The working week

Don't think of this as just a blog post. Consider it instead an open letter.  I'm aiming this at the utility companies, people who offer domestic services, like plumbing, electricians, etc.

Chaps. I'm going to tell you something that might just blow your mind. It's this.

You know your customers? You know, the people to whom you send bills? Those folk who ring you up and ask daft questions? Yep, those people. A lot of them - I'd guess a good proportion - work Monday to Friday, during what we'll call, oh, I don't know, working hours.

So if you want to provide a service to these customers in their homes, here's a rather novel idea. How about offering it at the weekend?

I know. It's dangerously radical. But it might just work.

I mention this because we've been getting letters from a company called E-On. For the non-Brits reading this, E-On is a major utility company in the UK that evidently allowed the Marketing Director's 8-year-old to come up with their corporate name.

The good people of E-On had been writing frantically to me over a period of about 12 months. I didn't owe them any money, which makes a pleasant change. They were writing because they wanted to change my electricity meter. Apparently there's a law. By all accounts, you have to get it changed every 10 years or so, in order to make sure it remains accurate. We've lived here for 16 years, happily motoring along with the meter that was here when we moved in, but who am I to get in the way of progress?

As it's not considered wise to go mucking about with what is essentially the main electricity supply to the house, they would need to cut power for 20 minutes while they swap meters. So the letters asked us for a convenient time when we'd be here.

They're really flexible, these E-On bods. I could pick any day, from Monday to Friday. Morning or afternoon. Positively bending over backwards to help, they were.

In the working week, between the hours of 8am and 6pm, this house is occupied by a cat. And while Eric is reasonably intelligent, I think it would be unfair to expect him to negotiate with an electrician.

So what did I do? I ignored the first letter. And the second, third and fourth, despite their increasingly desperate nature. My lights still worked. I was still receiving and paying the bills.

Eventually, I took pity on E-On. I made contact to tell them that we have this really weird practice in our house, called 'going to work' and what could they do about it?

"Oh, no problem. Let's get you a weekend appointment arranged."

"I'm sorry? But your letter, sorry, letters, don't mention weekends at all. They make it clear that it's Monday to Friday, or nothing."

"Ah yes," chuckled the operative, "we can do this on a Saturday or Sunday.  But you see, we don't mention weekends on the letter. Because if we did, people might want to book the appointments for then instead."

At this point, I actually took the phone away from my ear and stared at it. You know how, in old caper-style films, there'd be that bit where an old drunk witnesses something unlikely, then looks at his bottle of whisky in confusion? It was like that. Only with a phone. Not whisky.

"Yes," I said. "I suppose they might. Given the chance."

"Now sir," she said, not detecting my raised eyebrows over the phone, "I'll pass your details to the team that books weekend appointments." They have a team for this? Who knew? "They'll be in touch."

Which is how, a week or so later, on an early evening, I found myself speaking to the Weekend Meter Changing Appointment Booking Team. I'm not sure if that's their official title.

"Oh, I am glad we've been able to contact you sir," E-On's Emma said.

"I'm sorry, what do you mean?"

"Well, I've been calling your home number all day today to book your weekend appointment. But there hasn't been an answer."

"You've been calling me at home?"

"Yes."

"Because you need your meter-fitting-bloke to come round at the weekend?"

"That's right," she said, brightly. 

I briefly stared at the phone again. It seemed the right thing to do, in the circumstances. Come on Emma, I thought. Work with me here. I spoke slowly. "We need a weekend appointment as we're not here in the week. It's Thursday. You've been calling my home number all day and you haven't been getting an answer. Because.....?"

Nothing. Nada. Rien. The penny was not for dropping. I swear I could hear the sound of tumbleweed. In the distance, a lonesome coyote howled. This is how Kafka got started.

"Never mind, Emma. It's not important. How about Saturday next week?"

So, companies of Great Britain. Think about the weekend, why don't you? It doesn't have to be difficult.

Well, not unless you deliberately make it so.

Off the rails

We're quite lucky, on this small, rain-sodden island of ours. It doesn't take too long to get anywhere. If the mood takes us we can jump on a train and go to, oh, I don't know, London for instance - have a meeting, take a picture of a gherkin-shaped building for no apparent reason - and then jump back on the train to be back at our desks by mid-afternoon.

Don't believe me? I see.

A bit of London.

Some people just aren't satisfied unless there is pickle-based architecture as proof.

But it's not all rosy. We've had rail travel for some time now, and yes, it's moved on a bit from Stephenson's Rocket. The latest ones even lean on bends - I have no idea if this makes them faster, but it's definitely cool. But there are still shortfalls.

People arranging meetings in London always seem to set them up to start at 10am. Despite the speed of modern trains, that still means having to get up at OhMyGod o'clock. You park in the station car park and walk, zombie-like to the station concourse. There are lots of other grumpy sleep-derived people there, all of them secretly hating the organisers of their meetings, who at this point are probably just waking up to a splendid breakfast in Islington.

Being vaguely organised you have booked your ticket and seat in advance. You go to the self-service machine and enter a handy 16-digit alphanumeric code on a touchscreen. Which promptly and simultaneously gives you both a Windows error message and a sense of foreboding with regards to the train company's technical expertise. Eventually it spits out a succession of small orange bits of cardboard. Your next few hours will revolve around these.

