Dullsville , UK II

I could hardly believe my misfortune today. After the debacle of yesterday I had forgotten that today I was booked on a Line Managers workshop headed up by The Beachbabe. Another day of Corporate Gobbledygook Bollocks talk, faux thanks, Corporate Arslikhan and blow jobs, faux praise and stirring "rouse the troops" type speeches. How bad is the planning behind that? And me, working in a planning team as well. Anyway, it was the usual bollocks, with the usual "inter-active fun" element and the obligatory brainstorming session (or thought-shower as the facilitator called it....wanker). The difference however was that The Beachbabe is obviously well versed and expert in presenting to an audience. She was funny, slick, and dare I say it almost believable and almost inspiring. Perhaps if I wasn't permanently saddled with a Mask of Cynicism as part of my psyche, I would have fallen for it in the same way many of the David Brent wannabees did (whooping? What the fuck is that about? They're not American, or in sales, so why do it?...even The Beachbabe looked faintly embarrassed by it). I say David Brent and I mean it. These guys and in some cases women actually must have

a.) missed The Office

or......

b.) thought it was a training film

Anyway, despite being full of the usual shit I can't honestly say it was boring. The Beachbabe ran each session, invited open and honest comment. You barely noticed her touch the keyboard to flip each new slide over. Even the slides were succinct and to the point! Of course me being a Gobby Gobshite I was of course volunteered to present the key points from our table from a "brainstorming interactive fun bonding networking....lets do lunch sometime" session. And so, being "dressed down" (due to it being dress down Friday at the office...but we weren't in the office today, ergo I was the only one in jeans, biker boots and Chelsea T-shirt!) I stood in front of the 100 or so crowd, a mouth full of razor wire (see posts passim) and ...well...pretty much knocked them dead. I became Ben Elton like in my delivery, fast, furious and bloody funny. It was a moment where everything came out right and everything right came out. I berated myself for my dress code, I caveated that by saying that anyone who disliked it could meet me in the car park but needed to be aware that it was a shirt that signified being a member of The Chelsea Headhunters, about revenge from a former boss who is a Spurs fan plus lots of other bits including a "little bit of politics ladies and gentlemen", interspersed with hypocritical Corporate Gobbledygook Bollocks messages of my own. It was a moment I actually ENJOYED. It made me SMILE. And to cap it all The Beachbabe sought me out personally and took me to one side and said "Well done Jack (by name!), that was bloody brilliant". I smiled, went red, and stuttered some sort of crap reply, but really I was quite chuffed.

I showed some of the "presenters" from yesterday, including The Shepherd and The Schoolteacher, how to grab a crowd without any script, any prompting, just using sheer bloody belligerence and a "what the fuck" attitude that meant if I fucked up then so be it. I took a risk and it won't pay off job wise, but it will self confidence wise. What was the worst that could happen? Does this sound arrogant? Or is it just a surge in my own self belief that proves to me, if no-one else, that I'm not yet washed up.

If it is arrogance then my riposte will follow that of one of the finest TV characters ever created, Mister Anton Meyer, Surgical Consultant from Holby City, who in one episode said "There's nothing wrong with being arrogant....if you're right!" And so tonight its off for some Guinness raised in slight tribute to The Beachbabe, a fellow spirit in the field of keeping people interested whilst delivering Corporate Gobbledygook Bollocks. An unlikely and unsought kindred spirit removed by several levels of career hierarchy.

Later, PuffedUpJack

Dullsville, UK

The title is the conclusion I've come to about my place of work. Once upon a time I thought I was in gainful employment, working for a dynamic, forward thinking company which embraced articulate people like me, encouraged us to think freely, to innovate, to challenge and gave us purpose in our daily existence. This was largely true until about 2 years ago when we underwent a "transformation" which is business process bollocks talk for jazzing up and spinning what we called "re-organisation" and hence redundancies. I escaped the axe that time to be offered a new role which allegedly underlined our flexibility and capability to adapt in a changing business and increasingly competitive environment.

Sorry.....lapsed into some Corporate Gobbledygook Bollocks talk myself then.........(note to self : must remember to be human once leaving the office). I was shifted sideways is what I meant to say.........

Since then it's been pretty much all about being passed over whilst being told how good I am, or how effective I am or what a valuable employee I am (etc ad infinitum). It's a bit like getting a blow job and finding out its been given by Margaret Thatcher, makes you feel good at first but then makes you sick. Then of course, I went through my "darkest night" period toward the end of last year (see posts passim) as the full realisation of my impending career impotence struck home. There were some dark times I can tell you. However, things brightened up a bit, not by virtue of anything anyone at work did to help me, although my boss, The Schoolteacher, did try, but by the fact that despite everything we all adapt to our circumstances at the time. Some might call it a "victim" mentality, others might just accept that once you reach your mid-forties, society on the whole considers you to be past your prime, and consequently having less worth and less to offer of any use. This view is propagated by the media, employers and the government as a whole. Once you accept this, you learn to play the game differently and in my case I decided to shut the shop and do my job ADEQUATELY whilst ligging and loafing wherever possible. All my ambition was locked away in a drawer marked "Potential unused - do not open for foreseeable future". That's fine and now the summers here it should mean more working from home, hence more golf, hence lower handicap and hence a more relaxed and carefree Jack. The "dark night" of realization that career options at The Company are over, that others are still climbing the greasy corporate pole, giving the corporate blow-jobs, that youth is the key to success, that talking is worth more than doing, that the policy of "arslikhan" is what gets you ahead has led me to a mental dawn/twilight state. I still can't see much brightness career wise, no "summer day" again but I am happy to exist on the dimly-lit fringes of the "career day" so to speak.

So, having to attend today what can only be described as the single most condescending, shambolic, amateurish, patronizing ""team building" off-site I have ever had the misfortune of observing, really opens the wounds of spitefulness and petty envy that lurks below the surface of my tacit acceptance of my situation. We were in effect told that attendance was mandatory for the morning session, but that the afternoon session (ominously dubbed "the fun part" and consequently would not be anyone's real idea of fun, least not those with any semblance of lives outside of work) was voluntary. The afternoon session was a "magical mystery tour" on a hired Vintage Diesel train with Pullman coaches (I've no idea what this means). I would ordinarily enjoy a trip by train that was free and didn't involve The Trainline.com (see posts passim) as at heart I still have the 10 year old unsullied and unembittered boy hidden deep in my psyche. I would enjoy this with close friends or family, but not with some of the people it is my misfortune to work with. It's a sad indictment of my current situation that there isn't one person at work I would class as mate now that Mr Argumentative has moved onto greater Global glories and I no longer see Dee or Scary as much as I used to. No, they are at best "colleagues" or "acquaintances", but there isn't a single one I'd willingly have a beer with, or even share a meal with. So I decided last night that I would make my polite excuses and disappear after the morning session.

