Category Archives: Money

Mike vrs the Volcano

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“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We have a small problem. All four engines have stopped. We are doing our damnedest to get it under control. I trust you are not in too much distress.”

These were the words of Captain Eric Moody as his 747 flew into a cloud of of volcanic dust over Indonesia in 1982. Now I’m not sure which carefully chosen phrase I would have blurted out at the top of my voice had I been on that flight, probably something along the lines of “oh bugger”. Still we need not speculate for too long, as I’m booked on a flight on Sunday to Amsterdam. Well, that’s the plan anyway. As the UK is, apparently, under it’s very own cloud of volcanic dust, it’s not clear if any flights will be taking off by then anyway. I keep looking skywards and all I can see is blue sky and sunshine, but the met office says different and the plume of ash spewing out out the Icelandic volcano has closed the whole of Britain’s airspace.

Now as you will have read here previously, I’m no great fan of flying anyway, merely getting on planes as a means to an end, but ever since I decided to show The Incumbent the delights of the home of the clog, coffee bar and tulip, this trip has been jinxed from the beginning. No sooner had the buttons on BA website been clicked to confirm our flight, their cabin crew announced a series of strikes. The first two caused chaos at the airport, and the third promised to do the same. We spent hours trying to work out alternative routes and modes of transport and decided if the threatened third round of industrial action came (due this weekend) then we’d pop onto the car ferry and drive to Amsterdam.

Only yesterday it became pretty clear that no such action was going to take place and ‘safe’ in the knowledge we would indeed be flying, booked our spot in the car park at Heathrow. When I switched on the news this morning the news of the volcanic ash cloud took a a little time to sink in, it didn’t seem real, but 12 hours later it seems that there’s a very good chance that we will, after all, be completely and absolutely buggered, grounded by this ash. They’re telling me that this invisible cloud is sitting there above us at 30,000 ft, which is where aircraft normally do their stuff (I didn’t know that, as when I’m in the air I’ve usually got my eyes closed and my fingers in my ears, having injected the required amount of scotch into my bloodstream).

Sadly, there’s nothing to be done. I’m no scientist (no, honestly, I’m not) but I don’t think you can just sail up to Iceland and turn the volcano off. Nor I suspect could you send a fleet of helicopters up to blow the cloud away. Can you imagine the frustration to someone like me when there’s really no-one to blame ? My hatred of flying is only matched for my contempt for those that run airlines. Willie Walsh seems to have ably filled the the shoes of the crook who used to run BA, Lord King, and who but his own mother would give that shyster Michael O’Leary over at Ryanair anything but a swift kick to the goolies? Then there’s Branson. I’m running out of airlines I actually feel anything but hatred for. First they steal my money in complicated, if not fraudulent online booking forms (oh, you wish to wear underpants while flying? That’s another £17.50. Sick bags are £4.10 and a stale cheese sandwich is a tenner. Have a nice flight, sir) and THEN they scare the life out of me while I’m up there. I’m sure some of their pilots are former employees at EuroDisney.

But no, I can’t blame them. This is totally the fault of that cow Mother Nature. And probably George Osborne (and why not ? I need to vent). Sadly there’s not much I can do about either of them, I will just have to wait until the volcano blows itself out, or the wind changes direction and blows the dust cloud, and Osborn is forced, on his knees, to clean out the ash from still-moving jumbo jet engines, and what’s left of him given a paupers grave in Welling Cemetery (be sure to order the flowers early).

Osborne’s boss, Cameron, due on TV tonight appearing in the first ever live TV debate of the major party leaders. T o prepare for it, I have cleared the house of all heavy, sharp and throwable objects. I have upped my insurance on my tv and The Incumbent has emptied the liquor cabinet (well, the cupboard under the sink where I keep the booze.) I fear for my and her safety and for that of the contents of Railway Cuttings. Watching these three numpties parrot-out prepared answers to prepared and pre-supplied questions may just prompt an eruption of my own.

“Well don’t watch it, then” I hear you say. But I shall watch it because it is, as I say, the first time it’s ever happened on British TV, and also there’s something in me that believes it’s my duty to watch it. It’s clear that the party leaders only agreed to do it as part of their shameless scam to make us believe that politicians, in the wake of the expenses scandal, are now accessible, open and honest. And do you know, they actually think we believe all this cobblers? Well, why wouldn’t they ? We stood for an illegal war, our elected members stealing our money and their mates in the banking industry are still wandering around at liberty, because we’re told that Parliament will crack down on corruption in the city . We’d believe anything, wouldn’t we ? Even those of us who think we’ve rumbled them, will stroll up and put our ‘X’ next to their name come May 6th. We deserve all we get.

Some of us even believe there’s a big, black Icelandic cloud of dust stopping me going on holiday.
As long as I don’t have to get on a plane, I’ll believe anything.

.

Thanks a Bunch

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Tuesday April 13 (15.10hrs)

Dear Interflora

Finally some evidence of life in your company. Five minutes ago (3.05pm) your courier arrived at my door, carrying my order. Clearly confused, he asked if my name was Kate. I informed him, with all the dignity I could muster, that a) my name was not Kate; b) Kate wasn’t here today as her birthday was yesterday; and c) I no longer wanted the flowers and would not be signing for them. He left, looking even more confused, though no word of apology passed his lips. Is there no-one in your organisation (sic) who suffers from odd bouts of professionalism which might lend them to contacting me and saying sorry?

