Wednesday, 8 January 2014
Tuesday, 12 March 2013
Gordon Gekko
My profile as an international finacial speculator increased two days ago when I advanced my shares portfolio by a nifty sum. Needs must! The High Street is at rock bottom and money will just be eaten away by inflation if something isn't done. Speculate to accumulate, faint heart never won fair lady and all that. Will snap on my red braces and slick back my hair tomorrow. Actually its all rather good fun - should have done it years ago.
Wednesday, 13 February 2013
We're walking in the air
Today, at the age of 56, I built my first snowman in at least 40 years. I was clearing the drive when the notion just took me and I set about rolling a big ball from the grass. It ain't the greatest snowman in the world but hey, its all mine.
First blog in months, do I have anything particular to say? I've been taken off the betablocker clopridogrel after some 18 months; really, I probably should have gone off it sooner. Lets hope I don,t need to go back on it. I've also developed a second hernia on the right side to partner the one on the left. I'm in the process now to get it sorted - probably sometime this summer. My blood count is not too great - surprisingly, and the quack said they need to watch out for possible thyroid problems. being off the betablocker may well help on this.
First blog in months, do I have anything particular to say? I've been taken off the betablocker clopridogrel after some 18 months; really, I probably should have gone off it sooner. Lets hope I don,t need to go back on it. I've also developed a second hernia on the right side to partner the one on the left. I'm in the process now to get it sorted - probably sometime this summer. My blood count is not too great - surprisingly, and the quack said they need to watch out for possible thyroid problems. being off the betablocker may well help on this.
Monday, 13 August 2012
Olympic hangover
So thats the London Olympics finished. What can I say, they've been an absolute triumph. Spectacularly staged, astonishingly supported and full of imagination and humour, especially in Danny Boyle's mad, brilliant opening ceremony. Its a cliche to say but they really appear to have brought the UK together - even the Scots!
We were abroad in Portugal for a substantial part of the games but of course there was no escaping them and we got straight back into the last week on return. The whole country feels empty now they've finished and they have been an absolute triumph for London and the whole UK.
Can't help but wonder when we'll see them in Europe again - given the state of the euro economies who could afford them!
We were abroad in Portugal for a substantial part of the games but of course there was no escaping them and we got straight back into the last week on return. The whole country feels empty now they've finished and they have been an absolute triumph for London and the whole UK.
Can't help but wonder when we'll see them in Europe again - given the state of the euro economies who could afford them!
Thursday, 21 June 2012
Small, important changes
Outside on a dreich wet day our neighbours of the last seven years are moving house, a massive removal van currently blocking our drive. I'm watching from the bedroom window.
Meanwhile downstairs a small, frightened female cat cowers behind the couch.
Brian, Lesley and their two small boys are moving to another part of the town. They've been the perfect modern neighbours, I suppose; polite, distant, unobtrusive. Going about their lives and leaving us to ours. We've no doubt been exactly the same kind of neighbours to them. Its a smallish town and in all likelyhood we'll run into them again, in a supermarket or high street or public place. A smile will pass or a few hasty words will be exchanged and we'll all go away happy. In their own way we've probably each played a subtle but significant part in each others happiness over the last seven years: nobody wants a bothersome neighbour.
And yet even now, watching them go, I'm unsure of their surname.
And what will the new neighbours be like I wonder, slightly anxiously.
But enough of that. I now have to turn my attention to the scared little cat. She arrived last night from a rescue home. a small, neat, dainty little three year old, black with splurges of white and neat white socks. Last night she wandered around inquisitively, as cats do and seemed unafraid. She even spent time up on the couch with us, allowing herself to be petted, dozing briefly and purring loudly.
When I got up this morning, however, it was a different story. She was nowhere to be seen and I eventually found her behind the fridge. Once I dragged it out she immediately fled behind the couch in the living room, wedged between it and the wall. She lies their now, scared, confused and gone to ground, as cats do when they're frightened. I've put a small dish of milk to the side of the couch and retired to write this. It will take time but she'll come out eventually, and begin to form trust.
She still doesn't have a name, and neither do our new neighbours. Even our old neighbours only had first names. Thats life these days.
Meanwhile downstairs a small, frightened female cat cowers behind the couch.
Brian, Lesley and their two small boys are moving to another part of the town. They've been the perfect modern neighbours, I suppose; polite, distant, unobtrusive. Going about their lives and leaving us to ours. We've no doubt been exactly the same kind of neighbours to them. Its a smallish town and in all likelyhood we'll run into them again, in a supermarket or high street or public place. A smile will pass or a few hasty words will be exchanged and we'll all go away happy. In their own way we've probably each played a subtle but significant part in each others happiness over the last seven years: nobody wants a bothersome neighbour.
And yet even now, watching them go, I'm unsure of their surname.
And what will the new neighbours be like I wonder, slightly anxiously.
But enough of that. I now have to turn my attention to the scared little cat. She arrived last night from a rescue home. a small, neat, dainty little three year old, black with splurges of white and neat white socks. Last night she wandered around inquisitively, as cats do and seemed unafraid. She even spent time up on the couch with us, allowing herself to be petted, dozing briefly and purring loudly.
When I got up this morning, however, it was a different story. She was nowhere to be seen and I eventually found her behind the fridge. Once I dragged it out she immediately fled behind the couch in the living room, wedged between it and the wall. She lies their now, scared, confused and gone to ground, as cats do when they're frightened. I've put a small dish of milk to the side of the couch and retired to write this. It will take time but she'll come out eventually, and begin to form trust.
She still doesn't have a name, and neither do our new neighbours. Even our old neighbours only had first names. Thats life these days.
Wednesday, 6 June 2012
Londra, Sad Boys and Jubilee
Went down to London between 29-31 May, just before the big Diamond Jubilee shindig for the old Queen doing 60 years on the job. Great weather (which they didn't get for the actual Jubilee itself) and did all the usual touristy things that I never did during the 5 years I actually lived there: Big Bus, River Cruise (a freebie from the Big Bus ticket), Shakespeare's Globe (a rip-off) and theatre (Wicked). Found a good hotel in Bayswater called the The Cleveland Hotel London at 39-40 Cleveland Square, just down from Paddington station. Good value and room included a small kitchen area to make breakfast and whatever. Total £255 quid via ebookers, paid in advance. Fi loves Old Londra and I'm always happy to re-live it through her eyes.
By the time we got back the Sad Boys (Tomaz, Ian Sweet and Rene) where already esconsed in Edinburgher. I joined them on Friday early afternoon. I hung in there gamely until about 3am, when I collapsed in a George Street nightclub and had to get ferryed to the hotel on the back of a rickshaw in a tired and emotional state.
Next day, at Sweetie's insistence, we ended up at Musselburgh races. 25 quid in and another 15 down the drain on useless nags. Good day out though, beered up and fun watching them all toff about in their finerey.