The morning session was as I have described it above. The presentations were started by The Shepherd, talking to his flock and making little jokes that he and his DR's (direct reports) understood from meetings of his power cabal. It wasn't funny, nor was it informative and it was light years from being 10 million miles from even remotely approaching inspirational. This was followed by my boss, The Schoolteacher, a nice bloke who struggles to finish sentences in his own head let alone when faced with an audience of 150 plus. Couple this with him having to present The Technology Plan for High-Tech Pipes, Tubes and Strings and you have the equivalent of having a presentation on The Structures of Safe Paving Slab Configuration presented by John Major. My friend, Private Godfrey tried to follow this with the role of her new "group", Operations. It was a valiant attempt but riddled with an inability to use the Technology at hand when trying to bring in a "video" to make certain points. Too many ummms and aaahs here showing a lack of presenting experience to this size of audience. Original yes, flawed ...yes, but she's new to this and maybe as she does more it'll improve. The others have no such excuse and several more painful and dull presentations followed, and only one redeemed itself by virtue of adding a very irreverent and funny Billy Connolly sound clip at the end. A rare moment of brightness in a sea of turgid drudgery. It made you want to play Russian Roulette with 5 bullets in the gun.

Lastly, the big promised Q&A session was trimmed from 45 minutes to 10 because the unprofessionalism of the presenters had caused an overrun. To cap it all the room was long and thin and the slides were shown on a projector at one end of the rectangle thus excluding at least half the audience from seeing the slides, rather than the more sensible option of presenting from the centre of one of the long sides of the room. Not a problem if the presenter is good, but such was the paucity of the information and interest level that the loss of any visual stimulation or guide made it as effective as Elton John's dick when being offered a chance with Madonna and Catherine Zeta-Jones in a threesome. What this amateurism tells me is that the Management Team of The Shepherd and friends have paid lip service to making the whole thing interesting and bearable. Which in itself is contemptuous of the audience you are forcing to attend. To me its simple. If you're going to do this then book the venue for the day before and "dry run" the presentations. Invite critique from your peers who are also presenting. Try and get some sample "floor" questions from the audience prior to the day to rehearse your responses and the way in which you respond. Look at how Question Time does things. You can work out the PA system, work out what keys to press to bring in clips and sounds, you can determine the best seating arrangements and the logistics of deploying floor microphones for the audience questions. Then take the presenting group to a Hotel overnight, discuss changes, agree schedules and rules on timings etc and then all get pissed to make everyone feel part of something worthwhile instead of them giving the impression that they are also there under duress. How difficult would that be, and how much more value to the audience would that give even if they just felt that some real effort had been put in on their behalf.

Of course that might be me just applying my additional experience gained ,by being 44 years of age, to my jaundiced view of this event. It is undoubtedly a streak of envy in me that these young bucks are valued more highly than me despite my somewhat selfish and undeniably arrogant view that I am better, more experienced, more practical, more worldly-wise and more intelligent than them.

But to paraphrase Mandy Rice-Davies "I would say that, wouldn't I?"

Later, GrocerJack

No foul play here then.....

So, Nicholas Blake, QC, concludes that there is no need for a public enquiry into the deaths of 4 young soldiers at Deepcut. He has instead recommended an inquiry led by an "armed forces ombudsman". Well, considering one of the soldiers had to shoot himself five times to die, and one of the others somehow managed to shoot himslef in the head twice it does seem a tad surprising that no-one thinks any real further investigation is required. One wonders in which world people like Blake, and Adam Ingram, the Armed forces minister serving in this increasingly corrupt and discredited goverment, actually exist. In this weird world that they reside in they seem to think its perfectly feasible to shoot yourself either 5 times in order to die, or twice in your own head. Incredibly Ingram has said the deaths of at least three recruits "were probably self-inflicted". Including those with multiple bullet wounds? Lets also not forget that in no case did any soldier leave any form of suicide note. I know the suicide is not an obligatory condition of people who kill themselves, but it is surely a strange enough coincidence that none of them left one. Or that none was .....ahem....found?

Am I missing something here? Can anyone really explain to me how such a thing would be possible, i.e to shoot your self several times? You can read the profiles on the dead soldiers here and make your own mind up.

Ingram himself says that the Army would now examine the report's findings to see if any action should be taken for "professional misconduct or negligence".

Good, that'll get to the truth then, won't it? What a relief for the families this will be (sic).

Later, GrocerJack

This is the Age of the Train Pain

I had a meeting in London on Friday with The Big Telephone Company to showcase their new Retail Store technology. Impressive stuff, with such delights as “whispering windows” coming our way, along with Digital Signage and host of other tricks designed to part us with our cash. Because of this I thought the best thing would be to travel in by train, thus avoiding Cuddly Kens lovely little congestion charge and also giving myself a warm glow by virtue of just being a little greener than normal. I also rather enjoy travelling on trains. Must be the 10 year old in me that surfaces every now and then. So, I decided to buy my tickets in advance on the wonderful World Wide Web. I set off to www.southwesttrains.co.uk and duly ordered my One Day Travelcard for £39.30. This baulked a little although it was purchased with a Company expenses card. A rough calculation of the cost by car, including the congestion charge came to roughly £12.50. Hmmm, I’m already thinking that it’s no wonder we love our cars so much aftyer all it is still cheaper. Also, when I’m in the car I can play my music as loudly as I like, or even hold a conversation on the mobile (hands free of course) without having to suffer the disapproving tuts and raised eyebrows from fellow commuters. I can set the aircon to a level that’s comfortable for me. I can pick my nose, sing out loud, shout back at the radio and ogle the lovely women that walk down the road. In my car, I am King.

Anyway, the tickets turned up within 2 days. I was impressed with this turn round, but of course it was very short lived. What I received was 4 airline style tickets. One displayed my address and booking reference, one displayed my payment details, and two merely said “Reservation Confirmation”. I was suspicious immediately so I rang South West trains only to be told that it was nothing to do with them. I explained I had bought via their web site, but they explained that all their web site did was link to a selling agency called The Trainline.com. However the bloke I spoke to seemed to think something didn’t quite sound right with my travel pack. Slopy shouldered bastards thought I and thanked them before duly ringing The Trainline.com. Amazingly I got to speak to someone within 2 minutes and this person, who sounded Greek, stated in the clearest terms that this was correct and that all I had to do was show the guard and this would be all. I asked what happened at the tube barriers and he said I showed the tickets to the person attending the manual gates. I sighed with relief and put the phone down. However, another look at these so called “tickets” made me re-think his answer. I rang again and asked to speak to a supervisor. After 5 minutes of dial-a crap music I was put onto an authoritarian sounding woman who concurred with the earlier guy. I categorically stated my concerns yet again, and yet again she told me that what I had received was correct and valid for travel. Placated, I said my thanks and put the tickets away until last Friday. I boarded the 08:17 from Petersfield to London Waterloo at 08:15 (running very slightly early!) and sat down to enjoy the journey on the new lush, smooth rolling stock now in full service. Along came the jolly Scottish guard with his lilted Highlands accent, and yes….you’ve guessed it, he wanted to see my tickets, not these impostors. Luckily I’d had the foresight to print my email confirmation as well and explained to him what happened. He laughed and agreed that I had done everything right but he said they hadn’t issued a ticket to travel and that the London Underground staff would have no truck with me trying to travel without a ticket, irrespective of that documentary evidence I had. . I kept my cool as he was a decent bloke and he advised me to sort it out in the Travel Office in Waterloo. I arrived in London bang on 09:31 as per the timetable and went to the Travel Office. They kindly offered to ring The Trainline.com but it took 20 minutes for them to get to a human being. I was now going to be late for the meeting near St. Pauls, a mere 10 minute journey on the tube from Waterloo. When they did get through the computer system had allegedly crashed and would be out for an hour. Even the travel office bloke lost his rag at this point, slamming the phone down and saying “Thanks for nothing!”. He sold me a two-zone tube ticket to help me on my way and advised me to pop back in on my way home to get it sorted. I arrived for my meeting 40 minutes late.

