PeoplePosted by kevin Thu, August 26, 2010 22:04:44Am writing this a couple of miles above ground in an aeroplane that should have landed 30 minutes ago.
Our departure from Edinburgh featured a refreshing breeze and clear blue skies, but as we got into East Anglia, the cloud that had settled over that area all day surrounded us. Not a good sign, so when our cheery captain came on the PA to say there was nothing to worry about, our hearts lifted.
So the descent to Nch began, and we finally broke through the cloud at, I would guess, about 500 metres. At which point the pilot decided this was not he landing he wanted, grabbed the stick thing that he has in front of him, and like a WWI flying ace, we pulled out, up, and back into the cloud.
This is a fairly small plane, the wheels were down and we were landing, so I have a horrible feeling that when we came out of the cloud he couldn't actually see where the airport was. Surely you can't get lost in a plane these days can you?
Incidentally, this does remind me of the journeys I used to take from Norwich to Edinburgh years ago, in far smaller planes. Pre 9-11, if you sat at the front of the plane, all that separated you from the pilot was a small grey curtain, and you would always see, next to all the controls, the
key navigational guide, which was the AA Book Of The Road. I asked the pilot about this once, and he said that this was indeed what they used to fly with - for Edinburgh to Norwich for example, you follow the A1 and turn off at Peterborough.
Anyway, 30 mins after we should have landed, our pilot tells us that he's going to 'have a bit of a think' about options, but not to worry as he's got plenty of fuel. And while he's thinking, he's going to switch off the seatbelt sign if any of us want to move about. Bizarre.
45 mins after we should have landed, and the scenery (white cloud) hasn't changed. Mrs Emu will, by now, be slightly irritated. No word from Captain Mannering in the cockpit.
60 mins after we should have landed. Everyone being very calm. Stewardesses wandering up and down not doing much and avoiding eye contact. Fair enough, that's what I'd do, if I were them, although I'd draw the line at the stupid haircut. I've now officially decided that I don't like flying. Some people do this for pleasure, you know. I understand the message from Captain Crunch now though - he was expecting to be some time in the air.
Just had an update - they were expecting weather improvement on the hour, and this hasn't happened. I didn't think weather was so precise as to change on the hour, but you've got to trust these people, haven't you? Well, haven't you? as Fagin might say. This is something that vexes me a little at the best of times, and it worries me more in these circumstances. Every day we put our trust in taxi drivers, airline pilots, cooks and many more people who we don't know from Adam. Yet in my darker moments, I feel I can't trust about 10% of the people I meet, a number that steadily increases in London, in pubs, clubs, or at anything involving the word 'festival'. So what if Captain Flack is one of them? Or what if he's having a bad day? Probably best not to think about it. I'll look out of the window. Update - still white clouds.
80 minutes - the man in the seat next to me is taking an unhealthy interest in the 'business' article about Caprice and her lingerie range. With picture of her apparently falling out of her business suit. I think I just heard someone get a text and wonder if I should risk texting Mrs E. Best not. I don't know technically how such interference works, but apparently mobile phones operating can make planes plummet from the sky, and I wouldn't like to have that on my conscience. Not that I would, but you know what I mean.
We appear to be climbing again. Got a not good feeling about this; I think we're headed for somewhere less cloudy. Oh dear. I'll have a little nap now and hope it all goes away. The bloke next to me has closed his eyes. Probably thinking about Caprice's fiscal planning.
120 mins - sod it, tried to send a txt to Mrs E. No signal - pah! Curse the
Blackberry.
Captain Fantastic says we're going to try again in 10 mins! Using a different runway. I'm slightly worried that I thought Nch only had one runway, but the Caprice fan next to me assures me that if you approach from a different direction, it counts as two. So it's been a rich learning
experience sitting next to him.
Switching Blackberry off as Ms Terrible Haircut glowering as I write that.
130 mins - hit the runway about 90 seconds after coming out of the cloud. Everyone suddenly starts talking. A round of applause for Captain Marvel.
Ms Flock Of Seagulls wishes us well, welcomes us to Norwich and hopes to see us all again soon.
Not bloody likely.
PeoplePosted by kevin Fri, August 13, 2010 21:29:48I always have a regret or two during holidays in France. Last year I managed to put my back out doing something stupid in the garden. The year before I managed to, well, put myself in a very embarrassing position by thinking I knew more French than I really did. This year, I've rather unfortunately managed to combine both experiences, ending up semi-naked in the hands of a man that I'd only met 20 minutes before, and with a very limited grasp of his plans.
But perhaps I'm getting a little ahead of myself.
I had a very good first week running. Clocked up 75 miles, managed a few effort sessions, generally felt at one with the world. Saturday knocked out a fast session in the morning, followed by a very heavy shift in the garden involving a ladder, a 15 foot high hedge and a petrol hedge trimmer. By the evening there was a familiar twinge in the small of my back. Got up for Sunday's long run, and…well I say 'got up' as if I did anything other than try to roll over in bed to get out, followed by an agonising yelp like a Jack Russell being fed into a mangle. (I would imagine.) Anyway, I didn't get up. I laid as still as I could, then spent the next couple of days feeling very sorry for myself, and slowly shuffling around the house like a 85 year old rickets victim.
So much so, in fact that, by Tuesday, Mrs E had agreed that I ought to see someone, and we looked in the local phone book to find an Osteopath. My experience of the Osteopath profession involves unfortunate memories of being jumped on from a great height, getting a horrendous noise out of my back as a result, and feeling a bit duff…then a bit better. Seemed like a small price for being able to be able to vaguely stand up straight again.
