What a waste

About 5 weeks ago I was contacted by an ex-employer who told me that there was a new position coming up within the organisation that I would be perfect for. They asked if I would apply and supplied details of the role. Now, come on. This sound good, no? Indeed, the job looked interesting and the money more than decent.

 

 

So I jumped through the administrative hoops...brushed up the cv, wrote out an application form (that naturally included all the info already held in the cv plus a few bits of anti-discrimination twaddle).

 

 

I wen for the interview -which lasted nearly 3 hours and included a written test in which I had to create an example report for the board. At the end I was told that they'd get back to me the following week.

 

 

When they didn't I realised that this sure thing I had been promised was anything but.

 

 

Looking back it all seems too good to be true. And it was.

 

 

The call came, nearly 2 weeks after the interview. A call that begins 'This isn't good news' sure makes the heart sink. Apparently there had been a change of heart and this job now no longer existed.

 

 

So - it now transpires that about 5 weeks ago I was approached to apply for a job (a job that I would be perfect for and that they wanted me to perform) that didn't actually exist.

I managed not to go ballistic on the phone at the drone who was given the job of breaking the news to me, which is something I suppose.  Just can't really describe how this have left me feeling, really.  But it feels like all of the light is leaking out of me...

Argos catalogue the signal for the End of Days

Although I do occasionally buy things from Argos, I am quite sniffy about the place. Perhaps it's the Elizabeth David sovereign rings and bracelets with names embossed on them. Perhaps it's the grim little area you have to sit as you wait for your order to be delivered from the warehouse round the back.

But my estimation of the place has sunk a little more following a flick through their Christmas catalogue. They are selling a toilet seat cover with the legend 'Santa Sat Here' emblazoned upon it.

Know we now...Forget mince pies, re-runs of James Bond on the telly, robins, holly, snow or even the birth of Jesus Himself; Argos believe that nothing says Christmas like a cover for your bog
. 

Man Child

Discussions concerning Wayne Rooney's petulant behaviour during the latest England match continued at the weekend The genius-like Alan Shearer was consulted as to whether Rooney should be taken to Euro 2012 next summer (Rooney is suspended for the first 3 games) and his response was filled with the usual footballer's guff. 'Wayne Rooney' claimed Shearer with utter conviction 'is the difference between England winning or losing a tournament.'

Shearer seems to have forgotten that England haven't been close to winning a tournament since 1996. In the intervening 15 years, whilst England have faltered, stumbled and gone backwards we have watched Germany fall and rise again; we have seen Spain shake off the mantle of nearly-men to bestride the world of football. That's not to mention the French who, inspired by Zidane, were an end-of-millennium force of nature.

But we'll ignore all of that (just like Shearer) and examine Rooney's contributions in tournaments to determine how his influence raises England to the status of world beaters..

2004. He gets injured during a vital match against Portugal which England go on to lose on penalties.
2006. Injured during the build up to this World Cup. Never looks fit and gets himself sent off during a vital game against Portugal which England go on to lose on penalties.
2008. England fail to make the Euro 2008 tournament. England lost their last qualifying match against Croatia. A result which sent the Croats through and consigned Steve McClaren to 'ridicule by tabloid' - a time honoured tradition for England managers. Rooney's contribution to this game? Nothing. He was suspended.
2010. Rooney is seen on the pitch for all of England's games but his most telling contribution was a foul-mouthed tirade against his own supporters who had the temerity to complain about their team's lack lustre display (a 1-1 draw against footballing behemoths Algeria).

If we were to agree with Shearer's comment (no Rooney = no chance for England) then we'd also have to say that Rooney continues to let his country down. His petulance means that he can't cope with the pressure of playing for England in high-profile games. His latest indiscretion is yet another incident that have robbed England of his services just when he is most needed. That he is a great footballer is open to question. What can't be questioned is that he is a 26 year man-child who needs to grow up fast if he is fulfil his potential.

