The Royal Mail - a guide for teenagers: is there an FAQ for that?

For me, one of the most depressing phrases I have to deal with is: "we are currently experiencing higher than normal call volumes...". And when it trickled into my ear barely 15 minutes after the advertised start of business at the mobile phone insurance company's call centre - on a Monday morning - I saw more than a hint of red. On visiting the website - where all claims can be managed (apparently) and taking a glance through the FAQ, only to find that my AQ hadn't made it into the Frequent category, I then found the only way to interact with a human - aside from making an open-ended time commitment to Vivaldi - was to write a letter. The problem was (and still is) my son's phone. It was returned to us last on Thursday of last week after having a new screen fitted owing to a distressing pocket fall, pavement impact scenario - made no less distressing by the fact that it took place out the front door, as he tried to retrieve his key from the same pocket as his phone. By Friday, the repaired/replacement phone (can't tell which) had ceased to play sounds via the earphone jack (thereby rendering the device utterly useless to anyone under the age of 30). On Saturday evening, the screen froze - meaning that all control was thereby eliminated and the phone then went on to emit a series of alarm signals. As the battery was by this time at 75% capacity, my son decided the only way to deal with the issue was to lock the phone away in the garage, where it could emit whatever the bloody hell it liked until its sodding battery ran down. Now, while I appreciate that a FAQ specific to this precise train of events could be somewhat difficult to put into words, I do think the company was being overly optimistic by not providing generic instructions as to what a policyholder should do in the event that they need to return a repaired/replaced handset if the repair/replacement itself doesn't come up to snuff. My letter pointing out a) the problem and b) the shortfall in FAQ information was duly typed, printed out, signed and enveloped before being handed to my son, who was on his way out to College. He looked quizzically at the stamped addressed envelope and asked what he should do with it (he's a bright guy, but it was Monday morning and he is sitting an exam today, so might be forgiven for not being up to speed with older forms of written communication). I answered by pointing out that red pillar boxes can be found on most streets and that there is an added sense of excitement in that they come in both free-standing or wall mounted forms. The week, I fear, has not started well...

'Hiring for free' - oxymoron or HR inspired nightmare?

Judging by the BBC report, Sainsbury's in Camden look to have got the kicking they so richly deserved by advertising for a local artist to decorate the store's staff canteen for free. But when did expecting things to be done for nothing become an accepted part of the employer-employee relationship or commercial life in general? Is this something that has crept in from the egregious practice of unpaid work experience/internships? Or has the employer-employee relationship now become so slewed in favour of the former that the latter is expected to receive no consideration in return for expending their skill and labour? Either way, the practice is contrary to the rules governing formation of a contract - where there is a presumption in favour of creating legal relations where a person (be they employee or contractor) is taken to have entered into a binding contract if the circumstances are those where payment is usual. In this case, an artist would expect payment for carrying out a commission (or a painter and decorator would expect to be paid if they painted the walls or hung some wallpaper). I suppose you could try to see if the opposite applied: see how Sainsbury's would react if several hundred Camden folk entered the store, loaded their trolleys and then left without paying?

Leeds - the Northern Powerhouse?

After the rejection of its planned (and long needed) supertram system, Leeds went all out on a trolleybus replacement. However, this has just been rejected by Tory Transport Secretary, Patrick McLouglin. As city councillors and rapid transit supporters go back to the drawing board, the 'northern powerhouse' seems to have relegated Leeds to the status of cramped garden shed. Another fine mess, and more years of choking in traffic. I can remember when Leeds styled itself 'Motorway city of the seventies' - it's now 'Gridlocked city going nowhere'.

High horse or high heels - HR disaster for Portico

This all seems so obvious. It's sexist to demand that female temporary workers/colleagues/staff (delete as appropriate) wear shoes with a heel of between 2-4 inches when male temporary workers/colleagues/staff don't. It's also - arguably - discriminatory on disability grounds, so why did the outsourcer Portico stick to its guns - even to the point of sending Nicola Thorp home without pay when she refused? Presumably we're now going to see hordes of HR types hastily checking employment handbooks and policies - shame it took a temp to teach them what should, after all, have been the bleeding obvious. Oh, and if the temporary worker/colleagues/staff member showing you to your important business meeting or corporate function appears a bit tottery or unsteady on their pins, you might just want to ask HR/temp agency (delete as appropriate) a few questions.

Brenda, in her own words

Royal protocol apparently dictates that the Queen's conversations should not be revealed, so if Brenda said nasty things about the Chinese at her garden party that were picked up by the only camera crew there (on the Palace's instructions, presumably) then either she or one of her flunkies must have authorised the leak. Similarly, Cameron's unintentionally ironic corruption comment must also have been known to her Maj - it was recorded in Buckingham Palace after all. Aside therefore, from Nicholas Witchell and a few other professional toadying sycophants, neither 'indiscretions' (if that's what they were) merit anywhere near the media coverage they're getting. This has all the feel of a late Summer silly season, rather than serious political cock-up.

Up to London to (not) see the Queen

Journey back from London saw me fall prey to guilty pleasure of listening in to the conversation of four people seated at the opposite table. Dressed in their finery, the two couples had been invitees to a Buck House garden party. Of the four, however, it soon transpired that only on had managed a glimpse of the Queen. All in all, it sounded quite a rigmarole to go through to stand around in the rain to munch on cucumber sarnies.

Time wasty McTime faces

The House of Commons Science and Technology Committee is going to review the process by which the public voted overwhelmingly to name the new Arctic and Antarctic exploration vessel Boaty McBoatface, even though the aptly named Nerc (the Natural Environment Research Council to use its Sunday name) - shades of Fletcher's great Porridge putdown - has decided to depart from democratic precedent. Do they really want to waste time and money trying to justify what is, after all, merely the great British sense of humour having a communal laugh at their expense?

Senior moment at the Chippy

How many carrier bags does it take to hold fish and chips three times, a sausage, three lots of curry sauce and a portion of mushy peas? I plainly thought just the one, because as it was handed over, I turned on my heel and left Blakeley's fish and chip emporium in Ship St, Brighouse.
On my arrival back at home, however, it was pointed out to me - somewhat harshly I feel - that my solitary carrier only contained three portions of chips and one fish. A hasty phone call to the shop revealed two further bags were still there. At this point the owner offered to bring them round for us, and I was able to thank him in person, albeit rather embarrassed for my momentary lapse into a senior/craft moment.

My ideal Sky TV bundle, apparently

Junk mail from Murdoch's minions urging me to 'discover' my 'perfect Sky TV Bundle'. I very much doubt it. In my case, it would be an endless loop of Rupe being bundled into a van (shades of the Night Manager finale), intercut with Kelvin being doorstepped by Channel 4.

Peaked too soon?

Not yet 10 and I've already had Twitter exchange with Ian McMillan on the dangers of food debris from onboard train catering.
Fear the rest of the week's going to be something of an anti-climax...

Nidderdale rambling

Good walk today with Leeds Ramblers from Hampsthwaite to Birstwith in Nidderdale. A 5.5 mile circular walk in great company with fields full of lambs and dozens of wild rabbits on the homeward leg beside the River Nidd. They seem to like their Cricket in Birstwith, judging from the two matches taking place simultaneously in adjacent fields, the match in the field closest to the village centre had a bit of an after-thought feel to it, being played, as it was, on a strip of recently mowed grass to the right of a marked out rugby pitch,the fielders keeping an eye out for the H posts as they went about their task. On our return to the start on Hampsthwaite's village green, the group rounded off an enjoyable afternoon with tea/coffee and cake at Sophie's Coffee Shop and Delicatessen cum Bed and Breakfast further along Hampsthwaite's main street.

. The scones were of an enviable height, and so substantial in heft and mass that a few dozen would provide an effective road block, should the revolution ever come to Nidderdale. The only discordant note of the afternoon was provided by the waiter when he queried my pronunciation of scone (forget the 'e', it rhymes with Ron - as enunciated beautifully by Michael Palin in his brilliant rendition of the Lumberjack Song,listen and learn my be-pinnyed friend, listen and learn...

Rhubarb lurking amongst the apples - if you can't trust pies, what hope is there?

Arrived back from Tesco to find that my impulse buy - an apple pie for a quid is actually rhubarb. And I hate rhubarb... As a child, my rhubarb-loving parents often tried to pass rhubarb off as plum. I soon learned that plums aren't cube-shaped and don't change the inside of a pan when you 'stew' them. Rhubarb is cubed and 'stewed' - left to simmer in boiled water with a large amount of sugar, in an attempt to make the vegetable (oh, yes it is) vaguely edible. Not even the 'clearing out' properties of rhubarb (as my Dad was keen to proclaim - roughage was important in our house) made it a substance even remotely suitable for human consumption If this damnable imposter of a pie is going to be rendered even remotely edible it's going to need custard in a quantity sufficient to float a battleship.

