Yes, it's not over till the fat lady sings and she's still only humming.
Last week we discovered that despite the length and breadth of the initial meeting, there were several unsigned documents that needed signing, in triplicate, in blood. These could not be emailed, only faxed or mailed and if faxed, the original had to be sent in the mail too for an original signature.
I don't even have a fax machine anymore. Here in the 21st century, we regular, non-banking folk usually find that email is the quickest, most efficient and cheapest way of moving documents around quickly. We did away with carrier pigeons and faxes some while ago.
Then, someone from the Chief Executive's office eventually called me - that was last Thursday I think - a full ten days after I sent my letter of complaint. By banking standards, that was probably quite fast. He wanted to know if everything was resolved so I made the right noises and explained that their Mike Jones from High Barnet is now looking after us. "I'll give him a call if I can track him down" he said. I offered him Mike Jones's contact details to which the reaction was "thank you so much, you have no idea how difficult it is to get people's contact details within this organisation". I was momentarily speechless. Eventually, I spluttered "what a terrible indictment on your internal systems".
"Yeah, tell me about it" he replied.
Enough said.
Monday, 2 August 2010
Saturday, 24 July 2010
Ho-bloody-rah!
When we spoke to someone much higher up the NatWest food chain, of course they agreed to open the account. No problem at all. We're currently awaiting all the guff - cheque books, paying in books and online banking codes. They should arrive this week. What a palaver.
Wednesday, 21 July 2010
Lies, dam lies and statistics ...
Although we all know that 83.2% of statistics are made up on the spot, I heard on the radio this week that a person is more likely to get divorced than change banks. See my earlier blog for a possible explanation.
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
NatWest. Helpful banking?
I despair, I really do.
Last week I tried to open a business bank account at a High Street bank. Well, let's not beat about the bush, it was NatWest. Me and my business partner went there as he has a connection at an affiliate bank of theirs. Despite that, it was an unmitigated disaster which ended in tears.
Our appointment with the branch business development manager had been made for 10.30 on Thursday and, arriving at that time, were told that she wasn't there. We were turned away without so much as an apology and told to make a second appointment for the following day.
For our second appointment, we arrived five minutes early and were then kept waiting a further fifteen. When we were called into her office, again there was no apology nor any appearance of her having made any preparation for our meeting.
I had the temerity to ask why we’d been kept waiting, particularly in light of it being our second trip into the bank, I was told that she had been on the phone to a customer and what did I expect her to do, put the phone down? I resisted the temptation to say “well, yes actually dear” as clearly she should have either not been on the phone knowing that she had a meeting at 2.30pm or she should have told the phone customer that she was keeping people waiting and would have to call that customer back later. I also pointed out that she should have been there the previous day and she told me, in high pitched tones, that it wasn’t her fault as the meeting had not been entered into her agenda. Again, there was no apology, just a crude justification in a very aggressive manner. She also took it upon herself to scold me and my 'unpleasant tone', which strangely did nothing to mollify me or to warm up the atmosphere in her very hot office.
Then the endless paperwork started. What is it with banks that they haven't cottoned onto computers yet? (Later on when I asked her for an email address she told me that there was no point in giving it to me as they weren't allowed to use email. How very forward thinking of them!) She then refused to accept a certified copy of our company's certificate of incorporation – certified by a firm of chartered accountants. If this is now bank policy, accountants and lawyers beware because your certification of documents is no longer valid. What a load of twoddle. In any event, a quick look online either at Companies House or our accountants would have confirmed that the company exists but no, I was told I would have to return to the bank, for a third time, with the original document in order that their own staff may make a photocopy.
Our company has three directors and two of us were at the meeting. Our third director is not involved with the day to day running of the company. Ms NatWest BA(Hons) - as stated on her business card - refused to continue with the process until our third director joined us at the meeting. We called her and she came to the bank so as not to delay this simple account opening even further. She was rewarded by hostility and a telling-off when, after having been kept waiting for ten minutes or so, she tried to attract the attention of Ms NatWest by waving at her through the window of the adjacent office to which she had retreated to for reasons that escape us.
Copies then had to be made of all the documentation. She went to do this job herself which took an inordinately long time and delayed the process still further. All in all, the meeting took over an hour and half. Can that be standard?
Far more seriously, the very young and possibly Latvian Ms NatWest was totally unable to grasp the activities of our new business. We have set up a new training company offering courses to teach people how to trade Forex online. She actually got mildly hysterical at the prospect of our trading forex through this new account. Despite repeated attempts, we were singularly unable to get the fact over to her that the company’s ONLY activity is to TRAIN PEOPLE and ergo, to equip them with the knowledge to trade in foreign exchange. She kept telling us that if we traded through the Nat West account, she could lose her job – something she mentioned several times during the meeting and was evidently her main concern.
