A Conservative canvasser calls...

Yesterday evening, resplendent with solicitous half-smile (think relief at passing wind) and blue rosette, 'pumped-up', as Cameron might put it. This was the day that the Tory candidate for Calder Valley, Craig Whittaker decided to retweet Richard Littlejohn's appallingly bad taste headline referring to Jimmy Savile as a babysitter in preference to a Labour government. Whittaker's poor judgement was even more astounding, given that in the last Parliament he had not only chaired the all-party group on looked-after children, but also founded a charity that has the aim of improving their educational achievement. The candidate, perhaps wisely, decided to go to ground, leaving his hapless bunch of canvassers to try and stem the UKIP tide - Whittaker's defending a 6,000 majority. As to loyalty, Whittaker can't be faulted - he's supported all government initiatives to the hilt, with a ringing endorsement of the benefit cap and bedroom tax. Indeed, his only rebellion was over same-sex marriage (which he defended on the rather strange ground that it could lead to polygamy!) The canvasser left my doorstep in no doubts that my household will not be supporting his candidate.

A little co-operation from Co-operative Energy wouldn't go amiss

Back in February, our energy provider - Co-operative Energy - informed us that we could save £40-odd per month by switching to another tariff. Not surprisingly, I jumped at the chance, and after an exchange of emails, was told that the change had been requested on Feb 18. So you can imagine I was annoyed to find that the old, higher payment was taken by direct debit in March and April. Calls to Co-operative Energy were met with a long wait, mindless muzak, and a recorded male voice telling me that answers to many common questions were available online. But mine wasn't, and the phone queue grew inexorably. At the start of April, however, I chanced upon the name of a Customer Services manager, Andy Springall, and emailed him direct. Unfortunately, Mr Springall was on holiday, but took time out from his jollies to assure me that he would look into the matter on his return. While he promised to get back to me last Monday, this didn't happen - but I did receive an up-to-date bill, which, to add insult to injury, told me I could save money by... signing up for the very same tariff change I'd requested in February! I decided to give the phone one last try. This time, the call to the Co-op was answered after only a few minutes. Confusingly, I was then told that we had already been transferred to the cheaper tariff, but that the direct debit needed amending (which explained the higher figure payment, apparently). But this meant I would have to be transferred to Customer Services and provide both meter readings, and the call waiting time was a minimum of 19 minutes. Further questioning elicited the unhelpful response that the only way to change the direct debit was by phone - email or snail mail would be forced to wait considerably longer before the change could be actioned by Customer Services: 'it all has to be entered manually' was the reply - apparently they don't run to computers down there in Warwick. By now, my patience was wearing thin. After all, the delay/cock-up/sheer sodding ineptitude was down to the Co-op, so why should I have to hold the line until they could be arsed to arrange a refund of 3 months' overpayments? Then I remembered - Mr Springall. For anyone else caught up in a Co-op cock-up/ineptitude delay, here's the email for their go-to-guy Andrew.Springall@cooperativeenergy.coop Get yourself hot-foot down there Andy - can't wait for the refund!

The Tory candidate, the sign and the land sale

Good to see that Craig Whittaker's team hasn't let the controversy over the sale of the former Lawson Road council offices deter them from putting his election posters on the site. However, it's to be hoped that the sale to Younger Homes has gone through - and that they've agreed to the signs being placed there, because if the sale has not yet completed, it would not be permitted for an election candidate to use council-owned land as the location for election material.

No need for inverted commas

The BBC's response to the Armenian commemoration was interesting. In spite of growing acceptance of the word genocide to describe the mass killings, the headlines throughout April 24 placed the word in inverted commas, as if the broadcaster was trying to distance its editorial stance from that taken by the leaders of France and Germany, to name but two of the many who insist the evidence of ordered destruction - particularly evidence from then Ottoman Constantinople and Alleppo - that there was a degree of official sanction for the removal and killing that followed. Modern-day Turkish leaders would doubtless approve. President Erdogan even went so far as to move his country's Gallipoli commemoration forward by 24-hours in an attempt to detract from the events taking place in Yerevan; thereby politicising what should have been a solemn occasion, and one that was foreshadowed as such by the treatment it received from Mustafa Kemal - the leader of the Ottoman defence of the peninsular, and later, the founder and president of the secular Turkish republic. Ataturk wanted the memorial at Cape Heles to be for all who died, regardless of nationality. Erdogan's actions cast a shadow over that noble aspiration. There are those in Turkey who take a herioc stand against this officially-sanctioned state of denial. Turkey's leading author, Orhan Pamuk, said on the publication of his novel Snow that

'a million Armenians and 30,000 Kurds were killed in this country and I'm the only one who dares to talk about it'.

A remark that forced him into hiding and for which he was prosecuted. This state of denial sits oddly with the view of Mehmed VI, the last Ottoman sultan, who expressed his heartfelt sorrow at the mass killings and instituted an inquiry with the intention of prosecuting those responsible; his initiative foundered when he was forced to abdicate in the wake of Ottoman defeat. Erdogan's intrigues saw Princes Charles and Harry in their military finery commemorating Gallipoli a mere 99years and 364 days after the original, ill-fated landings

Major Mayhem

Woke this morning to see the Tories have drafted in John Major to assist their Labour/SNP panic-stoking project. Strange choice: while Major warns this could cause 'mayhem', older voters will well remember the rather sordid deals he cut with the Ulster Unionists to keep his own minority administration on the rails from 1992 until his landslide defeat in '97. Still, there is one sage piece of advice Cameron could take from this Conservative colossus: 'when you back's against the wall, you turn around and fight' quite... History best remembers Major-Balls (actual family name) for such bold initiatives as the cones' hotline and freeing up planning regs to allow for more motorway services (best not to mention rail privatisation - that happened on his watch, too.

Buying up Brighouse

Now the truth is out about the sale of the former Laws on Road council offices to Younger Homes, perhaps we should celebrate the triumph of 'commercial confidentiality'  - and cherry tree removal - over local democracy.
This could easily be achieved by changing the Welcome to Brighouse signage. In addition to 'twinned with Ludenscheid'  we can now proclaim the town to be the proud location of Younger Homes' landbank and planning blight capital of Calderdale.

Plunged into Internet darkness

Just after 4.00 this afternoon, the router cut out. A quick call to the ISP revealed that the fault was 'external', ie between the exchange and my house.
A few minutes later, youngest son came home and said that a car had hit the green cabinet that houses the cables for the whole estate.
When I went out later, I saw a neighbour, rather sheepishly looking on as a breakdown crew retrieve his car from atop the remains of the metal cabinet.
As well he might, what are we going to do? 300-odd souls denied access to social media, Internet shopping, YouTube and porn; teenagers might end up having to talk to their families. It's the end of the world, save yourselves Bailiff Bridge...

Pizza Express - min wage and zero hours in Cornwall

Visited Pizza Express in Falmouth on last night of our holiday and noticed an advert for summer staff. Offering 'up to £6.50 per hour', students at the new University wanting to stay on over the Summer, or who live in the town, have the exciting opportunity of being called in when the permanent staff are too busy to cope with the expected summer-time crowds. Being under 21, of course, Pizza Express will be able to get away with paying less than the minimum wage and claim the 'flexibility' of zero hours. A great example of an employer being able to have their pizza and eat it. Think on the terms of this 'exciting opportunity' when planning to dine out in Falmouth or Newquay this summer...

Rising Ground: a search for the spirit of place - Philip Marsden

I first discovered Philip Marsden when reading The Crossing Place: Journey Among the Armenians and was caught up in his infectious enthusiasm for research and discovery, which adds depth and dimension to his travel writing. In Rising Ground he brings his by now trademark depth of learning much closer to home, travelling from his native Somerset to his adopted Cornwall, he examines the topography and history of places, ranging from Glastonbury to the Fal valley, the clay country round St Austell, to the far west of Penwith and out to the Scillies. My reading coincided with a hastily planned family holiday in Falmouth, so it was an added pleasure to read Marsden's take on Porthleven after an afternoon's visit to the first place I even stayed in Cornwall with my then 6 month-old son. Now a hulking great 16 year-old, he too was entranced by the place in a way that Marsden would doubtless approve. This book is for those who enjoy the feel and history and tradition of 'place' - things that reach above the material nature of landscape and mere 'real estate' but touch the essence and spirituality of the land and connect us with those who have gone before.

