Donkin Life

Travelling - a game for losers

2009-07-03T17:27:00.007Z

I remember playing a travel game called Go when I was younger. It made travelling seem so exciting as you collected your destination cards with pictures of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the Eiffel Tower and Sugar Loaf Mountain.

But it really needs to be re-invented for modern travel. So, having perfected the rules, let me introduce you to HardJet, beta tested only this morning in the South of France. My flight details said EasyJet but this must have been a misprint. HardJet is designed to test your stamina, resolve and determination to the limit. It should be avoided by those with heart problems or a nervous disposition.

Today’s game began in Hyeres at 5 am when I rose early to catch a 6:17 am train for Nice, changing at Toulon. I had left nothing to chance. The train ticket was pre-booked and a taxi had been ordered for 5.50 am. “The station is just a kilometre away,” said the hotel receptionist the previous evening.

She is a thoughtful lady and brings me coffee, orange juice and a pan au chocolat (forward two spaces). At 5:50 I am beginning to pace about looking at my watch. “No problem, it’s just five minutes by car,” says the woman in French. Five minutes later she is calling the taxi company. “There isn’t going to be a taxi,” she says with that special shrug accompanied by the jutting lower lip that the French have made all their own for just these occasions. They get plenty of practice (miss a turn).

She gives me directions in French which I misunderstand. I begin sprinting in the wrong direction, my trolley bag in tow (back one space). A signpost saying La Gare points the other way. Reverse sprint, trolley bag in flight. I make the station with five minutes to spare. The counter is closed. There’s a sassy looking yellow machine with its computer screen positively challenging me to its own game of get-the-ticket-if-you-can but in French with all the rules loaded in its favour.

“All you need do is put your credit card in the slot and key in the booking number,” said the PR woman when she booked it. Why did I believe her? The EasyTicketmachine has yet to be invented and if it ever is, it sure as Hell isn’t going to happen in France, the land of complex instructions framed as retribution on the rest-of-the-world for refusing to be French.

The minutes are ticking by, the train is at the platform and the machine is mocking me. “Beat me if you can,” it's saying. I press a few boxes. "Computer says no," says the screen. I grab a random Frenchman by the arm. Up to that moment he thought he was boarding the train, with not a care in the world. But now he is embroiled in the game since he realises I am not about to loosen my grip easily.

We must beat this machine together. Yes he is French (an advantage) but he doesn't understand machine. In fact I think I understand it better but he remains my hostage. Cough up the ticket, or the French guy gets it,” I tell the machine. It won’t take my number but reluctantly recharges my credit card and, as the Frenchman weeps, the guard whistles, and all hope seems lost, it discharges a complicated ticket in pure Sanskrit.

"Batard," it hisses. "Up yours," I scowl. "Pleaeeeese," says the Frenchman. We board, the doors close, the sweat is soaking my shirt. I thank him. He curses me and we go our separate ways. I have to catch a 10.30 am flight to Nice and there is simply no slack in the schedule (PRs don’t do slack). Still, I feel as if I have advanced to Go and my heart rate drops from the purple zone (imminent seizure) to red (critical).

At Toulon, the information board says that my train is running 25 minutes late. Bad news (shake again). But the previous train is running 20 minutes late so I can catch the least late train and actually gain five minutes. “No you can’t, you booked on the other one.” says the lady in the SNCF uniform that I have consulted unwisely. Tip: never consult anyone in a uniform.

I extend my wings like a bird. “I have to catch a flight,” I say. “You must speak to the guard,” she says. The train arrives. I board. Damn, they’re couchettes. The seats are all up at the front says the guard, better be quick. For the second time today I (Usain) bolt the 100 yards to the front carriage, collapsing in a seat with a broken recliner that seems to understand and feel sympathy for my nervous state. “There, there,” it says. “This is France. It’s always like this.” No-one checks the ticket as no-one in the French railway system has mastered Sanskrit. Why did I bother?

Amazingly I arrive in Nice ahead of schedule and shake two sixes to find an amenable taxi driver who tells me it will take just 20 minutes to reach the airport. We chat, he in his pigeon English, me in my pigeon French. By the time we reach the airport we are comfortably cooing away in plain pigeon, agreeing that we both like Italy but neither of us can speak the language.

There's one and a quarter hours before the flight but, because this is HardJet, the signs say we should get here two hours before we fly just in case we are not stressed enough. I join the pre-queue queue, which progresses disarmingly steadily until we reach the real queues. You can take your pick. An English family of three opt for tactical queuing as mum, dad and son occupy three separate queues. If everyone did this the queues would be out of the door. My queue looks satisfyingly short (forward a square), but I'm told after standing there five minutes that it has closed behind the people in front of me (back two).

The next queue is going nowhere and neither, it seems, are the rest. The baggage conveyor has broken down. Sometimes in any game you have to seize the moment. With no baggage to check I execute a slick passing move, slide up to the check-in desk and ask if I can be processed. No problem. The three queue strategy family are horrified. The mother looks as if her rabbit has just died and she can't sell its hutch. I lick my finger and stroke the air (forward six spaces).

Security isn't too bad. There is the usual long walk up and down an empty zig-zagging cordon (while the security staff watch us, belly-laughing behind two-way mirrors). I produce my lap top then the security man says: "What's that in your pocket?"

"Tic Tacs."

"In the tray."