Watched elements of the Jubilee stuff on the telly. Felt sorry for them on the Thames on the flotilla in miserable cold weather and driving rain - must have been maddening after several weeks of fabulous weather. The old Queen is a right miserable old grump though: oddly blank and characterless, with no obvious personality and a face that most of the time looks like a bulldog licking piss off a thistle.
As usual Scotland was very tepid about the jubilee, though London had gone mad. Despite that, a few brave souls put bunting up a round their houses and somebody even decorated the lamposts.
By the time we got back the Sad Boys (Tomaz, Ian Sweet and Rene) where already esconsed in Edinburgher. I joined them on Friday early afternoon. I hung in there gamely until about 3am, when I collapsed in a George Street nightclub and had to get ferryed to the hotel on the back of a rickshaw in a tired and emotional state.
Next day, at Sweetie's insistence, we ended up at Musselburgh races. 25 quid in and another 15 down the drain on useless nags. Good day out though, beered up and fun watching them all toff about in their finerey.
Watched elements of the Jubilee stuff on the telly. Felt sorry for them on the Thames on the flotilla in miserable cold weather and driving rain - must have been maddening after several weeks of fabulous weather. The old Queen is a right miserable old grump though: oddly blank and characterless, with no obvious personality and a face that most of the time looks like a bulldog licking piss off a thistle.
As usual Scotland was very tepid about the jubilee, though London had gone mad. Despite that, a few brave souls put bunting up a round their houses and somebody even decorated the lamposts.
Wednesday, 16 May 2012
A celebration of old Merlin
We had to have our old cat put down today. The siezures he's had for the last few weeks were not improving and although he plugged on as gamely as always it was taking its toll. Watching him being put to sleep with an overdose of anathestetic was harder than I imagined and I'm afraid I didn't cope too well. An animal seeps into your life in ways you don't fully understand until they're gone. I've never known Fiona without him, 12 years now, and she had him for 15 years in total, initially through a rough period of her life, so especially bad for her.
We need to celebrate a great catty life though. He was a rescue cat when Fi got him in 1997, when he was around 2. He had a long, happy and contended life and he was a great character - grumpy and distrusting of everyone else, especially other mogs, but loving and trusting towards us. A house cat initially he got to roam and wander in the second half of his life, always determined to be top cat in his neighbourhood. He'll be well missed, but even better remembered.
We need to celebrate a great catty life though. He was a rescue cat when Fi got him in 1997, when he was around 2. He had a long, happy and contended life and he was a great character - grumpy and distrusting of everyone else, especially other mogs, but loving and trusting towards us. A house cat initially he got to roam and wander in the second half of his life, always determined to be top cat in his neighbourhood. He'll be well missed, but even better remembered.
Wednesday, 9 May 2012
Molars and Mogs
The recent fight by 'Mrrr Andersooon' to save one of my teeth came to an end today. It was just too infected and likely to always be trouble. I wasn't surprised as it had continued to give me problems even after the last course of treatment. I now have two back teeth missing from the lower back of my mouth and five have gradually bit the dust in total. Hope it doesn't lead to a misshapen jaw.
Last night we took the old cat up to the vet after his recent worrying spasms which briefly twist his face. He shakes them off pretty quickly but I always feared the likelyhood of strokes and the impossibly young-looking female vet pretty much confirmed it. Nothing we can do really. He's a resilient old boy but he's 17, about 85 in human terms and its likely that his time is just approaching. It'll be a sad day when it finally comes, after all this time, and Fi in particular will be devastated. We just need to hope it will be quick and he doesn't suffer.
Last night we took the old cat up to the vet after his recent worrying spasms which briefly twist his face. He shakes them off pretty quickly but I always feared the likelyhood of strokes and the impossibly young-looking female vet pretty much confirmed it. Nothing we can do really. He's a resilient old boy but he's 17, about 85 in human terms and its likely that his time is just approaching. It'll be a sad day when it finally comes, after all this time, and Fi in particular will be devastated. We just need to hope it will be quick and he doesn't suffer.
Wednesday, 11 April 2012
Food for Thought
Interesting para from the novel By Nightfall, by Michael Cunningham. Trascribing it exactly:
'Order and sobriety and a devotion to cleanliness that scours out the soul. Decent people doing there best to live decent lives, there's nothing really to hate them for, they do their jobs and maintain their property and love their children (most of the time); they take their family vacations and visit relatives and decorate their houses for the holidays, collect some things and save up for other things; they're good people (most of them, most of the time), but if you were me, if you were young Pete Harris, you felt the modesty of it eroding you, depopulating you, all those little satisfactions and no big, dangerous ones; no heroism, no genius, no terrible yearning for anything you can't at least in theory actually have. If you were young, lank-haired, pustule plagued Pete Harris you felt you were always about to expire from the safety of your life, its obdurate sensibleness, that Protestant love of the unexceptional; the eternal certainty of the faithful that flamboyance and the macabre are not just threatening but - worse - uninteresting.'
'Order and sobriety and a devotion to cleanliness that scours out the soul. Decent people doing there best to live decent lives, there's nothing really to hate them for, they do their jobs and maintain their property and love their children (most of the time); they take their family vacations and visit relatives and decorate their houses for the holidays, collect some things and save up for other things; they're good people (most of them, most of the time), but if you were me, if you were young Pete Harris, you felt the modesty of it eroding you, depopulating you, all those little satisfactions and no big, dangerous ones; no heroism, no genius, no terrible yearning for anything you can't at least in theory actually have. If you were young, lank-haired, pustule plagued Pete Harris you felt you were always about to expire from the safety of your life, its obdurate sensibleness, that Protestant love of the unexceptional; the eternal certainty of the faithful that flamboyance and the macabre are not just threatening but - worse - uninteresting.'
Pension Plus
Some good news on the pension front today. They've given me a 5.2% increase on my pension, taken from the peak inflation rate figure of last September. Wasn't expecting this; I thought only OAPs got the September figure and the rest of us had to struggle by on whatever the (lower) April rate was. Won't exactly make me a Monaco tax-dodger, but every little helps.
Tuesday, 3 April 2012
Ah, Ecosse Ecosse......
Exactly one week ago I walked down to Rosyth station in shirtsleeves under balmy skies to go into Edinburgher. Now, I look out the window and heavy snow flurries blow randomly around like a flock of starlings and people huddle inside their warmest winter-wear.
Its official, Ecosse is just the weirdest country in the world.
Its official, Ecosse is just the weirdest country in the world.
Thursday, 29 March 2012
Sunshine Superman
Another glorious day in this weird run of March summer heat. In the morning I found myself trimming hedges and pruning trees in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. Then I sat on the decking out the back reading a book and drinking tea. These are my favourite sort of sunny days, with kids at school and most people at work. There's no escaping the traffic that runs up and down the back road but you forget it after awhile. I watched the delicate buds begin to emerge on the birch saplings outside and listened to the crows bicker and squabble as they build nests on the big fir trees across the road. Even the old cat, who rarely emerges from his spot on the settee these days, was content to warm himself in the sun for awhile and doze in his favourite pot of bamboo. As I write he's just come in the back door, looking at me and grumbling for food as always.