As a result of all this, we almost walked out to try another of the many banks in the High Street. With the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, that's exactly what we should have done. We had chosen NatWest because we felt that the connection might make it easier to open an account at NatWest. Clearly it did not.
Now get this ... A few days later, Ms NatWest called me to say that unfortunately, the bank would not be able to open this account as it is linked to a forex trading business and even though she understands it is a training company, the bank will not open this account. At that point, I truly lost the will to live. As politely as I could with my blood boiling, I asked for a name and contact details of someone higher up in the bank so that I might try to explain, to a more senior person, what we are trying to do but she wouldn't provide this telling me that everyone in the bank would tell me the same thing. She did eventually agree to call me back later that day with an appropriate name. I am still waiting for that call.
If this is the way NatWest treat potential new customers and new businesses, I really am surprised that they're still in business at all. We wasted the best part of a week only to be told that we cannot open an account at that bank. More importantly however, not only was Ms NatWest's manner appalling, coming over as breathtakingly rude and aggressive but she was clearly unable to process new information once she had an idea set in her head.
If you want a real laugh, read the bank's customer charter http://www.natwest.com/global/customer-charter.ashx
I have sent off swingeing letters of complaint to everyone from the chief executive, Stephen Hester, downward. The initial apology has come in today from their customer complaints department and I await further news.
I feel a trip to Barclays coming on ...
Addendum: My business partner really lost it today. Having escalated this complaint, he sent the following email to his contact at the affiliate bank earlier today. I'm only posting it here because it made me laugh out loud.
Firstly I'm sorry you are being caught in the crossfire - I know this Kafkaesque situation is not of your making - but since Natwest are refusing to give out e-mail addresses I should be grateful if you would forward this e-mail to the area new business manager.
Following the fiasco of the last few days, I find it not only extremely rude but devestatingly incompetent that he has not had the courtesy to contact me today. You did state in your e-mail that he would be contacting me "early afternoon" and it is now approaching 5p.m. and I have heard nothing. Still if Natwest can describe Ms NatWest as a "business development manager", then it would be relatively easy for them to describe any time between now and midnight as "early afternoon".
As Natwest's irritatingly smug adverts observe "There is another way". Yes - and it's called Barclays.
NB Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
Last week I tried to open a business bank account at a High Street bank. Well, let's not beat about the bush, it was NatWest. Me and my business partner went there as he has a connection at an affiliate bank of theirs. Despite that, it was an unmitigated disaster which ended in tears.
Our appointment with the branch business development manager had been made for 10.30 on Thursday and, arriving at that time, were told that she wasn't there. We were turned away without so much as an apology and told to make a second appointment for the following day.
For our second appointment, we arrived five minutes early and were then kept waiting a further fifteen. When we were called into her office, again there was no apology nor any appearance of her having made any preparation for our meeting.
I had the temerity to ask why we’d been kept waiting, particularly in light of it being our second trip into the bank, I was told that she had been on the phone to a customer and what did I expect her to do, put the phone down? I resisted the temptation to say “well, yes actually dear” as clearly she should have either not been on the phone knowing that she had a meeting at 2.30pm or she should have told the phone customer that she was keeping people waiting and would have to call that customer back later. I also pointed out that she should have been there the previous day and she told me, in high pitched tones, that it wasn’t her fault as the meeting had not been entered into her agenda. Again, there was no apology, just a crude justification in a very aggressive manner. She also took it upon herself to scold me and my 'unpleasant tone', which strangely did nothing to mollify me or to warm up the atmosphere in her very hot office.
Then the endless paperwork started. What is it with banks that they haven't cottoned onto computers yet? (Later on when I asked her for an email address she told me that there was no point in giving it to me as they weren't allowed to use email. How very forward thinking of them!) She then refused to accept a certified copy of our company's certificate of incorporation – certified by a firm of chartered accountants. If this is now bank policy, accountants and lawyers beware because your certification of documents is no longer valid. What a load of twoddle. In any event, a quick look online either at Companies House or our accountants would have confirmed that the company exists but no, I was told I would have to return to the bank, for a third time, with the original document in order that their own staff may make a photocopy.
Our company has three directors and two of us were at the meeting. Our third director is not involved with the day to day running of the company. Ms NatWest BA(Hons) - as stated on her business card - refused to continue with the process until our third director joined us at the meeting. We called her and she came to the bank so as not to delay this simple account opening even further. She was rewarded by hostility and a telling-off when, after having been kept waiting for ten minutes or so, she tried to attract the attention of Ms NatWest by waving at her through the window of the adjacent office to which she had retreated to for reasons that escape us.
