Hormonal Teenager(s)

One day into the holiday and a flood of tears from Teenager after calling Mini-me (her ...ahem...boyfriend from school). She had suggested that they ....ahem....enjoy their holidays without being tied in eternal love to each other. In other words she wanted a break. At this point she ran out of credit and mis-read that as him slamming the phone down. A quick call from GMD's phone and all was cleared up. The very next day at the pool there were two boys. The eldest was 14, the youngest 11. Matching Teenager and Baby's ages very nicely (they're 13 and 10 respectively). GMD turns to me and say "Jack, do you think our girls are flirting with those boys?". I lifted my head from the book I was reading, observed for a minute and replied in the affirmative. Apparently teenager had inadvertently used a chat up line of "is your little brother as annoying as my little sister?" which isn't half bad is it?

And so began holiday romance #1 for Teenager. The eldest boy M was very polite but not patronisingly so, the youngest B was cheeky but endearingly so. Both will be (are already?) lookers. They're parents W & S were....well...bloody nice actually and so from the fledgling romance a friendship was borne for GMD and me. However one day later new neighbours moved in and with them came their 14 year old - R. R was a bit more rough and ready, a smoker, cheeky, rebellious. And fucking tall. He was a bit of rough. And she patently quite liked it. Within 2 days he had asked Teenager for a drink down the bar, to which confusingly she replied "Don't know", giggled, blushed and ran away. I tried to explain that a straight yes or no is usually better for both parties, but in all honesty it was the FIRST time she had been asked out like that. A day later and he presented her with a belly button ring (yes she is pierced, and yes I tried to object, and yes I was overruled). Way to go R! You don't buy that sort of thing if you haven't got something...ahem..on your mind. And so began (concurrent) holiday romance 2. And neither kid seemed to mind the other. Over the holiday, she made friends with Mikael, James and another kid whose name I have forgotten. Plus a few other girls around the same age. She had become part of the obligatory Teenage Holiday Gang.

But R and M were the boys that caused the giggles, the blushing, the showing off. They were the ones for which she would preen herself for every night for what seemed like bloody hours (hair, makeup, clothes). Each day by the pool she would read her book and complain that the pool was too cold as Baby pleaded for the return of her old playmate. Every day I became Baby's playmate until B turned up. But when M walked in the pool, or R, the book would be dropped, the giggling would start, the play acting began, the faux pushing into the pool became prevalent, the Princess Di gazes appeared, and the water was suddenly warm. It was fascinating to see this awareness scenario played out as it is a time I remember well.

It's also my worst fucking nightmare because I remember what drove me. Girls were interesting, alien, sexy. They had things I wanted to see, touch, feel. Hormones drove me, they also drove the girls. It was time for trying and failing, for persevering for every little advance you could make. They were a challenge to overcome. They became an obsession. And that is what I face from now on, boys knocking at the door. Boys calling on the phone. Boys hanging around in MY house. Boys wanting my daughter. Boys howling at my door in their permanent "season" trying to get to my precious daughters.

All to be doubled up in a few years when Baby transforms into Teenager V2.

As John McLean (Bruce Willis character in Die Hard) would say.

Yippee-kye-ay Motherfucker.

Or as I would say

Whoopee-fucking -doo

Later, Grocerjack.

Left….no right….no left……..errrrr…….oh…….whatever!

I love women. I love their different shapes, their different sizes, their smells, their looks, their reasoning, and their generally lower levels of aggression. I agree with the sentiment that if they held more power in governments across the world then there would be fewer wars and less violence. In every sense I believe women are more or less equal to men. Intellectually they are the same if not more talented than men. Physically they may be restricted in terms of brute strength in such sports as football (women’s football is skill and guile based as opposed to pace and brute strength) or rugby, but in other sports such as golf I see no reason why women should not be able to compete equally. I rejoice that in the UK at least they earn what I do for doing the same job, even if the reality is that this wage parity is more theoretical than actual. Their beauty can illuminate a room, and there is no doubt that today’s woman is far more powerful and emancipated than ever before.

But in at least one area they cannot compete with men. I know I will undoubtedly incur the wrath of many women who read this site, those I know and those I don’t. But it has to be said.