Appointment duly booked for Wednesday, and I made my way up the stairs above the chemist in a small local town; got to the second floor, and onto the lighting scheme favoured by all small continental offices, ie total darkness. So I ended up feeling my way along the wall to the distant door, lit only by a small electric doorbell. Pushing the door open, I was met by a small lithe man who reminded me almost immediately of both George Clooney and Graham Norton. You may have to work quite hard at imagining that bit.
Anyway, ushered into his office, and before too long I realised that my limited grasp of French was going to be no match for what was in store.
I garbled my way through how I had got the injury in the first place. I think this may have come across, however, as being the result of some 'very high industrial gardening', as I had forgotten the French for both ladder and hedge trimmer.
George/Graham indicated that I should stand up, and using an international sign language that he was not only comfortable with, but that I also, rather worryingly, immediately understood, he asked me to take my shirt off. And, using the same sign language, that I shouldn't stop there.
As I lay on the table, feeling exposed in soooooo many ways, I realised how unprepared I was for this visit. A few years of Longman's Audio Visual French had produced a 'B' at GCE (which, Elliot, is equivalent to an A* in today's money). And, as a result, if M Marsaud, Jean-Paul or Marie-France chose to lance le ballon in my direction at any time, I wouldn't foresee any problem at all. But unfortunately, this was pretty new territory, untrodden by Longman's. And as a result, I fear my blatant improvisation may have been rather misconstrued.
At one point, I tried to tell G/G that his technique was much less painful than previous treatments that I'd had. Unfortunately, not knowing the appropriate vocabulary may have held me back. I rather fear that I told him that I found his gentle and kind touch most refreshing. If I'd had the words to apologise, I would have. In fact, had I known the words for awkward, embarrassed, and happily married with four children I might have used those as well.
The session ended with a very confusing conversation where I was asking about whether I'd torn my gluteus maximus, and he was having a completely separate one about whether I'd ever enjoyed kayaking down the Loire. Which will forever be a euphemism in our neck of the woods for being rubbed down by a total stranger.
Not sure what all of this teaches us, other than be prepared for everything. And if you're not, busk it.
Oh, and always make sure you're wearing clean underwear.
PeoplePosted by kevin Wed, July 21, 2010 03:36:28A long time ago, the then leader of Bhutan was interviewed, and was asked about his understanding of Gross National Productivity in Bhutan. He replied that he wasn't particularly interested in GNP, but that he was really interested in something called Gross National Happiness. By all accounts this was a bit of a throwaway line, but ever since, Bhutan has been held up as shining example of an alternative and better way of measuring a country's state of development.
Just as well, you might argue, as using traditional measures, Bhutan is always going to be looked at as a country in development - it has little going for it in the way of natural resources, has the global equivalent of the neighbours from hell, and generally has an existence that western states would describe as 'basic' by traditional measures.
But I'm a big fan of GNH, as I think most people's satisfaction with their lot is based around far more than average income levels. To illustrate - GNH has been further defined as the following seven measures:
1. Economic Wellness: eg consumer debt, average income to consumer price index ratio and income distribution
2. Environmental Wellness: eg pollution, noise and traffic
3. Physical Wellness: eg severe illnesses
4. Mental Wellness: eg usage of antidepressants and rise or decline of psychotherapy patients
5. Workplace Wellness: eg claimants, job change, workplace complaints and lawsuits
6. Social Wellness: eg discrimination, safety, divorce rates, complaints of domestic conflicts and family lawsuits, public lawsuits, crime rates
7. Political Wellness: eg quality of local democracy, individual freedom, and foreign conflicts.
And if you buy into the whole GNH assessment, then a combination of all of the above feels like a pretty well balanced view of your country.
Of course, the challenge with this is that you need to hang your standard measures somewhere, and that's where it starts getting complicated. But I think that people tend to wear their GNH on their sleeves most of the time - and it's influenced by a whole load of non-economic factors - so for example I'd suggest that the weather, MP expenses scandals, the state of the NHS, how well Andy Murray is doing at Wimbledon and many other factors have a far bigger impact on the mood of the UK than any traditional economic measure.
So, how to measure this complicated mess? Well, I'm pleased to say, dear reader, that The Emu can exclusively reveal how to measure the health of the nation, using a single points score, far more accurately than any traditional way, and for a fraction of the cost.
Many years ago, I started doing my long Sunday morning runs with my friend G, who for the sake of this blog, we will refer to as The Flying Postman. Now, TFP and I have pretty much nothing in common. But we seem to knock along fine for a couple of hours every week, arguing the finer points of politics/hamstring injuries/football/families and the like, so that a Sunday morning not spent trying to argue TFP out of his 'hang 'em and flog 'em' approach to benefit cheats and shoplifters seems like a pretty empty place indeed. And one notable difference between us is in how we talk to people we meet on those Sunday mornings.
Possibly because I don't particularly enjoy the actual running element of running, I might just about manage a grunt at the walker/dog-owner/runner coming in the opposite direction. TFP, however, fairly skips into their vision, flashes a winning smile, and calls out a hearty 'Good Morning', in a voice that can sometimes be heard across three counties. And it's the reaction to TFP, who, incidentally looks like a nightclub bouncer, and is normally approaching them at pace, wearing a vest and sweating like a good'un, that interests us here.
