The Life and Times of Huge Alex

Ellenton, Florida To Toronto, Canada

2011-10-19T18:46:00.007-05:00

In my infinite wisdom, I decided it would be cheaper to drive from Florida to Toronto, Canada (as opposed to Toronto, Ohio) than to purchase two return flights from Tampa to Pearson (Toronto's Airport, for the uninitiated). Suffice to say that this decision was perhaps ill-informed. However, having analyzed the math, a round trip for two adults would have cost about $720 (US or Canadian - these days, the Exchange Rate is about even). Of course, add to that, the hassle of getting to/from the airport each end, and the inevitable meal at Tampa's excellent TGIF and Pearson's whatever-it's-called), and one is faced with nearly $900. I shall refrain from commenting on the purgatory of having to stand in line for check-in at Tampa/Pearson for eons. I hate check-ins and the Immigration situation doesn't help. So to the math. To provide gas for Monty for the trip cost $200 each way. Monty? It's a Chrysler PT Cruiser painted Inca Gold. Ergo sum. Further added to the sum... the cost of hotels for the days on the road, together with meal breaks, and we're talking about $125 per day for three days. So about $600 one way. My sums make that $1,200 for the round trip. A negatory $300.
That ignores the cost of repairs to Monty. An errant plug meant an $80 bill in Kentucky (more in a moment), and a broken brake spring in Toronto was $457 (I've heard of Spring Break, but this one came without the nubile young things).
Having said all the math thingies, I still think it was worth the trip. I had a vehicle to go where I wished, when I wished. Even to the The Beer Store on Thanksgiving day. It was closed. I thought that curbing one's beer consumption was Canada's forte (at least in Ontario) and limted to them. Wrong. On the first night of the drive, we stopped somewhere in Northern Georgia. It was a Sunday. Alcohol is not permitted in Georgia on Sundays. Blech.
Monday, we drove as far as Grayson, Kentucky. We only stopped because the rain had been attrocious, and the stress of coping with Monty being overtaken by bicylces on steep gradients encouraged me to visit Grayson (Monty's plug was fouled). We pulled into a motel in Grayson. The lady at reception informed me that Grayson does not allow any alcohol. Anytime. I asked her about a Restaurant. Sure, they had plenty, they had McDonalds, Burger King... I'm sure you get my drift. She was about four feet wide and tall in equal measure, and had two teeth, thankfully they were opposite each other. In addition, they seem to provide teeth to anyone willing to visit said restaurants. To their credit, I stopped at a Chrysler dealer to see if they could fix Monty. The mechanic said he was about to go home, but he'd take a look. It took him less than an hour, and less than $80 to fix the plug problem! In the UK, one hour would have been at least $300. Thank goodness for Grayson, despite their 'Dry County' status.
We saw some beautiful country, with great colors (for those who can agree that my color awareness is different to any one else's). But honestly, after a few hundred miles, roads become boring. We had a competition to see who could see the next J B Hunt or Con-Way truck.... sad. At a town in Georgia on the way back, it felt like I was Joe Pesci in My Cousin Vinnie - a train was blasting through town every 20 minutes, all night!
Our time in Toronto was priceless. As always. I was even allowed to prepare one of my world-renowned (in my mind) meals. One complaint, Ontario - why do I have to go to a State-run beer store to buy beers? Or wine? Why can't I buy the stuff in a grocery store or gas station like the US/UK? At a fraction of the price? I wanted to buy mein host a bottle of Champers, but it was three times what I'd pay in the US! Yes, mein host is worth it many times over, but it would have been cheaper to drive to Niagra to buy a Duty Free version! We did drive to Niagra to play at the Casino. For once, I lost - maybe $30. Mein host won $0.88 cents. Wow.
I was also able to go to the last Welsh Chapel in N America. Some of the service was in Welsh. I met people whom I'd met last year. Including a cousin whom I did not know about. I also met a lady whose brother had recently passed away in Wales. She recalled that my mother taught him in the 1950s and I recall my mother held him in high esteem.
I fear for the future of this Welsh chapel/community. They have one fully Welsh only service a month. The congregation are getting older. I read somewhere that in 1920, there were 26 Welsh Chapels in N America. Mind you, in Wales, about two chapels a week are closing.
After our brake problem, our next hurdle was Officer Ryan at Niagra Falls US Immigration Center. What a pedant. He just could not get it in his head that we were driving a Florida-plated car from Canada. Between him and the brake problem, we lost a whole day. Eventually, arrived back in Florida. Checked out Cracker Barrel on the way in a small town where Mark told us his life story before serving us our fare. Praise be. Trust me, I have no problem with religion - my father was a Welsh Minister (who was once invited to be the Minister for the Chapel in Toronto) - but I hate having 'stuff' thrust down my throat.
To sum up, (back to the math), it's great to be back. Tiring beyond anything that jet lag can do. Will we do it again? Sad to say - probably! Let's just hope that Monty will not let us down next time.
Here endeth today's lesson.

On Identity Theft

2011-07-20T07:44:00.002-05:00

As a guy who prides himself on being 'Internet Savvy', I was shocked earlier this week to discover that my bank account was being slowly drained of $10 every few minutes. Turned out this was because I have an 'Auto-Recharge' feature with Skype. This allows my account to be credited with $10 each time my balance goes down to $2, without the call being dropped. (I use Skype for international calls as the usual 'suppliers' are like leeches - $1 a minute is the norm, while Skype charges about 0.02 cents per minute. Cheapskate, that's me.)

