Thursday 10 December 2009
Fancy a wee dram o' Englitch?
I have long maintained that Scotch whisky is, like the bagpipes, a weapon of war that's used against the English. How odd, then, that the auld enemy are now producing their own version.
Bah humbug
I'm in the Christmas mood. Not the nostalgic, snowy, tinselly, warm and excited mood that other people seem to find themselves in at this time of year. My Christmas mood is a much darker place. A blue kind of place.
This is the time of year when I just want to hibernate; to disappear and not come back until it's all over. But I can't. It would be selfish. It would hurt other people's feelings. It would worry the people I love.
So I try to enter into the spirit of things. I shop till I drop (and I hate shopping at the best of times); wrap gifts and write cards to family, friends, colleagues, people I never see from one year's end to the next; decorate the tree and hang a Christmas wreath on the front door. And that's all OK - but at the back of my mind is the knowledge that, when Christmas itself arrives, I will not be doing what I want to do. I'll be doing what other people want me to do.
When I was growing up, Christmas was always a family time. As in "family only", no friends allowed. Most years we travelled to my grandparents' home, which was so far from our home that we couldn't have seen our friends anyway. Like most families I guess, forced together and with so much to prepare and do, there were niggles and arguments. Sometimes full-blown rows, often resentful silences.
Then later, as an adult, I moved even further away. With only two days' holiday, I would drive for 12 hours to get "home" for Christmas, spend Christmas Day with my family, then drive for 12 hours back again. It wasn't acceptable to spend Christmas on my own, you see. Even though that really was what I wanted to do. And besides, it was much easier for me to travel, being on my own, than it would have been for everyone else (kids and all) to pack up and come to my house.
I did eventually put my foot down and for three or four years stayed in my own home for Christmas; relaxing, having Christmas dinner with friends and trying to reassure my family via telephone that no, I wasn't lonely I was just fine thank you. Enjoying myself actually.
But I'm not single any more. So this year, it's back to doing what everybody else wants to do. Two Christmas Days - one for him and me, then a repeat performance when his clan visit on Boxing Day. Then the following day we have a five-hour drive to his mum's and the day after that we've got a three-hour drive to take his mum to his brother's, and the day after that we drive home. And I just want to hibernate. And my family will want to know how come we can do all this for his family, but don't want to visit them.
The local church put a leaflet through my door the other day. It said "Is your Christmas in danger of becoming just a weekend of turkey and television?" Believe me, I wish it was.
This is the time of year when I just want to hibernate; to disappear and not come back until it's all over. But I can't. It would be selfish. It would hurt other people's feelings. It would worry the people I love.
So I try to enter into the spirit of things. I shop till I drop (and I hate shopping at the best of times); wrap gifts and write cards to family, friends, colleagues, people I never see from one year's end to the next; decorate the tree and hang a Christmas wreath on the front door. And that's all OK - but at the back of my mind is the knowledge that, when Christmas itself arrives, I will not be doing what I want to do. I'll be doing what other people want me to do.
When I was growing up, Christmas was always a family time. As in "family only", no friends allowed. Most years we travelled to my grandparents' home, which was so far from our home that we couldn't have seen our friends anyway. Like most families I guess, forced together and with so much to prepare and do, there were niggles and arguments. Sometimes full-blown rows, often resentful silences.
Then later, as an adult, I moved even further away. With only two days' holiday, I would drive for 12 hours to get "home" for Christmas, spend Christmas Day with my family, then drive for 12 hours back again. It wasn't acceptable to spend Christmas on my own, you see. Even though that really was what I wanted to do. And besides, it was much easier for me to travel, being on my own, than it would have been for everyone else (kids and all) to pack up and come to my house.
I did eventually put my foot down and for three or four years stayed in my own home for Christmas; relaxing, having Christmas dinner with friends and trying to reassure my family via telephone that no, I wasn't lonely I was just fine thank you. Enjoying myself actually.
But I'm not single any more. So this year, it's back to doing what everybody else wants to do. Two Christmas Days - one for him and me, then a repeat performance when his clan visit on Boxing Day. Then the following day we have a five-hour drive to his mum's and the day after that we've got a three-hour drive to take his mum to his brother's, and the day after that we drive home. And I just want to hibernate. And my family will want to know how come we can do all this for his family, but don't want to visit them.