They cannot read maps. They have no sense of spatial or directional awareness. Never let a woman plan a journey. It will only ever lead to tears and shouting.

Tears from her, shouting from you.

For years GMD has lauded me with proud tales of how as a child she would read the maps for The Grand Master when they went on holidays or trips. I was chuffed at this. How handy would this be? A partner who can navigate whilst you concentrate on being Captain Grocerjack, proudly driving your passengers to their holiday destination. Delivering them safely and more or less on time, with stunning entertainment from my home made compilation CD’s, or the alternative of in-drive MP3 players or portable DVD player. Someone to forewarn you of imminent junctions, road changes, road works and diversions in advance.

What I never asked was whether she ever guided The Grand master successfully. A cursory check, but an important one that I missed. The Grand Master doesn’t like to drive long distances to places he doesn’t know, and detests driving abroad. I now know why. He’s scared of where he’ll end up.

Every year I trust her, and every year we have at least one row caused by a mis-reading of the map, or the mis-reading of signposts. This year it took until the 3 days before the end of the holiday, but as sure as eggs is eggs it happened. We had decided to drive to another camp-site in order to view their selection of mobile homes (they’re not Caravans right!). This site was about 75 miles away along the A9 towards, but NOT IN Montpellier. GMD had a local map leading to the site and the larger map of France. The night before I suggested we plan the route…not necessary said she, she’d sort it out in the car. I believed her.

As we enter the city of Montpellier having endured an hours delay on the A9 due to what appeared to be French tree trimmers blocking two lanes I started to wonder. My bafflement was complete when GMD commented “I can’t find the N312 or the D137 on the big map” ….”come to think of it…why haven’t we even seen a sign?” . I pulled over and examined the map. GMD pointed out where she was looking on the big map. “it doesn’t seem to correlate” she said. 10 seconds was all it took for me to determine the issue. She was correlating the local map to a point on the big map that was two inches further east than the place we wanted to be. That’s about 50 miles in real money on the real map that is the French countryside. Move two inches west on the Map back to Beziers and….wait what’s this….fuck me it’s the destination we require! I said this in the most diplomatic and loving husband way I could think of which means it probably came out as “ You stupid fucking cow, we’re meant to be here, not here” accompanied by jabbing fingers into the maps. I turned the car round and we headed back. Tension was now steadily mounting and I exaggerated every gear change whilst apologising to Captain Grocerjacks passengers, the kids. I figured about an hour back to where we should be but hen for some bizarre reason I accepted GMD’s recommendation that we bypass the A9 and use the N112m (their equivalent to an A road), despite knowing the A9 would be clear going back west.

We hit traffic at Frontignan, and then sat for an hour in Sete, and a further 30 minutes to drive along Marseillan Plage ( about 8 miles of endless sandy beach, no shops, no promenade and hundreds of Dutch and French camper vans parked next to it, with awnings out and full table chair sets set out for lunch). Yes, we had left at 7:45 and it was now midday and France was having its lunch. Another wrong turn took us up the N312 in the opposite direction to Vias, where the camp-site holiday parc is located. Finally, after another huffed and puffed gear change, followed by some unnecessary anger motivated acceleration inclusive of passenger apology, she broke. She flung the map down, tears streamed out, and a volley of stuff like “I don’t know where we are, you fucking find the way……etc etc”. An aggressive u-turn and associated hand signals to other drivers followed. I shouted back, more tears.

And then finally, the admission. The moment she then said she knew she’d cocked up. She’d known back at Montpellier. Then silence as we slowly but surely negotiated the local instructions to arrive at the camp-site holiday parc at 12:30. 4 hours, 45 minutes to do 75 miles. Put this into context. The journey back took 1 hour and 15 minutes exactly.

How the hell we were ever in the mood to then actually commit to buying a caravan holiday home I will never know. From now on all journey planning is down to me, and she will do any tactical stuff en route if diversions are in place.

Please, for your own sake, and your sanity, don’t let your wife/girlfriend/daughter read your map. It’ll just end in tears.

Later, Captain GrocerJack

Samedi Noir

Thats what the French call it.

Shit Sandwich is what I would call it, and I took the biggest bite.

