red_card_mother...minus4

There comes a time in everyone’s life where they have to make a decision based upon a speedy assessment of two or more possible outcomes to a given situation. Yesterday it was my turn.

I chose not to extend my fist rapidly towards the face of my boss with the sole intention of acquainting my knuckles with the innermost portion of her frontal lobe, via the right eye socket or perhaps the nasal passages.

This was a decision based not only on whether it would hurt my hand or not, the answer to which was a sure fire “yes”, but also on the ensuing consequences that would affect not only mine but my wife’s state of rationale too. Which would be selfish, unfair and would cost me dear.

Those of you who know me, and those of you who may’ve read various things I’ve penned in the past (not pigs) will understand that I often seem faster than most when it comes to finding fault in aspects of my superiors – particularly when they’re women. This isn’t something I chose to ignore either; I feel I should try to work out why these feeling persist to a point where any relationship I may want to establish at work with a senior colleague is blighted if they’re female. I can’t for the life of me think of anything that may’ve drawn my attention to the fact that all female senior managers (FSMs) are nonses, other than perhaps where I’ve chosen my career path – aha! Yes that must be it! At last – realisation…could it be??

I’ve worked in the public sector for a while now – perhaps too long, in fact. I have a vague memory of….oh no….no that’s not the case – hang on! No there’s no way I can believe what I was about to say…I was about to waffle on about how women in senior roles within the private sector seem to have a much more masterful cut on things, compared to those at a similar level in the public sector, but I just realised that’s all bollocks; those women are just better at bitching. They earn more money than their public sector counterparts so there’s even more need to try to out-dress all colleague, or rather all “threats from out of the blue who really don’t stand a chance, especially with that hair which is soooo last season and those tits; my God sometimes I really don’t know if androgyny is a dietary failing or just used as a fashion statement for the one time (Wyclef) victims of school bullies” as is how the word “colleague” translates in the mind of the FSM.

Anyway – before I forget the reason for writing this I should aim to get to the point. Or at least open a door and lean in just enough so you can see the point, but not necessarily grasp it.

Yesterday my FSM and I disagreed on a particular point whilst discussing the best solutions to a problem. We agreed that the third party involved had a right to make suggestions that we should consider, but my point was that we shouldn’t necessarily feel obliged to go with whatever the third party thought best. In this case we had the upper hand in expertise relating to the problem we were discussing and I couldn’t understand why that hadn’t been dragged out to support the notion of us not following the suggestion made by our less informed partners. I saw it as more of an opportunity to thank our partners for their contributions, but to illustrate that although they had the right idea, the consequences of following their ‘idea’ would bury us up to our necks in much more of the same shit we're in already.

But no – my FSM couldn’t handle that. She suggested I was missing the point of ‘partnership’ working, as if she was stating that in order for a partnership to work you don’t necessarily discuss ideas, you simply pick up something that a partner says and run around with it for a bit, waving it about like a mental, before sitting down and telling everyone else in the partnership what a great new idea this suggestion is.

Well that was it. I propounded such madness was like nothing I’d previously heard. And then came forth the greatest, and oldest, bluff-whammy ever. She protested that I had offended her. Right there and then. By using a description of one of the key elements of this particular branch of the ‘partnership’ in one particular way, a way often used by members of the same particular partnership themselves…I said, beware now, I said h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l.

Yes homosexual. That’s the word, there it is and here it is again – HOMOSEXUAL – in caps.

Now, I know for a fact that me saying homsexual wasn’t offensive to the FSM or she would have certainly made it clear to the rest of the team that out of a matter of respect to her, nobody used the 'h' word. No, instead she just decided, rather clumsily, that the only way to get out of the discussion she had brought on herself, and taken away from the rest of the team and tucked away into her own little office, herself, was to suddenly pull out the ‘offence card’ at a moment when my argument was really gaining momentum.

This was insane. I didn’t know what to do. When a FSM pulls the offence card out you know, unless you’re another FSM, in which case the message is simply that it’s gloves off and hair pulling time and that girly grunting sound effects making can begin. However if you’re a member of the club for boys, the man machine, the brotherhood, well you’d be better off sticking her biro in your eye and rushing into the nearest room full of colleagues, screaming and waving your arms in the air as you profess to claims of assault and wounding!

