BLOG 170: Bird Poo

“I don’t know about lucky but bird poop in the mouth is ALWAYS a surprise” Craig Benzine

Last year I went to see the Kings Of Leon in Hyde Park. It remains on my top 10 best days ever. Not just because of the band, but because of the company I was in (Stelly you rock!) the weather that day (it was like the sky got the memo on how to do summer) the people we met (yes Lee Ryan... always a good idea to bring a GUITAR to someone else’s gig!) and the general randomness of the day. It was Awesome in the correct use of the word (not the overused American Version). If ever there was a band to see outdoors KOL are the band.

But the great outdoors carries some terrible risks, as bassist Jared Followill from the band found out some 2 months after the triumph that was Hyde Park. Three songs in, Jared cancelled the concert and the band left the stage. WHY? A pigeon poo’d on him. He had the full support of the band “We had to bail, pigeons sh*tting in Jared’s mouth and it was too unsanitary to continue.”

But not all celebrities find the excrement of birds a turn off.

A couple of years back I was covering a story involving Essex’s finest exports David and Victoria Beckham. I recall a bizarre conversation about skin care (poor Vikki has been battling acne since her teens) in which it was revealed that Geisha facials (which are made from a paste involving the poo of the nightingale) was working a treat for her. She was happily shelling out 200 dollars per session and was so happy that she could get it done in the USA as before the treatment was only available in Japan which added to the £100 just wasn’t viable....even for her. (Told you it was a bizarre conversation!)

Less extreme was my friend Jason who loves his car more than life itself. He rather foolhardily drove his car to Tower Bridge this week and left it for a few hours while he attended a reception. He said how amazing his car looked parked where it was... how it looked almost like a print ad. (I did tell you he LOVES his car). Of course (for my readers who do not know London too well) Tower Hill is very well known for a couple of things: its famous opening and closing bridge and it’s former royal palace known as a famous site for the odd beheading and home to the crown jewels. It is also known for the ravens of which it is said if they leave the Tower District the entire United Kingdom will fall. Thus the birds are protected and are each served up 170g of raw meat a day, plus bird biscuits soaked in blood. I think you can’t blame them for wanting to take a dump.

Anyhow...Jason returned to his car to find the special edition gunmetal paintwork rather thoroughly decorated with bird poop. I shall file under EPIC FAIL my attempts to calm his hysteria with information. I simply said that it is the sun rather than the bird poo itself that does the damage (when the sun hits the bird poo the poo hardens while at he same time the paint is expanding in the warmth, the damage happens when the paint contracts in cooler air)... I tried to tell him that seeing it was night he need only drive to the nearest car wash to remove it. But he preferred to do the shake fist at huge black birds in nearby tree/hop up and down angrily dance instead.

But then there are those who believe Bird Poo to be inspirational.

My friend Kasei got crapped all over on her way to her job as a junior account exec. It is amazing how accurate a pigeon can be considering how far away a human head must be from an avarian anus in flight. But SPLAT! Kasei got it straight on the shoulder of her black suit... just as she was going in to do a presentation to some rather humourless clients. So rather than clean it off (It would only smear and further damage that particular fabric)... she went in and said “Hello, check this out for lucky, I just got a bird to give this meeting its blessing!”. The clients laughed (a first in all the time they had dealt with her company) and not only increased their order but asked for Kasei to be their account manager. She puts that promotion entirely down to that bird being on target!

She’s not alone – The theme park Chessington World of Adventures has a very popular attraction called Lorikeet Lagoon where the public may feed parrots from small pots of nectar. Their publicity states “Feeding the birds inevitably means that there will be bird poo and there will be a number of ‘lucky people' with lorikeet poo on their heads”.

In fact western wisdom is that it SHOULD be considered a lucky omen when a bird defecates on you. Apparently following being the successful target of birds backside good things will find their way to you – I’d give that ‘luck’ a sense of direction by encouraging an immediate purchase of a Lotto ticket!

I’m all for good luck.

But you know what.... I think I’d rather a four leaf clover!







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BLOG 169: Money Money Money

"Money is like a sixth sense - and you can't make use of the other five without it." William Somerset Maugham


Have you ever tried to calculate how much money you have got through so far in your lifetime? Try it! You’ll be pretty impressed with the big figure. Yep in a life time most have us have let a million notes (or more) pass through our finger tips.