The first weekend of August in France is known as Samedi Noir (Black Saturday). This is the weekend that any part of France not working in a bar, restaurant, on a beach, in a club or in any part of the "tourist" industry packs their bags, loads up the car, or more often than not the bloody great camper van and heads en masse to the South of the country. In all fairness, if the climatic difference was so pronounced in the UK I could understand us doing a similar thing, however NOT on the same fucking day. My schedule was simple, get to Le Havre about 13:30, drive to Limoges about 350 miles away, using peage where possible, average about 60/70 miles per hour and get to the stopover hotel for around 8 in the evening. I'd even got a route that avoided skirting Paris.

However the route then took me through French village after French village during their Friday evening rush hour, so any potential gain by avoiding Paris was lost by being stuck in local traffic for local people. It still amazes me how driving through these places you don't see any French people. They're like ghost towns. The suburban French equivalent of the Marie Celeste.

The we hit the A10 heading south. Relief surged through me for about 5 minutes until we hit the ......traffic. The first tranche of the people heading to the south was already out. In the end we got to the hotel at 23:00, a miscalculation of around 3 hours on my part. Too late for dinner, so we feasted on service station rolls instead. I'll give them their due, they're not bad and they are cheaper by some distance than our service station bread based snack foods.

The next day we left at 10 in the morning and I hit the gas, still oblivious to the time of year. I had estimated arrival at around 4pm at the camp site, including a supermarket stop for food etc for the mobile home.

Yeah right.

At around 2pm I joked with Baby that she might not get a swim as we might be too late. We had made good time and the fuel consumption was around 57mpg, and according to the computer I was around 150 miles from an empty tank. Then we hit the A9, the main east-west road across the bottom of France. And we stopped. And we crawled. And crawled. And stopped some more. The computer (hereinafter known as HAL, in tribute to the finest big screen computer ever) then decided to tell me we had 75 miles left to an empty tank as it re-calibrated in the 35 degrees of heat and the snails pace (an insult to snails in fact). 75 miles of range lost in a second as HAL decided to play its mind games. But hope was in sight at the next service station. Fine, we would be late, but I could at least fill the car up.

Wrong. So very wrong.

In this service station from hell, there was one diesel pump open. One hose, feeding both sides of the pump. And a delta shape of lorries, vans, camper vans and cars all pushing towards it in a complete free for all. On top of that there was one cashier dealing with each transaction and only releasing the pump when the previous customer had paid in full. In all about 75 vehicles all pushing to the singularity of the diesel pump. One thing was for sure, this pump would not be working by the time I got there. I just knew they were on the verge of running out and being part of any ensuing riot was not part of the plan. Why else would the other 6 pumps be closed, and the 2 truck specific ones unless they knew what was about to happen?

It took an hour to extricate my car from the delta crowd. And no, I was no closer to the oasis of Diesel promised by the singularity pump. We left the station, tempers fraying, tension rising and got back onto the A9. HAL now said we had 50 miles left to empty tank. I knew we had around 45 miles to go. Diesel burning away with progress being made at a particluarly fat and lazy snails pace. The car's life blood was draining away bit by bit. 4 lanes of Highway Hell. The CD blurted out Chris Rea's "Road to Hell". I skipped it forward, not needing to be reminded that running out of diesel on a packed foreign motorway would not be good. How would the recovery people get anywhere close? And being a diesel you just can't refill it from empty. It would be expensive, embarassing, frightening for the kids, bloody inconvenient and most of all fucking stupid. Then I saw the sign "Sortie 41 - 20km". We needed to be at Sortie 42 but I figured that I could get off here, hopefully fill up in Perpignan centre and then drive the back routes to Argeles.

20km, thats all.
20km, doesn't seem far.

But when you're running out of fuel, the beads of sweat falling despite the aircon, the worried looks and furrowed brows of GMD and myself barely masking our faux nonchalance to the kids, believe me 20km is the same distance as it is to the Moon. HAL now said 15 miles left to empty tank. How I prayed it was wrong. How I despised my trusting this silicon chip fuel measurement device. If it had a voice, it would have been saying "I'm Sorry Jack, that is not possible" in it's gently threatening manner. At this point I started to question my policy of seeing just what the range on the car was from full with the whole family dependent on it.