So, a few weeks ago, I challenged TFP to a competition to measure GNH every Sunday. Basically, you get a point for every person you meet on the run who says 'Good Morning' back to you. There is an increasingly complex system of penalty and bonus scores, which means that a 'good' score works out about zero:
1. A point for each good morning back
2. Minus one for each person who ignores you
3. Groups of people must all answer back - so if you only get a 'spokesman' response from a family of four, you score a net minus two
4. Dog walkers are excluded. They're going to say hello anyway. But it does allow a free practice go
5. Fellow runners coming towards you who don't answer - score minus two
6. And minus ten, for a member of your own running club who ignores you. This really happened a few weeks ago and it led us to practically weep for humanity. Well, sort of.
7. From the agreed position that all cyclists are miserable sods, you may 'Good Morning' them with no penalty for no response, but you do get a point for a "Good Morning" back. Which accounted for a fairly high total a couple of weeks back when we found ourselves on the course of the Norwich Triathlon, running against the traffic.
8. Living fairly near the university and running Sunday mornings gives us a fair chance of bumping into students enjoying the 'walk of shame' home after a big night out. Wearing last night's clothes used to be a bit of a badge of honour in my day, but please note, it is no longer acceptable to call out "well done mate", particularly if it's a girl. After all, one day, the voice under the hoody will answer back "Morning Dad". Anyway, double points for a response.
9. Double points as well for young families with pushchairs. If you have a baby, it's unlikely that you're going to actually want to go for a walk at 8am on a Sunday, so if they can engage with sweating strangers coming towards them, they deserve to be counted extra
10. If the walker/runner/cyclist says "Good Morning" first, five points. I'm looking forward to a few games of 'Cheerful Greeting Chicken' as a result of this rule. Which was, incidentally brought in last week after someone with a voice slightly louder than TFP got in there first. Honestly, it was like being at the deaf glee club.
On our last run, where TFP scored a rather disappointing minus 12, (and therefore summing up Eastern England post World Cup, post Wimbledon, and pre summer holidays,) I asked him why he was so insistent on being so cheery in the mornings. "I don't know", he said, "I just like saying hello to people I suppose - and any way if more people did it, we'd all be a lot happier".
Of course, he's right. Really must try it myself some time.
*Not often you get a chance to reference Helen Shapiro and John Cooper Clarke in the same heading. More of both in the world would be good. And hello Steph x
PeoplePosted by kevin Thu, June 17, 2010 17:11:09I thought you might like to share what a Saturday evening feels like in the Emu household, now that Mrs E & I have abandoned our attempts to out-debauch Amy Winehouse and Joey Ramone. We just don’t have the appetite for it any more, you see, and have far more fun anticipating through parted fingers the future drink fuelled disasters expected of the Jr Emus.
Anyway, this is how last Saturday went.
After a fairly testing bike ride in the early morning (elated mood) and clearing out the garage (concern at being middle aged mood), followed by nipping into the city to get #2 a new mobile phone (how can all this technology be sold in such a complex style mood), I reached that period of quiet reflection that can only be reached in our house by two plates of curry and a bowl of ice cream. The concern at this stage of course, is that what with all the mood changing and calories spent and consumed, it was only a short step to a light sleep on the sofa. But this was Saturday night, and standards have to be maintained, and in our house Saturday standards include staying up as late as humanly possible.
So, a brisk walk was in order, and where better to stroll along to the Co-op (nee Somerfields, nee Gateway etc), a store that despite a number of rebrands, has still managed to maintain a level of soviet-style misery in all its employees. But my heart and mood was in a happy place, for it was Saturday night, there was beer to be bought, and I was greeted on the way by the sight of two men, in full chef's whites, off duty from the local curry house, enjoying an impromptu game of badminton in the car park. Mood up again, in an 'all is right with the world' sort of style.
Managed to maintain this state of mind despite the general gurning and grunting that greets you when you try to buy anything from our Co-op, and fair skipped home, for what awaited the family Emu when I got back was the gala final of 'Britain's Got Talent'. To watch BGT, I think you have to be one of two things - a moron of the first order, or an opportunist with a good stock of 'Pointing & Laughing' chances. In a desperate attempt to avoid being labelled a moron, I went for three big P&L opportunities:
1. Jayney Cutler to be this year's essential car crash viewing.
Well, reader, she certainly didn't disappoint. Starting off in the wrong key, and at least a beat behind the bemused orchestra, she proceeded to kick the living daylights out of 'Non, je ne regrette rien', which, incidentally she'd translated into her native Glaswegian. Given this was the final, our parade of judges were magnanimous in their gentle criticism. 'Well Jayney', they chirrupped, 'you were a little behind the beat, but you made it up like a real trooper'. Jayney simply stared into the middle distance, cackling quietly away, not realising that her dream of being the new Susan Boyle (except without the voice, the rapier wit or, err, the looks) was over.
2. Piers Morgan to set new records in levels of condescension.
Again, happily achieved without really breaking sweat. To Spelbound : 'Y'know, what you've achieved says to me that no matter how hard this show might be criticised, it's capable of unearthing the most amazing and unique hidden talent that Britain has to offer, and we really should applaud it' (discernible pause) '...and I understand you're also preparing for the world championships'. Not a hint of irony. Wonderful.
