It’s time to revert to Grumpy Old Man mode as the airwaves are bombarded by a snowstorm of shit Christmas songs again and people you have never met – nor want to – insist that it is time to grin like a moron.
As if that were not bad enough, Geldof & Co have been let loose again to shame us into feeling bad and empty our pockets at the behest of a bunch of preening nobodies desperate to publicise their latest pile of crap.
I’m no expert on world poverty but it does strike me that thirty years on, a problem that still refuses to go away, suggests time to look again at the supposed remedies? Loads of cash is not doing it that is for sure.
There are plenty of ordinary people who simply get on with doing what they can to improve the lot of others without the need for the oxygen of publicity, poncing around on photo shoots.
For me it’s Classic FM till January where even if they play a Christmas tune at least I won’t have a clue it is one.
Just What I Always Wanted!
My dad offered his token gesture the other day.
“What do you want for Christmas then?” he asked in full earshot of my mum who would be tasked with finding any request. Job done for the old boy as he picked up his paper contentedly.
Still traumatised by the Airfix plane they bought me – aged 11 – and my failed attempts at gluing anything other than my fingers together, I tend to ignore such requests.
My mum invariably comes up with gems, such as the furry ice scraping glove for my car or the foot massaging shower sandal which was shaped like a Gary Glitter boot and presumably intended for a one-legged man.
The local charity shop greet me with open arms each January.
The other night at the gym I got some inspiration, rather bizarrely courtesy of my mate’s arse. Sat at the back of the spin class I could hardly fail to see the hole in his shorts, so approached him tentatively at the end.
“Listen mate, don’t take this the wrong way” I stuttered “but you’ve got a hole in your arse.”
For a minute the conversation could have gone a number of ways.
“I know” he smiled “been like that for years and staying like that.” And still the conversation hovered uncertain in it’s direction. “Far too old to buy new kit.”
Grateful to be back “on message” I thought about my favourite gym gear. Bought the summer of 1998 with and now possessing a flea-bitten look, tempting the staff to turn me away at the door and back to the homeless shelter.
How is it that we go from wanting the flashiest kit in the shop to ending up looking like tramps?
Big Al’s Corner – The Simple Life
Speaking of which, safe from the threat of a jingling can rammed up our noses, Big Al and I were sat in the Dog & Gun on Saturday afternoon, awaiting England’s latest game in the autumn rugby internationals.
Soon JB arrived and, to be honest, the way JB dresses if anybody needed charity then this is the man. Still it was good to be in the company of the scruffiest man on the planet once again.
I thought about the billions spent on the little space rocket with the duff batteries stuck on some comet far away, supposedly to help us understand better how we all evolved. I bet there’s a Duracell advert coming on the back of that one.
As talk wandered to our respective plans for the weekend, once again Big Al showed why they would have been better lighting a Catherine Wheel, diverting the brass to Africa so we did not have to suffer Pope Bono and leaving the rest to chance.
Positively beaming at the prospect – and rubbishing any theory of evolution in a flash – he relayed the day’s schedule.
“Rugby till half-four, up to the Bear for the footie till seven then Linda’s picking me up at half past for a curry and a few cans!” he grinned, oblivious to the lift the lovely Luckless Linda was providing amounted to less than 100 yards.
“Sex?” I enquired not really seeking any graphic details.
“Sunday morning” he winked “if the back can stand it and I can get me socks off!”
The Age of Inequality
Business organisation CBI had its annual conference in London recently with an unusual clarion call to raise living standards for the lower paid. Unusual? Well largely because we perceive our industry leaders as uncaring “fat cats” – rightly or wrongly.
Director General John Cridland asserted “We’ve had a jobs rich recovery…any job is better than being stuck on the unemployment register.” As blunt is this is, it is hard to disagree.
What perhaps struck a chord was Cridland’s theme of more free childcare and cutting taxes for the low paid which essentially are paid for by the Government. Some regard employee related benefits such as income support as indirect tax-cuts for business.
