls" under 16 shouldn't be appearing on catwalks. He described having a girl as young as 12 modeling as "outrageous." At least the models are doing honest work, Mr. Howard, unlike "government officials." It's hard to find work when you're a teen, so those who can should take advantage of the opportunity.
I had my first job, a paper route (or round, as the Brits say). I was 11 when I started. It never did me any harm. I wasn't earning as much as a model would. I think Naomi Campbell sided with those who favor a ban. That's hypocritical, given that she started at 15. I bet the real reason she favours a ban is that she doesn't want the competition from younger models. Let's face it, Campbell isn't getting any younger. When teens don't find work, people criticise them. You can't have it both ways. Someone needs to stand up for these models. I guess it falls to me.

Since When Do Men Wear Tops?

I managed to get myself going early, today, so I caught the bus into town. I needed to pick up clothes from the cleaners and buy some groceries. It was just a quick trip, as I wanted to get back in time to watch football, on TV. As I was walking back to the bus station, I encountered three young men, walking the opposite direction. One of the three was very tall, while the other two were short. The tall one was talking and I couldn't help but overhear. He was saying, "let's go and get those tops we saw the other day." That was all of the conversation I got to hear, as we passed each other. In a flash, they were out of earshot again.
As I continued walking to the bus station, the little snippet of conversation stirred my brain. There was something not quite right about it. I mulled it over for a few moments, while continuing to scan the walkway for beautiful women. Suddenly, it occurred to me...that young man said, "tops!" Since when do men buy tops? Men buy shirts. Women buy tops. What gives? Is this a sign of the further demasculinization of the British male? Come to think of it, that tall, young man looked a bit effeminate. Why were these boys going clothes shopping in the first place? That's a girly pass time. Why aren't they heading to the pub, or home, like me, to watch football? Now that's a manly pursuit. Sitting in front of your satellite TV, remote at your fingertips, cold beer in hand, watching the footie. If boys, these days, don't get to practice such manly activities, what will become of society?
Perhaps they were raised by single mothers. No man around to teach them the many arts of football watching, remote control fondling, and wearing shirts. What's worse, these lot probably put the toilet seat down, after they pee. Or, horror of horrors, they call it "weeing," instead of "peeing." The next thing you know, they'll be using moisturizers and tons of hair care products. No wonder Britain lost the Empire.

Why Do Girls Like Pink?

While on my way home today, as I sat waiting for a connecting bus at the Bracknell bus station, I noticed a young woman sitting to my right. She had on these "Timberland" style boots, which most people seem to get in beige or black. Her's were pink! To top that off, she had a pink belt on, as well. Why the heck do girls like pink so much?
In the winter of 2005-06, I was working on a long-term temporary assignment at a bistro, located within a health and racquet club. One of the regulars to eat at the restaurant was an Australian aerobics instructor. I made up a nickname for her. I used to call her "Australia Girl." She was into pink, too. She even had a pink mobile phone. A female friend of mine drives a pink car. Traditionally, girl babies are dressed in pink, while boy babies are dressed in blue. Pink has long been associated wit the feminine. Although it has become fashionable for heterosexual men to wear pink shirts, some refuse to. I think I own one pink shirt and one pink tie. Nando refuses to wear pink, saying its gay. On "Big Brother" this year, the twins are into pink. As they are girls, it seems no big deal.
So ladies, please explain. What is it with girls and pink? Why do so many females seem almost obsessed with pink? I can picture Beyonce wearing pink, but not Bruce Willis. As the Pink Panther used to say, "think pink!"