My phone is charged and turned on awaiting your call.
MB

I don’t think they’re gonna call, do you ?

.

The State of Play

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Finally, there’s something to smile about, something to feel good about, something to look forward to. As the vinegar-strokes of Spring burst forth and the new season sprays its seeds over the flora and fauna of my garden and along all the lanes and byways of the sleepy little borough of Lewis Ham the sun, which has been in winter training south of the equator, make’s an early attempt to be over the yardarm before a mid-day thirst engulfs me.

As the sun’s rays stream through the patio doors, shedding shafts of dusty light over last night’s discarded lottery tickets I hear unmistakable sound of my faithful chien noir pawing at the door in a bid for freedom. He tries this every now and then and the chances are he’ll return pronto, but who am I to keep him forever at my side? I open the door to let my four-legged friend out and, as they say in the song, let the sunshine, let the sunshine, the sun shine in.

I stand at the threshold, inhale lung-fulls of chill, spring air, let the pale,weak solar beams wash over my ever-growing face then realise I should have put some clothes on before exposing my ample frame and dwindling genitalia to the neighbours in the surrounding houses and gardens. I quickly pull the curtains, leaving the rays to illuminate the beaks of the blue tits feeding on my nuts, and to dry out the cat shit on the lawn

My mood has been improving gradually over the past couple of weeks, as it tends to do this time of year. The first indicator that winter is over is the clocks going forward, then Boat Race, then the following weekend by The Grand National (that’s a horse race) and the US Masters (a rather important golf tournament) . The National and The Masters, two events separated by the Atlantic Ocean and 20 degrees Celcius, but almost inseparable by their postitions in the league table of sensational sporting events. Both have huge fields of brightly dressed runners, many carrying too much weight for their own good, most immaculately shod and watched by thousands of animated, vocal and knowledgeable fans. Though admittedly there are rather fewer pissed scousers at Augusta than turn up at Aintree (John Daly’s not from Liverpool, is he?).

Over the years both Grand National and Masters have cost me a fair few quid as I pour goodly amounts of my hard earned cash into the open wallets of the bookies while trying to predict who will win. Most part-time punters remember their few National winners, it being such a lottery and successes come so rarely. My love of the race started in 1975 when I had 50p each-way (probably paid for by my mum) on l’Escgargot which romped home at 13/2. This is easy, thought I and embarked on a, thus far, 35 year quest to repeat my success and adorn myself with the riches of the Indus. I waited 30 years for my next win when, somehow, I bet on the 2005 winners, Hedgehunter which won as 7/1 favourite. Hardly odds on which to retire.

Of course, I was nowhere near last year’s 100-1 Mon Mome, not even in the office sweep. No, I was on State of Play which finished fourth, so I just about got my money back. No-one would ever (or shouldn’t ever) bet ‘to win’ on this race, as a field of 40 horses jumping over 30 sodding great fences over 4 1/2 miles is anyone’s race, so my little ‘each-way’ wagers each year have just about kept my head above water.

So it was with curiously mis-placed optimism that I sat down to watch yesterday’s race. I’d spent long hours studying the form, listening to professional pundits and looking for funny names, but eventually I went with State of Play again, (which this time came in 3rd), while my mate Rob (who has absolutely no interest in the Sport of Kings) had a last-minute, completely uninformed and lucky fiver-each way on the winner, Don’t Push It (10-1) and thus went home with a smile on his face and a bulge in his wallet. Oh goody! How I laughed.

Meanwhile, across the pond in Augusta Georgia, The US Masters has for years had a similar grip on both my interest and wages and, up until Tiger showed up, was as unpredictable as the gee-gee race over in Blighty. Any one of the 90-odd players in the field were capable of winning and picking the winner was very much a game of chance. Once Woods came onto the scene, things became a little more predictable, but by no means a sure thing. Nevertheless, in 20 years of handing over my crisp notes to the good bookmakers, I have yet to collect anything back off them by way of winnings. Again, each-way bets would seem to be the key to all this, not that I’ve even gotten a 4th place.

When Tiger zipped up his trousers and decided to make his comeback at this year’s event, I resisted the temptation to put the house (or even a shilling on the side, just to make it interesting) on him. I was banking on the past 6 months of chaos and media frenzy that has followed young Eldrick Tont Woods around would have put him off his stroke (on the golf course, at least). No, I plumped for the plump Lee Westwood of Ing-er-land as this year’s conduit of delivering my money into the safe clutches of turf accountants of the world.

Lo and behold, my man Lee is having a stormer!! After two rounds he was leading the field with his fellow Brit Ian Poulter, and at one stage during the third round he was 7 shots ahead of Tiger, Phil Mickelson or anyone else. SEVEN SHOTS!!! It was in the bag. Lee would have to drop about a dozen shots to drop down to fifth place, to where my each-way bet wouldn’t bring me any money back. But chances were that he was gonna romp it. In my head I began counting my winnings: £10 at 25/1 is…er..£250, plus my stake back, that £260. That’s 86.6667 pints of Guinness in O’Neills (81.25 in The Crown). Even if Westwood stumbled a little and came in, say, 3rd I’d still get a percentage of the odds, enough for a pint and a curry in Khans.