After the meeting I went back to Waterloo, entering the Travel office at 14:20. I queued for 30 minutes whilst they downed tools at 14:30 and changed shifts. It was bloody incredible to watch EVERY cashier put the “Position Closed” up and then start counting the cash and putting it into their bags. At 14:50 I got to see another Travel Office “agent” freshly imported form the land of unfunny fuckwits and he finally agreed to call The Trainline but only after I threatened to lose it at his first suggestion of “You need to ring them mate!”. I completed a refund form for the tube ticket, and then waited for another 25 minutes until 15:15 whilst he went out the back to call them. I gather his experience was as frustrating as mine, but at no time did any of the other staff offer to get an update from him. In that time, standing there by the till resplendent in my best Chelsea coat, I was asked 3 times for directions to various bits of the station. It dawned on me that the coats colour scheme was very similar to that used by South West Trains staff. On a better day I might have been tempted to have some fun, but frankly I was so pissed off at this time they were lucky not to have copped an unfortunate one. Between 15:15 and 15:25 the guy then proceeded to complete the paperwork, completing everything in triplicate and duplicating it in a ledger book. It was like stepping into a 19^th century Pox Doctors clerk’s office. All he was missing was an inkwell and a quill. And they can’t refund a card online. They can debit the card, but not credit it. Oh no, that takes 10 working days minimum and they don’t refund interest charges. Unbelievable!

He finally handed me a valid travel ticket at 15:25. I managed to just make the 15:30 express with a minute to spare. In all I lost around 2 hours of my working day because of the incompetence of Trainline combined with the paper based inefficiency and antiquated union dictated working practices of South West trains.

So, here’s the rub. I will of course complain to Trainline about their cock up and subsequent lies which ruined what should have been a stress free journey. It will lead to nothing of course because that’s how these companies operate, behind smoke and mirrors, in a labyrinthine world of caveats, terms and conditions, exceptions and small print. But the sad fact remains that had I taken my car in it would have cost less and most likely would have been quicker, and even if I’d hit traffic jams and delays I would have been in control. I could have turned the car round and taken a different route because in my car I am in control. If I hit traffic then I can only blame myself, if I am late or get lost then it’s my fault. Whichever mode of public transport you take, you will never have control over that journey. Your fate will always lie in the shadowy world of the travel company employees, be it by bus, plane or train. And believe me, most of these travel industry employees seem to have failed their MacDonald’s entrance exam. There is no doubt that until people feel they can sufficiently trust the public transport experience, and that it becomes something pleasant from start to finish without poxy delays before, during and after the journey caused by bureaucracy that makes a local authority look efficient, or dog-brained incompetence, then like me they will always choose the option that is the most flexible and least stressful. I'm with Clarkson on this one - the car is King, long live the King.

Later, GrocerJack

Just one more person......

...................that I tell about my forthcoming orthodontic soft middle aged, mid-life crisis vanity treatment who replies with........

"Aren't you a bit old for that?"

.........is likely to end up needing some themselves.

Which combined with being fed through a tube and a long-ish hospital stay will not be very pleasant.

Later, GrocerJack

Brando had it easy

Why? Because he got paid a load of money to walk around with a mouth full of whatever to make him look like a hamster. Whereas I have paid someone else to deliver the same effect for me. Exactly one day on from having the first bit of Bionic metalware inserted in my mouth, the inside of said orifice is like a freshly ploughed field. The silicone gel inserts that I have been given to cover the metal are akin to covering your razor with a film of vaseline, only less effective. However they force me into making more than passable impressions of Don Corleone in full flow, with added spittle for that real authentic silly old git effect. When I drink they drop off, when I eat they also fall off and get mixed up with the food and swallowed. If I remove them then the metal just starts another round of fresh skin grating. This could be the best weight loss programme ever. But it certainly isn't making me walk around with a happy disposition.

Later, GrumpyJack

The cost of a smile

Look at this smile. Beautiful isn't it? It projects a personality thats confident, friendly, warm and helpful. The smile radiates inner confidence and says "isn't life great". It's an American smile of course, not a British one. British smiles are more crooked, more stained, more worn. That is of course a generalisation, but the fact remains that for whatever reasons we, the Brits, are not reknowned for our brilliant white smiles showing off our straight and dazzling pearly white teeth.

As I wrote a few weeks back I have decided that at 44, and having lived all of my adult life with crooked, higgledy piggledy teeth that now was the time to change that. A vanity attack finally won the day. Today was my first visit. I was under the imnpression that today was for the fitting and demonstration of an appliance ! (lovely choice of word dontcha think?) to go on my lower set of teeth whilst I eat. This is to force my jaw into reducing the angle with my upper jaw, or at the very least not allow it to increase more than is already there. Or something like that. In fact it turned out to be another visit for impressions and photo's. The next visit is on April 5th, 2 days before I bugger off for a week to see The Money Pit for the first time, and thats where the lower and upper appliances will be handed over. Apparently I am having a removable upper brace first before the fitting of the fixed appliance in May. Joy. I had one of these when I was about 12, and it bloody hurt and was a bugger to keep clean. During the day it would get clagged up with terrible food wastes and even a good clean at night was a eye opener as to how food decomposes. Mind you with my electric toothbrush perhaps that cleaning ritual will be easier. I would be looking forward to the installation of the fixed appliances but for one thing.....today's events. I can only describe today as a smear test for the mouth. Now I'm no expert but if Ben Elton is to be believed then a smear test is not as it sounds, a simple dab with a piece of cotton wool and a "thank you and goodbye". No. its the insertion of various appliances which open the vagina whilst another device is pushed inside in order to take the...ahem...smear. All very undignified, a little cold, very clinical and downright uncomfortable. Well, ditto that for me today. Except in my case replace Vagina with mouth and you're there. Now I'm NOT comparing the two, because quite frankly at least I can see whats going on and no-ones looking up my snatch as if it's a run of the mill event, but having things inserted into my mouth in order to stretch it as wide as possible in order to have bits of cotton wool and shaving mirrors inserted for photo's and for impressions was not what I would call a comfortable experience. At one point the stretching was so extreme I had visions of a split occuring each side and forever looking like Jack Nicholson did when he played The Joker in Batman. To top that they insert bits of cotton wool, which is the equivalent of sucking chalk when thirsty and that bloody vacuum which removes moisture from all known areas. Whilst all of this was going on Dr B (as she is known) then took some impressions for which I had to put my tongue out either over or under the impression plate for 2 minutes each tme. This was impossible so she very adeptly did it for me and whilst the impression was setting, happily chatted to her assistant whilst pulling my tongue forward. I was like a wide-mouthed frog vomiting. Then she stuck the first bits of metal on my lower teeth, not as straigteners. Oh no, nothings that simple. No these are for the lower appliance to slot onto. They are grips!. They look smooth don't they these pieces of metal when kids where them, but believe me they feel like rusty razor wire coiled around each tooth, each one taking a different sliver of skin away from the inside of my mouth with each small movement. In less than one hour the insides of my mouth are red raw, the pain is rotten, and the inflammation has affected my ability to speak. I sound like Freddie bloody Parrot Face Davies when I speak. Yeah, they gave me wax to cover the four machine sharpened weights, but thats like applying Germolene to a cobra bite at the moment. And if THIS hurts, whats it going to feel like when the real stuff is attached?

