TOTTERDIGE (v)
The sideways shuffle towards the door of a tube train as it arrives at the platform, blocking off the person behind you, thus ensuring a greater chance of boarding the already full train. Not to be confused with the edgware (v)
EDGWARE (v)
A last minute gambit. An attempt to leap into onto a packed tube train just as the doors are closing, forcing your way in and usually causing a hampstead (n)
HAMPSTEAD (n)
A virtually inaudible grunt of disapproval, which serves as a completely useless protest with little or no effect. A ripple of hampsteads will typically spread through a line of people waiting to top up their Oyster cards when a bunch of German tourists push in.
SHADWELL (n)
The split second “shall I, shan’t I” decision, which precedes the edgware (v)
The Diary of a Commuter
Thursday, 13 December 2007
Dictionary of a Commuter
(With respect to The Meaning Of Liff, the late great Douglas Adams, and the slightly less late but equally superb John Lloyd)
WANSTEAD (n)
The utterly incessant and completely unexplainable attack of yawning experienced by a parent as soon as you begin reading a bedtime story to the kids .
TOOTING (participial vb.)
Change given back to a customer in the form of coins balanced precariously on top of notes, in turn balanced on top of the receipt, forcing you to stuff the whole bloody lot into your pocket with your only free hand.
WANSTEAD (n)
The utterly incessant and completely unexplainable attack of yawning experienced by a parent as soon as you begin reading a bedtime story to the kids .
TOOTING (participial vb.)
Change given back to a customer in the form of coins balanced precariously on top of notes, in turn balanced on top of the receipt, forcing you to stuff the whole bloody lot into your pocket with your only free hand.
Wednesday, 12 December 2007
Never Mind The Smokey Bacon Crisps.
There have only been two cultural revolutions in music in my lifetime – Punk Rock and Acid House. This is not open for debate.
I was too young for punk. It was 1977, I was 6 years old and the world was all about Dr Who, smokey bacon crisps and falling in love with my 16 year old babysitter. As far as I remember Punk Rock was something to do with the queen, a lot of swearing and my Grandfather complaining about safety pins.
I do however remember the fashion of punk exploding into my universe, which was Melrose Avenue in Darlington. I remember having to wear ridiculous bell bottom jeans and tight t-shirts whilst the “older boys” were beginning to step out in the boots, the braces and the huge amounts of tartan, and I remember thinking it was pretty cool.
I have no regrets about being too young for Punk because I was exactly the right age for Acid House. I won’t discuss the fashions of Acid House, because it involved a lot of silly hats. Needless to say each generation, even in the midst of their cultural revolution, has a heavy fashion cross to bear.
Whilst there have only been two major explosions into the collective youth consciousness, they are both intrinsically linked. At a time when major record labels controlled the world and the charts were full of super rich, long haired prog rockers, spawning uncontrollable amounts of masturbatory guitar solo’s and freeform jazz exploration - Punk Rock came along and tore down the barriers of the music industry. It said “fuck off” very loudly to everything and everyone, and placed music making back into the hands of the snotty nosed youth. Quite simply, nothing was ever quite the same again.
10 years later, in the midst of Stock, Aiken and Waterman hell, a club in the North West and a DJ called Mike Pickering began to play mind blowing records that nobody had heard before. Records played to a generation of music lovers who were desperately crying out for their own new musical epiphany. Acid House was born.
I was definitely not at the Lesser Free Trade Hall in Manchester in 1976, when the Sex Pistols played their first gig in Manchester. But that one gig linked Punk to Acid House in one fell swoop. Present at that gig were a band called Warsaw, who would go on to become Joy Division and finally New Order, Tony Wilson who would create The Durutti Column, discover A Certain Ratio, introduce the world to the Happy Mondays and build the Hacienda nightclub which would give birth to the Acid House scene itself.
Fast forward to November 2007, over 30 years since that eponymous gig, and I complete the cycle. Leaping around the mosh pit in front of the Sex Pistols at the Brixton Academy, alongside middle aged and middle heavy postmen, bankers, city boys and builders alike, smiling and scrapping in joyous oblivion as the boys hammered it out to the end.
I left the gig sweaty, smiling and satisfied at having finally completed a cultural round trip which was more than overdue.
Bollocks.
I was too young for punk. It was 1977, I was 6 years old and the world was all about Dr Who, smokey bacon crisps and falling in love with my 16 year old babysitter. As far as I remember Punk Rock was something to do with the queen, a lot of swearing and my Grandfather complaining about safety pins.
I do however remember the fashion of punk exploding into my universe, which was Melrose Avenue in Darlington. I remember having to wear ridiculous bell bottom jeans and tight t-shirts whilst the “older boys” were beginning to step out in the boots, the braces and the huge amounts of tartan, and I remember thinking it was pretty cool.
I have no regrets about being too young for Punk because I was exactly the right age for Acid House. I won’t discuss the fashions of Acid House, because it involved a lot of silly hats. Needless to say each generation, even in the midst of their cultural revolution, has a heavy fashion cross to bear.
Whilst there have only been two major explosions into the collective youth consciousness, they are both intrinsically linked. At a time when major record labels controlled the world and the charts were full of super rich, long haired prog rockers, spawning uncontrollable amounts of masturbatory guitar solo’s and freeform jazz exploration - Punk Rock came along and tore down the barriers of the music industry. It said “fuck off” very loudly to everything and everyone, and placed music making back into the hands of the snotty nosed youth. Quite simply, nothing was ever quite the same again.
10 years later, in the midst of Stock, Aiken and Waterman hell, a club in the North West and a DJ called Mike Pickering began to play mind blowing records that nobody had heard before. Records played to a generation of music lovers who were desperately crying out for their own new musical epiphany. Acid House was born.
I was definitely not at the Lesser Free Trade Hall in Manchester in 1976, when the Sex Pistols played their first gig in Manchester. But that one gig linked Punk to Acid House in one fell swoop. Present at that gig were a band called Warsaw, who would go on to become Joy Division and finally New Order, Tony Wilson who would create The Durutti Column, discover A Certain Ratio, introduce the world to the Happy Mondays and build the Hacienda nightclub which would give birth to the Acid House scene itself.
Fast forward to November 2007, over 30 years since that eponymous gig, and I complete the cycle. Leaping around the mosh pit in front of the Sex Pistols at the Brixton Academy, alongside middle aged and middle heavy postmen, bankers, city boys and builders alike, smiling and scrapping in joyous oblivion as the boys hammered it out to the end.
I left the gig sweaty, smiling and satisfied at having finally completed a cultural round trip which was more than overdue.
Bollocks.