A great day for good light in Cornwall

Light through Marazion cafe window

St Michael's Mount

Energetically getting Energetic ready for sea in Porthleven - the female gig crew's final preparations.

Noggin the viking, apparently

Awoke to the sound of helicopters and a military bank. Fearing that Cameron had dispensed with the last pretence of democracy and imposed martial law to subvert the need for an election on May 7, I dashed to the seaview window to learn that it was the official welcome home for RFA Argus. Spent the rest of the day at the National Maritime Museum (NMM). I like boats and all things nautical and had wanted to visit for some time. However, this is a museum that takes inclusiveness and the whole 'mission to explain' malarkey very seriously. As a result, there are a lot of lowest common denominator displays and interactive doodahs; all seemingly intended to enthuse and captivate a bus load of over-active five-year-olds. This was particularly the case with the Viking Voyagers exhibition: while the popular myths surrounding horned helmets and burning boat burials were comprehensively debunked (although a plastic horned helmet is available from the gift shop, should feel the need), the displays had a rather artificial feel - as exemplified by the addition of Noggin the Nog to a glass case that was adjacent to one illustrating the fact that the Normans were descendants of the vikings, which must make for some interesting family discussions on the return home, along with endless repeated warnings not to a) take the horned helmet thing seriously or b) take your sibling's eye out with the accompanying plastic sword. Welcome home Argus - hope there's a great run ashore going on tonight down there in old Falmouth town.

A kebab for the Turkish Navy

Falmouth's playing host to a 10-strong minesweeper flotilla, made up of ships from a number of NATO countries, including the TCG Anamur of the Turkish Navy. Walking through town earlier today, I came across some of the crews who were enjoying the warm weather and Cornish hospitality. Down on Church St, I passed a kebab shop and couldn't help but wonder how the conversation might pan out if some of the Anamur's crew feel like a taste of home after a run ashore in Falmouth. The name's the only thing that stays the same. Hope the guys understand that the Brits just don't give Turkish food the respect it deserves. There's no backlava here, and Turcse Cava has yet to achieve the status it deserves here in the South West

Emasculated Cornish hipster

Falmouth seems to be hipster central; they're everywhere. Encountered one 'folically' challenged individual. With compulsory square-cut facial fuzz, he looked like his head was on upside down. The tight, and way too short trousers, completed the intriguing oh so hip ensemble. Cough and he'd find to small spherical objects in his turnups.

A qualified, unqualified teacher

Righry, pat attention at the back. Yes, you -lazy scribblers. Now, I have a PGCE, which entitles me to teach Law to post-16 year-olds. However, this only applies if I work in an FE college or independent sixth form college. The minute I walk into  school-based sixth form, I'm classed as 'unqualified' (I can upgrade to Qualified Teacher Learning and Skills -QTLS - status if I join the Education and Training Foundation quango and pay them £480.00 to submit a portfolio for validation).
All this is in direct contradiction to Gove's promise that it would be easier for FE staff to work in schools. Teachers warn of unqualified staff - http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/education-32174423 article on BBC website doesn't cover this anomaly, perhaps it could be raised during the Easter teaching union conference season?

A camp in the woods

Dropped eldest son at scout camp this afternoon. The Explorer section, aged 15-28, were trying to work out where to pitch the tents and how they were going to manage to cook as no-one had organised the camping gas needed for the cookers. Be prepared, as someone once said. Happy camping. There's much to be said for the comforts of home. Collecting him on Saturday lunchtime, hope he'll have had some hot food by then.

Marketing Heaven

Called into a cafe in Ripon for lunch and noticed a sign in the window advertising a job vacancy. Half through my food, a young woman came in to inquire about the work. They explained to her that she wouldn't be working in the cafe itself, but that the job involved walking around with a board and handing out fliers. Marketing of a sort, but I don't think the putative applicant was that impressed by the terms and conditions...

Homage to Finkle Street

The trip to Ripon Library culminated in the discovery of my great grandfather's obituary, as well as that of his son, my great uncle, who died in WWI. Also discovered that three great aunts all 'succumbed to pneumonia on attaining womanhood' (1937 speak for died aged 19, 23 and 25, so heartbreakingly young). Now hope to learn more about their brother who emigrated to Australia three years after the end of WWI. At 80, my great granddad was 'Ripon's oldest hairdresser' when he died - says so in the title to his obituary, left me feeling rather proud of the old boy. He worked in his own shop, at 7 Finkle Street, top of the Market Square - must have done a roaring trade on market day, with various of his sons, for just over 44 years. That's a lot of snipping.  Bet he also did a nice line in 'something for the weekend, sir?' sales.

Mental health reporting - a perfect storm brewing?

As we struggle to come to terms with the loss of the Germanwings flight, news media focused on the mental health of the co-pilot, the Association of Teachers and Lecturers (ATL) warns of a worrying rise in depression and anxiety among school pupils. Worryingly, however, tabloids are reverting to their previous practice of stigmatising mental health issues. Given the increase in depression and other mental health conditions among the general population, this risks trivialising - or even victimising - a large number of people and raises the danger that some will fail to seek help for fear of losing jobs or endangering personal relationships, causing untold misery for themselves, their families, friends and loved ones.

A one-to-one ramble with the Ramblers

After a gap of several years, I decided to utilise the £44.00 a year I pay for joint membership of the Ramblers and go on a guided walk in the south Pennine hills. The walk had an inauspicious start, mainly because I was the only punter, so the guided walk consisted of myself and the leader. We set off at a quick pace and were soon climbing briskly across open moorland, but the guide was rather apologetic because part of the route might not be navigable, which would add nearly a mile to the advertised distance. I told him I had no problem with that, whereupon he informed me that changes to the advertised route or distance to be covered could be difficult: 'there's usually someone with a GPS, and there have been complaints'. This rather took me aback; leaders don't get paid for the difficult task of taking groups, or even single walkers out. In my case, being somewhat directionally-challenged, being able to walk in open country, with navigation left to someone who knows the way is the main attraction of Ramblers' membership. Surely, if you have GP you could navigate your own route, rather than use it to keep a constant check on the volunteer leader. We covered the route in quick time and the weather remained dry and sunny throughout. The only thing that spoiled the walk was a suggestion that I might consider leading walks - 'everyone has a walk in them, you should think about it' counselled my personal guide; leaving me to contemplate the utter chaos that would ensue if I should ever be put in charge of a ramble, with or without GPS.

Sanctions and church roof repairs

Jeremy Hardy joked that Osborne's Budget announcement of a £40 million Church Roof Repair Fund would at least mean that you'd be dry while queuing for the food bank. Given the Tory party's antipathy towards the current Anglican Church leadership's comments on poverty and social injustice, the fund smacks more of a desire to hold-on to a golden age that probably only existed in the era of the 'Tory Party at Prayer' gibe. Certainly, Osborne should find any attempt to buy favour receives short-shrift from those Church stalwarts who either volunteer at food banks or make regular cash or food donations to allow the vital work to continue. Getting a food parcel ready for someone who's turned up after being sanctioned by the DWP is enough to put anyone off voting Tory for life. And its good to see the Methodists aligning themselves very publicly with those who have been treated in this way by the present Coalition Government.

The problem with bagels

Thirteen-year-old youngest son decided that a toasted bagel spread with strawberry jam was his choice of pre-bed snack for a Friday night. After cutting and toasting, he then placed the bagel on the kitchen worktop (sans plate) before spreading with margarine and jam, he then announced that the one thing he didn't like about bagels was the hole. Having spent what seems like an age cleaning up hardened globules of jam, neither do I.