The local church put a leaflet through my door the other day. It said "Is your Christmas in danger of becoming just a weekend of turkey and television?" Believe me, I wish it was.
Monday 7 December 2009
Singing Soldiers should wear uniform
Rubbish. You don't see our military bands playing concerts in civvies - and they are paid to perform.
The artists who perform at the Royal Variety Performance don't receive a fee, as all the money goes to charity.The Soldiers' CD was recorded to raise money for military charities, including Help for Heroes.It's only right that they should wear their uniforms when they play for the Queen, who is the head of our armed forces.
Thursday 19 November 2009
It's charity ... but it's boring
Thank goodness that's over. I know it's for a good cause and everything - but the annual Children in Need auction for things money can't buy is... well, dull actually.
Oh, the "lots" on offer were fantastic - a makeover from Gok Wan, a walk-on part in Marple, a piano lesson from Jamie Cullum, etc. And the auction raised hundreds of thousands for charity. But why does it always have to go on for so long? Despite Terry Wogan's best efforts, it's never going to be great radio. A bit like juggling, or mime.
And why do people bother putting in bids for £1,000 at the beginning of the auction, when it's obvious that a two-week cruise and cooking lessons with celeb chef Marco Pierre White is going to raise 20 times that amount? If you've got £20,000 to spend, why not wait until nearer the end before lodging your bid? And if you haven't got that kind of cash - don't bother bidding at all.
The organisers should set a starting price for each lot, then ask people to start bidding. "We've got an invitation for two people to go to Neil Diamond's Christmas party in his home. The starting price is £30,000. Phone now." Then, after ten minutes, accept the highest bid.
Cut out all the desperate fake excitement, play us some tunes and give us the usual witty banter. And you still rake in loads of cash for charity. Chris Evans, please note.
Oh, the "lots" on offer were fantastic - a makeover from Gok Wan, a walk-on part in Marple, a piano lesson from Jamie Cullum, etc. And the auction raised hundreds of thousands for charity. But why does it always have to go on for so long? Despite Terry Wogan's best efforts, it's never going to be great radio. A bit like juggling, or mime.
And why do people bother putting in bids for £1,000 at the beginning of the auction, when it's obvious that a two-week cruise and cooking lessons with celeb chef Marco Pierre White is going to raise 20 times that amount? If you've got £20,000 to spend, why not wait until nearer the end before lodging your bid? And if you haven't got that kind of cash - don't bother bidding at all.
The organisers should set a starting price for each lot, then ask people to start bidding. "We've got an invitation for two people to go to Neil Diamond's Christmas party in his home. The starting price is £30,000. Phone now." Then, after ten minutes, accept the highest bid.
Cut out all the desperate fake excitement, play us some tunes and give us the usual witty banter. And you still rake in loads of cash for charity. Chris Evans, please note.
Knickers in a twist over M&S ad
The loopy radical feminist minority are at it again. This time they're offended by a scene in Marks and Spencer's Christmas TV ad, when Philip Glenister (aka DCI Gene Hunt) says Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without ... "that girl prancing around in her underwear." The ad then cuts to that girl prancing around in her underwear, who says "Moi?".
The Advertising Standards Authority is looking into eight complaints that the ad is sexist. Hmm. That's kinda the point of this one little scene - Glenister is reprising his highly successful and highly popular role as the fabulously unreconstituted 70s/80s sexist geezer. Marks and Spencer sell knickers. And "that girl" has been prancing around in her M&S scanties at Christmas for several years now. It's post-modern irony!
Here's what M&S should say to the complainers: Put your knickers on and make us a cup of tea.
The Advertising Standards Authority is looking into eight complaints that the ad is sexist. Hmm. That's kinda the point of this one little scene - Glenister is reprising his highly successful and highly popular role as the fabulously unreconstituted 70s/80s sexist geezer. Marks and Spencer sell knickers. And "that girl" has been prancing around in her M&S scanties at Christmas for several years now. It's post-modern irony!
Here's what M&S should say to the complainers: Put your knickers on and make us a cup of tea.