3. Simon Cowell to prove himself a git of the highest order.
Ok, he's an easy target, but as regular readers of this blog will know, that's never been a reason to hold back. In my head, SC managed to plough new lows in taste and talent as he announced his new single, a version of Tears for Fears' 'Shout', featuring the woefully underexposed and talented James Corden and Dizzee Rascal. Introducing the song as something that 'he'd been waiting to do something with for some time', SC set our pulses racing in eager anticipation that he might have done vaguely interesting. Not for him a glib opportunity to turn the nation's world cup fever into a ridiculously childish terrace rant, surely…
Well, by now, you've probably heard the result of his creative input. Honestly, it's the work of genius to include lines like 'Let's get physical', 'Pull your socks up' and (I kid you not) 'Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough'. All along to a driving 'terrace' beat that will no doubt have us singing along in the stands for years to come. No, really.
All of which left me in the worst mood of the day by far. I'm sure I'll get over it, as long as I never, ever, ever have to listen to that song again.
PeoplePosted by kevin Tue, June 08, 2010 16:40:01I vividly remember the first time I flew on an aeroplane. I was 11 years old, and I was despatched to Rawalpindi, to visit my uncle, aunt and cousins. Exotic, huh? By far and away the most exciting event of my life, and travelling alone gave it a level of wide eyed wonder that I wish I could have bottled and kept forever. In contrast, my last flight, on an admittedly less glamorous trip, was rather less exciting. It was really just an exercise in getting from A to B, with all the attendant long queues, intrusive security checks, last minute rush to the gate, cramming into a seat and hoping that the whole exercise would just be over with before the noxious fumes of my fellow passengers took over completely.
Given that almost 40 years separate these two journeys then it's hardly surprising that things have moved on a tad in the airline industry, not least to what the marketeers no doubt describe as the 'customer experience'. Let's face it, air travel has fundamentally changed, from the most thrilling and special experience you could possibly imagine, where everything about the journey felt geared towards you, to an exercise in unsuccessfully minimising the many hassles that you have to deal with. Added to which, in these enlightened eco-sensitive times, there is lots of guilt to mask any pleasures that you might have hopelessly been hanging on to.
Which brings me to the current challenges that BA and its much maligned cabin crew have been having in the last few months. With apparently very little reference to the 'customer experience', the series of strikes, combined with the already challenged air schedules, have made BA a bit of a joke for travellers, and I suspect that, following the debacle around Terminal 5 and various pricing shenanigans, that this latest story means that people flying BA will be those who have to fly BA, rather than those who have any choice in the matter.
So, given that it's all gone in that direction, why? BA has lots of good routes, an excellent safety history, and pretty reasonable record in getting large groups of travellers to the right place on time. Most of the time these days the baggage goes to the right place as well.
My theory would be that the airline has just lost its way since the halcyon days of air travel. When you get on a BA flight, it feels like you've stepped back to the 1970's, insofar that it ought to feel special, but it doesn't. Most other airlines have recognised that it ain't going to feel that special anymore, so they don't really bother. And part of the problem, frankly, is the cabin crew, who have, ahem, grown up with BA. So the "special" bit is delivered by crew who, frankly look and behave as if they've seen it all before. Which they probably have**.
In contrast, the budget airlines put people in the air who know that their role is to give you the safety talk, not deal with any flak, and generally get the trip over as painlessly as possible, not least for themselves. These (young) staff know exactly what they're getting into; there's no glamour to this - at Ryanair they even pay for their own uniforms. And this is a million miles away from the image of air crew in the 60's and 70's, where, without blushing, a pouting stewardess would appear on an ad to say to the business traveller "I'm Mandy, Fly Me". (Technically, I think this is somewhere between a double and a single entendre.)
Meanwhile, the BA management hold out against the unions in a manner reminiscent of the standoffs of the winter of discontent, and that seems a bit out of time. And, the cabin crew complain of being ill equipped, badly paid, put into difficult circumstances and unhappy with their uniforms. Which, given that these are much the same complaints being sent back from the military in Afghanistan, means that they're also completely out of touch. Both sides are completely losing any public sympathy, which I would have thought, given the circumstances, that they should really be craving.
I'd really like BA to be a good airline. I just wish it would grow up a bit.
*Other names are available. Evening and weekend rates apply.
**I'm acutely aware that this is about the 4th sentence in this blog that is grammatically horrible. My favourite ever line from 'Just A Minute' was when Nicholas Parsons asked Clement Freud "Who would you most like to be shipwrecked on a desert island with?". To which the great man replied: "Almost anyone who didn't end a sentence with a preposition". So, sorry.
PeoplePosted by kevin Wed, March 31, 2010 17:43:37Just a very short note in case you are interested in the ways of internet linkage. I was looking on the BBC website just now (if the link is still there, it's http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/technology/8597399.stm), and, also if it's still there, you may see the link in the bottom rhs of the page.
It reads:
Times Online Lonmin shares take tumble as problem child furnace is shut - 8 hrs ago
Disappointingly, the grammar changes as you go to the link:
Lonmin shares take tumble as ‘problem child’ furnace is shut
All of which is a bit of a shame. Those of us with problem children might not ever want to put them in a furnace, but every now and again it might be nice to use as a threat.
PeoplePosted by kevin Sat, February 27, 2010 15:21:37Here's the story of my worries of the week.
Saturday - watched a performance from Norwich City vs Southampton that was best described as turgid. Not helped by sitting next to the Southampton fans, who alternated their singing between 'Top of the league, - You're having a laugh', 'Small town near Ipswich, you're just a small town near Ipswich' and, as the home supporters started leaving at 2-0 down, 'Home to your sister, you're going home to your sister'. My main worries were around the value of forking out £56 to take two of the boys to a game of such embarrassing disappointment, and the huge wage bill that Norwich City pay to players who, largely, didn't seem to be able to do their job properly.
