Decision time.....

Its time to change. I have an idea and honestly when things change you'll be the first to know!

And I promise the nutty neighbour letter will appear at some point no matter where I go. He's been charged under the Malicious Communications Act and will be appearing ina court near me on the 2nd february 2007. I am a witness and so will be there to hopefully see some justice done.

Later, Grocerjack

Why Chelsea will be the Death of Me

Last week I ventured off to my local Doctors surgery for my annual MOT with the clinic nurse. As an asthmatic this involves merely blowing into a contraption that feels like its been made by the Blue Peter team from old toilet rolls and Smartie tubes to ensure that I’m still breathing and that my lungs haven’t been transformed into lumps of strawberry jelly. I also have an annual flu jab as well because you can never be too careful with silly old middle aged asthmatics and their capacity for apparently being super-susceptible to every media “superbug” scare story that shifts a bit more print. Being a normal person I don’t usually inform work of the jab just in case I need to chuck in a “man flu” sickie in order to keep the golf handicap in place. So what’s this to do with Chelsea you may ask? Simple – after this I have a blood pressure reading taken and in one year my blood pressure has gone from 134/88 (good) to 177/116 (catastrophic) and the only thing that’s changed in that year is my “deal of the century” acquisition of a season ticket for my beloved Chelsea. Now I can guess what most of you are thinking. Why make such a huge assumption, and the answer is , to me , fairly simple and obvious.

As far as I can see this is one of those tenuous medical “links” you read about in the press …you know the sort of headline I’m talking about here…..”Being short is linked to midwife’s car being a Mini”, “Gay tendencies linked to parents love of Liberace” or “Supporting Liverpool linked to insanity, homicidal tendencies, bed-wetting, Piles, Halitosis, car theft, having an alleged famous wit etc etc (delete as appropriate)”.

Hmm…maybe there’s something in that last one.

Anyway, I gave up smoking 5 years ago, with some ease, and have never suffered a relapse. I have always exercised in some way or another and the current exercise fad is jumping on my mountain bike and disappearing into the South Downs for a few hours per week, or walking 5 miles with a big bag of golf clubs each week. All of which is way more than HM Nanny State Government recommends for the average person. I don’t eat excessive amounts of red meat or processed food, I never add salt and I drink once a week on a Friday (yeah… Ok I do drink a gallon or more of Guinness on this night out, but I have done this for 20 odd years). My job is not overly stressful, my kids are well behaved in the main and my wife doesn’t nag me too much or stop me from doing what I want, after all I play golf, go biking and have a season ticket for Chelsea…..not a bad life really.

So, this news shook me a bit and I looked for what else could be the cause of such a scary and dramatic change in my metabolism. Try as I might I couldn’t see anything obvious, and even when I sat down to my Chicken Kebab with Salad and Rice in the American Café Bar for my pre-match meal on Saturday I was lost as to what could be the underlying reason for having a heart that’s desperate apparently to push the blood out of its incarceration within the arteries and veins of my body.

At 15:00 sitting in my lovely seat 89, row V of the MHL I became aware of an almighty crashing sound around me. It was the sound of a gigantic penny dropping as the realization dawned that suddenly I was agitated, nervous, dry mouthed, pulse racing and not a little light headed. I’d usually put this down to nausea caused by a raging hangover from 12 pints of Guinness and a bottle of Rioja the previous night, but now I knew that this wasn’t the case. No, the cause was the 11 men good and true, standing in front of me wearing Royal Blue shirts and shorts and carrying every hope and aspiration for 40 odd thousand fans on their collectively broad shoulders. Prior to attaining this season ticket I had made the occasional journey to The Bridge, via my membership coinciding with sufficient cash to purchase a ticket at some arbitrary area of the ground, or more often by freeloading onto a corporate jolly put on by suppliers desperate to get their grubby capitalist mitts on my employers filthy lucre. And yes, I did string many along with vague promises of business or whatever it took to get a freebie at The Bridge. When it comes to Chelsea I am a scruple free zone. I had spoken to my seat neighbour (seat partner, seat associate, seat buddy…what do you call someone you only got to know through shoulder contact?) about the blood pressure issue and he had expressed concern and suggested that this might be the wrong place to be. I had laughed falsely and loudly in return, but it was a gallows style response. Grim and perhaps laced with the realism that he might be right.

The game started and for the first 15-20 minutes it seemed to be case of “after the Lord Mayors Show” as Pompey showed the more urgency in possession and attack. An aura of mystification descended on the MHL as to how such supremacy over Barcelona could be transformed into apparent casual apathy against former division props Portsmouth. And then came the first rush of blood to my head when Matt “Hacker” Taylor cynically upended Robben. I jumped to my feet screaming at the ref, Mark RottenBugger, to book this cynical spoiler, safe in the knowledge that it was so obvious a yellow was a cert, but to my, and everyone’s amazement nothing more than a cursory ticking off was given. How could this be I asked myself internally, and as it happens externally at full expletive ridden volume? Seat Buddy again joked about blood pressure, but I was already too far gone, ensconced deeply into the ebb and flow of a game suddenly about to swing Chelsea’s way big time. Chelsea woke up and wave upon wave of attack ensued, inspired by the marvellous Robben so obviously enjoying himself as he tormented Noe Pamarot and any other Pompey player who dared to get in his way. Man of the moment Drogba hustled and bustled, running past defenders like they weren’t there. Sheva was smiling as if he knew it would happen today. But what we hadn’t banked on was that David James had been spiked with the same Superhero Goalie drug that we had seen inspire Sorensen for Villa 2 weeks ago, and almost every opposition ‘keeper to visit The Bridge last year. I am convinced someone has invented a drug which changes Clark Kent type goalkeepers into clones of the son of Jor-El for 90 minutes and peddles it en route to Stamford Bridge. Quite frankly James was bloody magnificent. He made 3 saves from Robben each looking like bankers to disturb the back of the net. The save he made from Sheva was utterly world class, to the point where Sheva must have been ready to ask for his P45 in respect of the fact that if that wasn’t going in then nothing was. Yes, he got out of jail for the Drogba push, and was lucky with his seemingly petulant throw to Primus which denied Sheva a stroll-in goal, but he is a goalkeeper re-born under good old ‘Arry Redknapp. With each miss though the diastolic and systolic numbers must have been raised. RottenBugger’s decisions became more and more mystifying, allowing cynical tackles but blowing up for the small shove in order to gain advantage. The only positive was that he dished this madness out equally to both sides. He seemed to have the undying loyalty and devotion of his “assistants” as well, one of them flagging a for a goalkick in front of the MHL after the ball had blatantly hit Primus before going out of play. Half time arrived and the utter domination of Chelsea had yet to produce a legitimate goal. My blood pressure reflected the fact that deep inside myself, and a few others, thoughts prevailed that a repeat of the game in 2005 when a certain David James performed heroics for Man City at Stamford Bridge to give them a barely deserved 0-0 draw might be about to recur. Someone in the crowd joked that Chelsea should present James with an England shirt to wear and that way we’d be 4 up after 10 minutes of the second half.