Friday 13 November 2009
Turned off by traffic alerts
What's going on with the BBC's Traffic Alerts system? It's always been a bit of a pain when the TA thing cuts in at a much higher volume than the CD or radio station I'm listening to while driving. But its usefulness always outweighed the nuisance factor.
But this week it's driving me bananas. I've been receiving traffic reports from numerous local radio stations all over the country, one after the other. Earlier this week while I was stuck in a long queue I learned about the traffic in Sussex and Berkshire - but am still none the wiser as to what was holding up my journey in Hampshire. This morning, five stations blared at me in the space of 15 minutes.
I don't need to know what's going on in the next county along, or the one next to that. I don't care if there's a hold-up 100 miles away. I just want to know whether I need to take an alternative route to work!
Oh, and I just want the traffic report. I don't want to hear all the inane chat before and after the traffic report, between the Smashy & Nicey-style local radio DJ bloke and some simpering, giggling girly.
But this week it's driving me bananas. I've been receiving traffic reports from numerous local radio stations all over the country, one after the other. Earlier this week while I was stuck in a long queue I learned about the traffic in Sussex and Berkshire - but am still none the wiser as to what was holding up my journey in Hampshire. This morning, five stations blared at me in the space of 15 minutes.
I don't need to know what's going on in the next county along, or the one next to that. I don't care if there's a hold-up 100 miles away. I just want to know whether I need to take an alternative route to work!
Oh, and I just want the traffic report. I don't want to hear all the inane chat before and after the traffic report, between the Smashy & Nicey-style local radio DJ bloke and some simpering, giggling girly.
Wednesday 11 November 2009
"Journalism" for illiterate morons
So, the backlash has at last started against the Sun, for its coverage of grieving mother Jacqui Janes and her letter from the Prime Minister.
Mrs Janes' soldier son, Jamie, was killed in Afghanistan. She feels angry and she is speaking out against the government, who she blames for Jamie's death. Anger and blame are natural parts of the grieving process. Her argument against Gordon Brown's hand-written letter is not really logical - surely a personal, hand-written letter of condolence is always more respectful than a typewritten, mass-produced note? But I can understand that in her obvious distress, Mrs Janes may not be at her most logical.
No, I don't blame Mrs Janes for any of this. But the vile Sun "newspaper" has surely sunk to new depths of gutter journalism this week.
First of all in publishing the letter and Mrs Jane's complaint. Yes, Mr Brown's handwriting is difficult to read. Yes, he may have made a spelling error (although I'm not convinced of that either - looking at the rest of the letter, including his signature, the letters "n" and "m" are virtually indistinguishable.) And the Sun's readers wrote their support of Mrs Janes in various forums, mostly in the form of practically incomprehensible attacks on Gordon Brown's literacy skills. Presumably these illiterate morons didn't see the irony.
Then the Sun published the whole transcript of a telephone conversation between Mr Brown and Mrs Janes. The whole transcript. EVERY WORD. My sympathy for Mrs Janes is beginning to wear a bit thinner, now, but I'm still trying to see her side. (What kind of person has the wherewithall, and the equipment, to record an entire telephone conversation with the prime minister when he calls?) And now, the comments on the forums etc are largely against the Sun. Good.
What we've seen in the Sun this week isn't journalism. It amounts to taking advantage of a vulnerable woman and bullying a man because he is partially-sighted - all to further its own political ends. Whatever political party you support, whatever you think of the government's stance on Afghanistan, the Sun's behaviour has been disgusting.
RIP Jamie Janes
Mrs Janes' soldier son, Jamie, was killed in Afghanistan. She feels angry and she is speaking out against the government, who she blames for Jamie's death. Anger and blame are natural parts of the grieving process. Her argument against Gordon Brown's hand-written letter is not really logical - surely a personal, hand-written letter of condolence is always more respectful than a typewritten, mass-produced note? But I can understand that in her obvious distress, Mrs Janes may not be at her most logical.
No, I don't blame Mrs Janes for any of this. But the vile Sun "newspaper" has surely sunk to new depths of gutter journalism this week.
First of all in publishing the letter and Mrs Jane's complaint. Yes, Mr Brown's handwriting is difficult to read. Yes, he may have made a spelling error (although I'm not convinced of that either - looking at the rest of the letter, including his signature, the letters "n" and "m" are virtually indistinguishable.) And the Sun's readers wrote their support of Mrs Janes in various forums, mostly in the form of practically incomprehensible attacks on Gordon Brown's literacy skills. Presumably these illiterate morons didn't see the irony.