Sunday - worried about Jr Emu #2 having a crap 14th birthday as he'd been throwing up all night and looked pretty miserable all day. Then I worried about the results of a long run, where I'd struggled to hit the time I wanted, and had a slight twinge in my right calf caused by my pesky compression sock, which then developed into not being able to put any weight on it (my leg, not the sock) for the rest of the day. So I worried about getting old, not being able to run marathons again, and generally being crap at what I wanted to do.
Monday - worried about work. Came home and worried that I wasn't being a terribly good parent.
Tuesday - worried about dreadful customer service from Apple, a company I'd previously thought very highly of, and who now are pretty low on my list of favourite businesses. Pretty weird that Apple don't even have a complaints process, and even weirder that they find it acceptable to charge £73 to fix an iPod that was still under warranty.
Wednesday - worried about work in the morning and afternoon. In the evening, worried about whether the new band was going to be tight enough to be gig-worthy, whether the songs were strong enough, whether the lyrics made sense, and whether I was getting a bit too old for this rock and roll lark.
Thursday - ran into work, listening to a podcast of 'The Interview' from BBC World Service. This was an interview with Paul Kagame, President of Rwanda. We all know about the appalling genocide in Rwanda, and Kagame is the man who has been tasked with rebuilding the country following that dreadful history. You can hear the podcast at http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p004t5p8, and I thoroughly recommend that you do.
Whatever you might think about Kagame, his thoughts on class division and the work in having to rebuild communities where a devastated family might have to live next door to the perpetrators of the genocide and be encouraged to co-exist, are, frankly, mind-blowing.
So, largely, I decided that my worries were pretty small beer in the scheme of things. In fact, should I ever descend in this blog to the sort of whinging that doesn't stand up to real world reality, please do remind me that I don't even know I'm born.
PeoplePosted by kevin Wed, January 13, 2010 16:40:46Recently on Radio 5, I was intrigued to hear a piece on the decline of Bookmaker profits, on which they had a real live Bookmaker, introduced as the head of Paddy Power betting shops. And his name was…Paddy Power.
I never thought for a moment that there was a real Paddy Power. And what a fantastic name for a bookie. Almost as if Mr & Mrs Power sr had thought, when the little fella emerged - 'Let's give him a name that will mark him out as a really memorable man, one who could perhaps run a whole series of branch and online betting shop emporiums…let us call him…Paddy Power'.
And so it was so.
So that did rather get me to thinking about really good names that were given at birth, with a real insight to their future roles. Here are a few examples:
Vlad the Impaler (well known Impaler)
Johnny Guitar Watson (Guitarist, obviously)
Clarence Gatemouth Brown (Harmonica player)
Fatty Arbuckle (also see Fats Domino and Guitar Slim)
Freddie Parrot Face Davis (err)
Ivan the Terrible (Could have pursued a number of careers, including Karaoke singer, waiter at Little Chef..)
And my particular favourite….
Princess Michael of Kent
In the unlikely event that you wish to add to this list, please do let me know
PeoplePosted by kevin Fri, January 01, 2010 21:20:27Well, a very happy NY to you, and what better opportunity to share with you my fave picture from 2008:
And here's an accompanying competition...I think there are two main (male) reactions to this picture, so why not think of all your male friends, and divide them up accordingly:
A. This photograph typifies everything that is wrong about western society in the 21st century, by cheapening women and their purpose in life with a literally indelible stamp. 50 years on from the progress made by post-war radical feminism, it just seems like we're no further forward in any real emancipation in sexual politics.
B. How come I never seem to meet girls like Kelly ?
A v happy 2010 to y'all.
PeoplePosted by kevin Thu, December 24, 2009 21:20:24Probably shouldn't be doing this on Christmas eve; there's presents to wrap, drink to be drunk and still a couple of children to tell off, but I would very much like to share my favourite local news article from the last few weeks.
Topical, full of seasonal cheer, and a fine metaphor for the year ahead.
Enjoy!
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/norfolk/8428206.stm
PeoplePosted by kevin Wed, October 28, 2009 21:37:35Five things:
1. Moving a very very very heavy stone bench up a hill, to get a better view.
2. In a very alpha-male way, keeping the resultant pain in my back quiet from Mrs Emu. Who is, by profession, a nurse. Specialising in pain management. And who had earlier advised that it was a stupid idea to try to lift said bench.
3. Trying to go for a run, to get the stiffness out of my back, a day later.
4. Not being able to sleep, getting up at 3.30 am, and making the mistake of looking at the Blackberry.
5. Discovering the source of our rodent problem in the kitchen at 3.35 am, and not being able to chase the little blighter, on account of my back not working.
All in all, not the best week to stop smoking.
However, am pleased to report that we now have a lovely and delightfully situated bench, upon which weary travellers can rest their chronic back problems. And we have tracked down the mouse to his/her hiding place in the cupboard with all the newspapers, where he/she had fashioned a splendid nest of supermarket receipts inside a shoe box. It only took 6 of us to catch him/her and encourage him/her into a cardboard box and away from the house. Whereupon Mrs E commented that it was by far the biggest mouse that she'd ever seen. Almost, in fact, the size of a r**.
The holiday continues...
PeoplePosted by kevin Thu, October 22, 2009 15:49:28Having our tea last night with the kids, and trying to have a conversation with Jr Emu #1 about GCSE results and A level choices, we realised we'd rather lost the audience when #3 asked:
"How many GCSE's do I need to become a celebrity?"