When I was a kid, I used to read Disney comics and one of the epic images was of Scrooge McDuck’s diving board. Scrooge Mc Duck was Donald Duck’s elderly uncle whose mansion included a vault in which the miserly billionaire stashed his cash. He seldom could be coaxed to spend his money, and would throw money into the vault instead. He had a diving board built into the room and McDuck would get his kicks by mounting it and hurtling down into the sea of cashola and bathe in this wealth. Many a happy childhood afternoon was spent reading the comic strip and wondering if this time McDuck could be coaxed into bankrolling a real experience instead.

As a young adult I was fortunate to be in a decade of wild excess. There were not many Scrooge Mc Duck moments as every pound note that passed through my fingers were rapidly converted into something to stimulate my ears, or my sight, or my nose, or my taste buds or my fingertips! I shudder the amount of wonga I got through in that first decade of adulthood.

Not to say that there has been much improvement since. It rarely occurs to me that rainy day planning is something I should do. Even now, when I have money in the bank, I become inspired with a missionary zeal to dispose of it in the most pleasurable ways possible. It just never seems appropriate set money aside for the unforeseen rainy day. (And anyway what a misleading concept that the rainy day is a rarity that is some point in the future...Hell! I live in England...what’s NOT a rainy day!)There is little chance of me building a diving board so I can dive into my vault of cash...according to my financial advisor anyway.

When I do shuffle off this mortal coil, I will NOT be the richest remains in the graveyard... despite the amount of wealth that may or may not have passed through the bank. There is a strong possibility that instead of a headstone it will be a case of X marks the spot! Which is fine by me, Life, I am assured , is for living – it’s a present tense deal and not something you put aside for date in the future. And to live (at least in this country) means that money will have to be exchanged for experience. What ever day the grim reaper has in his log book for me will I assure you NOT be a day when there were a surplus of funds unspent!

So, where does it all go then Jax?

Okay, setting aside the usual female foible of having many more shoes than feet... lemmee see. I guess if I’m honest I would say it all disappears with alarming frequency on my big three: Experiences, Going to Bed and Not Wasting Time.

Experiences suppose is lurking about at the top of the chart. Now this doesn’t mean abseiling in the Serengeti or bungee jumping of Sydney Harbour Bridge. Experiences are not the same as adventure holidays or travelling: for me having experiences is just spending time with my friends. I have to admit my friends are pretty awesome and I love having experiences with them. However its nigh on impossible to do so without depleting the cash pile.

Now this doesn’t mean picking up my mates tabs (I don’t have those kind of friends), but we are a rather experience stimulated crowd. I suppose we could just sit in a field and chat, but being Londoners we do rather have a) a shortage of fields and b) the world’s most exciting city on our doorstep. The past four weeks alone have included pubs, boats, balls, restaurants, markets, dancefloors, ,canals, bbqs, theatre and a trip to the zoo. There is something just brilliant about doing something different with a crowd of people who just get each other. We’re always the noisy table in the restaurant – telling tales and squawking loudly in mirth at each others adventures. We’re always the strangers you met on a night out who approach you start chatting and merge with your group. We’re usually the ones who know the name of the stall holder in the market, the duty manager in the theatre, the captain of the riverboat or the keeper in the penguin enclosure. True it costs us nothing to strike up a conversation with someone – but it usually costs us to be where we are in the first place.

This is the essence of the stuff of life in my circle. We don’t sit in a field and chat, we go out into our city and interact with the other 10 million folk in it... if we had a group motto it would be that old perennial: a stranger is a friend you haven’t met yet. And every excursion seems to add another friend to the crowd, which in turn adds another outing to have, which in turn adds another reason to dip into the wonga pile. So yup... the social budget is probably top of the chart. But hey, what is money for if it is not for enjoying yourself.

So where else does it all go?

Well number two with a bullet has to be the expense of trying to get into my own bed.
No... I do not charge myself an entry fee to slide under my own duvet... but I do find that at the end of a long and fun filled evening, I would like to get in it... but the cost of doing so can be rather prohibitive!

I love my city... you know I do. It’s up there as number three on my list of things I really adore just after my F’s (Family/Friends and Food). But let us not under estimate its size. They have been out with the measuring tape for years and it just keeps growing! Whilst the city of London has always been barely a square mile and inner London around 120 square miles, what most Londoners mean when they say London is the metropolitan area known as Greater London. This huge conurbation is 607 square miles and growing! It is no walk in the park (although we do have thousands of those!) to get from a-b. And when b stands for BED... my cash pile gets plundered.