Friday, 28 September 2007
Who Dares Wins
On the pronunciation of the word “croissant”, are you a “cross ont” or a “kwass on” person? I ask merely out of curiosity. Both are fine, although I expect the latter is more socially correct. That said, does anybody really give two hoots about social correctness?
This is not the subject of this blog. The subject of this blog is this: Say anything with enough conviction to somebody and they will probably believe you with the utmost sincerity. Try it. Tell the next person you meet that 76% of all seawater fish are female – it’s something to do with ensuring procreation levels due to intense deep-sea fishing. If you don’t believe me, google it. You probably do, and you probably won’t.
You see - it works.
It was with this in mind that I engaged in a conversation with a hardcore Arsenal supporter on the train home from my recent visit to the Emirates Stadium, where I’d been invited to watch a Champions League match against Sevilla.
It’s important that you understand that I'm not a particularly passionate football supporter – it’s what happens when you follow Darlington. However I am a passionate person, easily influenced by the passion of other people, and nowhere will you find more passion for a football team than in the stadium itself, especially during a big international game, and this was exactly that.
Amidst the screaming and shouting, the incessant and intense abuse, the gut wrenching angst and unconditional worship which emanated from everyone around me, I understood what it meant to be a proper football supporter.
So, here I was on the train home from the game, my eyes lightly resting on the restaurant reviews page of the Standard, when a rather large, shaven headed Gunner slumped into the seat next to me – fully kitted out in this seasons home strip.
Ordinarily, I probably wouldn’t have said what I was about to say, but I’d been there, I’d seen it, I’d smelt it. So with supreme conviction I said
“Bit patchy tonight.”
The Gunner turned to face me, took one look at the pinstripes and said “What?”
“The game, I thought the game was a bit patchy. Overall I think it was a reasonable performance, and they deserved to win, but there was a lot of missed opportunities – should have been 4 or 5 nil.”
The Gunner studied me. He then paused, and after what seemed like an eternity said “Your absolutely right, I completely agree.”
I turned back to my paper, as a knowledgeable football pundit.
This is not the subject of this blog. The subject of this blog is this: Say anything with enough conviction to somebody and they will probably believe you with the utmost sincerity. Try it. Tell the next person you meet that 76% of all seawater fish are female – it’s something to do with ensuring procreation levels due to intense deep-sea fishing. If you don’t believe me, google it. You probably do, and you probably won’t.
You see - it works.
It was with this in mind that I engaged in a conversation with a hardcore Arsenal supporter on the train home from my recent visit to the Emirates Stadium, where I’d been invited to watch a Champions League match against Sevilla.
It’s important that you understand that I'm not a particularly passionate football supporter – it’s what happens when you follow Darlington. However I am a passionate person, easily influenced by the passion of other people, and nowhere will you find more passion for a football team than in the stadium itself, especially during a big international game, and this was exactly that.
Amidst the screaming and shouting, the incessant and intense abuse, the gut wrenching angst and unconditional worship which emanated from everyone around me, I understood what it meant to be a proper football supporter.
So, here I was on the train home from the game, my eyes lightly resting on the restaurant reviews page of the Standard, when a rather large, shaven headed Gunner slumped into the seat next to me – fully kitted out in this seasons home strip.
Ordinarily, I probably wouldn’t have said what I was about to say, but I’d been there, I’d seen it, I’d smelt it. So with supreme conviction I said
“Bit patchy tonight.”
The Gunner turned to face me, took one look at the pinstripes and said “What?”
“The game, I thought the game was a bit patchy. Overall I think it was a reasonable performance, and they deserved to win, but there was a lot of missed opportunities – should have been 4 or 5 nil.”
The Gunner studied me. He then paused, and after what seemed like an eternity said “Your absolutely right, I completely agree.”
I turned back to my paper, as a knowledgeable football pundit.
Friday, 24 August 2007
Sign Of The Times
"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic." Not my words, they're the words of Arthur C Clarke, and how wonderfully true they are. Let me set the scene. It's approximately 8.55am, and there are around 6 people in the office. Some people would say there was exactly six people, but this is not the kind of office where people like to be too specific about anything, so there was around 6 people. Two people are having a conversation, and the conversation goes something like this:
"Is your internet working?"
"No, is your's?"
"No. My e-mail's not working either."
"Neither is mine. Do you know why?"
"No."
"mmm..."
Both parties then go quiet for a moment, as if contemplating what the logical next step in this conversation should be.
"Have they got the internet in the office next door?"
"Don't know. Shall I go and check."
"Definately. Good idea."
One of them heads out to the corridor and is gone for a moment. He comes back 20 seconds later.
"They've got the internet next door."
"Have they got email?"
"Yes, internet, email, everything."
"mmm..."
A pause.
"Do you think it's the network?"
"Could be. Or the server."
"Yeah, it's probably the server."
"mmm..."
Both parties go quiet for a moment.
It is important to realise at this juncture that neither party has the faintest idea what the problem is, and even less of a clue how to fix it.
"Should we call the IT guy?"
"Definately."
"Have you got his number?"
"No, thought you had it."
"No."
"mmm..."
Both parties go quiet once more.
"It must be the server."
"Must be."
"Have you tried switching it off, and switching it on again?"
"No. Have you?"
"No. Does that usually fix it?"
"Usually."
"Shall we try it?"
"Definately."
One party then switches it off, and then indeed on again, whilst the other stands over him stroking his chin and frowning in a knowledgeable way, before heading back to his desk.
"It's worked. I've got the internet."
"Have you got email?"
"Internet, email, everything."
"Fantastic. I knew that would do it."
"Beautiful."
"Is your internet working?"
"No, is your's?"
"No. My e-mail's not working either."
"Neither is mine. Do you know why?"
"No."
"mmm..."
Both parties then go quiet for a moment, as if contemplating what the logical next step in this conversation should be.
"Have they got the internet in the office next door?"
"Don't know. Shall I go and check."
"Definately. Good idea."
One of them heads out to the corridor and is gone for a moment. He comes back 20 seconds later.
"They've got the internet next door."
"Have they got email?"
"Yes, internet, email, everything."
"mmm..."
A pause.
"Do you think it's the network?"
"Could be. Or the server."
"Yeah, it's probably the server."
"mmm..."
Both parties go quiet for a moment.
It is important to realise at this juncture that neither party has the faintest idea what the problem is, and even less of a clue how to fix it.
"Should we call the IT guy?"
"Definately."
"Have you got his number?"
"No, thought you had it."
"No."
"mmm..."
Both parties go quiet once more.
"It must be the server."
"Must be."
"Have you tried switching it off, and switching it on again?"
"No. Have you?"
"No. Does that usually fix it?"
"Usually."
"Shall we try it?"
"Definately."
