Worth Every Penny

Tonights Shakespeare Retold was A Midsummers Night Dream. Frankly I was laughing my arse off. Yet another quality production from the Beeb and a re-telling of a tale that has convinced me even more that old Billy Boy certainly knew how to knock out a good story. Fuck the traditionalists, this is the way to spread the gospel of how iconic this bloke is in English literary history (yes, English, all the rest of the UK can fuck off on this one). Great performances as well, notably Johnny Vegas as Bottom, the ever excellent Sharon Small as Tatania, Bill Paterson as Theo...in fact they were all good.

But hats off to Dean Lennox Kelly who played Puck.

He played Puck in the style of Shaun Ryder when he was still comprehensible. And boy did he make me laugh with his narration to the viewer. Especially after administering the antidote to his "love juice" with the line "Me, I'm gonna go and pick me a big bag of mushrooms, put me feet up and get a bit of a wobble on". Magic

Later, GrocerJack

So farewell then.....George Best

Anyone who thinks that George Best deserved all he got clearly has no idea of the nature of alcoholism and the fact that its a disease. Generally people who end up as alcoholics don't choose to be that way. They drink to cope with different issues and stresses, be it fame, work presuure, bereavement or mental fragility. What's the cynics answer for people with depression or who are having a nervous breakdown? Let me guess, something like "pull yourself together, snap out of it, get a life?". If only things were that easy.

The people criticising George Best should look up the word Compassion in the dictionary along with Humility and towards the end even Dignity. And yes I know I criticised him here a few weeks ago. But I've got the bollocks to do a re-think and take a more compassionate view having watched the decline with morbid fascination over the last few weeks.

Georgie Best (as we always knew him as kids) was news, whether you liked him or not he was an icon of the 60's in the same way as Lennon, Hendrix, Charlton, Moore etc etc. For people of my age (44) he was the footballer we all wanted to be. He was the role model for us as children. he showed the way out to fame, riches and glory we so desperately wanted as young football mad boys at my school. We grew up idolising him and his journey through life was made available to us all, both as spectators and as a piece of modern iconic history documented in our glorious (sic) press. Unlike today's pampered protected stars he had NO-ONE. No agent, no minder, no-one to completely trust, no protection from the leeches of sport, from the seduction of vice, from kiss 'n' tell women and the hangers on attached to celebrities. Women wanted to be able to say he'd shagged them. Men wanted to buy him a drink in the hope of becoming his mate. He was mobbed wherever he went in his heyday, as if a little of his magical talent would rub off on those who hung around him. He was subject to vicious tackling from players not fit to lace his boots hoping to become a name for getting the better of the 60's own "Special One".

No doubt partly the architect of his own downfall, we all could be there without the support or guidance networks we build or have from birth, something which was patently missing from his life. Yes, he was a drunk, yes he was a womaniser, yes he was a bankrupt and yes he was a wife beater. But he never ever blamed anyone else for his faults. He only blamed himself. But of course none of these attributes are the features of a normal person, but are clearly indicative of a troubled soul with a different perspective on their own reality and their place in life.

He was a great footballer whose full talent was never released, an interesting and articulate man and a great pundit on Soccer Saturday, but ultimately also a tortured soul in search of something he couldn't find and probably couldn't define. I hope he has found the peace that was so obviously missing from his life and that his family are spared the normal catalogue of George Best horror stories likely to be uncovered by the gutter journo's working on the red tops.

***UPDATE***

Thanks to Inspector Sands for putting this link up - download this video. It's 18Mb and might take 10-15 minutes even on Broadband. I believe it might have been put together by some Manchester Utd fans, so full credit to them because if this doesn't convince you, or even put a lump in your throat, then you're dead from the brain down..

Later, GrocerJack

I've met some useless cunts.......

I've come across the odd fuckwit numpty in my time. Usually I just ignore them, or try and cater for them if they decide they must converse with me. Some of them run their own business and it amazes me that these morons make a living. Today I met a ....whats the collective term....ah yes...a pair of cunts. In the form of Sky TV (non)installer and Sky TV Customer Service. I can only further describe the (non) installer as an Amoebic Brain Celled Wanker who I doubt would qualify for a single MacDonalds star.