The Pirate of Olympia

Last Tuesday, I attended the first day of the London Book Fair, keen to explore the myriad intricacies of e-book production and online archiving, with, perhaps, a sidelong glance or two at marketing and more traditional forms of book selling. Imagine my surprise, then, on entering an exhibition hall to be met by a man in pirate costume, waving a toy sword and generally making free with such stock phrases as 'shiver my timbers' 'pieces of eight' and asking if I wanted my photograph taken with him! Short of slamming my bodily extremities in a chest of drawer or signing the national anthem in public, I couldn't think of anything I'd like or need to do less, although I didn't couch my refusal in such absolute terms. I did, however, check the identity of the stall he was associated with, and was surprised to see that it was one that only seemed to sell books by one particular author: L Ron Hubbard. Now, Scientology's choice of a pirate theme seems rather strange - given their recent run-ins with others who adopt that style and title. Then again, the decision to book a stall at the LBF by the Scientologists also struck me as rather unusual, given the general air of liberal enquiry and hard nosed, hard sell commercialism that seemed to pervade the rest of the attenders and exhibitors.

Four Yorkshiremen versus Six Londoners

My Norman no-mates table-for-one dinner in a Bloomsbury curry house was unwittingly enlivened by the table chat of an early evening work outing. Six Londoners, all male, held forth on their favourite strip and lap dancing joints. Enlivened by a few Cobras, a couple of them then went on to describe the services they'd enjoyed from their favourite sex workers before the k member of the group broke into the hackneyed refrain about satellite TV owning benefit claimants. The conversation then took an unexpected turn as they then did a High Fidelity-esque list compilation of their favourite violent and supernatural films.
All in all, I prefer the Python parody. The London boys were a loud, grotesque throwback to Viz's Cockney Wanker character.

Sights and sounds of London

Just did an impromptu King's Cross tour guide routine for 2 Californians on a viewing platform overlooking the plaza and Regents Canal. One thanked me for using miles as a distance measurement. Had to explain that we always use them. Feel a bit ashamed for pointing out the spot where Churchill fell in as he was chased by King George for farting at teatime but you can't be nice to them all the time, can you?

DIY blind fitting sends blood pressure soaring

Came home from pleasant week in Cornwall to a re-hanging blind situation. I'd set off knowing the fitting connecting blind to ceiling had come off, causing the blind to fall and hit spouse on the way down but gave the issue little thought until I ventured into the back bedroom soon after we arrived home, to find the blind laying on the bed. So today, out came the drill and rawlplugs. To get a good 'fixing' I tried to drill up into the top of the window reveal, only to find that, even using a masonry drill bit with the drill on 'hammer' setting, I was getting nowhere. Then I spotted a second hole at a right angle to the first, that allowed for a wall fixing alternative.
Things went swimmingly for a while. New hole drilled, fitting screwed to the wall. All that remained was to re-hang the blind. And that's when disaster struck. Attempting to lever the blind into position between the two retaining clips, I managed to snap the flimsy plastic connector on the left hand side (see photo), sending the blind back down onto the bed, to the accompaniment of several choice Anglo Saxon epithets from my self as balanced on the bed in the recently acquired knowledge that the re-fitting is going to cost more time and money.
I need a holiday.

Cycling the tramway

Spent a pleasant couple of hours cycling around Portreath on north Cornwall coast. This is, or rather was, mining country and the area is littered with former mine workings and engine houses pepper the landscape. Many of the mines were linked by a tramway that took the ore from the inhospitable - and frequently storm-tossed north coast - to the more sheltered and deep waters of the Carrick Roads at Devoran, between Falmouth and Truro. Bike rental from Elm Farm at Nancekuke came to £30 for three adults. The Farm also has a cafe, licensed bar and a camp site. Good times in Cornwall.

Interviewed and dumped

Had a interview for work at a university with a big white tower in Leeds last Thursday. Four member panel questioned me for an hour for a job I was more then amply qualified for. Got the rejection this morning. Apparently I can 'phone next week for feedback. Hope no-one waits in for the call.

A word about our Patron...

Time was, being asked to be a patron of a charity was nice gesture to a local big-wig. Or maybe an automatic response if you were a large charity and the sovereign deigned to grace your letterhead. However, some Tory MPs - particularly those who decided to toe the party line and support the £30 weekly reduction in Employment Support Allowance - are now finding their charitable patronage of disabled groups facing serious and sustained opposition. None more so, it seems, that Stephen Crabb MP, the replacement for the suddenly principled IBS at the Department for Work and Pensions. Crabb is Patron of the Pembrokeshire branch of Mencap, even though he supported the ESA cut and has some rather strange views on 'curing' homosexuality. Suddenly being a figurehead is nowhere near as much of a safe sinecure that it used to be.

George would really like to do a Trump

Here's a scary thought. After his failure to hide his lack of economic success behind a slogan-strewn Budget, Osborne seems to have set his sights on becoming Cameron's annointed successor. Forget financial probity and economic management skills (he plainly has), Budget 2016 was an attempt to push all the right buttons with those Tories who aren't yet unhinged enough to go with Boris, or those who aren't attracted to Mrs May's stern treatment. But - and this is the scary part - while Donald can (and hopefully will) be stopped by enough Americans voting for anyone but him in a full election, here Cameron's successor will only be chosen by the Tories themselves. British parties that change PMs mid-Parliament don't generally accede to the inevitable calls to let the country have a say - remember Brown/Blair? With the Tories, the end of the old and launch of the new tends to be even more brutal, as Thatcher's famously tear-stained last 'we' on leaving Downing Street showed. The question remains, will George be a blow in - and will we have any say in the matter whatsoever?

Cameron's cannon fodder aims to get 'em young

Cadets in schools. First mooted during Gove's tenure at DfE and now the focus of a wodge of cash to enable state schools and academies to get their pupils into uniform and learn some discipline. Just think, the young learning how to wear a decent suit (khaki, navy or air-force blue), do up their ties and sing the national anthem - oh, and how to shoot straight should they come across some goddam liberal pinko surrender-monkeys. I can think of a many more worthwhile places where that cash could go, and none of them involve indoctrinating the young.

Academies can be as bad as LEAs - would've thought it?

Wilshaw's criticisms of multi-academy groups - and the pay awarded to senior management - highlight the danger of weakening public control over education. The government obsession in breaking local government control over schools is shown to be based on ideological, as opposed to educational grounds. The current crop of academy leaders, while doubtless keen to justify their salaries, are drawn from the ranks of teachers who have proved adept at climbing the greasy pole of school management and, as such, highly adept at 'talking the talk'; which in educational terms is another language to that of the everyday life of the classroom. Good teachers have to learn to swim in this pool of 'talent', the alternative being to remain in the classroom - promotion is predicated on management. And this is where Wilshaw is now aiming his axe. However, this is the very pool that Wilshaw - a former academy head, came from. Taking aim at his former colleagues and irritating the Tories, will probably only hasten his replacement by an American import.

Keeping pace with the Pacers - for 36 long years...

The best part of 36 years ago, the British Rail (remember that?) took delivery of some new trains for use in the north of England, they were called Pacers. Apparently, British Leyland had some bus bodies left over, so some bright spark decided to turn them into trains. From the start, they were a disaster - early crews nicknamed them Torville and Deans, because the brakes were so bad, and the bodies so light and badly-balanced, that some trains used to slide past platforms if the brakes were applied too hard, or the track was wet (it rains a lot up here...). Well, we've been stuck with the damned things ever since. Except, now that Gideon had decided we live in his virtual-reality Northern Powerhouse, and rail franchises are up for renewal, even the blighted old north can expect some relief from the Pacer. So the BBC has, very-belatedly, discovered the joy of Pacer travel. Thirty-seven years too late.

The end of love on Valentine's Day

They were packing away the red hearts and gaudy tackiness in Tesco at 3.00 this afternoon. No time for a quickie in the novelty aisle. Must be getting ready for the headlong rush towards Easter. Shame that love - even plastic-wrapped and commercialised - has to be over so soon. Still, plastic-wrapped erotica is probably still available in other forms and outlets at all hours of the day and night, if you're desperate and know where to look...

A salute from the past

Taken in August 1942, the photograph shows my Dad (left, front row, with the gravity-defying forage cap) and his fellow Sappers just after passing out at Weston-on-Trent Camp near Derby. I've seen this photo many times, but last week I noticed something that I'd previously missed. Nearly all the men have followed the instruction to give a thumbs up - in Dad's case he's gone for both thumbs. Compare this image of joyful soldiery to the man at the opposite end of the front row, who's giving a full-on, reverse-Churchill, two-fingered Roman salute (and seems to be wearing slippers without socks!) The 'Roman' connection is striking, because many of this group ended up in Italy - Dad included - and landed either at Reggio or Salerno. Don't know the guy's name or anything about his subsequent military career but for a full-on reposte to the staged mateyness of the photo his 'two fingers to the lot of you' takes some beating.

Managing failure in the classroom - the ghost of the 50s and 60 returns...

Michael Rosen's open letter to Nicky Morgan about the dangers of the return of creeping selection are a timely reminder of the waste engendered by the grammar school system. Talk about helping the brightest tends to be a diversionary tactic. Selection now, with its emphasis on critical reasoning test results, means that children from poorer backgrounds won't even get to sit the 11-plus in the first place because parents can't afford the tutoring fees. I live in an area with two selected grammars - and a well established system of private tutoring that takes kids as young as 7! I also grew up in Leeds as the 11-plus was ending. Mine was the first year that didn't have so to sit the exam, so my parents never got to find out if - in the not-so-infallible view of my primary school teachers, I was/wasn't 'university material', aged only 11. Primary teaching in those days - as Rosen so well illustrates - was about managing failure for around two thirds of pupils. Now, in selective grammar areas, its about letting parents battle it out to get their children the supposedly best tutors so they can pass the 11-plus. A grammar school place has little to do with helping the clever working class, more ensuring the sharp elbows of the middle class get what many of them view as their just reward.