Farage - an uneasy lesson from history

Interesting to hear Nigel Farage saying he wants to live in a country that is 'at ease with itself'. Leaving aside how this can occur while he and his minions rush around telling tales of fearsome foreigners, the words reminded me of another nationalist politician who was desperate to keep on the right side of the electorate. In his 1943 St Patrick's Day speech, Irish Taoiseach Eamon De Valera used the phrase to describe the Ireland he wanted to see. The speech, which celebrated the 50th anniversary of the Gaelic League, is also famous for his wanting to see 'comely maidens' taking part in spontaneous open-air dancing displays and no-one 'worth more than fifty pounds a year'. Within a few months of re-election, however, De Valera's Fianna Fail party had banned all unlicensed acts of public entertainment, although he never did quite manage to legislate against people earning too much money. At ease with ourselves, Mr Farage? Not with the likes of you around. Now, who fancies a quick dance down at the crossroads? Some Romanian folk dance perhaps, or maybe a touch of the Gay Gordons? I'm sure the UKIPpers will join in eventually.

Leeds and its squares

Leeds, my home town, likes squares. There's City Square, the proud home of the Black Prince's statue (though what connection he had with the place is anyone's guess), and his surrounding bevy of semi-clad nymphs. In 2000, the city created Millenium Square in front of the Portland Stone edifice of the Civic Hall. It was here that Nelson Mandela spoke when he visited the city to thank it for supporting him over the years and every Christmas features a German market, where dodgy tasting gluwein can be enjoyed/endured while looking for overpriced wooden toys and other nicknacks from the land of lager and lederhosen. Further back in the 1970s, the city fathers decided to honour the twin city of Dortmund with a square. Rather more downmarket this time, with a socialist-realism-ish statute of an overweight brewer. Now, it's just been announced that there's to be another square, Tower Square, just off Wellington Street this time, on the site of a former rail marshalling yard and subsequent home to a failed retail park. But Leeds hasn't got any squares named after its famous sons or daughters - be they Leeds-born or adopted, and I think the city planners should look to them before naming any new squares. Two candidates come to mind, Jane Tomlinson, the indefatigable charity endurance athlete who raised so much money for cancer research before her untimely death. OK, so she's got a race named after her already, but a square is a more permanent reminder. Or why not Moshe Osinsky (Sir Montague Burton), who founded his clothing empire in the city after arriving in England from Lithuania. In addition to his business success, he also went on to endow professorial chairs in industrial relations and international law at several leading British universities. His factory at Hudson Road, once the city's largest employer, is long gone, and apparently the only memorial to him in his adopted home is an out-of-town university hall of residence. Burton Square would do nicely.

An exciting employment opportunity, or an over-excited employee?

It's high time the burgeoning employment agency sector was subject to regulation and statutory control, especially in the education sector. I was contacted, cold-called to be precise, the other day by an agency that said it had seen my CV, presumably on another recruitment agency website, as I hadn't even heard of them previously, and wondered if I could send them an up-to-date version. Where, I asked, was the job; not an unreasonable question. While, however, my CV was enthusiastically received - 'excellent' was the feedback from the 'consultant', my request was politely deflected - she 'was not at liberty' to discuss the actual school. Neither, as it turned out, was she able to be more enlightening on the number of hours or rate of pay - pretty much the most basic information you would expect - particularly in view of the long list of personal details they wanted from me. A second request for further information was met with the response that my previously 'excellent' CV was now sadly missing essential details that the anonymous school deemed to be essential. I demurred at this point, only to receive a rather embarrassing email from my current line manager, just letting me know he'd received a reference request. Now, I work part-time, and he has provided references previously - but only after I've given my permission for him to be approached. Here, we had a bunch of incompetents and shysters, who couldn't or wouldn't provide me with even the most basic details of the job, taking the decision to approach at least one of my referees to ask for a reference. After complaining to the agency, I was then told the fault was that of an 'over-exuberant' employee. Bad workmen and tools came to mind when I read it. I think the fault is rather over-caffeined, commission-driven cowboys let loose in a sector of which they have little real knowledge or understanding.

A pork pie, but not as we know it...

When my mate Keith left school he got a job putting the glaze on pork pies for a now defunct bakery in Leeds. The job was only a stopgap - he was waiting to join the Royal Artillery, which was probably just as well, because the supply of pork pies would have presented a serious threat to health, had he not answered the call of Queen and country. Fast forward more years than I care to remember, and yesterday I was tempted by a growler in Morrison's. The only thing this dessicated article had in common with those of rose-tinted commestible memory was pork and pastry: gone was the glorious glaze and the glutinous jelly. All that remained was a dried hulk of pastry and unnaturally pink-dyed pork. Morrison's should hold their corporate head in shame. Keith's erstwhile employer might have gone the way of all flesh (hastened, it must be said, by a particularly nasty salmonella outbreak), but their product is not forgotten - certainly not after yesterday's sorry episode.

Spent a couple of days in the Lake District

Spent being the operative word, particularly when it comes to parking. The national park authority has been busy since my last visit, installing number plate recognition gizmos at its pay and display car parks Waterhead Car Park, Ambleside Charges have also increased, with £2.00 being the minimum stay and £8.00 for a full day stay. Payment can be made by cash or card, but no change is given for cash, so the authority turns a nice little profit either way. Just what happens if you turn into a full car park and then leave after only a few moments is not spelled out on the signage. Could this be met with a £2.00 min charge and £60.00 fine for non-payment within 48 hours? Constantly upping the charges levied on visitors, in the supposed name of improving the national park - and this includes 20p to visit the loo - risks alienating the very people the authority relies on for its income. A sense of proportion is needed, but seems to be sadly lacking at the present time.

Year of the sheep at the Magic Wok

An evening in Windermere after a day walking in the Grizedale Forest and dinner at the Magic Wok. Decor a bit dated, but food and service were great. Walk from Ambleside tomorrow. More Lakeland magic on the way.

Bigging up those 'traditional values' - selling fee-paying schools

The local fee-paying grammar must be feeling the pinch - they've taken to sending out leaflets, advertising the 'benefits' of sending children to a school first established in 1648 that 'upholds traditional values'. What the marketing hype doesn't say is that for most of the last century the school was LEA controlled - only reverting to independent, fee-paying status after reorganisation in 1974 (a craftily worded clause in the charter allowed to leave the LEA free of charge). Exploiting loopholes - traditional enough, I suppose. As is putting fear into middle class and aspiring middle class families that their child will do better in smaller classes, where, as the blurb has it 'pupils flourish academically in a happy and stimulating environment'. Also equips them with the sharp elbows the middle class need to stay ahead - mean, lean and ready to fight for whatever the Daily Mail tells them is important...

Better times for Little Germany

Bradford seems to have a talent for turning itself into a wasteland. The inner-most part of the city centre has been a building site for nearly a decade - due to the long-delayed completion of the Broadway development, which was intended to break the 60s ring of concrete and deliver a vibrant retail complex, but instead became mired in delay due to the recession. But the city's older buildings are also in need of care and attention. In the late 80s and early 90s much was made of the prospects for Little Germany, an area of mill buildings and commercial premises developed by German immigrants, including the family of the composer Frederick Delius, who came to the city eager to build links between the Yorkshire and German textile industries. Unfortunately, the thriving businesses, bars and cafes that moved into the area have now almost all gone - leaving behind near empty converted apartment complexes and flyblown alleyways. I spent a while in the Guzelian cafe and gallery, itself a bold attempt to create a vibrant watering hole opposite the cathedral where the works of the Guzelian photojournalism agency are displayed on the walls. It opened in December last year, but now faces the prospect of the road outside - one of the main routes into Little Germany - being turned into building site that will see cars largely banished from the area. The streets that once held so much promise now run past silent buildings with boarded up or broken windows. The Tuetonic entrepreneurs have long gone; and I was left wondering, along with the cafe-gallery manager, whether Bradford will manage to turn things around again, after so long in the economic doldrums. Hope that Guzelian will be around to capture the renaissance when it comes.

Yorkshire Sculpture Park - scenes from a walk: a triangular boat, an octopus and Ai Weiwei's tree

On a journey - the road to nowhere...

Eldest son's high school is in special measures after spectacularly failing an Ofsted in May last year. This damning situation was reinforced recently by a follow-up visit from HMI, which found little improvement. This is inspite of a number of - rather frantic - messages from the senior leadership team (SLT) to the effect that they have 'embarked on an exciting improvement journey'. Language like that chills my blood; it means absolutely nothing - and all the while reputation and lack of real progress ebbs away at morale (staff and student) - no-one wants to learn or teach in that sort of environment. Now, however, there is progress - a new name and blazers are on the way! Quite how this fits into the journey, or will lead to any concrete improvement in leadership or quality of education is hard to say, but we're all just so excited by it, not. I'm tempted to suggest a Latin motto for the new badge, something along the lines of Stercus non potest poliri.