One party then switches it off, and then indeed on again, whilst the other stands over him stroking his chin and frowning in a knowledgeable way, before heading back to his desk.
"It's worked. I've got the internet."
"Have you got email?"
"Internet, email, everything."
"Fantastic. I knew that would do it."
"Beautiful."
Monday, 30 July 2007
Dawn Chorus 2 - Beauty Is Truth, Truth Beauty
Act One
Scene 2
The master bedroom of a quiet, surburban house in East Dulwich. It's 5.47am on Monday. From underneath the continental duvet the sound of deep, peaceful, unconscious sleep can be heard. All is calm.
Suddenly the upstairs fills with the sound of someone clattering about in the bathroom at the end of the upstairs corridor. From the sounds being made, it would appear that this person is around 3 feet tall.
After some commotion, a lot of banging and scraping, huffing and puffing, and the occasional words of frustration, the sound of someone going to the toilet can finally be heard. After some moments, and what appears to be the successful completion of the task, a short, yet incredibly loud fart can be heard echoing from the bathroom.
Daddy, who has awoken due the noise, wanders down to the bathroom, bleary eyed to check that everything is OK. Standing at the entrance to the bathroom, he looks down at the man-cub, who is sitting on the potty.
Daddy: Everything all right?
Harry: Yes Daddy.
Daddy: You sure? Thought I heard a funny noise.
Harry: No Daddy, it was Doggy.
Daddy: Doggy?
Harry: Yes Daddy, Doggy did a trump.
Daddy: Oh, right. You sure it wasn't Harry?
Harry: Yes, Daddy. It was Harry.
Daddy: Thought so.
Harry: Daddy?
Daddy: Yes, Harry?
Harry: It's all part of life.
Daddy: (pauses) Indeed. Back to bed now, it's still snooze time.
Harry: Ok Daddy.
Harry pulls up his pants and meanders back to his bedroom. Daddy turns, still half asleep back to the master bedroom, and slumping back into bed he returns immediately to his dream about being on Desert Island Discs.
A Vespa scooter can be heard buzzing down a nearby street.
Fade to black
Scene 2
The master bedroom of a quiet, surburban house in East Dulwich. It's 5.47am on Monday. From underneath the continental duvet the sound of deep, peaceful, unconscious sleep can be heard. All is calm.
Suddenly the upstairs fills with the sound of someone clattering about in the bathroom at the end of the upstairs corridor. From the sounds being made, it would appear that this person is around 3 feet tall.
After some commotion, a lot of banging and scraping, huffing and puffing, and the occasional words of frustration, the sound of someone going to the toilet can finally be heard. After some moments, and what appears to be the successful completion of the task, a short, yet incredibly loud fart can be heard echoing from the bathroom.
Daddy, who has awoken due the noise, wanders down to the bathroom, bleary eyed to check that everything is OK. Standing at the entrance to the bathroom, he looks down at the man-cub, who is sitting on the potty.
Daddy: Everything all right?
Harry: Yes Daddy.
Daddy: You sure? Thought I heard a funny noise.
Harry: No Daddy, it was Doggy.
Daddy: Doggy?
Harry: Yes Daddy, Doggy did a trump.
Daddy: Oh, right. You sure it wasn't Harry?
Harry: Yes, Daddy. It was Harry.
Daddy: Thought so.
Harry: Daddy?
Daddy: Yes, Harry?
Harry: It's all part of life.
Daddy: (pauses) Indeed. Back to bed now, it's still snooze time.
Harry: Ok Daddy.
Harry pulls up his pants and meanders back to his bedroom. Daddy turns, still half asleep back to the master bedroom, and slumping back into bed he returns immediately to his dream about being on Desert Island Discs.
A Vespa scooter can be heard buzzing down a nearby street.
Fade to black
Friday, 27 July 2007
In Sickness And In Health
My wife is truly amazing.
I believe it was the author Saki who once wrote in 'Reginald on Besetting Sins' that "women and elephants never forget". This is in fact a classic misconception. It turns out that they're actually not particularly bright creatures at all. In test cases they frequently show themselves to be slow and indolent, rarely capable of offering anything but the very minimal levels of base intelligence.
Elephants on the other hand....
It would appear that elephants, women, and indeed men have terrible memories, as my wife and I discovered recently on the morning of our 6th wedding anniversary, which we both completely and utterly forgot.
In fact, we forgot with such spectacular style that it wasn't until my mother phoned at lunchtime to wish us both well on our happy day that we realised our total oversight. After putting the phone down, we looked at each other slightly sheepishly, hugged and wished each other a belated happy anniversary. No cards, no presents, just a kiss. Then I went back to bed.
In actual fact I happened to be terribly ill, and she had promised me that I could spend the morning in bed, away from the chores, away from the kids (more for their benefit rather that mine.)
So, as I lay in bed feeling like shit, leaving my wife to deal single handedly with World War 3 downstairs I realised how easy it is to miss the important things in marriage, and indeed life. Send as many anniversary cards as you like, as many presents as money can buy, but nothing really matters more in a marriage than a bit of love and understanding.
We may have forgotten to spend a fiver down at Hallmark, but the vows we made six years ago stood solid as a rock. In sickness and in health. That's what I'm talking about.
I believe it was the author Saki who once wrote in 'Reginald on Besetting Sins' that "women and elephants never forget". This is in fact a classic misconception. It turns out that they're actually not particularly bright creatures at all. In test cases they frequently show themselves to be slow and indolent, rarely capable of offering anything but the very minimal levels of base intelligence.
Elephants on the other hand....
It would appear that elephants, women, and indeed men have terrible memories, as my wife and I discovered recently on the morning of our 6th wedding anniversary, which we both completely and utterly forgot.
In fact, we forgot with such spectacular style that it wasn't until my mother phoned at lunchtime to wish us both well on our happy day that we realised our total oversight. After putting the phone down, we looked at each other slightly sheepishly, hugged and wished each other a belated happy anniversary. No cards, no presents, just a kiss. Then I went back to bed.
In actual fact I happened to be terribly ill, and she had promised me that I could spend the morning in bed, away from the chores, away from the kids (more for their benefit rather that mine.)
So, as I lay in bed feeling like shit, leaving my wife to deal single handedly with World War 3 downstairs I realised how easy it is to miss the important things in marriage, and indeed life. Send as many anniversary cards as you like, as many presents as money can buy, but nothing really matters more in a marriage than a bit of love and understanding.
We may have forgotten to spend a fiver down at Hallmark, but the vows we made six years ago stood solid as a rock. In sickness and in health. That's what I'm talking about.