Retrieving my suspicious Tic Tacs from the x-ray machine I feel a surge of triumph.
Little do they know that each triangular white mint contains a lethal exploding cocktail of chemicals. Fortunately I have never been forced to use one in anger.But I like to have them with me just in case.

The game is reaching its climax but there a are still one or two more throws of the dice and, this being HardJet, there are a some crucial tactical manoeuvres before gaining your seat.

There are no numbered seats but there is a pecking order. All the cheats have paid extra for A tickets (best people) and AS tickets (better people with children). The rest have B tickets apart from me who has the letters LCS on his ticket (last chance saloon). I jest. I'm a B with the rest of the subhumans.

Some Bs try to sneak through when the As are called and are sent back, red-faced, to sit on the naughty step.

Most of the Bs are circling and jostling like horses and riders under starters' orders. And they're off. The quest for everyone is to position themselves with that vital empty middle seat. Alliances are made, defences erected, tactics deployed. A common one is to spend an inordinate time scrabbling in your bag before putting it in the overhead locker (fraught with hazards since, in doing so, you are risking the loss of a locker space).

Coming late to the cabin my game plan has changed. I eye up my fellow passengers. Now who's flight could I spoil by taking the middle seat? I dally a while by each row looking in to those pleading eyes, praying for me to pass by (this game must be even more fun if you are fat). You would think I was the Angel of Death about to take their first born.

In fact the flight isn't full and there is plenty of room. That really should be in capitals for emphasis. THERE IS PLENTY OF ROOM. Is this a win? Too soon, too soon. I had forgotten the baggage hold up. You can hear the joy in the voice that tells us the flight is delayed. In HardJet no-one ever wins. They hold all the trump cards. The best you can hope for is to lose a little less painfully. I leave the airport and join the M25, bumper to bumper. Car travel is so much fun. Someone ought to make a game of it.

Tennis at the grass roots - while it lasts

2009-07-01T23:14:00.003Z

If I was a blade of grass at Wimbledon I would be worried about something a little more radical than a haircut in a year or two. In fact I’d be quaking right down to my shallow root system.

That big sliding roof that blotted out the sun this week after a few droplets of rain must have been as welcome as a nuclear winter to those pampered, tightly packed little sods that comprise the last lawn tennis venue on the grand slam circuit.

The roof is great if it’s keeping off the rain. That is what it was built for at a cost of £80m. I have to repeat that - £80m. That’s £80m for a roof the size of a tennis court. If I had been quoted £100,000 I would have blanched, but £80m. You could get.....well you could get Ronaldo for that. Roof/Ronaldo/roof/Ronaldo.....not an easy one.

Or you could buy a good sized island somewhere warm with sandy beaches and frigate birds. Eighty million quid for a bloody roof? They’re having us on. The more I say it, the less I can see it. I mean, what would have been wrong with a big ridge pole with a tarpaulin slung over and a couple of gutters? Wouldn’t that have done the trick? I wonder how the All England Club did the deal? I suspect it was with a few arms twisted behind backs after the TV networks sent in the heavy mob. There must have been coercion somewhere along the line.

"You buy that roof, OK? And the first time you get the chance, if there’s so much as a gnat’s whoopsy falls out of the sky, you close it and you keep it closed."

I don’t like the roof one bit, but then I’m an old curmudgeon who still has his wooden Slazenger racquet and who has never quite got over the day-glow tennis balls. But this roof is the slippery slope, not to mention a slippery court that is bound to handicap our man more than their’s. It always does.

You just wait; a few more evenings like the last one and the grass will begin to cut up, just as it did at Wembley. Then they will fire the groundsman just like they did at Wembley and, when that fails to improve anything, the players will complain. Finally the unthinkable will happen and the grass will go, replaced by clay, and some will say; “Why didn’t we do this years ago?

Advertising will crowd the court, the military ushers will be replaced by nightclub bouncers and the Royal Box will be stuffed with rappers and DJs sporting a constellation of bling, blinding the servers under the floodlights. The ball boys and girls will be issued with skateboards and scoops and Cliff Richard will be shunted deep in to the stands, safely out of sight of the cameras.

They’ll hire a man in a Womble suit to tour the court and when Andy Murray enters, a kilted piper will play him on to the court as the crowd hum through their noses, flap their elbows and sing the words to the Scotts Porridge Oats advert. Roger Federer meanwhile will glide on to the court like Fred Astaire in a fancy white designer suit. Sorry, I’m running away with myself now. It’s not going to happen.

The Martians are coming.....

2009-06-26T10:48:00.008Z

Watching the Andy Murray match on TV yesterday, I heard someone from the crowd shout: "Come on Nadal." Someone else shouted "Come on Henman." It perplexed the commentators. What was going on?

Later,the story of Michael Jackson's death broke on the celebrity website TMZ. Other news stations took time to verify his death and produced some balanced reporting. It's important to do so today because all kinds of hoaxes are spread around the web.

Before the night had ended there were reports that actors Jeff Goldblum and Harrison Ford had also died. Goldblum was supposed to have fallen off a cliff while filming in New Zealand. Funnily enough this was how Tom Hanks was reported to have died in 2006 as the Snopes website revealed.

Why do people start such rumours? I suppose that some find starting a story that is spread by millions intoxicating, instilling a sense of power - a bit like kicking off a Mexican wave.

The hoaxers may think of these stories as harmless but it wouldn't have been a joke if you were a relative of Goldblum or Hanks and you saw their death being reported on the news wires (yes, some stations did put out the rumour without checking).