"Hello mate, your mobile's unavailable " were the first words he said. I may be wrong but how about "Good Morning, I'm here to install Sky" wouldn't that be more normal and acceptable. I asked him to try again as I've already taken several calls this morning. He tries, number unavailable and hands me his phone. "there you go ...told you" he says. I then point out that if he actually dials the right number instead of transposing the last 2 digits to end in 67 as opposed to 76 he might be more successful. "Oh right he says, they must have written it down wrong" .....I look at the order and no they haven't. They are right and this festering useless piece of human detritus is just wrong. So very wrong in every way.

"Oh, you're a Chelsea fan are you" was the next conversational gem to tumble from his brain disengaged mouth. ...."I'm an Arsenal fan meself...we didn't have to buy the title...." he tittered. At this point I'm thinking "Just install it you cunt and fuck off".

But it got worse.

You see there was a problem. I have a cladded house. Not cladding as in multi-coloured stone tat so stunningly trendy in the 70's. No merely cladded with discreet grey tiles front and back. To be honest it's not something I've ever noticed before. We just liked the look of the place and bought it as seen. Apparently because I wanted the "multi-room" install it would have meant siting the dish and then running individual cables around the outside of the house and through the tiles. So Gumby Fuckwit says " Can't do this install coz I'm not insured for tile drilling...I'll ring Sky and they will have to get an "independent" to do the job". Not unreasonably I ask him why he can't put the dish on the side of the house (still clear view to satellite) and run all the cables through the brick work and run the cables to each room internally. The answer "nah needs a specialist to do that and we just install dishes"

Craftsmanship huh?> You just can't beat it. He rings his boss "Jamie" who apparently says "don't touch the job". So, he says he'll ring Sky and let them know and they can contact me to make an alternative arrangement. "It's not going to happen today though is it?" I say..."I've taken the day off for this" i stress. "Yeah well,, niuffink I can do about it he says" At this point the red mist has descended and something along the lines of this comes from my fury-infested brain.......

"So, you're telling me that you can't seek an alternative way of connecting even though I've pointed this out to you?"
"What do Sky do...employ the thickest people on the planet to come out and piss people off"
"Are you just a waste of space?"
" You might as well just fuck off then and stop breathing my air"

etc etc

And off he trundles, no doubt thinking "That'll teach him to support Chelsea".

Sjy then ring and tell me that as they can't install cladded properties they'll refund the money and cancel the order. I ask them if they can arrange for an "independent" to come and do the work instead of the plankton minded fool they sent this morning

"No, we don't offer that service. We may do in the future, but you have to shop around and pay them to do the work. Of course that means we can't do the same deal on the boxes and the package"

"What no alternative at all, no contingency. Thats it! Tough Shit Jack"

All I heard from that point was ...."Blah blah blah". So for the ultimate in fist class shitty customer experience then I heartily recommend Sky TV. They now join the ranks of The Fucking Bastards...organisations who seem to be adept in screwing peoples lives up. If they turned up here now, giving free blow jobs with each install I would still send them packing with the business end of a garden hoe shoved up their arse so far they'd have trouble swallowing.

And so I have had to jump into my humble pie lorry and drive up to the door of my former partner, the mistress NTL, apologise for being seduced into temptation and plead with them to not cancel my TV, and could they please re-instate the phone from BT that was transferred just 3 days ago. And within 5 minutes the soothing scottish lilt of the NTL lady, forgave me and welcomed me back to warm enbracing bosom of Cable TV and phone, all for the same monthly outlay as before.

Everyone deserves a second chance.

Including me.

Later, GrocerJack

Regressing? Moi?

OK, Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now....well maybe just a bit, but it's not often that something makes me feel like jumping onto the strobe and flashing light bedecked dance floor, strutting my stuff and getting into a groove thang.

However the fab new album by Madge herself has transported me back to the days of a hawaiin shirted, wedge haircut Jack, lighter in frame, crooked pearlies a little whiter, but becoming stained by Rothmans King Size, dancing at Disco's and drinking vast quantities of a cocktail called a Traffic Light. Fuck me I'm considering getting a glitter ball installed in the living room and buying me a John Travolta white suit. And as for the single "Hung Up" with it's sampled Abba strapline (she's the only person they've allowed to sample their music such is the respect they have for her...high praise indeed. ) well thats just a complete smile inducing piece of perfect disco pop. Fantastic.