‘As the crow flies’ is the stupidest calculation of distance I have ever come across. Crows may well fly in a straight line, but humans trying to get from a-b in this town find that it is nigh on impossible to go straight to anywhere. Take where I am located on the south east tip – say I want to go see a mate over on the south west tip. Logic tells me that the distance is just 17 miles. Cost per mile in a taxi varies but the average is £1.50 per mile. Thus...should one not wish to drink and drive, the cost of getting home should be a mere £25.50. However... that calculation is based on an ‘as the crow flies’ mapping. The real route (which include roads that have the benefit of tarmac) actually is 25 miles due to the fact this city kind of just evolved by accident and the towns don't really connect to each other in a direct fashion. It seems logical that a person based around south east London should be able to meet up with a friend based around south west London without it being a new series of ‘Challenge Anneka’... but geographical logic is not London’s strong suit. Thus a simple jaunt west, means forty quid will disappear at the end of the evening if you want or need to sleep in your own bed!

Third and definitely related in my where does all my money go is: on saving time. I will never apologise for the fact that, if the rest of my life is starting somewhere, I’d like to be there to join it as soon as possible. The only way I can make that happen (given the fact I love living where I do) is to haemorrhage cash on a daily basis!

The inhabitants of Greater London have a public transportation system that (although we do little but whinge about it) is the envy of almost every other city on this blue planet. We have trains that drive themselves (the DLR), we have trains that drive us crazy (the overland network), we have trains that hide under our streets (the tube), we have buses that think they are trains (the trams), we have buses that think they are tubes (the bendies), we have buses that think they are coaches (single deckers), we have buses that think they are cars (the alphabet buses) and we have buses that know they are an icon (the double deckers). Put together their routes sprawl tentacles over the full 607 square miles and is officially the most extensive transportation network in the world.

BUT. Although there is not one town in London that can say it does not have access to the network... it doesn’t actually connect places together. Thus a trip using the worlds much envied system from say Bexleyheath to Bromley (6.8 miles) will involve either over an hour on a 269 bus (going via China apparently) or a train ride from Bexleyheath to Lewisham, change then get a train from Lewisham to Catford Bridge, get off a Catford Bridge and walk to Catford station and board a train to Bromley. This joy will take one hour and 47 minutes. I’m not being facile but 6.8 miles can be WALKED in less time than that! And walking is not an option if you want to save time. If you live in Greater London you learn pretty sharpish that if you travel back into the epicentre then travel back out again to where ever it was you wish to go, you save hours of your life. So although Transport for London informs me that I could in theory get from a-b for £1.30 each way.... I end up spending £8.20 each way by going into town and back out. Thus, even though in theory getting about London should be cheap, the available routes don’t connect thus, I blow a lot of my budget getting from a-b quickly... which usually involves pointless journeys into the square mile.

This constant haemorrhaging of money on things that are untangiable totally upsets my financial advisors efforts to ensure my fiscal health. He worries deeply about what will happen when I die. I should listen as he is talking some kind of sense. But hey ho! I have a brilliant life. Yeah, I suppose it would be sensible to divert at least some of the money that comes my way into a rainy day account. I have been told over again by him that the big three drains on my resources are not actually essential. He keeps telling me that until I start making plans to stop having experiences, sleeping in my own bed and getting to where I need to be in a timely fashion... I will not die rich!

Of course you can't take it with you when you die but it's a shame I won't being rich when I do. It’s a pity because I really wouldn’t mind having one of those big ol’ funerals that people talk about for years, to be in repose on purple satin cushion, and paraded though the streets in a horse drawn glass carriage that holds up traffic! Then I’d be in death as I was in life, having an experience with my friends, in my choice of bed and part of the frustration of getting about the city that I love.

However he's right...the way cash flies out of my hands... I doubt if THAT rainy day will ever be funded by me!








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BLOG 168: K.I.S.S.

“The decision to kiss for the first time is the most crucial in any love story. It changes the relationship of two people much more strongly than even the final surrender; because this kiss already has within it that surrender.” Emil Ludwig


My mother once told me that kissing is very important and should not be done lightly. She’s not alone, the ancient Chinese believed that a kiss is like drinking salted water... once done your thirst will not be sated it will only increase. The bible states that kissing is more delightful than wine. And less holy it has to be noted that most prostitutes do not kiss as they feel kissing is far too intimate.

I agree with probably most of that (better than wine?... really?!) but most of all when it comes to kissing it is probably the one human interaction whereby you cannot really be anything other than 100% present. As Stephen Kings favourite writer Robert Heinlein said so eloquently - “When he is kissing you he isn’t doing ANYTHING else – you are his whole universe”.

That said, to my eternal chagrin, and the amazement of all my friends, I have absolutely NO memory of my first kiss. Which is pretty amazing as if I could I would put kissing on my CV ... so you would think I would remember the first time... but I can’t.