Friday, 20 July 2007
Ashes To Ashes
The Lake District is shit. Actually that’s not completely true. The Lake District is quite possibly one of the most beautiful parklands in the United Kingdom, it just happens to be covered in shit. Totally. In fact it is quite astonishing how wholly and completely covered in shit the Lake District actually is.
Let me try to explain. Take a salt cellar the size of say, Durham. Fill it to the brim with Maltesers and Revels (technically Revels contain Maltesers I know - but one requires proportionately more Maltesers for the desired effect). Stand well back, and sprinkle liberally and evenly from Thursby down to Grizebeck, making sure you take in Crackenthorpe and Whitehaven. In actual fact this will look nothing like the vista of scattered poops stretching the length and breadth of our most beautiful national park, but those who frequent the lakes on a regular basis would it find strangely familiar.
This was not the most important feature of the recent trip up to Cumbria with my father. The most important feature was this. He wanted to take me to the place where he wants his ashes scattering.
To say that my father enjoys walking would be an understatement of catastrophic proportions. He adores, loves, lives, nay breathes walking - and his favourite place to walk is the Lake District. The place we were headed was Stickle Tarn - favourite part of the lakes. We were booked to stay for two nights at his favourite pub in the area, which just happened to serve his favourite pint of bitter. To recap, for those at the back, he rather liked this particular place.
In the 30 or so years that he’s been coming to the Lake District however, this was the first time that I’d gone with him, and I suspect he was quietly over the moon. I was equally excited. This was about spending some quality bonding time with each other - in my fathers territory, on his patch, in his element.
It is not unknown that when my father and I get together, it invariably involves a drink, and this was no exception. My father was hoping for a walk on the Friday afternoon but unfortunately the weather was against us. So, after unpacking, it was with a wonderful unspoken understanding that we made our way silently to the nearest watering hole - The Old Gnarled Toe (or something similarly endearing) to begin a late-afternoon-till-chucking-out-time “session”.
The following morning we forced down a full English Breakfast and headed up Stickle Ghyll - a mile long near vertical hike to Stickle Tarn, the final resting place-to-be of my father.
The day was fantastic, we hiked over marshes, waded through streams, "scrambled" up rock faces and generally had the Lakes - both thoroughly loving every minute of it. And then we arrived at the top of the mountain overlooking Stickle Tarn, possibly and certainly according to my Father the most beautiful lake in the Lakes. We both stood in silence looking across the incredible vista, and then he said "in there please, son."
I realised instantly that this was a photo opportunity not to be missed, so grabbing my phone I turned it around on us (there was nobody else there to take it). I captured the most perfect shot of the two of us, with Stickle Tarn between us in the distance. As we both sat there admiring the my handywork I suddenly had the stangest feeling. This would possibly be the most important photograph of us both that would ever, could ever be taken. There we were, in my Dad's favourite place in the world, a place he has come to time and time again, the place to where I would eventually make this same journey, alone save for a cask in my rucksack.
Morbid as this may sound, it seemed to make him happy to know that when the time came he would return here forever. It turns out in fact, that his Father's ashes were also scattered in a lake in the Yorkshire dales, and we joked that perhaps all the men in our family should pick their favourite lake, and keep the tradition alive.
It was a great trip, and one i hope we shall make many more times together, before the final solo mission I will, inevitably, have to make.
By then of course, there will be even more poop to step in.
Let me try to explain. Take a salt cellar the size of say, Durham. Fill it to the brim with Maltesers and Revels (technically Revels contain Maltesers I know - but one requires proportionately more Maltesers for the desired effect). Stand well back, and sprinkle liberally and evenly from Thursby down to Grizebeck, making sure you take in Crackenthorpe and Whitehaven. In actual fact this will look nothing like the vista of scattered poops stretching the length and breadth of our most beautiful national park, but those who frequent the lakes on a regular basis would it find strangely familiar.
This was not the most important feature of the recent trip up to Cumbria with my father. The most important feature was this. He wanted to take me to the place where he wants his ashes scattering.
To say that my father enjoys walking would be an understatement of catastrophic proportions. He adores, loves, lives, nay breathes walking - and his favourite place to walk is the Lake District. The place we were headed was Stickle Tarn - favourite part of the lakes. We were booked to stay for two nights at his favourite pub in the area, which just happened to serve his favourite pint of bitter. To recap, for those at the back, he rather liked this particular place.
In the 30 or so years that he’s been coming to the Lake District however, this was the first time that I’d gone with him, and I suspect he was quietly over the moon. I was equally excited. This was about spending some quality bonding time with each other - in my fathers territory, on his patch, in his element.
It is not unknown that when my father and I get together, it invariably involves a drink, and this was no exception. My father was hoping for a walk on the Friday afternoon but unfortunately the weather was against us. So, after unpacking, it was with a wonderful unspoken understanding that we made our way silently to the nearest watering hole - The Old Gnarled Toe (or something similarly endearing) to begin a late-afternoon-till-chucking-out-time “session”.
The following morning we forced down a full English Breakfast and headed up Stickle Ghyll - a mile long near vertical hike to Stickle Tarn, the final resting place-to-be of my father.
The day was fantastic, we hiked over marshes, waded through streams, "scrambled" up rock faces and generally had the Lakes - both thoroughly loving every minute of it. And then we arrived at the top of the mountain overlooking Stickle Tarn, possibly and certainly according to my Father the most beautiful lake in the Lakes. We both stood in silence looking across the incredible vista, and then he said "in there please, son."
I realised instantly that this was a photo opportunity not to be missed, so grabbing my phone I turned it around on us (there was nobody else there to take it). I captured the most perfect shot of the two of us, with Stickle Tarn between us in the distance. As we both sat there admiring the my handywork I suddenly had the stangest feeling. This would possibly be the most important photograph of us both that would ever, could ever be taken. There we were, in my Dad's favourite place in the world, a place he has come to time and time again, the place to where I would eventually make this same journey, alone save for a cask in my rucksack.
Morbid as this may sound, it seemed to make him happy to know that when the time came he would return here forever. It turns out in fact, that his Father's ashes were also scattered in a lake in the Yorkshire dales, and we joked that perhaps all the men in our family should pick their favourite lake, and keep the tradition alive.
It was a great trip, and one i hope we shall make many more times together, before the final solo mission I will, inevitably, have to make.
By then of course, there will be even more poop to step in.
Wednesday, 11 July 2007
Sunshine and Rain
At 18.33 yesterday evening on Platform B at Kings Cross Thameslink, the sun broke through the heavily pregnant clouds for less than a second. As it caught the outline of the rain each drop became instantly and uniquely outlined by a shimmering silver sheen. The rainfall seemed almost to pause mid flow, as if surprised and taken aback by this strange yet beautiful intrusion into it's otherwise obvious life. As the sun paled, the rain began slowly drift down, as if pulled magnetically to the dark, slippy high voltage rail.