I tried cheating via the hard shoulder but a French trucker, no friend of humanity and compassion stopped me dead in my tracks by blocking me. If i had run out there and then, I'd be in jail now for the murder of a french trucker with my bare hands. Finally after 2 hours, yes two hours to do the 20km we made it to Perpignan. Into the Carrefour supermarket station d'essence only to find out the card machines would not work. Fuming I reversed back through the queue for fuel and switched to the cashier lane. They don't like it up 'em the French! Finally, just like when you release the longest piss in the world, the one you've been holding onto for the whole day, the relief as the diesel flooded into the car was met with a longing sigh. 70 litres it took. 70 whole litres.

It's capacity?

70 fucking litres. I could have kissed the car with tongues for getting us that far. We arrived on camp at 7:30 pm with me shaking visibly under the very stress this holiday was supposed to be immune to. 17 and a half fucking hours to do what took around 10 last time in total. Never again will I fall into that trap.

Amazing how 7 pints of Amstel and a bottle of Red soon put paid to the stress.

Beware Samedi Noir.

Later, Grocerjack

Return of The Jack

Christ what a piss poor title, but it just appealed at the time. Anyway, after my 3 week plus sojourn to the South of France, I'm back, refreshed and rejuvenated.

Or so you'd think.

Somehow, when driving home on Friday the mood went from one of "great holiday, lovely break" to "shit, back to the daily drudgery of normal life". And that feeling grew greater over the weekend as I realised that once again I would see my family in the evenings only and at weekends, instead of every day. The time spent with Teenager and Baby has been most precious and enjoyable of all. It's almost like I got to know them all over again and each day I was left smiling like a demented Bonnie Langford at the sheer joy of being near them and sharing their fun.

So, the mood is down, but undoubtedly will improve as time goes on. Things to tell you about will follow as and when time allows but some headlines

1.) Why driving down on the first weekend of August is not a good thing to do in France
2.) Why women should not try and read maps
3.) Teenager experiencing being hunted by other boys, and ...errrr.....loving it
4.) Buying a mobile home
5.) Crap books
6.) Baby overcoming her fear of the Sea
7.) Dutch/German/French camper van population explosion
8.) Near forest fire, and how they start
9.) Jailbait (a warning for other members of the GoGB)

and more as I recall it ...........

Later, GrocerJack

And so it's time to bid farewell for just over 3 weeks as I depart these shores for a nice holiday in the South of France. Argeles to be precise. So in the meantime I will leave you with a nice picture by JMW Turner called The Fighting Temeraire. I may have posted this before, but its one of my favourites so unlucky, you'll have to live with it! Au Revoir, GrocerJacques 

Far be it from me to criticise my Mancunian brethren, especially those who support the "red" team based in that splendid city. However, doesn't this just sum up who the real fan base of Manure FC is? Later, GrocerJack 

The longest week

....has started.

This is the week that we all know.

Its the one before you go on holiday.

In your heart and soul you're already there. Already on the beach, by the pool, strolling through bustling french (....insert country name here) markets, already sitting outside the street cafe positioned near the artists displays, waiting for the bottle of chilled red wine to be delivered, with the foaming bubbling ice cold glass of Leffe to be used as the immediate thirst quencher. Already browsing lazily through the menu toiling over what to choose from as the delicious smells from the kitchen waft past. Already choosing fresh meat for the barbecue outside tonight, choosing the salad accompaniment as various market traders foist there wares on you to taste just why theirs is better than anyone else's.

A week when you're already wearing less clothes, smiling because the sun is on your back and you're not at work, so you can actually enjoy it. A week when you're already reading all those books you want to catch up on, already listening in depth to all those new albums downloaded to your mp3 player. A week where the daily news is something happening elsewhere and you can switch off the brain. A week where you're already relaxing and recharging.

No wonder its such fucking torture.

Later, GrocerJack

Friday Mind Games

Go to this Philosophy site and have a go at the games. My favourite was "Staying Alive". Apparenty I survived.

Later, GrocerJack

Impressive

The sidebar states "I'm Listening To : Employment by The Kaiser Chiefs". I....ahem.....downloaded this from my favourite eccentric BitTorrent site and frankly it's fucking fantastic. As good as the debut albums from Franz Ferdinand and Evanescence in fact, and yet another nail in the coffin of the view that good music is confined to the dance bollocks of Garage, Hip-hop, Drum n' Bass, the faux R&B being spouted etc etc.