Mad Dogs and Englishmen

Yesterday, I was reading "Closer" magazine, on the bus, when I came across one of their "burning question" features. The title was, "Is It Cruel to Take Your Dog Clubbing?" This featured in the 28th July-3 August edition of "Closer." It was inspired by a furore that arose after Britney Spears was reported to have taken her Yorkshire Terrier puppy to clubs with her, in LA. Supposedly, "animal lovers" were "up in arms" over Britney's actions.
Arguing the "no" side, that it's not cruel, is Julian Bennett, a TV presenter, here in the UK. He owns a Dachshund, Lulu, and regularly takes her clubbing with him. He reasons, quite cogently, that if a dog is used to something, there is nothing wrong with the dog being in that environment. Bennett has had Lulu for four years and she's grown up in a show business environment. He points out that celebrities usually sit in quieter, VIP areas, in these clubs anyway, so the dog wouldn't have to cope with the noisiest parts. Arguing the "yes" side, that it is cruel, is Shauna Lowry, also a British TV presenter. As I read her words, I found myself horrified that I have to share this planet with such loons.
Shauna Lowry starts off saying, "I'm a Trustee of Battersea dogs home..." Immediately, she's trying the discredited, "argument from authority." Listen honey, anyone with a bit of money can become a trustee of a charity. That doesn't make you an animal expert. You're a TV presenter, for Pete's sake, not a scientist. Then she goes on to assume a lot of things which she has no evidence to conclude. She guesses that Britney's dog would be "shaking from fear" and starts guessing Britney's mental state, accusing her of only taking the dog along as an "attention seeking device." Lowry goes on to brag that "we" (Battersea dog's home) turned down a request to adopt a dog by Robbie Williams, the pop music superstar, because he travels a lot and wouldn't be a "proper owner." Even though she admits that Robbie said he'd have staff around to care for the dog when he is away, she dismisses that as not being " a responsible owner." What? What are people supposed to do who own pets, never go away? Is this woman barking mad?
Britney's dog is a Yorkshire Terrier. It just so happens that my good friend, Mucky Sarah, has a Yorkshire Terrier, too. I happened to call Sarah, last night, to chat. During the conversation, I mentioned this article from "Closer." Sarah told me she was turned down by Battersea Dog's home, as well. As a single, working woman, she would need to leave the dog at home during the day. Sarah was planning to hire a professional dog walker to take her dog out, during the day, while she was at work. The muppets at Battersea dog's home said that wasn't good enough! Sarah also told me that single people, looking to adopt a dog from Battersea, have to undergo a lifestyle assessment, before they can adopt a dog. What? In a dazzling display of flagrant discrimination, families aren't required to go through this rubbish. Sarah echoed my own sentiment, that a dog is better off in a home, with a loving owner prepared to arrange care for it, than locked up in one of Battersea's cages. People adopt children with less screening than this. These are dogs, for Pete's sake!
I don't know where Sarah ended up getting her dog from, but she's so sweet. She has accompanied Sarah and I out, even attending a pub with us. To me, it would be more cruel keeping the dog in Sarah's flat, rather than taking her out. The dog seems to love going out and about. When I was married, we had a lovely dog, a Golden Retriever named, Elsie. My evil ex-wife, the Black Queen, raised Elise from a puppy and she was very well behaved. Elsie was my second favorite pet of all time, behind my own pet cat, Misty. As the Black Queen and I both worked, and my step-children attended school, Elsie would spend days home alone. If we were going away on holiday, we would arrange for my in-laws to have Elsie.
To use a popular, British expression, Shauna Lowry and the people at Battersea dogs home seem to have lost the plot. They truly give me the impression that the inmates are running the asylum. As long as Battersea engage in such absurd policies, I will not be donating a single penny to them. Robbie Williams' dog would lead a better life than I do. The same can be said for Britney's, pictured clutched to Britney's breast. People like Lowry remind me of the old sayings about "mad Englishmen" and that the English love their dogs more than they love people. All the dogs of the world should turn around and bite Shauna Lowry, and the people at Battersea, on the ass.

Wet, Wet, Wet

Persistent rains in Britain have caused widespread flooding, this month. I've heard that the floods have even made the news in America. To all of you who asked if I was okay, I am fine. Bracknell is on high ground, so there's been no flooding here. It was nice to know that some of you were actually concerned about my well being. As the end of the month approaches, this July is set to be the wettest July on record, here in Britain. Of course, those who think they are the "government" and who desire to put their hands further into our pockets, are quick to blame the rain on "climate change."
My memory is still fairly good and I remember that last summer, we had a drought. We were banned from using our garden hoses and constantly harangued to save water. The Mayor of London, Ken (red Ken) Livingstone, even went so far as to suggest that we not flush our toilets, if we have only had a pee. He came out with this ridiculous rhyme, "if it's yellow, let it mellow...if it's brown, flush it down." Someone should flush HIM down. Last year's drought was blamed on...you guessed it..."climate change."
Drought one year and flooding the next. Is it just me, or do you get the impression that the terrorcrats will use whatever the weather is in order to justify taxing us more? I think they think we're stupid. Don't believe the hype!