Same-sex marriage: ignoring the view from the pew

The YouGov poll showing that more Anglicans now support same-sex marriage in the Church of England than oppose it, will - unfortunately - have little if any effect in changing the rules any time soon. This is due to the fact that the CofE is anything but democratic when it comes to listening to, much less acting on, the views of its ordinary members. The Church long ago adopted a system of 'synodical government' that locks the broad mass of the laity out of any real decision-making. While each parish elects members to a parochial church council, election to the next level - the deanery synod - is down to the PCC members (in reality, the vicar's choice or buggin's turn). Depending on size of parish, this could mean 2-4 PCC nominees take a seat in the deanery synod. From there, the deanery synod elects members to sit in the diocesan synod. And it is this group that then gets to elect members of General Synod - the actual decision making body of the CofE. Now, one problem with General Synod lies with its structure. Here there are three 'houses' - one for the laity, one for the clergy and one for the bishops. And all have to agree before a rule change can be made. Even then, the matter isn't sealed, because - being the established church - the CofE's canon law is made for it by Parliament - the law is made in the same way as an Act of Parliament, only its called a Measure, to show that it only concerns the Church. A second problem with the General Synod is the narrow mind-set of its house of laity members. While Anglicans at parish level are broadly representative of wider society, General Synod members most certainly aren't. The synod meets for two weeks per year, usually once in Canterbury and once in York and has a far reaching committee structure. In effect, this means that lay members have to make a large time commitment, meaning that only the retired or those of 'independent means' need apply. The more reactionary do tend to float to the surface here, too (remember, it was a narrow vote in the house of laity that scuppered the first attempt to change to law to allow the consecration of women bishops in November 2012). Synod members at all levels also tend to accept the prevailing mood of the houses of clergy and the bishops, which can also restrict free thought and progressive decision-making. A personal example - and one of the reasons I left the Church after nearly 50 years - came in a conversation with a Canon (a senior priest in the then Diocese of Wakefield). Personally affected by what I saw as a high-handed and unaccountable decision reached by an Archbishop, I questioned the outcome with the Canon, who rather fatuously said: 'everything a bishop does is for our benefit'; I suspect to shut down the debate and silence dissent (and certainly not a line of argument Peter Ball's victims would ever agree with). Having an apparently greater understanding of Church history than the Canon, I disagreed - but challenging nonsense like this is hard for the more authoritarian-minded, who tend to sit on PCCs and synods. The CofE won't be allowing its clergy to marry same sex couples for quite some time. In the meantime, its also been granted a statutory power to discriminate by Parliament, which has legislated to deny the possibility of same sex marriages taking place in Anglican churches, even though other denominations already offer same-sex marriage or are far more likely than the dear old CofE to accept change in the not too distant future.

Trident and IS, a new strategy

Overheard a man walking past a peace vigil in Huddersfield the other day. He looked at the banners and anti-Trident slogans and then said out loud 'you'd let ISIS just kill us all'. Paying billions for US missiles won't make a blind bit of difference to IS, not that the pavement field marshall seemed able to grasp the finer points.

Politeness in confined spaces

I traveled from Manchester to Huddersfield on the rather grandly named, but oddly spaced and capitalised TransPennine Express. The name is not borne out by the mundane layout of the carriages, which - although intended to convey passengers from Liverpool and Manchester to Scarborough and Middlesbrough - are cramped, with narrow aisles that frequently host standing passengers. In my case, I was carrying a rucksack and a small wheeled suitcase and a ticket with a reservation. The seat allocated for my exclusive use between Manchester Piccadilli and Huddersfield was stated on the ticket as being seat 1 in coach B. There were two problems, however, first I couldn't find seat number one, no matter how many people I squeezed past, with 'excuse me' falling frequently from my lips. The second problem was that seat number two, which I could find, was occupied by a woman who had only just realised that the seat was reserved - and that she wasn't supposed to be occupying it. Having found the seat, and seeing when she moved that number one was the aisle seat (she'd obviously bagged the window seat, as you do) I then had to find room to allow her to pass down the carriage, while the rightful holder of the seat number two reservation, who had just made her presence felt, took up her rightful occupation. The train was now moving, so we had to balance, push and excuse as the usurper removed herself and the holders of tickets with reservations for seats one and two heaved their luggage into the space where our legs should have been. This took up an interesting first five minutes of the journey, before myself and my window-seated companion unpacked a surprisingly wide selection of snacks and what looked suspiciously like student work, that she proceeded to mark. Between mouthfuls of crisp and sandwich she also bemoaned the lack of civility of those who take up seats they aren't entitled to. That's the great thing about the English: we are polite to each others' faces, no matter how uncomfortable the immediate circumstances, but once the annoying impediment is removed, we love to complain like hell about the cause of it. Huddersfield couldn't come soon enough. Massaging feeling back into my legs, I left the station and took the expensive option of a taxi home. The cheaper bus would have entailed a 30 minute wait - but more to the point, one public transport-located game of balance, push and excuse was more than enough for one day. Calder Valley Flood Appeal - please donate now.

Ziggy Stardust and the Confused of Leeds

One afternoon after school as we wandered around Woolworth's record department, my mate Carl tried to explain to me how David Bowie had 'killed' Ziggy Stardust, but that it was OK because they were the same person. And that Ziggy Stardust wasn't real anyway. He then took me way out of my depth by saying that Ziggy was from Mars and bisexual. How could he be from Mars if he wasn't real? I asked, not unreasonably in my opinion; think I used my follow up question to ask what a bisexual was. Carl got annoyed at this point and I think either stormed off or hit me, possibly both. I wasn't a fan, you see (we didn't even have a record player at home) and some kids even had Aladdin Sane by then. He probably didn't know what a bisexual was either. After all, he had also said he knew what condoms were for, but this turned out not to be for contraceptive purposes, rather to prevent you from catching a scary sounding (but entirely made up) disease called Red Knob. Memories of that conversation still make me want to crack up with laughter, which isn't appropriate today of all days because, over the intervening years, I've learned that David Bowie was a great talent in music and art and that he'll be sadly missed. China Girl and Heroes are my favourites and will be played in tribute when I do the ironing later. But what happened to the Spiders from Mars? Were  they despatched  by a huge rolled up intergalactic newspaper or humanely removed by interstellar transport under a tumbler shaped starship with a heavy-duty detachable cardboard safety deck...?

They need books at Ted Hughes' old school

The village of Mytholmroyd in West Yorkshire was badly affected by the Boxing Day floods, with homes, shops, businesses, schools and churches inundated by water when the River Calder and the Elphin Brook burst their banks. Burnley Road School, which is situated across the road from the river, bore the full force of the flood and everything in the school, including the library books and bookcases, have had to be destroyed. The school's most famous former pupil was Ted Hughes, the late Poet Laureate and children’s author; in honour of that link, and the inspiration the village and its surroundings played in Hughes' works, it would be great to have the school library fully restocked with donated children's books. Calder Valley Flood Appeal - please donate now.

Black hole burps - why science geeks will never be cool

Black hole 'burps' gas at nearby galaxy. Not a bad headline, 'black hole' and 'burp' have a degree of alliteration, but there's something missing, something that would have made the whole story immediately live click bait for non-science types. At school, the science geeks (we didn't call them that then, but language moves on and I'm happy to adapt to change - sometimes...) mainly sat at the front and got overly excited over writing up their experiments. They also seemed to understand algebra and knew how to use it, which marked them out as very different in my mind. But science is interesting and you need to engage with those who never got the bug first time round. After all, this is what Prof Brian Cox is for. Returning to the 'burp', how can we improve it, make it more relevant to the non-scientists? Well, off the top of my head, let's think about black holes: they're a long way away and on-one seems to know what they really look like. That much is common to scientists and non-scientists alike. However, the science geeks missed something else. Farts are funny (and that is much better alliteration, by-the-by). The behaviour of forcing gas into someone, or something, else's direction is more commonly associated with flatulence - it is, to employ a 'rule' of probability (and scientist like these) one of those instances of the law of 'who dealt is smelt it'; which, again by-the-by, is what we non-geeks were laughing at to the general disbelief and consternation of our far more lesson-engaged classmates at the front of the lab all those years ago. And if you still want some alliteration, try this: Black hole blasts botty-burp at next door galaxy. Now that's funny. And if you don't laugh, we'll get you at break time. Calder Valley Flood Appeal - please donate now.

Mytholmroyd and Calder Valley flooding

Spent Wednesday 30 Dec as a volunteer with Calder Valley Flood Support in Mytholmroyd, helping to deliver cleaning gear to flooded homes, packing bedding for a person flooded out of her home who had secured rented accommodation and then helping to clean up at the Dusty Miller pub, which had been badly affected by flooding from the river Calder on Boxing Day. One theme that recurred throughout the day, from conversations with those affected by the flooding - and this was the third bout in a month - and from other volunteers, was the number of uninsured properties in the village. Some people had simply found that no insurer would offer cover for their homes, while others felt that premiums and excesses had been hiked beyond their reach to deter them from even bothering. A prime example were the couple I met who were forced from their small cottage on Burnley Road, the main road running through the village, on Boxing Day night. Their home has one room downstairs and a bedroom and bathroom on the first floor. From their bedroom window, which was then partially under water, they had watched mature trees and other large pieces of debris being swept downstream with such force that they were amazed there had not been loss of life. They are friends of the Dusty Miller's landlord and are currently staying at the pub as the guest accommodation has not been affected. For their small home, the most recent premium quoted was £1,800 per year, with a £5,000 excess. They had not bothered to insure and now, along with a sizeable proportion of other village residents, now face a costly clean up and repair bill. Calder Valley Flood Appeal - please donate now.

