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