Get On the Bus!

Now that my car has died, I have been riding the bus to and from work. In some ways, it's not too bad. The bus stops just down the street from my street. I take one bus, the 194, to Camberley, then catch a free shuttle bus service from Camberley train station, to the office complex where I work. A weekly ticket costs £22.00. That's only a little less than what I used to spend in petrol. The downside is that it takes me an extra hour, each way, to get to work, as compared with going in a private car. No wonder people prefer driving to taking public transportation. I use the extra time to sleep, read, or just look out of the window. There are even a few hot women on the buses. Sometimes, in the mornings, a couple of hot nurses take the same morning bus as I do. I wonder if they could help me with my aches and pains?
Unlike the underground, a bus is intimate enough that you start to recognize the same commuters, day after day. I have run into quite a variety of bus drivers, on the Bracknell-Camberley run. The free shuttle bus usually has the same driver, every day, morning and afternoon. He's from Nepal and he plays some Nepali language radio station on the bus. You haven't lived until you have heard Nepalese music. I feel I am sharing experiences with my mother, who's car died a few years ago, as well. She rides the buses, back on Long Island. Now in the world of buses, I have discovered a cheap bus service between Bracknell and London. This could result in me spending more time in Britain's capital. Somebody better warn the Queen.

World Premier

I have been invited to attend the world premier screening of a short film I am in, this Friday. Entitled "Traffic WARden," the premier will take place at the British Academy of Film and Television Arts (BAFTA), in London. "Traffic WARden" was written by Steve Hart and Benjamin Johns, and directed by Benjamin Johns. Would it surprise you if I said it starred Steve Hart? Okay, well along with starring Steve Hart, it also stars Clint Dyer and Sarah Ozeke. I don't think it would be giving too much of the plot away to say that the film deals with that omnipresent feature of totalitarian Britain, the traffic warden. For those of you not familiar with British life, a traffic warden is that scum sucking, bottom dweller of a parasite, who makes his or her living preying upon his fellow man, writing parking tickets. I am sure there is a special place reserved for them on the seventh level of hell, along with tax collectors. Why anyone would want to engage in such a despicable pursuit is beyond me, but I suppose it enables those who haven't got the balls to join the military, or become a police officers, to ponce about in a uniform.
Originally, I was sent an invitation for myself only, but yesterday, I received an updated invitation, which says I can bring a guest. This precipitated that time honored undertaking, selecting someone to take with me. Checking the social calendars of the numerous celebrities with whom I am acquainted, I quickly ruled out Jennifer Anniston, Abi Titmuss, Mel B of the Spice Girls, Vanessa from Big Brother, 2005, or the Duchess of York, Sarah Ferguson. I didn't bother asking Opal Bonfante this time, because she'd have just said no. However, sticking to Opal's advice, I decided to ask someone who's helped me in some way. I decided not to invite Tom, this time, as he got to go with me to my last freebie, the preview of "Curse of the Golden Flower" (see "Collecting My Prize," 12 April, 2007). Besides, Tom lives on the opposite side of London from me and I will be pressed for time to get to the premier after work. I decided to invite my artist friend, Jan. Last month, she treated me to an evening of theatre, so it seemed fair to return the favor. Besides, she lives near me and is willing to drive. So you see, those of you who do me favors may get your reward in this life, rather than in the next. The ironic thing in all of this is that the Duchess of York is the same age as me and we are both divorced. Also, I am not intimidated by who she is and the media attention she gets. Sarah, call me.