Later, BoogieJack.

A Sunny Dawn

Well, I've taken the plunge. I've hit the vanity phase of the mid-life crisis and decided to undergo a course of mildly painful self-mutilation in the form of cosmetic surgery. Well of a kind I suppose. You see when I was a kid circa 11 years of age my upper canine teeth popped through one day, a little early you might say as the previous incumbent milk canines hadn't quite fucked off at the time.

So I ended up with a dual set of upper canines for a while. Unfortunately because of this unscheduled appearance the new canines sat proudly atop the milk ones thus actually existing at the top of the gum rather than the bottom. Unknownt to me at the time, the teeth on the bottom jaw were conspiring to recreate Tombstone Cemetery and ended up at an interesting mathematical set of different angles. My parents packed me off to the dentist where at the tender age of 12, life stretching out in front of me, a time of discovery and teenage angst as mates entered puberty before me, proudly displaying their newly honed bodies and hairy bits in the showers at school, I was given the choice - Removable "quick win" braces to pull the upper canines down, or "train track" cast iron appliances to fix them long term and give me a lovely set of pearly whites. Faced with the 70's school culture of being mercilessly ripped to shreds, called Jaws or MetalMouth and probably never having a girlfriend.....ever... meant that the cowards choice of the quick win braces won through. At that time we didn't know what "EnglishTooth" was as the yanks so graciously refer to this sceptred isles indigenous populace's crooked yellowing and generally ropy teeth. We were happy in our tobacco and beer stained apathy around dental hygiene. And so fo 32 years I have lived with crooked teeth. Not hideous, but not straight either. And after all this time my vanity and current mental fragility has pushed me into the world of adult orthodontics. And it is like cosmetic surgery because it is pure vanity that is driving me. My confidence through work has dipped. Of course this means that the writing increases because I have more time to think and more issues to mull over. But ostensibly this is just like someone having a nip or a tuck, or a boob job, or liposuction. I have started to wonder when meeting new people whether or not they are looking at my avant garde dental layout, and what decisions about me they then make because of it. To be honest I've been looking at this for a while now, but only recently decided to go for it.

So, for 2 years I'll be wearing some rather fetching half stainless steel, half clear ceramic weights on my teeth clamped by fine gauge steel wire. A year for the top row, a year for the lower row and some follow up work to prevent the "muscle memory" snapping them back to their comfort position of the last 32 years.

A snip at £3450 wouldn't you say?

Later, GrocerJack

Hail and thunder.......

So, there I am travelling home through the night-time traffic on the A34, listening to whatever was being discussed on the radio. The phone rings and its The Shepherd's secretary asking if I can deputise for The Shepherd at a "Communicating Change Workshop pre-meeting". I had carefully planned a sickie or a "wfh" (work from home) day for today in order to ring The King and get a game of golf in.

Plan ruined as the tone of the call indicated that it wasn't a request as such, but a directive. For this is the way of The Shepherd and it's becoming fairly obviously that his style is autocratic. It's also obvious that he listens to your views, decides his are better and does what he wanted in the first place. So at last I am understanding the traits of this new Nemesis. And of course, "know thine enemy" is a classic maxim used by all engaged in battle in order to get the upper hand and defeat their enemy.

Hmmm......"enemy"...."nemesis"....."battle"........seems like an obsession might be coming my way. Is this really what my working life is becoming? A tirade against hierarchy triggered by insularity and bitter jealousy? Is paranoia fever starting to pervade my thoughts.