The Return of the Wrinkly Rocker

If you have listened to the radio, or looked at a paper or music magazine recently you can't have failed to notice that Noel Gallagher has 'returned'. 

I find him a bit of an enigma..  You see, I think that he is quite engaging - in a grumpy-old-man sort of way.  He's like the sarky mate you meet up with down the pub who you've known since school.

However, if he were playing in my back garden I wouldn't draw the curtains to watch him.  His songwriting - based as ever on a queasy necrophiliac desire for the songwriters of the 60s - was getting old after Oasis' second album.  But now, 15 years later it's just tiresome.

And not only is the music pretty tired he looks awful - he dresses like Jeremy Clarkson and has what appears to be a cheap version of the hair worn by Ronnie Lane in his New Faces days. 

Back again

A mixture of holiday, hospital appoitments and house sitting duties have kept me away from my laptop and hence from writing. Looking forward to starting again.

Football. Just a waste of time?

So, as if you didn't know, the bizarre bubble of idiocy that is football has returned.  I say that, but the reality is that it never goes away does it? Not even during those notional fallow years when summer TV schedules are not consumed by either a World Cup or European Championship. 

So what wonderous events have we mere mortals not bestowed the ability to run really fast and kick a football been granted sight of by the footballing gods?

Real Madrid's manager Jose Mourinho poking the coach of an oppsoing team in the eye.  Jose went on to write an apology letter.  Except it was an apology in the very loosest sense of the word.  After all he didn't actually say sorry to the bloke he assaulted, but instead said sorry to the fans of his own team.  Perhaps he meant to blind the other guy and was apologitic he had only managed a little light eye gouging?

Following defeat in the Carling Cup, the QPR manager said he was glad his team had lost.  I expect that the QPR fans that had spent hard cash going to the match in the expectation that their team might acually win a gamebheld at home against lower league opposition, were pretty impressed by the defeat, too.  And whilst we're on this subject, in what other business would you be pleased with failure?

Arsenal have spent the summer dismantling a team that finished 4th in the league (albeit aided in this matter by opposing teamsbwho appear more like asset strippers in the Gordon Gecko mode than actual football clubs.)  The Arsenal manager, Arsene Wenger, in his own personal bubble of denial seems to be countering the loss of his finest players by taking hopeful punts on teenagers from around Europe.

Meanwhile down the road, Tottenham are attempting to resist transfer offers for their best player, Luka Modric.  Modric wasn't chosen to play in a recent game as 'his head wasn't in the right place.'  How would it be if Modric worked out here in the real world and phoned in that excuse?  My guess is that he would be told to get his head from out of his backside and come into work pronto.  Footballers, eh?  Don't you just loathe these muti-millionaires?

The one footballer I can empathise with now in Gary Neville.  And he's not even a footballer anymore.  In his autobiograpghy he claims that playing for England was just a waste of time.  He laments confused and confusing managers, poor coaching, crippling expectations and fear of failure. Well Gary, you've said what I've thought for a while, the England football team is a waste of time.  

The power of adverts?

Been spending a bit of time on YouTube, checking out trailers for upcoming movies - Kill List looks like a nasty little British film; Get Carter mashed with Angel Heart, perhaps? 

Anyway, whilst viewing the trailers, I was beseiged by pop-up ads which obscure a strip of the screen and distract you from its content.  I couldn't hit the close button quick enough - a response I imagine is all too common.  Wonder which marketing genius decided it would be a good idea to annoy its target audience?   Wonder what take-ip rates are?

London burning

As I look out of my bedroom window I can see the plumes of smoke that are still rising from the burned out Sony warehouse in north London. As I watch them pile into the sky I have a few thoughts:

If the looters were genuinely desperate, they would be hunting out staples - bread, milk. If they were, then perhaps I'd feel some sympathy for them. Instead they seem to be targeting shops that sell smart phones, trainers, tvs and games consoles.