Ear, Ear

I haven't done much in the way of social commentary, lately. Okay, I admit it, I've been lazy. However, lend an ear, as the following has caused me to break my silence.
For several weeks, there has been a TV advertisement airing, here in the UK, promoting Walkers Crisps and Comic Relief. For readers in America, "crisps" are what Americans would call, "potato chips." In the ad, Gary Lineker, a former England football star who is now a TV presenter, is one of a number of celebrities who are portrayed as students in a classroom. The teacher, played by Stephen Fry, is doing the class roll call. After each student's name is called, he or she replies, "ear." All of the students are wearing fake, red ears. All, that is, except Gary Lineker. He replies, "here," and just has his natural ears. Lineker is know for having big ears. The teacher tells him to take off the fake, promotional ears and drags him, by his ear, from the class. Okay, not a fantastic punchline, but it's for charity Comic Relief. A voiceover at the end urges viewers to visit WalkEARS.com.
I don't have a problem with the ad, but earlier this week, I was reading my favorite London newspaper, "Metro" (April 4, 2007), when I spotted a story reporting that Advertising Standards Authority had conducted a "thorough investigation" of the ad after receiving "a dozen" complaints that it mocked people with big ears. The last time I was in a classroom "a dozen" meant twelve. So, out of a nation of about 66 million people, twelve had nothing more going on in their lives and decided to formally complain about a charity ad sponsored by a crisps company. I would like to know how much money this useless investigation cost. The Advertising Standards Authority is an independent body set up by the advertising industry to police advertising. They are funded through "levies" (sounds like a tax) on broadcast airtime charges, display ads, and direct mail advertising. Ultimately, they can call upon government agencies, Ofcom and the Office of Fair Trading, to help force advertisers to comply with their dictates. Any fees charged on advertising costs will be passed on to the consumers, so it is we who are ultimately paying for this time wasting malarkey.
If that's not enough, in the same issue of "Metro," in their "Metro Digest" section, I find it reported that the Highways Agency (part of the Department of Transportation and directly funded by taxes), has spent £145,000 creating at traffic jam. The money is being spent as part of a six week long "experiment," which includes putting over 1,000 cones along a slip road (exit) at Junction 19 of the M25, to discourage drivers from exiting there in order to avoid congestion on the M25. The result will be more cars stuck in congestion on the M25 and a bigger traffic jam. Some local residents in the area consider the scheme "crazy." In response to suggestions that this project is a waste of taxpayers' money, the Highways Agency said, "£145,000 is less than a drop in the ocean...our budget is £330 million." Such is the attitude of government terrocrats as they spend YOUR money. Taxation is theft. I'm going to go have breakfast, before I drive my blood pressure up.

Some Commentary

I feel like I have been a bit remiss over the past couple of weeks. I haven't commented on quite a few things that have been going on in the world outside my personal life. There is too much for me to catch up writing a blog article about each item, so I have decided to post some brief comments on some of the things that have caught my attention, here.
Fines for being caught using a mobile (cell) phone handset while driving have doubled, here in the UK. For the first time, penalty points will accrue to licenses, if you are caught. What a load of crap. Are people in Britain somehow less capable of driving a car than people in other places? While the totalitarian State of New York has joined the nanny state band wagon and also banned handset use while driving, some places in America don't seem to have. I see people driving and using handsets in American TV shows all the time. As most American TV shows are filmed in California, it leads me to suspect that California hasn't succumbed to the lure of banning handset use yet. I hope one of my California readers will comment and confirm whether that is so, or not. Newsflash Bozos...it doesn't take having two hands constantly on the wheel to drive safely. Mobile phones were originally intended to be used while driving. Studies show that talking with a hands-free kit is just as distracting as using a mobile without a hands-free kit. What's next? Banning conversation in cars?
Not to be less than thorough, the terrocrats here are prosecuting people caught eating while driving and drinking non-alcoholic beverages while driving. If you weren't meant to drink while driving, they wouldn't have invented cup holders. When you are stuck in bumper to bumper London traffic, during the morning commute, you might as well have an egg McMuffin.
The man who would be Emperor (i.e. Prime Minister), Gordon Brown, continues to come out with daft suggestions. Recently, Gordo has suggested that immigrants should be required to do community service before becoming British Citizens. As an immigrant, let me say the following. Sod you, Gordo. Most of us immigrants work hard at jobs that native Brits turn their noeses up at and for less pay. If you don't require community service from native born, why should you from us? Why don't you get your own, power hungry ass out there and do community service? Actually, just disappear as that would be the best service you could do anyone in this country.
Not to be outdone, Prince Charles called for McDonald's to be banned to promote a healthier lifestyle. Maybe princes should be banned, to promote a saner lifestyle.
Scotland Yard confessed that police are hunting more than 4,000 suspects who have jumped bail over the last two years. Maybe if they weren't so busy trying to stop motorists from eating some crisps while driving, they'd have time to attend to the bail jumpers.
That's enough for now. I'm hungry.