The evidence is unclear but then today I attend this meeting with others at The Shepherds level. I dress down because it's ....well...Children in Need day...a pisspoor excuse for trash entertainment and acts of folly in order to apply charity guilt to normal people through the twisted mask of the faux clown. (another subject ....), but also just to fuck these knobhead club tie/firm handshake twats right off. My best "worn" jeans, my trendy reebok trainers and one of my Chelsea Polo's not tucked in.
It definitely got me noticed as they turned up in their Alan Partridge sports casual ranges making unfunny sarcastic comments about "Chelski" supporters (Listen you fucking ignorant cunts....Russian tends to end in ....kov.....so it should be Chelskov if you want to take the piss...). I of course laugh at these airheaded corporate mannequins because I am still infected with Hypocrite-itis. . That is my cross and I'll carry it until "my head explodes with dark forebodings too" and end up on some kind of serial manslaughter charge for decapitating some people who belong in Golgafrincham. Either that or I'll get honoured by a grateful society looking for a solution to ridding society of these useless pieces of semi-human detritus. And guess what? The meeting was actually to discuss a course that all line managers will be going on that helps us deliver bad news or "difficult messages" as they put it, in a positive manner. That's right. I'll be able to devastate peoples lives and make their world cave in, but at the same time sell them the benefits of this and help them through the "transition cycle" of denial through to acceptance at the same time!

I can hardly believe my good fortune (sic). So, here I am, someone who could be the first, albeit reluctant citizen of Golgafrincham, desperately trying to batter his way out, but continually being chased back in by a giant inflatable ball ....just like Number 6.....being trained to deliver a potential knife to someone's heart, through a velvet scabbard and with a smile on my face. Killer and Curer in one easy package.

And for all I know someone is waiting to do the same to me.

Delegated dirty work some might call it.

Being given the shit stick is my view.

(Keanu Reeves pic? I just needed to show a picture of a wanker to illustrate how I feel about The Shepherd)

Later, GrocerJack

Snowstorm....near blizzard strength

Guess which bits of the following I didn't put on my interim performance appraisal form.

A challenging few months with a new manager (the most inspid and uninspiring man in the world) and new skills (in corporate gobbledygook spin) to learn and new role objectives to be assimilated (what am I to you - a fucking Borg?). I believe that thus far I have acquitted myself well in all areas (like anyone gives a shit). Some observations though:

Promotion seems impossible for me now and I can't be sure that my age (being 44 and seemingly ready for the knackers yard as far as most in this organisation think) is not a major factor here. I also feel that none of my past achievements have been recognised and that specifically my stewardship of the Data Network team in a frankly highly pressurised, god forsaken, thankless environment was totally ignored. It seems to me that no-one notices good work unless you're prepared to sell your achievements constantly (like some desperate old whore hoping to find some rich corporate cock sucking ladder climber sugardaddy or to provide her with her next fix of Corporate Heroin). There seems no mechanism or process for recognizing those who prefer to adopt a lower profile on their achievements in the hope that actually someone does care (give a shit) and will notice them (i.e. those of us who actually walk the fucking walk as well as talking the talk and who manage to keep some semblance of a normal life outside of this hellhole) and a massive gap exists in any guidance on how to achieve promotion or further career progression (or even satisfaction). Unfortunately try as I might to forget this and concentrate on the future I can't help thinking that if the past is anything to go by then no matter how well I perform (or what the fuck I do) it won't really make any difference. (So stop patronising me Sonny, stop telling me how to develop myself, how to target my aspirations, how to focus on my objectives and achievements, stop the pretence that there is anything left for me here, stamp the fucking stamp, sign the fucking form and lets save ourself 2 hours and get on with something more worthwhile).

I have given some clues to help you along the way.

Later, GrocerJack

A Brief Sunny Spell

I could go on and on about the fantastic value the BBC gives for the licence fee. I could mention the usual stuff about 33p a day giving 2 terrestrial stations, 2 digital channels, numerous national radio stations, endless local radio stations, an authoratative rolling news TV channel, a bang-on web site etc etc etc all advert free.
I could also mention that in the general rather low mood, self esteem and motivation running through Jack Towers these days I need every little lift that comnes my way and grab at everything like a thirsty man trying ot catch every raindrop that falls, but readers laready know from the headings that the mood is low and the recovery slow.

And then, last night, I watched the second of the BBC's adaptations of Shakespeare's plays. Last week a wonderful version of Much Ado About Nothing, one of the few bits of Shakespeare I was able to decipher in its natural "olde englishe" language in the Kenneth Branagh film from a few years ago. I saw Macbeth with my school when i was 13 and ....well.........like all 13 year olds we were completely bemused by it. Strange language, convoluted acting, the opportunity to sit in the back with DW coz me mate told me she fancied me all contributed to this being a non event (including the ....ahem ....liason with the young lady DW). So, last night I gave it another shot. 27 years later and in English that i understood with a top quota of actors this was simply stunning. One of the best bits of drama I've seen in my life. A tale of skullduggery, deceit, jealousy and murder most horrid recreated brilliantly in the confines of a newly 3-Michelin Star decorated restaurant.