Real music from real bands using real instruments.

Anyway without doing a review I highly recommend this album, and judging by the performances I saw on TV from Glastonbury and Live 8, they look pretty shit hot live as well.

Just thought you'd like to know.

Later KaiserJack

Missed Opportunities

Picture the scene.

Early 1960's and you've just left school. You think you want to work in the building trade, but without getting your hands dirty. Something like surveying or planning perhaps.

A job for life, because back in the Sixties, jobs were for life. Back in the Sixties you could leave your job in the morning and be in gainful employment in the afternoon.

So, after some careful thought you decide that college is the best route, after all you weren't quite academic enough for University. University was after all for the posher kids. Or those that went to grammar schools. You went to a grammar school but never really felt comfortable there. All of your friends went down the road to the Secondary Modern. That's where "workers" and "tradesmen" came from. Not from some fucking poncey grammar school, feeding elitism and breeding wimps.

You disliked grammar school but there was a salvation there. You made friends with some like minded kids of the the same age and formed a band. Yeah, a real band playing rock 'n' roll music with guitars and drums. Elvis and the pre-pious cliff were ruling the new hit parade. The Sixties were going to be a fast and furious decade of change, where the post war austerity of Britain, steeped in decades of age related hierarchy, where older people knew best and younger people aspired to be their parents, sat awkwardly alongside the very fledgling rebellious movements of teenage dreams and aspirations. Why should things be the same? Why fight a war and carry on as before? The band would be the route out.

Then school came to an end. You were a "man" now. Expected to work proper and contribute to the household finances. To find a nice girl, get a good job, have kids, buy a house, get a car.

Be normal.

So you go to college to get your building qualifications.

And one night you get a knock at the door. Standing at the door are your two mates from the band at school.

"Hello mate. We're forming a new band and we need a bass guitarist. Obviously we thought of you......fancy joining us"

"Oh yeah, what full time like?"

"Yeah, full time, proper stuff, writing our own songs, performing live. We wanna be big. And rich and famous"

"Well, it is tempting, but .....no thanks....I think I'll stick to college and get my building exams under my belt"

....some haggling continues for a while..........

"Alright mate, your choice. We'll find someone else. See you around"

"Cheers lads, yeah see you around"

You shut the door, you sigh. That was the logical choice wasn't it? Mum and Dad would have wanted you to make that choice. It was the safe bet. You'd have a job for life in the building trade. Yeah....it was the right choice.

But deep inside, there is a nagging feeling. Something tapping away all the time. You struggle with it for a few weeks, but in the end it subsides.

You were right all along.

And that my friends is how my Father in Law, The Grand Master himself, failed to become the bass guitarist in a band with his best mates from school.

Best mates that just happened to be Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend.

A band they called The Who.

They got some guy called John Enwhistle in the end, who died having just shagged some gorgeous hooker, having sniffed a pile of Charlie and drunk a bottle of wine.

I guess The Grand Master is laughing last now, being that he's still alive. But you can't help thinking about what he missed. I know he's had a good life, with lovely daughters, lovely grandchildren, great Son-in-Laws *jack takes a bow* and job security, but inside there must be just the tinge of curiosity about what might have been.

Later, Grocerjack

Male Conundrum

So, Shagger Jude Law is up to his tricks again, having knobbed his childrens Nanny whilst still declaring an apparent undying love to the gorgeous Siena Miller. Not happy with having driven Sadie Frost a bit mad with his ....ahem........off screen "rehearsals" he seems intent on hitting the self destruct button on his relationship again.

All for a quick shag apparently.

So a rich, apparently talented, good looking, single (but engaged) bloke makes the news because his knob rules his head and heart.

The answers simple. He's a fucking bloke. It's what we do.

For this selfish act alone, allowing his worse nature to run his life, and then to bleat about it afterwards having been gratified he is immediately accepted into the Guild of Grumpy Blokes.



Later, GrocerJack

Blogger Problems

Simple question for those in the blogosphere.

Or not, as the case may be.

I use Firefox as my browser. On my work laptop I can login with no problem, but on the home machine Blogger just refuses my username and password? Anyone any ideas as to why? If I use the "auto-complete" function and "password manager" it fails, as does manual entry of both.