Whilst not wishing to denigrate the events of the past 4 days, I do have a problem with the rolling news footage. With its perpetual loops of footage and doom laden scripts it seems like we are on the brink of Armageddon. As ever with the news these days, perspective is a casualty

The police, so keen to 'kettle', threaten and intimidate during the student fee protests have appeared impotent here. Are they acting to different orders, or were they cowed by the mobs of predominately young men who seem more than willing to fight back? Of course, the police may well argue that they were being prudent and patient - gathering evidence before picking off the criminals in separate raids.

In business, key members of staff are never allowed to take holidays at the same time. Why then were so many major members of the government lazing around pools or short changing waitresses?

With the police unable to deal with the gangs (and how chastening was it to watch footage of coppers standing by as looters went about their business?) in some areas groups of local residents have taken matters into their own hands. 

If it is it too simple to say that the looters are just opportunistic thieves, what is the reason behind these explosions of violence? The original riot in Tottenham could be directly associated to the police shooting of a local man. But the following events seem less politically motivated than outpourings of extreme consumerism conducted by people who believe that they will get away with their theft.

The worst possible taste

The way that the death of Amy Winehouse was reported has raised a number of issues for me:

a) Before the funeral, there were reports that the family wanted this to be a private affair.  And of course, by reporting this the event became a very public affair.
b) Having announced that this was intended to be a private event, BBC news (amongst others) stationed a camera crew and presenter at the crematorium.
c) The speculation about the cause of death, reported as fact - apparently one Sunday tab managed to contradict itself on its own front page by stating that she had died of a drug overdose before going onto to say that death was actually caused by excessive alcohol. 

I know that there's nothing especially new about what they're all doing, but this behaviour just struck me as especially distasteful.

Modern Life is Rubbish

I read that Adele's latest album has recently secured its one millionth sale via download, which got me to thinking about how we are starting to consume our cds and books.

It seems anomalous to me that in a time of growing materialism two of the things that I hold dearest, words & music,  are quickly becoming electronic commodities, ciphers of their physical selves. A 100,000 word novel can be downloaded in moments to your pamphlet-thin Kindle where it is stored in a virtual library.  A newspaper hived off to your iPad, where it will fight for your attention alongside your photo albums, myriad apps and slick Internet interface.  Meanwhile your record collection can be held on your laptop.  Of course, with the advent of Spotify you could argue that you need not bother with a hard drive loaded with mp3s any longer. That being the case, why bother with your own record collection any longer?

It''s all very convenient, but I find something cold in all this efficiency - as if the technology is becoming more important than the art being delivered. 

The Pie Man Cometh

Strange times we live in, when the political circus of the Murdochs interview was briefly upstaged by a custard-pie wielding numpty.  Sadly, this wasn't a publicity stunt bringing attention to a reboot of Tiswas (reference for the kids, there) but rather a very pathetic lapse in security.
You can't get aboard a flight to the Canary Islands without first relinquishing your bottle of Buxton spring and your Head & Shoulders, yet for the highest profile media event of the decade someone managed to waltz in with a tin of shaving foam and a paper plate.  Wonder where next for the copper who belatedly 'leapt' into action to confront the attacker?

Cops v Aliens

Been watching both Falling Skies and Southland over the past couple of weeks.  The first is a show set following an alien invasion of Earth.  And humanity lost.  Now the survivors flee from the space monsters in the hopes that they can regroup and fight back.  The second is a cop show set in LA.  It features an ensemble of police officers, tracing their cases. 

On the face of it Falling Skies sounds like an exciting, fairly original SF show - we've skipped the invasion and gone straight into guerrilla warfare.  A chance perhaps to delve into contemporary issues whilst delivering some high octane alien splatting .  Southland meanwhile is just another cop show.   Like there was anything left to say in this genre after Hill Street Blues.

The surprise for me is that Falling Skies is so, well, dull.  The alien mayhem is OK (although nothing you haven't seen if you have even a nodding acquaintance to Predator or Robocop or Terminator or War of the Worlds).  The rest is just flat - unconvincing dialogue spoken (or shouted) by unconvinced actors. 