Walking down to the platform with your fellow melancholics, you wait for the train. These days we don't tend to have much in the way of delays, but to enliven your wait there will be a station announcer with nasal constriction and access to the Tannoy.

Your train arrives, and everyone dashes to find a seat. But not you. Oh no! You booked a forward-facing window seat on that snazzy website, didn't you? The seat number is even printed on one of those bits of orange card. You are relaxed and confident for the first time today. You're going to coach B, seat 33A. Everything is going to plan.

Which is why you're confused to find that seat 33A is (a) facing backwards (b) placed in the one row that has no window, and (c) has all the comfort and space of an above-ground coffin. You're going to spend the next hour and a quarter looking at a panel of beige plastic.

And as you become one with your panel, you realise that rail travel has one thing in common with flying in that you are, essentially, trapped in an aluminium tube along with the farts of a whole bunch of strangers.

I'm not sure that's an official policy of Virgin Trains. Maybe Richard Branson has a carb-heavy diet. Who knows?

So as I'm being dragged backwards through the English countryside, I'm aware that Sharon, three rows ahead, needs to tell David something. She has her phone out and is speaking, with a voice that could curdle milk at 20 paces. David appears to have issues with comprehension, however. After the seventh time she's told David that she's on a train, her fellow passengers are becoming keen on changing that situation.

We reach the capital and I get to experience the London Underground. I made a big mistake this time - I made eye contact with another traveller. I think I got away with it though. There might be a small parliamentary enquiry, nothing too major.

Meeting done, it's the same in return. I get to read someone else's copy of the Metro this time. No-one pays for it, and having read it I can see why. I could feel my brain trying to exit through my ears.

And then back to the car, having paid £8 for a few hours' parking. This 20' by 8' stretch of tarmac is on a better hourly rate than I was when I started my first Saturday job in a record store. OK, I can't accommodate a parked car, but I don't think it could have cashed up and told customers when the new Jesus and Mary Chain album was coming out.

It's a little known fact that Birmingham International railway station is home to a breeding colony of pterodactyls. That's the only way to explain the bewildering volume of fecal matter that is on my car when I got back to it. I don't know what pterodactyls eat, but their aim is uncannily good. The direct hit on the driver's window was especially skilful, I reflected, as I wound it down to put my ticket in the machine.

Oh yes, there's nothing like letting the train take the strain.

Tucked up good and proper

Is it at all possible, in these austere times, to buy a Thing? I mean, I know there's a recession on. We're practically scraping by. No-one has any cash; everyone is living on tears and memories. Taste the salty bitterness, people. But surely it should be possible to manage a normal retail transaction without complication? You would think so.

It used to be so simple. You would go into a Thing Shop. You'd find the Thing you wanted and check the price of your Thing. You might speak to the Thing Salesperson before handing over your money and walking out of the place, your Thing acquisition needs well and truly satisfied.

I was reminded of this novel concept the other day when I went to buy a bed. I know. My lifestyle is pretty much full-on rock and roll, isn't it? But we were mindful of the fact that our current bed is a little on the antique side. It is old enough for us to be embarrassed about how old it is. Most people don't ask you "How old is your bed?" in polite conversation, it's true. But if they did ask us, we'd have to shuffle around and look at our feet before murmuring the answer.

If our bed was any older it would date back to the Ottoman Empire. Oh yes, I don't write anything for ages, and when I return it's all bedroom-furniture-historical-reference gags. I spoil, you, I really do.

Our ancient bed could have a relief map, it's so lumpy. Katie has spent much of the last year or so attempting to sleep over a crevasse. It's not conducive to a good night's sleep. So that's why we were to be found in the bed shop earlier this week, where I came to the realisation that buying Things is really tricky.

We found one we liked. We lay on it and marvelled at the experience of a bed that didn't try to hurt us in return. The saleswoman came over. And then we fell through a wormhole into another world.

"Do you want it with drawers in the base?"

"Well, yes, that's one of the reasons we chose this one. Because it has drawers in the base."

"That'll be an extra £120. Although there are drawers in that one, they are extra. Now then, delivery?"

"That would be a good idea. I'm not sure your boss would like us having to come over here every night to sleep on it. It would be very inconvenient if I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night."

"That'll be another £40."

Ok. Yes, I can hear you all saying, "But Phil, that's quite reasonable. What did you expect?" But you lot buy beds more regularly than I do. Come to think of it, you probably buy houses more regularly than I buy beds. But if you really think about it, paying an extra forty quid for the privilege of having the Thing I'd just spent a scary amount of money on actually placed in my house seems, well, odd.

"Now then, what about your old bed?" she asked me, my mind already performing the type of mental calculations usually preserved for astrophysics.

"I don't think it would be a good idea to put the new one on top of it. We'd be too close to the ceiling, for starters."

"We can take it away for you..."

"Well, that might reduce the crowding in our bedroom."

"...for another £40."

Of course. I mean, after all, you will have a truck at my house with a bed-shaped hole. Might as well fill it and charge me some more money for the privilege. I was about to open my mouth at this point, but Katie kicked me under the desk, perhaps worried that I was going to leave the old bed in the front garden, ghetto-style.

"Right," I said, mind suitably boggled. "Please tell me that's it."

"We-ell, you see, there's the protection plan."

"Beg your pardon?"

"What would happen if your bed was damaged in an accident, for instance?"

After a brief discussion, I promised the saleswoman that I wouldn't attempt to drive my new bed down the fast lane of the M6. I didn't buy the cover plan, leaving a spare £75 for two pillows. I was going to baulk at this, but my shins took another under-desk battering from Katie.