A miffed-off former MIfL

The Institute for Learning (IfL) is no more. The unwanted 'professional body' for FE teachers, foisted on them by the last Labour government was finally laid to rest at the end of October 2014. In reality, most of the one-time captive membership had largely drifted away when Gove ended compulsory registration in 2010. Round about the same time, the DfE - following recommendations in the Wolf report into 14-19 vocational education - also accepted that the anomalous situation whereby FE teachers couldn't teach in schools, but school teachers could teach in FE should end. However, this was dependent on FE staff obtaining Qualified Teaching and Learning Skills Status (QTLS) - something that Post 16 teacher training qualifications didn't automatically confer. As with much Goveite thinking, details were sketchy as to how this would work out in practice and pronouncements from on high seldom reflected either conditions on the ground or the substance of subsequent regulations put out by the DfE. Yesterday, I found out how... As a post-16 FE qualified teacher I recently started working in a local secondary school sixth form on maternity leave cover. In spite of showing both my degree and PGCE paperwork to the HR people, I was bemused to learn that I was classed as an unqualified teacher: some mistake, surely, I thought - after all, I'm teaching 16-18 year-olds studying AS and A2 courses. Ah, came the reply, you haven't got QTLS status, and pending confirmation of this from something called the Education and Training Foundation (ETF) you're 'unqualified' in our eyes. A few emails later and the awful truth dawned. The IfL might have gone, but a new quango has risen in its place, literally in fact - ETF has the same address as the IfL, and is in the business of charging £485.00 for those FE qualified teachers who want to work in school on parity of pay with school teachers. But the thing that sticks in my craw - alongside the threat of being paid less if I don't undertake the supposedly 'voluntary' process - is that I'm teaching the same courses to students of the same age: the only difference is that they are sitting in a school's sixth form classroom, as opposed to one in an FE college. Gove and the IfL might have gone, but their influence lives on, unfortunately.

Immigration Enforcement Agency convoy heading west

Just scene a convoy of three Immigration Enforcement Agency driving through Hipperholme. Shame they weren't greeted by a dishonourable guard of tutting UKIPpers and Daily Mail readers: plenty of both in this neck of the woods.

Curtains for Churchill

My three-and-a-half year old self was recovering from measles on the day of Churchill's funeral and I spent the day on the settee alternately lying under a blanket and playing with the bow and arrow set my grandparents had given me as a 'get well' gift - the furniture bore the circles from direct arrow hits for weeks afterwards. The day was also special because I remember being cared for by grandma and granddad. At some point as the ceremony unfolded on TV, my granddad decided to close the living room curtains as a mark of respect. They did things like that in those days, or, more particularly, my granddad did. He'd spent his formative years 'in service' as a footman, and this had left a rather confusing legacy: he distrusted the toffs, but had an instinctive sense of place. While he got on well with my Labour-voting dad, his son-in-law never forgot that granddad was a member of that confusing breed - a working class Tory. I can't remember now how dad found out about the curtains, it might be that I mentioned it in all innocence when he got home from work, but however he got to know, the response was surprising and has gone down in family legend. Dad was mild-mannered and jovial, but he let us know he wasn't happy about the respect accorded to Churchill by his own drapery. Dad fought in North Africa and Italy during WWI, and while he recognised that Churchill had been a great war-time leader, he also knew he had made mistakes and swapped parties, apparently to gain political advantage. Churchill's ratting and re-ratting, which saw him transfer allegiance from Tory to Liberal and back to Tory was evidence, in dad's opinion, of an untrustworthy side to his character. This was further compounded for dad as - along with many other Eighth Army veterans - he felt that Churchill had reneged on a promise that they would be brought home after the victory in North Africa. Instead, they were sent to Italy - where, in Churchill's words they would have the easy job of destroying 'the soft underbelly of the Axis crocodile'. This turned out to be far from the truth and the First, Fifth and Eighth Armies spent three years, often poorly fed and ill-equipped, fighting against determined German resistance as they advanced the full length of Italy's elongated boot. After D-Day, dad and his comrades in arms also had to endure the put-down that they were 'D-Day Dodgers', who should be fighting in Normandy, instead of 'sunning' themselves in Italy. In typical squaddie fashion, the term of derision was turned into a badge of honour and became an anthem to the largely forgotten suffering they endured in the Italian campaign. We played the song at dad's funeral, and when the TV footage shows the London docks lowering their jibs in homage and the crowds lining the route to mark the 50th anniversary of Churchill's funeral, I think I'll play it again, because the man who led the nation to victory had his flaws and failings too.

Another shredder shredded

Just seen off the latest in a depressingly long line of cross-cut shredders. The Fellowes H-6C joins the others at the tip, after its power switch packed up and I couldn't find proof of purchase. Only around three-months' use out of this one. The thing with shredders is, given the sheer volume of mail - junk and otherwise - that arrives here with a name and address on it, possession is vital for identity protection, but there apparent built-in obsolescence means I'm forever having to buy another. Shredder makers and retailers are on to a good thing here; what with the tendency to lock up solid - even if you have slavishly followed the maximum sheet instruction, or - as in the latest case - an electrical fault, renders another purchase necessary on a product that is priced towards the higher end of cheap, making it rather unlikely that the receipt can be found. After all, we're talking £35 tops here, not a plasma screen TV or washing machine. Although at the rate at which I'm having to replace them, shredder expenditure will easily come close over time.

Work that librarian

I like our local library, the chief librarian is very efficient and friendly, so our intention to overwork her this year might come as a shock. We don't usually go in for new year resolutions, but this year we've opted for a bit of family-based 'joint enterprise': the first call for all books - and three out of the four of us read a lot - will be Calderdale Libraries. Forget Amazon, first port of call is the online catalogue search and £1 reservation. In July 2014, the ruling Labour group lost a vote of no confidence after making total arses of themselves over parking charges. The Tories took over and scrapped the charges, so now they are casting around for somewhere to make cuts. Library provision had been protected under Labour, but now with philistine Tories in the ascendancy, Calderdale's precious libraries are in a precarious position, which is why there needs to be much greater use of the library service for book and e-book lending, as well as research and computer use in libraries themselves. Go on, ramp up your use of the library - don't care if you inflict stamper's wrist, indexer's thumb or shusher's larynx on the staff - make them work hard and save the service. Same goes for anyone reading this who's unfortunate enough not to live in Calderdale - use your library: volunteers are good, as far as they go, but librarians are a precious resource - work them hard!

A quick slap in the dark

This flight of stone stairs leads from York's city wall to the street below at Monk Bar, one of the ancient entry points to the historic inner city, which houses the famous Shambles and Minster. After a great day in the city, the four of us walked round the walls, leaving at Monk Bar to return to street level just behind the Minster close. About halfway down the stairs, I decided on a whim to perform one of my granddad's favourite set piece jokes. Rather like Eric Morecambe's paper bag routine, this is corny and predictable, yet still funny. It was also an important part of my childhood, as I was invariably let in on the set-up. First, granddad would select a low branch, lamppost or low ceilinged stairway and slap it with the palm of his hand, simultaneously shouting 'ouch'. No matter how many times we'd seen it, there would be a response, ranging from polite titter to full-blown guffaw, with a reproaching 'Alf' from grandma. Walking down the Monk Bar stairs, I was immediately in front of my wife and two sons, my youngest son right behind me, when I reached up and slapped the low stone ceiling. Unfortunately, there was no time to go for a fullblown 'ouch' because the man in front of me turned round and asked if I was alright. 'Yes', I responded: 'did you hit your head' he replied - 'just the side' was the best I could manage. On gaining street level, I turned to see my youngest son trying unsuccessfully to stiffle a laugh, my elder son stumbled into the daylight and immediately followed suit, while my wife managed to combine a wry smile with an admonishing stare. My concerned friend crossed the road before the serious laughter started, so I don't think he saw us completely lose it as a family. As the mirth subsided, however, I like to think I heard faint grandfatherly laughter percolating through from the celestial realm to my mortal ear. It was good to reprise the trick, and I know Alf would have approved...