Hang on a minute.

I logged onto to my online bookies, just to make sure I hadn’t put 50 quid on him (I had had a little drinky when I placed the bet) and thus about to become a very rich man indeed.

Sadly I hadn’t bet 50 pounds each-way, or even 10 pounds each way. I had, for reasons best known to God and Arthur Guinness, placed ten pounds on Lee Westwood to win. TO WIN! No-one bets to win on anyone but Tiger. No-one except bad, drunk, amateur gamblers, that is. As I looked up from my computer screen, Lee’s lead had been cut to three shots. The one shot. Then he was level. Then he was one shot behind. Bollocks. By the end of play Westwood was again top of the leaderboard, but by one shot from Mickelson, with Tiger looming ominously only a couple of shots back.

So that’s that, then. My one chance in 20 years to clean up at The Masters gone, duck-hooked out-of-bounds, sliced into the long grass. Unless it isn’t and Westwood holds strong and wins. In which case I shall celebrate by drinking just enough to put on a well-judged wager. Lib Dems at 200-1 one look tempting. On the nose, of course.

The Great Barnet Fair Tragedy

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I’ve never had good hair.

All my life I’ve been aware that, no matter which cut I was sporting at the time, or how much I spent on haircuts, or how many times I’d plead with my mum not to go berserk with her new trimming tool, I’d been born with a sad, bad Barnet. Several attempts at the hairstyles of the day had proved that whichever cut I had, I looked like a chubby bloke being attacked by a large badly-coiffured hamster.

Luckily, growing up in the early 1970s no-one had a decent haircut, so you could get away with pretty much anything.

What I had to smile about, Christ only knows.

As the 80s arrived and adolescence dawned on me, it was obviously more important to look presentable for the swathes of babes lining up to throw themselves on me. They were all gagging for it. Just not from me, for some reason…

…and no matter how I grew it or cut it, (or how much weight I lost) I stood out from the crowd, like bloke with a dodgy wedge and a burgundy, waffle box-jacket.

In truth, the 90’s were no better. Settling down and having kids, climbing up the professional tree, with all the pressure that brings and, let’s be honest, the odd pint of Vitamin G every now and then didn’t lend itself to furthering my attempts at haute couture above the eyebrows.

Throughout my thirties, it became clear to me that, whatever the state of my rug, one thing was for sure: I was developing more and more face to wash. It wasn’t exactly falling out on the pillow, or escaping down the plughole in the shower, but there was no doubt that it was receding, no matter how long I grew what was left of it.

So by the time I was 35 I decided enough was enough. I took myself off to an UNNAMED barbers (hairdressers) in Blackheath and told the girl to shave it off. I no-longer wanted to look like Ralph Coates, Arthur Scargill or Rab C Nesbitt: NO COMB-OVER FOR ME. Get it off! Now!

She offered another approach: “Well, I could brush it forward and across over here so it looks like….”
“No, no, no, NO!!! Get it off!!” I demanded.

I left there with what was called a “number two” (no relation), or an 8mm trim and there was a skip in my step and a load of itchy hair down my back as I wobbled off, big baldy head an’ all, to work.

And that’s how I stayed. Balding, but reasonably neat and tidy as I plunged headlong towards my forties and early dotage. Realising that if I kept it too short I looked like some sort of Illinois Nazi (little did I know that THAT would come back to haunt me) I kept it trim, clippered but not too skinhead-like. In 1994 I even purchased my first set of home clippers: well worth fifteen quid of anyone’s money. Ever since, like many of my follically-challenged brethren, I’ve been trimming my bonce, with the help of housemates or the Incumbent to get rid of the straggly bits at the back. Occasionally I’d splash out and visit a barber shop (if only for the close-harmony singing) but 9 times out of 10 I’d do it myself.

So when I woke up yesterday morning, aware that my moptop needed attention, I thought nothing of it. My clippers (mark IV, cordless) were in the bathroom cabinet, I turned the shower on in the bath, aligned the mirrored bathroom cabinet door to the correct ajar angle to where I could stand in the bath (the shower jet pointed at my feet) and get a good view of my head (in case I forgot what it looked like) and proceeded the hum-drum process of cutting my own hair.

All went, well, ok I suppose, although not as much was coming off as I’d hoped. I’d been long overdue a trim and we were in danger of entering comb-over zone again so I wanted it trimmed and tidied up, but I must have had the wrong clipper-guard on, because it wasn’t making much of an impression. If you’re gonna have a haircut you may as well have one that people will at least notice, and this wasn’t any good at all. Probably 2mms were coming off and it wasn’t the desired effect.

So, stark bollock naked, I got out of the bath and started hunting for another, shorter guard. Nothing. Bugger. This wasn’t good at all. Then a brain wave came over me. I resumed my position in the tub, this time holding my beard trimmer. It only has a head of about an inch wide, but you can set it anywhere from 12mm down to 2mm. Guess what? I set it to the wrong length. As I made my first, long, slow pass though my hair swathes of greying locks poured off the back of the trimmer. Shit, that was a lot shorter than I’d intended. Never mind, there’s no going back now. I proceeded to carefully go over my head with this mini-trimmer and shave it, if not to within an inch of its life, then to with 1mm of a 4mm haircut.

