Woke up, got out of bed, dragged a comb across my head

I can’t finish this dad – he says thrusting a half eaten pie towards my face. The crust has been nibbled with perfect symmetry and its watery filling virtually gone, congealed fat lines the pastry. The excitement, the wall of noise, the music, the pageantry, the anticipation of a major upset has disappeared. A very large and excitable beach ball with a slow puncture has just had knife thrust into its heart and it lies deflated and quiet.

3-0, 15 min to go.

He sits there quiet and distracted, less interested in the happenings on the pitch. A balloon floats down from the upper tier and he follows its slow progress down to the touchline, 2 goals could be scored to setup a frenzied final few minutes and he wouldn't notice. I watch his gaze moving around, anywhere but the pitch. The fans across the stadium make conversation difficult and I find myself thinking if we leave now we can beat the queue for the train.

A normal day in the life of an underdog supporter.

The pattern never changes, always the same, the build up to the game, the excitement, the conversations, hushed at first – don't tempt fate. Later, after a few pints, the conversation is much more confident – we can do this, on a good day we are a match for anyone, their star player is injured. Enter the stadium, well oiled, 50,000 fans singing, the music, the perfect green, the lights, it's a heady cocktail and you join in, singing yourself quickly hoarse.

To suitably stirring music the teams stride onto the pitch and the noise goes up a few notches, handshakes all around and the children leave the pitch. Its quiet for a few seconds as the referee checks the nets and then kick off.

From that moment on we have reached the zenith and its downhill all the way. Sometimes they manage to hold their own for a time delaying the inevitable, the shouting, the foul language continues. The referee, the opposition player, the opposing fans, the linesman, anyone for that matter save the 11 players, are all wankers. It's a conspiracy against the underdog threatening to upset the normal order of things.

Pretty soon though the first goal goes in and the shouting for a while increases – don't drop your heads - but inevitably it dies down. The pints are wearing off, a foul taste is present in your mouth and thoughts start turning back to the real world, the one you put on ice a few hours and pints ago.

Come on son, let’s get off eh? Get the train before the rest – we might make it home for Dr Who if were lucky. He takes little persuasion and very soon we are trudging up towards Mount Florida kicking the multi-coloured flotsam and jetsum filling the streets. The noise behind you is muffled but you still keep one ear open for a telling roar - it doesn't come.

A Jurassic sized police horse takes his attention and the game is a distant memory, easily forgotten, one to be replaced with all the future upsets he will definitely witness. Tomorrows headlines will be the usual regurgitated shite - brave hearts and worthy contenders.

Am hungry dad, can we get something to eat - he looks expectantly up at me, face blushed from the cold.

Life is tough, life isn’t fair.

If it was I would have stayed to 90mins and celebrated long into the night. I look forward to the day a man with sunglasses stuck to his nose offers me a blue or green pill. I will take the suspend reality pill, I don't want to know that the world is a barren nuclear wasteland with machines milking us for energy. No, I want to stand and cheer as yet another famous upset unfolds on the pitch in front of me. I will take a cheating, diving, sneaky, underhand, Uruguayan-esq win over a brave valiant loss any day. I don't even care if it’s a computer generated one, implanted in my brain to keep me a docile energy source.

I smile looking down at his expectant face, crisps, juice, chocolate are running though his childish mind. I ruffle his hair and produce the cold, half eaten pie from my pocket – here you go.

It's a hard lesson but one which he needs to learn and I run after him wailing his way onto the dirty orange train.

Jklljaayavik

You learn something new everyday.

It is 10am in the morning and already I have learned loads. The WIFI on ICE602 Basel – Dortmund high speed train is not switched on, the Kasabian album I purposely loaded onto my i-pod for the trip doesn't work and that Scipio and Hannibal actually met each other and had a discussion before they readied their respective armies for battle, just before the fall of Carthage.
Random knowledge and, unless you are reading this before getting on the 602 from Basel expecting to do some work or quietly going about your business in Carthage in 146BC, is most probably useless knowledge.

In 2006 during the World Cup I learned that someone from the Ivory Coast is called Ivorian and last Thursday I learned that people who study volcanoes are called Volcanologist. The first time I heard this on the news I looked up expecting to see a man with a bird of prey on his arm. Of course the Icelandic volcano debris which has caused so much chaos over Europe is the reason these people are having their day in the sun. Unfortunately Vulcanology I would imagine is a very particular career. Not one I would assume young/cool people aspire to and that is the reason we have been subjected to the disturbing images of beardy men & women on prime time news talking to us in squeaky voices about the infinately unpronouncable Eyjafjallajoekull glacier in Iceland.