We left the bed shop, feeling strangely light-headed. It turned out that the price of a Thing bears no relationship to what you actually end up paying.

"At least we'll be able to sleep better at night," said Katie.

It's just as well. It turns out I can't afford to do anything more adventurous.

The wheels on the bus go round and round

Pretty much every large city on the planet is doomed. That's my view after travelling into my nearest one over two days last week.

There was a conference in the city centre and the people who pay me sent me along to it. I could have driven, but thought it better to take the bus instead. And this is what gave me the rather gloomy outlook above.

I'm sorry, but public transport is a punishing experience in pretty much every way imaginable. Let me explain how.

I did not go into this with my glass half-empty. I was rather looking into it with a degree of anticipation. My current commute involves walking ten steps to my car, driving 25 miles to another city, parking up and walking into a building. It's not exactly a taxing process, but neither is it one to fill the heart with joy. Seriously, the A45 to Coventry is not something to stir up the emotions. Unless dyspepsia is an emotion, I suppose.

So I was looking forwards to my bus trip. I'm no stranger to buses; years ago I worked in Birmingham and it was the only way to travel. And I thought it would be the same last week. I imagined myself, leaping with gay abandon onto my allotted chariot, allowing it to convey me, a newly-born metropolitan sophisticate, to the great city. I would be free to do as I pleased once there, with no concerns about parking or the like.

I would be like one of those people in the adverts.Perhaps a skinny latte would be part of the deal? I'd have to find out exactly what a skinny latte was first (is it a type of pullover?) but I'd have this urban living malarkey nailed.

Waiting for the bus on Wednesday morning, most of this vision remained intact. I'd forgotten to factor in the 'walking to the bus-stop' phase of my journey into my timing, meaning a rather hurried walk had been made necessary. There are few things in life to which I attach the 'rather hurried' tag, and walking is evidently not one of them. I may have had a rather unpleasant glow about me by this point.

Never mind, I thought to myself, here comes my bus. I stepped on and dropped my £1.80 into the slot. Then, turning to face my fellow travellers, my heart sank.

Before I describe the scene that faced me, I should say that it is childish and wrong to judge people on their physical appearance. It is the mark of the shallow-minded. God knows I'm well aware of this myself, being on the receiving end of this treatment for much of what I laughingly call my adult life. I'm not proud of what I'm about to write.

It was like the cantina scene from Star Wars, only with a degree of forward motion added to the mix to further refine the horror. I had the distinct impression that they had all been enjoying a diverting conversation before my entry - perhaps about the latest flick-knives, or what's new in garroting - but they fell silent as they regarded me.

I was very conscious that I was wearing a suit. I had shiny shoes, a shirt and tie. It is not beyond doubt that some of the denizens of the bus were unfamiliar with this form of dress. Well, outside of court appearances, anyway. They looked upon me as if I had rocked up as an 18th century dandy, bewigged and carrying a nosegay.

I shuffled to a seat and gathered my thoughts. A man sniffed behind me.

"Not to worry," I said to myself. "At least you can look at the scenery. You can't do that if you're driving."

I regarded the boarded-up industrial units at the end of he road. A dog scratching its bum in the morning sunshine. And a scrawled message on the railway bridge that advised anyone interested that Kelly was, in fact, still a slag. I bring you this information free of charge.

The man sniffed once more.

Thirty seconds later we'd stopped again - people got on, people got off. I was made aware of really tinny music being played at the back of the bus. I don't know who it was who thought that selling very small speakers to teenagers with smartphones was a wise idea, but I would like to shake him warmly by the throat.

The man sniffed. In fact, the word 'sniff' doesn't do it justice. There was a lot going on with that sniff. It was portentous. It had depth. It spoke of medical conditions yet to be catalogued. And it was happening inches from my head.

From my left a young chap was having an increasingly animated conversation on his phone. I'm not one to overhear this sort of thing, but to be honest he wasn't giving an of us on the bus much of an option. I'm sure you'll be interested to know, as we were, that Imran didn't, in fact, go out last night, after some chicken that laid him low. And Ashraf can keep the money he's borrowed if he's going to say things like that. We don't know what Ashraf said, to be fair. Perhaps Imran needed some speakers on his phone, too.

The man sniffed. I was considering fashioning a copy of Metro into an impromptu rain hat.

Every thirty seconds we would stop and the passengers would be refreshed once more. As we approached schools along the route the aisle would fill up with youngsters, full of the swagger, the cheek and audacity of youth that makes others consider smothering as a viable option. An object lesson in language; by all accounts, the phrase "innit?" is to be used at the end of each sentence - even if it's not a question

Half an hour of this endured, the final stop was reached and I was disgorged, flapping and moist like a recently-landed carp, onto the pavement. I did not look or feel sophisticated. It occurred to me that if I worked in town this would be a daily occurrence for me. I shuddered at the thought and hoisted my wildly-heterosexual-manbag onto my shoulder.

And that's why I think cities are doomed. The bigger they get, the more public transport becomes a necessity. Before long, some of the poor souls who have to put up with it will snap. It's a good job we don't allow people over to carry guns, I suppose. The carnage would be biblical.

Right then, where are my car keys? Come to Daddy.