Quite the lazy summers day all told, even if it actually happens to be March, but you can feel a hint of chill when out of the sun and some high white clouds have started to intrude on the clear blue skies of the last week. By Saturday we're supposed to be back to the seasonal norm of 10 degrees, but really why complain as its been such a bonus. What retirement is supossed to be all about really.
Yesterday I renewed my membership up at Jim's Gym for another year. In fact for 13 months as I managed to talk the lad Graham into giving me an additional month as if I was a new member. He told me a lot of people let there membership run out and then, a few weeks later re-apply for a new one so that they get the extra month. Worth remembering for next year. Cost me £475, including an additional 10% discount, but that works out only £36 quid a month for 13 months, so no complaints.
Quite the lazy summers day all told, even if it actually happens to be March, but you can feel a hint of chill when out of the sun and some high white clouds have started to intrude on the clear blue skies of the last week. By Saturday we're supposed to be back to the seasonal norm of 10 degrees, but really why complain as its been such a bonus. What retirement is supossed to be all about really.
Yesterday I renewed my membership up at Jim's Gym for another year. In fact for 13 months as I managed to talk the lad Graham into giving me an additional month as if I was a new member. He told me a lot of people let there membership run out and then, a few weeks later re-apply for a new one so that they get the extra month. Worth remembering for next year. Cost me £475, including an additional 10% discount, but that works out only £36 quid a month for 13 months, so no complaints.
Wednesday, 28 March 2012
The Spring that Summer forgot
What an amazing few days its been. On the first day of Spring, 25 March, Summer just decided to muscle straight in and give us an unexpected, not to say surreal, treat. I mean there's still barely a leaf on the trees for gods sake, with just a few buds disobeying their own body-clocks and peeking out in blinking surprise. Not a cloud in the sky, temperatures nearing 70 and shorts and tee-shirts dragged smelly and sleepy from the bottom of drawers. Four days later and its still with us, Trust me, we'll be lucky to see this in high summer, when one fine day is usually followed by a dreadful other.
Had my usual post-budget conflab with my financial adviser Keli at Nationwide. Sorted out ISA's, making sure that almost all my portfolio savings are now free of corporation tax. Was prepared to invest further but she told me I should use an upcoming bond closure to pay off my share of the mortgage. I've thought of this many times before but always backed away from it because I simply don't want to blow nearly £20k. But she's made me think about it again. Why spend over £1500 a year on a mortgage if I don't have to basically. Then again, why blow nearly £20k?
The next day I was in Edinburger again to get my teeth sorted. Had thought this would be a final treatment for the time being, but not a bit of it. Mr Anderson (I always think of him like Agent Smith's pronounciation from The Matrix: 'Mrrr Andersooon....') wants to fight to keep a tooth and this will require two further sessions in May. Still, saved from paying the bill.
Wandered around the sun-baked, skimpy-dressed streets after that, all flesh and sunglasses, still shaking my head at the weirdness of it all.
Had my usual post-budget conflab with my financial adviser Keli at Nationwide. Sorted out ISA's, making sure that almost all my portfolio savings are now free of corporation tax. Was prepared to invest further but she told me I should use an upcoming bond closure to pay off my share of the mortgage. I've thought of this many times before but always backed away from it because I simply don't want to blow nearly £20k. But she's made me think about it again. Why spend over £1500 a year on a mortgage if I don't have to basically. Then again, why blow nearly £20k?
The next day I was in Edinburger again to get my teeth sorted. Had thought this would be a final treatment for the time being, but not a bit of it. Mr Anderson (I always think of him like Agent Smith's pronounciation from The Matrix: 'Mrrr Andersooon....') wants to fight to keep a tooth and this will require two further sessions in May. Still, saved from paying the bill.
Wandered around the sun-baked, skimpy-dressed streets after that, all flesh and sunglasses, still shaking my head at the weirdness of it all.
Thursday, 22 March 2012
The heart of the matter
Went for my first post-angioplasty check-up to the cardiologist today up at the Queen Margaret hospital. Its a long walk from our house, but it was such a beautiful early spring day - cloudless, windless and mildly warm - that I decided to walk it. Anyway, I'm so tight I'll basically walk anywhere just to save a few quid. Must admit I was pretty tired by the time I'd hoofed it up that final hill into the hospital grounds, so much so that I sat on a step in the car park for about ten minutes to get my breath back. I finally went in to see the consultant and really needn't have bothered. He didn't even test me other than to take my blood pressure after I'd told him it seemed a bit low. As I suspected, this was because of the post-operation Bisoprolol tablets I've been on and he told me I can stop taking them immediately. And that was that! Honestly, we could have done it by phone or even email. Reminds me of my old job, trying to get hospitals to change their outdated consultation practices.
Anyway I walked all the way home too, though via a shorter route and then sat out on the lower decking for awhile enjoying the evening sunshine. This decking, which has been largely useless up to now because of the trees that used to screen it from sunshine, will really come in to its own now. It even stops us being on display from the back road (once we sit down that is).
Two days and not a penny spent! music to a misers ears!
Anyway I walked all the way home too, though via a shorter route and then sat out on the lower decking for awhile enjoying the evening sunshine. This decking, which has been largely useless up to now because of the trees that used to screen it from sunshine, will really come in to its own now. It even stops us being on display from the back road (once we sit down that is).
Two days and not a penny spent! music to a misers ears!
Wednesday, 21 March 2012
The Return Of The Giant Hogweed
Long hybernation from this blog. Why am I back to it? Maybe its because I'm looking out on a sunlit back garden, the feel of spring is in the air with that unmistakable feel of renewal and I'm about to give the gardens their first cut of the year. The view down Castle Hill is now unimpaired since the great trees that backed onto our rear garden have been cut down after storms rendered them a danger. Some sapling silver birches have been planted in their place but they offer little screening as yet and it still leaves our raised garden in something of an exposed spot. Won't compromise the levels of sunlight the garden gets any more though.
What else has happened to me since last blogged? Had two angioplasties to relieve what was becoming quite a serious heart problem. Curtailed planned holidays in the latter part of last year but already been to Dubai/Emirates this January (well done Trailfinders) with trips to Verona, London and Lisbon already planned for this year.
Budget later on today. Hoping that good news on tax thresholds will help my modest pension!
POSTSCRIPT: Well a decent rise in the tax treshold did come through, but not until April 2013. Oh well, at least it guarantees I'll get a semi-decent rise next year as well, even if inflation does fall.
What else has happened to me since last blogged? Had two angioplasties to relieve what was becoming quite a serious heart problem. Curtailed planned holidays in the latter part of last year but already been to Dubai/Emirates this January (well done Trailfinders) with trips to Verona, London and Lisbon already planned for this year.
Budget later on today. Hoping that good news on tax thresholds will help my modest pension!
POSTSCRIPT: Well a decent rise in the tax treshold did come through, but not until April 2013. Oh well, at least it guarantees I'll get a semi-decent rise next year as well, even if inflation does fall.