As it happens we didn’t need it as The Mighty Blues started the second half as they finished the first, quite a rarity to us seasoned followers. Inevitably the goal came after some sustained attacking pressure with Robben, Drogba and Sheva leading the charge, with Ballack coolly controlling the midfield with Essien and the back in form SuperFrank (hit the ball Frank, don’t keep trying to tee it up, the goals will come!). And boy, what a team goal it was. The relief around the ground was palpable, and God only knows what Sheva felt when something finally went his way. His celebration showed everything though, and the crowd responded in kind as well. My blood pressure was no doubt still off the scale but this time it was with sheer joy and relief.

In BP terms I’m damned if things go badly and damned if they go well.

Then RottenBugger, in a fit of pedantism and jobsworthiness befitting that of this years winner of the Most Vindictive Traffic Warden award decided a yellow card was necessary for Sheva actually touching the crowd. If this was the case then it begs the questions why the other players in the melee weren’t booked because they all went in as well. It was a display of the kind of killjoy mentality rife in the passion killing FA, who are seemingly hell bent on homogenizing the goal celebrations of scorers to nothing more than nodded and silent acknowledgement to colleagues and crowd. The card defied any logic at all, and worse it changed the mood of the crowd instantly from that of joy to that of anger. Is it any wonder that in the bad old days people used to run onto the pitch? Why not just tick him off? Why not just warn him not to do it again? Did it really need a yellow card? Was it really a worse offence to celebrate in front of your own fans without jumping the barrier than Taylor upending Robben? And if that wasn’t bizarre enough, then Ballacks booking following his first goal was now into the realms of serious mental instability. Ballack (as replays testify) was in contact with the crowd for no more than 3-4 seconds before walking back onto the field of play. As Chris “it’s unbelievable Jeff” Kamara said in Goals on Sunday , he was in and then out. Mark RottenBugger with those 2 decisions immediately wins the Worst Ref This Season Award and it will take some stupendously moronic and pedantic referee to prise the title away from him in my eyes. Again the atmosphere went from joy to disbelief and anger and my blood pressure must have close to bursting point judging by the stream of foul-mouthed expletives leaving my reddened face. In fact it must have been off the scale in all likelihood when Drogba appeared to have capitalized on James’s parry from Frank’s shot a few minutes later. But with an air of inevitability the goal was disallowed. 3 goals disallowed seemed to underline just how superior we were and I can’t remember ever seeing that from one side in any game before. But then talking of “airs of inevitability” a moment after Robben had trudged off the field patently knackered by his efforts, to be replaced by the recovering Joey Cole, Pompey exploited a sleepy Chelsea defence to equalize through the Ashley Cole bullying nemesis of Benjani.

After that the Mourinho mentality of preserving what you’ve got seemed to prevail and for 10 minutes or so I don’t think many would have been surprised to see a mugging occur in the shape of an equaliser for Pompey. Eventually some desire returned to score another and put a much truer reflection on the game, and Drogba’s magnificent strike near the end, which seemed to be accompanied by a marching band and fireworks spelling out the word “GOAL” was interrupted by the Superman theme tune and David James flying through the air at the last second to push the ball away. Remember when Superman caught the school bus before it hit the ground after falling of the bridge? Yeah, you’ve got my analogy then! When the final whistle went I felt the weight of the world fall off of my shoulders and with it the Mercury was finally falling. Whether my blood pressure was anywhere near where it should be I’ll never know. 3 points in the bag and at last a performance, in part , to show the fan what we are capable of. An argument in the car with Mr Chelsea about whether my arrival 5 minutes after him to the car made any difference to the traffic we get stuck in week after week may have either raised the pressure, or have been caused by its apparent elevation. Who knows? I think he was just being a miserable old sod.

To sum up though, I returned to the quacks Monday morning and the first re-test showed the same high levels. Then he decided to conduct the test with me closing my eyes and no chit chat going on between us. 4 times he did the test like this and each time the pressure dropped to around 134/90. Why this should be is a mystery to both him and to me. Maybe I have a subconscious fear of machines inflating something around my arm, or maybe the sight of medical paraphernalia triggers off a reaction due to being reminded I’m likely to be getting closer to an age where things start to lose their, up till now, unswerving reliability. These readings are apparently good for someone of my age (ahem….40-something). Apparently it’s meant to rise under stress and this is perfectly normal. I have a test every month now for 3 months to ensure this is no fluke and it’s heartening to know that my health, whilst maybe not rude, is not about to collapse. But I can’t help wondering if, having mitigated all the major publicised risk factors, visiting Chelsea is good for me or harmful. One thing is for sure, it would be kind of fitting, and I would be happy to finally shuffle off this mortal coil at Stamford Bridge shouting and screaming the boys onto a hard fought victory as long as my family were also there.

And I was aged 88 or over.

Later, GrocerJack

Back Again

I'm back from the golf "holiday" and for my sins it seems gained some extraordinarily high blood pressure readings which are now being monitored for a while - 177/116 for those who are interested, although interestingly enough when the tests were repeated with my eyes closed and no chatting between me and The Good Doctor these all dropped back to 131/90 or thereabouts. The Good Doctor thinks I'm fine but wants to keep an eye for a while so I'll be off to Argos or similar for my own blood pressure machine and then a test each month for the next 3 months.

Time is precious at the moment and so the updates and articles will drop off. To be honest it might be time to do a Casino Avenue (i.e close the shop) and put Grocerjack into suspended animation for a while. Creative juices need replenishing badly and in the new world of proliferating blogs its hard to keep the pace. The trick is to specialise apparently but I'm not that obsessed with any one thing to write about it...even my beloved Chelsea have a few months off each year and besides that I get my Chelsea writing hit from contributing to the Chelsea Blog. I do love writing though and I know deep inside that the minute Grocerjack decides not to "get off his back, go into town, don't let them down" then I'll miss it.

Hence the blog site will not be deleted just yet. I just need time to determine its future and how much I can commit to it.

Later, GrocerJack

And its off to Sunny Devon

Yep, its time for the jolly boys annual beano to Devon for golf and more golf, interspersed with some drinking and eating, with a soupcon of snooker, pool and ten pin bowling. A real boys week.



So to keep you going.... check this fabulous site out if you hanker for wedge haircuts, new romantics, jackets with sleeves rolled up, pixie boots, leg warmers and especially Ra-Ra Skirts!

http://www.1500videos.com/

Later TigerJack

Alright....OK.....

Its been a very busy week alright...so stop nagging! Oh, and I'm away on the Jolly Boys Annual Golf Holiday in Cornwall next week, so expect a few less brain cells to return.

Things to worry me.....

I quite like everything David Cameron says

I don't much like anything Gordon Brown says

God help us if John Reid gets the job...and apart from anything else why are the apparent key candidates Scottish? Are there no capable English out there?

How can the Amish community so tragically affected by yet another gun toting American homeboy lunatic be so forgiving? One of them actually said "its all part of Gods plan"....well then God's a fucking twat then.