I was with my girlie friends reminiscing about first loves and while I remember like yesterday my passion for pop stars, Paul Newman (watch Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and KNOW what I mean), and even my pash for the bus conductor on the 122 bus to Crystal Palace (oh the summers wasted travelling back and forth on that route just in case Leroy the conductor came on)... I have no memory at all of when my lips first saw live action!

Hey ho! First’s aren’t always memorable. There are a lot first times that slip the memory but subsequent outings in the same sphere have gone on to be earth shattering. Usain St. Leo Bolt has little memory if any of the first time he ran... but every memory from the point he showed a talent at it. They call him Lightening Bolt now!

I think I maybe the Usain Bolt of kissing... not that I’m the fastest on earth or anything but I have my lightening moments.

So... this is for my girlie friends who stopped drinking wine and eating kettle chips to stare at me with disbelief as I wracked my brain and was still unable to remember my very first kiss. Here you are... my top five FIRST kisses. (And yes... the identities of the other sets of lips have been changed to protect the not so innocent!)

OK.

In at number five:

5. Finally after too many years of “Does he do or does he don’t”

We called it the company from hell! Two divisions of the same company shared most soul destroying office run by a short fat controller who thought he was God. The photocopier was at my end of the office and a very gorgeous man sat at the water dispenser end of the office. The whole office was entertained by just how many bogus trips to the photocopier this guy could make and how many cups of water I could drink. Years went by. He photocopied enough to wallpaper a house. I still have problems with my bladder after consuming more water than a camel. I left the company. He emigrated. End of story. Until one night, I went to a party hosted by one of my ex-colleagues from the company from hell. It was in the days where chocolate fountains were the big new thing. The hostess of the party must have rung me 10 times to ask when I was going to get there. (Ok back then chocolate fountains were cool but give me a break... I don’t even like chocolate; I’ll get there when I get there). I arrived and went to circuit the room to catch up with friends, my hostess swooped and dragged me out of the main room of the party. “Come and see my chocolate fountain” she enthused. I tried to tell her that I’m a savoury girl and I only had eyes for the cheese fondue... but she was having none of it. She’d given a room over to the blessed chocolate fountain and I had to go in and see it. Looking back I can see now that a closed door at a party is a big clue... but back then I didn’t get it and allowed my hostess to push me through the door of the dedicated chocolate fountain room and close it tight behind me. Well in the room was the bubbling tower of chocolate for sure, but standing next to it was photocopier man. You all know I’m a words person... I think I recall EVERY word every said around me since the midwife said “IT’S A GIRL”. But I do not recall anything at all... though there definitely was a preamble of words ascertaining something to do with flying back just to give this a go. But what I do recall with complete clarity was that when he moved in and we connected, my noisy yappy head that usually has one hundred billion thoughts rushing about and colliding... silenced. For as long as it lasted (which was a while)... I experienced floating on air while still very much being on the ground (well polished floorboards really, but you get the point). I don’t think before or since I have ever been so entirely present in a moment. I was actually speechless for several hours.

(Postscript: Sadly we NEVER got together as we had truly missed our time with all the procrastinating and emigrating and stuff but to this day the photocopier guy and I remain friends. The kiss will always be fondly remembered.)

Holding steady at number four:

4: The Swans cheating lips

I met this guy at a wedding when I was a teenager. He was my first real boyfriend I suppose; boys were really light on the ground for me when I was a teenager due to me being a classic ugly duckling. However this guy saw through that and realised getting in with a signet means you have a future with a swan. I was just grateful AT LAST to have a boyfriend I didn’t have to pay (yes, things were THAT bad!). Ugly or not, one thing I could bring beauty to was dancing, so my boyfriend took me to a swanky London venue which hosted London’s radio stations annual “Best Assemble In Town”. This was the kind of event teenagers DREAMT of going to (but couldn’t afford on standard issue pocket money and a Saturday job). In the venue the best dancers in London vied for attention as the hottest dance acts played live. It was amazing! My dancing back then was pretty good and somehow or other I landed one of the best podium spots and danced my little teenage heart out. When I clambered down all sweaty and exhausted it did occur to me BRIEFLY that my boyfriends kissing ability had gone up a few notches – but I put that down to him being entranced by my fantabulous dancing. My GOODNESS!! He had leapt up a few notches... the kiss was AMAZING... I recall with clarity my feet were actually levitating of the dance floor! The lighting crew realised something amazing was going on too and threw a spotlight onto us. This was all the act on stage needed to start playing a little bump and grind. The MC also noticed and made and announcement about “Lurve being in the air tonite!” All this fuss made the kiss drift back into the real world and the participants pull apart. I turned and smiled gormlessly and embarrassed at the gathered crowd who were actually applauding. Which was when I noted one of them.... was my boyfriend. I turned quickly and looked at who on earth I had been snogging the living daylights out of... and it was his cousin!