Copies then had to be made of all the documentation. She went to do this job herself which took an inordinately long time and delayed the process still further. All in all, the meeting took over an hour and half. Can that be standard?
Far more seriously, the very young and possibly Latvian Ms NatWest was totally unable to grasp the activities of our new business. We have set up a new training company offering courses to teach people how to trade Forex online. She actually got mildly hysterical at the prospect of our trading forex through this new account. Despite repeated attempts, we were singularly unable to get the fact over to her that the company’s ONLY activity is to TRAIN PEOPLE and ergo, to equip them with the knowledge to trade in foreign exchange. She kept telling us that if we traded through the Nat West account, she could lose her job – something she mentioned several times during the meeting and was evidently her main concern.
As a result of all this, we almost walked out to try another of the many banks in the High Street. With the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, that's exactly what we should have done. We had chosen NatWest because we felt that the connection might make it easier to open an account at NatWest. Clearly it did not.
Now get this ... A few days later, Ms NatWest called me to say that unfortunately, the bank would not be able to open this account as it is linked to a forex trading business and even though she understands it is a training company, the bank will not open this account. At that point, I truly lost the will to live. As politely as I could with my blood boiling, I asked for a name and contact details of someone higher up in the bank so that I might try to explain, to a more senior person, what we are trying to do but she wouldn't provide this telling me that everyone in the bank would tell me the same thing. She did eventually agree to call me back later that day with an appropriate name. I am still waiting for that call.
If this is the way NatWest treat potential new customers and new businesses, I really am surprised that they're still in business at all. We wasted the best part of a week only to be told that we cannot open an account at that bank. More importantly however, not only was Ms NatWest's manner appalling, coming over as breathtakingly rude and aggressive but she was clearly unable to process new information once she had an idea set in her head.
If you want a real laugh, read the bank's customer charter http://www.natwest.com/global/customer-charter.ashx
I have sent off swingeing letters of complaint to everyone from the chief executive, Stephen Hester, downward. The initial apology has come in today from their customer complaints department and I await further news.
I feel a trip to Barclays coming on ...
Addendum: My business partner really lost it today. Having escalated this complaint, he sent the following email to his contact at the affiliate bank earlier today. I'm only posting it here because it made me laugh out loud.
Firstly I'm sorry you are being caught in the crossfire - I know this Kafkaesque situation is not of your making - but since Natwest are refusing to give out e-mail addresses I should be grateful if you would forward this e-mail to the area new business manager.
Following the fiasco of the last few days, I find it not only extremely rude but devestatingly incompetent that he has not had the courtesy to contact me today. You did state in your e-mail that he would be contacting me "early afternoon" and it is now approaching 5p.m. and I have heard nothing. Still if Natwest can describe Ms NatWest as a "business development manager", then it would be relatively easy for them to describe any time between now and midnight as "early afternoon".
As Natwest's irritatingly smug adverts observe "There is another way". Yes - and it's called Barclays.
NB Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
Tuesday, 6 July 2010
Rock n' roll and the great outdoors
Some weeks ago, Big-J asked me if I fancied the Hop Farm Music festival. “No” I said. I thought that was pretty clear. He wanted to know why not and just like that, I cited ten good reasons: it might be raining, it might be too hot, it might be too cold, I didn’t want to sit in a field all day, my hay fever was bound to flare up, we’d have to leave home too early, we’d get home too late, I had stuff I needed to do, I couldn’t face portaloos and I’m just too bloody old to go to a festival. (I’d never even been to one in my ‘yoof’ and I wasn’t keen on starting now.) Those were just the reasons I came up with off the top of my head. Given time, I feel sure I could have thought up at least 97 more.
“But Bob’s topping the bill” he said in a sort of plaintive tone, “and there’s Ray Davis and Pete Docherty – whoever he is” he continued. “It’ll be a lovely day out” he persisted. “And I’ll owe you big time” he added, by way of an incentive.
I told him that I absolutely wasn’t going and that was final.
So last Saturday at midday, we found ourselves driving down to somewhere near Sevenoaks to said festival after the customary discussion as to whether to drive through town or take the very much longer route around the car park they call the M25. I opted for the M25, he wanted to drive through town but because I was very grumpy, I won and I was wrong. It happens occasionally. The journey, which took barely an hour and twenty on the way back, took over three hours on the way there, the last half an hour spent queuing from two miles away to get into Hop Farm.