Sunday, 19 June 2011
Lyon, 15-18 June 2011
Cheap Easyjet 4-day trip to capital of the Rhone area. Well worth a visit, plenty of tourists but not touristy. Huge city but all the sights are in a compact area called the Presquille forming a penisular between the Rhone and Saone rivers, like a mini Manhattan. Its got everything you want really; more bars, shops, cafes and bistros than you could count, more high-end or chain store shops than you could ever want to visit, Roman remains, gothic churches, imposing squares and a charming old town just across the Saone.
Best to actully stay in the Presquille and not in the mass of the newer town, that way you are never more than a few minutues walk from anywhere. Loads of hotels in the area to choose from; we had pre-bokked the Boscolo Grand Hotel just off the main shopping and eating areas and only a 10 minute walk to the old town. A 4 -star which has a touch of faded granduer about it but ideally located and with a full-size bath - heaven for me. Got the whole flight and hotel deal for about £230 each B&B. As always in the Euro zone it ridiculously expensive but still spent no more than about £200 quid (me being me).
Airport is a good distance away but easy to reach. They have just opened a tram shuttle called the Rhone Express which runs into the city. If staying in the Presquille, get off at the second last stop (Vaulx-en-Velin) and then take the adjacent metro line A (the red one) to which ever tube station on the Presquille suits.
Beware Terminal 3 at Lyon ariport! It should be in quoatation marks as its just a glorified corridor squeezing in Easyjet fights and is so small and chaotic I'm amazed there aren't riots. Never spend any more time there than necessary.
The weather was warm but often cloudy and wet, especially in the afternoons, which was disappointing but fortunately its not a city that is weather dependant, so always plenty to do. A real find and we'll be back. Great place to do day trips from too. Bit of a hidden gem, like Bologna.
Best to actully stay in the Presquille and not in the mass of the newer town, that way you are never more than a few minutues walk from anywhere. Loads of hotels in the area to choose from; we had pre-bokked the Boscolo Grand Hotel just off the main shopping and eating areas and only a 10 minute walk to the old town. A 4 -star which has a touch of faded granduer about it but ideally located and with a full-size bath - heaven for me. Got the whole flight and hotel deal for about £230 each B&B. As always in the Euro zone it ridiculously expensive but still spent no more than about £200 quid (me being me).
Airport is a good distance away but easy to reach. They have just opened a tram shuttle called the Rhone Express which runs into the city. If staying in the Presquille, get off at the second last stop (Vaulx-en-Velin) and then take the adjacent metro line A (the red one) to which ever tube station on the Presquille suits.
Beware Terminal 3 at Lyon ariport! It should be in quoatation marks as its just a glorified corridor squeezing in Easyjet fights and is so small and chaotic I'm amazed there aren't riots. Never spend any more time there than necessary.
The weather was warm but often cloudy and wet, especially in the afternoons, which was disappointing but fortunately its not a city that is weather dependant, so always plenty to do. A real find and we'll be back. Great place to do day trips from too. Bit of a hidden gem, like Bologna.
Thursday, 14 April 2011
MARRAKESH - 5-12 APRIL 2011
I'm on the lookout for an 'I survived Marrakesh' t-shirt....... yes it was that disappointing.
We stayed in an authentic riad in the eastern part of the old Medina, well away from the usual tourist hotels and riads around the souks and central square. Nothing quite prepares you for the instant time travel element which hits you when you walk into this place - it really is like stepping back to biblical times. The streets are narrow, claustrophobic, dirty and chaotic with life and activity. Every kind of social or tinpot business enterprise under the sun goes on within them; tiny shops built into the walls sell clothes, meat and vegtables; makeshift garages sell and repair bikes and scooters; handcarts sell anything that can be thrown onto the back; sickly donkeys drag goods here and there; people stand around flogging thirty year-old tellies and microwaves, bartering and haggling is everywhere and the noise in such a small and confined space is deafening. Its like a nation of North African Del-Boys all crammed into the one spot trying to out-do each other. Kids don't appear to go to school and hang around all day long. Boy racers speed around on scooters wearing replica Barcelona or English Premier League football kits. Lorries and taxi's muscle there way through the crowds and all social activity takes place on the streets; everybody always appears to be going somewhere and doing something.
You have to walk into all this straight from the airport and straight from your own typically European lifestyle and expectations - there is no time to acclimatise at all, so no matter how seasoned a traveller you think you are its serious culture shock. You wouldn't mind if there were other tourists around, but there aren't - there are none! So the locals, who are a pretty loud and streetwise lot anyway, stare at you and immediately think of how they can exploit and rip you off. Its a bit intimidating and never relaxing, nomatter how strong a character you are.
We had to do a 20 minute walk from the riad to get into the main square and for the majority of that trip there wasn't a tourist in sight. The hassle was fairly gentle and they'd mostly go away after a firm 'no', but we had to risk life and limb to avoid every car, cart, donkey, bike and moped that sped past missing us by fractions, so it was never particularly pleasant and the feeling of sticking out like a sore thumb and being gawped at all the time was constant. Sure, it was fascinating and educating enough in its own way, but sometimes you feel more comfortable observing the fish from outside the tank, not inside it. I never felt especially intimidated myself but I wasn't comfortable either and Fiona felt particularly uncomfortable and tended to get more attention than me.
Often we would take a taxi back from the square to the riad at night, but this presented its own horrors, as Moroccan drivers, possibly learning from their former colonial masters the French, pay little heed to anything regarding the laws of the road and taxi drivers inparticular seem to exist for no purpose other than to get in front of the driver ahead of them at all costs. Basically all you can do is brace yourself in the back seat and count the number of children dressed in Barcelona shirts with the legend 'Messi' embazoned on the back that the taxi driver comes within a centimetre of obliterating on the journey home. I had visions of the taxi finally arriving dripping with the blood of its victims and the word 'Messi' repeated in a variety of impressions all over the bonnet and windscreen, like crushed flies.
One particularly hair-raising journey to Bab Ailen gate took us through mistifying back alleys to an uncertain stopping point with the driver shouting 'Bab Ailen!' in the front seat, a spaced-out Moroccan hammering the window on the outside and shouting 'Bab Ailen!' while Fiona and I sat in the back seat pointing at a different location on a map and shouting 'Bab Ailen, Bab Ailen!' It turned out the driver and the spaced-out guy were right and we had to slink off down the road surrounded by jeering children in 'Messi' replica football tops.
The riad itself, down another dark and dirty back alley, was actually fine once we got into it. It was designed to be a quiet haven in that deliberate Islamic way which doesn't encourage any street-side opulence to be on public view. The suite was sizable enough and very ornate in its design with windows that faced out over the inner courtyard. The staff were friendly and helpful throughout and it was always a relief to get back to it and relax on the roof garden away from the endless madnesss that went on outside.