All done, I directed the shower hose through my hair and across my lithe, muscular body and watched as 8 weeks growth wiggled its way down the plughole. I stared at the mirror. Fuck me! that’s short! Bouncer/copper, copper/bouncer it was pretty scary. Oh well, it’ll grow back.

Out of the bath I dried myself off, applied just the correct amount of Lynx to the oxters, and turned my head to try to see how the back of the bonce looked. Being a one-mirror bathroom, I had to image most of it was ok, but I could see tufts of untouched hair protruding from where the top of my neck joined the bottom of my hair. I was alone on the house. No Incumbent to call on to tidy it all up. I’d just have to do it on my own. So using my left index finger as a guard (it seemed a perfectly reasonable idea at the time), I placed it along where I perceived I wanted by neck hairline to be, and in my right hand the beard trimmer, now without guard, ran it’s way along the bottom edge of my finger. I switched hands and did the same in the other direction. Perfect!

I wasn’t happy though. I needed to see it from myself. so I spent 10 minutes which I didn’t have ( I needed to be o that DLR) looking for a hand mirror. A HAND MIRROR? Fat chance? Never had one, never bought one. Never seen one since my nan’s house. So, in a flash of brilliance I took hold of my phone and photographed the back of my neck. Oh bollocks!! There on the screen I saw a large, ugly, triangular gash in the middle the hairline, where a straight edge should have been.

I can’t go to work looking like that !!!

I actually contemplated calling in sick. I certainly felt sick. But trying to keep my panic at bay, I reached for the bread trimmer again. Replaced the guard and set it to it’s shortest setting, hoping to blend the stubble from my neck into the short hair on the back of my head, in a seamless, professional-looking styling. All of this to be done without a mirror, and half of it left-handed.
Well I could right put half of that ! I went next door to my bedroom and liberated the full-length mirror from the wall. I returned to the bathroom, mirror under my arm.

So now I’m standing in my bathroom, still naked, still damp, late for work, a full-length mirror in my right hand, a beard-trimmer in my left, and my back to the bathroom mirror, confident of emulating Trevor Sorbie and Vidal Sassoon.

I took it gently, and nip, nip, nipped away at a tuft here, a strand there. After ten minutes of this I stood back and decided that unless I was gonna audition for the starring role in Hobson’s Choice, I best leave it as I was. My rear hairline was nearly higher than my front. I’d butchered myself. Fuck it !

It was the warmest day of the year so far. But I wore that scarf high and proud as I made my way into work. If I could have convincingly feigned flu I would have worn it all day.

Another Unpleasant Valley Sunday

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Well, I woke up Sunday morning
With no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
Then I washed my face and combed my hair
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.

Kris Kristofferson (who liked a slurp)

There’s no nicer weekend than the weekend when the clocks go forward. It’s the recognised start of Spring, the end of those long, cold dark nights and those short, cold dark days. Makes a man feels good. Unless, of course you caught the BBC weather forecast that says it’s going to snow heavily on Thursday. Snow. In April. Someone’s having a laugh and, as usual, it’s not me.
Adding to my woes this fine Sunday morning was the fact I had to go to work. So let’s get this straight. I get a one-day weekend AND I lose an hour in bed because of the clocks going forward ? Spiffing! Oh, and I’ll be in my duffel coat again by mid-week. Lovely.

To most, the switch to British Summer Time means they get up at 10am on a Sunday, rather than 9. For the insomniacs among us, who have the added privilege of sleeping on a bed of nails, it means waking up at six o’clock as opposed to the usual five. Christ, I’m tired. I’m definitely gonna change that sodding mattress this month. The springs poking out of it are giving my back the pattern of a Maori’s bicep.

I trudge wearily downstairs to put the kettle on. The birds in the garden had been up for a while and were in full, happy chorus. They’d all remembered to put their clocks forward, smug bastards. Tea in hand I switch on the tv and am greeted by the build-up to the Melbourne Grand Prix. It’s raining in Melbourne. Good. I only went there once and it was pissing down when I arrived. Looked like Croydon to me, not this sunny playground the Strines carp on about all the time. So it’s sunny in London and grey and wet in Melbourne? Good. I drank my tea then I went back to bed. It was still only 7.15.

I doze fitfully for an hour-or-so, but eventually have to concede that I am indeed off to work. The bathroom takes a battering as I off-load and de-clagg. More tea, a bowl of cereal , I pause to listen to Lewis Hamilton moan about his team’s strategy. They’d made him come into the pits and change tyres, thus scuppering his chances of winning. He was sulking like a seven year old boy stopped by his mum from having a kick-about in the street. I suspect that, now that Hamilton has sacked his dad from the management team, he wasn’t expecting anyone else to tell him to stop playing and come in to change.

Oh well, off to work. With the sun trying it’s damnedest to elbow it’s way though the clouds, a fine morning greets me. The daffodils on my front lawn are up and out and, ignoring the obvious Welsh connotations, look beautiful. In fact, the patterns they make on my lawn, along with the odd bluebell and the fox and cat shit, really is a design classic. Brer Fox and Brer Cat are heading arse-first into a goolie-kicking session, if I ever catch them. The words Ebay and Spud-gun enter my head.