It was a scorchingly hot day. Parking our car miles away, we trudged through fields and fields to reach the festival entrance. We needed to find a pitch so that we could eat our picnic. We got as near to the stage as we could – which was pretty far away but at least we could see the action on the two huge screens on either side. There was no shade, we had nothing to sit on but we soon bought a couple of brilliant collapsible chairs and sat eating our smoked salmon beigals in the sunshine, surrounded by thousands of lookie-likies, to the strains of the very unmemorable Pete Docherty who managed a few notes in-between foul-mouthed rants about something or other. We were, at this point, the oldest in a massive crowd that would have made my 21 year old feel like a bit of pensioner. It was incredibly hot and the wafts of weed-laden smoke all around us were already making me feel quite high. I didn’t want to drink too much as the first inevitable visit to a portaloo loomed large but after smoked salmon and in 30 degree heat with public announcements every half an hour or so to take care, slap on the sunscreen and drink plenty of water, I really had no choice. At one point, Big-J decided to investigate whether we could get nearer to the stage. “Wait here” he said, “I’ll be back in a moment”. Some half an hour later, he eventually found his way back to me – panicked, sweating and panting - a picture of relief. The crowd was so huge that even with his A grade Geography A’ Level, he had become disorientated. We tearfully reunited vowing not to lose sight of each other for the rest of the day, too scary.
The phenomenon that is Seasick Steve was next up. He played a short set on his homemade three-string geet-aar. What an entertainer and how amazing to be discovered just at the age when the rest of us get our Freedom Pass. He was great fun and I’m glad I saw him live. Now I know what my son’s been banging on about these last few years.
Nothing much else happened for a while other than we went in search of a portaloo where there wasn’t a 40-minute queue. We eventually found one in the car park field. Have you ever used a non-flushing portaloo after thousands of other people? No? Well I don’t recommend it but at least I’ve discovered just how long I can hold my breath for. Amazing what one can do in adversity. I’ll move swiftly on so as not to make you feel bilious.
We missed most of J Mumford and Sons, another band we’d never heard of but apparently very popular with the young people of today. Then came Ray Davis, he of the Kinks fame. His set was good, he really got the crowd going, yeah, he really got them now, he got them so they can’t sleep at night. He spoiled it a bit by starting 20 minutes late then refusing to cut his set short (whilst swearing horribly at someone off-stage) meaning that ‘His Bobness’ would inevitably be kept waiting along with the Bob-heads in the crowd. Big-J was outraged, “how rude” he said, “how very inconsiderate” and it quite put him off Ray which was a shame because, his old stuff at least, really was rather good.
By now the crowd had swelled to around 70 million and even in our mid-arena position, we were squashed like sardines with no hope for a shortie like me of breathing out let alone glimpsing the stage. I was ever so slightly scared that we’d get squashed in any sort of stage-rush or if a fire broke out or if we were invaded by aliens but as it was, other than being barged a few times, it was bearable. It was a beautiful, warm and starry night and the mood in the arena was chilled and friendly – and stoned.
And suddenly, there was Bob. Resplendent in a black suit with diamante seams, a bright magenta shirt and a trademark white cowboy hat. At least I think it was Bob. The camera crew had clearly been instructed that no close-ups were allowed so even on the big screen, it was difficult to make him out. He’s only a little fella after all. That was a shame, it would have been good to have seen his expression as we all drowned him out singing along to Like a Rolling Stone.
“Sing Maggie’s fucking farm Bob” screamed a bloke next to us, repeatedly and then again for good measure. Bob never did sing Maggie’s Farm that night. Good, it’s one of my least favourites. He did lots of old stuff and a few tracks from Modern Times. He growled and rasped his way through with that interesting upswing phrasing which he uses when he can’t hit the note anymore. I’ve since heard that a lot of the kids didn’t like it at all. Well, they couldn’t possibly ‘get it’ could they? How could they be expected to appreciate that they were privileged just to be in the presence of a living legend, the voice of their parents' generation? The man can still pull an impressive crowd which is why he keeps performing I suppose although I’m always in two minds about whether it’s really a good idea to keep on keepin’ on at his age n’ all. Big-J was a very happy man, for him it was all worth it. He’d had a lovely time and that, I figured, is what it was all about.
When Bob exited stage right, we raced back to our car, which we’d cleverly re-parked right next to the one exit provided for the 350,000 cars. But then we sat and we sat and we sat and we sat some more. Nothing moved and no one really knew what the problem was. At this point, I could describe the next two and a half hours in minute detail, outlining for you the complete Radio 4 nighttime schedule, but I’ll spare you. Suffice it to say, it took a very, very long time to get out onto the open road but then barely an hour and twenty to get home by 2.30am. I was thrilled. I’d get a good five hours quality kip before having to prepare lunch the next day for six guests.
So was it worth it? For me? Honestly? No. I won’t go into how many of my fears came to fruition that day in the field but I’ll chalk it up to experience, an experience I fervently hope never to repeat. For him though, it couldn’t have been more worth it. He’s always worried that if he doesn’t take the opportunity to see Bob, he might just miss the last show ever. But even Big-J has admitted (quietly to me, in a weak moment) that he won’t be rushing along to the next outdoor festival.