The power of the viral is worrying. On its own, in a single medium, I don't think it's enough to cause mayhem. But imagine a situation if a dangerous rumour was co-ordinated across the various media.

In 1938, when people relied for their news on radio and newspapers, Orson Welles broadcast a version of H.G Wells' War of the Worlds that relied on realistic radio bulletins of a Martian invasion for dramatic effect. While the scale of the ensuing panic is debated today, if you imagine tuning in to the broadcast at about 2 minutes 30 seconds onwards (no need to imagine, try it here), you can see how some people may have allowed their anxieties to get the better of them, triggering hysteria.

The broadcast caused outrage because it betrayed a sense of trust people had placed in the broadcast media. It demonstrates why the BBC, of all stations, must take scrupulous care with its bulletins. It wields extraordinary power of influence that it cannot afford to abuse.

Mass hysteria is a strange phenomenon which I have experienced just once in my life - after hearing of the death of Princess Diana. I felt a real sense of grief on the day of her funeral, yet I only saw her once and never met her, and afterwards felt embarrassed by my emotions, almost in denial as intellectually they were simply illogical, but I know they were real.

Many years ago I interviewed a Ukrainian man who had been in the German army on the Russian front during World War II. As the war ended, he and his comrades deserted their trenches under protection of a barrage and headed west as fast as they could in order to surrender either to the British or the Americans. Coming out of a wood, someone shouted "the Russians are coming." One man put a gun to his head and shot himself, such was the fear of being taken. But the Russians didn't come. It had been a cry of panic.

What would make us panic today? Reports of a dirty bomb over a city? Co-ordinated bulletins about an impending asteroid collision? The swine flu reports probably caused undue anxiety and yet the threat was real and remains so. Suppose the media could have launched a Tsunami warning ahead of the Boxing Day 2004 disaster that killed 230,000 people? The earthquake occurred several hours before the wave struck most coasts. Would people have heeded warnings?

The more hoaxes we experience, the more cynical we are likely to become. That's fine until a real emergency comes along. In the meantime, if you happen to be in Wimbledon watching Andy Murray's next match and the chap next to you shouts: "Come on Henman," just give him a slap and tell him not to be so silly. It's the only way.

Panda's Big Adventure

2009-06-24T19:22:00.006Z

Our son, Rob, has just published the third game in his Panda series on his Bad Viking games web site. This one is called Panda's BIG Adventure. Having played it, I think it will appeal to old and young alike. There are one or two amusing scenes.

For this one he has moved away from the sniper format in Panda, Tactical Sniper and in Panda II to one where you have to collect things in different scenes. It doesn't take long to play but it will test your lateral thinking.

If you are above these kinds of games, try them on your kids. They're fun and they'll make them think a bit too.

Cricket test

2009-06-15T10:41:00.008Z

I'm not sure if we could have asked for more at Lords yesterday: warm sunshine, brilliant atmosphere, great seat, fine wine and a win for England against India in the Twenty20 match.

My only regret was an evens bet with my host on India to win; not because I lost, but because it created divided loyalties at the death.

Some people say that Twenty20 isn't real cricket. Others say it's the future. In one sense it's a little bit more like football as the outcome of a match can turn on one or two incidents and that means that the best team does not always win.

It would be a shame if test cricket was allowed to decline in favour of the one-day and Twenty20 games where cash generated by TV and crowd-pulling contests might begin to overshadow the 5-day game. But if you are looking for the heart and soul, the history and the heritage of cricket, most of the events that have made it such a great game have happened in test matches.

Indian supporters easily outnumbered those for England yesterday which made for a great atmosphere in the ground. I know these are international matches but the playing of the national anthems seemed a bit out of place in this atmosphere. When the Irish lined up for their anthem in the first match, hardly anyone sang. After listening to the Irish thumping out their anthem in Croke Park at rugby matches, it seemed odd to hear it played with barely a voice raised.

I'm reminded at these matches about Norman Tebbit's infamous "cricket test" of national sympathies. Most of the Indian crowd, I would guess, would be British nationals. So shouldn't they have been supporting England? I don't see why this should be an issue. It's natural to stay close to your roots in sport. I live in Surrey today but as a Yorkshireman I know which team I want to win the county championship, and it isn't Surrey.

It takes more than a passport and an oath of loyalty to turn your back on the country of your birth, or even your parents' birth. Well, it does for some. All it took for me was an evens bet on India to win.

No FT, plenty of comment

2009-06-05T06:18:00.006Z

It was good to see old colleagues at a get-together for ex-Financial Times journalists in London last night. A lot had retired but many have gone on to glittering careers - two to the House of Lords, one in Government, two on BBC news (constantly), two Fleet Street editors and one running the Confederation of British Industry.

The gathering was special for another reason. It's not often that you come across 150 journalists in a bar, buying their own drinks out of their own pockets with not an expenses receipt between them. How times have changed. "At least we were never taking money from the taxpayer," said an old colleague, reflecting on the MPs' expenses scandal.

I had a hot tip from one, confident in his insider-knowledge, that Ed Balls had definitely got the chancellor's job. And it may well have been true, but political events are moving so quickly and that was before we had the news of James Purnell's resignation. Purnell was the man being sounded out for Balls's job at Education. So Alistair Darling stays put for now and so does Balls, his ambition to run the Treasury as yet unrequited.