I've mentioned Felix before here, and his enthusiaism for being, well, different. And of course, this could be a cue to go on (& on & on) about the vapidity of celebrity culture, and about how sad it is that our children have ambition borne of such low self esteem. Or I could bang on about the need for the International Baccalaureate to start including a '15 minutes of fame' module. Or possible dismiss the whole celebrity culture as an inadequate substitute for meaningful aspiration.
But instead, I thought I might just leave it as a quite funny thing that Felix said when he was 11.
PeoplePosted by kevin Mon, October 05, 2009 15:30:58I genuinely don't like travelling on aeroplanes, and I really hate going from Norwich Airport. Most people I speak to feel the same…so let's start with a stab at a top 5 peeves:
1. Norwich Airport charges £5 a pop…to use the airport. That's in order to go through security into the departure lounge. Does any other airport do this? Actually yes, the massive commercial enterprises that are Knock, Waterford and Newquay airports. Now, only a cynic would say that these charges are simply there to attract 'cheap' flights.
2. Every time, and I mean every time, I go through security I get searched. Not quite as dramatically as last year in Schipol airport where I was, quite frankly, cupped, but still an early morning frisking I'd rather not have. And, while I'm on the subject, if I'm going to carry anything metallic onto a plane that's a security risk, am I really going to put it through a metal detector?
3. I don't use the car park, so I don't really have a beef there, but don't you think it's a bit odd that airports are built on the outskirts of cities, yet the cost of parking is more than most inner city car parks? How does that get justified, other than because it can happen? And how does that make it right? And if you book a taxi, they have to wait outside the airport for you to call them, as they only get 5 minutes inside before they start getting stung as well.
4. The fact you can't make your way into departures without going through the Eastern European style gift shop. Which is unmanned. And whilst well stocked with exorbitantly priced travel sweets and hilarious 'bluffer's guides' books, does nothing for me about my life, as Morrissey might not say.
5. Cup of tea - £1.80. The fact you have to make it yourself - priceless.
But that's far too easy, no? What would be harder/more fun would be a list of things to like about Norwich Airport?
1. Looking at the perspex box where confiscated items go to die. I enjoy this at any airport, and particularly enjoyed the box at Dublin earlier this year where there was a 5 foot long firework displayed. Again, hard to believe that anyone thought this would really work as hand luggage, but nowt so queer as folk and all that. Speaking of which, last summer, I noticed at Norwich, just before the weekly flight to Malaga, two confiscated tins of salmon. Which makes you wonder a) what sort of person considers tinned salmon as essential hand luggage and b) what sort of threat was actually posed to security…
2. Watching people shell out £5 for the airport development fee for the first time - hilarious!
3. There's a ratio of around 1 staff per passenger. You may be ignored, but it's not a bad ratio should you want a chat. As long as it's not about the airport development fee. They don't like talking about that.
4. There's pretty much always somewhere to sit. The development fee has shelled out for a rather large lounge compared to the size of planes that go in and out of Norwich.
5. Norwich International. Words that go together like Polanski and childcare. The whole point of Norwich is that it is desperately non-international, so it's all delightfully ironic to see the airport trying to be a hub of inter-continental travel, whilst all around is so incredibly domestic. More of this another time, but just be happy for now, that you can be in the car park of NIA and still not be able to see the terminal behind the smoking hut.
PeoplePosted by kevin Sun, September 13, 2009 16:35:55Famously, on one of Richard Branson's school reports, one of his teachers predicted that he would be a millionaire or end up in prison. Rather neatly, of course, he managed to achieve both. My prediction for Emu#3 is that he will end up as a national treasure (probably more Michael Crawford than Thora Hird), or as a dancer in a cage or on a pole at one of Soho's seedier clubs. Probably not both though.
I am partly drawn to this conclusion by his latest reverse achievement, where he arrived home clutching his certificate that said that he'd taken part in a cycling safety scheme. This is what gentle readers of a certain age would call a cycling proficiency test, and in my day, upon passing, you got a little red triangular badge when you passed, that you could wear next to your Tufty badge, and henceforth, you pretty much had the freedom of the roads.
All good, though, on further questioning, we realised that a certificate saying he'd taken part wasn't quite on a par with a certificate to say he'd passed. Indeed, he'd rather dramatically failed, which, as far as I'm aware, is only one notch up from failing at 'Show and Tell'. Turning the certificate over, it appeared he'd spent the entire test cycling on the wrong side of the road.
'Sorry Dad' he said. 'It's just that I had a lot on my mind at the time'.
Still, he has a certificate. And it's on his wall. We keep swapping it around to annoy him.
PeoplePosted by kevin Thu, September 03, 2009 21:52:10One of the many, many perks of my job is the opportunity to travel at unearthly hours of the day through and to some interesting places, and whilst doing so, sharing my personal space with a diverse collection of fellow travellers. Or as, I like to call it, getting the 6am train to London.
This prevents me with a bit of a challenge personally, as I can no longer justify an early night. This has something to do with wanting to eke out every second of the day, and partly because I'm quite keen on remaining married. Mrs Emu has firm views on bed-time. She requires at least 2 hours of child free time in the evening, whether it's spent slumped in front of the TV or, as we like to still call it in our house, becoming elegantly wasted.
And of course, the problem with this is that the children, insist on getting bigger and staying up later. Already this year we have had to extend both the house and our fridge capability, and now it's the sleeping habits. Emu#1, for example, is now on a curfew of 11pm, which, assuming he has any vague idea of time (you really need to meet him), means that by Mrs E's rules we shouldn't be hitting the hay till around 1am. All of which means that with a 5am start, the train journey is a grand opportunity to catch up on a few missed z's.