So, with a spring (or rather a winter) in my step, I leave Railway Cuttings and stride up the deserted street (deserted as every other fucker is in bed, sleeping through the lost hour). At the end of the road I stroll into the station car park. It’s 9.20 and the Farmer’s Market is setting up at the far end of the lot. This is one of the Blackheath success stories. I may have mentioned before that there’s little more to the village than 6 curry houses, 7 pubs (sic) 8 hairdressers and 93 estate agents. If you want to rent a flat, have your highlights done and scoff Nepalese food, you’re in luck. There is a heel bar (Cobblers to the Pope), the world’s most expensive electrical store, a video store (closing down) and some kind of weird, gothic, travel agents which I’ve never seen anyone go into or come out of. Think of the fancy dress shop from Mr Benn and you’re nearly there.

There’s a Londis or a Happy Shopper, or something along those lines at the top of the hill (and, if it indeed is a Happy Shopper, they should be closed under the Trades Descriptions Act: no happy shoppers nor shopkeepers are to be found therein), plus a couple of little not-very-convenience stores in the valley of the village. But there’s nowhere you can buy a decent joint (meat, that is, not what the sell in the pub toilets round here), fresh veg, a good selection of dairy products (blessed indeed are those cheesemakers) and suchlike.

So with 10 minutes until my train was due (so therefore 17 minutes before it actually did) I afford myself a stroll around the now-familiar market stalls. Most were either setting up, or had done so and were waiting for the 10 o’clock start bell. There’s a fella who does a mean line in bacon butties and many of his fellow stallholders were chomping on his wares. The smell was torture. My previously-devoured bowl of Special K was having a hard time justifying itself as a proper breakfast. Top of the shop, nearest the station, is the vegetable stall. It’s one of three veg stalls in the market but is always the most popular, with the longest queues. The reason escapes me. Perhaps it’s cheaper than the others? though everything is relative, of course.

Nothing in this market is cheap. Keeps out the riff-raff, love. It’s selection of carrots and turnips, many of which have grown into rude and amusing shapes, will set you back a few quid more than the Tesco/Sainsburg “Washed-and-Scrubbed Winter Veg Selection (only 89p)” yet there’s always a long line of new-age yuppies, blue-rinse tories and the Barbour Brigade willing to through their hard-inherited sovereigns at these puveyors of fine-and-still-muddy produce. If you don’t believe queuing for a cauliflower could start Class War, come along with me next Sunday. You’ll be amazed by what and who winds me up.

Nextdoor we see a table, and a cash-till atop next to a pile of pears and a mound of apples. Now I know you’re imagining Cocker-ney yelps of “Ooo want’s yer Apples ‘n’ Pears-ah?” eminating from behind the table. No such luck, I’m afraid. This stall is selling organic apple cordial and organic pear squash. No, I never have! And judging by the lack of customers, nor has anyone else, since you’re asking.

One bloke I do hand over the Helen Reddies to is the Crazy Cheese Guy. Now I don’t know from where this aimiable, smiley man comes from , but I bet it ain’t South London. South Minsk would be a closer guess. Our conversation follows the same pattern each week:

“Wuld you like sum chiz, sur?” he asks
“Yuz pliz” I reply
“Crizy chiz?” he offers
“Crizy Chiz pliz” I confirm. Well, it keeps me happy for a few minutes.

Where the aforementioned Crazy Cheese is made, and from what I know not. But my little East European friend may as well leave all his other stock behind in the cow, sheep or goat from whence it came. It really is superb stuff. If you like the roof of your mouth being ripped off when you bite into a crusty cheese sandwich, then Crazy Cheese is the cheese for you. Go buy some. Pliz.

There are fishermen from Essex (“luvverly bit a Dover Sole, my sahn”); the milk and yoghurt woman, who sells lovely milk, but which keeps fesh for about three hours, then turns into yoghurt; and the roly-poly butcher with the complexion of one of his un-cooked cumberland sausage. At first meet, he seems a jolly enough chap (as us fatties tend to seem, at first meet), but after a while I’ve gotten the feeling that he actually thinks he’s doing me a favour by selling me 6 lamb n mint bangers and a leg of pork for 28 quid. No wonder he’s jolly. Fat cnt.

Finally there’s the bread guy: The Pointy Guy. Now he may-or-not be related to Mr Crizy Chiz, but it’s a fair bet that when he was growing up he was expecting for be fighting Chechen rebels before he got too much older. But whatever his upbringing in the Motherland, his bill of fare is sensational. Rosemary bread; walnut and raisin bread; olive bread; soda bread; bread bread; ciabatta; focaccia (which I believe is the BNP’s battle cry); baguettes and croissants. All of this, of course, is news to the Pointy Guy. He doesn’t know what he’s got.
You might go and say “A small ciabatta and a rosemary bread, my fine fellow”. He will give you a blank stare, then point to any loaf at random, raising both eyebrows and ask “Thiz wun?”
“That wun. And that wun” you reply (I can’t help myself).