Of course, the purists will be apoplectic with rage and indignation at this "dumbing down" of our greatest playwright, but fuck 'em I say. Anything that brings this stuff to life for a mass audience (and old Will himself wrote and had them performed for the masses - don't forget this was the "common" langauage of the time) has to be a good thing doesn't it? To the purists I say this......"is this a dagger I see before me....."

Another Gold Star for the BBC to put on the page when justifying the licence fee. ShiteTV must be quivering with jealousy.

Later, GrocerJack

Night time again.....

So, according to some PC boffins at Oxford University, bad food leads to bad health. And this is the top news story on the usually level headed 5 Live this morning.

Here's another thing that leads to bad health, depression and general low morale.

TMFI Syndrome - or to give it the full name TOO MUCH FUCKING INFORMATION Syndrome. It is a hybrid of another pernicious virus rampaging through British, nay world society called STFO Syndrome - full medical name STATING THE FUCKING OBVIOUS Syndrome. And this is what we have to listen to. A bunch of bleeding heart Nanny State wankers harping on about what a bunch of clueless fuckwits we all are and how we should all have our freedoms curtailed because Nanny knows whats best for us all. Another removal of a "negative freedom" beckons as the Nanny State gets a firm grip on all of us ingrates.

Of course the NHS is overburdened, but we all the know the problem. Sick people clogging up what would undoubtedly be one fo the worlds best bureaucratic systems. Christ, just think of the efficiency gains to made form removing all sick people from the system.

So, to paraphrase a previous post is what the government thinks of us.

No drinking because you're ALL a bunch of binge drinking louts and hooligans.
No smoking, passive or active because you may die one day but its important that some smoke to pay taxes to fund the .....errrr....NHS....err..... maybe the poor or the bored
No junk food - no burgers, kebabs, hot dogs or anything that tastes nice. Just fruit, veg, and water. All of which is fresh and flown in from exotic places just for us
No sunbathing - skin cancer is not trendy and doesn't look good on the catwalk. If you must go out in the sun it is best to wear plenty of heavy clothes and barrier cream
No speeding - you may think car safety had advanced but it hasn't - cars are as dangerous today as they were in the early 20th century
No driving - you're the chief cause of the environment going to pot and global warming. Plus all the cumulative effects of those car hi-fi's is the speaker magnets are changing the magnetic field of the earth.
No sex - because you're all just a breeding ground for STD's.
No poultry because you're likely to be the cause of bird flu spreading you unclean, unhygienic plebs
Don't even think about having a bath or shower. Arid Britain is your fault!

and so on.....

What I don't understand, and would welcome any explanation for, is why we're all living so long despite all these threats, and hence why I am being told I'll have to work until I'm at least 70 before retiring?

Pourqoui?

Later, GrocerJack

Grey clouds with the odd sunny spell

As if......














Later, GrocerJack

A little ray of light

14 days until Sky + and ChelseaTV.

It's the little things that keep me going.

Later, GrocerJack

A slightly less dark grey

It must be something to do with the week moving on. I definitely hate the start of the week.

What about that last episode of Spooks season 4 tonight?

What a fucking ending. What a twist. You just knew it had wrapped up too easily with 10 minutes left.

Simply stunning.

And a whole fucking bastard bloody wanking year to wait to find out the fates of Adam and Harry.

As good as Doctor Who and continuing proof of the excellence of the BBC.

Later, SpookJack

Dark grey

It's only a little lighter. A chance lunch with my former right hand man Mr Argumentative has led to a discovery of mutual dissatisfaction and a very preliminary investigation into other options we may wish to pursue.

Also, last night whilst GMD and LittleSis prattled away over a bottle or two of Vin rouge I spent the night surfing the information highway and uncovered this little gem of a site called TV-ARK. If you want to wallow in a visit down memory lane the click the link and have a look around. Fantastic quiz material by the bucketload, and also a chance to invoke memories (of better days?) by the simple act of playing back opening titles to kids programmes and loads of others. Its funny how such a small thing can lift the mood so apparently dispropotionately, but perhaps when you're in a trough you notice extremes a bit more, and are more likely to apportion greater solace to "the small pleasures". I wish I still smoked.