A new year family history lesson

While visiting a friend of a friend's FB timeline, I was dismayed to see that she 'liked' a group that declared England was full. A short scroll down, however, came a mild reproach from an older relative. This reminded her that great grandma came here as a Jewish refugee from Tsarist Russia, and how she met and married great granddad, whom she then nursed for the rest of his days because he was gassed while fighting in WWI.
There are few families, and my own certainly isn't among them, that can trace a presence here going back more than a few centuries. Indeed, the  vast majority of people have at least one grandparent who came here from somewhere else, but a depressingly high proportion of us seem to want to pull up an imagined drawbridge.
I've never been frightened by an immigrant/asylum seeker/ foreigner (insert word of choice), but racists scare the crap out of me. Hold that thought in 2015.

Happy new rug

The manager of a nearby petrol station has gone for a surprising new look. For the past dozen or so years, he would perhaps best be described, along with myself, as 'folicly challenged' or bald as a coot, if you prefer.
Today, however, he sprang a surprise. Summoned to the counter to answer a query as to the availability of the jet wash, he appeared from the newspaper aisle sporting a bouffant gentleman's hairpiece that was as startling in its luxuriance as for its man-made lustre. So much nylon, close to petrol dispensing equipment might be inadvisable on safety grounds; so much new, artificial hair, as featured in his syrup, was also a threat to good order and discipline in the queue to pay.
Once I got over the shock, and mastered the urge to stare, my initial reaction was one of midlife crisis or urge to impress a new special someone in his life. Either way, what better time than a new year to completely throw over the traces and face the future with a bold, if nylon, new look?
Happy new year.

Read all about it?

I was at the gym when Sky broke the story of the shooting by police of Antonio Martin in Berkeley, Missouri. We don't have Sky at home - I can't abide the thought of adding money to Murdoch's obscene coffers, and I'm a former print worker, so there's no love lost between us. However, at the gym - as in many other areas of life, Sky is the only news source going. I was further limited by restricting myself to subtitles (Van Morrison provided my personal music soundtrack this morning). On returning home, my 16-year-old son brought me up to speed. He followed the Micheal Brown shooting and aftermath in Ferguson and couldn't believe it was starting again. His news was brought to me in a fast moving array of YouTube and website reports. I was amazed at the information he'd been able to gather in a short space of time. When I contrasted this with Sky's pared down coverage, he replied 'that's why I don't get my news from the news channels'. He's learning fast, and so are his contemporaries. Social conscience informed by the views of the world around him.

Recruitment agencies - a suitable case for regulation, or possible extermination

I'm a qualified and experienced post-16 teacher. Wanting to increase my teaching work, I registered with some agencies - mainly because many FE colleges now only recruit part-time and hourly paid teaching staff in this way. The downside - for the teacher - here is that, while agencies class you as 'self-employed', in reality you have the worst of both worlds, being expected to pay for such essentials as DBS checks (successor to the CRB), allowing you to work with young people, you can't claim travel or other expenses that the true self-employed can, because you are treated as an employee by HMRC. This not-so-neat trick aside, I naively thought that the agency would take the leg-work out of the job search. How wrong I was. For a start, registering with one online service seems to mean that your details are passed to a number of others, who all then send you details of the same job (albeit sometimes with different pay rates - of which, more later). The other problem is that, initially at least, you are promised a fantastic service and rapid results. In my case, this is mere hot-air: my subject - Law - is not one where vacancies often occur, so I soon learned to weed out the fantasy merchants. Now, to pay. I recently entered a digital merry-go-round involving a sixth form college near Wakefield that uses an agency to fill its vacancies. Having registered with the agency and filed my CV online, I was perplexed to see the advert on the agency's website, only to be told that there was a more urgent vacancy in Barnsley. Too far to travel, I told them - especially on the £16.00 per hour fee on offer, but Wakefield would be fine. The agency bod promised to get back to me, but then fell into sullen silence. The job was re-advertised several times online, and I applied to each one. Finally, tiring of getting nowhere with the agency, I contacted the college direct. Their HR dept were, I was assured, responsible for advertising all vacancies - they're on our website, I was also told. So I tried to apply direct, only to be informed that there were no Law teaching vacancies. No-one seemed to tell the agency, however, because the email alerts for this - now mythical - job kept on coming. Finally, someone from the agency got in touch to arrange an 'informal meeting' with a curriculum manager at the college, the pay? A princely £16.00 per hour. Now, this isn't a teacher-whinge: I also work in the real world of publishing so I know pay levels haven't increased much, if at all, for the best part of 10 years. But I also realise that for every lesson in the classroom, you need to make extensive preparations and mark the resulting efforts of your students, so £16.00 for the hour on your feet actually teaching soon reduces when you factor in the preparation and marking to something approaching minimum wage levels. Question to FE students and their parents: do you, or your offspring, really want to be taught by a teacher earning close to the minimum wage? We're talking A-levels here, a two-year commitment intended to prepare students for university. Sixteen pounds an hour isn't much in the way of incentive to stay with a college for two minutes, let alone the two years of AS and A2 level study, and students value continuity and the relations they establish with their tutors. Who, also remember, are frequently called on to help out with UCAS applications - a time-consuming, though ultimately enriching experience for all concerned, but one that cries out for continuity of service. After all, you can't provide a meaningful reference if you're the fourth teacher to deliver the subject because the other three have left to take up more lucrative work involving burger-flipping or manual car washing. I finally decided against taking up the offer of the 'informal chat' when a second agency - one I hadn't previously registered with - contacted me via a site called CV Library, which seems to act as a clearing house for employment agencies, offering the same post at £18.00 per hour, which proves that agencies must be making a large profit by suppressing the wages of those hapless enough to register with the hoping for a decent wage for their labours. The growth of teacher recruitment agencies has not been matched by any meaningful protection for those who look to them for work, and there is little to prevent the more desperate 'recruitment consultants' making extravagant claims when enticing in new recruits. For me, I'll stay with my two-days' teaching and wait for an upturn in publishing. Either that, or I could join the fantasists in recruitment consultancy - there are several teaching agencies who regularly advertise their internal vacancies amongst the teaching and training jobs. Wonder how I'd manage as a gamekeeper turned poacher?

The simplicity of right wing propaganda - a lesson from Goebbels

Profoundly disturbed to receive, via Facebook, something forwarded by a friend from the I am Proud to be British Facebook 'community', which says the overseas aid budget should be used to house homeless ex-servicemen. Now, where to begin: first - there is no either/or here; the overseas aid budget is far in excess of the housing needs they purport to identify; second - it isn't meant to be an intellectual exercise, rather it's an attempt to create fear and hatred of 'them': foreigners, those that differ from me/us. And it isn't meant to assist homeless ex-service personnel one iota. Rather, it's intended to further a blinkered, far-right agenda: stigmatise the scapegoats and frighten the masses: how Goebbels would approve! I prefer Auden's approach, Epitaph on a Tyrant he wrote:

Perfection of a kind, was what he was after, And the poetry he invented was easy to understand; He knew human folly like the back of his hand, And was greatly interested in armies and fleets; When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter, And when he cried the little children died in the streets

By my reckoning, they've reached the easy invention of their themes, and are delighted to experiment with human folly in garnering as many shares, hits and likes as possible. We need to be afraid when they discover armies and fleets - and watch out for those Tories who, anxious to save their skins, suddenly find an accommodation rather easy to swallow, for they will be the first to quake at the jokes made at the expense of the lost, lonely, different or disadvantaged.

A little known cause of man-flu?

The middle-aged male cashier who served me Sainsbury's this afternoon was plainly under weather. After laughing off his symptoms with a self-deprecatory diagnosis of man-flu, he then said that it was nonetheless a real condition. His special pleading then broke down, because he put his plight down to excess oestrogen!
Cue hilarity from self and two women ahead of me in the queue.