Then the Sun published the whole transcript of a telephone conversation between Mr Brown and Mrs Janes. The whole transcript. EVERY WORD. My sympathy for Mrs Janes is beginning to wear a bit thinner, now, but I'm still trying to see her side. (What kind of person has the wherewithall, and the equipment, to record an entire telephone conversation with the prime minister when he calls?) And now, the comments on the forums etc are largely against the Sun. Good.
What we've seen in the Sun this week isn't journalism. It amounts to taking advantage of a vulnerable woman and bullying a man because he is partially-sighted - all to further its own political ends. Whatever political party you support, whatever you think of the government's stance on Afghanistan, the Sun's behaviour has been disgusting.
RIP Jamie Janes
Monday 19 October 2009
Is it just me, or ...
... is Whitney Houston not ready to get back on stage yet? Her performance on the X-Factor this weekend was dismal. It wasn't just the wardrobe that malfunctioned. The diva was on a completely different planet.
Shall I be mother?
They say there's a time when every woman has to face up to the fact that she's turning into her mother. Now is my time.
When we were on holiday we met a woman from Dunfermline, Scotland. She told me I looked very familiar - in fact she was convinced we had met before. I had never seen her before in my life. However, I did live in Dunfermline for 10 years before moving to the south of England in 1988. I suggested how she might have seen me before (I worked for the local paper, was in the local amateur operatic society, etc) but we drew a blank.
Grace is a retired teacher, and she wondered whether she had ever taught me. No, I said, because I didn't go to school in Dunfermline - I was brought up in Glenrothes. It turns out that Grace taught at the school I attended - but not until 10 years after I left.
However, my mum also taught at that school and that's why I looked so familiar - I look just like my mum.
When we were on holiday we met a woman from Dunfermline, Scotland. She told me I looked very familiar - in fact she was convinced we had met before. I had never seen her before in my life. However, I did live in Dunfermline for 10 years before moving to the south of England in 1988. I suggested how she might have seen me before (I worked for the local paper, was in the local amateur operatic society, etc) but we drew a blank.
Grace is a retired teacher, and she wondered whether she had ever taught me. No, I said, because I didn't go to school in Dunfermline - I was brought up in Glenrothes. It turns out that Grace taught at the school I attended - but not until 10 years after I left.
However, my mum also taught at that school and that's why I looked so familiar - I look just like my mum.
I wish to register a ridiculous complaint
I've just returned from holiday. (I'm freezing cold now, by the way.) Ol' SoppyGit and I had a week's cruise round the Aegean then a week in a small, family-run hotel in the north-west of Corfu. It was brilliant - one of the best holidays ever.
OK, so we decided half-way through the cruise that we never need to see any more ancient Greek ruins again. Ever. So we didn't bother with any more of the organised excursions and instead we went to see what we wanted to see. After all, everything was as described in the brochure and we knew what we were signing up for, so we had no need to complain.
Not all our fellow holiday makers felt the same way though. Some people complained about everything. The weather was too hot, the helpings at dinner were too big, the ship's entertainers sang too loudly, fellow passengers were not taking the "fun quiz" seriously. Oh for goodness sake!
One woman told us proudly that she always makes a point of writing complaints to every company she deals with - and very often she's rewarded with complementary products/money-off vouchers, etc. She recommended to all and sundry that we should follow her example. Then, when we got to our hotel (The Thomas Bay, San Stefanos) someone complained that there weren't any bathrobes (it's a small, family-run hotel - not the Ritz-Carlton!).
One night we went on a coach tour to Corfu town, which was supposed to end with a boat trip to a little island for dinner al fresco. Unfortunately the weather changed and by the time we got there it was blowing a gale and raining cats and dogs, so the organisers had replaced dinner on the island with dinner at the most expensive restaurant in Corfu town. The change of plan was disappointing - but a couple of people became very aggressive towards the holiday rep. Disgraceful behaviour.
However, the rep said the boat trip would still go ahead for those who wanted it. So, after dinner, most of us decided we'd like to try the Sundowner boat trip. What the hell, we're on holiday! But we were running a bit late so a coach-load of Germans had arrived first and plonked themselves in the best seats, inside the boat. (Well, wouldn't you?)
