Category: random

News it or use it

If we’re to believe the popular press, these are the things that occupy British minds right now: cricket match fixing, pending tube strikes, the foreign secretary’s relationship with a young adviser, and Princess Eugenie being photographed wearing a plastic bottom.

Wayne Rooney is said to have cheated on his pregnant wife, Serena Williams is said to be OMG-ish about her sister’s choice of outfit for the US Open, and there was a right proper punch up on X Factor last night. It is all so exciting, I can barely breathe.

While I am someone who is interested in everything, I thought of all the opportunities listed above, I’d focus on the X Factor. It’s the one news item that might not spread beyond these isles.  X Factor is a reality TV programme – a singing competition – conceived and produced by and making truckloads of money for Simon Cowell, and it draws in the viewers by the millions. True confession time: my husband and I are two of that number.

We are three weeks into the latest season, and the early audition weeks make for good – if not cringeworthy – viewing. Last night was no exception. It presented the British public with a local, 16 year old Cher, who can really sing; a kind of Spanish bullfighter-type who described himself as “older than Brad Pitt but younger than Sir Mick Jagger” who Simon said his mum would love, an over-fake-tanned and well built young man who thought it was a compliment to be likened to an action figure man, and a real live punch-up between two Birmingham lasses who fell out while trying to out-yobbo each other on national television.

My personal favourites included a young, shy chap who – with his typically nasally Birmingham accent – said he wanted to be “the next Michael Buble of Birmingham”. (Not sure who the first one was, but hey, let’s give him his dream.) He went on to sing really badly, and read the lyrics off a piece of paper. When the judges asked him why he read the words, he said, “for the past few weeks I’ve had a headache and a chesty cough” (pronounced with the same intonation as Tretchikoff), which apparently meant he couldn’t learn the words. All the judges gave him the thumbs down, but he said he’d be back next year. Simon quipped: “What if you have a tickly throat?”

And along came a young, part-time funeral singer, whose dream it is to be the next Elton John. He croaked a few tuneless lines of a song before being stopped by the judges. Simon said to him, “Do you really believe you’ll be the next Elton John?” “Fingers crossed,” he said!

Watching the X Factor is mindlessly entertaining. It’s as valuable to my life as newspaper in a parrot cage. Now that’s a good use for the tabloids.

Sunshine signing off for today!

London and some odds

The nation is all in a frenzy. The British Prime Minister and his wife, fondly known as SamCam, have given birth to their fourth child. A daughter. Three weeks early. The question on everyone’s lips: what will they call her?

Something that I have found really amusing, living in the UK, is the national obsession with – or propensity for – gambling. You can place a bet on anything. Obvious ones like who’s going to win the World Cup – along with millions of permutations of who will meet whom in which stage and what the scores will be and who will score the goals and who will be in the starting line-up – and then the not-so-obvious ones of which WAG (wives and girlfriends – of professionally footballers) will be photographed on the beach in South Africa first. You can bet on reality TV programme results, election results, what’s going to be the Christmas Number One, and now, you can bet on what the Camerons are going to call their baby.

She was born in Cornwall, and the PM hinted that she might have a Cornish middle name. Which sent the bookies crazy with opportunity. Now they are flooded with changing odds over the first name: Angelina (40/1), Ivana (40/1), Kammy (66/1) and Maggie (33/1). The favourite is Isabella (8/1) and my personal favourite, although it has the longest odds, is Beyonce (150/1). Can you imagine? They must be having a laff!

Jokes are flying backwards and forwards about Nick Clegg having the final say in what her name should be, the fact that she’s a ConLib baby, that the odds are 100/1 for Clegg to be asked to be the baby’s godfather, and I’m just waiting for Clegg to announce – in true coalition love-in style – that he and his wife are expecting twins. Cameron and Clegg have been described as “the biggest double act since Morecambe and Wise” and I suspect Clegg will have to have his one-upmanship on this!

So for me it’s back to the job of job hunting now, ho hum! It sure is a scary time to be in London – what with budget cuts, global recession, global warming, the ConLib government, Ultimate Big Brother and now we don’t even know what babyCam’s name is. Stressful? You bet!

My little London number

Grab your dabber, wear your lucky pants and show me your game face. I’m about to show you a good time. Sunshine in London style.

It’s something of an institution in the UK, it can change people’s lives, and it’s not necessarily the domain of the elderly. Well, not completely. We’ve done it once since we’ve been here, although it’s not something we would generally do. And we’ve made – it seems – some new friends for life.

I know you’re going through the whole gamut of cool things that you think I would do in London. Concerts? Wining and dining? Walking the London bridges? Joining a secret supper club? Theatre?