(POST SCRIPT: Actually this one turned out well – my boyfriend met the woman he went on to marry that night so he gave his blessing for his cousin to move in on me. I dated the cousin from that kiss right through to my first year of Uni... and I assure you the kisses only got better!)

And... in at number three...

3. The Men and Women Cannot be Friends Kiss

I had an editor friend who had married young, had too many kids (like one a year for a decade!) who couldn’t cope when his wife left him for another man. He relied on me for emotional support and while he was draining every bit of tea and sympathy out of me was also a brilliant help with my fledgling writing career. He decided to reinvent himself as a musician (hello mid-life crisis) and came round to my house, guitar in hand to test his songs on me. I cannot explain just how intimate it can be having a concert for one in your living room. I also cannot explain how discombobulating it is to listen to the very personal and emotional lyrics of song after song when the author is less than a few feet from you and staring into your soul as he sings. He finished, propped up his guitar and flopped on the sofa next to me and whispered hoarsely “so what do you think?”. I couldn’t hear him over the sound of blood rushing to my head, and turned to say “pardon?”. Instead of communicating verbally though what transpired was about a minute of breathing in each others faces! On the 61st second he bit the bullet by moving in for the softest butterfly kiss there ever was.

(Post script: We couldn’t move on from that moment. There was no going back to just being friends and there was no hope of ever having a relationship due to his immense amount of baggage. We’ve not seen each other in years. The kiss will always remain one of the most emotional and beautiful of my life though)

Thwarted from being top of the charts... number two

2. The telephone kiss

My best friend’s husband had a brother who shared a mutual attraction with me but also a complete lack of good timing – we were always with someone else when ever our paths crossed. Finally we were BOTH single at the same time and he came to a party at my house. After years of yearning, we both became ridiculously shy about making the first move now we were able to and the whole party passed without us saying a word to each other. Finally he approached me to ask where I had put the phone as he wanted to ring for a cab. (Oh yes we are going back to the days before mobile phones were standard issue). I had put the phone on the floor in the outer hall so people could make calls and be heard over the party hub-bub so I took him to it. We sat cross legged on the floor and I dialled the local cab company for him. I started to order his cab and the controller asked me for his postcode so she could inform the driver accurately of his address. I turned to ask him for this information. He leant across me and cut off the call, and in the same move delivered a passionate kiss. I dropped the handset and threw myself into the moment which carried on into minutes.

(POSTSCRIPT: He didn’t get a cab that night and stayed for over a decade!)

And number one for some time unless someone figures how to top this....

1. The Hollywood Kiss

I was on a first date with a fella and we had gone to one of my most favourite (and often unrated) spots in London – The South Bank. He’d taken me to MOMI (The museum of the moving image ... I’m a film buff...he had done his research) and we’d had an excellent meal in the eclectic Gabriel’s Wharf which I still rate as the best 1st date spot in the whole city. It was slowly moving into dusk and we were at that moment before the street lights come on to take us firmly into night. We wandered along the banks of the Thames. He turned to me and said he was going to kiss me in “Three... Two... One”, then he clicked his fingers. Instantly the lights flickered on across the city. It was amazing... like magic. (Though clearly he had researched and timed this date to a micro-second). I don’t think I have ever been more impressed by a man in my life... nor has one EVER received a kiss like that from me!

(POSTSCRIPT: Though I will NEVER kiss this particular man ever again (he was great a first dates but sooooo not a keeper.) It will take some effort to nudge that first date kiss of the top of my all time chart, in that moment... I was the most important person in a city of 10 millions souls; I truly believed it lit up for me)


So there we go. I hope the girlies forgive me for being so totally blank on my very first kiss, but that is the great thing about life ....there are first times to be had all the time if you look at them from the right angle! It doesn’t really matter if you can remember your actual very first something I hope.

Kisses are special; they are a means of getting two people so close together that they can't see anything wrong with each other. And in that moment of closeness there is magic to be found. If it all turns out to be smoke and mirrors later.... it doesn’t really matter. When you are in a kiss the moment is eternal because both of you do not have any plans and neither of you are going anywhere. You are never more present in a moment than in a kiss.

Maybe that’s why the first kiss will always linger.... even if my very first one didn’t!














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BLOG 167: KYLIE!!!... eat yer chips!