Vicious dog owners. In my view, and after my experience the other week, let them keep the dogs, but force them to pay for a licence, say £1000 per year, and legislate to have all the dogs chipped for location purposes. Either that or put them down......and perhaps the dogs as well.

Electronic chips in rubbish bins as a precursor to "charging mechanisms" being used by Councils. Here's my call for civil disobedience then. Everybody should refuse to comply with this on the basis that I PAY MY FUCKING COUNCIL TAX FOR THEM TO COLLECT MY FUCKING RUBBISH. Sponging useless scumbags. In fact get rid of local fucking councils altogether and save me £1600 a year.

George Michael getting caned on dope...........so being a massively talented multi-millionaire is a problem is it? Yeah...course it is. Stop being a prick George and lighten up. You just need a good shag with a good woman. Go on...you know you want to....

Thats it for now, maybe more later.

Later, BusyBusybusyJack

Geography for our Times

THE GEOGRAPHY OF A WOMAN

Between 18 and 20, a woman is like Africa. Half discovered, half-wild, naturally beautiful with fertile deltas.

Between 21 and 30, a woman is like America. Well developed and open to trade, especially for someone with cash.

Between 31 and 35, she is like India. Very hot, relaxed and convinced of her own beauty.

Between 36 and 40, a woman is like France. Gently aging but still a warm and desirable place to visit.

Between 41 and 50, she is like Yugoslavia. Lost the war, haunted by past mistakes. Massive reconstruction is now necessary.

Between 51 and 60, she is like Russia, Very wide and borders are un-patrolled. The frigid climate keeps people away.

Between 61 and 70, a woman is like Mongolia. A glorious and all conquering past but alas, no future.

After 70, they become like Afghanistan. Everyone knows where it is, but no one wants to go there.

THE GEOGRAPHY OF A MAN

Between 15 and 90, a man is like Zimbabwe. Ruled by a dick.

Later, GrocerJack

Some BBC praise

Reasons to praise the Beeb (you know I'm a fan of virtually everything they do!)

1.) Spooks - what a magnificent return for Series 5. The first 2 episodes were so wracked with tension and drama I was almost watching through clenched fingers. I can't think of one other program that consisently takes me to the edge like this one. 10 out of bloody 10.

2.) Extras - what a shining gem of comedic genius this is. Irreverent, politically incorrect, wryly observed and laugh out loud funny. The David Bowie epsiode was hilarious and last nights with Daniel Radcliffe was tear inducingly funny

3.) QI - one of the first guests on my fantasy dinner party list would be StephenFry because you just know he could never be boring. Fascinating facts dressed up behind clever and intelligent comedy.

4.) Top Gear - I thought this was just for petrolheads but the re-vamp has proved to be downright bloody good fun. Yes, some of the stunts are dangerous, some of the sections are puerile and childish, and yes it's politically incorrect and glorifies eco-unfriendly cars and driving practices. Thats why its so good. It might even be primarily aimed at men, but even this seems misguided as the programme has a healthy female demographic as well. It may be due to the resident eye-candy for women in the form of Richard Hammond, but just as likel yit might be because women drive cars and like a laugh as well. And, so what if a presenter gets injured. It was his risk and his choice and hey....in life shit occasionally happens. There is no reason to cancel the programme or tone it down and the Beeb seen on board with this view so more power to their elbow for that!

5.) Question Time - unintentionally funny I'm sure, and seemingly populated audience wise by some sort of Idiot Recruitment specialists. But compelling viewing all the same as you watch politicians squirm and knobber hacks get what they deserve.

Worth every penny of the licence fee just for thse programmes alone.

Later BBCJack

Jacks New Team

And now adding colour,

I've deleted this as I am going to let one or two at work find this site! 29th October 2007

Later, Grocerjack

The Diary of a BAW (Born Again Worker)

Once again apologies for not updating this daft little journal for a week or two. Those apologies are even more heartfelt by the fact that there has been so much to write about and comment on. Prior to my break at The Money Pit the creative juices were as depleted as North Sea cod stocks or alternatively as low as the water table in the arid South East of Mediocre Britain.

The reason is simple – the new job started last week and to be honest my feet haven’t touched the floor. In fact to paraphrase another hackneyed old cliché, I’m so busy finding my bloody feet that when they do become a reality then maybe I can use them to slow everything down. Those longer term readers will know that this blogging malarkey all started up just over 3 years ago after a re-organization …sorry transformation took place at The Company and I was mapped into a Change Planning role as a weird sort of reward for having my arse on the line for the previous 3 years in the god-forsaken unforgiving and stress-riddled role of UK Operational Manager of The Company’s network. I blogged because I could, and because I was bored, and because it seemed an ideal outlet for the daily frustrations of work and life in general, especially in light of impending middle age and the alleged inevitable decline in mental and physical capability .

After blogging for 3 years and being able to because frankly no-one noticed if I produced anything or not I now find myself in a job with a new boss, The Scream, who seems very affable, doesn’t interfere and isn’t a control freak. I haven’t liked a boss so much since working for The Mysterious M (see blog posts passim). My new team seem too good to be true as well. Maybe I’m just a cynic but having today completed all of their initial “1 to 1” meetings which I have deliberately made informal until they know me all I can say is there are no egos at play, and no Primadonna attitudes at loose. No-one has any burning issues, they all like each other, are very supportive of each other and seemingly me as well, all knowledgeable and hardworking, all willing to go the extra mile and all take their turn at the tea! Its hard to describe how refreshing it is to find people who have a tea rota and expect the boss to be part of it! The only downside that I can see is the obsession with food. 2 of the desks are loaded with cakes, biscuits and other goodies and it seems to me that every day the stocks are mysteriously replenished. The biggest worry I have is that my lack of willpower around such goodies will destroy any lingering ability I have at controlling my weight where it is. As I turned up on my first day (late due to “almost out of closet” car sharer”) and skulked in they made me feel immediately welcome by ripping the piss out of me mercilessly. It was like returning to a spiritual home.

It was also like the first day at a new school and not even the plus side of everything could make up for the trauma of meeting new people, remembering names and roles and trying to judge them for their sense of humour. I felt the like the new kid with the shiny shoes, pressed uniform and smart new blazer whose Mum had just wiped some breakfast off his chin with her spit and an old hankie outside the school gates. It’s been a long time since I had to go through that, but with any luck the cheeky, chirpy, cheerful, no airs and graces, cockney chappy approach seems to have worked.

In fact it’s like a return to a bygone age of interesting work being done in an atmosphere of trust lined with genuine fun and not laden down by poxy bureaucracy and managerial initiatives and corporate gobbledygook bollocks speak. There is some of that around but the reality of this new job and new department is that it is occupied by people who deserted from the despatched wasters ship from Golgafrincham (see Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy), shouting

“I am useful! I can be valuable! I will not be cast aside! I will not be brainwashed into speaking Corporate Gobbledygook Bollocks Speak!”