Otherwise Marrakesh was a bit of a disappointment. OK the big Jemma-el-fna square can be quite spectacular with all the street vendors, eateries, snakecharmers, shamens and musicians on the go, but it wears its tourist rip-off credentials unashamedly on it sleeves and the amusement wears off after an hour or so. The soulks are colourful, maze-like and full of the usual goods and trinkets, but ultimately there's actually not a whole lot to see and mostly you just sit around the cafes and restuarants watching the teeming masses go noisily by and generally passing the time. Frankly the locals don't help; we never met a shopkeeper, waiter or taxi driver out there who wasn't at best indifferent or a worst downright rude. They're very tempremental with each other too and watching them have blazing rows with each other in the middle of the street was commonplace. You can't even drink to any decent degree as most places don't sell alcohol and even those who do charge extortionate prices. Anyway, you wouldn't trust yourself on these streets in anything other than a sober and alert state.
There is a new town built by the French along standard boulevard lines with some good shops and cafes and we took a decent, if tourist-loaded, trip out into the Atlas mountains which included a fun trek up to a waterfall, but the holiday has to go down as a bit of a yawn. A week is far too long in this town and the location didn't favour the laze-by-pool type holiday that one of the more modern resort hotels outside the medina might offer. We were either bored or slightly scared, which is a strange combination. Truth is we're probably 20 years too old for this kind of ethnic semi-roughing it; but its hard in any case to see where the town's hippy credentials still are as its as tacky and commercialised as any custom-bult European resort that I've ever been in, and the feeling that the locals despise the tourists is never far from the surface.
Done, dusted, ticked off the list and never again.
We stayed in an authentic riad in the eastern part of the old Medina, well away from the usual tourist hotels and riads around the souks and central square. Nothing quite prepares you for the instant time travel element which hits you when you walk into this place - it really is like stepping back to biblical times. The streets are narrow, claustrophobic, dirty and chaotic with life and activity. Every kind of social or tinpot business enterprise under the sun goes on within them; tiny shops built into the walls sell clothes, meat and vegtables; makeshift garages sell and repair bikes and scooters; handcarts sell anything that can be thrown onto the back; sickly donkeys drag goods here and there; people stand around flogging thirty year-old tellies and microwaves, bartering and haggling is everywhere and the noise in such a small and confined space is deafening. Its like a nation of North African Del-Boys all crammed into the one spot trying to out-do each other. Kids don't appear to go to school and hang around all day long. Boy racers speed around on scooters wearing replica Barcelona or English Premier League football kits. Lorries and taxi's muscle there way through the crowds and all social activity takes place on the streets; everybody always appears to be going somewhere and doing something.
You have to walk into all this straight from the airport and straight from your own typically European lifestyle and expectations - there is no time to acclimatise at all, so no matter how seasoned a traveller you think you are its serious culture shock. You wouldn't mind if there were other tourists around, but there aren't - there are none! So the locals, who are a pretty loud and streetwise lot anyway, stare at you and immediately think of how they can exploit and rip you off. Its a bit intimidating and never relaxing, nomatter how strong a character you are.
We had to do a 20 minute walk from the riad to get into the main square and for the majority of that trip there wasn't a tourist in sight. The hassle was fairly gentle and they'd mostly go away after a firm 'no', but we had to risk life and limb to avoid every car, cart, donkey, bike and moped that sped past missing us by fractions, so it was never particularly pleasant and the feeling of sticking out like a sore thumb and being gawped at all the time was constant. Sure, it was fascinating and educating enough in its own way, but sometimes you feel more comfortable observing the fish from outside the tank, not inside it. I never felt especially intimidated myself but I wasn't comfortable either and Fiona felt particularly uncomfortable and tended to get more attention than me.
Often we would take a taxi back from the square to the riad at night, but this presented its own horrors, as Moroccan drivers, possibly learning from their former colonial masters the French, pay little heed to anything regarding the laws of the road and taxi drivers inparticular seem to exist for no purpose other than to get in front of the driver ahead of them at all costs. Basically all you can do is brace yourself in the back seat and count the number of children dressed in Barcelona shirts with the legend 'Messi' embazoned on the back that the taxi driver comes within a centimetre of obliterating on the journey home. I had visions of the taxi finally arriving dripping with the blood of its victims and the word 'Messi' repeated in a variety of impressions all over the bonnet and windscreen, like crushed flies.
One particularly hair-raising journey to Bab Ailen gate took us through mistifying back alleys to an uncertain stopping point with the driver shouting 'Bab Ailen!' in the front seat, a spaced-out Moroccan hammering the window on the outside and shouting 'Bab Ailen!' while Fiona and I sat in the back seat pointing at a different location on a map and shouting 'Bab Ailen, Bab Ailen!' It turned out the driver and the spaced-out guy were right and we had to slink off down the road surrounded by jeering children in 'Messi' replica football tops.
The riad itself, down another dark and dirty back alley, was actually fine once we got into it. It was designed to be a quiet haven in that deliberate Islamic way which doesn't encourage any street-side opulence to be on public view. The suite was sizable enough and very ornate in its design with windows that faced out over the inner courtyard. The staff were friendly and helpful throughout and it was always a relief to get back to it and relax on the roof garden away from the endless madnesss that went on outside.
Otherwise Marrakesh was a bit of a disappointment. OK the big Jemma-el-fna square can be quite spectacular with all the street vendors, eateries, snakecharmers, shamens and musicians on the go, but it wears its tourist rip-off credentials unashamedly on it sleeves and the amusement wears off after an hour or so. The soulks are colourful, maze-like and full of the usual goods and trinkets, but ultimately there's actually not a whole lot to see and mostly you just sit around the cafes and restuarants watching the teeming masses go noisily by and generally passing the time. Frankly the locals don't help; we never met a shopkeeper, waiter or taxi driver out there who wasn't at best indifferent or a worst downright rude. They're very tempremental with each other too and watching them have blazing rows with each other in the middle of the street was commonplace. You can't even drink to any decent degree as most places don't sell alcohol and even those who do charge extortionate prices. Anyway, you wouldn't trust yourself on these streets in anything other than a sober and alert state.
There is a new town built by the French along standard boulevard lines with some good shops and cafes and we took a decent, if tourist-loaded, trip out into the Atlas mountains which included a fun trek up to a waterfall, but the holiday has to go down as a bit of a yawn. A week is far too long in this town and the location didn't favour the laze-by-pool type holiday that one of the more modern resort hotels outside the medina might offer. We were either bored or slightly scared, which is a strange combination. Truth is we're probably 20 years too old for this kind of ethnic semi-roughing it; but its hard in any case to see where the town's hippy credentials still are as its as tacky and commercialised as any custom-bult European resort that I've ever been in, and the feeling that the locals despise the tourists is never far from the surface.
Done, dusted, ticked off the list and never again.
Friday, 1 April 2011
Nobody's fool on April Fools day
Officially my first day of retirement although I've already been off for two weeks. Tonight I have my latest leaving do in Edinburgh, shared with a few other souls to save cash. I've had virtually nothing to do with the organisation of it and will basically just turn up on the night. I'll go into town in the afternoon and probably meet up with Tommy and Robin for a few drinks first. It almost seems like one celebration too many frankly, after the others that have gone before it, but hopefully I'll catch up with some people I haven't seen for some time and god knows what will eventually happen.