Well, you clever folks – you didn’t realise we were trendiness in motion. It’s BINGO! Soon after we arrived in London last year, my husband and I went “daan the bingo” with our elder son and his girlfriend. We signed up, and all got our very own bingo books and dabbers – yes, we hadn’t heard of them before either. It’s a pen-type item for dabbing a coloured dot over the number that’s called out. And we entered the bingo hall … start the Jaws music, please.

I think we all had big red Ls on our foreheads … you can choose for yourself if you think that was for Learner or Loser! I know which one I think! Anyway, we chose our table carefully – seems everyone has their favourite table. And chair. And we had NO clue what was going on! Everything seemed to whizz by over our heads – numbers flying this way and that, people yelling different sounds that yielded responses from the suited people, and we still sat there, like stunned mullets, longing to use our dabbers.

Mr Cool – the local Bingo hero , wearing a lycra equivalent of a hankie tied on his head and walking with a smoothness that oozed Al Green hipness (and I think both hips were still his own) – came over to rescue us ignorant ones. A dear friend of ours loves to tell people that we’re “from abroad” so he would have had a field day that evening!

So Mr Cool showed us the moves, told us exactly when we could start listening out for our numbers – and he reminded us publicly when he got to that page – and although the numbers continued to whizz by at breakneck speed, we managed to dab our numbers just in time, but the all-important opportunity to yell “bingo!” eluded us all. Just like finding a job …

It was actually quite a fun evening, and the bingo hall continues to remind us of their special evenings and “winner takes all” options. We went out for a very posh afternoon tea at a central London hotel about two months ago, courtesy of a leaving gift from my lovely colleagues at the charity I worked at earlier this year. While I said to my husband, “Do you think people here will think we’re posh, or will they know we have a voucher?”, he reached into his pocket to yank out his cellphone as it vibrated the text of an incoming message. Guess who it was from? … the local bingo hall, reminding him that they hadn’t seen him down there for some time and inviting him to take advantage of a forthcoming special offer. Our new friends for life.

We laughed, continued to munch on the spoils of our voucher, and reflected on our lives in the Big Smoke. We sure know how to have a good time.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Waiter, there’s an egg in my sock

What do a skimpy Speedo and a pair of baggy, long socks have in common? Both are used, with varying degrees of success, to smuggle birds.

I used to be a swimmer and, in my day, guys used to wear tight Speedos. Budgie smugglers. While today it might be considered a crime, in our day no-one got arrested for wearing a Speedo. Although the fashion police were always on red alert.

In our church earlier this year, we had an international weekend. Our church is, as it aptly describes itself, a large, international local church – its wide diversity of nationalities bears testimony to this.  At the Sunday service, we had songs in all different languages, people praying in different languages, and sharing stories of their lives and cultures. It truly was a celebration of diversity, and the coming together of so many nations under the banner of the church. Our pastor invited people to think about weird cultures in their countries that might be interesting for others to hear about. After a brief pause, a Brazilian accent shouted out, “Speedos!”

I digress.

On the news last night, I heard about a man (heaven help us, he was a Zimbabwean!) who got arrested at Birmingham airport, trying to smuggle 14 peregrine falcon eggs on to a flight to Dubai. You can read the full story here,  but I thought his was such a bizarre, ill-thought out and flawed plan. Here’s how it must have gone:

He decided he could make his millions by stealing a truckload of peregrine falcon eggs from the wilds in Wales, and selling them in Dubai where there is huge trade, apparently, in rare bird eggs. Falconry is a sport of the rich. Smuggling them is a sport of the brainless.

So, hmmmm, now how to get them on to a plane without being noticed. I know, I’ll put them into my socks. Nah, too uncomfortable. I know, I know – I’ll make a necklace out of them, in my socks, and wear them around my waist. I’ll tie knots between each egg so it looks like a pearl necklace. I’ll make two, and tie them both round my waist before I board the plane – best do that in the gents, where no-one will see me, and then I can board the plane. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them they’re chicken eggs, and I strap them round me in sock necklaces because I have a bad back. That’ll do it.

Thanks to a quick-thinking cleaner in the airport bathrooms, he was detained, then arrested and sentenced to three years in prison. He has had his face and name splashed all over national television news, and – more embarrassingly – his “sock beads” have been displayed for all to see. I think his crime was speeding down the highway of stupidity without wearing a crash helmet.

So, Speedos or socks? In this instance, I’d go for the Speedo. At least no-one gets arrested. And the budgie isn’t stolen.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Right or wrong? I’d rather not say

So here I am, procrastinating again while I should be completing yet another lengthy person specification for a job application. Do I fit the minutely-detailed criteria attached to the job? I’ll exercise my new-found British right and say: “I’d rather not say.”

Right, I know that we are spoilt for choice here in London. What to do, where to go, how to get there, what to wear, and whether or not to take a brolly. Ok the last one doesn’t really have another option. But I’ve discovered – to my frustration – that job applications are just as full of choices. I found it quite funny at first, but now I just find it annoying.