And all so that I can have a smile in my soft middle age which I'm not worried will scare kids or make people assume that I'm from Duelling Banjo stock. Watch this space, this will hurt me more than it will you.

Later, GrocerJack

About time I backed a winner....

In all of my years I have been just about the singularly most unsuccessful gambler in living memory. I barely ever bet these days bar the occasional football flutter on match day. I used to do The Derby, The Grand National and The Cheltenham Gold Cup, but never won a single bean ever. I've bet on FA Cup finals and NEVER even got the result right , let alone the scoreline, or the first scorer.

I am a loser. Never follow one of my bets.

However I did vote for Concorde in the Great British Design Icon awards, and just for once I voted for the winner. Deservedly so in my opinion and as stated in my previous post on the subject I dobt there is anything else in Britain to beat this in terms of design and style, in fact I'd argue that is true for the whole world. What a shame we couldn't even keep just one flying and let the state fund it in the same way we fund monuments to people and listed buildings. A case for listed inventions perhaps?

On a completely different note, last night I watched "The Plot Against Harold Wilson" on BBC2 which was a fabulous documentary/drama mix based on the findings of two journalists Roger Courtier and Barrie Penrose. The whole premise of the programme was based on the plotting of several leading traditional "establishment" figures with the Civil Service, the military (headed by Lord Mountbatten) and politics to mastermind a miltary coup to overthrow Wilsons' Labour government. It included taped clips from Wilson's loyal aide, Marcia Williams (now Lady Falkender) as well as the man himself. It was a frightening portrait of the fragility of democracy and how easily it can be undermined by "authority" and "establishment". These fools actually believed that society was in freefall because of the liberal views of the time, alongside the power of unions ability to strike for fairer terms and conditions. Although there is no doubt the Unions exercised their power foolishly in the end, and ultimately expedited Thatchers rise to power, the fact remains that many of our freedoms we take for granted today were formed by Wilson's liberal regime. For me the most frightening event was when Heathrow Airport was marshalled by the Army and armed police under the auspices of a perceived terrorist threat....ring any bells? It transpires that this was merely an exercise for the "establishment" to show their muscle and put a warning shot across the Wilson bows and a pre-cursor to what they could mobilise, should they wish to. Mountbatten and some upper crust tosspot called Major Alexander Greenwood even had a speech prepared for The Queen which pleaded for us "proles" to back the armed forces. This was a truly incredible story of where the power really lay in Britain during this time, and I'm not convinced things are that different today. It could never happen here could it, but by God it nearly did. And when you think about it, as a society we have become a bunch of spineless sheep, willing to lay down and let governments of any colour or poltical leaning undermine our rights, our freedoms , our liberties under the weight and application of new "laws". In France and other European countries they would be outraged at the level of new legislation being bought in under the auspices of "the war against terror" and poxy "respect" initiatives , whereas our celebrity obsessed, Sun reading, apathetic society just lies down quietly and allows itself to be shafted up the proverbial arse.

A coup could happen here, it just wouldn't because frankly in such a supine and passive society there's simply no need.

Later, CitizenJack

Concern over Wayne Rooneys fitness

Blimey, he's got his work cut out if he wants to be fit for Germany 2006. Mind you, even if he was like this he'd be better than any Liverpool player.

Later , GrocerJack

Damn nearly the Perfect Day

Well, I was going to write a meaningful, factual and in depth match critique of the Chelsea versus Spurs game on Saturday, but I have decided to write from a different angle to the day and the game. I may well have been very much in the minority of fans last week who suffered only a mild disappointment with the result from the Camp Nou/Nou Camp …whatever it’s called. My reasoning was that we had already lost the match at Stamford Bridge through poor refereeing, and that adopting the view that we are also a “Work in Progress” project like Manure, Airline and Liverpoo also claim, I could gain satisfaction from knowing that we are further down that line than all of them. At the back of my mind I was also thinking in terms of what for me is the most important goal of the year - that of a second Premiership title, with the added bonus of a possible Double. This would to my mind put us in an elite group of only 4 other clubs who have achieved a domestic League and Cup Double. In recent years even this remarkable achievement has been cheapened by the plethora of “Doubles” achieved by Airline and Manure, but now that it’s a distinct possibility for us, I am happy to be a complete hypocrite and state that this achievement is truly special, even more so if the team has won the League back-to-back.

And so it was I wandered into The American Diner on the Fulham Road for my usual pre-match meal consisting of anything that Mrs GrocerJack disallows me from eating at home. In other words proper football food consisting of such delights as Chips, burgers, sausages and the like. I once went to a game and bought some “healthy living”, low fat, low salt, low cholesterol, high fibre sandwiches from the mini-Sainsbury’s nearby. They were foul. It wasn’t right or proper and I immediately followed them up with a giant hot dog with tons of Fried Onions add lashings of English mustard from the nearest stall I could find. The American Diner is run by Greek Cypriots and is a lovely ramshackle little place full of Chelsea fans on match days. The staff know me, through my continuing indecision when presented with a menu and always enter into a bit of banter about the days game. It’s a place where even in the queue to get in you can have a laugh and banter with complete strangers, all united by their replica kits from different Chelsea eras. This, for me is where the whole match experience starts in earnest. I’ve done more Corporate Days than I can remember. I’ve eaten in Fishnets, in The Galleria and in the Hilaire Belloc Suite as well as others in or around the ground, but none gets the pre-match juices flowing like The American Diner. As nice as the others are, they are all typically a bit Corporate and a bit too tidy, clean, nice and polite. They are glittering palaces of reverence, white tablecoths, shiny cutlery, good looking waitresses and pompous waiters along with an awful lot of non-football going guests dressed in complete compliance to the Corporate hospitality dress code, with no replica shirts and just the odd brave soul wearing a Chelsea branded polo shirt. I’m dead rebellious me, I wear my replica shirt underneath and I don’t care who knows it. One day, when the lottery comes my way, I’m going to go on one of these Corporate Days and when we score I’m going to do a Superman and tear my proper shirt off and run around the restaurant. No doubt the outraged staff will eject me, women will faint at my chiselled, bronzed torso and men will doff their imaginary caps to my bravado. Or no-one will care a jot. Anyway, all of this comfortable air-conditioned nicety doesn’t come close to capturing the essence of football. All they do is save money because the booze is usually laid on and therefore free. Plus you get a free programme.