How the hell did a glacier end up with a name like that by the way? Is there any sort of sane naming convention up there? My bet is there is none and no-one actually named this Glacier. Someone rested his/her arm on the keyboard and the output somehow made it onto the Glacier Naming Form (GNF) in the same screwed up way an out of office in Welsh made it onto a road sign. Another theory could be that it didnt have a name until it started erupting last week and then the Icelanders, still pissed from the banking meltdown last year, decided to make life very, very, difficult for our news reporters.

No problem for our beardy types though. I reckon somewhere in the world there is a good looking, Geoff Goldblum type. In his slightly eccentric way he has been running around for the past month trying to warn the great & the good about this eruption. He tried time and again to warn the world’s leaders about the impending doom but they were too busy with minor political matters to listen. Only now they are turning to him for advice but it is too late, he is too busy dodging lava flows with his cutesy children in Iceland and doing live reports exclusively for Fox News.

This is why we are left with Mr Turbot, leading Volcanologist from Hull Polytechnic to grace our SKY, BBC and ITV screens. He is a busy man, even the birds who were nesting on his face have migrated to a nearby Tsunami expert in the hope of some peace and quiet

Imagine a world where only birds were the masters of the sky.
A world where we take our time to get from A-B. A trip from Southern Europe to, say, the UK would take a day or two. A visit to the USA would be a week and Australasia would be a couple of weeks. The food on our plate would be locally grown and sourced. The great shipyards of the world would once again churn out floating leviathans and all our electronics would be manufactured from either the country it is sold in or very nearby. Most evenings would be spent with the family around the dinner table telling stories. Family values would return and crime would decrease. The art of reading would once again become important, the ozone would be intact and white rhinos would once again be safe to gore things at will.
The skies would be peaceful, birds would sing and bees would buzz and the pace of life would slow down.

There are at least a couple of problems with this Utopia:

1. I just made it up

2. Have you ever used a TV made in the UK? If you have you will be like me and want your i-pods designed in California and made in China and want to eat fresh lettuce/papaya/something exotic in January.

So Mr Turbot, you have had your 15mins of fame and a very interesting “what if” exercise it has been too. Yes we now realize how powerful nature is and how easily it can bring us into check. Now that that has been agreed can you please pop up to Iceland, earn your money and do whatever it is you do to shut the fucking thing up.

Whilst you are at it please set the timer for 200years until the next occurrence please. This should give us enough time to invent an instant transportation machine and allow us to blow raspberries in Mother Nature’s direction again next time she decides to have a go.

Thank you.

Thieving Gypsy Bastards

Cocktails by the jug - a very British thing.

I have never seen Margaritas, Mojitos or Pina Coladas served in the 2 ltr measures anywhere else. Now I am sure the UK doesn't have a monopoly on such things but whenever I see them, I think of Britain.

Other than the obvious things like Pounds Stirling, shitty weather and the Queen there are a lot of other little things which remind me of home. My version of the UK is not a London, Eastenders version of Britain, it’s now not even a North of Scotland version, it's the Southern Scotland version and, given this is a personal thing, presumably mine and mine only.

My version has wrinkly old people, in walking gear fit for an Arctic expedition doddering through the park in search of a nice scone and a flavoured tea.

My version has the family Neanderthal dragging their knuckles as they sport the latest fashion direct from Ibrox. Father Neanderthal doesn't see the irony in having the word Carling stretched thin over his jellied torso. The kids, always boys, are shaven headed monsters and mum brings up the rear, perma-fag stuck to her lightly bearded lip.

My UK is outdoor heaters, fag butt piles, Bank of Scotland cash points (not ATMs), tracksuits everywhere, all day breakfasts, white trainers, sports bars done badly, stripy pole barber shops, great music, history, three cheese sandwiches and Regal King Size.

Last weekend I had the pleasure of spending 3 hours at Prestwick airport.

The low price gateway to Scotland and reciprocally the world, or at least an airport about 2 hours bus ride from the world. As I waited for check in to open I enjoyed a drink in the Yates bar and was pleasantly surprised to find all aspects of my version of Britain present. Cocktails were consumed by the jug, family Neanderthal ran riot next to the plasma screen, lager and sugar loaded drinks fuelling their anarchy.

The poor old couple were there, drinking tea and trying very hard to ignore the hen party going full throttle next to them but the Pièce de résistance was the outdoor smoking area - at an Airport.

