Go with the flow

It's cold and raining. Christmas, with all its attendant hassles, is looming on the horizon like a big loomy thing. Driving a car, at £1.10 per litre, seems to involve being mugged on garage forecourts on a semi-regular basis. There is too much month left at the end of the money.

But none of this matters.

I'm overweight. Or undertall. Walking up stairs tends to be an issue. Although when I get up there, I tend to forget why it was I went in the first place.

However, it's not a cause for concern.

Politics seems to be a case of the grumpy Scottish bloke and the other one with the chin deficiency syndrome shouting at each other while the rest of us go to Hell in a Tesco trolley. There are lots of people who don't like each other - to the extreme - because of what they say someone said to someone else, in another language, that no-one was writing down at the time, several thousand years ago.

I am not worried.

My driveway is full of rotting leaves and yet I have no trees. I have about nine weeks worth of work to do in December. And the cat, for reasons best known to himself, has taken to peeing on the sofa.

I couldn't care less.

Because it turns out that there are structures - bloody massive ones, too - tugging at the very fabric of the universe. And everything - you, me, the shouty people and my damp sofa - is being pulled toward these structures at the rate of two million miles per hour.

I could still use some Febreze, though.

The gasman cometh

This morning I am sitting on my sofa, waiting for one of British Gas's finest to arrive. And it's awkward.

Not because we're experiencing central heating issues. Quite the opposite, in fact; my pipes appear to be in rude health, thank you very much. Which is just as well, given the impact Siberian winds are having on our climate at the moment. Sarah Palin might be able to see Russia out of her kitchen window - I suppose it gives her something to look at while gutting a salmon - but I can feel the Urals against my cheek whenever I step outside.

The gasman is here to service my boiler. To check that it's doing what it should and not what it shouldn't. Like emitting dangerous levels of carbon monoxide that will creep up silently behind me like a Japanese admiral before striking.

The awkwardness is because I'm pretty much hopeless when it comes to anything regarding domestic engineering. Plumbing, electricity, gas - there is no beginning to my talents. So whenever someone comes to fix things, I'm left there standing around like a spare part. There is, deep down in my male sensitivities, something that tells me I should be ashamed about this. But when I'm told: "Your pump header seems to be eroded and we'll need to reverse powerflush your rads," all I hear is: "I have a gelatine hovercraft called Nigel. The antelopes are humming. Anyone for tennis?"

It's not as if I can offer much of a service in return. Should the gasman want some analysis of the effect of principles-based regulation on the financial sector, a policy proposal on customer engagement techniques, or even some nicely worded copy on the latest developments in the mortgage market, I'd be OK. As it is, if we ever revert to a barter system, I'm screwed. I'd die hungry.

And probably very cold.

He's due at some point within the conveniently vague time slot of 8.00am to 1.00pm. Which pretty much puts paid to the whole 'going out to work' thing today. I've brought a whole bunch of work to do from home, and used half a day of my holiday allowance, to assuage any remaining guilt at being sofa-bound. You'll be pleased to note that the blog-writing is being done on the part of the day classed officially as 'holiday'. Perhaps I should be wearing a Hawaiian shirt or something.

Ah. I can see the gasman's navy blue van pulling up in front of the house. Good. I've just constructed a lovely pivot-table database in MS Excel. Hope he likes it.

In memoriam 2008

I was thinking long and hard about what to write today. At this point last year I wrote about the Armistice. About how we should remember the sacrifice that - sadly countless - men and women have made over the years.

Some people were very kind about what I wrote. But, to be honest, this year I'm struggling for more words.

So I'm letting some other people do the talking today.

Henry Allingham is Britain's oldest war veteran; at 112 one of only four known British survivors of World War 1. And he says it much better than I can:

"Whenever I saw people wearing poppies, it reminded me of my time in France when death and the fear of death was as near to me as the poppies growing in the fields.

"Age has made my eyesight fail and I can no longer see the symbolic red flowers. But when someone near tells me they're wearing a poppy, I always ask if I can feel them. It's comforting to know that people are still paying their respects.

"And that is all a poppy represents - respect. All this talk of wearing white poppies, red poppies and no poppy at all is getting away from the point. Pinning a poppy to your chest is a sign that you are remembering all those men who didn't want war, but volunteered anyway and had no idea of the horror and brutality they would face."

For a modern take, please go and look at this piece of compare-and-contrast, from London-based blogger diamond geezer. It's simply brilliant. I can't add anything else.

Stop carping on

"It's a vile slur," he declared, very angrily for someone who was patently behind glass. "I tell you now. I'm heartily sick of it all."