On the other hand Southland is just a joy.  It's dramatic, engaging, enervating, moving.  There's little exposition - you're thrown into the action, piecing together cases with the cops.  It makes you work and rewards you with fully rounded characters and vivid scenarios.  As for the regular shoot outs - they're visceral, violent and adrenaline fuelled. 

Ultimately, these cops kick alien ass.

You're hired

After 11 weeks of tasks, tears and tantrums, Alan Sugar finally settled upon his new apprentice - who turned out to be a bloke who doesn't shave and who has invented both a chair and a nail file - hugely optimistic ventures given that these items had previously been invented. Lord S handed over a quarter of mill to Tom and they will now go into business together.  Given that as he is pitching in with a quite sizable amount of his time and money I was a little surprised that he couldn't be bothered to actually interview the candidates himself, instead leaving it down to a bunch men in bad suits and a woman in a tie dyed blouse.

Beer and a barbie

And at 4 o'clock on Saturday afternoon the clouds parted and the sun shone.  How better to celebrate than a couple of cold beers and a burger cooked on the barbie?  Catching up with old friends we'd not seen for an age (I remember the days when I'd see these mates a couple of times a week - usually in a pub). 

I'm a lightweight these days, blaming our toddler for the lack of big nights out, so we were home in time to catch Elbow at Glastonbury showing on BBC3.  Guy Garvey looks such an unlikely rock star.  He's the sort of bloke you expect to see ahead of you at the queue in the bakers.  Maybe the everyman bit is part of his appeal. 

My highlight from the show was Mirrorball - I used to play this one constantly during my wife's pregnancy and during the early days following our daughter's arrival.  It still makes me grin and sigh - euphoria and melancholia at the same time. 

And for a few minutes I sort of wished I was there in Glastonbury, sharing these emotions with the rest of the festival goers.  Then I saw Garvey's boots and trousers - slathered in thick, dung coloured mud (or perhaps mud coloured dung).  If not even the stars can avoid getting smothered in mud what hope the plebs?  No.  I am too attached to civilisation to spend a weekend peeing in a hole in ground whilst walking around in lakes of cow feces.

Come on, Tim!

Tennis crowds are not known for their senses of humour - they are the quintessential 'prawn sandwich' brigade.  But they do seem to have hit upon a formula to annoy the dour Andy Murray (ever seen a professional sportsman - a person whose rather smashing job entails him travelling the world to play tennis - look less happy?  Me neither).

Apparently when he's playing, some wags from the crowd yell 'Come on Tim!' 

Yep, it's lame.  Not especially funny or clever either.  But it winds up Murray, so I heartily endorse it.

If you're tired of London...

So we ditched the little 'un with my folks and took a trip up to London for a little retail therapy.  It's been a couple of years since we've visited the West End and in that intervening time the place seems to have gotten noisier, busier and grubbier.  I used to like the bustle, the visceral feel of the place.  But now, it seemed to me an unhealthy place; stricken by coagulated traffic and claustrophobic crowds. 

For lunch we popped into one of the Leon restaurants (at the north end Carnaby Street).  I read through one of their recipe books whilst on holiday and was looking forward to trying out some of their food.  It runs pretty much like any fast food / sandwich place - you elbow your way to the front of the queue, trying to choose what you want before you get to the counter else the person behind you will dart ahead of you.  Once there, bark the order, repeat it at least once and cough up the cash.  We ate inside, managing to snag the last table before the lunch time rush began in earnest.  Given the lack of space, they've managed to make it feel comfortable - unlike the migraine inducing ambiance of McD's and its ilk.  The food was pretty good, too.  I went for the meatballs (the pork jambalaya I had seen on their online menu a mere rumour in the actual shop) whilst Mrs went for chili chicken.  Both came with slaw and brown rice.  Despite that, the meals were really tasty and filling.  And the cup of fresh lemonade was wonderfully tart.  However, I would have to question the prices - I know it's London, I know it was tasty food - but six quid for a few chunks of chicken / handful of meatball plus a couple of spoons of rice and slaw seems a couple of pounds too much.  But perhaps I am just a penny pinching yokel these days, rather than the cosmopolitan man-of-the-world I perhaps think I am.