Balls wasn't there last night but I can never relate to him as a politico anyway. Instead I recall Ed as the centre forward who gave our old FT football team a bit of aggression up front. Ian Hargreaves, former editor of the Independent, was also there. Ian was a gritty midfielder, never afraid to bite a few ankles.

A lot of the chat was reminiscences and gossip - the stuff I miss most from my days on the paper. A few of my old colleagues liked to lunch in a certain style. David Churchill, former leisure industries correspondent, had his favourite tables at Orso's and Joe Allen's restaurants - indeed still does. One lunch time he arrived at Joe Allen's only to find that Joan Collins was sitting at his table. A word in the ear of management and she was summarily shifted elsewhere.

Cooliris and Spotify

2009-06-02T14:49:00.004Z

Two new web services - well new to me - that I've been enjoying these past few days are Cooliris and Spotify. Cooliris enables you to search web images in a way that presents them in one big browser-friendly mass. You can also use it on your web-based albums. I would imagine it would be useful for professional photographers seeking to check out copyright infringements. Like a lot of these things, you discover their value when you start using them.

Spotify has a large collection of music tracks that can be played straight from your computer. It doesn't have everything out there but I was surprised by just what it did have. The site has none of the royalties issues faced by some music swapping sites. All you need do is hook it up to your amplifier and you never need to play another CD. There is a catch - it runs advertisements periodically. These can be removed for a monthly subscription fee of £9.99. Or there's a day pass for 99p - good for parties. So you may choose to stick with your CDs after all but it's great for checking out music you might want to collect.

A palace for duck eggs

2009-05-25T14:11:00.007Z

Of all the stories from two weeks of revelations in the MPs’ expenses scandal, the best one has to be the duck house bought with mine, your's and other taxpayers’ money by Sir Peter Viggers, the Conservative MP for Gosport.

The duck house, in period style and set on its own floating duck island, cost £1,650 but Sir Peter's ducks never took to it and the house has been put in to storage. Now Ivor Ingall, the Farnham man who makes these sumptuous duck houses, has spoken out to reject any suggestion that his houses may be unsuitable for ducks.

Writing in today’s Daily Telegraph he says that “all the many houses I have sold have been regularly occupied by ducks.” The MP’s ducks, it seems, must have been particularly choosy.

Anyway, says Mr Ingall, these are not duck houses, but “bird pavilions,” intended as “architectural follies” for the garden.

The Viggers duck pavilion was built in the Swedish style but other designs are available, including a replica of Enniskillen Castle in County Fermanagh, Northern Ireland. The makers, Heytesbury Bird Pavillions, also offer homes for other animals. There is a Palladian chicken house at £3,290, a neo-classical dovecote at £1,880 and a Queen Anne dog kennel at £2,232.

The duck house market is depressed at the moment, says Mr Ingall. Perhaps he should model one of his pavilions on the Palace of Westminster - no shortage of duck eggs there.

Queen causes rumpus at London School of Economics

2009-04-30T23:25:00.005Z

I hear that the Queen has caused quite a bust up among academics at the London School of Economics.

Her Majesty was visiting the school a few months ago when she asked one of its faculty a pointed question about the financial crisis of 2008. "Why didn't you see it coming?" she said.

"We thought the macro guys had it covered," said the academic, somewhat meekly.

The criticism didn't end there. When one of the LSE staff subsequently visited Buckingham Palace he had to suffer a jibe from the Duke of Edinburgh that he was a member of the "institution that knows nothing about anything."

The LSE was so concerned that it convened a meeting of its six most senior economists in February. They concluded that the coming recession would be the "weakest since 1945."

Social sciences staff have now turned on their economist colleagues, questioning their ability to make accurate predictions and siding with the Queen and Prince Philip. What next? Fisticuffs in the street?

Mask fever

2009-04-30T14:44:00.005Z

Gill says there has been strong demand in her local pharmacy for surgical masks among people afraid of contracting swine flu.

I can see the surgical mask becoming this year's "must have" fashion accessory. Someone somewhere stands to make an awful lot of money making customised masks for those who wouldn't been seen dead in white or pale blue.

No, if we are to be seen dead in our masks we might think of going out in style with something a little more original. Some will want slogans on their masks. How about a Bluebottle mask in memory of the Goon Show, with the immortal line: "You rotten swine, you deaded me."

Masks will come in very handy for thieves who want to hide their identities from CCTV cameras.

Those who sell scarves to football crowds could make a killing (or save one) by supplying masks in team colours. We could see a revival in football crowd violence as gangs of mask-wearing hooligans happily kick nine bells out of each other undetected by police cameras.

There will be job opportunities too. Now anyone can become a ventriloquist.

I expect those in the House of Lords will want velvet face masks and the catwalks will have masks designed by Versace. The police will love them in black for crowd control as long as they don't display any identification numbers.

But there is a problem. How will we possibly identify the surgeon in an operating theatre now that anyone can wear a mask?

Buzz off

2009-04-27T08:58:00.005Z

Awoke to the buzzing of a wasp this morning - opened the window wider, saw it escape and went back to bed only to be awoken again by another wasp, then another and another. They seemed to be leaving at regular intervals like jets from an aircraft carrier.

Inspecting the corner of the room, I found a perfect golf ball-sized nest dangling from the curtain pelmet. There was just the one wasp, coming and going. It must have made the nest over the weekend when we were away. After it flew off once more I removed the nest and closed all the bedroom windows. Sure enough, the wasp was soon back, butting the window pain.