Nice and easy does it

The Internet has brought about a revolution in the way we live today. We can communicate with friends and relatives, collaborate with colleagues remotely, browse the world's finest libraries, galleries and museums. An ocean of information is there, in which we can happily go skinny-dipping.

Plus we can look at Paris Hilton being boffed. If we so wish.

One of the biggest improvements the Internet has brought has been in the way we transact normal business. We can find services, look at products and buy online. And nowhere is this more evident than the unmitigated palaver that is Christmas. I used to look upon the final two months of the year as being somewhere parallel to the seventh circle of Hades. But being able to organise things with my fat arse sat on the sofa instead is nothing short of revolutionary.

Which is why, this year, the otherwise splendid people at Marks & Spencer are getting a virtual bitch-slap from me right here and right now.

Katie has already started planning the biblical catering effort* that will be our Christmas dinner. I've had to keep reminding myself, looking at the details, that we're not planning on feeding a battalion of the Royal Marines. But, it doesn't matter, because our friends at M&S are now offering their 'Food to Order Online' service. Which is good, because I don't do queuing.

So I thought we could just select what we needed from their slinky e-catalogue system, enter some personal details, and Robert would be my father's brother.

Hmmm. Let me give you a direct quote from their website:

"View the range of festive foods in our Christmas E-Catalogue. Print and complete the order form. Place the order in your nearest store."

Whoa. I have to actually visit and talk to someone? Why don't I make some cave paintings of buffalo while I'm at it, daddy-o?

So that's why yesterday afternoon saw us waiting. In a queue. In the Solihull M&S. At the desk in the corner of the store, at the end of the run of tills. With my ankles being nipped by passing trolleys, I stood their gently fuming, watching Mary.

Mary, I'm sure, is a lovely person. She probably likes walks in the countryside, fluffy kittens and knitting sweaters for her nephews. Unfortunately, she is also preternaturally scared of her computer. She moved the mouse as anyone would, if they suspected it was booby-trapped. She entered data for the customers at a rate of up to several characters per minute. I swear, I have seen speedier continental drift. And she was on her own.

Occasionally another member of staff would walk up and down the ever-growing queue and brightly ask each customer what they were there for. Although, clearly, her abilities didn't stretch to actually being able to deal with food orders.

"Christmas order? Oh. Christmas order? Ah. Christmas order? I'm neither use nor ornament, am I?" Eventually she wandered off to be hopeless in a corner, all by herself.

After what seemed like several months of umming and ahhing we finally got our order input and paid a deposit. After this level of hassle, I would now expect our delivery to be made in person, at our doorstep, by Mr Marks or Mr Spencer. But no! We have to go back on the 23rd December and wait in another queue, then struggle to our car with several farmyards worth of food.

Memo to the strokey-chin marketing people at M&S: that "e" in "e-commerce" - what's it stand for, then? Easy? Efficient? Or how about "Errr. Sorry. We actually don't know what we're doing."

*(And I'm not talking about the loaves and fishes thing, either.)

57 varieties of stupid

A week ago or so they started showing this ad on British TV:



I thought it was an OK advert. I got the premise straight away. Use this Heinz deli mayo we're selling - it's so good it's like having a real New Yawk short-order chef as your mum. Well put together - the way all the other characters act as if the mum/wife figure is still there - it's quite cute.

But it appears to have upset a few people. And by few, I really mean 'few'. Out of a population of ooh, 60 million, 200 complained about the ad to ASA, the UK's advertising watchdog. The expressed view, apparently, was that the ad was inappropriate and unsuitable for children to view.

And here's the kicker. Heinz pulled the advert as a result. Christ on a bike.

Just how does the sort of person who complains about this sort of thing get through their normal day? They must be empirically stupid. As I said, I got the central conceit of the advert, and I'm not exactly bright. I normally only understand adverts that say "Here is some stuff. It's ace. Please buy it." But I understood what the advert was about. It certainly wasn't about homosexuality. The gay men I know would probably make the mayo from scratch anyway. Or at least they'd have the Lite version.

And really, would it matter if the ad was about a real single-sex couple?

I realise a view like this infuriates the readership of the Daily Mail, but would showing a 'real' male couple matter that much in this day and age, or have we gone Victorian all over again? I'm not gay, but I support the changes that have gone on around me. Last time I checked, we'd given single-sex couples pretty much all of the legal rights as other ones. So what are people complaining about here? I mean, there are plenty of things two consenting adult men could have been doing with mayo that might have caused offence to some viewers. But I hardly think a peck qualifies.

The complainants said the advert raised the "difficult subject of same sex relationships". This is normally code for "I'm not equipped to talk about stuff with my kids, especially if it's out of my comfort zone." Folks, really, give it a try. We might end up with some enlightened and tolerant kids as a result. Heaven forbid.

And if they didn't want to have the Jenny-lives-with-Eric-and-Martin chat right now, all they needed to say was that the point of the advert is that the mayonnaise is so good it makes sandwiches taste like they've been made by a professional.

The mouth-breathers who complained are either too stupid to realise the central conceit of the ad, or else they're deliberately stirring up controversy for their own purposes. And Heinz are complicit in this by backing down and withdrawing the advert rather than trying to discuss it.

It was while I was reading about this that I stumbled across the online ad for Dunkin Donuts in the States that got cancelled because one person said the model's scarf promoted terrorism. Or something.

At this rate we're going to have a second "Christ on a Bike" in one post. There you go.