Any help is much appreciated.

Later, GrocerJack

Dubious dig at The French

I know the Anglo-French slanging match is puerile and childish. In fact I love France, the french, the culture, the lifestyle and everything about the country (bar their ......ahem....music). But I couldn't help finding this dubious spoof news item amusing.......

Prime Minister Chirac has officially raised the French terror alert from "Run" to "Hide". There are only two higher alert levels in France, which are "Surrender" and "Collaborate".

The rise was precipitated by a recent fire which destroyed France's white flag factory - effectively crippling their military .

Plus tard, GrocerJacques

Twat

At noon yesterday I left the *yawn* Change Management Workshop, with my fellow Change Planning Managers to stand outside and observe the silence in honour of those that died last week in the London bombings. As we walked silently past the in-house cafe and walked into the car park, heads bowed. Some stopped in the cafe and watched the BBC news coverage on the huge plasma screen TV's adorning the walls. Silence.

Broken, by laughter. Then followed by loud voices. Discussing how to apply the "MOOD methodology to The Company's High Tech Pipes, Tubes and Strings department". For fucks sake you knobs! Cold stares did nothing. Fingers held over lips made no difference.

Why?

Because The Officer is a twat. The Stumbler should know better. Their guest was a flash suited salesman making his pitch. As if he even gave a shit. He had potential pound signs in his eyes, no doubt putting his commission above all else. Wanker. But The Officer continued, rabbiting on about deploying Six-Sigma strategies, about RAEW/RAECI analyses. About "Systems Engineering thinking patterns". At some point about a minute in - flash SalesCunt seemed to have a moment of revelation, as did The Stumbler. Both looked embarrassed and suitably self-admonished. But The Officer carried on regardless. The silence was over. He had talked all the way through, continually using his hand signal speech marks to "quote" his phrases. As we stood outside all we heard faintly was this fucking monkey-brained cunt, inflated with his own self importance, wallowing in his smart-arsedness, flushed with an ego the size of Everest, talking complete and utter gobbledygook bollocks arsewankspeak.

Why didn't anyone say anything? Because we'd have to break the silence to do so. Because we're British and our over-riding sense of politeness steers us down a path of non-confrontation. Because we happily hold wankers likely this in silent contempt. Apparently someone did comment to him that he was "out of order". His alleged reply was along the lines of ".....sorry old boy...never realised...never mind......tragic wasn't it......" before walking off to god knows where.

Sometimes you just wish there was a rogue bolt of lightning around to help re-adjust his priorities.

Later, Grocerjack

Big Statement

I've been a critic of "silences" held as tributes previously simply because I felt it was getting out of hand. Silences as tributes or ceremonies of remembrance seemed to be a way of a moral majority attempting to emotionally blackmail people into emulating a politically correct method of behaviour. I mean, Ken Bigley was a man working in Iraq trying to make money and had presumably accepted the risk of kidnapping and murder, and had presumably done a risk assessment and consequently assessed that he and his colleagues did not need to live in a secure compound as recommended by the Security Services. As devastating as his death was to his family I was not convinced of the need for a minutes silence in remembrance of someone who was essentially a mercenary and not someone who had died whilst in active service. Why hold one for Ken Bigley, but not for Sergeant Steve Roberts - killed because he relinquished his body armour under orders?

However, my mind might have been changed yesterday about some of these silences. The one that seemed to cover the UK yesterday at noon, one which I gladly honoured, was an incredibly powerful moment to behold, as well as an incredibly powerful statement seen and shared around the world. We are not a Latin race, and therefore don't seem to take to the streets in the same way as our Spanish compatriots did after the awful Madrid bombing last year. In it's own way that was also undoubtedly emotional and powerful. So powerful, in fact, it got the government changed. However, the reaction was that of (understandable) hysteria. The difference to us Brits is remarkable.

Yesterday, Britain stopped for 2 minutes. Cars stopped, buses stopped, aircraft take-offs were delayed, trains stopped on the line, workers left their workplaces and stood on the streets, not only of London, but over the whole country. Unity was the overwhelming message. Poignant scenes from Trafalgar Square where Muslim, Jew, Sikh, Hindu and Christian stood side by side in silent condemnation. This was not only condemnation of the bombers, but of their beliefs, their radicalism, their twisting of the Qu'ran, their warped spin on the words of their God and their methods. It was a condemnation of the belief that life can be taken in order to impose a way of life on a free nation.

