Day 58: I Have A Guest Post

My mother, known to regular readers as Monkeymother, has been travelling of late, and here - as it's funnier than anything I can think of - is an email she sent us this morning, that I will now share with the world. (Well, with the 12 other unemployed people who may stumble across this blog whilst watching This Morning and drinking Harvey's Bristol Cream straight from the bottle.)

The Trip So Far

The Car: Journey to Poitiers via Ruffec not much fun. Convoy of lorries travelling at 40mph between Aigre and Ruffec. A10 in Poitiers ok, but wouldn't want to risk delays in busy periods. Difficult to find parking space, eventually find one a mile away.

The Airport: Having checked website that morning, arrive at airport to discover rules have changed French end and, as have no baggage to check in, have to chuck away all cosmetics, paracetamol, etc ,etc. Computer check-in makes no difference to me. Go through stringent security - French, charming, good-natured, in the face of people who do not understand that toothpaste is in a tube and resembles a gel and that lipsticks are cosmetics and belong in the bin. I have a laugh with two of them and it cheers us all up a bit, although a little hurt that young, good-looking man tells me that Macs are finished and when I cite iPod, he doesn't rate them any better than the competition.

The Departure Lounge: Go through to departure lounge. No aircon, not enough seats, two ineffectual fans, drinks machine out of action for security purposes (understood), but no water dispenser and people dying around me. Flight called. Obviously the plane will go without us if we do not push, trampling children and the disabled in the process. Ryanair personnel decide not to bother with last security checks of passports and boarding cards (as carried out in every airport in the World, I believe), open doors wide and people run for that plane as if they believe is taxiing down the runway without them.

The Plane: Dirty, full, bearable but no tea?! Several screaming children, the majority of whom are old enough to know better, as are their parents (just).

The Arrival: Walk miles and miles, elderly gent walking behind says: "Travelling isn't fun anymore, is it?". Find queues for passport control as long as I have ever seen anywhere in the World - understandable but awful. I am asked where I have come from, why, and for how long. No, I was not tempted to make a facetious reply - for once, but have bonded with nice man, whom I will never see again, in the queue.

The Train: Filthy beyond imagination. The seats, the floor, the walls, the windows (inside and out). Then it stops, for quite a long time.

The Tube: Excellent, arrives immediately, they apologise for the delay. Then we stop in a tunnel, for quite a long time. It is very hot.

Vauxhall Station: No ticket-buying facility, of any sort, available. Wait for train. Cancelled. Next train comes into wrong platform. But it is beautiful, and spotless, and air-conditioned. Perhaps it is like this as it is the Weybridge service - maybe we should consider moving to the burbs after all?

Barnes Bridge: Stagger home.

This journey has taken me 7 horrible hours door-to-door. There will be a train strike on Monday. Maybe I shall stay here for ever.

But I love you all.

Day 57: I Am Not Devastated, But May Be A Bit Pissed Off

It was different in the olden days, you know. In the war, you might have turned to someone in an air-raid shelter and said: "my house has been devastated by a doodlebug", or "I am devastated, for my new husband is in a POW camp in Japan". (And I'd have said, had I been alive in 1944, "fair enough", and offered you a go on my ration book in order to take your mind off things.) In 1666, you would have been well within your rights to stand on the South Bank, observe the smouldering ruins of London and say: "London has been devastated by a fire that, by all accounts, started in Pudding Lane".

Since then, it seems that a great and overwhelming emotional spasticity has swept across the country, rendering people unable to cope with the smallest of setbacks. Interestingly, it is afflicting people of all ages, gender and social class.

I will, as ever, illustrate by example:

1. "I am devastated that I have failed to make it through to X-Factor Boot Camp."

2. ."I am devastated that little Matilda has failed to get a place at the only decent primary school in the locale, regardless of the fact that it is a Catholic school and we are Satanists."

3. "I came second in the egg-and-spoon race at Biffy's sports day. I am devastated."

4. "I was devastated to find, upon arriving at Top Shop, that they had sold out of blue shoes."

5. "I was devastated when Take That split up."

6. "Mrs Colonel Bufty-Tuftington's jam has beaten mine at the local Church Fete, and I am devastated"

7. "I have run out of crack and White Lighting, and am devastated."

I suggest that, much in the way that we should campaign for the replacement of social kissing with a firm hand-shake, we campaign for the blanket ban of "devastation" (unless used to describe real catastrophes, like floods, famine, earthquakes, random wars and terminal illnesses), and replace it instead with the excellent Anglo-Saxon expression, "I am a bit pissed off". You never know. Might cheer people up a bit.

Coming soon: 'Tragic tot", "I am bi-polar", "I have low blood-sugar" and using "infer" when you mean "imply". I'm not going to have a pop about apostrophes, simply because there is nothing funnier than a greengrocer's sign that says 'Banana's, 75p/lb'.