I put it to you that, Farmers Market or not, the last time our Pointy Guy was on a farm he was wielding a shovel on the Russian Steppes rather than swinging a scythe in the Weald of Kent. And as for being a baker? Do me a favour. I reckon you might find him and his mate, 7 am every Sunday morning, on a street corner in Orpington waiting for a lift from a bloke called Dave (who makes bread and cheese in his garage). Dave drops these two blokes off in Blackheath, unloads the van of produce, leaving our two heroes to sell this stuff, completely unaware of what they’re purveying. Dave then buggers off home to have a bit of Sunday morning humpty with his (or someone else’s) missus. Hope she put her clock forward this morning. He might come too early.

Oh, and after all that, I missed my train to work. Arse.

.

No Hammer, Just a House of Horrors

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In a rare moment of sobriety this weekend I decided to do a few jobs around the house. Nothing major, you understand, just a few little bits that needed doing. I’ve never been Mr.D.I.Y for several reasons : I’m crap at it; I’m a lazy little bastard; there’s something I wanna watch on telly; Dad will do it for me; I can pay a mate / local tradesman to do it for me. But times being as they are with the piggy-bank being empty, I need to forget my lack of enthusiasm for or skill with a screwdriver, drill or hammer, act like a man, get off my arse and do it.

I limbered up with a doorknob. That’s not something I’d admit to in public, but nevertheless it’s true. I’ve had to open my kitchen door with a teaspoon ever since the knob fell off a few weeks ago. The spoon makes a good jemmy, and doesn’t scratch the paint. I have gotten quite used to it. It even has it’s own little home on top of the heater beside the door and The Incumbent has pronounced it all to be ‘funny’ as opposed to it being a pain in the arse . But what with the imminent arrival of Mum , who will not see the funny side of it, and having invited some pals round next weekend for beer and curry, I knew I had to get my act together. Railway Cuttings is no mansion, no show-home, but it’s a slippery slope down to Trampsville when you have to open doors with cutlery. Next stop: J-cloths as reusable toilet paper. I don’t wanna go there again.

Two squirts of ‘No More Nails’ later and my two new knobs were affixed (one each side of the door, DO keep up!). What was dad thinking of, using screws and nails and things ? This is the future of DIY!. Yes, yes I realise they’ll last about ten days. I realise this stuff isn’t quite the miracle cure for sticking everything they tell us it is, but once the guests have left and my knob falls off I’m happy to go back to the spoon. (God this is thrilling stuff! Dick Francis ??? Pah!) Encouraged by my success, I moved on to repairing the curtains. This too seemed to go swimmingly, with the aid of another ‘labour-saving’ device, some iron-on adhesive tape ( a bit like Wonderweb- the batchelor’s friend). “End Curtain-Sticking Misery Now ” Why get out the needle and thread when there’s stuff like this on the market ? Back of the net!. (continued after this advert)

Wales Rugby T-shirt

As I knelt on the floor, ironing two halves of some purple curtains together I wondered if this was the sort of thing that other male icons such as Humphrey Bogart or David Niven would be doing on a Saturday afternoon ? Try as I could to convince myself they would, deep down I suspected not. They would be doing something far more mundane: A glass of scotch on the porch while shooting tigers, a quick fumble with the missus (or somebody else’s missus) on the polar-bear rug, then off to play poker all-night with the guys in some smokey bar, Claudia Cardinale draped around their shoulders, vodka martinis coming our of their ears. Hmmmm…………

I was deamily immersed in my thoughts, all the time making sure my seams were straight, when suddenly I was roused by the unmistakable of a wooden doorknob hitting a veneered floor : ‘Clunk’, followed by the unmistakable sound of an annoyed bloke. ‘Oh Bollocks !!. The Incumbent, bless her, did her best not to titter. I had to leave the ‘no more cotton’ activity on the floor and return to the ‘No More Nails’ scenario in the kitchen. I refused to be defeated by this fucking doorknob, even if I had to go down the path of ‘Some More Nails’.

A mere several hours passed and both jobs were finished. The curtains were back on their rods and, if you sit in just the right position (and ignore where the glue is already coming unstuck) they’re looking magnificent, if a little pissed in places (as oft am I). In the kitchen, the knobs are stuck securely to the door, as long as you don’t touch them. Apparently, the trick is to hold them in place for 35 minutes while the adhesive dries and hardens. I might as well have used my own faeces. Next time it’s hammer and nails time.

Tomorrow I’m fixing a heater to a wall in the hallway. Or maybe I’ll get my dad to do it.

Catching 40 Winks in the Rye

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I wasn’t going to write about the death of J.D.Salinger. Surely enough has been written? (and he never bothered to leave a comment on these pages). But then I thought I could perform a great service for anyone tempted to read him for the first time following the acres of copy written after his demise. Mr Salinger was a renowned American author, though for many of us, perhaps moreso on this side of the pond, I suspect his name first came into our consciousness via the reported antics of juvenile assassins and teenage mass-murderers.

When I was but a surly youth it seemed that you couldn’t turn on the evening news without someone having been shot down by the NYPD or similar for killing some celebrity such as Lennon or McCartney (well,you can dream) or instigating the massacre of a whole commune of cultish (spellcheck please) and religious nutcases somewhere in the Great American Midwest. Time and time again it seemed that the doers of these dreadful deeds appeared to have read Salinger’s novel The Catcher in the Rye before they decided to pull the trigger.