Short arms and deep pockets at Christmas

Last act of the day before finishing for the holiday? Checking to see if a very large corporate customer has paid an overdue invoice. The answer is, they haven't (despite an 'assurance' from an accounts wonk that it would be in my account by yesterday). So I'll be starting the new year in full on credit control/small claims threatening mode. Bah humbug. Happy Christmas - 'cheques in the post'

e-cards: pressies on planks

Received two business-type e-cards in past couple of days, one from customer, the other from a trade body - both using the image of either presents or holly superimposed on a background of planking. See both as evidence of lazy design that tends to creep in to certain images or products - think back a couple of years and there was a sudden plethora of book covers showing solitary figures in long overcoats standing amidst incomplete/fog-bound city scapes. This became so dominant that spawned a Private Eye feature that still occasionally runs in the Books/Library news section. So, designers, take some time off this Christmas, recharge the old batteries and stop looking over other peoples' shoulders in the studio. And please, no more planks...

Romanian sheepdogs and the rule of law

This story intrigued me. It seems the Romanian Government has passed a law that limits the number of sheepdogs that can work with a shepherd in some places during the hunting season. The law was passed after, what we would call 'lobbying', by hunters, who are concerned that the dogs frighten away bears. That's right, Romanian sheepdogs go after bears. And now the hunters and politicians have decided enough is enough. But the shepherds, and presumably their four-legged friends (dogs, not sheep), aren't happy about it. They're so pissed-off, in fact, that the shepherds flocked (sorry, couldn't resist) to protest outside the Romanian parliament. Now, while the rule of law is absolute - ie law should be upheld and respected everywhere by all - there are times when legislators need to realise there have to be limits to the laws they enact. Taking on a group of canine employees who embody a work ethic that is so developed as to be almost a death wish seems to me to be just one of those limits. Perhaps the Romanian parliament ought to try another tack - how about outlawing the Ursine practice of woodland defecation, see how far that gets them... PS: apparently there are 10 million sheep and 1.5 million goats in Romania, so the dogs are kept pretty busy. PPS: BBC Radio 4 Crossing Continents (or Cross Incontinents) has now taken an interest!

The Little Red Chairs - Edna O'Brien

This story sees a 90s Serbian war criminal turned new-age healer (an obvious Karadzic manqué) turning up in a rural Irish backwater. Once established as a massage oil doling sex therapist, he impregnates the wife of a failed draper before the long-arm of an Garda Siochana whisks him off to stand trial in the Hague. Retribution is then visited on Fidelma, the woman he leaves behind by the wagging tongues of her neighbours and the altogether more terrifying hands of her erstwhile lover's former bodyguard. Forced to flee to London, Fidelma is transformed into that Irish every woman who leaves home under a cloud of disapproval or common or garden poverty, who then works in any menial job she can find, becoming strong in the process. O'Brien weaves a tale of violence and male weakness and female empowerment that is compelling and yet strangely tender. Mna na Eirean  have probably never had a more telling or powerful advocate.

The bigot in the changing room

Just had the following conversation at the gym. A stranger asked me if it was still raining. When I said it was, he responded by saying he was 'fed-up with this country' because it's 'crap now, always wet and full of foreigners'. His answer? Emigrate to Cyprus!
I wanted to point out that that would make him a foreigner too, but for some reason words failed me...

Johny Foreigner and the Spirit of the Blitz (Reversed)

Strange how we are so often told that the Blitz brought out the best in the British, how we refused to be cowed in the face of air attack on these islands, yet our Middle East policy is now - apparently - based on the total opposite. Could it be that Cameron actually believes, as per Mainwaring/Jones, that IS 'don't like it up 'em'? That, contrary to how the Brits took it on the chin from the Luftwaffe, that the assorted nasties ranged against us will crumble at the first rumble of RAF bombing? When Kenny Everett (yes, he was a Tory supporter, don't forget) put on his 'bomb the bastards' personna he was joking. But Cameron/Fallon and crew seem to have missed the punchline and enshrined the principle into foreign and 'defence' policy...

Art at the Brewery

Spent the afternoon at the Tetley, the art gallery and community space housed in the former Tetley brewery office in Leeds. The brewery was controversially closed by parent company Carlsberg a few years ago but the imposing main office, complete with wainscot panelled boardroom and portraits of late Tetleys, remain surrounded by art installations and community event spaces.
Shame the beer served in the cafe is now brewed in Northampton, as opposed to the traditional, but sadly now demolished brewery that dated from the early nineteenth century that until recently stood next to the office. The smell of malt and hops filled the air for generations of loiners.

The train now standing at Peterborough...

Returning from London by rail the other day, the train slowed noticeably as it neared Peterborough. Pulled by a diesel engine as we were, the speed reduction, we were told, was due to high winds - which reduced the speed of electric engines to 85 mph. As one of these was pulling the train ahead of ours, this was the reason for our own reduced speed. We weren't due to stop at Peterborough, but we soon did. After the guard was asked to contact the driver - never a good sign - an announcement was made, telling us that the unscheduled stop was due to a report that a tree had fallen on the line. The staff member serving drinks in my carriage seemed to wince slightly as he listened to the announcement. After a 20 minute wait, we started moving again. It was only then that he told us the reason for his trepidation: 'last time that happened, I ended up spending the night on the train' he said. Fortunately, the total delay was only an hour this time.

Remembrance

Tonight I'm readying myself to stand at the war memorial in the morning. I used to go with my grandad, a WWI veteran, and my dad, who fought in WWII. I went with them as a boy because they told me it was important to remember their mates who were wounded and killed. Later, I learned it was also to honour all victims of war. But dad and grandad are gone now, so it can seem lonely, except I go in their memory, sometimes even carry one of their medals so I can remember when we stood together.
It can also feel lonely for other reasons, too. Mainly because I remember when a poppy was a symbol of suffering and loss, not something you felt compelled to wear for the sake of appearances, or to show 'respect' to a far right group that my dad would have raged over.
He was a proud Legion member. And I remember when the Legion didn't go in for a self-appointed guardian role, or or accept sponsorship deals from arms dealers, but existed to look after those who fought, as it did when they helped secure dad's war pension for hearing loss.
So remember tomorrow, remember the lost and maimed, the fatherless and orphaned, the bereaved parents, the widows - from all sides. Yes, that's another lesson I learned from my grandad: there are no 'winners' in a war - no matter what politicians, of all shades, tell you. He knew it for real: on a road leading from Macedonia into Bulgaria at the end of September 1918, he saw the Bulgarian Army surrender:

To us they looked to be either young boys or old men, starving, dressed in rags. They just threw their guns on a pile at the side of the road and shuffled off into the distance.

That was war to him, a cruel waste of life, of people and land. War was fear, suffering and loss - he taught me and I remember. Tomorrow, I will remember.

On a gold autumn day - Calderdale, not Orangefield (apologies to Van the Man)

Cycled from Brighouse to Sowerby Bridge and back on the Calder Hebble Navigation towpath (that's a canal, for the uninitiated). Anyway, here's some Autumn gold, hope you enjoy as much as I did taking the photographs.

Keeping to the script

Had to buy a new router yesterday, owing to its predecessor packing up without warning. The replacement, a Netgear     AC1600, ticked all the techie boxes, including streaming and gaming. But it resolutely refused to accept my ISP's login settings, so I called Netgear technical support.
After several minutes listening to loud muzak, a female operative answered the phone and proceeded to take my details. After a short while, I was asked if I would like to join Netgear's mailing list (hint to Netgear marketing: technical support calls might not be the most fruitful source of future sales, if the caller can't get their present purchase to work).
I was then taken through an obviously scripted sequence. When this didn't resolve the issue, we went through it twice more. An hour and a half later, the operator admitted defeat and we ended the call with her telling me to contact my ISP and ask them to 'reset the Internet connection and refresh my username and password'. The ISP's tech support dept took some getting through to ('unexpectedly high call volumes'). But eventually a guy traced the problem and the router connected. At this point, I asked about resetting the Internet, only to be told that this was impossible (the request actually reminded me of the IT Crowd episode where Jen 'breaks' the entire Internet by dropping the box that Chris and Moss have told her contains the world wide web as a joke).
The router works, but Netgear tech support didn't help bring this about, and the scripted approach prevented the problem being identified sooner.

Stylish, with small cups and cold showers

Spent the weekend in a 'contemporary hotel' but didn't give much thought to what it meant until I took a shower and then ordered breakfast.
The reception area, corridors and rooms were all clean lines, bold feature walls with contrasting lighter tones. But ''contemporary" has its limits, as I discovered in the shower. This was an old fashioned mixer affair, with the intending showeree trying to gauge flow and temperature from the bath, before turning a third tap to switch the water from bath to showerhead. All of this effort could soon be undone, however, as anyone drawing water elsewhere could either send a stream of scalding water cascading from the shower, or turn the temperature to a level that would be more appreciated by polar bears or penguins.
As I experienced the latter twice during the shower, I went down to breakfast craving hot coffee. But, here again 'contemporary' had its limits. The cups were small and guest seemingly not to be trusted with a cafetiere. Leading to a situation where every sip was followed by a scan of the restaurant, in the hope of securing a refill from a passing and suitably equipped waiter.