Each job application requires an “Equal Opportunities Monitoring” form, which – we are promised – is not considered in conjunction with job applications. It is purely for monitoring purposes. So, in order that no-one is discriminated against on account of his or her sex, marital or family status, age, ethnic origin, disability, race, colour, nationality, national origin, creed, sexual orientation, political affiliation, or trade union membership, a record is kept of all of these criteria, for monitoring purposes. I haven’t yet been asked which football team I support, but I’m sure that’s coming next.

What amuses me about all of this – apart from finding it quite strange – is that you have the option in all of these to say, “I would rather not say.” If I answered that to every question – and it would be my right to do so – where would that leave the monitoring process? Imagine the level of speculation! And why do I have to complete it when I’m applying for the job – do all organisations monitor who applies for what, and then try to target different audiences as required for the next jobs they advertise? And if it’s not considered alongside my application, then what’s to stop me from being less than honest?

So it’s back to the drawing board. Am I having fun? No. Am I optimistic? Yes. Will I keep at it? Yes. Will I let it get me down? No. Is this something I’ll remember with fondness about my time in London? I’d rather not say.

Sunshine signing off!

Are those puppies on a lead?

In London, for many, when the sun comes out, the clothes come off. It doesn’t matter where you are. Or what state of preparedness your body is in. And you don’t even have to give a public health warning.

So anytime, in the summer in London, semi-nakedness – and well-nigh full nakedness, believe me – can strike. Coming from a land of generally endless sunshine – annoying, I know – I don’t quite get the obsession with public, high street flashes of flesh in the interests of soaking in the sun. I have noticed that people strip off their shirts in the high street, at restaurants, pubs, you name it. Some sights are so offensive, I think they deserve an *ASBO.

There we were, my husband and me, wandering innocently through Kensington Palace Gardens a few weeks ago when we saw a young woman emerging from the public loos wearing a skimpy bikini, with no swimming pool or beach in sight. A few minutes later, our eyes were accosted by a sight which was, well, frightening: a well-endowed and, as my granny used to say, stout lady, who had been lying on her stomach, sunbathing, decided to turn over. And as we all know, the bigger the ship, the harder it is to change direction. She lumbered her burnt pink self on to her bottom, sat up and then lay down flat on her back. What I haven’t yet mentioned is that she was clad in nothing but a G-string. Only just. Eeuww.

So, if the sun comes out, and you’re going to bear your flesh in public, pull everything else in and at least wear some sunblock. And keep those puppies on a lead.

Sunshine signing out for today …

*  Wikipedia’s definition of an ASBO: In the United Kingdom, an ASBO may be issued in response to “conduct which caused or was likely to cause harm, harassment, alarm or distress, to one or more persons not of the same household as him or herself and where an ASBO is seen as necessary to protect relevant persons from further anti-social acts by the Defendant.”

Trains, tubes and paper aeroplanes

As an observer of the absurd, I don’t know if I attract situations that make me laugh. Or if it’s just that I notice them. Or maybe they’re not that funny. And I’m the one who’s absurd. Answers on a postcard, please.

On Saturday we travelled up north to my nephew’s wedding. We were kind of seething with London transport because – despite careful planning – we missed our train out of Euston station. And in the UK, you cannot change a ticket you’ve booked in advance for a particular train.

So, safely on a freshly-booked train – eventually – I went to the on-board shop to buy some coffee to calm our nerves. I placed my order with the guy, he had a Saffa accent, and of course I had to comment on it. My sons think I have a compulsion in those kinds of situations, and I have to say something. Hmmmm. to that, I say: judge for yourselves.

As we were comparing notes of where we came from, a lively northern Irishman – whom we’d encountered a little earlier on the train – decided to join in the conversation.

He said, “South Africa!” It was more of a statement than any meaningful contribution to the conversation. So, the train chap said to him, “Oh, do you come from South Africa too?” To which he replied, “Naw.” He could have left it at that, but our Saffa went on, “Oh. So where do you come from?” The intrepid comedian answered, “Me mo’her.” And this is how it went from there:

Saffa: “Sorry?”

Comedian: “Me mo’her.”

Saffa: “Sorry? So, are you her … husband?” (pointing at me)

Comedian: “Naw.”

Saffa: “So where do you come from?”

Comedian: “Me mam.”

Saffa: “Oh, so your mum comes from South Africa?”

At which point I beat a hasty retreat, and thought I would leave the two of them to continue to chuck meaningless words at each other like paper aeroplanes that never landed. But at least it made me laugh. And laugh.

So we eventually arrived in our northern town, checked in at our lovely guesthouse and were welcomed by the most friendly, kind and interested guesthouse owner ever. Nosy, in fact. But in a world where no-one really gives a darn, nosy is ok. And I’m not one who’s known for being short on conversation. So we did well together. Despite the fact that her hearing was not great and we did chat a few times at completely cross purposes. Sometimes it felt like paper aeroplanes too, but I busked and formed questions to fit what she was telling me. In retrospect.