Everything has gone smoothly so far; all the pension pot monies have come in and been distributed around other accounts until I do some further investments after I come back from Morocco. The actually monthly pension itself is expected to be paid in from the middle of each month.
Up to now everything has been as easy as I expected. I'm not bored, appear to have plenty to do and have set myself up with Bannatyne's gym membership where I should be able to hang around for hours on end. Or perving by the pool as Fiona describes it.
No doubt there will be boring days but you have to remind yourself that there are always boring days in life. How many days did I spend at work bored out of my tiny? Too many in latter days.
First day of unemployment in over 25 years just the same. Can't help but feel a bit strange and something of a red letter day. Still here's to the future!
Everything has gone smoothly so far; all the pension pot monies have come in and been distributed around other accounts until I do some further investments after I come back from Morocco. The actually monthly pension itself is expected to be paid in from the middle of each month.
Up to now everything has been as easy as I expected. I'm not bored, appear to have plenty to do and have set myself up with Bannatyne's gym membership where I should be able to hang around for hours on end. Or perving by the pool as Fiona describes it.
No doubt there will be boring days but you have to remind yourself that there are always boring days in life. How many days did I spend at work bored out of my tiny? Too many in latter days.
First day of unemployment in over 25 years just the same. Can't help but feel a bit strange and something of a red letter day. Still here's to the future!
Friday, 18 March 2011
Goodbye to all that
On 17 March 2011 I left the Civil Service for early retirement after 25 years and four months. Technically I remain employed until 31 March, but I had to use up remaining annual leave before I went. The Scottish Government were keen to post blogs from all the leavers who are going over the next few months. Its reckoned around 6-700 people will have gone by the end of June - seroius numbers in hard times. Not many actually supplied a blog but as usual I couldn't resist. Here's what I posted.
"I joined the Civil Service in 1985, initially working for the MoD in a military records office, bizarrely located in an old Jesuit Mission in darkest Hastings. A suitably surreal start to what has often been a surreal career! It was a detached duty posting, eventually relocating to Brown St in Glasgow, just opposite where the Europa Building is now. It was mostly run by bufty-blazer retired majors who hadn't a clue how to deal with civilians and thought we should all be shot for not shaving in the morning; but I primarily remember it as a riotous social affair, with 50-odd people from the Glasgow area all congregated in the one town and determined to leave an impression. I remember once calculating with a mate that we were averaging about 70 pints a week each down there. Just as well it was only for a year!
"I eventually decided to try my luck in London and ended up in a MoD statistics department in Holborn, where I was greeted on my first day by a bloke of about 19 in pipe and slippers (literally) who told me to keep quiet as my boss was sound asleep at her desk (she was too, face down and snoring her head off). Reminds me that one of the great strengths of the civil service, though it often doesn't know it, is its ingrained quirkiness, eccentricity and quiet sense of rebellion.
"Basically, 5 years in London was another blizzard of drink, womanising and curious encounters. Friday sessions used to start at lunchtime in a pub called the 3 Cups. Our cue to eventually repair back to the office came when the Head Statistician, who spent his Friday lunchtimes going round the fruit machines in all the nearby bars, finished up in ours at about 3pm. A couple of hours back at the office sleeping it off were then followed by the main boozing session which would run until the last trains left Charing Cross at midnight. We would invariably lapse into unconsciousness and end up miles beyond our stops. One guy from Hayward's Heath used to wake up every weekend in Brighton and just sleep on a station bench until daylight and the bracing sea air woke him up again.
"Occasionally we wouldn't make it home at all. One particular evening involving a gothic pile in Hampstead, a schizophrenic host, a deranged father locked in an upstairs bedroom and the desperate defence of improvised barricades in a basement games room will never be forgotten. It was like Jane Eyre with pool cues.
"Eventually I ended up in MOD communications out at Earls Court; where among other things I production-managed the publication of technical guidelines to the specifications of fixed-wing aircraft. Ah, the page-turning excitement of it all; nearly as bad as labouring through a Dan Brown novel. Just as well they had all those Australian bars nearby.
"At some point in 1991, and for the life of me I can't really remember why, I ended up in Edinburgh working for the Scottish Office, where, given a corporate name change or fifty, I've been working ever since.
"I started in the old Information Directorate, as it was called then, initially doing Royal Visit press arrangements. What a funny old job that was, dealing half the time with Palace bigwigs and Dowager Duchesses of This and That and the other half dealing with pushy visitees getting into an unnecessary flap about the whole thing and wanting to freshly paint entire towns because Prince Edward was dropping in for five minutes.
"Fascinating days though - the high watermark of the Diana and Fergie era and the whole tabloid circus that came with them. Stories abound but my favourite has to be the day Prince Charles crashed his plane while visiting the Laphroig Distillery in Islay. As soon as the story broke the island was infested with chartered helicopters carrying red-top hacks buzzing in to get a scoop. The place looked like the attack scene from Apocalypse Now - the only things missing were Wagner and surf boards. And there was me, the only press officer in town, still hungover from my night of hospitality with the hosts, trying to marshal it all like Gary Cooper in High Noon.
"After that I ended up in the ministerial press office, where for some reason I always seemed to be working the local government desk and always seemed to be dealing with the happenings of Monklands District Council (I'm from Coatbridge, which didn't help). Those were also intriguing days. I joined just when the whole culture of government communication was moving away from the rather formal dissemination of information into the frontline guerrilla warfare it quickly metamorphosised into. Rising profiles inevitably led to rising pressures and stresses and, after a slow start, an impressive after-hours drinking culture led to another colourful era of misadventures, strange happenings, unlikely relationships and the kind of early-morning recollections that have you pulling the duvet cover up over your head and curling into the foetal position. That's if you even got home - one morning I woke up in the cabin of a Russian factory ship down at Leith docks. Fortunately (or maybe unfortunately?) I managed to get off before we steamed into the chilly North Atlantic.
"As older colleagues may remember, my press office days ended in 'controversial circumstances' around the time of the millennium and I ended up (semi-banished?) to Saughton House and Estate Services. This turned out to be more fun and interesting than I thought; you never realise how possessive civil servants get about their rooms until you work in estates. We practically had to drag some worthy colleagues out of their rooms kicking and screaming, like they were being evicted from their own homes.
"After that I found myself in a place I can't remember and don't remember what I did (though I remember some of the people in it). So we'll pass on that…..
"I then did a secondment to Fife Council which was a lot of fun; starting up a process that's not a million miles away from what the team brief turned out to be in here (can I sue for plagiarism?). As is the way with public services I came in to do one thing but ended up doing quite another, and as I was working beside their marketing and design people I ended up as their unofficial copywriter and spent most of my time writing slogans for adverts and designing exhibition stands.