The Dentist will see you now

Just back from having a filling. The dentist had to get the dental nurse to place a finger on my chin - seems I was showing signs of wanting to 'chew the drill', not, as she helpfully pointed out 'a very good idea'. It must be novocaine that unleashes a reckless streak in and around my jaws. Her predecessor told me off for trying to bite her just after the jab took effect.

Gone for a soldier?

Being in need of some teaching work after the late cancellation of a course, I registered with a number of agencies and, by way of a circuitous cyberspace route, ended up in the clutches of Totaljobs, website dedicated, according to its blurb, to finding us all our 'perfect' job. In my case, this should have been within the, admittedly, fairly narrow confines of Post-16/FE Law teaching or editorial work. However, Totaljobs have other plans for me, because they've taken to sending me several links per day to the Army. And not just any military role, but rather specialised stuff, such as 'mapping', mail courier (thought they'd all be on email now), or a rather more mundane 'warehouse operative' role. Have to wonder, how many of those who follow the link all the way to the recruiting office end up in something altogether more mainstream military, such as infantry? Still, I'll bear it in mind - as long, that is, as the Army are indeed open to discussing career options with a 50-something with blood pressure and a bad back who can't manage Tuesdays due to a prior work commitment...

An Agent of Casualisation

Casualisation was probably an unintended consequence of the reforms to the Further Education system, or so I like to think. After all, who in their right mind - except perhaps a right-wing idealogue, would want to take an experienced, well-educated, settled workforce and turn it into a fear-obsessed group - always looking over its shoulder for changes to contracts and working practices, fearful of course cuts or amalgamations, wondering if or how they'll have enough hours' teaching next term, next September? I've been forced to look for teaching work after the start of the new academic year - a situation that probably wouldn't have come about even a few years ago, but now - due to cost-cutting - is more common. And this means having to use employment agencies. For a while now, I've become increasingly concerned as to their understanding of the roles they are trying to fill. I teach Law, once a A level popular subject, but now - thanks to the Governments ill-considered A level reforms, one that colleges and sixth forms are becoming increasingly wary of. After all, the only predictor of final outcome, after 2 years' study, is now the student's GCSE grades. A lot can happen between the ages of 16 and 18, and Law is not a widely taken GCSE subject. With little to go on in terms of final grade prediction or target setting, school and college managements seem loath to offer Law, when other courses that have a GCSE equivalent can be taught instead (such as Sociology or Psychology). Enter then the agencies, paid by results, they offer harassed heads of departments the chance - for a fee/commission - to offer courses that have either last minute interest, or been affected by teacher non-availability. So it was that I saw an advert for an A level Law teacher, no hours mentioned, or even duration of contract. My initial application was enthusiastically received and I called the agency yesterday morning with high hopes. But that's when it all went wrong. The named contact explained that he hadn't written the advert himself, and that the school sixth form wanted someone who could teach Law AND Sociology. I was a bit annoyed at this rather important omission and the conversation ended with a half-hearted offer on his part to call the school and see if they would take an experienced Law teacher on an 80% contract that's supposed to run until July 2016. Now the waiting game begins again, although I doubt anything will come of it. Demoralization sets in quickly when agencies get in on the act: they only want result and don't seem that motivated to negotiate on behalf of those that don't fill their criteria - even where they have singularly failed to stated exactly what those criteria are at the outset. After all, a casualised workforce has little or no rights and can't - or wont' - fight back. You have to kiss the (agency) hand you dare not bite these days.

Privy Council

I'm not that bothered whether Jeremy Corbyn kneels, bows or curtsys when he eventually joins the Privy Council (after all, both Cameron and Clegg took their time about getting round to the formalities). The important thing - and a point missed by the media feeding frenzy - is that he does join if only to inject some accountability into its secret and hide-bound operations. You see, the Privy Council, which apparently always has to stand when it meets the Queen (great to live in such a grown-up democracy, isn't it?), has a law-making role. It has power conferred on it by Parliament in a number of acts that allow it to make Orders in Council, usually when Parliament is on one of its many holidays. These Orders, which all the Privy Council articles I've seen over the past few days failed to mention, can have far-reaching consequences (one Act that gives the Council power to make law is the Civil Contingencies Act 2004, which - in theory - could allow it to give drastic powers to the police or armed forces in the case of civil unrest or emergency). And for drastic consequences, look no further than the Order in Council that deprived the Chagossian Islanders of the right to live on their traditional island home of Diego Garcia, so that the UK could hand it to the US for a military base. The sooner Jeremy joins the Privy Council the better.

Cameron the Despot

Some recent utterances by the Prime Minister are rather worrying. First, he stated - this time in the context of an ECJ judgment - that he would refuse to follow a court judgment that outlawed the blanket ban on prisoners voting. Although Cameron has form in this - he's already refused to accept an ECtHR decision on the same subject. Second, we have his shiny-faced rant to the Tory faithful against the danger posed by Jeremy Corbyn. In a highly selective quote, with intentional twist in meaning, he repeated the lie that Corbyn said Bin-Laden's death was a 'tragedy', when in reality (always an unwelcome guest at Tory conferences), Corbyn actually felt that the tragedy was that Bin-Laden was not tried for his crimes. So, we have a Prime Minister that sets the dangerous precedent for those who want to ignore court judgments they don't like and who feels that 'extra-judicial' killing is preferable to the long-winded and excessively expensive, but time-honoured (and Magna Carta ordained) right to a free and fair trial (also found in the European Convention on Human Rights 1950 Art.6, Mr C - if you're interested). But then again, judging from the baying horde in the conference hall, probably not.

Oik or Oinky, it's grim up North, Dave

I look forward to Conservative Party conferences - being in government (in office, at least) they get to go last. Labour had a spectacularly good week down on the South Coast. But now Dave's Tory gang face a rather different prospect in Manchester - centre-piece of their much-vaunted Northern Powerhouse, lest we forget. Not only has their venture north led to a large part of the city centre being placed under something resembling a US-style 'lock-down', but delegates have reportedly been told to hide their conference passes while traversing the mean streets on their way to and from the Party jamboree. All this just four short months since Dave's less-than-overwhelming 12 seat majority general election 'victory'. If they're scared of the proles now, what are they going to be like in a few years' time?

Permanent parliament guaranteed: Dave's whopper of a lie to Scotland

I want to let you into a secret: Parliament cannot make a law that will last forever. In legal terms 'parliament cannot bind its successors' - which means that the next parliament can abolish everything its predecessor did and no-one can do a damn thing to stop it. All of which means that David Cameron's 'promise' to make it 'crystal clear' that the Scottish Parliament will be a forever thing might just as well be 'written in water' for all the good it will do. Politicians like promises, and Dave knows he hasn't delivered on the post-devolution referendum package that he, Clegg and Miliband made in the wake of last September's 'Yes' vote. But politicians also break promises - in the case of Cameron's Conservatives that list is long, and likely to get a lot longer. But his constitutional falsehoods need to be carefully considered: a promise or a guarantee to make an unchangeable law (entrenched law, as the lawyers call it) is simply beyond him. Countries with real, written constitutions make that sort of law - and the entrenched stuff can only be changed if the legislature (parliament and a a pre-determined majority of the electorate agree: that's real constitutionally entrenched law, Dave. And you and I both know that's the last thing your party would allow, because then the people really would be able to tell the politicians what to do.

A casual victim

I've been teaching Law in FE colleges and sixth forms forms for the past decade. Not any more. Despite good exam results (now the gold standard by which all teachers are ultimately judged), good student (sorry, learner) approval ratings - backed up by performance management appraisals and lesson observations, I found myself without a class to teach just 2 days into the new academic year. It was against this backdrop of newly enforced idleness - I was a 'freelance teacher': no contract, no guaranteed hours, but expectation of managing my own 'continuous professional development' and qualifications - that I read Jo Johnson's comments about 'lamentable teaching' standards in Higher Education. This Johnson is supposed to be capable of joined-up thinking that at least meets the standards of modern society, as opposed to bro BoJo who wants us to live in a classicists dreamworld, but the end result is the same - a fundamental disconnect and wilful refusal to accept the truth. Which is simply this: good teaching can only come from a well-trained, well-equipped and properly resourced professional teaching body. It can't be conjoured from thin air when teachers are forced to rely on temporary, or even no, contracts, and where there is no continuity of employment. When you are continually looking over your shoulder, wondering if the agency has found you enough work, at a high enough pay rate, then you cannot perform your duties to a high standard; and without the limited guarantee of of work from one week to the next you have no incentive to do more than the basic minimal level of work (Ofsted and PM obsessed line managers notwithstanding). And that, Mr Johnson, concludes your lesson in teaching reality for today, now write a 500 word essay on why casualisation is undermining the UK's vital FE and HE sectors.