I chose not to extend my fist rapidly towards her face with the sole intention of acquainting my knuckles with the innermost portion of her frontal lobe, via the right eye socket or perhaps the nasal passages.

I announced that I couldn’t continue the discussion. I left the room. I’ve been sulking ever since. I know she feels it – I also know she wants me out of my job. I shall spend the rest of my time in this pit working on bettering myself, purely that.

I'm growing tired of this game...I need a change.

93_tid >>> & 5andwich3s

It’s another fine and sunny day in the CAPITAL. My lunch is a sandwich and soup combo and all is very well in my world.

While cycling to work this morning I pondered whether cycling to work was in fact a good thing – why did I do it?

Along the middle bit of Kew Road, I decided that it was something that, in the main, brought pleasure into my life. I’ve always enjoyed riding my bike – fortunately I was rarely without a bike as a kid; it’s just in adult life I’ve never crossed over to becoming a fully paid up member of the owning my own car fraternity.
I’ve been on cycling holidays with my Dad, cycling holidays with school, I’ve cycled significant distances on my own and so I suppose the main reason why I choose to cycle to work is because I enjoy it.
Many people take the bus, or the tube, the train or their own car (or a car they’ve nicked) or a combination of many modes of mobility to make their way from wherever they live to wherever they work – but I can’t be badgered with it, not in the sunshine. When you’re under your own steam to get home at the end of the day, there’s nothing like it.

If you’re anything like me, the mere thought of just being at work fills you with dread, despair and a feeling of oppression. It’s as if you choose each morning to leave your bed and voluntarily walk into the same prison where you spend all day long doing something that helps a manager (Gordon) somewhere tick a little box on something that really doesn’t benefit anyone but themselves (new legislation) and the overall greatness of the machine (Aunty). That greatness is measured by a bigger machine (Uncle), one which justifies itself by simply answering to the main machine (Tony) that, ultimately, thinks it knows the people at which it aims its good intentions, but all along drives itself further and further from what’s important…much like your boss dancing at a works Christmas bash. In fact, much like your boss actually being at the works Christmas bash!

So, anyway, what I was getting at was that after yet another day in the asylum, it’s often that moment where you take off your shirt and tie and jump into your manky old cycling clothes (no really, both legs at the same time – try it!) that life suddenly seems back in your hands again. You’re finally free at the end of the day to leave and ride home just as you like it – you can stop wherever you want, have a look down which ever street you feel curious about. If you’re up for it and need to blow out some cobwebs you can do just that too, and feel superfly good for it afterwards!

• It takes less time to cycle home than it does to take public transport
• It costs next to nothing to cycle home compared to taking public transport
• It improves your fitness and helps to j-j-j-jack your brain as well as your body
• It reminds people that there is an alternative to congestion, wheelies and cheers!


But there is a draw back to cycling on London’s roads. The Saab 93 TiD.

Cyclists if you see one of these cars heading your way, and you’ll know when one is because it’ll be on your side of the road and the wanker driving it won’t be so much as looking at the road - they’ll most probably be applying face paint while shouting at their kids (her) or bluetoothing something from a mobile phone to a palm pilot (him), beware and scarper quicksmart! These people are part of the new breed of motorist. Puretit. The essence of dumbassity captured in human form. Captain Chaos and his wife Claire sit in these cars, and move them about in a random way. They’re made from bad soup and rotten sandwiches.

little reds in a TIN 461bc

Just how long has it been since I previously wrote on this blog? A very long time indeed. Still, I’ve been busy – busy doing nothing and busy doing bits and pieces that when lumped together result in very little.

I almost left my job, but didn’t because I’m caught up in a bit of a “is it comfortable here?” kind of argument with myself which I can’t seem to resolve, not at least without doing something irrational to prove it one way or another. And if I do decide to dive off into the void, I don’t particularly want to be caught up in a drowning not waving situation that I could have quite happily avoided by just biding my time a little longer where I currently am. God this is dull.