In fact after the last role it’s a bloody miracle. Of course its early days and maybe the spectacles have had a fresh covering of rose tint and the nostrils have had the bullshit receptors removed, but maybe if I park my normal unhealthy cynicism…….. it may just be all true and will remain that way.

Watch this space and I’ll introduce you to my new team and cast members.

Blimey, Grocerjack

Ssshhhh!

After a flurry of writing, Jacks gone quiet. Why is this?

Well, if any of you lot took any notice of my posts you'd know that this week is my first in my new role as Service Reporting Manager for The Company. Which means I'm meeting new people, learning new things, up to my eyes in documentation and basically whizzing round like a lunatic.

Half of me is shitting itself, the other half is genuinely excited , which as far as work goes is the first such feeling for very long time. The learning curve is going to be very steep and at the moment I'm relying totally on my "people management" skills. This will undoubtedly infringe upon the time I get to write so bear with me as I store up stories and comments on life, the Universe and work!

Later, GrocerJack

The Logic of Legacy

In my quest to educate people in the culture of bureaucracy and the happy continuation of the Captain Darling School of Pedants I thought this would be interesting.......

The US Standard railroad gauge (distance between the inside of the rails) is 4 feet, 8.5 inches. That's a strangely odd number.

Why that gauge?

Because that's the way they built them in England, and the US railroads were built by English navvies.

Why did the English use that gauge?

Because the first rail lines were built by the same people who built the pre-railroad tramways, and that's the gauge they used.

Why was that gauge used?

Because the people who built the tramways used the same jigs and tools that they used for building wagons, which used that wheel spacing.

Why did the wagons use that particularly odd wheel spacing?

This spacing was the optimum to be used on the roads of ye ole England.

So who built these old roads?

The first roads in Europe were built by Imperial Rome for the benefit of their legions. The initial ruts, which everyone else had to match for fear of breaking their wagons, were first made by Roman war chariots. Thus, we have the answer to the original question.

The United States standard railroad gauge of 4 feet, 8.5 inches derives from the original specification for an Imperial Roman army war chariot. Specifications and Bureaucracies live forever!

To complete the story –

When we see a Space Shuttle sitting on the launch pad, there are two big booster rockets attached to the sides of the main fuel tank. These are the solid rocket boosters, or SRBs. The SRBs are made by Thiokol at a factory in Utah. The engineers who designed the SRBs preferred to make them a bit fatter, but the SRBs had to be shipped by train from the factory to the launch site. The railroad line to the factory runs through a tunnel in the mountains. The SRBs had to fit through that tunnel. The tunnel is slightly wider than a railroad track, and the railroad track is about as wide as two horses' behinds. So a major design feature of what is arguably the world's most advanced transportation system was determined by the width of a horse's arse!

Later, GrocerJack

Global What?

Just a thought...but where are the global warming doom-mongers after the shitty August and the equally dismal (Sunday and yesterday excepted) September? Oh, and what happened to all the predicted Hurricanes we were told to expect with mass devastation throughout the Caribbean and tropical areas of the planet?

Did we really become Arid Britain? Looking around in the South where I live it seems to be a rather verdant and lush green in colour at the moment. Still, the doom-sayers know best but it is funny how their silence speaks volumes when there isn't a natural disaster to pin to their theories.

Later, WetJack

Bloody Blair?

Tony Blair has finally decided to confirm he’s jacking in the top job. Despite his failings, specifically the Iraq debacle, I still quite like Blair and never cease to be amazed at how political parties are happy to sacrifice their great and good as part of a perceived development or moving on process. I’m also amazed that it’s allowed during the term of government to swap leaders at all, especially when it appears based on media hype, lies and hearsay, and not upon incapacity or death. Now I know he’s not perfect, far from it. But then who is? If he has faults it’s that maybe he’s become too obsessed with the international stage and role of “statesman”, and has been Bush’s lackey for too long. The whole Bush thing is blown out of proportion because lets face it he can influence Bush far more by cosying up to him than adopting the stance of other European leaders of distancing themselves from a very dangerous, and to my mind unstable, man running the worlds biggest superpower. I know the US likes to think of itself as the only remaining superpower, but really….China is right on their heels, and an increasingly united Europe is already showing more resistance to US domination than Bush finds comfortable….which is a good thing in my view.

Blair, in all likelihood has gone on too long, just as did the Wicked Witch Thatcher. But in my view the actual change should come before a general election after the dissolution of Parliament, thus allowing the new man/woman to hit the ground running. This “succession” could be decided months in advance through the existing processes, so that the incumbent can hand over to the incoming and pass the baton seamlessly during the dead parliamentary time. In most companies this is called Succession Planning. This could be wrapped up as a term and condition of every political party in the UK. Can anyone give me one good reason why this WOULDN’T work?

And as for going on too long, why not just adopt the US system which only allows the President 2 terms (thank fuck!)? Thus when Grocerjack becomes PM (or President, being as I am a Champagne Socialist Republican) I can only be voted in on 2 elections for 2 terms. During the second term the “succession planning” kicks in and a new successor is elected….or in my case in The Jack Party (called Liberation) I choose the one I like best. A seemingly sensible suggestion to run alongside the adoption of Proportional Representation for greater democratic representation and fairness (although I’d remove democracy for my first few years in favour of my Benign Dictatorship until everything’s sorted to my satisfaction and everyone is happy with their lot).

Easy, Grocerjack

Psycho Neighbour Update

Well folks, its getting close to the time when I can reveal all about my psychotic neighbour and his attempt to blackmail both me, and the neighbour on the other side of him. Police bail expired on 30th August, but as the CPS is running with a backlog of prospective cases he has been bailed gain for a month. I won't publish the letter just yet, at least not until we have a clear picture of what actions are blocked and what are open and when I do it will be doctored to remove my real name......however I will be leaving his name on it for all to see. I will also be adding some other known facts about his past history that are a matter of documented fact.

The omens however are not looking good. I have a feeling that the CPS will mark the case "NFA" (no further action) because although they review a number of factors the primary one appears to be cost. That's right, they will only take a case forward if it is financially viable, in as much as they are virtually guaranteed a conviction that warrants the financial outlay of solicitors and lawyers. You might think a signed letter asking for money with menaces is a banker for conviction, especially when he has admitted writing the letters...but apparently the law is a very convoluted and complex beast with huge numbers of get out caveats. It is these that will probably see any potential case dropped.

Our options beyond this are then limited as a civil case is likely to be financially prohibitive for both aggrieved parties, plus civil law only works on the "balance of probabilities" and the other neighbours investigations have led to a firm view that the balance is only 55/45 in their favour. Admittedly some of the allegations made against them by PsychoNeighbour have a small amount of truth in them, albeit much exaggerated and aimed at the wrong culprits, but NONE of what he's accused us of is true. Another option might be to report the behaviour to Social Services and hope that they can class him as mentally unstable, but initial enquiries seem to indicate that to be classed as this, you have to be registered as mentally ill...a kind of Catch-22, I mean how do you get this raised as a possible issue with the relevant Mental Health bodies? The worst case scenario is that he will get away with this scot free.