After the meal comes the obligatory walk up to the ground, past the stalls selling unofficial merchandise, old programmes and any type of badge, hat, scarf or T-shirt you’d care to mention. Try paying by card and the reaction is a swift growl accompanied by a terrifying “don’t take the piss” glare which could remove your skin from 10 paces. On Saturday the game was an early kick off, so my usual Megastore browsing session was not an option. Just as well really because Mrs GrocerJack has started to notice the extra shirts I have in my wardrobe and increasing credit card bill that accompanies my apparent inability to go onto the shop without seeing something I desperately need. As we approached the main gates opposite the SO Bar, Chelsea’s very own version of Billy Graham stands there shouting into his microphone on the glory of a life based on God. Now, he’s a nutter, no question, but he’s our nutter, our Chelsea Bible bashing nutter, always smiling despite any amount of abuse. This week he got it from me. As he stood there shouting I couldn’t turn down the chance to gain a cheap laugh at his expense.

“Oh yeah”..I shouted..” where was he when we needed him on Tuesday night……taking Spanish lessons?”.

It worked, and I got the cheap laugh. He smiled at me, with a kind of “you’re gonna burn in hell” sneer hiding just behind his God-loving, God fearing veneer. My own smile was a masked response of “I’ll take my chances mate”

Honestly, does anyone ever walk by these people and in a moment of epiphany suddenly think “He’s got a point you know”?

I love it when Spuds FC comes to town. The only shame is that the pitch didn’t reflect the kind of environment that these vegetables are reared in just to make sure their stodgy team felt at home. I don’t know, you turn your back for a few minutes and before you know it, they’ve swapped the pitch out. One day its a seething lumpy morass of wet mud and sand intermingled with the very occasional blade of grass, the next Roman’s lobbed a few of his newly converted roubles at someone and it’s a sea of pure green stretching out before the eye like a carpet made from the Axminster version of grass. If it were likened to cosmetic surgery then the Stamford Bridge pitch has just gone from a measly unfulfilling 30A cup to a boot filling 38DD with a free Botox jab chucked in for good measure. The transformation was truly splendid. The new pitch looked truly awesome, and no doubt this effect was exaggerated by the conditioning of the minds of the collective Stamford Bridge faithful to the rapidly declining temporary car park the pitch had become. Looking back at the Portsmouth game it’s hard to believe that Budweiser hadn’t had a Monster Trucks exhibition before the game. The build up was brief this week, but the obligatory rendezvous with the group outside gate 13 of the MHL still took place, albeit with an abridged version from each of us on the rights and wrongs of the week, the club, the manager and the players. None of us have names, other than Mate, and none of us ever asks for fear of breaching the code of unity through anonymity and love of Chelsea that exists once in the ground.

Once at my seat, the celebrations and tributes to my childhood hero, Peter Osgood got under way and it’s no word of a lie to say that I had a lump in my throat and a small un-noticeable tear in my eye (I have an image to keep OK?) as the very players who had been my first taste of Chelsea came onto the pitch holding the floral arrangements stating the mantra of Ossie, King of Stamford Bridge. The giant scoreboard showed a picture of Ossie and Neil Barnett read out the names of those on the pitch paying tribute. He also mentioned the Spuds fans and acknowledged their respect paid when Matthew Harding died. The MHL applauded the Spuds fans for possibly only the first time in recorded history. During the minutes appreciation we clapped and sung whilst the scoreboard focussed on his widow, Lyn Osgood and her best friend Elaine Hutchinson, the widow of another Chelsea great from the same era, Ian Hutchinson, a man who could throw the ball from one end of the pitch to the other on a good day. You won’t hear me say this often, if ever again, but the Spuds fans were truly excellent in their mutual applause and respect for this occasion. Hats off to them for showing that football still has a community spirit under all the faux hostilities we exhibit every week.

The game itself was a typical London derby affair, played with verve, passion and spirit. This Spuds team was the best I’ve ever seen and certainly hadn’t parked any bus anywhere on the pitch. Martin Jol does seem to have given them genuine hope of at least featuring in the top six, although on this performance I would place them ahead of Liverpool and in with a shout of 3^rd if they put this behind them. The referee, one Graham Poll was actually spot on and barely warranted a mention in any post match report, which is just as it should be. Surely he is the most common sense ref in the Premier League? Chelsea seemed to reverse the philosophy of bad first half/good second half and seemed determined to try an bury Spuds by half time. Only poor finishing and bad luck prevented us from being 3 up by half time. Essien spooned a sitter wide but compensated a few minutes later with a tap in after a clever cross from a confidence oozing SWP and excellent dummy from Crespo. Hopefully Essien can improve on his tally and get close to the scoring form he showed at Lyon. Of course, 1-0 would have been good but in seemingly increasingly frequent Chelsea style we allowed ourselves to be mugged by Spuds first real effort on our goal. The increasingly excellent Huth was easily beaten in the air from an unnecessarily conceded free-kick, Peter Cech, as with Eto’o appeared to be caught in two minds and chose neither to allow Jenas to score. I can guarantee that no-one in the MHL and probably the whole ground saw that one coming, but when you’re only one goal to the good, then that lapse in concentrations can be fatal. Huth can be forgiven this though based on his general improvement and he is starting to look like a German JT more and more with each game. I can pay him no higher compliment. In the second half, Spuds lifted their game and started to break our passing game down, with a good degree of success. We always looked more dangerous, but they had at least one glorious chance to score when Jenas lost the magnificent Billy Gallas, but luckily for us, he’d had his moment of glory and he tamely shot the ball at Cech. As the game went on JM bought on Drogba to partner Crespo, and to my mind this actually worked quite well as the balance of the game swung dramatically in our favour. Presumably Drogba has had a kick up the proverbial arse after his ineffective displays of late, because he won near enough every header, held the ball well, played Crespo in nicely a few times, and was desperately unlucky not to score what would have been an excellent goal. The opposition curse of having a superhero keeper was once again in evidence. As Robinson turned Drogba’s fierce shot onto the post. The MHL didn’t find this out until Match of The Day. And then came the denouement, the single moment of sheer brilliance that comes from being a fantastic player with big balls. Balls big enough to attempt a 25 yard shot, when playing as a right back, in the very dying seconds of the game. Billy Gallas thumped home a wonderful curving shot to stab Spuds in the football heart with barely 30 seconds left to play. If you don’t buy the ticket, you can’t win the lottery and Billy bought the ticket big time with that shot. I was just doing my jacket up and preparing to get on the starting blocks of the traditional post-match sprint to the exit when this happened. My sprint was completed with arms outstretched and I burst from the stadium knowing that we had done Spurs yet again. Just like the match in 2002 when we won Marcel Desailly score a last gasp winner at Three Point Lane, when in fact Spuds had drubbed us all afternoon. The walk to the car to meet my travelling companions Mr and Mrs Chelsea, and Big Dave was completed with a cheesy grin, a phone call to Mrs GrocerJack (she demands a post match report every week) a huge bar of Fruit and Nut, 3 more points in the bag, and a little closer to another Title and a very, very warm glow. Top this off with a visit from my younger, but dafter brother, a rather large, liver threatening and undoubtedly unwise helping of Guinness and Korai Chicken and you have all the elements of what can only be described as a Perfect Day.