We have all sorts of Really Bad Things happening across the world. It is genuinely a scary place. Yet people use their energy to complain about fluff like this. So the more I think about it, the more I think that the search for extra-terrestrial intelligent life has a point.

Because, in the immortal words of Monty Python, there's bugger all down here on Earth.

Maybe ketchup would have helped

I've just had what can only be described as a taste sensation. I'm still rather stunned by the whole experience, to be frank. And I thought that you, dear reader, should be the first to know.

Katie is out tonight, with "the girls". The girls are a nebulous group, in that the membership varies from event to event, with a core of familiar faces. The only thing that unites them is their voracious appetite for rosé wine. I have dropped her off at Liz's house earlier tonight - later she will be decanted from the back of a Hyundai - and in her absence I'm coping for myself.

It's fair to say that I am not an accomplished cook. Not long after we'd moved in together, Katie had set me the relatively simple challenge of making spag bol. After having made what apparently is called a ragu and browned some beef mince, I was kicking back in a relaxed mood as everything simmered on the hob. Katie came downstairs to enquire sweetly about the aroma of rapidly-carbonising protein. She may even have cocked her head to one side. "What burning smell?" I replied, genuine in my innocence.

You get the point.

As I cannot live on Marmite on toast - God knows I've tried - yesterday I manfully strode the high plains of Tesco, hunting for tonight's repast. And my prey was this:
That'll be the Healthy Living Paella. All 385 life-giving grams of it. Saffron rice, peas, king prawns, peppers, chicken breast. Yum. I actually like paella quite a bit. I have eaten it fresh, in Spain, washed down by a cheeky cerveza or two. In fact, it was rabbit paella, a particular speciality of the establishment. Quite a bit like chicken, if you're interested.

Of course, my expectations were managed by the observation that this latest paella, coming as it did in a black polythene tray extracted from a chiller cabinet, was never going to be served on the Iberian peninsular. The four minutes being nuked under the microwave probably didn't exactly help, either.

But it amazed me. You know when you're eating something that tastes bad? You get it on the tip of your tongue, or maybe the back of your throat. Perhaps the smell gives the game away. But this was nothing like that all. Oh no, Jose.

This was food with no discernible taste whatsoever. I'll say that again. Whatsoever. I tried chewing it, I rolled it around my mouth, I attempted breathing in and out at the same time. Nothing, nowt, zilch. In fact, nada. I ploughed on, amazed at the sensation of having warm solids in my mouth without having anything to show for it. This wasn't just bland food. Bland food has normal taste dialled down a bit. This went past bland and out the other side - the dish had the mute button applied. In fact, any semblance of flavour had clearly been snared at birth. And all the ingredients were culprits.

King prawns. King of where, exactly - the mythical yet legendary land of Microprawnalia? And the chicken? That wasn't a chicken breast, that was the result of a flesh wound. The donor chicken is still wandering around a farm somewhere, perfectly happily, if a little slimmed-down. I've never had non-crunch peppers before. I suspect they're a product of the space race or something, a bit like Teflon or those pens that write underwater and upside-down.

And yet I finished it all. Well, I needed my 335 calories of energy, unladen as they were with any unnecessary sensation of taste. The whole healthy eating approach was, however, somewhat ruined by the big bowl of Bombay mix I took on board immediately afterwards, to help me recover from the experience.

Gordon Ramsay should have my problems.

No, not at all annoying

Lots of people up and down the country have been spending short amounts of time alone in booths. Then, once carrying out a time-honoured practice involving a small piece of paper, they've been emerging, blinking into the daylight.

And I can see why this is news.

However, there's a related story that's been all over the place. Some people, quite a few in fact, in a city where I don't live, are voting for a mayor. In fact, they seem to be quite keen to replace one man struggling under an amphibian fixation, with someone else who clearly wasn't quite bright enough for the prefect's badge at school.

And this is big news, by all accounts. The Internet, front and centre in the print media, main story on the rolling TV news. On a national basis. In fact, everywhere I turn, I'm being assaulted by this. I can hardly concentrate on the flies that received a sex-swap through mind-control, to be honest.

I'm bored by the ongoing and seemingly never-ending coverage of the US elections. But I do accept that I should, at some level, have some awareness in its outcome, at least, as the winner of that one gets to carry quite an important football. So if my friends in Iowa or Montana make a dodgy decision, significant portions of Western Europe could end up with that Readybrek glow. I can relate to that. I can have an interest in it. But the CrossRail project? Meh.

So why does the 24-hour media assume that I (and 90% of people in the UK) should give an airborne sexual encounter about the outcome of the London Mayoral election? This is, by the way, the same media that spent an entire night - on national TV, I kid you not - bemoaning the withdrawal of the Routemaster bus from the streets of the capital. The same media where the restaurant critic of a national newspaper spent an entire article expressing surprise at Birmingham getting culinary plaudits, then admitting she'd never actually visited the country's second largest city?

So today's blanket coverage is rankling with me a bit. Things that affect me, or my neighbour, don't get column inches. Someone falls out of a club in Hoxton, and it'll be front-page news.

To any readers in London: forgive me for my rant. I'm tired and a little pissed off. I genuinely like your city - I've loved every visit there. Apparently there's a golf sale on. And I hope you get your mayor thing sorted, whether it's the drony one or the funny blond bloke. The accepted wisdom is that the rest of the country is bothered. And yet, if I had a rat's arse, I wouldn't be able to give it.