A shadow passed by momentarily.
A shadow passed by momentarily.
Sunday, 1 July 2007
In The Night Garden
I certainly didn't expect my wife to lace my Sunday night gin & tonic with an acid trip, but it was a lovely surprise. I think was just her way of saying thanks for being such a good hubbydaddy. And so, with dusk descending slowly over East Dulwich, and a steady rain just beginning to lop gently against the faux Victorian framework of the living room window, I felt the tired yet warm satisfaction of a man who had surpassed all that was asked of him this weekend. Let me explain.
We have recently had the garden done, and the diary for Saturday and Sunday was filled with activity for Daddy. Fetching of gravel, shifting of soil, lifting of palm trees, carrying of stuff and spending of money. I also had to fit in Harry's Little Kickers class plus a supermarket trip, feed the kids, feed my wife, grab a bottle of Masciarelli rose from green & Blue and pick up disc 2 Season 1 of 24 from Film Night (we’re a bit behind). All tasks successfully completed I finally crashed onto the leather sofa with Harry to catch up on some important pre-bedtime kids TV.
It was at this point that the LSD kicked in, and it was clearly "good shit". I began to experience the most intense mind-bending colours, bizarre shapes, balloon people, wild music. Plus the whole experience seemed to come with it's own narrative - Sir Derek Jacobi if i was not mistaken. I was transfixed. It was going off.
Or at least, that’s what I thought was happening.
“That’s Pinky Ponk, that one’s Makka Pakka, and they’re the Harboos.” said Harry
It turns out I wasn’t tripping, I was in fact watching “In The Nightgarden”. I immediately removed the spectrum sunglasses.
Being a parent means you become, by default, a bit of an aficionado of kids TV. Some of it is OK, but most of it is frankly shit. The Tweenies for example. I hate the Tweenies, I want to punch them all - especially Jake for making Harry say words like "broked" instead of "broken" and "seed" instead of "saw" - what the f**k are they playing at? Likewise Tikkabilla is simply offensive.
In The Nightgarden is not shit - it is genius. Here is a show, thankfully, that seems to hark back to the good old days. My childhood was peppered with inventive, pseudo drug-influenced programmes. Mr Ben, Chorlton and the Wheelies, The Herbs (the clue was in the title). Then of course there was Magic Roundabout with more drug references than you could shake a stick at, The Clangers and the brilliant Rhubarb and Custard - the list goes on.
These were shows made by people who were either on copious amounts of mind altering drugs, or who knew people who were on copious amounts of mind altering drugs. They appealed directly and perfectly to that part of the brain that only a child can possibly make any sense of, and we were transfixed. I'm not suggesting for one moment that young upcoming TV producers need to start sucking on the sugar cubes - they just need to get a little silly again.
In The Nightgarden is a step in the right direction.
So as the Tombliboos snuggled down to bed I realised that sadly my wife had not dropped a couple of Smiley's into my drink, it was just a normal G&T, made the way I like it - lots of ice, lots of lemon, lots of gin.
Resourceful as my wife may be, I imagine even she would find it difficult to get her hands on LSD in Dulwich.
We have recently had the garden done, and the diary for Saturday and Sunday was filled with activity for Daddy. Fetching of gravel, shifting of soil, lifting of palm trees, carrying of stuff and spending of money. I also had to fit in Harry's Little Kickers class plus a supermarket trip, feed the kids, feed my wife, grab a bottle of Masciarelli rose from green & Blue and pick up disc 2 Season 1 of 24 from Film Night (we’re a bit behind). All tasks successfully completed I finally crashed onto the leather sofa with Harry to catch up on some important pre-bedtime kids TV.
It was at this point that the LSD kicked in, and it was clearly "good shit". I began to experience the most intense mind-bending colours, bizarre shapes, balloon people, wild music. Plus the whole experience seemed to come with it's own narrative - Sir Derek Jacobi if i was not mistaken. I was transfixed. It was going off.
Or at least, that’s what I thought was happening.
“That’s Pinky Ponk, that one’s Makka Pakka, and they’re the Harboos.” said Harry
It turns out I wasn’t tripping, I was in fact watching “In The Nightgarden”. I immediately removed the spectrum sunglasses.
Being a parent means you become, by default, a bit of an aficionado of kids TV. Some of it is OK, but most of it is frankly shit. The Tweenies for example. I hate the Tweenies, I want to punch them all - especially Jake for making Harry say words like "broked" instead of "broken" and "seed" instead of "saw" - what the f**k are they playing at? Likewise Tikkabilla is simply offensive.
In The Nightgarden is not shit - it is genius. Here is a show, thankfully, that seems to hark back to the good old days. My childhood was peppered with inventive, pseudo drug-influenced programmes. Mr Ben, Chorlton and the Wheelies, The Herbs (the clue was in the title). Then of course there was Magic Roundabout with more drug references than you could shake a stick at, The Clangers and the brilliant Rhubarb and Custard - the list goes on.
These were shows made by people who were either on copious amounts of mind altering drugs, or who knew people who were on copious amounts of mind altering drugs. They appealed directly and perfectly to that part of the brain that only a child can possibly make any sense of, and we were transfixed. I'm not suggesting for one moment that young upcoming TV producers need to start sucking on the sugar cubes - they just need to get a little silly again.
In The Nightgarden is a step in the right direction.
So as the Tombliboos snuggled down to bed I realised that sadly my wife had not dropped a couple of Smiley's into my drink, it was just a normal G&T, made the way I like it - lots of ice, lots of lemon, lots of gin.
Resourceful as my wife may be, I imagine even she would find it difficult to get her hands on LSD in Dulwich.
Friday, 29 June 2007
An Englishman's Tea is his Castle
I have always believed that there are ways to do things, and ways to very much not do things. One shouldn't for example arrive at a party or dinner without a gift for the hostess, one should not rush lighting a cigar, as badly lit it will prove a source of constant irritation. In Poker one should always be a courteous loser, and a gracious winner, and one should never wear a bluetooth headset - they make you look like an idiot.
Finally and perhaps most importantly of all - one should absolutley never ever make tea with the teabag in the cup.
An Englishman should know how to make tea. It is an intrinsic part of our make up, and we should not settle for namby pamby, shortcut, imitation, fast food, U.S imported alternatives.
There is a way to make perfect tea. And this is it.