My lady and I went to the super last night to try and pad out our mealtime options a little. It seemed like months and months since we last spent a moment blasting around the big shop (the one we’re not supposed to support because of the impact our actions have on local, organic fresh produce). I relish a visit to the super though. And so does m’lady. Maybe it’s partly because I know it’s bad – but in the main it’s because you can wander and look at so many variations on one thing. For instance I walk in and think to myself I’ll go find some tomatoes for a sauce….so I instinctively go over to the stripey tomatoes section and see which tin I can reach that isn’t battered beyond the extent of the Easyjet managed Boeing 737 flight that ended up veering off into a hail storm somewhere over Geneva. As I’m checking out the tins for evidence of being used as projectiles in adverse weather my eyes roam free over the remaining contents of the shelf…there’s Farquoire and Hemsley’s vine hosted, sun dried, rain washed, wind blown variety. Produced since 461BC and a steal at £8.99 per tin. But you know you’re getting a bargain because it clearly states that each tomato was picked up from amongst the windfalls by Roger the blind drunk Springer who was, at the time, looking for a ball he’d failed to retrieve from the vineyard sometime in the spring of 1996. Before him, of course, trained elephants were instructed to fetch the tomatoes from the jaws of starved and depraved tigers, who had already stolen the harvest from a small lad called Jack, who everyone beat up at school because he had a wooden leg and spoke in a dialect not too dissimilar to that of them there folk from zomerzet. Jack later grew up to become a pioneer. This only lasted a short while; the need for men and women to be able to entertain the masses by wandering about with mathematical formulae tattooed on their ears soon wore off.
It took Jack a further 12 years to painstakingly remove the 592654 section of pi from the tattoo on his right lobe, by which time he had been recruited into retail by his long lost cousin Arthur Mound of Tuppennyrice, near Cleethorpes. Arthur and his wife, Fanny, were delighted with Jack’s progress and the fortune he helped to bring in through some very tough times…tougher than Mr T but not very often ‘cause that’d be too tough. It was 27 (Donna) summers later that circumstances began to change, and with the arrival of Jeesis onto the scene, the son of Godfrey and heir to the international chain Ballsmart, there opened up a niche in the market to really push the sale of tomatoes. Jack seized the opportunity with his last remaining finger and tucked it away up his left nostril for 20 minutes before leaving to simmer until brown. This was only possible because of a sacrifice Jack had made ten minutes previously – he donated his soul to Tim Rice, who was stumped for a line that would rhyme with Macavity. Tim’s whole career would’ve come crashing down from a very high cliff into the ground, no, into rocks at the edge of the sea…like at Beachy Head, and he would’ve been unable to pen such ditties as Evita and Starlight Express had Jack not sold him his soul for all his fingers, bar one.
But then he made stripey tomatoes and all was very good until he stubbed his toe and died.

rise of the machines...t>H_40_econ_super

The washing machine in our flat is a pile of pap!

The man we contact when it relapses is a bigger pile of pap!

If we subtract the man from the machine, things are ok...but only if I add a shoe…


Imagine, if you will, a design centre, say, in Bracknell, where some beardy blokes gather with empty clip-boards and Parker ball point pens, chomping on ketchup sandwiches and bruised fruit, all the while dropping crumbs into their chin wigs. This is the kind of place where washing machines are taken from the conceptual drawing stage, through mock-up build stage, into trial and tribulation stage and finally into wrap in plastic and send to Rumbelows stage.

It would seem that, as used to be the case with cars (mainly Rovers), the "Monday morning/Friday afternoon" scenario has applied itself to the washing machine currently sat in our, rather aptly named, "room with the washing machine in".
Our washing machine, called Kevin for the duration of this scrawl, is, without a doubt, a Friday afternooner.
Load Kevin with clothing that needs a wash and he’ll gratefully receive all your fabric’n’threads, gratefully receive the washing powder, even go as far as gratefully receiving water from the mains…but then, upon the first drum revolution the whole process fails and he discards his belt drive. The speed controller immediately freaks out and sends the motor into a 230,000rpm screaming fit. I jump out of my skin, spill my tea down my Spiderman suit and lunge into the “room with the washing machine in” to cut the programme and save the flat from fire damage…or just fire, in general.