“I don't hold with abroad and think that foreigners speak English when our backs are turned” Quentin Crisp


I’m toying with the idea of ‘abroad’ for next weekend. For a ludicrously cheap price, my son and I can spend all day Saturday in Paris, catch up with a dear friend of mine who is Paris from Australia and murder the French language as only a couple of Brits can.

It’s a very tempting idea... as you know Kent is the closest county of the UK to France and in fact the French are less than 22 miles from our shores at the closest point. The British Isles may well be bobbing about in the sea off the continent but we are indisputably European, and that means venturing abroad often means dropping in on our mainland neighbours.

However, those of my readers who are not from the UK may or may not be aware of the rather frazzled relationship between us and them ‘on the continent”. Most of my American friends do like to think of us Brits as permanently in an EM Forster novel... expanding our education by absorbing neo-classical architecture and talking school girl French to the locals. And I am sure, on an individual level, a Brit abroad is probably close to this model.

However, the reality of the Brit Abroad En Masse is a very different proposition.

In this scenario, the Brit Abroad turns into a horrid fusion of excessive flesh and uncouthness. It becomes more than apparently clear why the other Europeans hate hosting us.

It is quite frankly because we lower the tone... and to rub salt in the wound we are PROUD of it.

I recall an episode of the programme “Coach Trip” (series 6 day 19) in which a party of Brits were in the gorgeous city of Porto doing the world renowned cruise of the bridges on the Douro river. As seen from the river, the architectural forms of the city of Porto emerge majestically. It is a dazzling landscape, unique in the world. The summer temperatures of this lovely part of Portugal can rise to 35°C (95°F). Given the British propensity for having a less-is-less approach to clothing in hot weather, the pragmatic Portuguese had made available personal shade for each of the British tourists taking part in the cruise. Each tourist was given the cooling shade of a personal umbrella that the Portuguese had kindly made available with Union Jacks on to make them feel at home.

So what did the Brits abroad do with them? Use them as intended for shade from the sun?... NO, that would not be remotely as sensible as waving then in the path of on coming shipping screaming at the top of their lungs “INNNGERRRRRLHUNDDD!!!”. The following day, (unsurprisingly), the tourists were hospitalised for heatstroke.

This is not by any means a unique experience to anyone who has spotted my country men abroad. Although the British Reserve is renown worldwide... all it takes for us to shed it is a ticket to outside our borders!

I am fortunate that although born and bred and proud to be British... I do not look like your classical image of a Brit. My son is even more fortunate in that he has the brown haired, olive skinned, hazel eyed appearance that is indicative of a thousand nationalities. We can travel abroad without our continental neighbours feeling the urge to sell up and move cause (to misquote Paul Revere) “THE BRITISH ARE COMING!”. However once it is known that I hail from the island in the North Sea... the questions begin.

“... but WHY do you British WANT to wear clothes that exacerbate your rotundity?”

“What is so great about shouting “KYLIE!!! Eat yer chips!” at a child less than 6 inches from you?”

I am afraid each time I am asked I am stumped. I have no answers for them.

But is a fact that in the main my fellow country men travel to continental Europe to do just four things:

1) To dress badly

2) To shout at each other/passing strangers

3) To allow our children to behave APPALLINGLY

4) To get sunburned/heatstroke

We have to do these things. I don’t know why... but we do.

We shop especially before venturing abroad and find flip-flops covered in bling for the females and brown leather sandals that will accommodate socks for the males. We would not dream of such footwear at home... but the knowledge that we are leaving these shores says that that is ok. Women purchase batty-rider shorts that are only ever seen on gansta rap videos and grandma of 80 through to granddaughter of 8 wear them every day ‘abroad’ regardless if we are heading for a beach or visiting a religious shrine. Men purchase Hawaiian shirts regardless of the fact they are heading to Europe and alternate them with football shirts for teams for which they have never purchased a season ticket – both are worn with shorts that have the biggest pockets ever seen on clothing (this because the wife/girlfriend/daughters batty riders do not accommodate the usual contents of her handbag). This uniform makes us easily identifiable as British (NO other European national would be seen dead dressed like it) but in case of any possibility for being mistaken as a local we purchase accessories with our union jack flag on it, just in case.

We cannot converse at the delicate pitch we use at home when abroad. Being somewhere foreign to us, means nothing works the same as at home and that includes our personal hearing. That means we MUST roar at each other even when in close proximity... it also means that the delicate tinkering laugh we do at home is not going to work abroad so we assume it helps if we scream instead. In the case of conversing with the locals (who we must always think of us foreigners even though it is us who are foreign and it is them that are at home) we know that our native tongue is superior to theirs so really they MUST understand it. The only reason why they seem not to understand is because we are not talking loudly enough... so we shout in English at them. When in doubt it always helps to roar out the constitute country you are from in the British Isles... “INNNGERRRRRLHUNDDD!!!” allows Johnny foreigner to know you are from England, but equally “WERRRRRRRHAAAALLLES!” “SCAAAATTLIND!!” or even “OOOORRRREEEEELUND” gets the point over that they are enjoying the presence of a Welshman, Scot or an inhabitant of Northern Ireland.