Later, GrocerJack

My Thrilling (sic) Week

As I alluded to earlier, my posts have been affected by a combination of laziness, apathy and work. Well, after this short-ish break from writing the laziness should have disappeared, the apathy I’m afraid is still infecting just about every area of my mind and body. I just can’t be arsed with very much at the moment. Call it pre-Spring lethargy. I’m just about to emerge from a semi-hibernation state as the days thankfully get longer, the temperature rises, the sun feels warmer, and everything ids just that much brighter. I am most definitely NOT a winter person.

As for the work, well this has been a trying and testing week and this means its far better than it has been recently.

Work in the last few weeks has risen from being a source of gloom and depression in my life (see posts passim) , to one of abject boredom and …..yep, apathy. From the dark days just before Christmas, this recent spell, this week particularly has been the equivalent of someone shining a torch into a cold, dark and windowless room. Not everything is bathed in light, but at least now I can see. So this week I have been asked to share my normal responsibility hat (Business/Technical Process Management) with the Capacity Planning hat, as their manager is off on leave, along with deputising for The SchoolTeacher. Yep, I’ve been wearing three hats this week and it has helped the concept of work rise to the giddy level of mildly interesting. Because of this, writing has been difficult because I’m not up with the news, other than the footie, whereas normally about 20% of my day is concerned with surfing the net reading news sites, shopping or reading/commenting on other blogs.

Still, it s a living isn’t it?

The downside of this extra level of responsibility has been the meetings I have attended this week. Virtually every day has been between 50 and 75% filled with meetings. And, yes, most of them were a waste of time. One Corporate Moron even invited me to the worst of the worst, the pre-meeting meeting. That’s a bit like being asked to take a small dump before the main one just to make sure you know what you’re doing. I did the honourable thing and accepted of course, I just didn’t turn up, claiming somewhat falsely that shambolic bus service between the “business park” I work on and our HQ (the venue for the pre-meeting meeting, and the …err…meeting) had gone AWOL and therefore I had been forced to walk the 3 miles or so. The bus service (laid on by The Company to discourage car usage between sites) is so bloody useless that no-one ever bothers to question this excuse no matter how regularly you trot it out. So, I thought I’d share some of the meetings so you’d know just what a load of bollocks major organizations can be.

1.) Budget Forecasts – this is laughable. We sit around trying to estimate what we need for the forthcoming year, usually in September. Then we meet monthly after that to witness the people seated at the Big Table report back on what has been “challenged” and to watch our hard worked calculations be reduced to a derisory amount barely above “fuck all”, whilst these corporate bollocks gobbledygook indoctrinated Senior Muppets laughably attempt to “lead” and “inspire” us to execute the “Vision” of delivering more but spending less. Apparently we should see the budget slashing exercise as a “challenge” and not a “constraint”. Interesting ploy this – asking suppliers to cut their charges but give us more is one element of this. I wonder what would happen if I tried to buy a pint of Guinness in my local (£3) and then “challenged” The Governor to part with it, plus lob in a “value add” side dish of Liver and Bacon, whilst reducing my “capital outlay” to £2.25. I think you can see what I mean here. And I’m pretty sure The Governor would retort with something along the lines “Don’t take the piss, £3 or get out”

2.) Purchasing System Workshop - apparently we are all a bunch of clueless fuckwits who have been unwittingly misusing the on-line purchasing system wrong for years now. Hmmm, wonder if that’s anything to do with not being trained, canned because it was deemed to costly. Instead we were issued with laminate guides to assist us through this inordinately complex, unreliable and unfriendly system. So, we attend a workshop run by someone who is a clueless fuckwit to demonstrate how to use it properly for “human resource purchase” or “contractors” as we know them. The “facilitator” was unfamiliar with the system having only started using it a month ago. The test purchasing system hadn’t been……err…tested and therefore didn’t work. So we spent 90 minutes undergoing a Death by Powerpoint slideshow on how it should look were to working, and what it should show in reality. This was the equivalent of Stevie Wonder showing Ray Charles how to drive a DeLorean.

3.) Organization Target Meeting - in other words what roles can we outsource, what departments and functions can be dropped, how can we slim down and reduce our human resource costs. In other words, how can we fuck people’s lives and aspirations up in order run the business effectively and efficiently? Needless to say, the socialist devil in me kicked in, and my suggestion along the lines of “ Why not make people feel part of the company, reward them appropriately, treat them like humans and not as resources, encourage them to contribute, empower them to make decisions, stop employing as many contractors and increase the number of full time employees so that they can identify with the company and appreciate the level of quality they deliver” didn’t go down to well. Well, they did ask for honest suggestions but I guess they didn’t want to hear my view that you get what you pay for. Of all the meetings this week, this was the most heinous and disagreeable..

The last meeting was also one where The School Teacher had asked me to attend in his absence. It’s all part of his plan to “increase my visibility”. To analogise this, he sees himself as a Tony Blair/David Cameron type figure, and therefore I’m his potential John Prescott/George Osborne. Whilst I appreciate his trust I’m really am not comfortable with meetings that discuss people’s futures as if they were akin to clutter in the garage. Once again I fear my big opinionated mouth will limit any career progression. The other thing that might hold me back is my utter refusal to sit at “Big table” meetings and do what the others do. The Shepherd invites discussion and then ensues a group of desperate wannabees, noses pointing firmly to his rectal area, spouting off soundbite bollocks of the bleeding obvious in order to ensure their voices are heard and he can acknowledge their contribution, no matter how irrelevant or meaningless it may be. Perhaps I am growing some balls and a spine in my increasing middle aged period.

However, the upside is some impending visits abroad with The Schoolteachers blessing in order to learn how others work and to see what we can learn and deploy. Starting with Milan, and then Nice.

Jollies, we used to call them!

Later, GrocerJack

Our Time is Gonna Come!

And so the European adventure is over for another year for the mighty Blues. And with it we must take away the pain of defeat by 1 goal over two legs and 7 goals each over the 4 games in two seasons, which just shows how close in reality these two clubs are. The Guardian described it as a “quiet death”, but I would prefer to describe it as a “dignified death”, and even then more of a fading away than any sudden demise. Despite the increasingly desperate attempts of all sections of the media to stoke this up into some sort of grudge match, both managers adopted increasingly intransigent positions of refusing to jump on the media circus and start another unseemly slanging match. The players had of course said a few things in the immediate aftermath of the game at Stamford Bridge but really it was nothing that the media could latch onto to try and inflame things. On the pitch itself both teams played an intelligent, if slightly dull game more akin to Boris Spassky/Bobby Fischer chess re-match.