Perhaps, in the future, the good folks of SW4 can get to read in rapt enchantment the goings-on of the Birmingham City Council transportation committee when deciding upon bus routes through Small Heath?

It's gripping stuff, I tell you.

The flaming obvious

Apparently, and this is some sort of surprise to many, it can get a little bit wet and blustery in Britain in March. So much of a surprise that it makes headlines. The 24-hour news channels have had a field day. So this is what news reporting has come to - essentially telling us, using every medium available, that it's a bit blowy out there at the moment.

What next?

"Bears Reported To Be Apt To Defecate In Heavily Forested Areas"

or

"Leader Of The Holy Roman Church Discovered Not Only To Be Of The Catholic Persuasion, But Also Rather Fond Of Balconies".

I ask you.

Don't leave home without it

To: Oliver Haberstroh, VP of Membership, American Express.

Wow. I am so excited. I came home last night to find out that you'd written to me. I don't recall speaking to you before - I think I'd remember a name such as yours. By the way, did you know that on a spell-checker you come out as 'Oliver Overstretch'?

You wrote to tell me, "Congratulations. You have been selected for the final stage of approval for British Airways American Express Credit Card and are just a few steps away from enjoying all its benefits."

Congratulations certainly are due. Because, if I take this opening paragraph at its word I must have somehow attained God-like status, beating aside hundreds, nay, thousands of other less deserving people to reach this exalted position. Clearly this is the pinnacle of all my years on this planet. It's funny, though. Try as I might, I can't remember actually applying for anything, but that's fine. Sometimes Fate just points his finger at you. This must be my destiny.

Anyway, I am merely "a few steps away" from the unalloyed delights you're yearning to give me. Mere formalities, I suspect, for one such as me! What will you want of me, Oliver? "All you need to do is complete and attach the enclosed application form." Hmmm, let me see...name...bank details...home...work...salary. Then I see you'll do a credit search, underwrite and make a decision.

Gosh, Ollie. Aren't those exactly the same steps I'd take if I was applying for a credit card from scratch? You said I'd been "selected," and everything. You even congratulated me. A much more cynical person might think that "selected for the final stage" actually meant "our mailing database chose you at random".

Never mind, let's press on. What joys can I expect if I take that apparently piddling final step? Well, looky looky. One British Airways BA Mile on every £1 I spend on the card. Apparently, "you'll be surprised at how quickly your BA Miles add up." With our spending patterns we could be flying to the moon and back every weekend. Ooh, a worked example, how exciting! "Once you've spent £20,000, for example, you'll collect enough BA miles for a return ticket to places like Italy, Sweden or Croatia.." (I love the casual use of the words "for example", by the way.)

But. But, but, but. Expedia has a return flight to Rome showing for £160. I haven't checked, but if I wanted to experience the delights of Gothenburg or Split I probably wouldn't be shelling out much more than this. Certainly not twenty big ones. Oh Ollie, you're such a tease! Perhaps there are some other benefits; let's read on, shall we?

"Typical 17.9% APR". Silly me, I don't know anything about such matters, I'll have to take you on trust. After all, you congratulated me, so this must be good, right? So even if I have a quick look at MoneySupermarket I won't find better, will I. I'm special, yes?

Oh, Ollie. I am so disappointed in you. At least fourteen companies will charge me less. I mean, they're not congratulating me or anything, but money is money. Even for us specially-selected people.

Hang on, I've just noticed. There's a life-size replica credit card attached to the letter, with "YOUR NAME HERE" on it. A masterstroke. Just in case the wealth of riches on offer aren't enough to turn my head, you think a bit of blue laminated cardboard might do the trick.

You know me so well, Ollie. That'll do nicely.

Pet Hate No.2

From time to time people will say something like , “You know, life's too short.” I tend to disagree. Too short? Compared to what, exactly? Last time I checked, life was the longest-lasting thing most of us will ever do.

However, I am happy to admit that for some things, my time on this mortal coil is too precious to waste. Pairing socks. Thinking about what to order at Burger King. And the Redditch ring road.

To this list, I'm afraid we must now add Ikea.

I say I'm “afraid,” because deep down I hoped and believed that those friendly Scandinavian storage-pushers and I were going to be friends for life. Me and Anders, just like that. (I'm crossing my index and middle fingers together right now in an analogy of closeness. Trust me.)

I mean, looking at the catalogue, it's all so tempting, isn't it? All those perfectly staged rooms, all that blonde wood and sensibly-tasteful-yet-contemporary stuff? A coffee table called PLING? It just seems to good, so clean, so logical. They should throw in a couple of quotes from LeCorbusier and be done with it. "A house is a machine for living in." For those of us that break into a cold sweat whenever Colin and Justin start shouting at us all about interior design, Ikea must sound like manna from heaven.

There's enough design in the Ikea catalogue to make you feel like you're living in a hovel. You feel bad. Must. Have. PLING. And so the collective backsides of thousands of ashamed homeowners are raised aloft, parting company with sofas up and down the land. You go to the blue and yellow hangars, each dotted in the hinterland of a major city. And then, the horror.

You want your PLING. You've spent an hour getting there; your life won't be complete without it. More perfectly-staged mini-rooms. It's like Nirvana in pine with chrome insets. But no-one notices that they're all doing the St. Vitus' dance, all taking the anti-clockwise path. You can't go back. You only shuffle forwards. Table lamp called MEH? That will do nicely.