Our children have the longest school hours of any of our continental neighbours. British children also enjoy the least freedom on the grounds that an unrestrained and totally free media have created a totally fictitious world in which every child is at permanent risk of unimaginable peril. Thus British children are car-ferried about at home and are under parental watch not short of 24/7. So once we leave our unsafe borders and wander into continental Europe... we can relax and let them off the leash. Thus it is the British child that is running up and down in restaurants, climbing up Art exhibits and mistaking their adults sudden ability to shout all day long as an invitation to roar obscenities at anyone.

The Norwegian band A-ha, famously sung that here in Northern Europe it often seems as if the Sun Only Shines On TV. Not that that stops our fellow northern neighbours like Holland, Denmark, Sweden or indeed Norway taking the factor 30 with them when visiting our more southerly neighbours. We don’t. We purposely go abroad to test the hospital systems of the continent. As our representatives on “Coach Trip” showed... even when given protection from the sun by our more knowledgeable hosts... we will find alternative use for them and fry ourselves to a crisp. If we haven’t left enough DNA in our hotel rooms from the amount of skin we shed abroad... then we might as well have stayed at home.

It’s what we do.

It’s how we roll.

So I am thinking.... Saturday, Paris to go or not to go?

Paris puts on its postcard face in July and really is the place to be. July tends to bring on a laid-back, yet stimulating, mood in Paris. People are out and about, roaming the picturesque streets at languid pace or nursing drinks on sunny terraces. What with them being our near neighbour after all... shouldn’t we pop over?

But lets get real our harshest critics are of course the French. They’ve been miffed since 1066 as the colony they founded here just didn’t quite work out for them. If they can find a reason to snipe at us (French cooking is better/French kissing is better)...they will. They love to say that a Parisian in London would pass seamlessly through notable only for the fact he will be better dressed and sexier than his hosts. They love to point out that a Londoner in Paris will stand out like “une balise de lumière sur la nuit la plus sombre” (a sore thumb!).

Could my son and I go to Paris and shock them with our ‘de chicdressing’, could we converse in school French at “decibles régulier”, could he conduct himself like a child used to being in the “sphère publique“ and recognise that even with our colouring a little “facteur trente” on a 75.2°F (24°C) day may be called for. Could we in one day improve Anglo-French relations by being abroad waving the flag for “Cool Britannia”?

Or would they think THAT would be an accessory too far!








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BLOG 166: BOLD (in your face)

"Many a man is praised for his reserve and so-called shyness when he is simply too proud to risk making a fool of himself.” J. B. Priestley



I once knew a kid at primary school who was too shy to even answer the register. Miss would shout out our names and we’d each in turn shoot our arm into the air and answer brightly “Here Miss!!”. Not Anthony Earley – he was ‘too shy’. Instead each morning and afternoon session for six years, the rest of the class would raise their arm, point at him and chant in unison “He’s here Miss!!”. Anthony Earley... I often wonder what became of him. I trust he grew out of it and realised he was not so special that he could abdicate responsibility and let everyone else do what needed to be done for him.

Even as five year old children we knew if we ever wanted registration to end and get onto the good stuff (painting, Lego, orange juice and biscuits) we’d have to answer for him. Anthony Earley would simply sit in his appointed chair lower his eyelashes to sweep his blushing cheekbones and purse his lips. Experience had taught us that this state of affairs would continue indefinitely... and five year old children will let nothing or no one stand between them and orange juice with a straw and biscuits shaped like zoo animals.


And that’s the thing. Shy people expect everyone else to do their social intercourse for them knowing for the sake of expediency everyone else will. It’s probably the most unforgiveable arrogance a person could exhibit and yet it is often the most often forgiven. If you hesitate indulging a shy person and stop to think for a second you have to ask yourself a couple of questions.... why are they so damn special...do they honestly believe the rest of us relish being exposed?

Truth be said NONE of us relish being in any situation where we are exposed. There is nothing more exposing than talking in front of people. We all can’t be Anthony Earley who abdicated the responsibility of saying two words to a class of thirty of his peers. Most of us just have to suck it up, smile and take our courage in both hands and get on with it.