“But Bob’s topping the bill” he said in a sort of plaintive tone, “and there’s Ray Davis and Pete Docherty – whoever he is” he continued. “It’ll be a lovely day out” he persisted. “And I’ll owe you big time” he added, by way of an incentive.
I told him that I absolutely wasn’t going and that was final.
So last Saturday at midday, we found ourselves driving down to somewhere near Sevenoaks to said festival after the customary discussion as to whether to drive through town or take the very much longer route around the car park they call the M25. I opted for the M25, he wanted to drive through town but because I was very grumpy, I won and I was wrong. It happens occasionally. The journey, which took barely an hour and twenty on the way back, took over three hours on the way there, the last half an hour spent queuing from two miles away to get into Hop Farm.
It was a scorchingly hot day. Parking our car miles away, we trudged through fields and fields to reach the festival entrance. We needed to find a pitch so that we could eat our picnic. We got as near to the stage as we could – which was pretty far away but at least we could see the action on the two huge screens on either side. There was no shade, we had nothing to sit on but we soon bought a couple of brilliant collapsible chairs and sat eating our smoked salmon beigals in the sunshine, surrounded by thousands of lookie-likies, to the strains of the very unmemorable Pete Docherty who managed a few notes in-between foul-mouthed rants about something or other. We were, at this point, the oldest in a massive crowd that would have made my 21 year old feel like a bit of pensioner. It was incredibly hot and the wafts of weed-laden smoke all around us were already making me feel quite high. I didn’t want to drink too much as the first inevitable visit to a portaloo loomed large but after smoked salmon and in 30 degree heat with public announcements every half an hour or so to take care, slap on the sunscreen and drink plenty of water, I really had no choice. At one point, Big-J decided to investigate whether we could get nearer to the stage. “Wait here” he said, “I’ll be back in a moment”. Some half an hour later, he eventually found his way back to me – panicked, sweating and panting - a picture of relief. The crowd was so huge that even with his A grade Geography A’ Level, he had become disorientated. We tearfully reunited vowing not to lose sight of each other for the rest of the day, too scary.
The phenomenon that is Seasick Steve was next up. He played a short set on his homemade three-string geet-aar. What an entertainer and how amazing to be discovered just at the age when the rest of us get our Freedom Pass. He was great fun and I’m glad I saw him live. Now I know what my son’s been banging on about these last few years.
Nothing much else happened for a while other than we went in search of a portaloo where there wasn’t a 40-minute queue. We eventually found one in the car park field. Have you ever used a non-flushing portaloo after thousands of other people? No? Well I don’t recommend it but at least I’ve discovered just how long I can hold my breath for. Amazing what one can do in adversity. I’ll move swiftly on so as not to make you feel bilious.
We missed most of J Mumford and Sons, another band we’d never heard of but apparently very popular with the young people of today. Then came Ray Davis, he of the Kinks fame. His set was good, he really got the crowd going, yeah, he really got them now, he got them so they can’t sleep at night. He spoiled it a bit by starting 20 minutes late then refusing to cut his set short (whilst swearing horribly at someone off-stage) meaning that ‘His Bobness’ would inevitably be kept waiting along with the Bob-heads in the crowd. Big-J was outraged, “how rude” he said, “how very inconsiderate” and it quite put him off Ray which was a shame because, his old stuff at least, really was rather good.
By now the crowd had swelled to around 70 million and even in our mid-arena position, we were squashed like sardines with no hope for a shortie like me of breathing out let alone glimpsing the stage. I was ever so slightly scared that we’d get squashed in any sort of stage-rush or if a fire broke out or if we were invaded by aliens but as it was, other than being barged a few times, it was bearable. It was a beautiful, warm and starry night and the mood in the arena was chilled and friendly – and stoned.
And suddenly, there was Bob. Resplendent in a black suit with diamante seams, a bright magenta shirt and a trademark white cowboy hat. At least I think it was Bob. The camera crew had clearly been instructed that no close-ups were allowed so even on the big screen, it was difficult to make him out. He’s only a little fella after all. That was a shame, it would have been good to have seen his expression as we all drowned him out singing along to Like a Rolling Stone.
“Sing Maggie’s fucking farm Bob” screamed a bloke next to us, repeatedly and then again for good measure. Bob never did sing Maggie’s Farm that night. Good, it’s one of my least favourites. He did lots of old stuff and a few tracks from Modern Times. He growled and rasped his way through with that interesting upswing phrasing which he uses when he can’t hit the note anymore. I’ve since heard that a lot of the kids didn’t like it at all. Well, they couldn’t possibly ‘get it’ could they? How could they be expected to appreciate that they were privileged just to be in the presence of a living legend, the voice of their parents' generation? The man can still pull an impressive crowd which is why he keeps performing I suppose although I’m always in two minds about whether it’s really a good idea to keep on keepin’ on at his age n’ all. Big-J was a very happy man, for him it was all worth it. He’d had a lovely time and that, I figured, is what it was all about.