Northern Powerhouse, poverty pay

Now that the excitement over George Osborne's discovery that the North is not the desolate region his father-in-law believes it to be is settling (and how many of the more excited commentators neglected to mention that our 'sovereign wealth fund' will be funded by fracking profits?) more attention needs to be paid to the value of the Northern skills base. An illustration of persistent, and pernicious, undervaluation is found in an advert for experienced freelance editors, placed recently by a Manchester-based agency. PSUK wants editors educated either to PhD level, or who are advanced members of the Society for Editors and Proofreaders to work on academic titles for the miserly sum of £12.00 per hour! SfEP suggested rates for this work range from £22.00 to £27.50. Needless to say, this SfEP Advanced Member won't be applying.

Fraud is good!

Received a piece of puffery from a business consultancy, telling me that fraud has to be expected in a percentage of all business transactions. This, they reckon, is a good sign, as it means we are now recognising the inevitability of fraud in business and can work with clients to address the issue (using, of course, the flummery only they could provide...) I countered this by reminding the sender that 'greed is good' has now become hackneyed, but they came back to say that ethically businesses have to allow for fraud in their planning and negotiations. At this point, I had to admit finding their enthusiasm and acceptance of fraud to be a profoundly depressing comment on the state of business and commercial life. How can something that causes misery and harm be acceptable in the shiny world of corporate piffle and froth?

Charitable giving becomes a tradeable commodity

My mother-in-law is interested in animal welfare and for several years has made donations to charities working to alleviate suffering or rehome animals. Recently, however, she has noticed a marked increase in requests for donations from a host of other charities. These take the form of letters, and can come at the rate of 5 or 6 a week. Being advanced in years, it can be distressing to be deluged with mail you haven't requested - and, again, being older - perhaps she hasn't noticed the little box you're supposed to tick if you don't want your details to be sold on to other parties, with the express purpose of being the target of an ever increasing number of pestering, begging letters. Things have now reached a point where I regularly remove - unopened - a range of letters and take them back to my house and our waiting shredder. Sorry to have to break it to you, but the Spectacled Bears of the Andes will not be benefiting from my mother-in-law's largesse, neither will his Grace the Roman Catholic Archbishop of Durban - thanks for the card, you look great in the cardinal's robes, your Grace, and the blessing on the back of the postcard was no doubt kindly meant. But I hope you don't mind my mentioning that your request for donations to be paid into an Isle of Man bank account does rather put the Catholic Church in the same frame as some rather disreputable company, just when things were starting to look up a bit for the Church (of which my mother-in-law has never been a member, by-the-by).

Parliament just got a little bit more supreme - now to keep up the pressure

The Labour MP Clive Efford secured a highly symbolic victory in a debate on his Private Members' the National Health Service (Amended Duties and Powers) Bill on Friday 21 November to roll back NHS privatisation and remove the NHS from the controversial Transatlantic Trade and Investment Partnership Treaty negotiations(TTIP. During the debate, in which Tory MPs were conspicuous by their absence, Labour Health shadow Andy Burnham pointed out that over 60 of their number have links to private health companies, many of which are US-owned; just the kind of multinational business that would benefit greatly if TTIP passes into law – doubly so, if the Coalition keep the NHS within the scope of the Treaty. Paradoxically, for a party that pays a lot of lip service to the convention of ‘parliamentary sovereignty’ or ‘supremacy’, the Tories seem very keen to give large chunks of it away to foreign-owned businesses. TTIP would allow such businesses to sue our government if it dared to pass any future laws that threatened to undo privatisations or reduced their perceived ability to make expected profits on UK-based deals. In reality, therefore, TTIP puts the British people (the ones Cameron likes to bang on about) at the mercy of the profits of foreign and multinational business (those who have such a problem paying out taxes, remember?) And Cameron is very keen on TTIP. He wants the deal signed with almost indecent haste, and said only this week that he wanted ‘rocket boosters’ putting under the negotiations, ridiculing those who argue against it for having only ‘weak arguments’ and dismissing fears that it will be used to force further NHS privatisation as ‘nonsense’. Parliamentary sovereignty has two main features: first, there is the unwritten rule (called a ‘convention’) that parliament can pass a law on any subject it fancies – because that’s the democratic will of the people (yeah, right); and second, parliament can’t ‘bind its successors’, which means any law passed by the current parliament could be repealed by one sitting in future – we don’t have any ‘entrenched’ laws – unlike the written constitutions of the US, France or the Irish Republic, for example. So by forcing through TTIP and making sure parliament passed domestic legislation to give effect to it in this country, Cameron was hoping to make NHS privatisation unstoppable, because he’d effectively given away the power of parliament to stop it in future. After all, MPs with shares in private health companies won’t be took keen to cut off the profits from their own investments, and a future parliament would be wary of incurring legal costs if a foreign company took the UK to court because it had legislate in a way that was damaging to their supreme right to make money. TTIP, like Cameron’s line of reasoning is dangerous and needs to be stopped. Clive Efford’s PMB has to become law, for all our sakes.

My boss can be a prat sometimes

This week's Private Eye (Eye 1379) contains a worrying article on page 9 (Tidings of Joy) which reveals that Daily Express employees have been commanded not to make disparaging comments about owner Richard Desmond or any of his friends in their Tweets or on Facebook.
This is worrying for several reasons. First, an employee should not be expected to cede all aspects of their right to freedom of expression when they sign their contract of employment. Second, an adverse comment about an unidentified co-worker, superior or manager made in exasperation or as a throwaway remark should not constitute a breach of the implied term of mutual trust and confidence that forms part of the contract of employment when to do so serves to allow the employer to intrude into an employee's personal and private life. In any event, to claim a right to control how an employee uses social media represents a gross abuse of bargaining power that distorts the employment relationship.
In my case, I can say that my boss can sometimes be a right pillock; but then again, I'm self-employed.

Recognition for George Osborne's EU Triumph?

On 17 December 1985, the Labour MP Brian Sedgemore was suspended from the Commons for calling the then Tory Chancellor, Nigel Lawson, a 'snivelling little git'. After his brazen attempt to spin his dodgy deal yesterday can't help but feel that Gideon is a worthy heir to Sedgemore's earthy epithet

War - and the failure of politics

This is what political failure leads to . The images are striking and have had a profound affect on public opinion. War is not an acceptable or 'normal' part of the human condition - it certainly isn't 'generational' or inevitable. I'm reading a collection of pieces written by First World War veterans that was published originally in 1930. Time and again, they use the phrase 'never again', and many were firmly convinced that they had taken part in the last war ever to be fought; there was no way they could ever imagine another conflict after the horror and loss they had witnessed - no politician could ever make that mistake again. But now, we see remembrance used in a very different way: remember the past, but also with an eye to contemporary and future events - almost as if the past is being used to validate future political shortcomings: 'we fought before and we'll fight again' has replaced 'never again'. On Sunday, I'll stand before a war memorial, as I did in years gone by with my granddad and my dad - veterans of the First and Second World wars. When I was young, I wondered why dad didn't wear his medals when the others did. He replied that they 'meant nothing' to him, and that the regimental mascot, a bulldog, had been given the same ones. For dad - who fought in North Africa, Sicily and Italy - war was neither normal or inevitable. He'd been brought up in a family where is dad and uncles had fought - and in one case died - in the war 'to end all wars' and he knew that the conflict he had had to endure was a result of the failure of politicians to secure a lasting peace, compounding the failure that led to the First World War. Now, I have to stand on my own, my granddad and beloved dad have gone, but I go to honour their memory and remember the suffering they and their comrades and former enemies had to endure. But I have a growing sense of unease when politicians now speak of war was inevitable, or of engendering military discipline in our schools, because this makes conflict seem commonplace, even acceptable, especially when fought in far away places, where its victims are not placed in the public eye - we hear about the casualties, but the ambulance trains do not bring the wounded home to the full glare of the public gaze, as in those earlier wars. The suffering has almost been sanitised and the media - especially the tabloid end - uses this language and imagery to perpetuate the old myth: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori

Hyundai - counting down the seconds

Hyundai's Auto Stop function cuts the engine when the car is waiting at traffic lights or held up it congested traffic; it restarts when you depress the clutch to engage first gear. But this environmentally sound feature comes with an unpleasant add-on. The time the engine is automatically stopped is measured - to the nearest tenth of a second - by a clock that comes to life right in the middle of the dashboard display. This is lost time you will never see again, being counted down in front of your eyes, while you wait for the road ahead to clear or the lights to change. It's very cruel of Hyundai to taunt us in this way.