On the way back to the tube station we saw Gilbert & George.  They were dressed in tweed, natch, and deep in conversation as the walked along.  Of course, they may have been enacting an art happening entitled Gilbert & George - walking in tweed.  If so, I expect I'll get invoiced soon for visiting this outdoors art gallery.

Feeling my age

Like most people, I manage to avoid the whole 'getting older' thing by keeping a hypothetical age fixed in my mind.  So, I am in my late 20s, early 30s.  In my head.  And I am happy to stay in denial for much of the time.

Of course, sometimes external events or news can badly disrupt this little fantasy.  Like birthdays - mine happened last Friday.  Nothing like a birthday to bring your mortality crashing home.  But today I was idly scanning the sports news and came across a couple of stories that ruined by equilibrium.

Chelsea have appointed Andre Villa-Boas as their new manager.  He is 33. 

And it is 25 years since the infamous Hand of God / England v Argentina world cup match.  That's 25 years.  Quarter of a century.  Whilst I don't remember the game that well - I do know that watched it and that I had a drunken conversation with a mate about it when we were at a club a few nights later.  Drinking and clubbing 25 years ago?  So that would make me...Well, let's just say that makes me feel my age.

Anyone for tennis?

It's the first day of this year's Wimbledon, which for me always signifies the start of the short, sweet English summer; a fleeting season that seems like an all too brief holiday romance - an escape from the melancholy of autumn, the cold grandeur of winter and the naive hopes of spring.

Of course it's also the start of two weeks in which heavily muscled athletes belt felt covered balls at one another.

Staycation

Just back from a week's holiday in Dorset.  Staying in the UK makes you a hostage to the weather and a couple of days were pretty much written off by the rain (in fact there were such Biblical amounts of the stuff on the Sunday that I was going to begin collecting pairs of animals).  Of course the big news during the previous few days had been that much of England was caught in a draught - oh, the irony!

Still, generally a nice time was had by all - although sitting in a holiday cottage with a bored toddler is not conducive to a relaxing break! 

The day we got there we went to the annual village fete - a few beers,  hot dogs, wandering past stalls selling WI cakes and jams, a dancing competition and woodlice racing.  All this held in the village's Big House (presumably owned by the squire of the manor).  Also of note is Weymouth, which has a rather lovely sweeping beach and the Phoenix bakers that sells the best chocolate brownies.

On one of the days we went to Lyme Regis, one of those places where steep roads lead down into a small harbour town.  Driving here is a test for the brakes (down hill) and engine (up hill); rather more trying for the hearts of the pedestrians - must be a bit of concern given the huge number of grey haired retirees who seem to gravitate to the town. 

It's got a nice, but small, sandy beach flanked by stretches of sea front covered with cobble sized stones.  The sandy beach is bisected by a brick tunnel stretching down to the sea.  A small sign at its source warns that this tunnel transports drainage water to the sea - and therefore swimming, paddling and generally playing near its mouth is to be discouraged.  Only in England could a perfectly nice beach  be deliberately sabotaged with a pipe carrying filthy water.

Road Dogs

Just finished reading Elmore Leonard's Road Dogs (a sequel to the previous Out of Sight, which itself was made into a smart little movie starring George Clooney & Jennifer Lopez.  As amazing as it sounds La Lopez is pretty decent in it and there is a real chemistry be tween her and Clooney).