When Bob exited stage right, we raced back to our car, which we’d cleverly re-parked right next to the one exit provided for the 350,000 cars. But then we sat and we sat and we sat and we sat some more. Nothing moved and no one really knew what the problem was. At this point, I could describe the next two and a half hours in minute detail, outlining for you the complete Radio 4 nighttime schedule, but I’ll spare you. Suffice it to say, it took a very, very long time to get out onto the open road but then barely an hour and twenty to get home by 2.30am. I was thrilled. I’d get a good five hours quality kip before having to prepare lunch the next day for six guests.
So was it worth it? For me? Honestly? No. I won’t go into how many of my fears came to fruition that day in the field but I’ll chalk it up to experience, an experience I fervently hope never to repeat. For him though, it couldn’t have been more worth it. He’s always worried that if he doesn’t take the opportunity to see Bob, he might just miss the last show ever. But even Big-J has admitted (quietly to me, in a weak moment) that he won’t be rushing along to the next outdoor festival.
Thursday, 20 May 2010
Appearances, aspergers and adoption
Today, our disgraced ex-Home Secretary, Jacqui Smith, gave her first media interview since unceremoniously losing her seat in the election. After revealing that like a lot of other people in this country, she's looking for a job, and 'holding her hands up' on the issue of the claim she 'mistakenly' made for her husband's porno movies, she segued seamlessly into talking about Theresa May, our shiny new Home Secretary. Jacqui publicly sympathised with Theresa about the 'style police' who seem obsessed more with clothes, shoes and hairstyle than they are interested in substance and Home Secretarial capabilities. Ms Smith thinks they should all get over themselves and concentrate on what's really important. Mmm, we'd all like a friend like Jacqui wouldn't we? Well, who's she to decide what's important in a job or not? For me, appearance is everything, crucial in fact. Far from putting a stop to it, it must continue unabated and be equally applied to the men. Is it my imagination or is Nick Clegg's goldy-yellow tie getting a bit grubby? Perhaps he models himself on Erik Satie, the French composer and pianist who owned ten identical suits, shirts and ties? And why are they all completely plain? Has our Nick been taking lessons from Obama's stylist or is he fixated on out-plaining Dave in the tie stakes? As for Vince Cable, isn't it about time he shaved those stickie-out hairs on the top of his head and whilst he's at it, his eyebrows and nostril hair could do with a trim and brush up. Ken Clark's going to have to shed the Hush Puppies this time around whilst George Osborne could badly do with a San Tropez spray tan - I've never seen anyone that white and still alive. As for Eric Pickles and Lord Strathclyde, we know they ate all the cookies in the cookie jar. Get those boys a good dietician - and fast.
I'm glad that this government is re-considering the Gary McKinnon case. He was the guy who hacked into the Pentagon systems and stands accused of committing the biggest military computer hack of all time. The Americans want him and, if tried and found guilty there, he faces up to sixty years in the slammer. This is patently absurd. Forget that he suffers from Aspergers, pay no heed that fear of ending up in the American penal system poses the very real risk that he'd kill himself - if the guy is clever and resourceful enough to repeatedly hack into the Pentagon's system, he shouldn't be facing prison, someone should give him a job. All he needs is a bit of direction along the lines of 'Gary, forget about looking for UFO's luv, we all know they don't exist. How about trying to track down some terrorists? That'd be so much more useful.' Just think, with his computer capabilities, what couldn't he do for to MI5, the CIA or Mossad? The authorities really are missing a trick here.
Finally, my sister published an article on the US website, www.salon.com, today. Salon (according to their own website) is 'the award-winning online news and entertainment Web site, combining original investigative stories, breaking news, provocative personal essays and highly respected criticism along with popular staff-written blogs about politics, technology and culture', it's worth a look. My sister's article was a review of Rodrigo Garcia's new film, Mother and Child (yet to open on these shores), a film exploring 'grief' using adoption as it's wrapper. Actually, my sister wrote her piece from her own perspective of the adoption process, something with which she is familiar having adopted her daughter three years ago. I know I'm biased but her article was excellent. Some of the huge on-site response the article generated has been breathtakingly hostile with people out there willing to pillory my sister from a position of total ignorance. It really is quite shocking what these contributors are prepared to say and write under a cloak of anonymity. One of the worst suggested that people who adopt children do it because they're either too vain or too lazy to have children themselves. Pur-leese! To make a comment on the site, you have to sign up and other readers then have access to all of your past comments on other articles. Suffice it to say, some of the commentators have three, four or five hundred previous postings. What can I say? They really should get out more.