Where's my PLING? Hang on, aren't we slowly moving downwards? Is this place shaped like a giant corkscrew, or did they slip mescalin in the meatballs? Ah. Now we appear to be in Homewares. Look, it's all so...reasonable. Get a basket.

No, get a trolley.

Don't forget my PLING. I've now got a lamp called MEH, some table mats going under the name BARF, a KLEFT light fitting. But no PLING as yet. Eventually you're led down a canyon, to pull a dusty box with a line drawing on it, out from a cliff-side of other dusty boxes.

Home again at last. I'd like to say that I've reached that point in my life when self-assembly furniture is a thing of the past. I haven't, though - I'm merely cack-handed. And by all accounts the founders of Ikea formed a pact with the Allen Key Foundation back in the 1950s.

Anyone want a PLING with a pronounced lean to it?

My possessions are causing me suspicion

///CLLAAANNNNGGGGGG!!!!!///
///CLLAAANNNNGGGGGG!!!!!///

That's quite a disturbing noise, isn't it, dear reader?

For those of you unable to pinpoint it, it's the sound of a domestic central heating system experiencing quite a lot of distress. More to the point, it was the sound of my central heating system shuffling off this mortal coil at about 5.00 this morning.

I'm really a little particular about this "being warm" thing, especially as we rush headlong towards a British winter. Call me a pansy if you will, but I prefer my radiators to, well, radiate. So a quick call to British Gas was in order. The lovely Geoff gave me the options. I could pay a huge amount of money for someone to come out, breathe sharply through their teeth, replace the bits that were on the fritz and leave, never to darken my door again. Or they'd fix it and any future problems for free if I signed up for a service plan there and then, for an (ahem) modest monthly outlay.

He then went through even more options. I'm not sure what you get for the most expensive one, but for that monthly payment I'd expect not just central heating cover, but a life coach, dancing classes, French lessons and some "special extras". So I went for the cheapest option and the gas man cometh tomorrow. I'm such a sucker for a Yorkshire accent.

Apparently, the coldest place on Earth is the Antarctic Plateau. However, chez fatboyfat was running it close when I got home this evening. The electric fire was therefore pressed into service. In normal times we don't use this - it chucks out a whole load of therms but the extra demand apparently causes blackouts across the Home Counties. It's been ages since we last used it - so the burning dust now makes the place smell like we've been barbecuing the cat. And what's that noise? Oh. That'll be the smoke alarm, then.

In unrelated news, Sky have written to me today - twice - to tell me about the planned delivery date for the Sky+ box that I've ordered. And already had installed. Last week, in fact. If they're that confused, perhaps I can just pretend to pay them.

Severn Trent Water have written to tell me the planned mains water cut-off for maintenance in the area will not, as previously informed, run from midnight on 5th November to 6.00am on 6th October. That's a shame, as I was curious to see how a public utility would manage that whole "going back in time" thing.

Why can't some of this crap happen next month, when I'll need to have things to write about?

Did I mention I was ill? Ill, I tell you! I think I was laid low by a rogue tortilla at a lunchtime buffet. Katie is neither help nor comfort:

Me: I'm sorry, I must sound like an old bastard.
Katie: You are an old bastard.

I swear, it's like the Seventh Circle of Hades here sometimes, only without the witty banter.

What bit of "no" don't you understand?

///RING///RING///RING///RI ...click

"Hello?"

"Hello, is that Mr S*****?"

"Yes, it is, who's calling?"

"My name is Baobab McAntelope and I'm calling from VirginMedia."

"Oh yes?"

"You have your landline and broadband internet with us, and..."

"Yes I do. Do you mind me asking what you're calling about?"

"It's OK, Mr S*****, there's nothing wrong with your account. It's just that I noticed you'd registered this phone number with the Telephone Preference Service."

"That's right. I have. Because I've opted out of receiving telemarketing calls."

"Yes, I understand that, Mr S*****. I was just ringing you to check whether that applied to us. As your internet service and telecoms provider I thought you might like us to be able to call you with offers of interest."

"You don't understand the concept of "opting out", do you?"

"I'm sorry, Mr S*****?"

"I've decided I don't want to receive telemarketing calls. No calls. Not one. It doesn't matter that I've got stuff with you. It doesn't matter how good your stuff may or may not be. I don't care how well-designed your logo might be. It's not relevant if I sometimes harbour the desire to have carnal relations with the girl in your advert. I. Do. Not. Want. To. Receive. Your. Calls."

"Shall we put you down as "Do not contact," then, Mr S*****?"

"That'd be peachy."

/Click/

Well, apparently, you can get better

To: the Head Guy, Kwik-Fit, Tyre Fitter House (or whatever), Scotland.

Hello. I remember your adverts in the eighties. "You can't get better than a Kwik-Fit fitter." What a tag line. I have indeed spent many happy hours in your workshops around the Birmingham area since I started along the path of car ownership at the age of 19.

I particularly remember a beige 1978 Mk 2 Ford Escort that passed through my eager hands. To say it was in the Autumn of its years would be enthusiastic. It would be more accurate to put it in the late Winter - possibly about two minutes to midnight on 31st December. Due to the attention of the Kwik-Fit fitters (allied to my simultaneous discovery of the credit card) it managed to bump and scrape itself around the Midlands for much longer than even Henry Ford himself would have thought possible.

Anyway, I'm rambling. Clearly, you're a busy man, with all these workshops around the country to look after. And those staff of yours with....whisper it....supernatural powers.