And this has some splendid side-benefits. Starting my journey in Norwich, which is not particularly lively at that time of the morning*, means that I can pretty much guarantee a seat. As the train gets busier, as we rattle towards Diss, Ipswich, Stowmarket and Colchester, the seats fill up, by which time I've settled back and very possibly have a small stream of dribble coming out of the side of my mouth. And the nice thing is that I wake up in Liverpool Street, genuinely surprised at who I'm waking up next to. I like to think of it as being a bit like a student, but without the constant threats of herpes and poetic regrets.
Most of the time it's a fairly ordinary awakening; usually another bloke in a suit, putting away his killer suduko for the morning**, but there have been two remarkable highpoints in the last few months:
Highpoint one was the tall, and frankly, rather attractive, woman in her twenties, who woke me up by tapping me on the shoulder and whispering very gently in my ear:
"It's time for us to get off"
Well, I very never, as you might say.
And the second highpoint was the bloke I woke up to a few minutes before getting to Liverpool Street. Although the train was packed, I still appeared to have plenty of elbow room, and even allowed myself a little stretch. All was clear when he stood up to get his jacket - his right arm was missing.
So, in the rather unlikely event that either of these two are reading this, please feel free to sit next to me again - you were lovely to wake up to last time and I'm sure you'll be again. As for me, I'm thinking of playing a little game next time. I'll wake up, not open my eyes, yawn, say 'Morning Darling' really loudly, then turn to see who I'm next to. Why don't you try doing the same? After all, what's the worst that could happen?
*Norwich last 'got lively' in 1985, when NCFC got to the Milk Cup final. People still talk of it in hushed tones, as the day when the city rather let itself go.
**Why? Why? Why?
PeoplePosted by kevin Thu, August 13, 2009 22:33:50To my delight (and a certain amount of surprise), I've had lots of feedback to the last blog about the deer and the mis-translation.
Given that until now, I thought I was only really writing this for the questionable benefit of my wife and regular reader Mr S Bean (really), the heat is now on to come up with something vaguely interesting for future episodes. In the meantime, you might be interested to know about part two of the dead deer saga…
After the initial debacle, cycle rides and runs past the ex-Bambi's mother became a little more challenging. Nothing like 30+° weather and a rural environment to bring out a little accelerated decomposition. On day one, the boys told me, there were a few maggots (by the way, you might want to stop eating before you read this). By day two, there was a pretty unpleasant smell from about 20 yards away. By day three, this had extended to about 50 yards, and unfortunately on day four, we all had to cycle past ex-BM on the way back from a day out. We held our breath from about 100 yards out, and pedalled furiously. Jr Emu #1 was first past the scene of the crime, and looked to his right at the key moment. We all sailed past without looking, intent on getting past without having to breath in, except for #4, who is the inquisitive sort.
Having exhaled and breathed in some relatively un-putrid air moments later, #1 impatiently broke the news:
"She's had her head cut off!"
#4 confirmed this, and thanked us all profusely for the nightmares that he expected as a result of his first and last view of ex-BM.
Now, this begs a number of mystery questions, and as you can imagine, conspiracy theories currently abound in the family Emu. My personal theory is that someone wanted to get the whole beast home, but only had a hacksaw and a bicycle. Mrs Emu is convinced that somewhere nearby, there's a sitting room with a new hunting trophy above the fireplace.
In any case, by the next day, someone had thought to cover the carcass with lime. The smell had gone, but the mystery remained...
PeoplePosted by kevin Wed, July 29, 2009 22:50:09We're in France, and staying, as ever, in the middle of nowhere, with limited vocabulary and all sorts of potential hazards to remind us that this is the way to have eventful holidays. No sitting by the pool for us, no siree. Normally when we get here, the grass has reached around the height of a small child, and we regularly lose one as a result for the first couple of days.
Anyway, being the fit family, and having an even fitter family staying with us, no small commotion from this morning as six or seven of us came in from runs and bike rides, with news that there was an injured deer, hit by a car, on the road that runs near to the bottom of the house. There's another blog to be written about the deer hereabout, and how they are an inspiration for us all to give up running and drive tractors, but that will have to wait for now. In the mean time, there is a deer with a broken neck on the side of the road. Breathing, and looking every inch just like Bambi's mother.
We didn't think the gendarmes would be particularly interested in the accident, so decided that the best next step would be to tell Yaside, who runs the Tabac in the nearby village. So off we rushed, with mission in our minds and a french dictionary by our sides.
'What's the french for deer?', said Mrs Emu
So I looked it up - 'Chevreux', I said, 'or Daim, if it's a female'. Which it was.
Rushed into the Tabac to break the bad news. Now, what we were trying to say was that there was a deer with its neck broken, about 3km down the road, and we weren't sure what to do. We should have twigged that the questions about whether there were any witnesses or police on the scene weren't the sort of enquiries that normal French folk make about a dying deer.
Unfortunately, given that Daim looks and sounds a bit like Dame, what Mrs Emu had actually said was that there was a woman 3km up the road with a broken neck, but still breathing. And that if Yaside got a move on he might be able to have it for his dinner.
All of which is a bit embarrassing. I really think we're fitting in here.
PeoplePosted by kevin Fri, June 26, 2009 17:31:26By the way, do let me know if I sound like some twit from the Daily Mail. Actually, I might start prefacing all of my sentences like that.