The same people who had complained about missing the boat trip started having another go at the holiday rep. There was no way they were sitting outside in this weather, bloody Germans, this has all been very badly organised, we're going to sue, etc, etc. So they decided to go and nurse their wrath in the town for a couple of hours while the rest of us enjoyed free wine and fun.
Now, I know I like to grumble - but I also know how to enjoy myself. I wonder, however, if some of the people I met on holiday have ever had fun in their lives. Incidentally, I found this list of ridiculous complaints made by holiday makers, so it seems the people we met are not the only miserable Brits abroad!
OK, so we decided half-way through the cruise that we never need to see any more ancient Greek ruins again. Ever. So we didn't bother with any more of the organised excursions and instead we went to see what we wanted to see. After all, everything was as described in the brochure and we knew what we were signing up for, so we had no need to complain.
Not all our fellow holiday makers felt the same way though. Some people complained about everything. The weather was too hot, the helpings at dinner were too big, the ship's entertainers sang too loudly, fellow passengers were not taking the "fun quiz" seriously. Oh for goodness sake!
One woman told us proudly that she always makes a point of writing complaints to every company she deals with - and very often she's rewarded with complementary products/money-off vouchers, etc. She recommended to all and sundry that we should follow her example. Then, when we got to our hotel (The Thomas Bay, San Stefanos) someone complained that there weren't any bathrobes (it's a small, family-run hotel - not the Ritz-Carlton!).
One night we went on a coach tour to Corfu town, which was supposed to end with a boat trip to a little island for dinner al fresco. Unfortunately the weather changed and by the time we got there it was blowing a gale and raining cats and dogs, so the organisers had replaced dinner on the island with dinner at the most expensive restaurant in Corfu town. The change of plan was disappointing - but a couple of people became very aggressive towards the holiday rep. Disgraceful behaviour.
However, the rep said the boat trip would still go ahead for those who wanted it. So, after dinner, most of us decided we'd like to try the Sundowner boat trip. What the hell, we're on holiday! But we were running a bit late so a coach-load of Germans had arrived first and plonked themselves in the best seats, inside the boat. (Well, wouldn't you?)
The same people who had complained about missing the boat trip started having another go at the holiday rep. There was no way they were sitting outside in this weather, bloody Germans, this has all been very badly organised, we're going to sue, etc, etc. So they decided to go and nurse their wrath in the town for a couple of hours while the rest of us enjoyed free wine and fun.
Now, I know I like to grumble - but I also know how to enjoy myself. I wonder, however, if some of the people I met on holiday have ever had fun in their lives. Incidentally, I found this list of ridiculous complaints made by holiday makers, so it seems the people we met are not the only miserable Brits abroad!
Monday 21 September 2009
Rant 1: Cats
Ladies of a certain age fall into two categories: 1) Those who develop a passion for cats; 2) Me.
What is wrong with the rest of you? You hit the big 'M' and realise there's something luxuriantly furry missing from your lap? Saint Joanna Lumley's even broadcasting her fascination with the creatures and "the 18-year relationship she had with her beloved feline companion" to the nation.
Cat lovers relish the fact that cats can't actually be "owned". So why own one? And, more to the point, why do you let the damn thing out of the house to roam the streets all day? Where do you think it goes? What do you think it does?
I'll tell you... it comes round to my place, digs up the flowers and poos all over my veg. Then it climbs in through an open window, explores my house (leaving paw prints all over the kitchen) and settles down to spend the rest of the day sleeping on my sofa. If that's all it's going to do all day, buy a litter tray so it can do it in the comfort of its own home - and you can clean up after it.
What is wrong with the rest of you? You hit the big 'M' and realise there's something luxuriantly furry missing from your lap? Saint Joanna Lumley's even broadcasting her fascination with the creatures and "the 18-year relationship she had with her beloved feline companion" to the nation.
Cat lovers relish the fact that cats can't actually be "owned". So why own one? And, more to the point, why do you let the damn thing out of the house to roam the streets all day? Where do you think it goes? What do you think it does?