Undeterred, it went to the next open window it could find and I could hear John clearing it out of his room. Apparently the wasp was a queen building its first nest. Left alone the nest would have become progressively larger. Hopefully it will find somewhere else to make its home.

Postscript: The wasp did not find a new home. We left the windows closed for two days but after opening them there was a familiar buzzing on the morning of the third day as the wasp sought to resume her nest making in exactly the same spot. Her resistance was brought to a swift end with a single blow from a rolled up copy of the Sunday Times Rich List.

I hate playing God with our garden wildlife and don't spray the roses (although I do lay down slug pellets to protect the Hostas). But sometimes you have to lend a helping hand. I rescued the frog spawn from the pond and its hungry goldfish and put it in a plastic box full of water. Now I've done something similar with the toad spawn. Hopefully some of the tadpoles will survive this year.

Life and death in the back garden

2009-04-23T11:37:00.008Z

We have a pair of friendly robins in our garden. If it is the same pair, last year they nested in an old plant pot, but I never saw any fledglings. This year I saw they had nested in a box erected for that very purpose on a fence behind a shrub.

This morning I heard a commotion outside and went to the bedroom window to see a magpie in the centre of the lawn being attacked by three blackbirds and a blue tit. I have heard that birds of a feather flock together but I had not seen different species ganging up against a common enemy before.

The magpie was holding its own. I saw it leap in to the shrub where the robins are nesting, then back on to the lawn. I went out on to the lawn and the magpie flew off. The blackbirds stayed their ground but sounded distressed. I don't know where their nest is but I guess it is close by. We have a nesting box with blue tits too but since the shrubbery has come in to leaf I can no longer see their comings and goings.

I went over to the robins' nest and was disappointed to find that the rotting wooden roof of the nest had been pecked off. The robins had gone. I did not look inside as it was clear their nest had been discovered. There is still time for them to start again but I don't know how I can help them to conceal their nest any more than they had. Magpies are on the lookout constantly at this time of year. I suppose the magpie must have a role as a predator but it seems to exact a heavy toll on the songbirds.

The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB) does not believe that the Magpie is a threat to songbirds but that is not going to help my friendly robins. A Larsen trap could even the odds but some people object to these traps. I don't expect to find any songbirds registered with the protesters.

Night caller

2009-04-23T10:17:00.006Z

It doesn't do much good, but I value my beauty sleep all the same, so I wasn't too amused and nor was Gill when the telephone awakened us at two in the morning. Gill answered to hear the kind of beep you get from fax machines. She put down the receiver and five minutes later the phone rang again.

We switched off the ring tone but the phone kept ringing in other parts of the house, disturbing everyone.

This time I decided that something had to be done. I dialled 100 to get the operator. It was an answerphone. I had to listen to three options before getting a fourth option enabling me to speak to an operator.

Operators used to be such useful and helpful people. Not any more. I'm not sure whether this one was actually employed by BT or whether they were in the UK, not that their location mattered.

I complained about the call and asked for the caller's number to be blocked (I had called it back and found it was engaged. I presume it was an automated fax machine). This is the number if you would like to check it yourself: 0207 719 8407. I rang it at length just now and no-one answered. Maybe I have made an enemy. I did write a negative book review recently.

The operator put me through to something called the nuisance call service. The person manning this service gave me another number to dial - 0845 070 0702 - for the Fax Preference Service and gave me an online address (www.fpsonline.org) since it did not have a 24-hour switchboard.

By this time I was becoming a tad irritated since it appeared that, after being passed from pillar to post, that BT did not have a remedy for my immediate problem: how to get a good night's sleep without being interrupted by an inconsiderate fax.

So I called the operator again and got a bit cross. The operator - it was the same one and she remembered me - got a bit cross too and passed me on to her supervisor who soon became as cross as the operator. They have training for this kind of thing (highly frustrated, grumpy, sleepless man fed up with being fobbed off) but the training is designed only to ensure that the operator (and supervisor) can stay relatively calm and professional while explaining that nothing can be done.

Having had no such training I cannot claim to have remained relatively calm. I didn't want a service that would become active in 28 days (what they were offering). I wanted the caller at 0207 7198 407 to be wiped off the face of the Earth.

The supervisor did offer one piece of advice. "You could unplug the phone," she said. But I had phones plugged in all over the house and some of the sockets were in places that are difficult to access. I didn't want to go on a plug hunt at what was now 2.30 am. I asked for the private number of Ian Livingstone, the BT chief executive, so I could call him that minute for a chat about things. But the supervisor, who was also grumpy by now, said she did not have it.

What irritated me most is that I did not have a beef with the operator (or the outsourced service that is employed now to tell nighttime callers that they cannot be helped), but with the fax machine operator. Who was it and why were they ringing me at that ungodly hour? I unhooked my fax machine long ago, about the same time that I got rid of the pony and trap.

Gill, meanwhile, explained that there was a master plug for the phone. Why didn't she tell me earlier? I went downstairs and unplugged it.

By this time I was wide awake so reached for my bedside book, The Book of Eels, by Tom Fort. This also happens to be about slimy nocturnal creatures, but ones that manage to go about their business without disturbing people.

"What? You're going to read now?" said Gill. She couldn't stand any more and went off to sleep in the spare room. What was going on? Why did I feel guilty when this whole fractious episode had been caused by an automated fax system.

There must be some privacy issues here. It can't be right that we can be disturbed in our beds in this way and we shouldn't have to instigate various services to deal with it. Yes, there is a Call Prevention Registry but this is a subscription service. Why should I have to pay for my privacy? A call to the operator should be enough.