In an age where the ratio of pay between CEOs and the lowest paid has widened to record levels, requesting more public money to boost business seems rich even if Cridland recognised the UK’s slow economic recovery had “hit people’s finances hard“.
The Government trumpets the creation of two million private sector jobs post 2010 and it is true that we appear to be bucking the trend in Europe, certainly as far as youth unemployment goes.
However, there is also an acceptance that many of these jobs are low-paid, part-time and blighted by the spectre of zero hours contracts. Cynics would suggest that zero-hours contracts simply enable employers to keep more people “on the books”
But if we are far from out of the woods, why does a business have to go to Hungary to seek 300 new employees to make sandwiches? Especially one located in a town with 8,000 unemployed according to the Daily Mail.
The reality is that the global economy is highly competitive and the UK has serious skills shortages, ironically in those areas where wage rates are not on the bottom rung; cue the need for skilled immigrants but surely not sandwich makers?
I agree with Cridland that “any job is better…” nor should we expect business to provide a social safety net. However, the gap between those at the bottom and the top has passed the level where it is morally and socially acceptable.
As a result a growing sector of society are becoming detached from the mainstream.
Channel 4’s How Rich Are You attempted to demonstrate the disparity between earnings in the UK and the extent of the nation’s wealth owned by the top ten percent.
There was some very interesting stuff, if spoiled by a rabble of a studio audience, whipped up by giddy presenter Richard Bacon who should really be sent back to Blue Peter as soon as possible.
Although some questions were quite clearly planted it was obvious that many people are struggling with their daily existences, most glaringly with an inaccessible property ladder.
The point was made that wealth controls property and in recent years both prices and rents have flown beyond many people as property has been increasingly hoovered up by those that possess the capital to do so, assisted by cheap money.
Politicians talk of “fairness” as if it is a wonder drug but surely as a progressive society we have to find ways to avoid an ever increasing proportion feeling they neither belong nor count, mindful that the state does not possess an open cheque book?
FOOTNOTE – a week after I penned this, Channel 4 screened How The Rich Get Richer once again highlighting how the gap between rich and poor has widened since the start of the recession.
As disturbing as the evidence of the impact of foreign money on property values was – especially in London – the reinforcing of the fact that privilege starts at the school gates was equally depressing.
That some 7% of society – those that are privately educated – have such a start on the rest and access to the pick of the top jobs does not bode well for a happy society. The pot is simmering and politicians would be stupid to ignore this much longer.
Sorry if this is heavy stuff but have a think about what kind of society you want for the future.
Pensioners’ Pilates
We were doing some testing exercises the other day which involved throwing your legs behind your neck whilst lying down.
“Get those legs over your heads girls” implored Lisa to the old dears.
I could only think it had been a very long time since a many had done this and that the Royal Infirmary might be the next stop should any attempt it now.
Mark Yohan Cotton
The fragility of life was laid bare again this morning with news of the tragic circumstances surrounding the death of Mark Cotton who we grew up with as kids at the Villas.
I remember him getting me into trouble – aged 14 – when we stayed out very late one night trying to woo a certain girl, who was far too respectable for either of us.
I thought I was “in” with her – and she will read this and hopefully smile – as I had splashed out my paper round money on Cliff Richards’ Greatest Hits. I’ve hated the twat ever since…Cliff not Mark.
My Dad came out looking for us, bundled me into the Ford Capri; Mark had a clear pass and I was penniless, alone and in danger of a severe beating.
Life had not been kind to Mark in recent years losing both his legs due to a medical condition. Apparently he died of an overdose of the painkillers he needed because of his illness, following a decision to cut his paid care.
As JB wrote in an email “reading this just makes me wish that we could all go back to being kids of 15 kicking or throwing a ball around the villas.”
Patch says
Willy I think you are depressed. P hates christmas and she’s more upbeat than you.
Patch says
Ps you still buy the flashiest kit at PC