It is a momentary fear, one that rightly gives us pause, but shy people are so special that their pause always turns out to be a freeze. They don’t get that the hesitate before social exposure is felt by us all. It is the same as the feeling you get on a diving board when it seems a far safer option to shuffle back along the board and go down the steps back to the safety of terra firma. Most of us inhale, poise and just dive in. The Anthony Earley’s of this world are the ones going the wrong way on the diving board steps.

It is totally universal to feel fear of exposure. I doubt very much if anybody craves the spotlight in the way that shy people assume the rest of us do. I for one get very upset when shy people make a virtue out of their refusal to take the risk the rest of us do and ascribe to us character flaws for the fact the we get on with what in the end has to be done.

I have an Irish friend who makes a virtue of being shy. Her shyness is seen as being tactful and considerate. In fact she presents the fact that she seldom speaks as being a good listener and is taking time to be observant.

In a one to one conversation she will not make eye contact, and communicates by head movements rather than use her voice. On the odd occasion that she has to talk publically she will stumble over her words, forget what she was going to say, start talking incoherently and making herself blush as she feels foolish. Thus she prefers not to talk but to listen and observe.

Of course... being a classically shy person, she is not listening at all, in fact while social intercourse takes place, all she is thinking about what you could be thinking of her. Being classically shy means that her perception of the world is that it is a place where her flaws are examined under a microscope and that social intercourse means that she will be exposed. Thus she over reacts to anything that registers on her distorted radar as disapproval which affects her motor skills and reduces her ability to talk to gibberish. Her shyness makes her a prisoner in her own skin and has resulted in her also becoming classically passive aggressive about it.

And there’s the rub... she cannot communicate effectively so she makes everyone who can feel bad about their ability.

Hence why she refers to her friends who overcome their own fear of exposure and just get on with it as “Bold”. Believe me... where she comes from “Bold” is a derogatory word. To her any action that is assertive or confident... is confrontational, direct and (in her opinion) – aggressive. To her the word ‘Bold’ has much the same meaning as the phrase “In your face” which is in my opinion an equally cruel and hurtful way to describe the actions of those who override their own personal fear to ensure that the wheels keep moving.

Being able to say something in front of people is not aggression.

Sucking up the courage to say hello to complete strangers and ask and answer over and over again “so... who are you.?.. what do you do?” is not being aggressive.

Making conversation in stressful situations, having an opinion, and being articulate is not being aggressive.

Being able to make people laugh or feel at ease is not being aggressive.


But I tell you what is:

Calling anyone who is able to conduct themselves with a show of confidence as ‘in your face’ when they are not displaying aggression.

It is just about as low as you can get. It is a blatant attempt to undermine another person’s confidence... and I am struggling to find the virtue in that.

I think again of Anthony Earley, and how it was that the whole class came to answer for him when his shyness stopped him. I don’t recall aggression. I don’t recall anyone being “bold.”

I do recall that the first name on the register was Robert Adams and the last was Barbara Zimmerman....I do recall Anthony sitting in his primary school chair with his eyes cast to the floor, shaking, breathless and blushing as the teacher asks yet again “Anthony Earley?”

Come back in time with me....

The school porter has left the crate of orange juice on the teacher’s desk. Thirty cute little bottles and a clutch of straws held in an elastic band. Beside it lay a plate of malted milk biscuits. After registration we can dig in. I recall being thirsty from running around playing British Bull Dog at break time.

“Anthony Earley?”

Not a word.

Thirty small children glance one more at the crate of orange juice getting warm in the afternoon sun.

“Anthony Earley?”

Not a word from Anthony Earley.

Thirty small children glance once more at a plate of malted milk biscuits turning hard in the warm air of the classroom.

“Anthony Earley?”

One of the small children lifts her arm into air and points at Anthony Earley... “He’s here Miss” she says

“Pardon... what was that?” says the teacher

Twenty nine small children look at the teacher and back at the girl with her arm in the air. They then look at the plate of malted milk biscuits and the little bottles of orange juice. Silently consensus is reached.

Thirty small children have arms in air, they each point in the direction of Anthony Earley.

“He’s here Miss!!!” they chorus.

You see... there is no virtue in being shy. Anthony Earley’s chronic shyness nearly cost us our post break snack... and would have done for the next few years unless I put my hand up that day.


Shyness demands that others accommodate, compensate and counter balance it. Shyness is bold. Shyness is in your face.


We ALL experience discomfort when we are in an unfamiliar situation/setting, we ALL worry how we will be viewed by others, but at the end of the day we have to keep the wheels moving... because it’s not ALL about US all the time!











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