Go to Marks and Spencer and buy a packet of your favourite tea - I suggest Earl Grey, or a good quality breakfast tea. Go back home and boil a kettle of water. When the kettle has boiled, pour a little of it into a tea pot, swirl it around and tip it out again. Put a couple (or three, depending on the size of the pot) of tea bags into the pot. Bring the kettle back up to the boil, and then pour the boiling water as quickly as you can into the pot. Let it stand for two or three minutes, and then pour it into a cup. Some people will tell you that you shouldn't have milk with Earl Grey, just a slice of lemon. Screw them. I like it with milk. If you think you will like it with milk then it's probably best to put some milk into the bottom of the cup before you pour in the tea.1
If you pour milk into a cup of hot tea you will scald the milk. If you think you will prefer it with a slice of lemon then, well, add a slice of lemon.
Drink it.
1 This is socially incorrect. The socially correct way of pouring tea is to put the milk in after the tea. Social correctness has traditionally had nothing whatever to do with reason, logic or physics. In fact, in England it is generally considered socially incorrect to know stuff or think about things.
(Tea recipe courtesy of the late great Douglas Adams)
Finally and perhaps most importantly of all - one should absolutley never ever make tea with the teabag in the cup.
An Englishman should know how to make tea. It is an intrinsic part of our make up, and we should not settle for namby pamby, shortcut, imitation, fast food, U.S imported alternatives.
There is a way to make perfect tea. And this is it.
Go to Marks and Spencer and buy a packet of your favourite tea - I suggest Earl Grey, or a good quality breakfast tea. Go back home and boil a kettle of water. When the kettle has boiled, pour a little of it into a tea pot, swirl it around and tip it out again. Put a couple (or three, depending on the size of the pot) of tea bags into the pot. Bring the kettle back up to the boil, and then pour the boiling water as quickly as you can into the pot. Let it stand for two or three minutes, and then pour it into a cup. Some people will tell you that you shouldn't have milk with Earl Grey, just a slice of lemon. Screw them. I like it with milk. If you think you will like it with milk then it's probably best to put some milk into the bottom of the cup before you pour in the tea.1
If you pour milk into a cup of hot tea you will scald the milk. If you think you will prefer it with a slice of lemon then, well, add a slice of lemon.
Drink it.
1 This is socially incorrect. The socially correct way of pouring tea is to put the milk in after the tea. Social correctness has traditionally had nothing whatever to do with reason, logic or physics. In fact, in England it is generally considered socially incorrect to know stuff or think about things.
(Tea recipe courtesy of the late great Douglas Adams)
Thursday, 7 June 2007
Dawn Chorus
Act One
Scene 1
The master bedroom of a quiet, surburban house in East Dulwich. It's 6.15am and all is quiet, save for the sound of Garry the milkman tinkling peacefully along the serene empty street. Sunlight is just beginning to break over the rooftops, quietly drying the thin layer of dew covering the Audi A4’s. Harry (3 and a half) enter’s the bedroom, where his exhausted, hard working, loving parents are lying deeply asleep in their kingsize bed, dead to the world. The room smells faintly of Ralph Lauren Polo Sport and second hand Chablis. The child walks around to his fathers side of the bed, holding a slightly bedraggled fluffy dog in one hand and the thumb of his other hand firmly planted in his mouth. He stops at his fathers side, pauses and yawns, and rubbing his eyes he removes the thumb from his mouth.
Harry: Daddy?
Harry: Daddy?….Daddy?, Daddy, Daddy?, Daddy?, Daddy?, Daddy?, DADDY!
Daddy: (groans from underneath the continental duvet) What time is it honey?
Mummy: (groans from underneath the continental duvet) Quarter past six
Daddy: (still groaning) Harry, it’s still snooze time
Harry: But Daddy…..
Daddy: Back to bed mate, still snooze time….(Daddy instantly falls back into a deep coma-like sleep)
Harry: (sighs and takes a deep breath) Daddy?….Daddy?, Daddy, Daddy?, Daddy?, Daddy?, Daddy?, DADDY!
Daddy: (groans and surfaces from underneath the continental duvet) Dude, it’s quarter past six, you’ve got to be kidding me.
Harry: But DADDY!
Daddy: OK OK, what is it?
Harry: What would happen if a polar bear came into my room?
Daddy stares at Harry in disbelief
Daddy: I think that’s highly unlikely mate.
Harry: Why?
Daddy: It just is
Harry: But why?
Mummy: Harry, BED!
Harry: But what would happen Daddy
Daddy: (back under the continental duvet) I imagine it would probably rip you to shreds and eat you for breakfast.
Harry: (pauses and appears to digest this information) OK.
Holding a slightly bedraggled fluffy dog in one hand and the thumb of his other hand firmly planted back in his mouth, Harry turns and leaves the room.
Fade to black.
Scene 1
The master bedroom of a quiet, surburban house in East Dulwich. It's 6.15am and all is quiet, save for the sound of Garry the milkman tinkling peacefully along the serene empty street. Sunlight is just beginning to break over the rooftops, quietly drying the thin layer of dew covering the Audi A4’s. Harry (3 and a half) enter’s the bedroom, where his exhausted, hard working, loving parents are lying deeply asleep in their kingsize bed, dead to the world. The room smells faintly of Ralph Lauren Polo Sport and second hand Chablis. The child walks around to his fathers side of the bed, holding a slightly bedraggled fluffy dog in one hand and the thumb of his other hand firmly planted in his mouth. He stops at his fathers side, pauses and yawns, and rubbing his eyes he removes the thumb from his mouth.
Harry: Daddy?
Harry: Daddy?….Daddy?, Daddy, Daddy?, Daddy?, Daddy?, Daddy?, DADDY!
Daddy: (groans from underneath the continental duvet) What time is it honey?
Mummy: (groans from underneath the continental duvet) Quarter past six
Daddy: (still groaning) Harry, it’s still snooze time
Harry: But Daddy…..
Daddy: Back to bed mate, still snooze time….(Daddy instantly falls back into a deep coma-like sleep)
Harry: (sighs and takes a deep breath) Daddy?….Daddy?, Daddy, Daddy?, Daddy?, Daddy?, Daddy?, DADDY!
Daddy: (groans and surfaces from underneath the continental duvet) Dude, it’s quarter past six, you’ve got to be kidding me.
Harry: But DADDY!
Daddy: OK OK, what is it?
Harry: What would happen if a polar bear came into my room?
Daddy stares at Harry in disbelief
Daddy: I think that’s highly unlikely mate.
Harry: Why?
Daddy: It just is
Harry: But why?
Mummy: Harry, BED!
Harry: But what would happen Daddy
Daddy: (back under the continental duvet) I imagine it would probably rip you to shreds and eat you for breakfast.
Harry: (pauses and appears to digest this information) OK.
Holding a slightly bedraggled fluffy dog in one hand and the thumb of his other hand firmly planted back in his mouth, Harry turns and leaves the room.
Fade to black.