Yes, it's a bit of an anorak site, but all the same it felt like a little gem last night. And very odd that the Thames TV ident bought a lump to the throat. As did the revelation that I remember the Associated Rediffusion branding and ident and the ATV London ones, which were the predecessors to Thames/London Weekend, way before carlton got their grubby hands on the service. In other words pre-1968 (when Associated Rediffusion/ATV London lost the franchise). The kids programmes are also very interesting. I mean the theme tune to Animal Magic is always a reminder of dull Thursday afternoons when it was LITERALLY all that was on, and even at 8 or 9 years old I thought "what a load of shit" (well poo was probably the word). And was The Woodentops theme really that sombre and dull?

Anyway, have a visit, it is definitely worth a look.

If you're as sad as me.

Later, GreyJack

Black

I see a red door and I want to paint it black
No colours any more I want them to turn black

Things are not getting better.

The time to worry is when I print the lyrics to Goodbye Cruel World.

At the moment it's therapy.

Later, WhateverJack

Unfaithful...Moi?

I have been unfaithful.

I have turned my back on someone after 10 years.

To be honest the relationship was always uneasy. I wanted so much more, so much more, but they just couldn't provide what I wanted.

Yes, I feel guilty, but honestly it's not like I haven't been honest with them. It's not like I didn't tell them how I felt about what my needs were. If they'd smartened up their act then none of this would have happened.

So after 10 years with NTL I have finally decided to move to SkyDigital. Truth is cancelling NTL did make me feel guilty. I felt I'd broken a trust. But I need Chelsea TV. I've wanted it since it started a few years ago but NTL just wouldn't negotiate with them. Apparently the deal was almost done and then Roman Abramovich took over and NTL saw an opportunity to make a bit more cash. Chelsea TV told them to fuck off (perhaps not exactly like that, but in a more diplomatic way). I also want Sky+ as well, and despite several calls to NTL they couldn't tell me when their PVR offering would be available, or when their Video on Demand service would be in my area. So, NTL were aware of my needs but didn't seem keen to deliver them. Sky always seemed keen to snap me up, in fact last year I was 30 minutes way from moving to them but the subsequent cancellation call to NTL resulted in them dropping the charges for the two extra receiver boxes we have up stairs, thus saving £30 per month. From the minute NTL did that I always felt I'd compromised. It was like staying with the wife in her flanellete nightie and hairnet when a sexy young subservient rich woman wearing stockings and lingerie is tempting you.

Oh yes, moving to Sky feels like moving to the dark side, like becoming one of the undead. The final decider was when The Company announced a tie up with Sky giving us a free Sky+ box plus HALF PRICE, yes HALF PRICE SkyWorld (the full sports/movies package) for 12 months. I do need the multi-room option as well but even with this it's cheaper than NTL, and I get to "pause live TV" .....yay! Sky also lobbed in a phone offer for £10 line rental and £7.99 per month unlimited calls (mobiles excluded of course). After 12 months, who knows...NTL may have bucked their ideas up and I can go back to their welcoming bosom (sic). So, on the 21st I will be with BT and Skytalk Anytime for the phone. And on 24th a man will come and fit a dish, and loads of lovely boxes. And from that point I will be loading The Dirty Diggers pockets with my cash.

For my soul has therefore been well and truly sold to Satan.

Later Mini-dishJack

Time for Time

Warning - self indulgent whinge ahead.

Now that The Sandman has left to follow The Godfather to Rottweiller Broadband it's all change in my area of The Company. Change is good. Change is necessary. Change makes us all better people.

Yeah, like fuck.