You can tell you are at a low cost airline hub as you have to pay through the nose for everything and the sight of people emptying their suitcases to reduce the weight at check in is common place.

All airlines have weight and hand luggage policies but only Ryanair police it with vigour of an Israeli counter terrorist cell - they even have weighing scales as you board the plane for your hand luggage.

On board and on our way the warm experience continues. Being happy is optional for Ryanair staff and judging from my experience all had decided to opt out. They remind me of gypsies at a travelling fair - pissed off and looking for every opportunity to squeeze, steal or rip money off you. I sat rigid, in my wipe-clean plastic seat, with my hand firmly gripping my wallet for the duration.

We arrived on time, a fact which was proudly and very loudly announced throughout the cabin.

It was very, very, cheap, safe, on time and did exactly as advertised. They don't claim anywhere to offer an enjoyable flight so it really is my own fault for being disappointed when I didn't receive one.

I truly hope when people visit Scotland and decide to use Ryanair as their method of getting there they don't think that the airline or airport is representative of the country.

My advice – get as far away from the airport as possible, find a bar, drink 2 liters worth of Margaritas, smoke a fist full of Regal King Size and eat a three cheese sandwich.

Trust me if you do, Ryanair will fade away and Scotland will morph into the wonderful destination that it really is.

Beam me up please

When you drive a car you can pretend you are James Bond.

If you take the train you can pretend you are James Bond and enjoy a martini, if you take your bike you're not James but at least you are healthy, if you take the bus, well lets ignore that option for now.

I am sure there was a time when flying was an 007 experience as well, a time when it was exclusive and expensive. You could breeze through the terminal, no security, terrorists couldn't afford to fly back then.

You would sit waiting for the flight to be called and have someone serve you things.

On board the experience would continue, a pretty young deferential stewardess would serve you a gin & tonic, hot food and after your meal you would walk to the bar, light up a cigarette and discuss the state of the empire with your fellow travelers.

Today the flying option is shit.

Yes it is very convenient, it can be very cheap and is probably the most efficient method to get from A-B but the experience from entering the terminal to exiting the other side is one which I would happily consign to the past, a Spanish inquisition or an hour with Jack Bauer.

If someone invents instantaneous travel I will be very happy. I will vote for him, I will happily pay her double, no triple, the current cost of the journey. I will make sure this person is knighted and will probably be found sporting a tattoo of his/her name on a very personal part of my body.

To say I would be happy would be an understatement.

Anyone who has seen the film The Fly will probably laugh and then in dark tones point out the risks of becoming part man/fly/pizza/whatever is sitting in my pod before I transport.

Humour me for a moment though and consider these two alternative scenarios:

The alarm sounds and you surface, softly, to feel the cool morning breeze on your toned muscled body. As you sit up and stretch, your wife stretches out a slender arm and strokes your back, her body is covered partially by the sheets. You stand up and she sits up revealing herself to you, smiling she sleepily whispers that she loves you then descends back to her sleep.

You shave quickly and easily, Gillette style and finish your morning routine quietly. A sharp shirt, suit and shoes and you are ready to go.

Before you do through you stop off at the kids room, you kiss your daughter and pull the blanket back over your son, smiling as you leave the room.

Downstairs you make and drink your espresso quickly as your meeting is starting in 10mins.
Ready to leave you pick up your briefcase and step into a cupboard next to the front door and exit the other side…in the Paris office.

Today's reality involves a 4am alarm call coupled with some seriously foul language from your wife. The razor hurts and cuts and the coffee machine is too noisy to use at such an ungodly hour.
The first train chugs its way slowly to the airport, they use the old rolling stock for this journey. The airport is busy and hot, security slow and intrusive – by the time you have reached the gate your perfectly pressed shirt is grimy and bunched up.

Even if you take off on time you are guaranteed a delay on arrival and after 20mins circling somewhere on the outskirts of Paris you land at Charles de Gaul airport where the real fun begins.

Somewhere between 1 and 2 hours after landing you walk into the office, dirty, tired, pissed off and wondering why the fuck we thought it was a good idea to liberate this country 65 years ago.

Which one would you prefer?

Now understand the second scenario is repeated thousands of times every single day - do you still consider me crazy?

Even when we overcome the fly issue there are still some minor laws of physics to overcome but surely if we can put a man on the moon……

I propose a solution:

Air travel is the biggest contributor to climate change.....probably. Divert all of the funds pouring into research for climate change into research towards instantaneous travel. With such focus from the worlds sharpest minds I have no doubt I will be zipping around Captain Kirk style in no time at all.