I’ve tried umpteen (does anyone actually know how many “umpteen” is? In Turkish it’s written “sayısız, pek çok”, which I find amusing) times to, firstly, contact the Plummer, then get the Plummer, Arsefeck, to agree to an appointment, then get Arsefeck to return my calls, then ask Arsefeck why he refuses to contact us when he’s unable to keep an appointment…

Anyway, Arsefeck’s away – so I’ve taken it upon myself to become the plummer. I figure the washing machine’s knackered anyway, so what harm can it do for me to have a go at fixing it? Besides I’ve grown a ‘tash especially and I’ve been working on my Dutch accent for weeks. Just need to get the camcorder set up and I reckon we’re all set for a career in modern journalism – fly on the wall style reality home movies, guv’nahh.

So, I removed the cover. I had a look inside. I went to fetch a torch from the other room and came back for another look. I went to the kitchen and dug out some batteries for the torch and went back to the “room with the washing machine in”. I peered inside the white cube’s innards:

Overall Assessment: drive belt missing, crap springs, me overloading the machine.

Recommendations: find belt and re-apply to drum rim and motor, leave springs alone, don’t overload the machine.

All of this should’ve taken a minute. But after locating the drive belt inside the casing, curled up on the floor of a sealed metal box containing a big drum, a set of bongos and a cymbal, I realised that reaching in to try to reach the bottom of the casing was something that was unlikely to happen in my lifetime without resulting in some kind of “kid falling into chest freezer” –esq nightmare.
I remember reading about such things a lot when I was younger. Quite a peril. When I was a kid you didn’t worry about pedder-ass pervs running about trying to grab you and take you away to do stuff to you and your friends, you simply worried about falling headlong into a chest freezer and the lid coming down on top of you – ‘cause we all know once that door closes it’s absolutely impossible to open from the inside. Oh yes. Remember those kids who were playing on a rubbish heap (let’s face it they were doomed from the start really) who randomly became locked inside a fridge?
Yeah, they were there for weeks before they were found…by an old man out walking his dog. Isn’t it a shame that all horrible things are discovered by old men walking their dogs? It’s tough being a bloke.

So anyway, I reached inside the casing and immediately electrocuted myself.

After rather enjoying that odd “shduff” sound effect that takes over your ears and then your head when you take volts, and the moonwalk airiness with which you take your next few post zap steps, I decided upon a new course of action.
Because the “room with the washing machine in” is the room where all manner of outdoor pursuit clothing and equipment is left, normally to go mouldy, it wasn’t long before I located a bungee.
Bungees are probably one of the best inventions ever to, um, have been invented. They can do all sorts, loads of stuff really; it’s just unbelievable how much stuff a bungee can do, considering they look so daft. I often can’t personally believe what I see when a bungee is involved. No really. Staggering.
Something they’re particularly good at is fishing for drive belts in the abyss that is the bottom of washing machine casings.
After no further electrocution and a little under-breath cursing, I scored a good bite and retrieved the belt.

Next job was to reacquaint it to the place from whence it came, herein and thus.

Having previously built up a few thousand hours flying time in a Mk 1 Ford Fiesta (X reg), I felt fully qualified to replace this drive belt. A couple of grazed knuckles and perhaps a few expletives later all appeared to be back in order. I span the drum to make sure, then I spun the dram. Then I drank it and then had a sleep.
There came a sound from deep within the washing machine casing…it was the sound of something rubber landing on the inner floor of a metal box. It wasn’t a jumping gimp; we don’t have one anymore. No, the drive belt was off again.
This process repeated itself until I was dry in the throat and sought liquid refreshment – it was during that tea-break that I was able to see clearly what was wrong. Alignment.

I discovered, having never previously devoted any time to pondering the inner workings of a washing machine, that because of the sheer might of the wobble undertaken by the drum as it spins, the motor had literally shaken itself off its housing and now sat on the drum clamps in a fashion most commonly referred to as “on the piss”.
This is why my girlfriend and I pay rent instead of buying our own. If it was our flat and our washing machine….well for starters I’d have used Calgon and we’d never be in this mess.
Actually – if washing machines were installed in walls, instead of just being placed in a box and plonked in the “room with the washing machine in”, none of this would happen. Things in walls don’t go wrong. Yes, that’s why we have tombs. Ever see one of them go wrong? Aha no you haven’t. I win.