I'll tell you... it comes round to my place, digs up the flowers and poos all over my veg. Then it climbs in through an open window, explores my house (leaving paw prints all over the kitchen) and settles down to spend the rest of the day sleeping on my sofa. If that's all it's going to do all day, buy a litter tray so it can do it in the comfort of its own home - and you can clean up after it.
Friday 18 September 2009
Bricklayer showed respect by wearing a dress
One of the most moving photos I've seen for a long time was this image of bricklayer Barry Delaney, who wore a lime green dress and pink socks to his friend's funeral. His friend, Pte Kevin Elliott, was killed while on foot patrol in Helmand province in Afghanistan at the end of last month.
The pair had made a pact years ago that if one of them died, the other would wear a lurid dress to the funeral. Barry wore a sombre suit for the service but changed into the dress in the cemetery car park. As he arrived at the graveside, other mourners cheered and applauded.
A lot of people have criticised Barry, complaining that dragging up for the funeral was "disrespectful". That's rubbish. By honouring his long-held promise, Barry showed honour, integrity and respect for his mate. He also showed us a side to Kevin that we would not otherwise have thought about. Thanks to Barry's tribute, Kevin is not simply another serviceman killed in the line of duty whose photo we see in the paper. He was a real bloke who had a sense of fun and was blessed with a loyal, honourable friend.
The pair had made a pact years ago that if one of them died, the other would wear a lurid dress to the funeral. Barry wore a sombre suit for the service but changed into the dress in the cemetery car park. As he arrived at the graveside, other mourners cheered and applauded.
A lot of people have criticised Barry, complaining that dragging up for the funeral was "disrespectful". That's rubbish. By honouring his long-held promise, Barry showed honour, integrity and respect for his mate. He also showed us a side to Kevin that we would not otherwise have thought about. Thanks to Barry's tribute, Kevin is not simply another serviceman killed in the line of duty whose photo we see in the paper. He was a real bloke who had a sense of fun and was blessed with a loyal, honourable friend.
Wednesday 16 September 2009
ABBA: Thank you for nothing
I never thought I'd say this, but ... I never want to hear another ABBA song again. Ever.
Thanks to roadwords on the M4 we had an epic six-and-a-half-hour journey on Sunday, much of which coincided with Radio 2's broadcast of the ABBA "Thank you for the music" tribute in Hyde Park. Oh goody, we thought, a sing-song will keep us cheery during the long, dismal hours ahead.
It was dreadful. The glittering line-up of stars screeched, squawked and warbled their way through the Swedish foursome's back catalogue. Jamie Cullum made "My Love, My Life" his own - unfortunately his free-fall jazz style proved totally incompatable with the song. And as for Chaka Khan ... she can't. In fact, the only ones who sang in tune were Jason Donovan and Kylie. It was karaoke hell, with bells on. And with Chris Evans yelling at the top of his voice.
Then, at rehearsals on Monday, the bandmaster got out the ABBA medley. We played it again last night, at a dinner. Now it's in the music pack we'll probably keep playing it from now until Doomsday. Or until we get it right.
Thanks to roadwords on the M4 we had an epic six-and-a-half-hour journey on Sunday, much of which coincided with Radio 2's broadcast of the ABBA "Thank you for the music" tribute in Hyde Park. Oh goody, we thought, a sing-song will keep us cheery during the long, dismal hours ahead.
It was dreadful. The glittering line-up of stars screeched, squawked and warbled their way through the Swedish foursome's back catalogue. Jamie Cullum made "My Love, My Life" his own - unfortunately his free-fall jazz style proved totally incompatable with the song. And as for Chaka Khan ... she can't. In fact, the only ones who sang in tune were Jason Donovan and Kylie. It was karaoke hell, with bells on. And with Chris Evans yelling at the top of his voice.
Then, at rehearsals on Monday, the bandmaster got out the ABBA medley. We played it again last night, at a dinner. Now it's in the music pack we'll probably keep playing it from now until Doomsday. Or until we get it right.
I don't believe it!
Herts County Council has apologised after a sign reading “Taking an old bag for a ride” was displayed on the side of a bus used to transport pensioners. The sign was part of Sainsbury’s latest ad campaign, which encourages shoppers to reuse carrier bags.