Been years since I've picked up a Leonard novel and had almost forgotten quite how good they could be and what a thrilling writer he is.  The novel's protagonist, Jack Foley, is released from a 30 year jail sentence thanks to some smart maneuvering by his new lawyer, whose services are paid for by his jail buddy (or Road Dog), Cundo Rey. Once out he has to choose between a return to his previous life (bank robbery) or a relatively straight life as he seeks to put together the stake money that will allow him to start again in Costa Rico.  Whilst he makes this decision he has to contend with his cell mate's treacherous wife, Dawn (who runs a nice sideline as a psychic specialising in fleecing rich widows), Cundo's white supremacist body guard, a revenge fuelled FBI agent and the collection of youthful gangsters he hires to shadow Foley. It's breathless stuff and the plotting razor sharp whilst the dialogue is juicy and satisfying as a good steak.

A critic once wrote that the work's of another crime writer, Carl Hiaason, were 'better than literature.'  Personally, I'd include Elmore Leonard within that description, too.

Ikea - we know what you want.

Searching for an errant dummy the other day and was looking under the toddler's wardrobe.  Whilst I lay prone on the floor I noticed that the wardrobe's legs were swollen, as though the furniture had gout.  On closer inspection they were sort of crumbling and needed replacing.  So they were duly replaced by stout metal legs - no chance of furniture gout in these puppies.  I was somewhat philosophical; the wardrobe was from Ikea and whilst quite smart looking it was pretty inexpensive. So, you know, you get what you pay for. 

But it got me to thinking about Ikea, specifically the layout of their shops.  They provide a very disconcerting shopping experience - you're forced around the store in a particular order and shown their furniture and accessories in a series of tableau in which you are given visions of how Ikea's wares would fit in 'so well' into your own home.  Only after you've been been through this theme-park-ride of a shop are you allowed to actually get you hands onto the stuff you want to buy. And having seen how charming that picture of the 'driftwood on tropical beach' looks in a living room or office space, you just pick one up from the dozens in the warehouse without thinking.  It's clever, in an insidious, Mooney sort of way.  Knowing all this does help shield you from the worst of the hard sales technique.

As does a little tip that I read.  There are no obvious shortcuts - you have to follow a set path as though you were on rails (again, rather like that theme perk ride). But, if you were to look behind you, you would see the little cut-throughs that the staff presumably use.  Again I find this somewhat creepy, as though  just behind you lurks a parallel Ikea.

Town & Country

Walked into Lea Valley Park on Saturday and spent a few hours wandering across meadows and along tow paths, watching canal boats, fishermen and the odd heron or two. 

We live just a few minutes walk away so tend to visit quite often.  I am a bit of a townie and I can walk through town all day and not be spoken to by a soul.  Yet, you have only to cross a train line into the park and suddenly people say 'hello' and stop to chat.  Very disconcerting for an urbanite like me. 

This & That

I'm a big fan of American TV shows (West Wing, Dexter, Sopranos, Battlestar et al) and enjoy digging into a good DVD box set.  Currently catching up with Deadwood and we've just finished watching season 2.  A lot is made of the language which is, well, very salty - but maybe what isn't remarked upon quite so much is how complex, rich and satisfying the scripts are.  Added to this are some fantastic performances - not least Ian McShane who's Al Swearengen is the dark heart of the show.  Al is monstrous, conniving, brutal and cunning.  But he's also pragmatic, proud, thoughtful and blackly comic.  This is the sort of role actors must dream about and McShane has grasped it with both hands.

Richard Matheson's I am Legend has been on my 'to read' list for years but only recently got around to it.  It's easy to see why Stephen King lauds it, for it provides a blueprint for his career - taking a genre staple and applying it to a modern setting.  So here, Matheson updates the vampire story of myth and sets it in 1950s America.  A scenario such as this has been played out in novels and movies countless times since then, so it's difficult to feel how truly radical this would have been on publication.  However, what still stands are themes of loneliness, alienation and obsession.  Also, there is a lovely twist in the finale, as the protagonist Robert Neville (last man on earth and dedicated vampire slayer)  realises that he is now the creature of myth - a lone monster who attacks his prey whilst they sleep.