"Where was I after that? You see, you get more forgetful as you get older. Oh yes, I ended up in another place I can't remember the name of doing Policy Week 2005. Whatever happened to Policy Week? That was fun too. I remember we got in an anti-sectarian play off the Fringe and ran it in VQ conf room 1 (full house too). I remember loads of people came walking through the atrium wondering who was doing all the effing and blinding in the conference suite and moving off a bit chastened.
"Where does that take me? 2007 I think. I did another secondment to the Office of Fair Trading, who were opening a Scottish arm in Edinburgh. That was fun too - I met loads of filthy rich competition lawyers who turned out to be pretty agreeable really. Nobody tells better dirty jokes about lawyers than other lawyers.
"That took me to what has turned out to be my final job in eHealth. Yes, after years of studiously avoiding Health I ended up in Health! But this has been fun too as I've largely been left to my own devices to act as an unofficial journalist and webmaster spreading the word.
"So I think that's that - a quick run through 26 years. My memory isn't the greatest in the world and I've probably forgotten so many great things and great times. David Bowie, when asked to recall the 1970s, once said: 'apparently I had a good time'. I can't remember the 1970s either, probably for many of the same reasons he can't, but the civil service years of my life have been a good time!
"What am I going to do now? Nothing initially. Outwith the odd period of unemployment or further education I've been working since I was 17 and I'm happy to take a long break. I've got plenty to keep me occupied and loads of travel already stacking up. I fully intend to make the most of every cheap mid-week Ryanair or Easyjet city break deal I can find; and knowing me I'll always manage to find fresh ways to get myself into trouble. Then again, I might spend the next six months lying on the settee drinking beer and watching sport.
"Ah, the options!"
"I joined the Civil Service in 1985, initially working for the MoD in a military records office, bizarrely located in an old Jesuit Mission in darkest Hastings. A suitably surreal start to what has often been a surreal career! It was a detached duty posting, eventually relocating to Brown St in Glasgow, just opposite where the Europa Building is now. It was mostly run by bufty-blazer retired majors who hadn't a clue how to deal with civilians and thought we should all be shot for not shaving in the morning; but I primarily remember it as a riotous social affair, with 50-odd people from the Glasgow area all congregated in the one town and determined to leave an impression. I remember once calculating with a mate that we were averaging about 70 pints a week each down there. Just as well it was only for a year!
"I eventually decided to try my luck in London and ended up in a MoD statistics department in Holborn, where I was greeted on my first day by a bloke of about 19 in pipe and slippers (literally) who told me to keep quiet as my boss was sound asleep at her desk (she was too, face down and snoring her head off). Reminds me that one of the great strengths of the civil service, though it often doesn't know it, is its ingrained quirkiness, eccentricity and quiet sense of rebellion.
"Basically, 5 years in London was another blizzard of drink, womanising and curious encounters. Friday sessions used to start at lunchtime in a pub called the 3 Cups. Our cue to eventually repair back to the office came when the Head Statistician, who spent his Friday lunchtimes going round the fruit machines in all the nearby bars, finished up in ours at about 3pm. A couple of hours back at the office sleeping it off were then followed by the main boozing session which would run until the last trains left Charing Cross at midnight. We would invariably lapse into unconsciousness and end up miles beyond our stops. One guy from Hayward's Heath used to wake up every weekend in Brighton and just sleep on a station bench until daylight and the bracing sea air woke him up again.
"Occasionally we wouldn't make it home at all. One particular evening involving a gothic pile in Hampstead, a schizophrenic host, a deranged father locked in an upstairs bedroom and the desperate defence of improvised barricades in a basement games room will never be forgotten. It was like Jane Eyre with pool cues.
"Eventually I ended up in MOD communications out at Earls Court; where among other things I production-managed the publication of technical guidelines to the specifications of fixed-wing aircraft. Ah, the page-turning excitement of it all; nearly as bad as labouring through a Dan Brown novel. Just as well they had all those Australian bars nearby.
"At some point in 1991, and for the life of me I can't really remember why, I ended up in Edinburgh working for the Scottish Office, where, given a corporate name change or fifty, I've been working ever since.
"I started in the old Information Directorate, as it was called then, initially doing Royal Visit press arrangements. What a funny old job that was, dealing half the time with Palace bigwigs and Dowager Duchesses of This and That and the other half dealing with pushy visitees getting into an unnecessary flap about the whole thing and wanting to freshly paint entire towns because Prince Edward was dropping in for five minutes.
"Fascinating days though - the high watermark of the Diana and Fergie era and the whole tabloid circus that came with them. Stories abound but my favourite has to be the day Prince Charles crashed his plane while visiting the Laphroig Distillery in Islay. As soon as the story broke the island was infested with chartered helicopters carrying red-top hacks buzzing in to get a scoop. The place looked like the attack scene from Apocalypse Now - the only things missing were Wagner and surf boards. And there was me, the only press officer in town, still hungover from my night of hospitality with the hosts, trying to marshal it all like Gary Cooper in High Noon.
"After that I ended up in the ministerial press office, where for some reason I always seemed to be working the local government desk and always seemed to be dealing with the happenings of Monklands District Council (I'm from Coatbridge, which didn't help). Those were also intriguing days. I joined just when the whole culture of government communication was moving away from the rather formal dissemination of information into the frontline guerrilla warfare it quickly metamorphosised into. Rising profiles inevitably led to rising pressures and stresses and, after a slow start, an impressive after-hours drinking culture led to another colourful era of misadventures, strange happenings, unlikely relationships and the kind of early-morning recollections that have you pulling the duvet cover up over your head and curling into the foetal position. That's if you even got home - one morning I woke up in the cabin of a Russian factory ship down at Leith docks. Fortunately (or maybe unfortunately?) I managed to get off before we steamed into the chilly North Atlantic.
"As older colleagues may remember, my press office days ended in 'controversial circumstances' around the time of the millennium and I ended up (semi-banished?) to Saughton House and Estate Services. This turned out to be more fun and interesting than I thought; you never realise how possessive civil servants get about their rooms until you work in estates. We practically had to drag some worthy colleagues out of their rooms kicking and screaming, like they were being evicted from their own homes.
"After that I found myself in a place I can't remember and don't remember what I did (though I remember some of the people in it). So we'll pass on that…..
"I then did a secondment to Fife Council which was a lot of fun; starting up a process that's not a million miles away from what the team brief turned out to be in here (can I sue for plagiarism?). As is the way with public services I came in to do one thing but ended up doing quite another, and as I was working beside their marketing and design people I ended up as their unofficial copywriter and spent most of my time writing slogans for adverts and designing exhibition stands.
"Where was I after that? You see, you get more forgetful as you get older. Oh yes, I ended up in another place I can't remember the name of doing Policy Week 2005. Whatever happened to Policy Week? That was fun too. I remember we got in an anti-sectarian play off the Fringe and ran it in VQ conf room 1 (full house too). I remember loads of people came walking through the atrium wondering who was doing all the effing and blinding in the conference suite and moving off a bit chastened.