We may have no recourse to the law, criminally or civilly, and we may not even be able to pursue a route down having him classed as mentally unstable. Amazing isn't it? Someone can vindictively write malicious and defamatory letters to people, threatening their jobs, livelihoods, social position and make veiled threats against their children whilst demanding thousands of pounds in order to keep quiet and yet you, as the recipient cannot seek any form of justice. Land of Dope and Moron anyone? The law it seems, really is an ass. When decent ordinary people like me and the other neighbours live in fear and worry and nothing is done is it any wonder we look to leaving this country behind?

25 years ago I would have happily dished out my own form of justice in the shape of a damn good hiding or some well focussed criminal damage, but I'm a bit more grown up now. Don't get me wrong..I am very tempted to the route of violence or vandalism, especially if ,as we suspect, he follows up the likely CPS cop out with a nasty solicitors letter to us claiming harassment. In that event I may not be able to control myself. In this worst case scenario it seems I have the only following options.

1.) Violence - taking the Israeli attitude that sometimes its the only thing that makes them listen

2.) Go to the local press and see if we can get this published

3.) Retaliate with a hate campaign of junk mail, fake taxi bookings etc

4.) Write a similar blackmail letter back in the knowledge that apparently fuck all will happen to me other than a bit of police bail.

5.) Ignore the whole event and live in fear of what happens next and what he's watching us do.

Another point is this....the other people lost the sale of their house after declaring the letter they received. Hardly surprising is it? Would you want to move next to someone who writes such hate mail? Would you want to live next to someone who purports to have sophisticated surveillance devices watching and listening to your every move? Would you want to live next door to someone who watches your children and their friends? I think I know what the answer is there Even if we ignore him and live in stony silence, never acknowledging his existence or presence, what is the statute of limitations on such "disputes". If we sell up in 5 years would I still have to declare the letter to a potential buyer then? It seems that my signature phrase has never been truer.

"In other words, its a huge shit sandwich, and we're all gonna have to take a bite"

Later, BoilingJack

On yer bike......

Is cycling

1.) Healthy? – YES, everyone agrees on that

2.) Invigorating? – YES, for those who enjoy it

3.) Expensive? - YES

4.) Frustrating? – YES

5.) Addictive? – YES

6.) Unbelievably downright fucking annoying? - YES

Remember my newly re-discovered love of cycling? How I raved about it back then, how much healthier I felt and the weight I was losing. How I got a new bike back in July priced at £450 and now priced up at £550? Well, the new bike, a Carerra Banshee was great to start with; aluminium frame, 27 gears, full suspension, and disc brakes front and rear etc etc. The comparison of rides across the rougher terrain of the Southdowns Way tracks, local bridlepaths and those of similar ilk was akin to moving to a Range Rover after having driven a stripped down basic Land Rover over the bumps. The suspension seemed to level things off nicely and certainly seemed to save on wear and tear to the aging arse I now have to sit on. Ok, so I wasn’t quite as “in-touch” with the track or road as before, but it felt safer and therefore allowed me to “throttle up” on some of the downhill runs.

Like all innovations of this type it made everything smoother and safer, but paradoxically took some of the safety awareness out of the ride and hence increased the risk because if the greater sense of security gained. This is a common problem for the modern motorist. My first car, A Vauxhall Viva had no all round disc brakes, no ABS, no power steering, no laminated windscreen, no traction control, no cruise control and no airbags. Consequently I drove it more carefully because I was so aware of the fragility of the thing. Every road bump felt like the Grand Canyon, and when you were doing 50 it felt like you were doing 90. My Volvo does 140 and makes you feel like you’re doing 30.

The first few rides were fine, excellent in fact and I wore the smug arrogant grin of the person who could fully justify the cost and knew he was right all along. GMD had succumbed to buying the bike but only after a week of constant nagging, hinting and subliminal commenting on my part. When I got it I was like a 10 year old with his first new proper bike. All of me was grinning with smug satisfaction.

But then, in typical Jack manner, things went a bit awry.

The first “event” was a failure to change the front gearset from the middle to the large cog on a downhill run at the Queen Elizabeth Country Park. No amount of cajoling would move the bloody chain and in then I gave up. Ok, I thought…not too serious…..that can wait until it has its 3 month check with Halfords under the MugPunter Customer Couldn’tCareLess Careline maintenance policy I had bought. Then a couple of weeks before going away I had a puncture. OK, not the bikes fault but a result of where I had ridden you might surmise. The puncture occurred on the road though and not on any track, and I didn’t have a spare tube or repair kit to hand so I was a bit miffed. Luckily LittleSis has a Zafira people carrier and so a quick mobile call and she had donned the virtual flashing blue lights and rescued me about 3 miles from home. The puncture was repaired by Halfords on the same night and the following evening I set off once again to cover the same route. About 2 miles in and I was aware that the gears were slipping badly on the rear cogs. This seeming was getting worse, so I pulled over in a small village called Denmead near where I live, along a road leading back to my (now former?) local pub, The Bat and Ball. I was about 7 miles from home when I stopped. A quick look at the gears and chain revealed a broken chain link which had almost come away. A pair of pliers was in my toolkit and I tried to squeeze the link back together. I thought I’d done enough to see me home but 100 yards up the road and the chain snapped, trailing behind me like an oil slick and leaving me pedalling thin air like Wily E Coyote after he’s run off the end of a ravine. A snapped chain on a bike less than 5 weeks old! Is that bad luck, or just bad workmanship? LittleSis emergency services were called again and this time a semi-disbelieving BigSykes came to get me. Again, the bike was taken to Halfords for the chain to be replaced. The next ride was home from Halfords and this appeared to go swimmingly. The very next evening off I went with BigSykes for a cross country ride. 2 miles from home after going down a particularly curvy mostly downhill track I had yet another puncture. Again, LittleSis/BigSykes Zafira Bike Rescue Service got me home. This puncture was left until after I had returned from France such was my growing distrust. Whilst out in France I took my old bike to leave there (not the bike I bought from Strings but the previous one to that) and despite my best efforts ended up with around 6 punctures over the 3 weeks, despite a full inner tube and tyre replacement courtesy of the non-English speaking chap in Cecil’s Cycles and some wicked French from me. In the end I was convinced I was being followed around by some French sadistic anti-English, cyclist hating lunatic with a never ending supply of drawing pins.

How long can one run of bad luck continue? On my return I finally resolved to repair the puncture to my new bike myself having had so much practice in France. I bought 2 new “slime” filled inner tubes, some “slime” tyre liner, insulating tape for the wheel rims and a puncture repair kit. So, more money spent then…..yep around £20 for these essentials. The plan was I would swap the inner tubes over for the slime ones, line the tyres, re-tape the wheels and finally repair the old punctured tubes and carry them in the increasingly heavy back pack as spares. On Sunday I resolved to get this out of the way so that I could return to the open air life and exercise I need to keep the weight from piling on during winter. After 4 hours of sweating in the garage, and having repaired another 6 punctures across the old tubes and the new ones, which punctured almost at will, once even whilst spinning the wheel for alignment whilst the bike was upside down and the wheel not in contact with the ground, with the help of BigSykes I finally had a working nearly-new bike. So in my last 5 rides out I’ve had 2 punctures, a broken chain and an encounter with the Hound of The Baskervilles Rottweiller from Hell which caused a detour that me and BigSykes riding back in the dark with no lights on our bikes due to added miles and time The Hound of The Baskervilles caused!