Three days in Northumberland

Just back from my first visit to Northumberland in eight years. We stayed at a holiday cottage on the farm at Belford Mains. Bit of a last minute booking, but turned out to be a great choice as the cottage - which was large and comfortable for a family of four, including two teenagers, was in a good location, about 15 miles distant from Alnwick, in the south, and Berwick, to the north. Spent Tuesday under dark clouds in Bamburgh - and when these broke, giving way to a torrential downpour, we bade a hasty -and soggy - retreat to the cottage. Wednesday saw a bright and clear day, so we headed for Lindisfarne under skies of deep, clear blue.

Sailing dinghy and kayak in Lindisfarne Harbour, with Bamburgh Castle in distance. We left lunch til late on Lindisfarne, which meant that most of the cafes and eateries were bursting at the seams when we arrived. Taking a chance on the Lindisfarne Hotel, we were amply rewarded with four all-day breakfasts served by a resident double act of waiters-cum-comedians - a great pair of ambassadors for this part-time island and all round mystical land of saints and scholars. Thursday dawned dull and drizzly, so we headed for Alnwick on the way home. Rather unusually or half-term, we found Alnwick Castle already closed for the winter. The garden remains open. But the £33.00 price of a family ticket seemed rather steep to us. A friend who hales from these parts commented that this was just what you had to expect from the 'grasping Percys', as if one of the richest families on England needs to squeeze any more revenue from the great unwashed visiting its Hogwarts film set castle and gardens. Best buns in Alnwick? Trotters of Bondgate Within. Bailey's Cafe does a mean BLT as well.

A career in recruitment, never listen to anyone again

I've been looking for some extra work and thought I'd try a few of the myriad recruitment agencies that flooded my search results. They seem to follow a basic pattern: a breathless and urgent promise, followed by ever longer waits for more details - then silence, when you realise they've lost interest and gone onto someone who is easier to place (and easier for them to claim commission). Now another dimension has crept in, because they've started to email asking if I'd like to work in recruitment myself. Have to admit, after dealing with a few of these over-hyped individuals over the last few weeks, there is a superficial attraction. I mean, where else could I get paid for not paying attention to what people tell me and then trying to fit obviously square pegs into very round holes just for the sheer commission-driven hell of it?

Haunted house opposite

The house opposite is now haunted. At least that what the cheap plastic sign, hung in front of the cheap plastic shroud, says. Soon we'll be faced with face-painted tormentors demanding sweets. The American imported spook-fest is upon us once again. They've not hung a red light in the porch - looks like a knocking shop!

Food tech terror

Five texts, the tone increasing in panic, from youngest son on school bus this morning. He'd forgotten the ingredients they'd been instructed to take in to make carrot buns. The teacher is - according to him - a terror, who shouts at the slightest provocation. We immediately leapt into action: ingredients weighed and bagged in only a few minutes. Mum now making a considerable detour from her work commute to ensure peace reigns in the Food Tech kitchen area. I can identify with the sense of panic this teacher engenders because I well remember the three domestic science psychos who kept my cohort of kids in a state of terror. One was a middle-aged friend of Jesus, who used our saviour as her own personal and unseen enforcer. Appearing sickly sweet, she could reduce individual pupils or even an entire class to silence with her quasi-religious line in mind control. Of her two colleagues, one was a large, mainly silent, character who had a corner of her room decked out as a living room - complete with standard lamp and flowery lampshade with a rug and armchair: we took to recreating Monty Python's Spanish Inquisition sketch there if left alone in the room. The third member of this decidedly unholy trinity could go from apparent calm to wailing banshee in the blink of any eye; it was her I thought of as I grated carrot and bagged up the castor sugar. The memory fades but the suffering doesn't. I just hope our efforts were in time, son. I really do. No schools were named in the writing of this blog to protect both the guilty and the innocent...

Specsavers make me an offer I had to refuse

Specsavers email a 'friendly reminder' that it's my 'last chance' to complete their customer satisfaction survey. Last chance or what? They'll send someone round to scratch my new glasses?
What is it with the survey meister's need for endless approval of the most mundane of actions? Celebrate our mediocrity, we're just doing our job, but we need your approval to massage our bored egos. Sadly this was an offer I could refuse: Speccy speccy Specsavers, you're opticians - not the Mafia. The kid with the specs doesn't get to make the threats. I know, I've been wearing bins since I was 8. Get over yourselves, and wise up on the marketing. The current model suits you as well as a pair of Dame Edna's glasses.

Yvette on the earhole

A couple of days ago I completed a survey emailed to me by the Labour Party. Have to say, as I read it, I wondered why they - and I - had bothered. The questions were designed to elicit anodyne responses and didn't ask for detailed views about anything. What it did ask, twice, however, was for donations. I declined, and when I hit send, I received a auto generated response from Ed, thanking me for taking part. Of course, now they have my email, so I thought there would be more. And today, there was. This time, Yvette Cooper, supposedly, emailed to say she wanted a fiver to get more women into Parliament. I responded with a quick click on the unsubscribe button. You see, I was a party member - but left when the last leader but two took us into an illegal war on the say so of his best mate George, who treated him - and us - like his poodle (remember 'Yo, Blair'?). If the people's party really wants to engage with its supporters - by which I mean those millions who traditionally vote for it, how about really listening to their concerns, instead of asking questions dreamed up by a bunch of 20-something, probably privately-educated, policy wonks closeted away somewhere in the Westminster village. That, Ed and Yvette, is how to win an election - rather than this self-referencing froth, that really only serves to show how remote you've become from the electorate. Giving the Tories a damn good kicking over the NHS and renationalising the railways would be couple of decent moves in the right direction - as would making sure the national minimum wage was a living wage (get rid of Trident and you'd be able to afford it).

Pants to your girlfriend

With two male teenagers in the house, we've developed the practice of throwing clean pants and socks onto their beds and letting them out them away.
Yesterday afternoon, eldest son brought new girlfriend home, but didn't tell me. So I, clean shreddies etc in hand, kicked open his bedroom door and launched them at his bed. At which point I noticed son and girlfriend talking (yes, just talking). Managed fulsome apologies before the undertrawlies hit their target, then withdrew to barely suppressed laughter.
Joys of parenthood...