I had never read any W Somerset Maughan.  For some reason I thought he wrote stories about a bucolic England set between the wars - with hindsight I realise that I must have confused him with HE Bates.  Anyway.  I picked up a copy of Collected Short Stories (volume 3) and these centre upon a man named Ashenden who is enlisted by the military to serve as a spy during the Great War.  Ashenden is by profession a writer - a novelist and playwright- whose understanding of human nature is seen as vital to the role of spy.  Many of the stories are set amongst hotels and bars in mainland Europe (particularly neutral Switzerland) and Ashenden encounters a series of vivid characters - ex-pats, titled Europeans and aristocrats - all of whom are agents of at least one government.  And whilst these charcaters dine, play bridge and drink with one another they attempt to gain some piece of information, impart some morsel of bogus news or get their opponent to venture across a national border, where they will be captured and shot.  It's not obvioulsy exciting stuff, but the stories accumulate to chilling effect . 

After many years driving to work, I spent a few months travelling in by train and tube.  To pass the time I filled the ipod with podcats and have of late discovered Frank Skinner's show on Absolute radio.  To my mind, he's funnier and more engaging here than on tv and less one dimensional than his stand up material might lead you to believe.

Not winning the Olympics

Well, my Olympic dream seems at an end...my bank account hasn't been plundered by Lord Coe & co which means that my hopes of watching Usain Bolt win gold in the 100 metres dash have been foiled. 

If I want to witness any of the events in the flesh I am now left with a just a couple of options:

A) Spend several tens of thousands of pounds on the 'Prestige' tickets.  Of course, first I need to acquire several tens of thousand of pounds that I would be willing to spend so that I could watch a bunch of people running / jumping / cycling etc  really fast / high / whatever - all stuff I could watch on TV for nothing.

B) Become any good at an event and therefore force myself into the Olympic team.  I can't run / jump / throw heavy stuff so I am ruled out of Track & Field.  Cycling / rowing look like hard work.  I'm not a strong swimmer either, so I reckon that shooting and archery are about the only things left.

So that's now my plan.  Become good at shooting or archery and join the British Olympic team.  I realise that's a long shot but you know what?  I reckon my odds of competing in the Olympics are better than the odds of scoring tickets to watch them.

bye bye Waybuloo! - I won't miss you!

We have a 20 month old, and so watch a lot of cbeebies in this house.  That's fine, I quite like some of it - Teletubbies at 6.30 on a weekday morning is a soothing alternative to the hysteria of News 24.  But I cannot abide Waybuloo. I don't like the little cartoon-y creatures - wide eyed moon monkeys with sickly, simpering voices .  I don't like their stupid yoga exercises or their perpetual games of hide and seek that they play with groups of medicated-looking children ( I have long suspected that these little creatures are happy go lucky for most of the time - but like a lazy old tomcat, if you trod on one of their tails they would turn in a heart beat into hissing, yapping bundles of teeth and claws) .  And I especially didn't like that the were shown at 6 each evening - a very delicate time of day when adults, frazzled from a day at work / child care are in close proximity with a child frazzled from a day of causing mayhem   The last thing any of us needed were these gurning muppets.  But - sweet joy - Waybuloo has been replaced; relegated from the prestigious bedtime hour.  Now we can watch a show about a cartoon zoo. Much more palatable.

The End of the World as we know it - postponed. Again.

You may have noticed that the world did not in fact come to an end on Saturday.  Seems that Harold Camping, who had originally forecast this date as the start of the Rapture, had mad a slight miscalculation.  He now confidently predicts that the world will sign of on October 21.  Of course, until then I am sure that he will be happy to accept any contributions from believers.  Said believers may wish to note that Mr Camping had previously stated that the planet's number was up on both May 21 1988 and also 7 September 1994. 