Oh, and if you think the expense of cycling in the 21^st Century stops at buying the bike and the odd replacement part….then like me you’re a fucking idiot with the brains of a particularly thick maggot…….and just like me you’ll be undergoing a very serious period of evaluating the cost against the effort and frustration and the enjoyment and health benefits. A decent set of lights will cost around £60, for front and rear just for normal visibility purposes (and that’s if you use eBay and like me are on the verge of eBay addiction) just for normal visibility purposes. Going off-road during winter? Riding down unlit roads? Try a set for around £200! Mudguards will cost £10 for a really cheap Argos set, a multi-toolkit will set you back £15, a decent helmet around £20, a hydration backpack around £25, a decent portable pump for £15, a bike workstand will cost £70 unless you trust eBay and buy without seeing for around £50. Add on to that things like bottle cages £5, clipless pedals £30, shoes £40, wraparound shades £10, wraparound glasses £10, Maintenance policy £30, D-lock £20, fluorescent tabard £10, cycle computer £15….and on it goes….as you can see it seems to be a never ending wish list of things you can’t do without unlike when you were a kid and didn’t have or need any of this stuff. I never thought anything would make golf look like a cheap pastime, but cycling has done exactly that.

And do you know what? I’m bloody addicted to it. I spend my time looking at web sites selling bikes and bike bits. I find myself looking at things that “might be useful”. I’m convinced every accessory will contribute to my safety, comfort or enjoyment when in fact all it does is add weight and cost money. Perhaps I need another bike to wean myself off, or maybe a substitute device….maybe a scooter…..or a quad bike….or maybe just like a lot of middle aged blokes I am just having increasing regressions to childhood.

More toys for Big Boys.

Later, GrocerJack.

Honest Advertising Pt 2

Yep, I can vouch for this

Later, GrocerJack

Honest Advertising Pt 1

True?

Later, GrocerJack

Another Big Event in Jacks life.....

Yesterday was a big day for Baby. Yesterday she started at secondary school for the first time. This is a massively exciting and nervous time for any child. The closest thing to this for me will be starting my new role in a couple of weeks, but lets face it…I’m 45 and more than experienced enough to brush this off. But for Baby, a little girl of 11, who still sees the world through bright un-cynical innocent eyes, it’s a very big adventure.

Nowadays they open the school for the new entrants a day early in order to allow them to acclimatize to the new environment, to get used to where everything is, to meet old and new friends. Frankly this is a marvellous idea because I remember my first day at secondary school and the traumatic event it was back in …..fucking hell…… 1973. It seemed that back in those days no concession was given to the new intake, nor to be fair was any sought by us or our parents. In these days it was always about just growing up and coping. When I turned up at my new school in Hayes End certain things struck me as being very different. Playtime had become a “break”. The Hall was used for assemblies only instead of doubling up as a gym. There were separate changing rooms as opposed to just getting your kit off in the hall, or in the toilets. PE was done in proper kit as opposed to being done in just your underwear (they were very innocent times back then!). Some of the boys were very tall, some had the voices of men. The girls were different too….some were mousey, some swotty and some were basically women. The classrooms were much bigger, there were mysterious classrooms called “science labs” with all sorts of important looking equipment in them. There were woodworking and metalworking huts when those were still viable career options. There was a motor mechanic workshop when cars still ran on mechanical engine parts and not on electronics and software. I can still remember the smell of baking wafting through the corridor outside the Home Education classrooms.

Going from Junior School to Secondary was a very big change of environment, but the first day or so was usually pretty hellish for boys. There were two main forms of “induction” pretty much encouraged by teachers, or at the very least overlooked by those more in tune with the changing sensitivities of the profession from be-suited ex-forces disciplinarians to jean wearing long haired socialists. That was the style and attitude division of the male staff. The comb-flicking was the first and most prevailing induction rite. This consisted of being flicked on various exposed parts of the body, ears being the favourite, with stainless steel combs. Resistance usually met with a bit of a hiding, as did any sort of crying at the pain. The second and thoroughly most unpleasant was the dunking of the head into the toilet whilst it was flushed. Sometimes it had just been used. Again, any resistance was futile as the subsequent beating was even worse. If you got that then there was no point in complaining because you were told either to get on with it, to not be a grass or that no-one had seen it. At times, and for some of the kids, it must have been an experience similar to that seen later in the film Scum.

The female staff style and attitude went from Mrs Hole (60 plus, dowager, dressed in twin-set and pearls, very serious and never laughed) to Miss Wild (early 20’s, mini-skirted, leather booted, long dark gorgeous hair, flirty, smiley, fancied by all the male and no doubt some of the female teachers). These extremes in the attitudes and styles of the teachers seemed very different from Junior School. Suddenly young female teachers became “interesting”, young male hippy teachers were seen almost as friends rather than adversaries. The older suited and booted guard were seen as figures of fear to start with until you were in the 3^rd year (as we called it back then) and then they became sad figures of fun, there to be ridiculed, ignored and humiliated whenever possible. I think they knew their day had come and gone in teaching. Roger Waters depiction of the teacher in The Wall was very close to the truth for the older guard, and I often imagined them going home at night to a huge, domineering beast of a wife who would make them eat their dinner and refuse to allow them to watch any TV.

Girls thought I was cute because I was (and am) short. This gave me immediate in-roads to girls from all years…I’m no mug when it comes to using any physical or mental advantage to gain female affections! Combined with the sudden awakening provided by the likes of Miss Wild, Miss Mackie and Mrs French gave school a whole new aura for me. Women and girls had suddenly become interesting.

It was a rough old school as well. It was often closed during the miners strikes as it was heated by coal, but also because the old heating system was notoriously unreliable, combined with being easy to sabotage by unruly 5^th formers. Days off because of the cold seemed quite frequent. I remember the second week being in awe of the 5^th formers rougher element that refused to acknowledge the end of break bell. When the teachers came out to remonstrate with them and order them back in, they simply stubbed out their fags and started chucking coal at them. The teachers were stunned, not least of all when the 5^th formers finally decided to go back in by “steaming” the teachers, and assembled younger hordes. I got hammered by some lanky ginger prick in the cricket nets that day because I stupidly thought I could watch the ensuing chaos from the sidelines. I had to tell my mum the bruises happened whilst playing football. Weeks later, that beating was seen as a badge of honour and boosted the respect I had, such was the warped value system in place at the school. As time went by, I learnt the way to avoid being bullied or beaten up was to be the clown. I had (and maybe still have) the knack of making people laugh and this became a very powerful weapon for defence. I reckon that still works today, but more so in disarming pomposity, snobbery or hesitancy.