Cadets

Time plays tricks on memory – especially when you look back 40-odd years. In my mind, I’m sitting on a coach outside York railway station. It’s a sunny Sunday afternoon in Spring 1977 and the light streaming through the windows is adding to an air of dreamy contentment, the kind that settles after sharing joint endeavour and the talk is of what our group of teenagers have been doing since Friday evening. I’m with a group of Sea Cadets (SCC) from units throughout North, South and West Yorkshire. We’re on our way back from an adventure training weekend on the North Yorkshire Moors. We’d gone up on the Friday and camped behind the Horseshoe pub in Levisham. The Saturday was taken up with an extended orienteering-style event, walking a set route around the Levisham, Hole of Horcum area, with checkpoints and set tasks to complete. Come Sunday morning, we’d packed the tents away after breakfast and then had the presentations. My team came last – we’d messed up the map reading and missed out a checkpoint. A group of teenaged boys – even those with a modicum of Naval discipline – aren’t the most organised cross-section of humanity you will ever encounter, and a general air of ‘sod it’ had meant that we’d taken a joint decision to keep walking the previous day, rather than try to find the checkpoint and complete the task they were waiting to give us. But failure was forgotten as we basked in the sun while the Sheffield team got their gear off the coach and headed into the station for the train back home. There was music playing over the coach sound system and my memory serves the song up as Peter Gabriel’s Solsbury Hill, his supposed anthem to the leaving of Genesis. But as a general ode to leave taking it will do to mark a time of impending change for many of us on that coach, myself included. This was May 1977, and I would leave school later that month, returning only for CSE exams (the Certificate of Secondary Education was a relatively short-lived qualification that allowed you to boost your exam marks with course work: a grade 1 equalled an O level, but not many employers seemed to know this, with the result that many who took it unwittingly condemned themselves to a second class qualification. Nowadays, CSEs don’t even feature in those drop down box qualification lists you get on job application websites). Others were to face greater changes. Initially, I’d wanted to join the Navy, but poor eyesight prevented me from being offered either of my two preferred jobs: control electrician or tactical radio operator, and rather than go with the only alternative on offer – steward – I opted instead for a printing apprenticeship, following a short period working for one of the sea cadet officers who had an electrical contracting business. For several others on that coach, along with friends at my sea cadet unit who didn’t take part in that weekend, careers in the Royal Navy and Royal Marines did indeed beckon. As cadets, we weren’t trained for war, although we did march with some very decrepit ‘drill purpose only’ Lee Enfields and have the chance to shoot .22 rifles at a local TA Centre on a Tuesday evening. Of those who joined up, however, war would come to several of them just six years later: one of my former cadet training ‘shipmates’ would be shipwrecked when HMS Coventry was sunk by the Argentine Air Force on May 25 that year – Argentina’s national day. Another was wounded when HMS Glamorgan was hit by a land-fired Exocet missile two days before the end of the conflict, while a third took part in the fighting on land as a Marine Commando. The cadets, for me, represented an extension of things I’d grown up with. My dad had fought in WWII and he, along with his friends, had a strange ambivalence to the conflict; there was a recognition of the suffering and loss, but also something approaching a yearning for the closeness and comradeship they’d known as conscripts, forced to face the horror and uncertainty of war. As an only child, prone to bullying at school, and lacking any interest in sport, the camaraderie of dad’s generation was something I found echoes of with the cadets. Membership also brought a sense of belonging and shared identity: a sense of purpose and friends away from the rather lacklustre council estate on which I’d grown up. For his part, my dad seemed to take a vicarious pleasure in the uniform pressing and ‘spit and polish’ that went with a parade. Chief amongst these was Remembrance Sunday, when I would be treated to illicit under-age beer after standing in the cold and observing the silence. There was, then, also a class-based air to being a cadet – by far the majority lived on council estates and attended state comprehensives. 11-plus successes were rare – it was abolished by the education committee in my home town for children of my age and younger, and the older cadets who had places at grammar schools seemed strangely reticent about admitting it. Likewise, our officers and instructors were, mainly, from the same background: drivers, police officers, fire service, and the then GPO were the more usual occupations followed by our leaders. I can only remember two who were teachers – and one of those was in charge of the district and lectured at a further education college in Harrogate, well beyond our common field of experience or endeavour. Being part of the cadets, however, was a thing that set us apart from our school contemporaries. There was the outward appearance of shorter hair for one thing, and the having something else to do two evenings a week and several weekends during the year. On one joyous occasion, I was even granted a week off school in late 1976 to attend a week’s course at RAF Lossiemouth in northern Scotland. I was chosen to go as an instructor and placed in charge of a room that housed around a dozen younger cadets. School mates were envious, and I remember leaving school on the Friday with a new found sense of purpose as I headed for home before being dropped off at my unit to board a coach for the long drive north. There was, as it turned out, little enjoyment to the journey. Around Pitlochry, sometime in the early hours, several of the younger ones developed communal travel sickness, and a Mexican-like wave of hurling went round the coach. One poor kid was held up as the champion puker because his friend swore blind that he’d seen him forcibly eject vomit from his mouth and nose simultaneously. The days were happy enough to warrant remembrance and reminiscing: there is a thriving community of SCC veterans on Facebook, people for whom, I suspect, schooldays were not the happiest times as they grew up – their fondest memories stem from parade nights and illicit snogs with members of the GNTC, walking to the bus stop or over cups of frothy coffee in late night cafes. Lessons in life dressed up in blue serge or baggy No.8s. So it is that I see the government’s interest in forming cadet units in schools with rather a jaundiced eye. We have had many years of conflict – near and far away – since I was a cadet; now there is a very real prospect that those who do join up will face participation in the ‘generational conflict’ with Islamic extremism threatened by British involvement in Iraq or Afghanistan. Added to which is the form of cadet service envisaged by our private school-educated leaders. For this isn’t the working class style of the SCC, but rather the private school Combined Cadet Force (CCF), with its Navy, Army and Air Force branches and school-teacher/cum officer corps. The government wants 100 school-based CCF units by September 2015 – a figure that the MoD is now baulking at on cost grounds. They, after all, provide the uniform and kit, even though the government is dipping into the fines it imposed for the LIBOR bank rate setting scandal to fund its militarisation of education. And again, here, there is a departure from the very voluntary model I knew. Placing the military in schools has been a pet theme of politicians for a while now, not just cadet units, but fast-track teaching training of former military personnel, stand as testament to a desire to instil discipline – or more sinisterly – to ensure a steady stream of recruits at a time when unemployment amongst the under 25s is stubbornly refusing to shrink to manageable proportions. Another, perhaps more fanciful explanation, could lie in the advanced aged of Conservative voters. An injection of younger people, who have learned to ‘know their place’ on the playground-turned-parade ground of the CCF could be just the thing the Tories need to fill the gap as their older voters – like old soldiers – fade away.

Hack Attack by Nick Davies

The full account of News International's hacking and other illegal information gathering activities. Written by Nick Davies, freelance journalist and long time Guardian contributor, Hack Attack also charts the lengths to which Murdoch - both Rupert and James - demanded 'no-holds-barred' journalism (as exemplified by the widely used injunction 'whatever it takes to get the story'), and the corrosive effect of their use of power, threat and patronage to befriend and threaten elected politicians, as decreed by Rupert and his senior lieutenants, such as Kelvin McKenzie and Trevor Kavanagh. Davies is honest about the shortcomings and failures that beset his investigation; he also raises the terrifying spectre of a resurgent tabloid media that was all too eager to trash Leveson and hide behind freedom of speech to resume its prurient spying on those who threaten its lack of ethics or basic morality or allow it to sell papers and news subscriptions with 'stories' that exploit the weak or chew over the foibles of public figures or transient celebrities..

Digitising my past

A scanner, laptop and a pile of old photos. Just been 'admitted' to a Facebook page set up for members of an organisation I joined in my youth. Now on verge of tears - so many memories flooding back. Must pull myself together - they're only pixels after all. And I'm not that old, in spite of what teenaged sons might say...

One in the eye for me

I had an eye test the other day. In addition to myopia (been wearing specs since I was 8), I also have to be tested for glaucoma because my mum had it. This involves sitting at a machine that puffs a shot of air onto your eyeball to check the pressure ( the correct ophthalmic name is tonometry). Now, I'd always thought that the person sitting on the opposite side of the puffing machine administered the puff by pressing a switch or button. Indeed, I have to admit to rather envying them their role: being able to add an extra one 'for luck' if faced with a particularly stroppy or annoying patient would be a great perk of anyone's job. Not so. The pleasant woman who ran the test for me, and apologised after each puff, told me the entire process is automated; the puff is triggered when the eye is fully opened. So why was she sitting there? Do they record reactions and play the best ones back at break time?. Didn't ask. After she'd blown the gaffe about the automation, the process lost some of its magic for me. The strange thing is, no matter how many times a person has the tonometry test, she said they always jump. Unpleasant the sudden shock of forced air to the eyeball may be, if it diagnoses glaucoma, keep on puffing, I say.

Beware of Geordies selling private health insurance

And today, another call from AXA PPP 'on behalf of MYCCI'. So I ball them out and send an angry anti-cold calling, anti- selling my details on without consent email to MCCI. Now for the ICO website. Anecdotal evidence suggests that, amongst the call centre fraternity, a Geordie accent is regarded as the most trustworthy. Well, I've just been called by a Kevin Whately soundalike who wanted to tell me all about the benefits of AXA private health insurance. Before I bade him Auf Wiedersehen, he managed to tell me that my details had been passed to him by the Mid-Yorkshire Chamber of Commerce. All rather strange, because, apart from attending a seminar they organised a few months ago, I've no connection with MYCCI, as it styles itself, and certainly no recollection of giving my consent to receive exciting marketing waffle from their, no doubt, 'carefully selected' partners. Do hope MYCC aren't acting in breach of data protection legislation, as my natural antipathy to private healthcare could trigger a reference to the Information Commissioner if I receive any more 'exciting' cold-calls attributable to them.