Not only will we remove a major contributor to pollution, allow millions of people to have a longer lie in and shave better but we will also put CDG out of business.

A definite win, win, win, win solution in my book.

University of Life

I washed my car today.

Properly washed it that is, with a bucket, sponge and some elbow grease. I cannot remember the last time I did this, I don't think I have ever done it to our current car. As I approached the poor thing it nervously eyed the alien-hose-thing as if I was about to subject it to a form of auto-enema.

So that's at least 3 years - probably much longer as I don't remember handing my old car back clean.

We, of course, do wash our car but this is normally performed at the filling station, once every 3 months, a Sunday afternoon, sat there, windows tight shut as program # 5 runs its course. The end result is the same - a clean car, but there is a certain satisfaction gained from doing it yourself. Can you remember the last time you exited a car wash, stopped, got out and stood there admiring the work of the robo-cleaning-garage thing?

It was this satisfaction which has lead me to the conclusion that I am slowly going soft.

My world is now so full of labour saving devices and people that I now don't have to worry about such trivial things as cleaning the car, ironing my shirts, cleaning the house, fixing the house, booking my travel, I even have a 6 month old who does my sleep for me. When was the last time you wrote a letter, by hand? Even writing a postcard is a pain, and there’s only 5cm² to fill in!

I finished my masters degree last year, a 3 year program and the climax of each year was a set of exams. Normally 3 hours in duration each and there was 5 exams a year. For the exam you are allowed to bring into the exam a pen and a calculator, nothing else.

Imagine if you will how terrifying a prospect this is - no spell check, no goal seek, nothing to refer to other than your brain. Believe me after 3 hours of writing my wrist ached like I was 13 years old again and I shudder to think what the marker thought of my writing or spelling.

Yes I am going soft.

Ok I accept I was never going to be a workhorse, Boxer from Animal Farm. Physically I was not built to toil the fields but I have done my share. It’s been a while though since I have sweated, through physical exertion, to earn my living.

Finance is not a career which requires much physical ability, it does require ability, but none that would help me should I find myself challenged to a wood chopping competition. No, finance requires other skills, number one being common sense.

Yes you need the qualifications.
Yes you need to understand the rules.
Yes you need to understand the regulations.
Yes you need to know the fundamentals.

But beyond this it is simple honest common sense.

We use lingo, acronyms and financial mazes to create a smarter-than-you smokescreen but blow it away and if you have good common sense and know the fundamentals its a fairly easy profession.

The University of Life folks will never know this though, it takes a bit of determination and wherewithal to find this out. That's a small hurdle to overcome to find this truth out and I would argue, brain surgeons, fighter pilots and grand master chess champions aside, that most professions are similar. Not all require qulifications but they all require common sense and hard work.

One day the our cover will be blown, everyone will jump on the bandwagon and salaries will fall through the floor. Until that time though, I will continue to earn my money avoiding calluses along the way and perhaps take up something more manly in my spare time – taekwondo?.

Or I might just wash the car more.

Won't Get Fooled Again

I was raised by a toothless bearded hag.

I was schooled with a strap right across my back.

But its aaaaaaall right now, in fact it's a gas.

Now that's how it should be, some steel in the spine, the Dunkirk spirit.

That's how empires were built, countries conquered, penal colonies established and Who wants to be a Millionaire? exported.

On one hand I read about the bravery being shown by the young men and women overseas and on the other I read about the winging and the militancy which is again raising its ugly head in the UK and I struggle reconcile the two.

If it didn't affect me directly I would probably have a more aggressive opinion on the whole thing, more Thatcherite in tone.

But as of today Sunday 21st March I still am not sure how I will return home next weekend and just want a resolution, whatever that is.

I am, as always, booked to travel with British Airways next weekend and in their infinite wisdom the Unite union have decide to strike this weekend and the next affecting mine and a lot of other peoples travel plans.

Just sort it out, please.

My childhood was spent in the 70`s and 80`s, two decades of intense militancy.
The teacher strikes and the miner strikes, two which I remember clearly but there were more, lots more. Everyone was striking, everyone had something to complain about, everyone was the victim of the management.

Two decades on thanks to Thatcher the British unions are a shadow of what they were 20 years ago but they can still be disruptive, even for a non-UK resident like myself.

But is there a place for a Union in today’s day and age? It will come as no surprise to you that I don't think so.

Working practices are not quite as Dickensian as they once were. Health and safety, minimum wages, working conditions are all covered by legislation and the Unions are now left arguing over the scraps of pay, conditions and trying to tell management how to run a business.