I remember so much about that first day and those first few weeks I could probably write TV series based on them alone, let alone the subsequent years to the 6^th Form. At the time they seemed so stressful and steeped in obligatory respect and fear. Of course now, after 28 years in the working environment, they also seem like the most carefree days I ever had. I trust the new way devised for Baby and her generation is better and judging by Teenager’s apparent enjoyment of school it seems that today at secondary school is very different and far more positive and enjoyable than in my day.

And long may it continue that way, despite the naysayers harping on about falling standards and easier exams. Looking back I think I’m where I am in spite of the education system I grew up under and not because of it. Yes, I can read, write, add, multiply, subtract etc……but the social education of such an environment could not, looking back, have been a positive influence on my development.

Hmmm...doesn't take long does it?

Some might think it's sick, but I'll post this in the spirit of typically British gallows humour. The reference to Stingray will give away my age, and that of anyone who remembers the programme of course. To be honest I quite liked the guy for his fearlessness and his undoubted boyish enthusiasm.

To put his fearlessness into context...last night I was almost attacked by a bloody great Rottweiler whilst out cycling with BigSykes - the bastard dog itself was the size of a large pig, and probably as heavy, with dripping slobber (no doubt at the thought of a juicy thigh to eat) very visible shapr teeth and centimetres from biting BigSykes...and this was on a public road. I'm sure Steve Irwin would have just walked up to it, made a few Crocodile Dundee noises and reduced it to a simpering puppy.

We just sat motionless until it quitened down a bit , reversed very slowly down the road, turned round and then took another route. I may report it to the Police because although there was a farm alongside which presumably owned the shitbag hound, it wasn't on a leash, nor was there anyone around to control it. Had I been with Baby, or had anyone else been walking there dog with a child God knows what might have ensued.

I've half a mind to drive up there tonight and if its loose give it a gentle tap on the head at 50mph with my car. If the owner wants to make something of it........I'll just shrug and say it ran out in front of me and that had it been restrained that wouldn't have happened.

Later, CowardlyJack

The Wedding

After the first major event of September, the dreaded post holiday return to work failed to be as dreaded as expected……….I am considering that this may be because a degree of demob happiness has set in despite the new role potentially being at risk of an outsourcing contract, in a work area I know very little about and with a team of people who I barely know the next even was The Wedding of my middle brother Skank to my new Sister-in-law (hereinafter referred to as ScouseSis to reflect her origin of Liverpool).

Skank has carefully avoided the institution of marriage with a high degree of skill, despite living with someone for nigh on 10 years and having twin girls with her, seemingly preferring to wander down Bachelor Avenue for the rest of his life, or to leave his ….ahem….options open. Then 4 years ago he meets ScouseSis in, of all places, an airport departure lounge. ScouseSis had separated from her first husband who it appears is not a very nice person and Skank had finally decided to call it a day with his ex-partner, affectionately known as Shell. Sometimes good things just end and his relationship with Shell had run its natural course.

ScouseSis had seen an ad for a small independent holiday company called “Small Families” specialising in single parents with children who wanted to go abroad in a pressure free environment without getting caned for supplements and other punitive top up payments. Skank had also seen this advert and decided to take his twin girls away for a short break. Seriously, they then met in the airport lounge by virtue of having identical “Small Families” luggage tags. The rest as they say is history.

Boy meets girl, girl meets boy, boy decides to have a crack at girl, girl decides boy isn’t too bad, boy perseveres, girl plays along, kids like each other, boy decides to see girl all holiday, girls agrees, girl agrees to see boy after holiday ( a notorious pivot point as most of us never bothered after the holiday romance), boy really likes girl and calls her after holiday, girls agrees to continue seeing boy, boy falls for girl, girls falls for boy, boy asks girl to move in, girl agrees, boy and girl decide to buy new house, boy asks girl to marry him, girls agrees. Boy marries girl. Everyone has a party. Everyone gets drunk. Marvellous.

I made a small speech as best man, which I’m rather happy to report seemed to go down rather well. Hopefully just the right amount of humour, mild humiliation and genuine schmaltzy sincerity allowed the Father of the bride to say his piece which was a tad more serious, but none the less heartfelt. The lack of band or disco music meant that people had to talk to each other from different families, a ploy which worked superbly despite the vast majority being part of my Chelsea heritage’s sworn Nemesis of Liverpool Reds. I had wondered if Crowthorne’s dog population would suffer severe trauma as the level of high pitched Scouse whining reached fever pitch and sent them crazy, but the truth is they were very happy Scousers who seemed to enjoy the banter and chat equally as much as us. The nice fact that Skank invited all of GMD’s family to be on his “family” side was rather touching as well. I know they all appreciated that and fully enjoyed the evening as well.

Some other points to note…….when ScouseSis’s daughter, aged 8, stood up at the ceremony and made a speech, there weren’t many, including me, who weren’t fighting back a tear or two. What’s that about? So, as I get older I’m saddled alongside my inherent grumpiness with an inability to control emotional displays as well? Crikey, a miserable old goat who can’t fight back a tear at a sweet little girl making a very touching speech? How unfair is that?

Also noteworthy was the appearance of Dave, my estranged youngest brother. As stated before, estranged through no other reason than he is unreliable and seemingly lazy. He’s 39 now and a bit heavier and wrinkled than I remember. It was good to see him though and quite emotional at times after nearly 10 years of absence. His new girlfriend Nurse Ratchett has agreed willingly to ensure such absences are a thing of the past. After 5 years of non-smoking the 3 of us stood outside the hotel at midnight and indulged in a Victory dance cigar to seal both the union of Skank and ScouseSis, and the secondary re-union of jack, Skank and Dave.

And in typical fashion the night was ended by the Manager of the Hotel asking us to go to bed at around 01:30 after an incident involving Dave and LittleSis going behind the bar and helping themselves to a bottle of wine! A nice little bit of controversy to finish on and one for which they will be ribbed forever on!

If you measure the success of an evening by the size and power of the resultant hangover then it was a stunningly successful evening.

Well done Skank. Well done ScouseSis.

Later, GrocerJack

....but a lot of French things are better......

1.) The food in restaurants and cafe's - what can I say except that I have never had a poor meal anywhere in France. I've had poor service in France by my own inflated UK standards, but never a poor meal. In the UK I've had wonderful service and been served with barely enough food to feed an aneroxic 4 year old. I've had crap service and been served "art on a plate" pretentious bollocks food. I've been in UK restaurants where I've been force fed crap in order to make way for a second sitting. Wherever we have eaten in France we have seen the sense of pride the chef has in producing something thats tasty and uncomplicated, and the proprietor has always made us feel that the table was ours for the whole night. Vive le Difference!