Primal scream therapy for middle managers

“Frankly, I just can’t understand how you can still see things like this. We organise team building and personal development sessions to help you plan your career development and you go and behave like this.” Yes, Giles, I know, what an ungrateful wretch I am. How I’d love to take that propelling pencil next to your fancy executive toy and push it into your right ear. I’d do it hard enough to come out of the left and wheel you over to the window and push you out. Three floors to the car park. How would that develop your career? Tosser. “Pete, look. Let’s put it behind us. The overhead projector can be written off and I’ll make sure this little chat comes off your record in three months. Just try to play a fuller part in what I’m trying to do here.” Thank you, sir, can I go now. Smirking arse, Jim Porter, loitering outside Giles’ office. Prat. “Hope you had plenty of paper down the trousers. How was he?” “Talking bollocks, Jim, same as always.” “What did he say about the OHP?” “He’ll get it written off, apparently.” “Wouldn’t have minded, but you couldn’t see it was an arse anyway.” “Sod off – the glass splinters went a bit too close to the trademan’s and the family jewels for my liking.” I’ve been working at Milen for six years. Last two in the Blue Marketing Team, reporting to Giles Southwick, team leader and purveyor of crap to the young, gullible and deluded. To Giles, every new fad put out by HR or some overpaid consultant is the very thing we need to develop our careers or stimulate team working. He manages to sell a new suit of clothes to the directors – our corporate emperors – every couple of months; I wouldn’t mind if we sold as well as we bonded, but with Giles, there’s always another course or session that will sourt out our problems, all to do with motivation. Yeah, motivate me by my bank balance, not by making me listen to some latter day snake oil seller telling me my breather is the barrier to better selling, or that improving my arse-wiping technique will improve the share price. Back at my desk, I managed the grand total of two calls before another piece of electronic crap arrived: “Teams, As you know, the next phase of our improved targeting drive is due to be rolled out across group next month. To inspire interest beyond this section, we’re going to have a competition to decide on the name of the drive: something that will identify our ownership but also galvinise support in other departments. Answers in by Friday – I know you’ll rise to the challenge. Giles Southwick BA, MBA Marketing Teams Co-ordinator” Giles likes everyone to know he’s been to uni, twice. Bet he joined all the societies but still never managed to get a shag. “Hi, Pete, got a minute?” The lovely Julie. “Course, what’s up?” “The boy wonder’s just asked me if I want to gon on a time management course. Bloody nerve, I’ve got that much on my plate as it is – without being expected to swan off to Sheffield for two days. Then again, saying ‘no’ looks bad. What do you think?” “I think – as always – that it’s a waste of time. But I see your point: don’t want to upset him. Just don’t site on any overhead projectors while you’re away.” She needs time management training like a hole in the head. Julie has three kids and a husband in a wheelchair; juggling that lot – and a full time job – puts her streets ahead of the boy blunder. The rest of the day passed in the usual whirl of calls, faxes and emails, but at the end I still couldn’t work out what, if anything, I’d actually done. In the circumstances, I felt compelled to take my dark mood and indecision to the pub. Working in a dreary out of town office development at least means you get to travel against the flow at home time, as long as you leave it late enough to miss the first mad rush. That night I had a painless commute to the Barge and the third pint was wending its merry way down when I had a real blast from the past. In walked Neil Ferguson: naughty boy of these parts, former school mate and all round sight for sore eyes. A couple of drinks alter and we’re right up to speed. Neil’s just back from a spell at Her Majesty’s for deceptively removing a sum of cash from a gullible former business associate and I’m pouring out my hatred of Giles; lack of money; lack of woman; lack of everything, really. “You know what you need, Dex, old boy?” “No, what?” “An amusing diversion, a trick – of the confidence variety.” “Great, so I can add criminal record to my list of gripes?” “Nothing illegal – well, not so you’d notice. More like a ploy to catch the gullible. How does primal scream therapy grab you?” “Now, I get enough crap at work without you coming over all life-affirming on me. Is this what you get up to inside; screaming at the taxpayers’ expense? The bloody Mail’d have a ball with that one, I can picture the headline.” “No, it’s just an idea. Give your boss something to think about.” “How would you do it?” “Simple, just dangle it in front of him and see if he bites. I’m at a loose end, and catching a daft punter is all in a day’s work for me. Look at it this way, if he bites, he really goes on to hook himself, if he smells a rat, he walks and I’m out of there. Nothing new for me, it’s just a spot of practical continuous professional development, if you like.” Have to confess, the rest of the night was a bit of a blur, but I seem to remember a curry and a taxi; woke up feeling ghastly, but got into work without much bother. I didn’t hear from Neil for a couple of weeks. Naturally, I thought it had just been the beer talking. Then my ‘phone rang. “Dex. Has your boss told you all about his new training brochure yet?” No, look, I can’t talk here, what’s going on, Neil?” “Amazing the stuff you can get printed off the internet. Makes life much easier for bad boys like me.” We had a Blue Team meeting the following day. As usual, ‘continuous professional development’ was down as an agenda item, but just before we got to it, Giles passed round a glossy number from something called the “Empower Consultancy.” These meetings run over a lunchtime. I used to feel robbed of my break, but there’s sod all to do round here – and the food’s free – so now I look at them as a free feed, with the chance of a laugh at Giles thrown in.” Giles was very concerned by my coughing fit. He wondered if I’d swallowed a whole pea from one of the samoses. In reality, my ability to process food had been overcome by the sight of Empower Constultancy’s Lars Pedersen, who looked more than a little like Neil Ferguson in a ginger wig and naff beard set, on the back of the brochure, urging readers to “use scream therapy to readmit the primal energies of ‘fight or flight’ into modern-day marketing strategy and decision-making.” I’d just about recovered by breath when Giles said: “I know some in the team can be, how shall I put it, rather dismissive about my training and development ideas, but I think – mentioning no names, Mr Dexter – that the more resilient, laddish elements could find something in this on.” Giles went on: “Read what this Pedersen guy has to say about PST – that’s primal scream therapy – I think even the cynics will be impressed. He reports great results and I’ve checked out the Empower website, it’s amazing to see the companies they’ve worked with. It’s not all about sitting in a room full of people just bellowing your lungs out; just as well for you Pete, really, after the samosa encounter. For the first couple of sessions they work one-to-one. I’ve got funding for up to four of us to have two sessions: it’s first come, first served and I’ve bagged the first, so I’d get in quick if you’re interested. You never know where these new initiatives might take you.” I have a damn good idea, Giles, a damn good idea. Neil called me at work a couple of days later: “Dex, Fancy a drink tonight? See you in the Barge around seven?” “Are we going to scream at each other?” “Not a bit of it. Just wanted to let you know how we’re getting on with your boss?” “Can’t talk about it now. See you later.” I wanted to know exactly what Neil had planned, and whether he was going to limit himself to humiliation to graduate onto theft. “Just wanted to have a bit of fun with him”, Neil said as we settled ourselves at a table opposite the bar: “You were right about Giles, he really believes in the professional development bollocks. I’m just teasing him along at the moment. You tell him what you’re selling and hint that he can’t have it – not yet, anyway. You see, I think he needs some one-on-one sessions with Lars. That way, he’ll really get into the whole scream therapy thing.” “Have you met him yet?” “Nope. We’re having a meeting in his office on Friday afternoon. The con artist in me can’t wait to bait the hook. Don’t worry, I’m not into anything criminal, just keeping myself sharp. Something Giles would approve of.” I wasn’t so sure that coming to Milen during office hours during office hours was such a good idea, the place had security and closed-circuit TV cameras, but Neil wouldn’t be put off. He wanted to try his Lars persona out on Giles and couldn’t wait for a face-to-face encounter with his mark. Friday took an age in coming. I’ve never known a week take so long: holidays fly; boring weeks drag; but this one seemed to last a century. Finally, 2.30 found me loitering in the corridor a few doors from Giles’ office. There’s this little alcove with an unreliable photocopier in it, we only usually use it if the main one’s busy or broken, but today I decided it was ideal to copy a couple of files. I thought it look efficient, but Neil told me afterwards that I was so obviously snooping that I nearly put him off His entrance was just right, ginger wig and dodgy van dyke notwithstanding. Well dressed in blazer, grey trousers and those wanky loafers Americans wear. I could tell Giles was positively salivating at the prospect of ingratiating himself with this demigod of psychobabble. I’d expected Neil to do Lars as a Scandinavian, the name was sort of a giveaway, or so I thought; it was a surprise, however, to hear him talking softly and coming over very self-assured, in something I later discovered was Neil’s best Californian “just flown over the pond with the latest in wuff, teat argleblaft”: we’ve paid thousands to hear this, sitting on plush velour upholstered chairs with gilt metal frames, all lined up on badly air conditioned hotels and conference centres. And here was Neil, the respectable face of con, oozing “you too can be like me” faux charm into Giles’ ever so receptive shell-like. We’d arranged to meet at nine for a balti, but Neil left me hanging round for nearly three-quarters of an hour. “Where the hell have you been?” “Over at Giles’ place. Arsy little apartment thing in a tarted up mill. Supposed to be a ‘waterfront’ development; actually looks out over a weed infested bit of canal” “Yeah, heard he’d moved into a new place, never been invited myself.” “Right, let’s get some beers in and I’ll tell you about our little screamer.” Beer, poppadoms and bhajis followed as Neil told me about the meeting. Giles was absolutely suckered from the off. Neil sold him