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.
Thursday, 19 November 2009
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!
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