NB. I called the operator back during office hours today and had a much better reception. This time I was put through to someone who actually seemed to care about my problem. The number, she said, was not registered with BT and was probably dialling our home number by mistake. She would get on to the relevant service provider and ensure that it didn't happen again. I hope she's successful.

Feeding the birds? It's criminal. Stick to banking

2009-03-21T08:38:00.008Z

Do you remember that haunting song in the Mary Poppins film, the one with the old lady sitting on the steps of St Paul's Cathedral? How did the lyrics go? Yes, I remember: "Feed the birds, twopence a bag."

There she sat, birds fluttering around her head with the "saints and apostles" smiling down on her. But not in Heckmondwike, West Yorkshire.

Heckmondwike has its own elderly bird-feeding lady, 70-year-old retired mill-worker, Michelina Roy. But her bird feeding costs slightly more than twopence a bag - a £75 fine in fact.

Two council wardens (why do these people always work in twos?) approached her as she tossed bread crumbs and bits of crumpet to the pigeons and handed her an on-the-spot penalty ticket for littering.

Poor Mrs Roy. She has missed her way in life. What she should have done is to have joined the Royal Bank of Scotland and worked her way up to the executive suite where she could have scattered billions of pounds to the birds, then retired on a £703,000 a year pension. But Sir Fred Goodwin, the former boss of RBS, makes sure he keeps his own encounters with birds strictly legal. He doesn't feed them, but shoots them instead. It means that his "bag" will cost slightly more than twopence, but he can afford it.

Perhaps the leaders of Kirklees Council, whose officers imposed the fine, would rather Mrs Roy invested the money she spends on bird food in RBS, or should we refer to it these days as the Dawes, Tomes, Mousely, Grubbs Fidelity Feduciary Bank.

Why should she do this? The song lyrics make it quite plain: "You'll achieve that sense of conquest as your affluence expands in the hands of the directors who invest as propriety demands."

Red Kites and the Chilterns

2009-03-15T09:46:00.005Z

I don't know the Chilterns very well but I do see a lot of Red Kites there when travelling on the M40. So yesterday it was good to watch them from a footpath.

A few of my rugby chums were gathering ahead of the England v France match and one of them, Stuart Fletcher, invited us on one of his guided walks - an 11-mile hike from Great Missenden to High Wycombe.

You can't walk anywhere in the Chilterns these days without seeing lots of Red Kites. They dominate all the other bird life. But there weren't any here at all until about 1992 when a breeding pair were brought over from West Wales.

The breeding programme has been phenomenally successful and although there are still tagged birds in the area, far more of them are untagged. The Chilterns is thought to have between 400 and 500 breeding pairs today. It's one of those programmes where there is no longer any need to collect sightings, other than tracking how the birds are extending their range. I hope it won't be long before they reach Surrey.

Garden of Earthly Delights

2009-03-03T22:31:00.008Z

Disneyland Paris is surreal at the best of times. I suppose that’s the point of it. But after a day on the Guinness in Dublin it was like entering a scene from Alice in Wonderland. In fact, walking in to Hotel New York somewhere to the south of the French capital was like something out of a Guinness-fuelled dream (or nightmare).

I had come here to talk to 1,200 sixth form students about God-know’s-what in back-to-back sessions. “Back-to-back sessions?”

“Yes that’s what you agreed,” said organiser Miriam.

We didn’t eat too late and I left with assurances that I would be with them at 8.30 am on the dot. Some time after 8.30 am my phone awoke me from another Guinness-fuelled dream. Bugger.

No time to shower, all a bit of a rush, but nothing spoiled. I turned up, I spoke, but did I conquer? It was difficult to tell. There was respectful applause but I couldn’t help thinking that it was the kind of respect afforded to a parent, a teacher or any other authority figure.

The other speakers were really interesting and seemed to engage well with the students. One was a chicken hut company and the other made bean bags that converted in to beds (what a stunningly simple idea).

Having said that, they didn’t get away cleanly. Three of the blighters in the audience had smuggled in laser pens and were training red beams on the eyes of the speakers. I escaped this punishment probably through fear that I would seek out the culprits and beat them up – which was good judgement.

I came away wishing I had thought of designer-made chicken huts and beds that converted in to bean bags and vice versa. But I didn't. The chicken hut kings are consolidating their swiftly expanding empire as I write and, mock ye not, it is a GREAT business.

Feeling rather jaded in the afternoon I went for a wander around Disney. What a dispiriting experience. Here is a company that has applied production line principles to the business of having fun. So anal are the Disney people that they tell you when to laugh and when you’re not laughing enough.

I joined the tour of the fake back-lot and sat there in protestant primness, refusing to respond to the flames, steam and water that issued from the fake destructive scenes. I felt self-conscious – a grey haired man sitting alone, unaccompanied among all the families. They might as well have branded my forehead with a capital “P” at the gate.

I sat alone but was joined on the bus by a little girl in a fairy frock who maintained a safe distance, retreating in fear to her father’s lap. “Don’t go near strange men,” she is drilled by her parents. Society demands such advice, however much it may pain the innocent.

Euro-Disney is too dreadful for words. If Dante had tried to pen his Divine Comedy on a Disney holiday this would be the model for his inferno. Even as I escape its clutches on the Eurostar, Mickey’s diabolical disciples continue their tormented cacophony of nursery chat all the way to St. Pancras'. Like a scene out of The Prisoner my way to the buffet car is blocked by a giant Minnie Mouse balloon. It’s all too horrible.