Yes. Odd isn't it? I would have thought that prerequisites for being a tyre fitter would include some knowledge of mechanics, automotive engineering, the MOT rules and suchlike. I never guessed that second sight was one of the criteria also. But how wrong can I be? Indeed, it seems that your Sheldon branch has a particularly gifted team member.

I'm no longer driving around in bits of rust connected by dralon. My current car is company-provided, which means that it actually gets serviced regularly - the Escort used to get a wipe down with a damp cloth whenever I remembered. When the good people at Avonvale Honda gave my current car the 37,500 mile lookover last week, they returned it back to me with a clean bill of health apart from the following on the jobsheet:

• All tyres low on tread
• Back two tyres illegal

Now, forgive me but I'm no expert. But my limited understanding of these matters leads me to believe that tyres are a pretty integral part of the whole "staying on the road and out of the scenery" thing. The chaps at Honda don't do tyres, so I popped into your Sheldon branch on my way home that very day. And met your chap. The Tyre Sage, we'll call him.

I say he must be a Sage, as he was able to determine the state of my tyres without doing anything more than looking at the car from a standing position. "Nah, mate, you don't need these changin' yet. You've got a good 1,000 miles on the front ones." Amazing stuff. And so accurate, too. "And the back ones - they're fine - they'll last you ages."

"So I shouldn't worry, then?"
"No, you'll be fine," quoth the Sage.
"It's just that, well, illegal is rather an ugly word, don't you think?"
"Nah, you're OK. Tell you what, pop back in a month or so and I'll have another look at those fronts," he said over his rapidly departing shoulder as he sashayed back to the meditation session from which I'd distracted him.

How selfless of him. I mean, I was offering best part of £500 worth of new tyre business to him on a plate, and there he was turning it down. Most charitable. Like the Mother Theresa of auto factoring, if you like. All with the ability to sense the complete state of my tyres from long distance. That's truly uncanny.

There is a sad end to this story, Mr Kwik-Fit. I weakened and got nervous. I called in ATS mobile fitters today. And it's odd, because something really weird must have happened in the six days since I met your Sage. Because today I needed a full set - four of Monsieur Michelin's finest. My fronts were indeed low. And my rear tyres were, apparently, bald as a baby's backside on the inner shoulders. Illegally so, by all accounts.

I am sure that with your Sage looking after my best interests, I was in fact perfectly safe from the £300-per-corner fine I would otherwise have risked for driving on what were essentially racing slicks. I'm convinced that there was no chance of a car/tree meeting on a damp corner. I must just be a wuss.

And now your competitors have gotten some business out of my cowardice. I am no Sage. Clearly I am not worthy.

Pet Hate No. 1

People who wear Bluetooth headsets.

Not when they're driving. I can understand that.

But why do they need them when they're just walking down the street, or pushing a trolley around Tesco? I mean, what is so complicated about the simple act of walking that they feel they need their hands free?

Who do they think they are - Lieutenant Uhura?

I think we need to be told.

Advice for the hard of thinking

I'm fully convinced that Birmingham City Council do, in fact, employ idiots. Ok, that's a little controversial. Not all of the Council employees are having difficulty with backside-and-elbow comparisons, I accept. My eldest brother and his wife-to-be work for the Council, for instance, and they're both very intelligent.

But the people who work in the Environmental Services department, particularly those responsible for recycling, should really never be allowed to organise parties, even in licensed alcohol production facilities.

I'm not exactly green; to be honest I struggle with the whole Earth Mother thing. But I accept that recycling should probably be filed under 'Really Good Idea'. So I was pleased when a blue sack appeared on my doorstep, marked 'Recycling Bag', a gift from the afore-mentioned geniuses at my local authority.

Note that description. 'Recycling Bag'. Nothing to say what I can actually recycle in it. Paper? Plastic? Tins? Glass? Left over pie crusts, maybe?

Or all of the above in one go, perhaps? (I say this because that's exactly what we were able to do in a rural backwater in France earlier this year). But no-one had thought to tell me what to do. How many residents just won't bother?

But have no fear, because yesterday they sent us some leaflets. Nice, glossy, four-colour print leaflets telling us, well, pretty much nothing at all.

Oh yes. Leaflets. Plural. Four of them, in fact. Three of which were exactly the same. Brilliant. Quite brilliant. There are several hundred thousand households in the central Birmingham area alone. The wastage in materials alone would give Al Gore nightmares.

Not only do these people not have a clue, they couldn't even get a clue. Not even if they dressed up as a female clue and stood in the centre of a clue field, in the midst of the clue mating season, drenched in clue pheromones.

Somewhere a polar bear is crying. Or something.

In completely unrelated news, the house smells of cake at the moment. I have a well-developed sense of smell where food is concerned, funnily enough. I'm a bit like a shark detecting prey in the sea, although I suspect your average Great White doesn't go hunting Ginsters Pasties. But this time it's because Katie has become a one-woman production line, making the wedding cake for Mike and Emma. It's quite a project, with chocolate, lemon sponge and fruit cake layers.

The trouble is, great cook that she is, Katie uses most of the implements at her disposal even for straightforward stuff. Unfortunately, it's me that has to deal with the aftermath in the kitchen. I swear it's like the Somme in there - I'm tempted to brick up the doorway and build a new kitchen elsewhere.

It's putting me off cake better than any aversion therapy, I can tell you.