scream therapy as a way of releasing primal urges of fight and flight when faced with a threat. Only by learning to ball your brains out the Pedersen way, could you harness this latent power as a force in the commercial world. Transfer the primal urge to survive from Neolithic man to marketing and you unleash a potent force that increases sales potential. More beer, a chicken jalfrezi and prawn dopiaza, with naans the size of single duvets, accompanied Neil’s vivid description of Giles bursting to have his first session: “But I told him, you can’t rush this. I’m out of the country until the end of next week. It came to me from nowhere, and do you know, that gullible prat was almost begging to come with me! I swear, your boss is the easiest mark I’ve ever come across. It’s a good job he hasn’t got any money – I’d leave him naked in the street, smiling from ear to ear and thanking me for showing him the error of his ways!” “By the end of next week, he’ll be impossible to work with. What are you going to do with him then?” “Rent some office space for a couple of hours and let him start screaming. I’ve told him he’s got to be committed 110% before we can start work with his team. That’s when I got him to name you as one of the main doubters, one of those who scoff at change; even made him explain what scoff meant – it’s fun being American. He’s got a real thing about you – why didn’t you tell me about breaking his OHP?” “He told you about that? We were on a team-building thing; roll play and adventure training at some place in the wilds of Wensleydale. Saturday evening saw some drink taken, and I decided, so I was told afterwards, that the best way to round off the evening was try and project my arse onto the outside of a barn door; sod all else to do, what do you expect?” “What happened, apart from splinters near the sphincter?” “Five or six cans and a couple of whiskies made me underestimate my weight, probably thought I could levitate by then. Anyway, I came crashing down, the glass broke, bulb exploded; Shit for Brains came running out as we hightailed it round the back of the barn. Sunday morning; major sulk from Giles and full-on bollocking on Monday. Same day I met up with you in the Barge.” “Admire the risk-taking but it wouldn’t have worked anyway, OHPs don’t work in 3D images. Eat up. More beer? Well, we’re going to build up the one-to-one screaming until I’m, sorry Lars, is convinced that Giles is fully committed to the project – then I’m coming into Milen to video him in action. He’s going to get so much patter from me, he’ll burst his lungs to order.” As I made my way home, Neil’s excitement was beginning to wear off. What the hell were we doing? Giles was certainly gullible, more than a little stupid and drove me crazy, but this was shaping up to be the ultimate in humiliation, and how would he react if he realised it was all just a conman’s training exercise? Apart from a couple of text messages updating me on Giles’ progress, Neil didn’t get in touch until a week the following Thursday. It was all on for Saturday. He wanted me to give him a description of meeting rooms at Milen. We settled for the second floor boardroom. This was a long narrow affair with a balcony that split down the middle with a dividing partition that could be used for round table meetings or opened up as a large space for bigger seminars. Neil wanted it divided, he was going to video Giles in action – and I could watch the proceedings by forcing a small gap down the centre of the partition. This sounded crazy to me: I had no reason to be in the office on a Saturday and couldn’t see why Neil wanted me there. He brushed off my arguments, brusquely reminding me that he was doing me a favour and that he wanted me to see the effect of all his hard work. I got to the office just after 7.30 in the morning of the following Saturday. I told the security guard that I had some figures to sort out for a meeting on Monday, then made myself scarce, reading some advertising and marketing websites until I got a text from Neil to say he was in the boardroom. I felt like someone in a spy film, making my way up to the second floor. I peered into every office I passed on my way to the boardroom but there was no sign of anyone. I could hear Neil next door as I settled down to watch through the gap in the divider. With my left eye pressed hard up against the partition, I could see the video camera mounted on a tripod, pointing to a large swivel chair about three metres from the balcony window. Giles came in, he was wearing designer sports gear: jogging pants and trainers that had never seen a gym, expensive-looking T-shirt with a designer top over his shoulders. He looked nervous as he sat in the swivel chair. “Why do we need this?” Giles asked, gesturing towards the camera. “Simple”, drawled Neil; “it’s to give you all round vision. Look, think yourself into the part. This is your territory, when you feel threatened here, it heightens the ‘fight or flight’ response. In a few moments you’ll be tracking round and round in that chair, living the heightened response to primal fear. Only by seeing you – and you’re good, believe me – will your team buy into this project. I mean it, even the uptight Brit types – you know, Dexter, the guy you told me about with the OHP? Even he, I guarantee it, he’ll be right here with you on this one.” I noticed Giles tense momentarily when Neil mentioned my name, but he pushed himself back into the chair and waited for Neil to take over. “OK, Giles. Let’s try a few warm ups. Just loose shouts, if you like.” Giles emitted a small yelp, followed by a short growl. I hadn’t realised quite how ridiculous this would look. Standing there, with my face pressed up to the break in the divider, I was forcing myself not to laugh. Then Neil walked quickly across the room and smacked Giles full across the face. “No scream, you little shit, scream long and loud – go on!” At this, Giles looked up at Neil with absolute terror in his eyes and let go with an ear-splitting shriek. This first scream was followed by another, then another, building in intensity before he let out a long bellow that seemed to make the partition vibrate. As the noise died away, I was aware that the screaming had evoked a sense of fear in me. I wanted a piss and didn’t know if it was a response to Giles; like I was feeling ‘fight or flight’, or just the effect of standing in one place feeling nervous as hell. I was concentrating on my bladder so hard that it took me a while to take in what Neil was saying to Giles from behind the video camera, which I now saw had been positioned so that the Milen logo would be in shot, just above Giles’ left shoulder. “Good, good, now remember what I said about defecation: ‘fight or flight’ can make you want to open your bowels, perfectly natural response to extreme stress. It’s a primal reaction. Some folks just let it go – some even smear the spoor on their faces – kind of masks their own scent. Just seems to be instinctive, natural response, I guess.” The faint American accent, used with Neil’s quiet intensity, made this seem so plausible. I couldn’t begin to wonder what effect it would have on a suggestible character like Giles. “Can I go again, now?” Giles asked “Ready when you are, it’s going really well”, replied Neil. Again, Giles let out a scream followed by two more, building again in volume and intensity. I was so taken by the performance that I only realised the door to my part of the divided room was being opened from the outside. I don’t know how the hell I managed it, but I somehow transferred myself from being pressed against the divider to the underside of the meeting room table in about half a millisecond. Wedged between the table leg and two chairs, I could just make out the black Oxfords and perpetually grey-suited legs of John Pateman, Milen’s Finance Director. Pateman. Who else but a highly paid money junkie would be in the office at this time on a Saturday, dressed in his habitual grey suit. I knew his sartorial tastes of old. For six months I’d had an affair with his PA – the lovely Melanie of blessed memory, who confirmed the general sentiment that her boss preferred numbers to people and didn’t care much for workplace niceties. Just what he’d make of events on the other side of the partition was anyone’s guess. As the screams lessened, Pateman seemed to hesitate for a second. Watching his feet, he seemed to half turn, as if about to leave the room. I was so keenly aware of my senses of sight and hearing that the smell took a while to permeate, either that or I was shielded from it by the table. Whatever the reason, Pateman turned again and was now looking straight ahead down the room as he audibly sniffed the air. His sniff alerted me to the unmistakable stench of shit now wafting freely throughout the room. I knew Giles was gullible, but I hadn’t realised just how suggestible he could be if put under enough pressure. Neil had actually convinced him to shit himself to order. All I could think about at that moment was back in high school, when we were forced to play football on Wednesday afternoons. Our team captain, a drooling soccer nut called McPhee, had an annoying phrase he used to shout: “I’m in charge, do as I say; if I say ‘shit’, you ask for the shovel.” It didn’t make much sense back then, and he must have taken it from a film he’d seen – certainly he didn’t have the imagination or intelligence to come up with it himself, but now it struck me as the funniest thing in the world. I wanted to shout it to Neil next door. Fortunately, I was brought to what remained of my senses by the noise of Pateman slamming the door as he quickly left the room. The slam caused commotion next door. There was a heavy thud as Giles pushed the swivel chair over and ran out of the room, knocking over the tripod as he went. Giles barged into Pateman as he shot out of the room. I heard a faint scuffling as they collided in the corridor before Pateman shouted: “What the fuck are you doing, Southwell? What’s that smell? Is that shit on your face?” I went into work early on the Monday morning and at 9.15 I emailed a youtube video link to the blue, orange and yellow marketing teams from my mobile. At 10.00, Giles left Milen carrying two large black bin liners. Jim thought he was walked all the way to his car by a security guard. Strange, they usually just see you out of the back door and leave you to it. Adjustment, that’s what Giles called it, or sometimes it was “being freed up to pursue other opportunities”. Relief, however, proved to be short lived. At 10.30, an email came through from (in)Human Resources: “Giles Southwick has ceased to be employed at Milen with immediate effect. In order to ameliorate any detrimental effects in the marketing teams that formerly reported to him, a team building exercise will be held soon, date and venue to be notified in due course.” Arghghghghggh. More from the same author: http://www.amazon.com/A-Sense-Place-David-Hyatt-ebook/dp/B00M6ZW3PC http://www.amazon.com/Short-Curlies-David-Hyatt-ebook/dp/B008IDL70I http://www.amazon.com/Gnosis-David-Hyatt-ebook/dp/B00EYI05GI