I'm glad that this government is re-considering the Gary McKinnon case. He was the guy who hacked into the Pentagon systems and stands accused of committing the biggest military computer hack of all time. The Americans want him and, if tried and found guilty there, he faces up to sixty years in the slammer. This is patently absurd. Forget that he suffers from Aspergers, pay no heed that fear of ending up in the American penal system poses the very real risk that he'd kill himself - if the guy is clever and resourceful enough to repeatedly hack into the Pentagon's system, he shouldn't be facing prison, someone should give him a job. All he needs is a bit of direction along the lines of 'Gary, forget about looking for UFO's luv, we all know they don't exist. How about trying to track down some terrorists? That'd be so much more useful.' Just think, with his computer capabilities, what couldn't he do for to MI5, the CIA or Mossad? The authorities really are missing a trick here.
Finally, my sister published an article on the US website, www.salon.com, today. Salon (according to their own website) is 'the award-winning online news and entertainment Web site, combining original investigative stories, breaking news, provocative personal essays and highly respected criticism along with popular staff-written blogs about politics, technology and culture', it's worth a look. My sister's article was a review of Rodrigo Garcia's new film, Mother and Child (yet to open on these shores), a film exploring 'grief' using adoption as it's wrapper. Actually, my sister wrote her piece from her own perspective of the adoption process, something with which she is familiar having adopted her daughter three years ago. I know I'm biased but her article was excellent. Some of the huge on-site response the article generated has been breathtakingly hostile with people out there willing to pillory my sister from a position of total ignorance. It really is quite shocking what these contributors are prepared to say and write under a cloak of anonymity. One of the worst suggested that people who adopt children do it because they're either too vain or too lazy to have children themselves. Pur-leese! To make a comment on the site, you have to sign up and other readers then have access to all of your past comments on other articles. Suffice it to say, some of the commentators have three, four or five hundred previous postings. What can I say? They really should get out more.
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
Man on the edge
Big-J is a man who likes to live life on the edge. On the edge of driving me into an early grave that is.
When we left for the airport, at the crack of sparrow fart last Saturday, we had travelled no further than a mile when his dashboard turned fluorescent red and pinged repeatedly in an alarming way. ‘Oh no’ said he, ‘it’s a flat’. We hastily detoured into the nearest service station to inspect the tyre. ‘It’s a slow puncture’ said he knowingly, ‘I’ll pump it up and it’ll be fine’.
I suggested that the chances were that the tyre would be flat after five days in Luton airport’s car park and that really, if we were sensible, we’d go home and swap his car for my slow-puncture-free alternative vehicle. But oh no, he didn’t want to do that. My guy only likes to move forwards, never backwards.
So, after five rain sodden days on the French Riviera (a place where it’s really difficult to do anything when the weather is very wet), and a long walk back through the aforementioned airport's car park, we found - and yes, you’re there before me - a totally flat tyre. Well, I had warned him and now I told him so, several times. Nightmare visions of having to call out the AA and waiting the obligatory three hours for them to arrive. ‘No, I’ll have to change it’ said Big-J with a show of complete confidence entirely for my benefit I’m sure as his last tyre change was probably back in 1973. Nevertheless, he brushed aside my enquiries as to whether or not he knew how to change a tyre or even how to unscrew the thief-proof wheel nuts especially fitted to the vehicle to prevent thieves (or hapless amateurs) from removing the wheels, as he rolled up the sleeves of his pale blue Ralph Lauren shirt.
With real teamwork, reminiscent of Dunkirk, together we burrowed deep into the boot and spied an interesting looking small black box, about the size of two paperback books stuck together. “I think that’s a pump,” I said (actually, I’d cheated because the pictures on the box front showed quite clearly that it was some sort of pump). Imagine our surprise and delight to find that it was a dear little electric tyre pump which plugged into the car’s cigarette lighter at one end and screwed onto the tyre at the other before, at the flick of a switch, pumping in air and bringing almost instant relief and unbridled joy to both of us. High five!
But all was not entirely well. No, no, no. Four miles later, those now familiar red lights flashed as the pings resumed pinging, ‘Maybe it’s not such a slow puncture’ he said as we pulled onto the hard shoulder to pump up the tyre again.