Outed by Twitter

The news that it was Ryan Giggs at the centre of the Twitter campaign to undermine a super injunction was met in this house with indifference.  Having considered it for a few minutes I've a couple of comments:
When you boil it down, the story is 'Married man sleeps with Woman.'  He's not the first married man to break his marriage vows, won't be the last.  So why is it news?  It's news because he's a famous footballer.  And thus his indiscretions are of importance to everyone - according to the media, anyway
But really, who cares?  The media claim that the public care and that we lap up these sort of stories. But do we really?  Or is it just that the media obsesses over these things and we all just get caught up in the storm?
I sometimes wonder what our European neighbours think of this English prurience.  Surely the French and Spanish have better things to write about than who their sportsmen are knocking off.

Danny Baker is Evil

When he made his welcome return to Radio London recently, he began plaing this.  And it's now lodged in my head and I can't get rid of it.  It is only a matter of time before I start repeating it amongst polite company.

The Wit & Wisdom of Premiership Football Managers #1 & #2

Messrs Ferguson & Redknapp often provide pithy comments and notable quotes - which must be manna from heaven for sporting journalists trying to file copy that isn't filled with the usual guff and cliche (not that either manager isn't wont to expel their own fair share of guff and cliche, mind).

Enjoyed Feguson's grouching about his players' use of Twitter.  Apparently it all came to a head when Rooney appeared to threaten one of his followers (although he later claimed it was just banter).  Anyway - Ferguson seemed genuinely perplexed about the merits of Twitter. He noted that there were much better uses of time, for example he suggested that his players might visit their local library. The image of a group of tracksuited footballers wandering gormlessly round a library is priceless. Wonder what book young Wayne would choose? 

Just recently, Jermain Defoe had complained about his season at Spurs.  He advised that he might need to consider his options, given that he felt that he had been overlooked and underplayed.  This is the same Jermain Defoe - a striker by trade - who has managed to net the grand total of four goals all season (some perspective, in  last season's game vs Wigan, he scored five).  When questioned about these comments, Redknapp not unreasonably suggested Defoe should perhaps focus on getting the goals he was being paid for.  Defoe had also gone on to say that a place in the Europa cup would prove a distraction for Tottenham.  Perhaps, Redknapp asked to a pack of hacks, Jermain had other commitments on a Thursday that would stop his participation in this competition.  I'm not a huge fan of Redknapp but must admit I did admire the sarcastic tone he took in responding to the gripes of a millionaire footballer.

Rediscovering The Joshua Tree

Happened upon a documentary discussing the making of U2's The Joshua Tree on, I think, one of the Sky Arts channels. Not an especially interesting or enlightening programme, but it did send me back to the album for the first time in over a decade. Back in the day, U2 were one of my favourite bands but over the years they just dropped off my radar. It happens - what seemed astounding, exciting or meaningful when you're 19 can seem deeply gauche and annoying and dreary as you grow older.

So, after such a big break, what was it like to revisit this record? Well, it was something of a Proustian experience, that threw up some vivid memories of 1987.  I recalled buying the album from Tower Records in Piccadilly on the first day of its release. I remember spending hours poring over the album art - moody pictures of the band standing grim faced in front of vast American vistas - as the music seeped into me. I recall arranging my day off so that I could get onto the phone at 9am and book tickets to the Wembley gig - then 4 of us from work travelled up to that shabby old stadium to watch my first ever concert.

Then, in July we went to Australia.  The in flight entertainment included a handful of 'in-house' radio stations.  One of these featured Red Hill Mining Song and I can remember listening to this track during the final phase of the journey - across the Indian Ocean from Singapore to Perth.

In Australia we stayed with one of Dad's cousin's and borrowed a car from one of his son's mates.  It was a big-engined Ford - a young bloke's car with plenty of welly.  I recall sitting in the passenger seat, elbow resting on the open window, a cassette of The Joshua Tree blasting away as we drove through Western Australian landscapes - endless blue skies and unbroken horizons - the music chiming perfectly with the location.

And that's what the album is to me - a portal back to my final teenage summer.