Actually The Godfather has been replaced by BeachBabe, a rather young and pretty blonde, of English nationality but having spent the last 9 years in New Zealand. About 35 at the most. Similarly The Sandman has been replaced by The Shepherd, a rather strange northerner who speaks in staccato diktats in Management bible terms. Maybe he sees himself as The Biblical shepherd. Not spontaneous or warm and certainly not someone to inspire me. It seems my days are numbered. Stuck at my middle management level, delivering more they asked me to , turning problem staff into high flyers, singing the company song etc ...ad infinitum. The Stumbler tries to build my morale and set me "challenges" but he's a bit ineffectual and uninspiring. A kind of Tim Nice But NotDim. Clever, but a bit of a stereotypical boffin. 4 years ago I managed a team of 25 hairy-arsed engineers, a rumbumptious lot, but the team had spirit and camaraderie and virtually every one of those guys felt more like amate than a colleague. I explained my decisions, I bollocked them in private if they fucked up. I did a good job , they liked me, I liked them. I mistakenly believed that I could bask in the reflected glory of a high performing, high delivering, well liked and respected team. I thought that achievement would be recognized and rewarded. I was wrong of course. Led by my own stupid naivety I fooled myself into believing my rejection of captain/crew team dynamics and the "lets all pretend to be mates and be nice" styles in favour of a kind of Glory in the face of adversity team building style would bring its own rewards. But in these new days of" touchy feely soundbite management delivering fuck all mentality" so superbly espoused by New Labour's Nanny Government my policy failed. Results don't matter. Bad is the New Good. Reward for failure. Anonymity for the likes of me.

Don't get me wrong. It's not that I'm lined up for redundancy (as far as I know), more the fact that it's obvious I can only sit at the Big Table when asked to deputise for the Stumbler. A patronizing task because apparently I'm not good enough to do such a role full time, but a tophole substitute when The Stumbler is off. They call it acting as DoA. It means Delegation of Authority. When I was an engineer it meant Dead on Arrival. I know which one suits me best these days.

I remember a Schools programme called Picture Box, introduced by a guy called Alan Rothwell, an episode of which could have been a vision of my life. It was so sad that even as a kid it made me cry. Way before I understood concepts of socialism, hierarchies in the workplace etc the story was of a young lad who is offered an apprenticeship and starts work under the tutelage of the well respected Senior Engineer in a fictional company. The story follows the development of the young lad as he learns the trade and becomes an engineer himself. The Senior Engineer was also a shop steward, a sensible one ensuring basic rights were protected for the employees of the firm. Over time the young lad moves up the chain as the older man is left in his safe position, caring for his fellow workmates, coaching and teaching the new interns. Eventually the story ends with the young lad eventually becoming a Senior Manager and becoming more at odds with his teacher. One day the older man gets called into the office to be told that the firm is "letting him go". His heartbreak, confusion and disbelief were obvious to all. Yes, even back in the 70's they dressed it up to mask the cowardice of those too scared to tell the man to his face he was no longer viable. Why did it affect me so much then and why has that episode stayed with me? Because I couldn't believe that someone could be treated this way for just standing by their beliefs and values. I couldn't belive there wasn't a different way to treat this man. Baby has a similar view of the world. Nastiness does not exist in her world. It does of course but she chooses to blot it out as if by doing that it doesn't really happen.

Today a dear friend of mine has been promoted. Deservedly so. A friend I recruited and help to develop. I gave them their first role as a Team Leader, on pure merit. It was obvious a bright future lay ahead. A friend that I've always considered friend first, colleague second. And still do. But inside it tells me that the Picture Box episode is starting to happen to me. My friend isn't my boss, it's just that they have overtaken me in the career stakes. And they have age on their side. As a 44 year old I have joined the ranks of the "safe bets". The non movers. The people thought too old to adapt. The targets for when the next round of rationalization and efficiency drives arrives. I'm not bitter, just sad. Sad that I allowed this to happen. Sad that I didn't push myself into people faces more. Sad that I didn't feel the need to blow my own trumpet. Sad that I trusted others to have the same values and morals as me. Sad that the inevitability of passing time has crept behind me and spat in my face.

It's time for some Floyd for a few weeks methinks. Music to sulk by. Music to capture the mood and inherent injustice of life. Music to inpsire and stir the soul. Music to eventually turn the glass from half empty to half full. Cathartic music. Perhaps I'll start with Time from the imperious Dark Side of the Moon.

Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way.
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way.

Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain.
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today.
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you.
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.

So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again.
The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older,
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.

Every year is getting shorter never seem to find the time.
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I'd something more to say.

Later, Deadon ArrivalJack