It all started many years ago, when I first moved to Norwich. One of the things that really irritated me was the advert for a garage in the local paper. It had the logo, all the cars underneath, and what I believe is called a strapline at the bottom of the page, that said "Cars Are People". And every time I saw it, I wanted to scream. Not because it was 'not good use of the English language" (see point about DM above), but because it was just so…patronising. What I thought (and have continued to think when confronted with this sort of slogan) is that the people that put such nonsense in front of us are trying to prove that new use of the language is groundbreaking, just because it's nonsense.
You might remember in the 90's that there was briefly a fashion for sweatshirts that had faux slogans on - these in my experience were often worn by Japanese tourists in order to look more like Americans. They'd have words like 'Authentic', 'Original', 'Denimware', 'State' , and so on, but because they were arranged in a fairly random order, they were, well, just words. As that particularly annoying member of the Von Trapp family once put it…'But It Doesn't Mean Anything'. So I spent a fair amount of time being annoyed about that.
Which brings us to 2009, and the Adidas campaign that says 'Impossible Is Nothing'. Well, that's wrong really, isn't it. I don't even know what the clever people are trying to say any more.
PeoplePosted by kevin Sat, June 13, 2009 23:18:07I had my hair cut today. This is always an opportunity for me to find out what's really going on in the world.
'What's really going on in the world?', I asked.
'Well', said Mr Sweeney*, 'everyone's been talking about Gordon Brown. They say it's time for him to go; he's made too many mistakes'.
And, although Gordon Brown may well be an uninspirational and unelected misfit who takes Scottish dourness to levels that make Private Frazer sound like Jeannette Krankie, I feel compelled to rush to his defence:
The Labour party is supposed to have something to do with socialism, right? Well, Gordon Brown at least has some modicum of socialist background, in direct contrast with T Blair, whose handing over of the reins now appears to have been a master stroke.
Most of Brown's problems have been inherited, and unlike many of his peers, he hasn't dwelt on the hand he's been given. Surrounded by people with better sound-bites, he's seen some phenomenal change in a very short period of time, and I do find it hard to think what he would have done differently in the financial sector of the UK - we may even applaud him for intervention when we look back on 2008/9**
'Man of the people' David Cameron, in contrast, seems to have so little to say (still!) about policy, that, at a time when the parties should really be rallying towards each other, his best lines are still the traditional party politic jibes - exactly what he said he wouldn't do when he was elected leader. I think Cameron is about as out of touch with British society as…well, Boris Johnson, probably, and I really fear the alternative to the current government.
Plus, while I think about it, Cameron annoys me because he's younger than me. When I was growing up, political leaders (and Tories in particular) were about as old as your grandparents. Which I'm not, so it's just wrong.
In the European elections, the protest votes included voting in two BNP candidates as MEP's. Showing that not all forms of protest are especially rational. Gawd help us if thsat thinking continues into a protest election
As we have seen in recent weeks, courtesy of the Daily Telegraph, there are a lot of MP's out there who are out for themselves as 1st, 2nd and 3rd priorities. Now, we probably all knew that to become an MP you have to be pretty ego-centric, but to have confirmed that large numbers of them are also fraudulent apologists (or, in Sir Anthony Steen's case, just fraudulent), kind of puts them on another level. And there are a few politicians who thus far have no stain on their character; GB being one of them. Incidentally, if you are a journalist on the Telegraph at the moment, it must be like having a birthday/Christmas/Boris&Petronella scoop every day. After this, the journos are going to really struggle back to real life.
Anyway, he's not a moron. Even if everyone thinks the country is out of control, I really fear the alternative.
*I have no idea what Mr Sweeney's real name is, but I've had my hair cut by him at his shop (Sweeney's Barbers; Norwich), for about 20 years now, and not once has he turned me into one of Mrs Miggins's pies.
** "We" doesn't include Vince Cable
PeoplePosted by kevin Sat, June 13, 2009 15:37:29Well, I suppose there are some pretty easy targets here, but having been drawn into the festival of morbid entertainment that is BGT, why not point out the bleedin' obvious:
1. Talent definition - I saw the BGT final and struggled to see any talent at all. To me, the true definition of talent includes a degree of originality. That's why people pay a fortune to see their heroes rather than cheaper (and often more 'accurate' covers bands. So to see Susan Boyle mimic note for note 'I dream a dream' just didn't do it for me.
2. And, while I'm about it, what is all of this obsession with 'SuBo'? Here's a couple of rather obvious comments:
- Amanda Holden's much published 'mouth open in astonishment at the wonder of Susan Boyle's voice' says more about AH than words can say. Yes, it's possible to hold a tune without having well defined cheekbones.
- Anyone who saw Susan Boyle interviewed on TV by the duo midget laugh fest that is Ant and Dec and DIDN'T think 'there's someone who's going to have some problems living in the public eye' was, frankly, deluded
- And I could go on…
3. And don't start me on Stavros Flatley. How does that fit the definition of talent, exactly?
4. And finally, a word for our judges:
- Simon Cowell's response to the 11 year old who was filmed breaking down in tears was astonishing. Why do we need to see a child in this state? Well, the cynic might say so that SC can rise above the rules and say something like 'come hell or high water, we'll find time for you to sing that song again'. Which she did. So, tell me - why exactly did you have to show, on a pre-recorded show, the tears in the first place?
- Amanda Holden - who appeared, on final night, to have been styled by the director of a 50's porn film, can only hope that her comments can aspire to being banal in future. Because they're some way short of this at the moment.
- Piers Morgan - Judging the common hoi-polloi and refusing to take advantage for my own means? With my reputation?
Next week - why Alan Sugar doesn't really matter.