"Where does that take me? 2007 I think. I did another secondment to the Office of Fair Trading, who were opening a Scottish arm in Edinburgh. That was fun too - I met loads of filthy rich competition lawyers who turned out to be pretty agreeable really. Nobody tells better dirty jokes about lawyers than other lawyers.
"That took me to what has turned out to be my final job in eHealth. Yes, after years of studiously avoiding Health I ended up in Health! But this has been fun too as I've largely been left to my own devices to act as an unofficial journalist and webmaster spreading the word.
"So I think that's that - a quick run through 26 years. My memory isn't the greatest in the world and I've probably forgotten so many great things and great times. David Bowie, when asked to recall the 1970s, once said: 'apparently I had a good time'. I can't remember the 1970s either, probably for many of the same reasons he can't, but the civil service years of my life have been a good time!
"What am I going to do now? Nothing initially. Outwith the odd period of unemployment or further education I've been working since I was 17 and I'm happy to take a long break. I've got plenty to keep me occupied and loads of travel already stacking up. I fully intend to make the most of every cheap mid-week Ryanair or Easyjet city break deal I can find; and knowing me I'll always manage to find fresh ways to get myself into trouble. Then again, I might spend the next six months lying on the settee drinking beer and watching sport.
"Ah, the options!"
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
In Christmas shopping malls no-one can hear you scream!
On this mild, sunny weekday I was casually browsing around a well known department store on Edinburgh’s Princes Street when I heard the dreaded refrain: ‘And so this is Christmas, and what have you done….’
My heart sank. It was the 3rd of November and the clocks had barely changed back, yet here we were, about to face eight weeks of Tannoyed agony in high streets and shopping malls as the crackly old CDs of Christmas standards droned into the nations consciousness yet again.
John Lennon’s Happy Xmas (War Is Over); Wizzard’s I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day; Slade’s Merry Xmas Everybody; Greg Lake’s I Believe in Father Christmas. Out they trot on an endless, agonising loop – hapless shoppers subjected to the nasal whines of Lennon and chainsaw screech of Noddy Holder wherever they go. And that’s only the classics from the 1970s. After a decent break the 80s decided to take up the seasonal mantle too – so added to the rota we also got Jona Lewie’s Stop The Cavalry and of course Cliff’s dreaded Mistletoe and Wine.
Somewhere along the line, and no doubt after a heated Papal Conclave, Bing Crosby’s White Christmas was allowed to crash the party as well, standing out like a syrupy, orchestrated sore thumb amid the 70s Glam Rock tat. I think this radical move happened about 20 years ago and the status quo of the elite line up has been preserved ever since, rendered even more intractable by Simon Cowell’s corporate stranglehold of the Christmas charts in recent times.
Between them, these seven songs have become a Groundhog Day of seasonal terror, poisoning our televisions, radios, and shopping centres for ever-longer periods as everyone pretends that Christmas starts at the beginning of Autumn. They have become the tiresome guest at the party who stays so long he eventually becomes part of the family. A dubious British tradition that never changes, never evolves, as if Christmas music of any sort, Bing apart, never existed before or beyond the 70s and 80s. Pushing your way harassed and tired through the crowds you can’t even dismiss it as background music as the voices of John, Roy and Noddy inparticular are not phonetically designed for tranquil, airport-style atmospherics. Noddy’s ‘Its CHRISTMASSSSSSSS!’ rips through the skull like the very worst cider-induced hangover and can be seen tormenting many a delicate constitution during the horror of a Christmas Saturday.
Has anyone got any idea how awful all this is for anyone old enough to remember these dubious delights first time around? I can recall enjoying them as a jolly, fast-food fad back in the age of Fashion Hell and three-day weeks pushing on for 40 years ago, but did anybody really think that they were here to stay, that our Christmases would be blighted by their ubiquitous presence for evermore?
I can at least switch channels when the first dreaded strains appear on my radio or television, but I have no control over what I’m subjected to on the high street. So I’m issuing a heartfelt plea to store managers and shopping mall DJs everywhere. Please stop it!!! Please find something else to play!! If you can’t do for the punters do it for yourselves and your own staff, who have to stand their inflicted by this torture hour after hour, day after day! There are centuries worth of seasonal music out there for you to pick and choose from if you just give it a minutes thought. So please, please, please - go and find some of it. Surprise yourselves, surprise us and give us all a break!
My heart sank. It was the 3rd of November and the clocks had barely changed back, yet here we were, about to face eight weeks of Tannoyed agony in high streets and shopping malls as the crackly old CDs of Christmas standards droned into the nations consciousness yet again.
John Lennon’s Happy Xmas (War Is Over); Wizzard’s I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day; Slade’s Merry Xmas Everybody; Greg Lake’s I Believe in Father Christmas. Out they trot on an endless, agonising loop – hapless shoppers subjected to the nasal whines of Lennon and chainsaw screech of Noddy Holder wherever they go. And that’s only the classics from the 1970s. After a decent break the 80s decided to take up the seasonal mantle too – so added to the rota we also got Jona Lewie’s Stop The Cavalry and of course Cliff’s dreaded Mistletoe and Wine.
Somewhere along the line, and no doubt after a heated Papal Conclave, Bing Crosby’s White Christmas was allowed to crash the party as well, standing out like a syrupy, orchestrated sore thumb amid the 70s Glam Rock tat. I think this radical move happened about 20 years ago and the status quo of the elite line up has been preserved ever since, rendered even more intractable by Simon Cowell’s corporate stranglehold of the Christmas charts in recent times.
Between them, these seven songs have become a Groundhog Day of seasonal terror, poisoning our televisions, radios, and shopping centres for ever-longer periods as everyone pretends that Christmas starts at the beginning of Autumn. They have become the tiresome guest at the party who stays so long he eventually becomes part of the family. A dubious British tradition that never changes, never evolves, as if Christmas music of any sort, Bing apart, never existed before or beyond the 70s and 80s. Pushing your way harassed and tired through the crowds you can’t even dismiss it as background music as the voices of John, Roy and Noddy inparticular are not phonetically designed for tranquil, airport-style atmospherics. Noddy’s ‘Its CHRISTMASSSSSSSS!’ rips through the skull like the very worst cider-induced hangover and can be seen tormenting many a delicate constitution during the horror of a Christmas Saturday.
Has anyone got any idea how awful all this is for anyone old enough to remember these dubious delights first time around? I can recall enjoying them as a jolly, fast-food fad back in the age of Fashion Hell and three-day weeks pushing on for 40 years ago, but did anybody really think that they were here to stay, that our Christmases would be blighted by their ubiquitous presence for evermore?
I can at least switch channels when the first dreaded strains appear on my radio or television, but I have no control over what I’m subjected to on the high street. So I’m issuing a heartfelt plea to store managers and shopping mall DJs everywhere. Please stop it!!! Please find something else to play!! If you can’t do for the punters do it for yourselves and your own staff, who have to stand their inflicted by this torture hour after hour, day after day! There are centuries worth of seasonal music out there for you to pick and choose from if you just give it a minutes thought. So please, please, please - go and find some of it. Surprise yourselves, surprise us and give us all a break!
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