The feeling today though is less of a disappointment than one might imagine and one of the main reasons for this is probably down the lack of controversy during the game. Despite the referee’s penchant for blowing his whistle if someone so much as breathed on an opponent the game was played with a tone of mutual reverence and politeness belying the scale of the prize being played for. If the referee Marcus Merk has any doubts about what he can do on retirement I can guarantee him a career as an actor in any forthcoming stage adaptation of Blackadder goes Forth, playing office bound jobsworth, Captain Darling. Any number of reasons might have contributed to this, all the way from UEFA’s pre-match public warnings on conduct, accompanied no doubt by similar private warnings, to the nervousness of the Barcelona crowd or the dreadful coverage from ITV designed to filter out any remnants of atmosphere to the UK viewer . The players couldn’t have been more reverential to each other if they turned up wearing top hats and tails and spent the duration bowing to each other whilst discussing the relevant merits of renewable energy versus nuclear power. What was apparent was that The Special One had decided to try something a tad different starting with Robben in the centre of midfield, Drogba up front, with Duff and Cole covering the wings. In any other game, against any other opposition I would have welcomed this, but Drogba can’t seem to cope as a lone striker, plus he was penalised every time he trampled a blade of Camp Nou grass. But the biggest issue with this was Damien Duff’s tired and lackadaisical performance, which meant that our best left wing attack option appeared to be Billy Gallas. Duffers look tired and out of sorts, and one wonders if his ROI appearance last week and a rough and tumble game against West Brom have taken their toll on a player not renowned for his robustness. After 30 minutes it seemed to me that Shaun Wright-Phillips should have been given a chance, Joe Cole moved back to the centre, and Robben returned to drifting down the wings as he can do so effectively.

Apart from a few breathtaking moments of skill from Ronaldinho the game was a fairly tame affair showing the best attributes that any teams would like to have, good passing, good and fair tackling irrespective of what the ref thought and of course world class defending from JT and Carvalho, alongside attacking flair from Barca. Overall, a fair result and one from which we should learn as a team and come back stronger from. Let us not forget that Manure took a number of years to learn the ropes of Champions League football, Airline have yet to master it although this year maybe their best chance yet of progressing beyond the first part of the knockout stage and maybe beyond the quarters. Don’t talk about Liverpool because they fluked last year and everyone knows that 9 times out of ten they’d never recover from a 3 goal deficit by playing 12 minutes of good football in 120.

Jose Mourinho now needs to consider some additional strike power (Shevchenko/Adriano anyone?) to challenge Drogba and force him to lift his game, Crespo should be cherished and persuaded to stay, plus allow Joe Cole to develop his skills to become the Zola like playmaker even if this means his greedy self coming to the fore more often. JM must surely accept that as honourable it is to have a team ethic, really superb and successful teams have stand out players who can make a single piece of magic become the turning point of a game. One only has to look at the greats of the past to see what sort of influence they could have on a game whilst not exactly being the best team performers. Names such as Maradona, Pele, Best, Van Basten, Ronaldo (in his prime) and now Ronaldinho can sometimes disappear, but their sublime skills would often surface for them just for a minute, but long enough to produce something magical to change a game, and that is something we lack at the moment with any consistency. The team has time to grow and let’s not forget that it has only been together for a couple of years in this form. Mistakes can occur and will but we mustn’t get disheartened. Instead like any good boxer who gets dumped on his arse we must get up, go to the corner, gather our thoughts, accept the decision, go away and train harder and come back and use the experience to improve.

And so, just a couple of finishing points. After the game I scanned the various media channels for reaction. The vile anti-Chelsea site of Football 365 could barely contain its glee and still seemed hell bent on portraying JM as undignified and ungracious in defeat, as if this is such an important issue. ITV couldn’t be arsed to stay with the game long enough after the final whistle to form any worthwhile punditry such was its eagerness to maximise its advertising revenue. Last year in glorious victory they treated us with the same level of contempt as they did in defeat this year, giving a good 2-3 minutes to Henrikk Larssen and around 30 seconds to JM before cutting his interview short in order to wrap up their broadcast. Why was this? Was there urgent international breaking news (other than us being knocked off our alleged perch)? No, the news was scheduled for 22:30, but ShiteTV had a programme about the true nature of refereeing. Interesting schedule filler as this may be, but hardly a reason to cut short a broadcast of the nation’s top team in Champions League action is it? God help us should ShiteTV ever win the rights to the Premiership.

I then tuned into You’re on Sky Sports, a sort of low rent/even lower IQ visual version of 5 Live’s 6-0-6 phone in programme. I took the maximum dose of around 20 minutes, after which time your brain will atrophy and you will spend the rest of your days a forlorn and tragic figure, mumbling to yourself and shuffling along the street to sympathetic glances from people thinking “ God, you poor soul, you overdosed on Gary Newbon” . I watched and listened as ShiteTV reject Gary Newbon adopted his best anti-Chelsea, pro-Liverpool, love Airline FC stance and took calls from various morons hell bent on declaring their glee that The Arrogant One had got his come-uppance. I believe to get your call aired on this programme you have to provide full medical proof that you have undergone a full lobotomy, and have a history of having no mates. It also helps if Macdonalds refused to employ you on the basis you were unlikely to achieve even a single star. According to Newbon and the totally ineffective and barely coherent Kevin Ratcliffe we had basically let the country down, despite them being part of the very industry that has decried our achievements from the beginning. Alan Green on 5 Live, normally an intelligent commentator with only a small anti-Chelsea bias seemed determined to put this down as the beginning of the end for the team, and another on the Breakfast show was implying that JM would leave next year if we don’t win in order to go to Spain and prove his worth there. The only sensible comments from any area of the media I witnessed was from Nigel Spackman and from Frank McLintock of all people, both of whom seemed to think that Barcelona edged the match over two legs but that in reality there is a Rizla paper between the teams in terms of strength. As I’ve said before……damned if we do, damned if we don’t.

I’ll be back in the Matthew Harding Lower, gate 13, row V, seat 89 as usual this Saturday. I’ll have my normal chat with the people around me and then, hopefully, we will come out and give Spuds a good tonking as a positive reaction to last nights defeat. Normal Service will be resumed!

Later, GrocerJack

A lazy post to start the week.....

I figure my next real bit of writing will be something to do with the Chelsea vs Barcelona match at the Camp Nou stadium tonight (see pic). Notice the similarity to The Colloseum? Chelsea, the Gladiators are entering the Lion's den. No doubt we'll be reduced to 10 players at some point and play heroically, and no doubt that 90% of the UK football following population will be draped in Barca colours and praying to the Gods of Football to side with Barca and give us upstarts a damn good thrashing. So be it. It appears that the current vogue for anti-Chelsea bile in the press and broadcast media is the price that success brings. Perhaps we need a tragedy to level the sympathy score. Hmmm....I'll take the disliked option I think. Anyway as I prepare my critique for the game my thoughts are pretty much focussed on nothing else. I belive we have a mountain to climb and that Barcelona will be just a little too good for us in light of their first leg lead. Of course this view horrifies some of my fellow Chelsea-loving acquaintances who firmly belive that we will win by 2 or 3 clear goals. I admire their optimism but after 35 years my sense of pessimism over every game is still deeply ingrained within my heart and soul. I belive the game will contain an element of controversy and the only thing that will cause Barcelona to come unstuck is if they adopt a "devil-may-care" attitude that they have already won the tie. Then, just then we might see a Chelsea side determined to do something for much missed son, Peter Osgood (see posts passim) and produce a truly huge upset. One that even matches Liverpools comeback against AC Milan in the final of the same competition last year.