The joys of the flexible labour market

Flexibility. That's the key to a diverse economy, or so the free-market, no-regulation employers like us to believe. Well, in another first for me (after 38 years' work), today I find myself without a major source of employment. In my case, the need to remain flexible meant that my earnings were whittled away to such a point that it was no longer worth my while going to the office. But the client/employer (call them what you will - I've got a few names in play at the moment...) was still ready to whittle away a while longer than I was. Now, how long will it take me to fill the gap? And how long before I really lose it with the next smoothy chops Tory waste of space who tells me that 'work pays' or that the economy is looking up?

The long wait for the Labour ballot

Apparently, the Labour Party are going to start chivying along the more laid back of its members and supporters if they haven't voted by next Tuesday. Chance would be a fine thing in my case. I'm still waiting for the ballot email. All the 'help' desk minions can suggest is to make sure it's not in my spam folder - which it isn't. Anyone would think they've decided not to sent it out to me...

E-chuggered by Mencap

Early morning email from Mencap, with exciting news and fundraising pleas. Apparently, I received this because I'd given consent to being contacted by them. Except I haven't. Also, although the e-mail, right at the end, states I can 'unsubscribe', there was no link allowing me to do so.
Now, I know that Mencap does vitally important work, but this kind of unsolicited e-begging (as with postal pestering and on street chuggering) seriously reduces the good name of many charities. Yes, I know times are hard financially, and that their are a lot of causes competing for money. But it starts to feel rather underhand when appeals masquerade as news, surveys or questionnaires, or when charities buy in the names and addresses of the provenly pesterable, based presumably on prior giving to comparable causes.

Hipsters and trolleys

When I was a kid, my mum had a 'shopper on wheels' - a fabric-covered bag with wire support that was mounted on a hand-wheeled trolley. I was surprised to see they're back again - a 'must-have' accessory for the hipster market. On leaving King's Cross the other day, I turned right up Euston Road only to find my way blocked by a herd of hipsters, already slow moving due to the overly tight trousers - a quick spurt of speed risks emasculation - but now further encumbered by the latest cool piece of impedimenta, a re-invented shopper on wheels for the 21st century! Hipsters fascinate me. It seems their sense of credulity increases with the length of facial hair. Out goes commons sense (and a sense of humour: remember the Channel 4 cereal cafe interview? And in comes, well, anything... I think I'll try an experiment next time I'm in London. Stick on the largest theatrical WC Grace lookalike beard I can find, wear the tightest strides I can manage and galumph around on the Euston Road in a pair of clown shoes. What's the betting I'd soon be joined by a herd of hipsters strapping oversized shoes on to their feet in the rush to join the latest trend?

Diane and Diana – the hunt for permanence

Diana the Huntress scatters stars around her feet. Her career’s on the up now she’s taken on moon-related matters from Luna, who’s out on the street. Diane in the phone shop has stars on her feet. Seven blue-outlined planets run a linear course down the top of her right foot. Being a goddess adds permanence to memory; but being in the shop is only transitory. Ink beneath the dermis is all the permanence there is to the lives of we mortals, as we know when we pass the tattooists imposing portals. Diana, on entering the shop with a view to improving communications, notices the name-badge and the stars. At a computer that she makes spare with a wave of her arm, she outlines her needs to Diane. Four gig’s enough for her purposes. A deities commands are short, and she sees no need to talk to mortals when she’s on the chase – though Skype might be useful if she wants to apparate in virtual reality, just to bring a point home, so to speak. Diane is impressed by her near-namesake’s grasp of technology. But the credit check proves a problem. ‘Who’s Artemis?’ she asks, when the fog clears on the screen. ‘Dunno’ replies Diana: ‘it’s all Greek to me’ ‘But she seems to be you’, Diane replies, ‘nice temple, though – but there’s some sort of mammarial profusion going on with the graven imagery’. ‘Don’t worry about that’ the goddess replies: ‘the mortals get carried away with statuary. For us, it’s about power and glory, just give me the handset and port my number; I’m away to an orgy in Bessarabia tonight, and I want to make sure the band don’t get lost, or they’ll be hell to pay with the satyrs’ ‘Take me with you’ pleads Diane, ‘I’ve had it with credit checks and commission, the endless updates and new releases. Dealing with needy nerds and smartphone junkies is doing my head in. You must need a handmade or someone to brush your hounds? I want to bath in moonlight and cavort with nymphs. Please say you will!’ ‘Alright, but the job specification can be a bit confusing, with hunting, moon management and animal welfare, I suppose you could say it's a "circle of life" kind of thing - I hear you've got a song about it down here'. 'We have' Diane replied, 'but I couldn't afford the ticket to see the show'. 'Don't worry' said the deity, 'there's no charge to see my performance, it's written across the starry firmament. But remember, about the other staff, the nymphs can get uppity, and the satyrs throw tantrums at the slightest thing. You’ll need to watch your Ps and Qs, but as long as you’re OK with the incense and not too prudish about the stuff in the arena, I think you’ll fit in just fine. Hold on to my robe, and we’ll be away in a starry cloud of glory’. And with a rushing of wind and a temporary dimming of the earthly light, Diane and Diana swept from the store, leaving Russ – the manager – wondering how he was going to report this to head office. The seven stars on Diane’s feet peeled away to join the rest of Diana’s celestial train as it sped across the heavens. She had no need for inked permanence now that she’s joined the goddess’s personal retinue.

Oh, what a Chief Executive!

Fans of Americanisation (no zee, please note) look away now. A couple of years ago, business bosses started adding 'officer' to titles, sometimes accompanied by 'chief' to keep it company. For example, a Chief Executive became a Chief Executive Officer, or merely a 'CEO'. The boring number-cruncher became a 'Chief Financial Officer', as opposed to the more traditional Accountant or Financial Director. And we've not reached a point where even academies have CEO's (some of whom 'earn more than the Prime Minister' - the new all-purpose measure of wealth, rather like 'the size of Wales' is used for geographic area). As with Oreos (which are, after all, merely expensive proof that Americans have finally learned how to dunk biscuits), Disney Land, Coca Cola (and Pepsi), mucky Donalds (I'm seriously not loving it), the Munroe doctrine and pre-emptive self-defence (no 's'), what starts out as an anodyne impulse on the other side of the Atlantic becomes an insidious creeping 'must have' that the rest of the world accepts blindly without thinking of the consequences (unnaturally bright dental work, obesity and devastating military interventions). The US, being the largest Superpower, but a relatively young nation still at heart, likes to see itself as the originator of new descriptions for things the rest of the world has taken for granted for years (a kind of over-bearing master of the bleeding obvious, with a sickly sweet grin and pom-poms). Then, as with the crowd who fell for the Emperor's New Clothes routine, previously sane and rational people rush to ape the new as it spreads like a wind-borne spore from its American heartland. But Americans are not immune to the dangers of this; there is a growing tendency, as evidenced by a growing rejection of 'pushing the envelope', 'thinking outside the box' in CVs to turn against their last best idea (remember 'have a nice day y'all'?). However, this can often come with a sense of incredulity at the strength of the backlash, a time slip in cognitive dissonance, whereby the previous common place is violently overthrown, sometimes accompanied by a public recanting of surprising vehemence, like a teenager throwing out last month's superband poster. Here's hoping they learn to ditch the utterly superfluous 'officer' soon. I can take the public recanting of the otiose or facile - if we must have Chief Execs (though I haven't a clue what they do, aside from pocketing salaries many times removed from the amounts doled out to those who actually do the work) let's keep their titles within the realms of the strictly necessary: British understatement takes back the boardroom and the annual report and accounting statements.

Ted Heath failed grandma's marmalade test

Historical allegations of wrongdoing aside, Ted Heath always struck me as rather an oddity when I was growing up. For a start, he was a Tory. Second, he did that weird heaving shoulders thing when he laughed. Third, he wouldn't let us have any money for a new school - our's had outside boys' toilets. Fourth, he was a Tory (already done that, but they weren't popular round our way, so it goes down twice. Fifth, and most serious, he annoyed by grandma. Having fallen foul of the decimalisation deadline for half-crowns, which meant that she was left with a bag of very heavy metal cribbage counters, she was naturally cautious about the change to decimal currency. As it turned out, her fears were well-founded. Every Friday, she carried out a weekly shop at the local mini-supermarket Buywise. For reasons known only to her, the main focus of concern was the price of marmalade. Pre-decimalisation, the price had been 9d a jar. The conversion table we were supplied with, courtesy of Mr Heath's Government, which foisted the change on a largely unwilling population, showed that this would be 3.75 new pence, rounded up to 4 new pence. But the shop added a gravity defying 1 pence to the price in the weeks immediately following the change, taking the price of a jar to the equivalent of a shilling - 5 new pence. And this, we were told, ran completely contrary to Mr Heath's promise that consumers would not be out of pocket by the change. Marmalade, unlike the Prime Minister, didn't like. And if anymore proof was required, we only had to think back to his election slogan, in which he solemnly promised to 'cut prices at a stroke' if elected. He was, and they weren't, carrying on instead an inexorable rise that led to a failed prices and incomes policy, strikes, power blackouts and a three-day week. Sadly, Heath wasn't the first, or last, politician to make unsustainable promises that we were expected to believe just because they spoke with a plummy voice. Music and yachting might have lifted Heath above the run-of-the-mill hectoring politician, but his string of broken promises, as evidenced by the incontrovertible evidence of the marmalade test, were enough to damn him in our eyes before he lost the '74 election and the eventual leadership of his party to the over-wheening ambition of his former Education Secretary, Margaret Hilda Thatcher. And she couldn't have cared less about how much we were expected to pay for preserves.