Thursday, 24 May 2007
Number Crunching
I'm a great believer in karma, and so far it seems to be a system that works. At a recent house party a girl whom I'd never met before asked me a question I've never been asked before. I did, however, have the answer immediately to hand. The question she asked me was this - "What's your mantra?” Not the usual opening gambit for a conversation I grant you, but what surprised me more was my almost immediate response. I said, "Always do the right thing."
Now I'm not suggesting for one minute that everything I’ve ever done in my life is the right thing, in I can categorically state that most of the decisions I took in my formative years were very probably the wrong thing. However as I have begun to approach middle age I feel myself moving much more towards a benevolent state of mind, perhaps facilitated by having kids, a bit more worldly knowledge or probably a bit more cash.
This tenuously leads into the point of this particular blog, which is this - my new Audi has a tow bar, and it almost annoys the hell out of me. The reason it almost annoys the hell out of me is that it is conveniently placed at exactly the right height to ensure that I totally and perfectly destroy other motorists front number plates whilst reversing into the extremely hard to find and very tight parking spaces to be found around 7.45am near Herne Hill Station.
Each time I have done this (and I've done it quite a lot), I have left a note apologising, offering to pay and of course leaving my mobile number. Most of the time people get in touch, glad of my honesty. On some occasions however I hear nothing, presumably because they think I’m mental.
The point is I've found that going through this strange little circle of events has begun to create inside me an enormous sense of well being, and it all feels rather good.
I suppose I should simply remove the tow bar, but then that would mess up the karma, wouldn't it?
Now I'm not suggesting for one minute that everything I’ve ever done in my life is the right thing, in I can categorically state that most of the decisions I took in my formative years were very probably the wrong thing. However as I have begun to approach middle age I feel myself moving much more towards a benevolent state of mind, perhaps facilitated by having kids, a bit more worldly knowledge or probably a bit more cash.
This tenuously leads into the point of this particular blog, which is this - my new Audi has a tow bar, and it almost annoys the hell out of me. The reason it almost annoys the hell out of me is that it is conveniently placed at exactly the right height to ensure that I totally and perfectly destroy other motorists front number plates whilst reversing into the extremely hard to find and very tight parking spaces to be found around 7.45am near Herne Hill Station.
Each time I have done this (and I've done it quite a lot), I have left a note apologising, offering to pay and of course leaving my mobile number. Most of the time people get in touch, glad of my honesty. On some occasions however I hear nothing, presumably because they think I’m mental.
The point is I've found that going through this strange little circle of events has begun to create inside me an enormous sense of well being, and it all feels rather good.
I suppose I should simply remove the tow bar, but then that would mess up the karma, wouldn't it?
Friday, 18 May 2007
Can I See The Wine List Please?
It’s frightening how quickly the time is flying by. Things are really beginning to change with our little girl and change quickly. Each day seems to bring some new development, a new look or expression, a slightly different tone of squeal, and more and more giggling. A personality is slowly emerging; piece-by-piece she is becoming a person. As I looked at Jess this morning, it seems that she’s taking everything in, yet there must surely be a stage at which memories begin to be properly recorded, and I wondered when that happens. I tried today to recall my earliest memory. I can’t seem to get beyond riding my old red bike up and down the street outside our house as a child, about the age of three or four. Still, it would seem that everything going on around her at the moment, from sights and sounds to the feel of the wind on her face is being stored onto her internal hard disk for some unknown use at a later date. Anyway, today was a big day in the culinary department, for today she got her first taste of solid food. Well, more like mushed up, less runny food, but still a hell of a lot tastier than milk. She got puréed sweet potato for her maiden voyage into grown up tucker, and mighty tasty it was too (well, I had to try it). Her initial expression, as we spooned it lovingly into her cake hole, was one of sheer disgust. Then she chomped a bit, then a bit more, and we watched that expression turn quickly to her usual one of bemused joy. By the end of the meal (approx 10 spoonfuls) it quickly became clear that this was going to be a slightly messier yet much more enjoyable experience for both her and us.
Wednesday, 16 May 2007
It’s a Swindle
Disaster. The buggy has broken down. No less than 3 ½ months old and already it’s had to slink off down the paternal pit lane. The 360 swivel front wheel has decided to relinquish the only responsibility of which it was asked, which was to swivel. The news came whilst returning from the corner shop with the morning papers. From smooth flowing front wheel action to knackered supermarket trolley action in the space of 150 yards. No problem, I thought – it’s obviously still under guarantee, I’ll just phone the shop and all will be well.
Or so I thought.
It turns out that it has certain components which conveniently fall outside the conditions of the guarantee, under a mysterious category known as “maintenance”. To be more specific, the front wheel. “The 360 swivel front wheel is not included in the guarantee sir, it’s your responsibility,” said the man at the shop. “Well how am I supposed to fix it,” I replied, “there are less complicated combustion engines.”
“You will find an Alan key was provided with the product upon delivery sir,” he went on “this should be sufficient to fix any maintenance related issues.”
I’m not sure what “product” he was referring to, but it definitely wasn’t the nightmare of nuts, bolts and cogs I was currently wrestling with. Imagine trying to crack Fort Knox armed only with a cocktail sausage. It was worse. Added to which was the sheer hilarity of not being able to find a single component with which the Alan key would actually fit. All this inevitably ended with a second, slightly more heated phone call to the increasingly annoying man at the shop who cheerfully informed me that they had an engineer on site whose job was specifically to fix the wobbly front wheels that aren’t covered by the guarantee and that always occur on this particular model, usually about 3 ½ months after purchase.
“How much?” I groaned.
“Ninety pounds plus VAT sir.”
“Tell me about the Alan key again”
Or so I thought.
It turns out that it has certain components which conveniently fall outside the conditions of the guarantee, under a mysterious category known as “maintenance”. To be more specific, the front wheel. “The 360 swivel front wheel is not included in the guarantee sir, it’s your responsibility,” said the man at the shop. “Well how am I supposed to fix it,” I replied, “there are less complicated combustion engines.”
“You will find an Alan key was provided with the product upon delivery sir,” he went on “this should be sufficient to fix any maintenance related issues.”
I’m not sure what “product” he was referring to, but it definitely wasn’t the nightmare of nuts, bolts and cogs I was currently wrestling with. Imagine trying to crack Fort Knox armed only with a cocktail sausage. It was worse. Added to which was the sheer hilarity of not being able to find a single component with which the Alan key would actually fit. All this inevitably ended with a second, slightly more heated phone call to the increasingly annoying man at the shop who cheerfully informed me that they had an engineer on site whose job was specifically to fix the wobbly front wheels that aren’t covered by the guarantee and that always occur on this particular model, usually about 3 ½ months after purchase.