Rugby - Ireland v England and the price of stupidity

2009-03-03T22:02:00.008Z

The annual tour match started so badly as I looked at the e-ticket before setting off to Gatwick with plenty of time to spare. People, including members of my own family, have alleged in the past that I lack organisational skills.

But I’m not an idiot and understood it was important to book a flight well ahead of the international rugby weekend. So I was happy with the £42 ticket from Gatwick to Dublin, booked it, and wrote the details in my diary – 6.25 pm which would leave plenty of time for a sociable evening on the Friday night. Sorted.

Came the day, I was walking out of the house looking at the freshly printed e-ticket from the web site. Gill had tried to organise my seat online (generally I don’t care where I sit), but the web site wouldn’t allow her to do so. “Funny,” I thought and looked at the ticket details. The time said: 06.25. It seemed an appropriate moment to say: “Bugger,” followed by several other expletives cursing the obsession among travel operators for the 24-hour clock.

Isn't it funny that when we do something dumb, we clutch at the nearest available straw to try and mitigate the error? It must be a kind of comfort mechanism. Using the second person in grammar is doing a similar thing. It's quite possible that "we" do not do these things. But I confess I have form.

These kinds of occasions are always difficult; the real test of a relationship. It happened that I had a flight booked from Dublin to Paris on the Sunday so Gill was only able to mutter about the ultimate sanction. “You wouldn’t be going if it wasn’t for that,” she said.

Could this be true? That in our consensual marriage arrangement one of the partners would attempt to apply the right of veto (if indeed it exists)? The atmosphere turned noticeably chillier as I looked for another flight and was quoted £242 for a one-way flight from Heathrow.

“That’s your birthday present,” said Gill as I booked it in recognition that this was the going rate for stupidity today. Never mind, the Irish trip is always a good crack, you only get one life, and a fine game was assured.

The only problem was that the organisers had fixed a 5.30pm kick off to suit TV (not the travelling supporters). The kick off time sounded alarm bells with the potential of a day-long wall-to-wall Guinness drinking session.

So I had a plan. Googling “things to do in Ireland” I was attracted to something called the 1916 Walk: two hours of history and walking around Dublin, starting at the International Bar (pictured) in Wicklow Street.

Getting off the Dart from Dun Loghaire (I won’t go in to why we stay here but it has more to do with history than convenience), there was some disagreement because Stuart didn’t want to take a taxi but it had to be. Unfortunately neither our Nigerian taxi driver nor his Satnav had a clue where to go and we drove in circles for a while, arriving at the bar shortly after 11.30 am.

“Not to worry,” said the barman when I asked about the walk, “It never starts on time.”
“Err, so where is everyone?”

“Ah tisn’t on today. It starts tomorrow.”

“Bugger,” I said.

Was anyone downhearted? Not at all. Nice bar, nice Guinness, might as well have one, and so it continued until we arrived at Croke Park with our €95 tickets that were upsetting Stuart. As the picture below reveals, he had mellowed by the end of the evening, the time of night when he uses his irony-laden catchphrase: "Another pint? Just what I needed."

The first half happened in a blink. Stuart was struggling to keep his eyes open. “That little rest of the eyelids cost you £5,” I said, not that it was £5 in lost entertainment. The second half wasn’t much better.

Suffice to say the result pleased the Irish and we repaired to Keoh’s bar, one of those Dublin centre bars that have been preserved, nicotine stains and all. A good few Guinnesses later we were singing on the Dart, followed by more Guinness in Dun Loghaire.

The Sunday morning was like many others after international matches – general whole body illness, pains in limbs, and the desperate need for a darkened room. A forgiving God would have guided me home. But the God of rugby took me to that special place reserved for misguided behaviour – the pit of eternal damnation that is Euro Disney.

To be continued.....

Daily Mail says it ain't right

2009-02-24T11:11:00.003Z

It's not often that I agree with the Daily Mail but I think it's on the button with this. Something has gone wrong with our values.

Old story, new twist

2009-02-17T07:45:00.005Z

In Victorian England they used to shove children like Alfie Patten up chimneys. Today in our enlightened times they are taken by the hand for an interview with "Uncle" Max Clifford, the publicist, as much a guardian of public morals as Fagin was to Oliver Twist.

Frozen peas, fairy lamps and blazing stars

2009-02-12T01:17:00.011Z

In a box somewhere I have a tape of Orson Welles losing his rag while having to repeat his lines in an advertisement for Findus frozen peas. It seems astonishing to think that late in life the great man stooped to such trivia. But he did and here it is. I didn't realise that the clip was well known until I read about it here.

That old tape also featured an outtake from an interview with Harold Wilson where he complains about a question regarding an appearance fee. I can't find that anywhere on the internet.

Both Wilson and Welles are eclipsed by this recent dummy-shedding performance from Christian Bale that seems to confirm everything we suspected about pampered actors. It has even been set to music.

But I prefer this compilation of what might occur if one ranter meets another.

One other clip on that old tape was the memorable recording of Lt. Commander Tommy Woodroffe's spectacular 1937 commentary from HMS Nelson on a review of the Royal Navy's fleet at Spithead. They don't make 'em like that anymore.