But equally stunning was watching the BBC news 24 coverage. The images of those stood in calm silence from around the UK was even more moving when viewed in retrospect, the power of the silent statement shown in full glory. But in a brilliant touch, they added the sights of Paris on Bastille day in silence, graciously acknowledging both our dead, and their condemnation of terrorism. Anglo-French childish spats laid to rest for a few moments, backed up by generous words from Jacques Chirac, a man more reknowned for his open contempt and dislike for all things British (barring our tourism money of course). Berlin sat silent as well, underground trains stopped in stations with doors open, their human contents stood motionless. The people in Madrid and Barcelona also quietened in tribute. BBC News 24 seemed to have an endless supply of shots from around the world of people sharing Britain's grief, but more so united in a single act of silent defiance. All generated by us, our people, our culture, our diversity, our determination to carry on as normal.

I have knocked this country many a time on the blog for its faults and flaws, but yesterday was the first time in a very long time that I actually stood and felt proud of being British. Yesterday I re-discovered something about this country and its people that I had forgotten existed. For the first time I saw the spirit of the blitz in full glory. And it felt good.

Later, Grocerjack

Like a Fish needs a bicycle.......

Whilst I was over at Strings place somehow or another he managed to sell me a new bike...........when I'm skint saving for next months sojourn to the South of France (wearing my Back the Bid t-shirt of course). Did he put something in the beer to make this unscheduled sale? He is facing redundancy next year and I think if he can sell me a bike when all I wanted was my old one bought up to scratch then he has a big future is Sales.

Mind you its a fucking nice bike.

All part of the plan to allow GMD to sanction the purchase of a big boys motorbike so that Jack can return to his rebellious thirty-something years.....

I always wanted a Kawasaki ZZR1100, but these days I do have a hankering for a Harley. Is it because I'm at Radio 2 age?

Later, GrocerJack

Seriously.......

Over to Strings place last night for some remedial work on my bike, which I have resolved toi use more in order to get some exerceise and remove myself from the prison cell of my car. I live ina village and really there's no reason not to use the bike more.

We chat for a while and the subject of Live 8 comes up, us both being big music fans.

"....I liked Pink Floyd....." says Strings......." but Comfortably Numb was slightly ruined by one thing..."

"Oh yeah..." says I"...what would that be then...." slightly indignant that anyone has the temerity to criticise these masters of stagecraft and musicianship.

"Well......." he continued whilst twiddling with various nuts and bolts on the bike".....Mrs Strings came in halfway through and said ...."this is good....who is it?"........"

"Why it's Pink Floyd" he replied to his beloved
" Oh......."she replies "...well why are they performing a Scissor Sisters song then?"

*groans in pain*
**sighs with sadness that this is how a new generation would have thought of this**
***smiles, because its a great story which will last me for years***

Later, Grocerjack

Blogger ...my friend...my enemy....

Hmmm.......Blogger seems to be having some issues at the moment. One minute it's fine, the next it doesn't recognize either my login or my password or a combination of both. The trouble is that as it's a free service, and I'm bloody tight fisted I can't really go anywhere and complain. Therefore, in a week where I feel I have a gobful of crass, insensitive, emotional, sharp, witty, uncouth etc etc comments to make I may find myself constrained by the fortunes of Blogger.

*kicks side of computer in frustration*
**moans as computer now make rather a loud whining noise**

Later, GrocerJack

How did the golf go then Jack?

Yeah, like any of you give a fucking shit. Anyway because at least one person might be interested, I played a shocker on the Sunday going round the PGA National course at The Belfry. After all the good of the previous week in Devon, and even a reasonable score on the relentlessly difficult West Course at Wentworth I had a complete fucking nightmare on this course. Golf can be a right cunt of a game vecause just when you think you're eaking at the right time, along comes a course that will reduce you to almost tears. Needless to say, that night I decided to play it safe for the big game on The Brabazon course. Nothing too lairy, nothing to stupid, just a nice relaxing meal, courtesy of The Company because it was their event.