If BA wants to freeze pay, reduce services and costs then why is this anyone’s concern other than BAs? If the staff don't want to work under the new conditions they are free to seek other employment elsewhere – I am sure Ryanair or Easyjet will happily explain to them the realities of the world as it exists today.

Reciprocally, if they are in fact right and the services decline then customers will not hesitate in telling Willie Walsh and the rest of the management quickly and directly. Surely the fare paying customer are the ones to decide if they are right or wrong, not the Union?

In my right of center, private sector, management, humble opinion there is no place for a union in the modern world, none whatsoever. Thatcher for all her faults knew this and I concur.

“The staff and Union take no pleasure in this action” . This apparent somberness was notably absent when they voted to strike for 12 days over the Christmas period last year and the scenes of jubilation did nothing to further their cause. I shudder to think what would have occurred had they gone ahead with the proposed strike.

This time they have said that they will not strike over Easter, thanks a lot Unite.

Is the fact this is an election year and Unite are a major contributor to the Labour party a coincidence? I don't think so and am happy to see, at least in public, the government condemning the strike.

I would imagine behind the scenes they are getting their money’s worth from their “friends” in Westminster and this is what worries me about our current labour government. The radical left winger Michael Foot might have passed away recently but his politics still form the foundations of the current labour government. Like permafrost it remains and I see this current action as a last gasp attempt by the Unions to eek out something before it is too late.

Give it a few months and the political landscape will have changed dramatically.

Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.

Not this time.

Help me I`m helpless

Charlie Chaplin entered a Charlie Chaplin look-a-like competition in Monte Carlo during the 20s….he finished third.

This was quoted to me in the context of being yourself. Crap huh?
Good story but as an analogy doesn't really work except for showing how stupid the French can be and like we really needed help figuring that one out.

Self help books are shit. Self indulgent, anti-climatic and a waste of time. I am old enough to have no shame in admitting I have, on occasion, dabbled in the solitary pursuit of happiness through an airport paperback over the years.

Double your income in a month!!!!
Who wouldn't be tempted, its only £7.99 and its an Airport Exclusive?

I know it's a slight diversion but I don't understand the term “Airport Exclusive”. Does that actually mean its only sold at airports? Why on earth would a publisher want to do that? The only logical reason is that the book is crap. So crap only a knackered, half drunk, business person staggering around an antiseptic, wipe clean environment bored out of their skulls would be even slightly attracted to its title.

Double your income in a month!!!
Yes please and before you know it you are £7.99 poorer. Slightly poorer yes, but very soon, a month to be precise, you will be much richer. You have the secret in your hand, the secret only airport people know about. It doesn't work for bus people, apparently.

The book is secreted away, hidden next to your porn mags and hemorrhoid cream as your late night flight is called. Somewhere between drinks being served and the 10min call is ping`d you quietly pull the book from your bag, carefully, so as not to attract your fellow passengers attention. It has a cheap printed feel, not quite the quality it appeared to have on the shelf but that doesn't matter given the inherent value contained within.

And here is the rub - what it contains. Precisely nothing, without even knowing if such a book exists I am sure it would contain nuggets along the lines of:

-Don't focus on money ­- focus on self happiness.
-There is power in positive thinking
-Get a job which pays twice your current salary in the next 30 days.

Great.

I guess the Secrets of finding the perfect man offers something along the lines of – look up Brad Pitt and make him fall in love with you. Perfect thank you.

I have a great idea which will make me trillions overnight. Start selling cars which fly, all I need to do is work out how to make a car fly and I am there, simple.

They are selling a lie, pure and simple - the Emperor has no clothes.

Its funny though, the act of purchasing the book is therapeutic in itself. I am going to take charge of my roadcrash life and turn it around thanks to this purchase – reading it and adopting the intrusive steps is never going to happen - it's the intent behind the purchase. Same as buying a gym membership.

I am going to make a million overnight. No need for a book to help me with this, no need for clever metaphors, analogies or tenuously linked anecdotes.

I am going to start printing laminated cards (Posi-cards ©) with good positive statements of intent on them and sell them at airports, bus stations, divorce courts, outside fancy gyms or at weight watcher meetings.

Every time you start feeling down, just quietly take your card out, read it, agree with it and you will instantly feel better.

You will still be fat, poor, ugly, have a small penis, shit car or be a crap lover but you now plan to do something about it.

All this happiness and only for the exclusive, bargain price of £4.99.