A conveyor belt of judges and jurors were subjected to the flimsy defence of surviving adolescent would-be murderers, blaming Rye for tipping them over the edge, such was it’s subject matter. It’s touted as a book with “themes of teenage confusion, angst, alienation and rebellion”.Read this book, so the theory went, and you’d immediately develop a hatred of tutors, teachers and authority figures everywhere.

“That sounds the very thing for me!” thought a young me, who had already started grooming his black puppy. So I bought myself a copy of the book, fully expecting to turn into an axe-wielding homicidal maniac. There were a few teachers at school who deserved to be vapourised, and this sounded like the very accelerant I needed.

My targets, however, were saved by one small yet important fact : The Catcher in the Rye is a bag of old shite. It is THE dullest collection of self-important ramblings ever written (and I’ve read The Daily Mail). It IS , honest. There I was, aching for an excuse to end it all, and as far as I’m concerned it’s a cure from insomnia. The only people I wanted to kill after reading it were Salinger, his agent and his publisher. I may be wrong about this, but I doubt it. Feel free to tell me otherwise.

If you really want to get angry or depressed, or dabble in a spot of murder why not ingest a tome by Elizabeth Gilbert? Her brand of sickly shit chick-lit has already landed her a movie contract for the dramatisation of her first great work Eat Love Pray, a piece of celluloid sewage soon to be at a movie theatre far away from me, and starring Julia Roberts (shame on you). It’s another example of the creeping crud that is blighting all our lives. Let’s strangle this bollocks at birth.

If on the other hand you don’t live your life through Desperate Housewives or Bridget Jones, and would like to rebel against this post-feminist, Spice Girl/Anna Wintour/Alpha Female fuckfest which is infesting our arts and media (and would enjoy having a wee titter along the way) can I suggest you look no further than the magnificent drinkcursehate.wordpress.com. It’s a website written by three blokes who want to live as blokes in the world they thought they were growing up into during the 70’s, not as the cowering, emasculated sheep which a diet of Sex in the City, Strictly Come Shopping or Eat Love Pray would have them be. It hopes to be the antidote to Marie Claire and the Mail on Sunday. You might like it. Especially if you happen to be a fella.

Finally, a little self-congrats: Happy 1st Anniversary, The Sharp Single. Who said it’d never last? Tell your friends, tell your enemies, tell anyone with money who might want to pay me money to write this kind of rubbish.

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Fatty Owls

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The Null Stern- bring your own pyjamas

News reaches me of the world’s first zero star hotel. The Null Stern Hotel (slogan: ‘The Only Star is You’) in Switzerland is a converted nuclear bunker where, for for six quid (about 1 Euro at present) you get a military-style bunkbed for the night, hot water bottles rather than central heating, and earplugs to blockout the din of the ventilation system. Who gets a hot shower in the morning and who’s shower is cold is determined by drawing lots.

All very shocking, I’m sure, but does it really deserve no stars? And if it does, I’d like to nominate a few more which deserve that honour. One that immediately springs to mind is the lovely en-suite double I once stayed at in Morecambe. En-suite, it technically was, but the bathroom was of Fawlty Towers proportions. I literally had to open the door to lean forward to wipe my bum. Lovely. Especially for my partner.

Then there was the establishment in Blackpool where a turd was discovered in the cleaner’s bucket (though that may have been left there by one of the guests), not forgetting the B&B above The Swan in Bath with 1 room, five beds and a sink, which one night trebled-up as a wash basin, urinal and bidet.

Closer to home there’s Blackheath’s very own Clarendon Hotel, which stands above the village as a beacon of overpriced misery, a monument to peeling paint, a seven-star shabby shit-pit, spewing out streams of swindled Spaniards, irate Italians and dejected Gerries onto the surrounding streets and environs as they spend a gruesome night there as part of their coach trip round Britain. They’re easy to spot wandering around the bars and eateries of the village, all with that same bemused look on their faces as they struggle to come to terms with where their tour company has billeted them for the night.

At one newspaper I worked at, district men and foreign correspondents were put up in the Clarendon for the night if they were called to the London office. They threatened to strike until the company eventually found a proper hotel.

I stayed there once, during my divorce malarky. I stayed in a single room of such drabness, smallness and all-round lessness that, even in my misery of a break-up, I pitied the poor French or Japanese sods who have to put up with ‘traditional quaint British hospitality’, and fork-out a fortune for the privilege. I can’t remember exactly what they charged my for that room, but it in the neighbourhood of a hundred quid. What must the visitors think of us?

On the other hand, sometimes the guests are actually worse than the hotel: On a rugby club tour one year, and after a particularly long and boysterous first night in our hotel, an ashen-faced hotelier staggered into the breakfast room the following morning to address us.

“I’ve been in the hotel trade for 35 years and that was the the worst behaviour I’ve ever seen” he whimpered.

“Stick around!” came a voice from the back.

It makes an abandoned nuclear bunker in Switzerland seem quite appealing.

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Bada Bing, Bada Bank

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One Saturday afternoon recently, I was sitting on the sofa, happily watching an old episode of The Sopranos (you know the one: the episode in which Carmella cooks something, Christopher and Paulie Walnuts shoot someone, and Tony shags his mistress). We’re wading thru the box set which The Incumbent gave me for Christmas, and we were engrossed. However, my enjoyable afternoon of gratuitous sex, Mafia hitmen and Italian home cooking was soon interrupted.