Based on this premise around my sole train of thought being Chelsea oriented today, I thought I'd start with a lazy post using info sent to me last week. Why someone would think this stuff interests me who knows? However it does make good and fluffy material for people to read without any them having to engage their minds in heavy thought.

Ever wonder where the word “SHIT” comes from? Well here it is:

Certain types of manure used to be transported (as everything was years ago) by ship. In dry form it weighed a lot less than when wet, but once water (at sea) hit it, it not only became heavier, but the process of fermentation began again, of which a by-product is methane gas.

As the stuff was stored below decks in bundles you can see what could (and did) happen. Methane began to build up below decks and the first time someone came below at night with a lantern, BOOOOM!

Several ships were destroyed in this manner before it was discovered what was happening. After that, the bundles of manure were always stamped with the term "S.H.I.T" on them. This translated into "Ship High In Transit."

In other words, high enough off the lower decks so that any water that came into the hold would not touch this volatile cargo and start the production of methane.

So, I bet you didn't know the history of that word. Neither did I. I always thought it was a golf term.

Ever wondered why it is only 18 holes of golf..., and not 20, or 10 or an Even dozen? Well during a discussion among the club's membership board at St. Andrews in 1858, one of the members pointed out that it takes exactly 18 shots to polish off a fifth of Scotch. By limiting himself to only one shot of Scotch per hole, the Scots figured a round of golf was finished when the Scotch ran out.

Other trivial facts

· During the 13th century, the word girl meant any young person, whether male or female.

· The sewing machine was patented on July 17, 1790.

· The largest desert in the world is on the continent of Antarctica. The yearly precipitation is only about 2 inches of snow for most of the continent.

· The coldest temperature ever recorded on Earth was in Antarctica? It was 128.6 degrees Fahrenheit below zero

· The worlds first general use electronic computer was completed in 1946. Called ENIAC, it contained about 18,000 vacuum tubes and measured around 8 feet tall and about 78 feet long! Most wristwatches have more processing power than ENIAC had.

· The Pacific Ocean contains about 25,000 islands.

· To protect their eyes from blowing sand, camels have three sets of eyelids.

· If all the gold suspended in the earth's oceans was "mined", there would be enough for every person on earth to receive 9 pounds

And finally, 3 smart-arse quotes to remember....

The graveyards are full of indispensable men." - Charles de Gaulle (1890-1970)

"You can pretend to be serious; you can't pretend to be witty." - Sacha Guitry (1885-1957)

"Behind every great fortune there is a crime." - Honore de Balzac (1799-1850)

Later, GrocerJack

Letters sent to the Editors but never published

My thanks to my Mother in Law, Audrey Roberts for this - I pissed myself and cried with laughter. its been some time since I did that.

Hats off to the England cricketers for their achievements in the Ashes this summer, which rightly earned Andrew 'Freddie' Flintoff the BBC Sports personality of the Year. Winning a two-team tournament against a Nation with a much smaller population once in every ten attempts, then never shutting up about it makes me proud to be British.

Ben Hunt

The government tells us that we are eating too many pies and dying of heart disease, then in the next breath they're telling us we are living too long and there'll be no more pension money left for us.

I wish they'd make their minds up.

John.

'Alton Towers - Where the magic never ends', or so the commercial says. Imagine my disappointment when it closed at 7.30.

Colum Hill

I am married to a Taiwanese lady, and people often ask me if she was a mail-order bride. I find this very insensitive. The Royal Mail loses around 2 million letters and parcels each year, and to suggest that I would trust the delivery of my wife to them is insulting in the extreme. She was sent by DHL next day delivery.

L Palmer, London.

The record companies would have us believe that the money made by CD pirates goes to fund the drug industry. But the money rock stars make from legal record sales ends up in exactly the same place. When they stop breaking the law, so will I.

P Boddington, Ringway

My friend's mum recently pointed out that I have the same ironingboard cover as her. Can anyone think of a more mundane and pointless remark to make than this?

Alun Daniel

I'll never understand my neighbour. He has recently started wheel-clamping his own caravan when he finds he has inadvertently parked it in his own drive! I wonder if he is a sadist, a masochist or both.

Alan Thakray

Did anyone else feel that Mel Gibson's remake of the classic Life of Brian wasn't anywhere near as funny as the original?

Anon

On the BBC website, I read with interest that some scientists in Australia have discovered the smallest fish known to exist. They've obviously never been to the Britannia Chippy on the Gloucester Road.

Alan J., London

Hats off to the American police. They arrive at Michael Jackson's Neverland ranch to arrest him a mere six months after he admits climbing into bed with young boys on worldwide TV. Perhaps they should get some faster cars.

T Barnham, London

The government says that there are nearly 50,000 people with HIV in Britain, a third of who do not even know that they have it. Is it just me, or is it a bit harsh that the government know and haven't told the poor sods?

John Campbell, e-mail

Never mind ventriloquists like Keith Harris and Roger DeCourcey. What about Professor Stephen Hawking? I saw him on telly blathering on about galaxies for hours and I never saw his lips move once. Genius.

Mike Woods, e-mail

With reference to that series "Manhunt" where ex-Special Forces soldiers try to hunt down Andy McNab. Why don't the producers include a couple Of Iraqis in the hunting team? They found the idiot quickly enough the last time he played hide and seek with them.

Shuggie, Email

Hats off to the witty burglars who stole my entire CD collection with the exception of "There is Nothing Left to Lose" by the Foo Fighters. I hope that when sentencing, the judge takes into account their splendid sense of humour.

Chris Scaife, Jesmond

I see on the news that Lord Hutton says he is "satisfied that David Kelly took his own life". He may not have liked Dr Kelly that much, but isn't this taking gloating just a little too far?

Dave Owen, Edinburgh

I was extremely saddened to hear of Richard Whiteley's recent death. But I was cheered to imagine his life support machine making the Famous Countdown "da-da, da-da, da-da-da-da! Booooooo!" sound as he took his final breaths.

Tripod

I never worry about the destination when I'm going on holiday. My dad Is Iranian and my mum is Irish, so I spend most of the time in customs.

Stan

What's all this nonsense about that 66-year-old Romanian woman being he world's oldest mum? My mum's 77. Beat that.

Thomas J

Peter Andre might look smug in all his wedding pictures, but I'd just like to remind him that, as a Daily Star reader, I have seen his wife's tits on numerous occasions. He hasn't seen my wife's, so who's had the last laugh?

P, Leeds

It really annoys me to see these suicide bombers blowing up people as well as themselves. In my day, suicide was done in a more dignified way, such as slicing your wrists in the bath, or hanging yourself from a door with a belt.

Paul Mulraney, Belfast

Could the Home Secretary explain to me how biometric checks on iris patterns and fingerprints are going to help keep tabs on muslim cleric Abu Hamsa.

Les Barnsley

How come rap artist Dr. Dre can use the 'N' word on his multi-million selling albums and win a MOBO award, yet when I used it at my son's football match I was asked to leave the park? Once again, it's one law for the rich and another for the poor.

Reg Ashcroft, Bradford

Later, GrocerJack