Breakfast in a guesthouse is something else. It’s all so quiet – all the other guests (all four of them) always seem to know each other, and chat about their experiences of the town they’re visiting. And it seems that they visit at the same time every year. To do the same things. But to visit different restaurants. Just not the Italian ones. When they learnt that we lived in London, one couple said they didn’t really like London too much. And he said he couldn’t “be doing with the M1”. I didn’t know anyone ever said they couldn’t be “doing with” anything – but clearly people from Chester do!

The wedding was fabulous, but I’m not going to write about it here. Suffice to say, the sun shone on the beautiful young couple, and we were very glad to be there to share the day with them.

Sunshine signing off, till next time!

Commuting can be fun

If all the world’s a stage, then London public transport is scriptwriter’s paradise. And absolute bliss for a new blogger like me.

From overhearing an animated conversation among a group of priests – yes, as you guessed, they were talking at length and with passion about Alice in Wonderland in 3D – to watching a group of overweight, under-talented and slightly less than sober commuters pole dance on the Jubilee line, I’ve observed enough dramas, soap operas, musicals and scary movies on the tubes, trains and buses, to fill a library. And I’m still watching.

A while back I was sat on the tube, waiting to go home at the end of a busy work day (yes, I did have a job then!), when the crowded carriage of Friday commuters was interrupted by the arrival of a young, fresh-faced woman, who ran on the tube in a fashion reminiscent of Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.

She literally ran into the tube, her face filled with awe and wonder and amazement; she ran this way, she ran that way, she looked up, she looked down, and then, when all foreign eyes were upon her (local commuters generally don’t look up), she slinked over to the end of the carriage and stood at the window, facing the next compartment.

She opened the window, put her iPod earphones in place, and began to sing at full volume. I thought she was serenading a friend in the next door carriage, but it seemed she was singing for whoever would listen. Occasionally she sounded like someone singing through headphones, at other times like someone auditioning for a reality TV show, but mostly she was singing for the amusement of the commuters in both carriages.

The tube stopped at the next station, and who should walk into our carriage but a busker! Complete with guitar, and skirt made from a Union Jack … which wouldn’t be so bad if the busker were female. However, he introduced himself and said he wanted to entertain the evening commuters, asking for 10p per song, and promising he wouldn’t use the money for drink or drugs, “although…” he added, “it is Friday, so who knows?”

As he began to sing “Satisfaction”, a song he told us he wrote with Mick Jagger, the giggles of my fellow commuters could no longer be stifled. One person asked where the cameras were, and if the guitarist and “Julie Andrews” were taking the mick. Our in-carriage drama queen said, “Oh, no. He’s a professional singer. I’m just annoying.” No kidding.

The busker sang a few songs, walked down the carriage and, while he attracted very little funding to feed his habit, he did attract much mobile phone video attention. He walked down the carriage, singing enthusiastically and occasionally in tune. Miss Sound of Music watched in melodramatic anticipation of his next song, as he jumped off the tube at the next stop.

As the tube moved on, Miss Musical discovered, to her hair-grabbing horror, that she was travelling in the “wrong direction”. Thinking and agonizing out loud, she walked this way and that as she decided what to do about this increasingly tragic situation. After many dramatic utterances of “oh my God!” she alighted at the next tube station, amid flutters of giggles and chatter on the tube, and cynical echoes of her words. It was the first time I saw unity among commuters, albeit at the expense of a would-be dramatic actress and a drug-fuelled singer/songwriter.

And then there was the time I was waiting for my tube at my local station, when I noticed a fairly mousy, innocuous middle-aged woman a little way down the platform from me. When the crammed tube arrived, the doors opened in front of her, and there was not one centimetre to spare; there was no way she could possibly consider climbing into that tube. Not even a hardened London commuter would have braved it.

But she was different. She launched herself headfirst on to the tube, only – after some jostling by the heaving mass of in-train commuters – to be spat out on to the platform like a mango pip. Undeterred, she gathered herself on the platform, turned around and forced her way backwards into the tube. She leant back at an acute angle to ensure the doors wouldn’t close on her, and off she went, leaving commuters on the platform open-mouthed, amazed and perplexed at her dogged and surprising determination.

Another time, I noticed on my crowded tube that one of the commuters was travelling on a different tube. His was much bouncier than the one the rest of us were travelling on, and every so often his went over a particularly bumpy patch. No-one around him noticed, especially not the city suit next to him, who was moving and swaying to the rhythm of his personal entertainment centre, nor the chap nearby launching battle in a deadly game of snooker on his mobile phone.

It’s all there, folks – and I’ll keep telling you about it!