2.) The food in the shops - A French supermarket is quite different to ours. They do have frozen food sections, but these usually consist of one or two aisles, whereby the fresh food aisles outnumber them by several counts to one. The French think nothing of shopping daily and buying local fresh produce. It isn't a chore to them, its a pleasure and an obligation. Its part of their very fabric and culture. In the Hyper-U in Agde (the closest major supermarket) you could not buy any fresh fruit or veg that wasn't "en saison". Not for the French the idea of flying strawberries across the world, nor do the French see the value in summer satsumas. Cherries.....hmmm...not a chance. Nope, if it isn't in the growing season you can't get it. We bought all of ours from the site shop, the old man in the vineyard opposite the "holiday parc" or from the local markets. We did the same for meat after the initial supermarket shop. The meat is sublime, superb cuts that sizzle on the barbecue and smell like they use to when you were a kid. The cucumber was the size of a marrow, curved, light green and get this....it tasted like cucumber and NOT water. Ditto this for Radishes ......when was the last time you ate one that bit back like they should? Onions that make you cry when you chop them and also when you eat them, tomatoes of different shapes and sizes that literally burst with flavour when you eat them, grapes (with seeds) and plums that transport you back to the 60's when your Mum bought them as a treat and and industrial growing practices were a twinkle in an agro-scientists eye. And lettuce with mud on it that doesn't need to be kept in the fridge until its almost a block of ice in order to be edible. And don't even get me on the wonderful cheeses for sale in the markets thats MADE LOCALLY and smells like old socks and tastes like proper cheese should.

Fan-fucking-tastic. We have moved a long way from this type of fayre in the UK and we're all the poorer for it.

3.) Cycling - near enough every French road has a cycle path marked on it. The pavements have optional cycle routes. Cycling along the Canal du Midi is accepted and even welcomed by anglers and walkers. Every village, town and city has communal bike racks. The drivers always give a wide berth no matter how fast the road might be. Even little Yappie the Dog gets to ride quite often in the owners basket. Like the Dutch, the French have embraced cycling as a perfectly normal means of getting about, whilst jolly old UK lurches towards the American travel dream of no pavements and everything being reached by car, no matter how close. remember the scene in Toy Story 2 where the "villain" toy collector leaves his apartment , drives to work which is his own toy shop dead opposite where he lives! Thats truer than you think in the US. We bought 3 bikes for GMD and the girls having transported an old jalopy of mine out there. We paid around £300 for them, each were good quality, each were tested vigorously before we could buy them by a polite Frenchman who knew all about bikes - unlike the spotty 17 year old Halfords fuckwits. Again a different culture and one we could (and may be just starting to) learn from.

4.) Wine - at E1.60 a litre from the vineyard opposite, how wrong can you go? Alright it wasn't vintage, but it was nice, light and eminently drinkable and sold without any fuss by the same guy who sold us our fruit and veg. All with a smile. And a taster glass. No pretentiousness, no faux-academic bollocks talk, no snobbery, no frills. No problem.

5.) The Roads, specifically the Motorways - yes...I know they appear in the previous list....but the truth is there is no road system in the world that has been capacity planned for the holiday rush. The Peage in France are reasonably priced, are models of efficiency at the toll booth, have automated systems which recognise the coins you throw in, or can read a card in a split second. Even the manned ones are adorned by polite staff who always welcome you with a "bonjour" or bid you "au revoir". Can you really see that happening here? Road pricing may seem an abomination here but thats only because we know it would be exorbitant and penalise those who could least afford it. It might not be perfect, but it seems to work better than ours. And the roads don't melt when the mercury hits 30 degrees!

5.) The weather - In the South at least you can't argue that the climate is just that bit more reliable than ours. It rains enough to keep it green, and the mistral wind blows warm during summer and keeps the humidity at bay after a day of 30 plus temperatures. Not really a French attribute I know...but then they live there...and we don't. Let's hope we didn't choose first!

6.) Markets - we're getting there on this front, but the French see markets as a vital part of the local economy and again something at the heart of their society. I only like the food bits, although the odd piece of summer hippy jewellery, or the odd pair of cheap sunglasses have been known to come my way via the markets in France. Before our first visit in 1998 we would have died before buying food in any market. But then we saw the locals buying .....sorry...trying and then buying. Since then we have enjoyed so much of the experience of true shopping, of trying before we buy, of savouring the tastes and smells that when we arrive we may as well be Monsieur et Madame Epicierjacques!

7.)The Boulangerie, the Patisserie, the Boucherie and the Pharmacie. High streets with real shops not just Estate agents, Pound shops and Building societies. Supermarkets exist and play a vital part, but not at the expense of the "local shop for local people" (and tourists!). It's amazing just how much more you can get over the counters in France that you need a prescription for.

8.) Cold soft drinks - kept in a proper cold fridge which is turned on and run at a proper low temperature, where the drinks are rotated properly so that new warmer cans are at the back and the colder ones at the front, unlike the tight-fisted fuckers over here who seem to have fridge light on but nothing else, and then just lob the cans in how they like so that you have to scrape your arm and twist it impossibly to reach the only semi-chilled can shoved right at the back.

9.) The Euro - are they any less French because of it? No of course not.....its just money thats all, not the national identity. Perhaps thats why we reject it, because we've lost so much of our own national identity* that we are desperate to hang onto nay little thing we believe might preserve what little identity we have left.

* England only.

In France, as in most of Europe they simply got on with it. So, while they move freely around drawing out money from ATM's without paying commission, paying by credit cards for meals without a conversion fee,we happily lie down and let the banks legitimately take more money from us. And we have the nerve to call them "Cheese eating surrender monkeys"? When it came to the Euro, we ran the white flag up the pole ages ago because we're too scared of change. Imagine if we'd adopted that view in 1971 when we decimalised the money system. Are there seriously any people out there pining for "pounds, shillings and pence"? Ditto the undeniably easier Decimal system for weights and measures. Christ , my kids barely use miles, inches, pounds or ounces, but yet the Little Britisher brigade insist we keep this archaic, complex and anachronistic system in every day use. Land of Dope and Moron indeed.

10.) Satellite navigation- well the Trafficmaster bit at least. Over here the TM signal is carried on one station, Classic FM. If you're driving through a weak reception area then you're buggered. In France there are a multitude of carriers all broadcasting the TM news on a higher power output. Wherever you go the Sat-nav gets traffic info and warns you most of the time before you hit it. How can they do this, and we apparently can't?

There is so much more that in my view puts them ahead of us, but really its isn't meant to be an anti-UK diatribe, more a comment on how Americanisation and maybe even globalisation and our apparent desire for multi-culturalism has somehow allowed us to lose attributes as a people and nation, that once rivalled France , but that we somehow allowed to slip away.

Later, Grocerjack

PS - ooops..

11.) I forgot coffee. No really...order a Starbucks skinnylatte decaf with a fucking twist if thats what you want you corporate ars-licking city slicking lightweight ponce. But if you want to be a real man or woman, then drink real coffee. Order it in a Cafe in France and then sit back, switch off the pacemaker and get ready for a real caffeine kick. Its so lovely I could almost buy a packet if Disque Bleu or Gauloises to accompany it.