To be honest, my visit to the Sea Life had taken an unexpected turn. I hadn't quite expected the inhabitants to answer back.

"I'll have you know, that 30-seconds-memory thing is absolute rubbish, too."

The crisp Chinese accent was a little unsettling. Perhaps an unnecessary detail, seeing as it was coming from the mouth of an ornamental goldfish, but it's one of those things that tends to stay with you. That, and the fact that it was a talking fish.

"Test me, why don't you? Go on, you nose-breather, test me."

I think I was being insulted by an Oranda.

"Erm." I ventured confidently.

"FA Cup Winners from 1970: Arsenal, Leeds United, Sunderland, Liverpool, West Ham United, Southampton, Manchest..."

"I never accused you of having a short-term memory. Oh God. I don't believe this. I'm arguing with a fish. Anyway. It's not my fault."

"Not convinced, warm-blood? OK then, let me see. Oh yes, Restoration Kings & Queens: Charles II, James II, William III, Mary II..."

"What are you doing?" I asked. Things seemed to be going downhill. I was getting a history lesson from something with scales.

"Excuse me?" He waved his dorsal fin in what I suppose was a questioning way. Never having had one waved at me before, I was having to guess a little. "You mammals think you're all that. It's all 'Look at us with our opposable thumbs' all the time. Well, I'm sick of it. I'm very well-read. I can retain information with the best of them. Test me on the Laws of Motion. Go on, test me."

"I'm not going to test a goldfish on A-level physics. It's not right." I turned to leave.

"Oi! Bottom-feeder! Come back here and let me recite pi to 500 decimal places. 3.1415926......"

I could take no more. I had to run away. I had to flee, get myself to a place of safety, get my befuddled head together.

And just to be certain, I made sure to travel via Mr Sunny's Fried Fish Bar.

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.)

Masters of the Universe

One of the most striking aspects of what has been variously called the "financial crisis", the "credit crunch" or the "heap big money frick-up" of the past 12 months has been its affect on the little people. Those quiet, unassuming types who've now been brought into the forefront.

Yes. That's right. The stockmarket traders.

Barely a news item goes by without a shot of an anonymous man (and it is, for reasons unknown, usually a man) with (a) his head in his hands (b) wearing a multi-coloured blazer (c) shouting with a whole bunch of other men, or (d) glancing anxiously at a line on a graph heading south quicker than a swallow in autumn.

But who are these people, and what of their stories?

Robert and Trevor are almost unique in the financial world. The only Siamese twins to actively trade on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, they've been a familiar sight to all since 1983. Being joined at the pelvis hasn't stopped them from enjoying a 25-year career. The fact that Robert is a bear while Trevor is a bull does give cause for some fireworks, though. Shortly after this photo was taken, they went and had 'Sell' and 'Buy' tattooed on their respective foreheads.

David had begun to regret his choice of wallpaper design.

Norman's rendition of "here's the church, and here's the steeple" never failed to raise everyones' spirits at Morgan Stanley.

When Vanessa found out who'd put superglue on her telephone handset, a whole catering pack of whup-ass was going to get well and truly opened.

Wise, avuncular old Bernard had been a feature of the trading floor for as long as anyone could remember. In fact, he'd walked in off the street looking for Danish pastries back in '77. The fact that he would still perform "Mr Bojangles" for spare change hadn't stopped him from becoming Director of Equities for a global investment bank.

The dying firefly struck Maurice a glancing blow to the back of the head.

The superglue phantom had struck again. For George, the nightmare was just beginning.

D minor - it's the saddest of all keys

I was using iPlayer the other day when I noticed something truly wonderful. For those of you who are unaware of iPlayer and its works, it's a service that allows you to experience all of the BBC's TV or radio output for up to seven days after the original broadcast.

And, in itself, it's a very good service.

I was checking the last edition of Later with Jools Holland, watching The Killers doing their thing, when I needed to turn up the volume a little. As you do. And that's when the wonderfulness* struck me:

















No, it wasn't their rather disappointing new single that was striking me. Well, not in that way, anyway. It was the iPlayer's volume control. Take another look:
















The volume goes up to 11! I'll say that again. THE. VOLUME. GOES. UP. TO. 11!

Clearly someone at iPlayer Central, some otherwise anonymous developer, thought it might be nice to sneak that little detail in. 99% of people wouldn't notice. And perhaps of those who did, few would even know who Nigel Tufnel is.

For a few of us, though, this is a lovely little find. And for those of you still don't understand:



Genius.

*(No, really. I can make words up now.)