Stop press, boy slips on ice

2009-02-11T21:55:00.004Z

A school boy slipped on a playground and banged his head. It happened quite a lot when I was a kid, particularly since, with a keen frost, you could make a slide like sheet glass on the asphalt school drive. But this slip was a news story since the head closed the school down.

Children hurt themselves all the time in the schoolyard. It's part of growing up. But note the dramatic language in the report. He was "treated by paramedics" but not badly hurt.

Paramedics? We had antiseptic applied by the school secretary who took some sadistic delight in watching us wince. For sure the school did its best to foil our ice-sliding, sometimes getting the caretaker to spread ashes from the boiler. But we always made another one.

Cuts, bumps, grazes and sprains just happen when you fall on snow. It's part of life. But it's nothing that should trouble a hospital or the emergency services. You fall over, you get up, rub the sore bit and dust yourself down.

I notice the report says the boy fell as he walked between lessons. That explains everything. He should have been sliding.

Snow event

2009-02-02T16:44:00.008Z

We never have snow in Woking but we did today, lots of it, more in fact than I can remember falling over a single night when we lived in Yorkshire, apart from in 1963 and in the winter of 1979. It hung around a while those years.

We took Doug the dog for a walk this morning but had to bring him back as so much snow was clinging to his fur, he could hardly walk. He wasn't amused. I must have spoken to more of my neighbours in half an hour than I usually do in six months. Everyone was saying hello to each other. It was like Christmas.

One of my neighbours was on the hill trying to clear a path for cars. He had been there nearly three hours since 7 am when I strolled past. It didn't look great weather for cars but Gill needed to work this afternoon so I ran her in to work and the car cleared the hill just fine, the hill-clearing neighbour having thrown in the towel.

It seemed that everyone with a four-wheeled drive car was out on the road, looking smug, whether or not they had anywhere to go. It's better when the snow fall is so bad that most people leave their cars at home. The worst is when the snow comes just before evening rush hour and everyone is trying to drive home. That can be a nightmare.

A big snowfall like this is fun for about a day and then you realise that you can't hibernate for ever although I don't have a pressing need to go out for a day or two. I suppose that this kind of weather is a good opportunity to test the merits of home-working. I notice that the BBC weather forecasters were calling it a "snow event." It looked to me very much like a snowfall.

I did a bit of snow-clearing, not that I needed to do so, but because it felt good. I noticed other people doing likewise for the same reason. Odd, that.

George, meanwhile, made a snow man in the garden which has lasted a little bit longer than the last one he made(OK, it does sometimes snow a little bit in Woking). His school was closed and he's hoping it will be closed tomorrow. If it is we might venture over to Box Hill, my favourite sledge run.

It's brightened up an otherwise dreary winter. You have to make the most of snow like this. It's an event.

Happy Box

2009-01-27T23:38:00.009Z

Today I received a parcel by courier. It was about eight inches square, so reasonably substantial and well taped together. There was a label on the side saying "This way up."

I shook it and there was something fairly solid inside. But I didn't open the package. I like to spend time contemplating a good box. Besides, I know that most things I get like this are from PR companies and the thing that's rattling turns out to be a branded paperweight or a stress ball. The only clue was something on the outside that said "happy box."

Gill came back from the gym and wanted to know what was inside the box. I told her I didn't want to open it. She was not amused. In fact she was so not amused she sulked the whole day. The more she sulked the greater my malevolent delight at her frustration. Oh, the power of the Happy Box!

She would have to wait, I told her, because our youngest son George - who just loves parcels - would soon be home from school and I wanted to see whether the happy box would also work its magic on his curiosity. Unfortunately Gill primed him about the pathetic way his father was behaving over the box so George told me he couldn't care less about it.

By this time, the only one of us who had any great desire to know the content was me. But I left it there a little bit longer, all through dinner in fact.

I wish I hadn't opened it. Unopened boxes are far more interesting. But as I removed the cardboard outer my excitement increased because inside the box was.....another box. This one was smart and yellow. On the outside it said "Happy Box." I lifted the lid and inside was a satin ribbon tied over a card on top of some navy blue raffia.

Instead of reading the card, I put the lid back on and waited a little bit longer. But the magic was fading, so I lifted the lid again, undid the ribbon, and read the card that told me the box had been sent by The Work Foundation as a thank you for judging its media awards.

Underneath the raffia was - oh yes - another box! This contained real drinking chocolate. In addition to the drinking chocolate, wrapped in tissue paper was a pair of grey cashmere gloves. Even the dog was jumping up to see what was inside the paper-wrapping. There was also a card all about the Happy Box company. One of the boxes in their range, "the gold standard" box, contains a hundred chocolate coins! A hundred! That's treasure trove!

If you happened to see that nauseating Argos TV advertisement just before Christmas you will know that Argos thoroughly disapproves of such packaging. Sod Argos, I love it.

I gave the gloves to Gill - can't eat them. But that sounds ungrateful. On the contrary, the happy box brightened this dull day in January no end. In fact it made me quite happy.

All things bright and beautiful

2009-01-27T22:58:00.003Z

All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.

C.F. Alexander (1818-95)

Sir David Attenborough asks whether this extends to worms that burrow through the eyeballs of African children? Good question.

First cuckoo

2009-01-23T11:49:00.004Z

Some may be surprised but it is only today that we can officially describe the UK as being in recession.

We like to get ahead of ourselves so much these days that we had the first "green shoots" report before a recession was officially declared.

So in economic terms we have already heard the first cuckoo in spring.