Day 57: I Am Confused By Bridges And An American Chanteuse

See this bridge? This is the London Bridge that a bloke from Arizona called Robert McCulloch bought for $2.4m in 1968. He had it transported over the sea and everything, then rebuilt it. A splendid endeavour, I'm sure you'll agree. Here it is in situ:












Unfortunately for Robert McCulloch, but not for the English tourist industry, he thought he was buying this one:











Now then, pay attention at the back. We're getting there. The bridge in the previous photograph is Tower Bridge. The current London Bridge - i.e., the re-built one - looks not unlike the original London Bridge that Robert McCulloch bought, except it's in London. Here it is in situ:














But look! What is this I see? It's a publicity shot for the popular singer Fergie (of Black Eyed Peas fame), publicising her new single, um, London Bridge. (The video is worth a watch, by the way, as it features Tower Bridge in all its glory and young Fergie miming the administration of oral love on some Guardsmen with unfeasibly large bearskin hats. I like it, as it goes; I have a fondness for songs with content of a sexual nature.)





















And finally, here is a picture of the Empire State Building:

Day 56: I Propose An Immediate Ban On Social Kissing, And Demand The Reinstatement Of The Handshake

I'm not talking about man-likes-lady kissing. I'm off that for a bit, as regular readers will know. I'm talking about 'social kissing'.

It's OK if you're a Continental, particularly if you're a Frenchified Continental (for e.g., I think the Belgians and some of the Swiss count). Even then it's complicated: I get kissed twice, three or four times when I go to France; it all depends on whether they think they're posh or not, whether they know me well, and which part of France they were from originally. But it's British Social Kissing I object to.

In the olden days, it was just Sloanes (pseudo-posh types) who did it, mainly in The White Horse in Parson's Green whilst wearing rugby shirts or pearls (sometimes together). Then media types did it, and going to a Media Function (part of my old job, and not a part I miss), would mean you would get a kiss on each cheek from up to one hundred different people in a night, whether you knew them or not. By the mid-90s, you had to kiss all your colleagues in your advertising agency before you'd even sat down with your double-decaf monkeyjizz latte. By 1998, a commercial shoot would often be delayed by up to an hour as the director, producer, producer's assistant, make-up and wardrobe people, sound boys, gaffers and runners kissed themselves into the ground.

As recently as June 2006, I went to a meeting with 15 people, all of whom kissed me on each cheek. I had no say in the matter; they just did it. The meeting was delayed by 10 minutes.

It's getting out of hand. If you actually like someone, you end up giving them a hug. And it's only going to get worse. The sheer waste of time aside, it's just wrong. We're British, for fuck's sake. We don't do touching, unless it's man-likes-lady time (and even then it's not guaranteed).

I had a meeting with an advertising recruitment person today. You would think, wouldn't you, that they'd be top of the list of Unwanted Kiss Distributors. But no. She shook my hand, and I shook hers. Then her boss (who I have met and who could, theoretically, kiss me as she has at least met me), also shook my hand. And I shook hers. It was quick, not awkward or over-familiar, business-like (as businesslike as anything can be if I'm within 10 feet of it), and nice.

So it's time to bring back the handshake. If you're really keen, you could bow; add a click of the heels if you fancy it. If it's someone super-exciting and you're a girl, curtsey. (If you want to know how, you just put your right leg behind your left leg and bend at the knees a bit. I think. No doubt Monkeymother, a.k.a. Posh Totty, will correct me if I'm wrong; she was virtually in the Royal Ballet when she was a gel.) I promise you it'll catch on in no time, particularly once everyone works out that exchanging kisses for a firm handshake will save up to 3.6 billion working hours a year.

Day 56 (I'm pretty sure now): I Go To The Gym (Part 2)

After the episode with Mr Cunty (see below), and after she'd made me do some stuff that made me look like Superman, except not actually flying, Anuja and I sat cross-legged on the mats.

Me (small voice, looking at my hands): Anuja?
Personal trainer: Yeah?
Me: Could you ... um ...
Personal trainer: Yes babes?
Me: Um, teach me to do cartwheels. And handstands. When I'm thinner. You know.
Personal trainer: Why's that, babes?
Me: Well, I've never been able to do them, even when I was little, and I really want to.
Personal trainer: Sure. Be fun. Want to know how to do this?

She gets up, runs, skips a bit, then actually and literally spins in the air without touching the ground and lands on her feet. I applaud, and make her do it 3 times. She tries to high-five me, and for once I accept.

Me: Gosh*. Yes.
Personal trainer: Tell you what. Let's start with a backwards roll.
Me: OK. I think I can do them.
Personal trainer: Good.


* I actually did say "gosh", as unlikely as it seems.