“How much?” I groaned.
“Ninety pounds plus VAT sir.”
“Tell me about the Alan key again”
Grumpy Old Dad Part 1
In contrast to the previous article, I get infuriated by people who use mobile phones loudly and unnecessarily on public transport. Why are some people incapable of enduring a 15 minute bus/train journey without feeling compelled to call everyone in their contacts list to talk loud, incessant and inane drivel. Is it because their brains are devoid of independent thought, or is it because they wish to seem popular or important.
It's ludicrous and more to the point extremely annoying. Stop it.
It's ludicrous and more to the point extremely annoying. Stop it.
Tuesday, 15 May 2007
It's Good To Talk
Today I was very pleasant to a shopkeeper, and she looked at me as if I was insane.
I always try to make a concerted effort wherever possible to be nice to people. However, this does not always have the desired effect, and can often provoke a reaction nothing short of suspicious. I believe the reason for this mistrust in based around two factors:
1. We now live in a society where people have more access to free information than ever before, without ever having to speak (and therefore be courteous to) an actual living person. We communicate with work colleagues by msn, friends by facebook, family by text message, we buy our groceries online and reach out to complete strangers via myspace. We are becoming less and less interested in using the art of speech, which is resulting in a genuine mistrust of simple honest genial face-to-face pleasantness.
2. People think that you’re taking the p*ss.
I always try to make a concerted effort wherever possible to be nice to people. However, this does not always have the desired effect, and can often provoke a reaction nothing short of suspicious. I believe the reason for this mistrust in based around two factors:
1. We now live in a society where people have more access to free information than ever before, without ever having to speak (and therefore be courteous to) an actual living person. We communicate with work colleagues by msn, friends by facebook, family by text message, we buy our groceries online and reach out to complete strangers via myspace. We are becoming less and less interested in using the art of speech, which is resulting in a genuine mistrust of simple honest genial face-to-face pleasantness.
2. People think that you’re taking the p*ss.
Thursday, 10 May 2007
Technicolor Yawn
Today was a landmark day in projectile vomiting. It’s not just the volume, girth and sheer distance we’re talking about here either. It’s the fact that Jess (our 0 year old) did it straight over my face and chest in the middle of the estate agents during a meeting with our mortgage advisor. I found the funny side, half an hour after everybody else in the room. The trouble is, when you take a baby out with you during the day, you have a 2 hour window of opportunity to achieve your task, before it’s time for one of any number of squidgy events. In this instance I had to feed her during the meeting leaving Mummy to deal with the mortgage advisor, which suited me. There I was, proudly the responsible father, feeding and winding my princess on one of their posh leather sofas, when I get it straight between the eyes once again.
Wednesday, 9 May 2007
Thin & Crispy With Extra Booze, Please
When you’ve just had a baby there are two types of visitors, those who have kids themselves and those who do not. The ones who know what it’s like to have kids will instantly head straight to the kitchen – sleeves rolled up, kettle on, what can I do to help? Visitors who are yet to spawn will usually sit there dumbstruck. If you hand the baby to them they go white with fear and hand her back immediately, and the sight of a nappy being changed is a cue to scarper. It’s a cliché but the thing about not knowing what it’ll be like until it happens to you is the best there is. A recent father gave me a great tip last week, which kind of sums it up. If you wish to visit friends who have recently sprogged, either turn up with a take-a-way pizza and a pack of cold lagers or forget it.
Mind Your Head
There were lots of cool things around for kids when I was born. Space Hoppers, Sherbet Dip, Tin Can Alley and The Grifter (the thinking man’s Chopper). One of the things that they definitely didn’t have was cranial osteopathy, at least not down our way. Times change however, and today I took our little princess to have her bonce inspected. Homeopathy has made a big comeback recently, and lots of our friends had recommended having a cranial osteopath examine her noodle as soon after birth as possible. Baby’s heads do funny things as they’re being born. The skull plates kind of fold under each other to allow safe passage out, and they arrive with a kind of squidgy head. Apparently a good cranial osteopath can perform a marvellously delicate massage which helps guide all the bits back into the right place.The journey there was an event in itself. It was just Jess and myself (Becca was having some well earned girl-time at the hairdressers). Off I trotted with my bag full of wipes, nappies and two million other things you need for a trip round the block. I can’t deny it was a very relaxing experience watching Jess have her head gently kneaded, the soft lights and the music was rather lovely. Jess certainly seemed to enjoy it, and when it was time to leave I promptly paid and we both left feeling great, if only a little flummoxed as to what on earth the whole thing had been about. Still, you live and learn. Well you live at any rate.
Friday, 4 May 2007
Once More Unto The Audi
It seems a strange thing to start a blog with, but the bank holiday is looming and I need a haircut. I am a man who likes to enjoy the best things in life, and wherever possible I will insist on quality before price every time. However when it comes to haircuts something has definately changed.
A haircut for me means popping to my local salon in East Dulwich where I can expect a deluxe 1 hour experience. Coffee, a consultation, shampoo, condition, massage, cut, blowdry, hair gloop, a warm atmosphere and a cold beer. For this I am cheerfully fleeced of £40.
However due to time restrictions during a recent lunch, I needed a cut, and I needed it fast. I was advised by a Advertising Director client of mine that there was a perfectly good barbers near my office that he used all the time. I turned up to a tiny turkish shop where nobody spoke a word of english. Using the international language of hair signing I successfully managed to convey my "style", whereupon the good barber proceeded to give me exactly the same cut I usually get for £40 an hour, but in 5 minutes for £5.
Now, call me old fashioned...
The bank holiday looms. Just when I thought it was safe to mooch about in the garden Mummy has just informed me that we have 372 kids birthday parties to attend followed by a 3 day tour of the south coast...
Once more unto the Audi my loves...
A haircut for me means popping to my local salon in East Dulwich where I can expect a deluxe 1 hour experience. Coffee, a consultation, shampoo, condition, massage, cut, blowdry, hair gloop, a warm atmosphere and a cold beer. For this I am cheerfully fleeced of £40.
However due to time restrictions during a recent lunch, I needed a cut, and I needed it fast. I was advised by a Advertising Director client of mine that there was a perfectly good barbers near my office that he used all the time. I turned up to a tiny turkish shop where nobody spoke a word of english. Using the international language of hair signing I successfully managed to convey my "style", whereupon the good barber proceeded to give me exactly the same cut I usually get for £40 an hour, but in 5 minutes for £5.
Now, call me old fashioned...
The bank holiday looms. Just when I thought it was safe to mooch about in the garden Mummy has just informed me that we have 372 kids birthday parties to attend followed by a 3 day tour of the south coast...
Once more unto the Audi my loves...
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