Having narrowly avoided death by exhaust fumes or worse, moments later we were off again, homeward-bound when Big J uttered what I can only assume is one of his favourite lines (because he says it quite often) ‘… and now we’re running out of petrol’. This is what I mean by living on the edge. He likes to run the petrol right down to the last teaspoon before filling up the car. I really don’t know why. Is that a man thing? And I absolutely don’t know why he especially seems to like doing this when we’re driving abroad. In this particular instance, we were only four miles south of Luton and twenty from home with the prospect of a friendly service station looming large. I suggested that we take the opportunity to stop there to fill up the car – and pump up the tyre once more which might just get us all the way home without another hairy stop on the hard shoulder. Fortunately for him, he agreed. Had we been in deepest Croatia, he’d probably have wanted to drive on, in the spirit of discovery, until we found the service station after the one we knew was just about to appear or even try to eek out the petrol to get to the one after that. What is it about men that they seem to thrive on the danger and uncertainty of an empty petrol tank? (That’s me trying to be complimentary, plenty of other less flattering thoughts spring to mind here.)
We stopped, we took our fill of fuel and pumped in beautiful fresh air whilst managing to have a run-in with four burly bailiffs - but that’s another story. (Perhaps I should mention that this was pure co-incidence and nothing at all to do with us or our chattels.)
And guess who’s going to be taking the car to have a new tyre fitted tomorrow? Here’s a clue … not him.
When we left for the airport, at the crack of sparrow fart last Saturday, we had travelled no further than a mile when his dashboard turned fluorescent red and pinged repeatedly in an alarming way. ‘Oh no’ said he, ‘it’s a flat’. We hastily detoured into the nearest service station to inspect the tyre. ‘It’s a slow puncture’ said he knowingly, ‘I’ll pump it up and it’ll be fine’.
I suggested that the chances were that the tyre would be flat after five days in Luton airport’s car park and that really, if we were sensible, we’d go home and swap his car for my slow-puncture-free alternative vehicle. But oh no, he didn’t want to do that. My guy only likes to move forwards, never backwards.
So, after five rain sodden days on the French Riviera (a place where it’s really difficult to do anything when the weather is very wet), and a long walk back through the aforementioned airport's car park, we found - and yes, you’re there before me - a totally flat tyre. Well, I had warned him and now I told him so, several times. Nightmare visions of having to call out the AA and waiting the obligatory three hours for them to arrive. ‘No, I’ll have to change it’ said Big-J with a show of complete confidence entirely for my benefit I’m sure as his last tyre change was probably back in 1973. Nevertheless, he brushed aside my enquiries as to whether or not he knew how to change a tyre or even how to unscrew the thief-proof wheel nuts especially fitted to the vehicle to prevent thieves (or hapless amateurs) from removing the wheels, as he rolled up the sleeves of his pale blue Ralph Lauren shirt.
With real teamwork, reminiscent of Dunkirk, together we burrowed deep into the boot and spied an interesting looking small black box, about the size of two paperback books stuck together. “I think that’s a pump,” I said (actually, I’d cheated because the pictures on the box front showed quite clearly that it was some sort of pump). Imagine our surprise and delight to find that it was a dear little electric tyre pump which plugged into the car’s cigarette lighter at one end and screwed onto the tyre at the other before, at the flick of a switch, pumping in air and bringing almost instant relief and unbridled joy to both of us. High five!
But all was not entirely well. No, no, no. Four miles later, those now familiar red lights flashed as the pings resumed pinging, ‘Maybe it’s not such a slow puncture’ he said as we pulled onto the hard shoulder to pump up the tyre again.
Having narrowly avoided death by exhaust fumes or worse, moments later we were off again, homeward-bound when Big J uttered what I can only assume is one of his favourite lines (because he says it quite often) ‘… and now we’re running out of petrol’. This is what I mean by living on the edge. He likes to run the petrol right down to the last teaspoon before filling up the car. I really don’t know why. Is that a man thing? And I absolutely don’t know why he especially seems to like doing this when we’re driving abroad. In this particular instance, we were only four miles south of Luton and twenty from home with the prospect of a friendly service station looming large. I suggested that we take the opportunity to stop there to fill up the car – and pump up the tyre once more which might just get us all the way home without another hairy stop on the hard shoulder. Fortunately for him, he agreed. Had we been in deepest Croatia, he’d probably have wanted to drive on, in the spirit of discovery, until we found the service station after the one we knew was just about to appear or even try to eek out the petrol to get to the one after that. What is it about men that they seem to thrive on the danger and uncertainty of an empty petrol tank? (That’s me trying to be complimentary, plenty of other less flattering thoughts spring to mind here.)
We stopped, we took our fill of fuel and pumped in beautiful fresh air whilst managing to have a run-in with four burly bailiffs - but that’s another story. (Perhaps I should mention that this was pure co-incidence and nothing at all to do with us or our chattels.)
And guess who’s going to be taking the car to have a new tyre fitted tomorrow? Here’s a clue … not him.
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