I forcibly persuaded the motor to become realigned with the drum rim, re-attached the belt and prepared for a test run. Everything appeared to be fine. The belt stayed in place on the manual run through. Just a quick click of the on/off switch and soon some washing can actually take place….oh no it can’t. Because there’s no power coming through the device anymore. Oh no!
I couldn’t work it out and tried all manner of tweaking, tilting and tapping. Then I left my girlfriend alone and went back to the washing machine.

Because our Hotpoint (not-point, rather) was seized by bailiffs from The Ark shortly after Noah declared himself up to his eyeballs in debt to several zoos and finally agreed to accept bankruptcy, the connections which were once considered sound are now more likeable to those connections often missed when travelling by rail in the UK, or indeed by tube on the Piccadilly Line when it gets a bit windy in the winter months. You would’ve thought…”win”ter….”win”dy…. I don’t know how they missed that one.

Anyway – I belted (with open palm, not fist nor in fact belt) the front door of the machine, which in turn responded exactly as the Millennium Falcon does when they really need light speed. Everything lit up (a lone LED) and ran perfectly – hoorah!

No it didn’t.

The wash never completed….no because at about 92% through the programme, the belt came off again. I cried and spent four days at the Priory clinic with severe depression.

When I returned, my beloved had managed only to wash one sock – for her stresses had been almost intolerable too. But not quite so, because she is indeed a fine woman and made of stern stuff, more sterner than the stern beams that support bridges, more sterner than indeed the huge girders that line cargo ships, even more sternerer than a sweet smile from John Prescott (the MP not the man who “goes the distance” in my links section).
I gathered myself, like a sheep dog would gather its thoughts before settling down to sleep…yes that’s how I gathered myself, not wanting to be defeated by a Hotpoint Aquarius 1400LX, ABS, SIPS, ESP, DOHC turbo.

The problem, it would seem, was down to the level of “wobble” experienced every time the max rpm was hit on the spin cycle. So to solve this I came up with an ingenious plan. I’d use an old shoe.
Incorporating the lid of the machine’s casing as a stay, I managed to wedge an old trainer inside the housing of the machine, between the edge of the casing and the motor. The shoe was then bent against it’s own natural flex, and fastened in place by the lid of the machine. This fastening then forces the shoe to press firmly against the motor, countering its natural lunge under the pressure from the spin cycle, thus holding it on the right line to keep the belt from slipping off the rim of the drum, and also to counter the violence of the spin when it’s going for it at the end of a programme. Utter brilliance.

So all we have to do now is find a way to fix the fact that the water comes straight from the mains supply, runs hot off the gas water heater we have, and then remains bloody cold throughout the duration of a wash. I’m sure, as a child, I remember the glass feeling at least warm after a wash had completed. Or is 40 degrees really quite cold? No it can’t be, can it?

Or, we simply wait for Arsefeck the Plummer to return from his holidays to fit us a new machine.

I wonder if I’ve damaged it?

9"_blow_me...UB40

Today I was awoken by the sound of my girlfriend being awoken by the sound of the people in the flat above ours being awoken by the wind outside our bedroom window. As it raced around in cyclones, its own paroxysm multiplying by the second, we could hear empty flowerpots tumbling and splitting as they were thrown against stone surfaces and rigid fencing.
Then, as if listening to a concerto, the rain picked up the banner and ran with it; dancing in and out of the veering wind as together these two tempestuous elements sought breach points in any weakness in window and door, guttering or roofline.

Travelling to work was made a slow and laborious process, partly due to signal failings, but other-partedly due to the weather…having just checked TFL for a clue as to whether (hahaha!) or not I’ll be sleeping at work or at home tonight it appears that the former of the two choices is looking likely. I’d rather eat curry and watch Bollywood with Jade Goody than sleep at work. Actually I’d rather sleep at work after eating curry than watch Bollywood and sleep with Jade Goody. I’m not even going to mention eating Jade Goody.

I’ve recently discovered it’s likely I’ll be looking for a new job soon. It appears somebody’s finally realised the prolixity of “Community Safety” and the decision has been made to gradually outsource the function of the team. So with a skip in my step I race to work each day and scan the internet with a furtive eye – ever hopeful that the fruits of my labours will reward me with a ticket out of here and on to greater things…

…it’s not all bad though…Top Gear returns to the telly on 28th January – now there’s a job!