The council agreed to remove it from its “Dial a Ride” service after a 75-year-old passenger complained. The pensioner said: “It can’t be just me that finds it upsetting to read such unpleasant words on a bus designed to help elderly people.” Actually, love, it was just you. Nobody else complained.
I can imagine my mum enjoying the joke so much she would have had her picture taken sitting behind the sign. I mean, even the Duchess of Cornwall had a giggle when she was photographed carrying a canvas shopper bearing the slogan "I'm an old bag from Deptford". (See the pic here)
As they get older, some people seem to lose the ability to laugh at themselves. I pray to the spirit of Victor Meldrew that I'm not one of them.
The council agreed to remove it from its “Dial a Ride” service after a 75-year-old passenger complained. The pensioner said: “It can’t be just me that finds it upsetting to read such unpleasant words on a bus designed to help elderly people.” Actually, love, it was just you. Nobody else complained.
I can imagine my mum enjoying the joke so much she would have had her picture taken sitting behind the sign. I mean, even the Duchess of Cornwall had a giggle when she was photographed carrying a canvas shopper bearing the slogan "I'm an old bag from Deptford". (See the pic here)
As they get older, some people seem to lose the ability to laugh at themselves. I pray to the spirit of Victor Meldrew that I'm not one of them.
Tuesday 15 September 2009
Diversity training - who needs it?
I've got diversity on my mind this week. I know, I know - "political correctness, bah humbug". I hear you. But you see, I write training materials for a living and I'm currently being paid to write a workbook on diversity. Believe me, I'm no expert on the subject. I've never had any equality and diversity training myself, I can't be bothered with political over-correctness and I've even been known to laugh at the odd non-PC joke.
But I did my research, read a load of stuff other people have written (some of it good, some of it complete "right-on" garbage) and thought about what "diversity" actually means. In case you're interested, it's not about treating everyone the same; it's about treating everyone as an individual. It's not about stamping out witty banter in the workplace; it's about considering how others feel.
In other words, it's all common sense and good manners. So why, in this enlightened day and age, in this culturally diverse society of ours, do we need to explain this to people? Why do companies still need people like me to explain it to their employees? After all, we've had legislation relating to equality for 30 years and more. Surely this kind of thing is taught in schools?
Then, this weekend, I met a woman called Pauline. We were at my future sister-in-law's birthday party and Pauline is her best friend. It was a great party and, as often happens, a load of us finished up putting the world to rights into the wee small hours. We were talking about the different jobs we have done over the years and Pauline told us about an interview she attended when she wanted to return to work after bringing up her family. The interviewer noted that she had not been in full-time employment for some time and asked her why she didn't just "go back where she came from". Pauline comes from Oxford. But that's not what he meant.
This wasn't 50 years ago, it was very recently. The interviewer was not a stupid or uneducated man. Just ignorant. And bloody rude.
But I did my research, read a load of stuff other people have written (some of it good, some of it complete "right-on" garbage) and thought about what "diversity" actually means. In case you're interested, it's not about treating everyone the same; it's about treating everyone as an individual. It's not about stamping out witty banter in the workplace; it's about considering how others feel.
In other words, it's all common sense and good manners. So why, in this enlightened day and age, in this culturally diverse society of ours, do we need to explain this to people? Why do companies still need people like me to explain it to their employees? After all, we've had legislation relating to equality for 30 years and more. Surely this kind of thing is taught in schools?
Then, this weekend, I met a woman called Pauline. We were at my future sister-in-law's birthday party and Pauline is her best friend. It was a great party and, as often happens, a load of us finished up putting the world to rights into the wee small hours. We were talking about the different jobs we have done over the years and Pauline told us about an interview she attended when she wanted to return to work after bringing up her family. The interviewer noted that she had not been in full-time employment for some time and asked her why she didn't just "go back where she came from". Pauline comes from Oxford. But that's not what he meant.
This wasn't 50 years ago, it was very recently. The interviewer was not a stupid or uneducated man. Just ignorant. And bloody rude.
Monday 14 September 2009
Right, here goes!
Well, here I am at last in the 21st century and trying my hand at blogging. I'm not convinced that I have anything worth blogging about, to be honest. I mean, who's going to read it? Still, it's worth a go. And if I find myself short of things to say then I'll just stick to Twitter.
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