So, I drank Stella for the first time in god knows how long, mixed up nicely with some white wine, followed by copious amounts of red. At 12:30 (am) I was bollocksed. Kidneys and liver silently screaming at me to stop. A complete failure in the control system between brain and mouth had occuered from about 11 that evening. I was finally persuaded to quiot when it became apparent that the native Kyrzygstani that I had started to speak was not helping my social skills, nor my ability to order another large portion of AlcoPoison.

Lets also state that The Belfry, nice as it is, is not exactly a ....ahem...target rich environment so best behavioural emergency brain/mouth protocols were subconciously applied. During the course of this evening there was a highlight, well from a golf perspective anyway. The organisor announced the arrival of the mystery speaker - a Mr Sandy Jones. For the uninitiated he is the Chairman of the European PGA, which is just about the top job in golf, alongside the equivalent for the USGA (coz the yanks think they invented the sport). So what I hear you say. Well, here's what...........he bought along the actual Ryder Cup. The trophy that Europe so convincingly won again last year in America. We all had our photo taken with it, in a presentation frame, to keep, for fuck all. I even got to pick it up and hold it aloft. Not a bad little bonus to say the least. Sandy Jones himself was both funny and articulate and actually seemed to enjoy taking the time to personally talk to us hackers afterwards at the bar. A top geezer.

Next day , we were teeing off at 8 in the morning on the Brabazon course, where Europe took the trophy from the yanks in 1999. Fantastic. Our group started on the 18th which meant we finished on the 17th. But as we had to walk past the 18th to get back to the clubhouse this also meant we might as well play the 18th again for fun. So we did. A great course, far more enjoyable for my level than the Wentworth West Course (did I mention I played that last week?). And belive me the anasthtic affect of the night before worked a treat as I had a very respectable round to erase the memopry of the shite from the day before. So, 2 rounds of golf, 3 meals, overnight accomodation, free wine on the tables, a photo with the Ryder Cup, a goody bag with golf gifts to the value of around £80....all for the princely sum of £100. Sometimes , like I say, the hypocrisy of working for The Company and having to put up with utter fuckwits for most of the day can be worth it.

Later, GrocerJack

Not just London Suffers

Yesterdays dreadful attacks in London have really soured what seemed to be a an uplifting and happy week in which to be a citizen within a society within this green, wet, occasionally warm sceptred island we call Britain. A remarkable island, based on a rich variety of creeds and cultures, developed over years by the (sometimes uneasy) co-existence of different races and beliefs. This co-existence is not always harmonious but time breeds familiarity, which in turn pisses over the fire of contempt caused by misunderstandings and ignorance. The prime example is The Romans. They came and they conquered but ultimately after many years Roman culture became integrated with Anglo-Saxon culture, not replacing it, but merging it to form something new over generations.

Evolution not revolution.

So, yesterdays cowardly acts did not attack Londoners as an isolated group as some commentators in the blogosphere would seem to be indicating. Understandably as London based bloggers they feel the pain, suffering, shock and fear at a closer range than many of us. However, speaking as an London ex-pat who still has far more years behind him of living in London than the (sunny?) South Coast my own feeling is that London was not attacked yesterday as a city, nor were Londoners attacked as residents of a fabulous city which, in the words of Bono at Live Aid in 1985, like all cities has it’s good and it’s bad.

No, the attack was on Britain. It was aimed at you, and me. At our friends and family. Against those we love, like and even dislike. Peoples sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers. It was aimed at the way we live, the way we work, the way we play, the way we think, the way we pray. It was an attack on our freedom, our independence and our ability to make choices. It was an attack on our society and our choices to live our lives as we choose within the realms of generally fair and just laws. By hitting London they hit us all and as stoic as Londoners will be, and as united as they will undoubtedly become, this is merely a euphemism for Brits as a whole, be they black, white, blue or fucking green. To the perpetrators of this obscenity remember this - the harder you hit us the more we will stand in your face and stare right into your souls. You have forgotten one thing. We are as fucking hard as we think. And we don’t need anyone else’s army.

We’re not scared, but the people who support, fund, plan and carry out this shite fucking should be.

Read the increasingly impressive Ken Livingstone’s stirring and passionate speech here.

Later, GrocerJack