Ring Ring, Ring Ring (that’s my telephone impression)

“Hello?”
“Hello, Mr Bealing?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Malcolm, your account manager from the bank”
My heart sank. He’d been trying to get hold of me for weeks, and I’d been evading him. He was new to the branch, and therefore to me, and so I’d agreed to go down to the bank to meet him. Two things I learned during that meeting: 1) All my financial worries would be gone if I made a few simple adjustments to my lifestyle and account; 2) Malcolm was about 16 years old (or at least looked it) and with all the enthusiasm for life that I had when I was that age (yes, honest).
I knew what this phone call was about. He wanted to talk to me about my mortgage.
“I’d like to talk about your mortgage, Mr Bealing” (told you).
“Ah, ok Malcolm, but I first want to let you know that for training purposes this call may be recorded”.
That confused him.
“Pardon !?”
“Now,” I continued, “Can you tell me your date of birth and your mother’s maiden name?”.
“Er…no, Mr Bealing,” he laughed, a little nervously “I’m supposed to ask you that”.
“Oh, Ok then” I said in mock indignation. “Does seem a little odd, though: I’m trusting you with my money and I have to prove my identity to you ! You see what I mean? Arse-about-face, isn’t it?”
“Er..no, not really, Mr Bealing.”he snapped.
‘Hmmmm…big mouth for a little bloke’ I thought to myself. ‘He may pay for that snap.’

To cut a long story just a tiny bit shorter, we arranged to meet at my home (yes, that’s what I thought) at my home the following week, one night after school. That night soon arrived:
“Ding dong” (see, I do all of them) I opened the door and was confronted my young Malcolm and someone I presumed was his dad. It looked like “Chris and Paulie- The Early Years”. But it wasn’t Malcolm’s dad, it was my “Financial Adviser”.
“I didn’t know I had one”I said
“Well I’m the financial adviser for the branch”came the reply. “ Malcolm thought there might be a few services you could benefit from.” This was turning into an organised hit.

For the next two hours (count ‘em, TWO hours) I was told my account was in a mess, my loan was killing me, I was paying too much for my mortgage, I had no insurance in case of sickness, no Will in case of death and my coffee was shit. None of this was a problem, apparently: I’d remortgage for a larger amount, including the money I would pay my current mortgage-lender as the early-release penalty fee. Apparently I’d save that in interest within two years. All that means I’d be about 300 quid-a-month better off. Bada Bing!! Bye Bye overdraft!!!

But, (and aye, here’s the rub), they recommended I took out sickness insurance to protect that mortgage and other bills (£117) up my contents insurance (£60) and use their Will-writing service at a fee of 100 of your British Pounds.

Two hours came and went, in which time I’d read reams and reams of paperwork and forms (my very favourite), listened to lots of chat I didn’t understand, and agreed to sign up to Mr Walnut’s various insurance schemes. I would, I was told, be getting calls from the mortgage dept, the will dept and a nurse from the insurance company. They left, off to find a decent cup of Kenco no doubt.

SHARPSINGLEPIEADI took a call from the nurse at 9 am Saturday morning:

Pause. (I had the phone on silent)

We went thru a rather probing medical questionnaire which took 45 minutes to complete, and I answered as honestly as I could. I couldn’t remember if I went for a jog 3 or 4 times-a-week so I said 5; Only drank mineral water  — that sort of thing. You get the picture.
No sooner had I replaced the receiver when the mortgage girl (named Kelly) called me. This call took an hour, either side of a 45 minute interval when her computer crashed. More bankspeak which I didn’t understand, but we got there in the end. It was all over by noon and she said she’d call me early the following week and send out the offer toute-de-suite.
The Will people called yesterday. Took the girl at the other end 20 minutes to tell me she was sending me a form.

This morning at work I received a call from Kelly, the mortgage girl. Having established my D.O.B., password and favourite pet’s middle name she told me my application for a mortgage had been rejected.
“What????”I blurted, café latte dribbling down my chin.
“I’m afraid your account has not had sufficient funds in it several times over the last quarter” she said
“I know that” I spluttered “that’s because I’m paying too much for my current mortgage”
“ I will let Malcolm know, I’m sure he’ll call you”
“But this was his idea!! He came to ME and suggested the whole thing!” I was winding up.
“hmmm… oh well, that’s a shame. But we won’t grant mortgages to those who go over their limit within the last three months”
“but he has my account. He handles my account. He knew I’d been overdrawn. I’ve spent hours with him and his mate and this was their plan to get me out of trouble. I’ve answered all your questions, most of which I didn’t understand. You’ve wasted Hours of my life!!!”
“I’m sorry about that, Mr Bealing” said Kelly “ but the bank doesn..”
CLUNK. That’s my impression of me slamming the phone down on poor Kelly.
Two minutes later I picked up the receiver and called the insurance company nurse and suggested a few anatomically impossible acts which he might like to perform with his questionnaire. Then, after I threatened to cut his hands off, he agreed not to make me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

Then I booked an appointment with my therapist.

But waddya gonna do?


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