Somehow, some numpty in Indonesia has found a way to hack into my details. It took quite a while to find a way to contact Skype - they don't like people talking to them, only to others at a cost..... By now I'd worked out that the best way to disengage Mr Indonesia was to disable my Auto-Discharge and change my sign-on password. After an hour of nail-biting and screaming at the cat (I don't have one BTW, but my fictitious one called Barney helps), I finally managed to contact a person (I think) at Skype. Yes, indeed my account had been compromised. 'It has now been put on hold. Please change your password.' After two more attempts, I was back in business.

Now came the tricky part. Skype do NOT accept any responsibility for any such errant and illegal withdrawls. Yipp-ee-bloody-ee. It is up to me to monitor my account. My simple request, 'What about prosecuting the low-life who hacked my account?' was met with guffaws.

Seems that Skype has moved away from such a concept as Customer Service since being hijacked (sorry, bought out) by MicroSoft. But we have all been conditioned by Sir William's MickeySoft to accept poor service. The 'reboot-and-all-will-be-well' syndrome prevails it seems.
In my days working for a (no longer a) prestigious UK bank in the 70s, we had to review all incidents on our mainframes and apportion blame according to 'problems' such as 'operator error'. Our favorite was YYGTs. 'Yeah, you get that'. Our Auditors would nod in consensual agreement. These were people couldn't find their way out of a rice pudding let alone identify a mainframe, which was as big as Wembley Stadium in those days (slight exaggeration, there). Most were 'graduates' from the London School of Economics and such ilk, and would consent to a pencil sharpener being used on their 'sharp bits' if their career could be progressed. It is worthy of note that several of the UK's MPs and 'intelligentsia' are graduates of said emporium. 'Nuff said.
So, dear Readers, beware the Ides of Skype. Do not under any circumstances allow them to take money from you without checking that they are who they say they are, when you want them to be what they are, and that their inside leg measurements are under 100 inches.
Here endeth todays' lesson.

On Metrication

2011-02-19T02:24:00.004-05:00

Dear Readers
Those of you who know me will be acutely aware that one of my 'most hated things' is metrication. In my view, there is nothing wrong with feet and inches. Thankfully, the US has not succumbed to this stupidity as Canada and the UK did many moons back. But I saw a worrying matter in Lowe's the other day. Some plywood was measured as 5.0mm x 4' x 8'. Now how stupid is that? It's actually supposed to be 1/4 inch, but if my translator is to be believed, 5.0 mm is 0.19865 inches. It has to be said that many of my Canadian neighbors here in Florida confirmed to me that they do not understand metrics and still use the 'old ways'. The same goes for the UK, before you ask.
Be that may, in an effort to understand metrication, I've decided to help my older friends by metricating some every day expressions/well known phrases etc. In this world of political correctness, I'm sure you'll all appreciate this. Please feel free to add.
Al Jolson's song, 'I'd walk a million one-point-six-one kilometers for one of your smiles'.
'Give him a 2.54 centimeters and he's take a million one-point-six-one kilometers'.
In Cockney rhyming slang, to say that something has been stolen is to say it is 'half inched' - pinched. So now it is 'one-point-two-seventh centimeters'.
The bits at the end of my legs (bottom half) should now be called '30.48 centimeters'.
I'm sure you get the gist of it....
Here endeth today's lesson.

St. Valentines Day and Other Matters

2011-01-31T22:28:00.005-05:00

Dear Readers
It's been a while. A lot has happened, including moving back to God's Country - Florida for six months. A land where people seem a lot happier than those that survive a long cold Winter in The Olde Country - about the whole of 2009 if I recall. Some of us decry Obama's 'New Order', but as the Good Book says, 'it shall pass'. At least America has not succumbed to the British disease of having everything in centipedes or 'metric' as the EU would have us know. Which lunatic invented that? What is simpler than a 'thumb' being one inch (check your own, from the top to the joint - it's about right) - and a foot being 12 inches (thumbs). A yard is three feet - a person's step, unless you're vertically challenged. Simple.
To add to my woes, I bought a Volvo Wagon, which unlike my Volvos of old did not perform as its Latin name states. After $1,000 in repair costs, a PT Cruiser has replaced it. Almost Art Deco. And it runs on Regular gas - which is about 30 cents a gallon cheaper than the Premium the Volvo demanded. It also does about 25 mpg as opposed to 18. I cringe at the thought of what gas will cost me when I return to the land of Royal Weddings. Looks like about $10.50 a gallon. I shall no doubt fire up my trusty steed instead. So, now all is well. And the weather is improving. I even managed a walk on the beach today. The shark's teeth had missed me.
In the meantime, I've had time to consider other matters of some importance.
I thought UK TV ads were asinine and they still are. But what 'marketing MBA' thought that whistling to every ad was 'cool'? Why is it that on TV, women commentators/advertisers have incredibly squeaky voices, but if you meet them in person (as on Jerry Springer), they speak normally? Why do sports commentators/car salesmen shout? Why do I worry about such things - after all I have the Mute button. A godsend indeed.
Now, to more intruiging matters. I watched an ad (sans whistling and squeaky voices) extoling the virtues of buying your child a Valentine's Day card. In my day, I would scour my father's stationery drawer for a clean piece of Basildon Bond, and write an ode to whoever it was that I lusted after. In the absence of Basildon Bond, I sauntered to the local Hallmark to peruse such cards for the offspring. Silly me. You now have to buy cards for the children, the grand-children, the parents and the grandparents. And Mr Thomas who was the History Master at school. While there (Hallmark, not my old school), I could have bought a belated Hannukah Card for my old Jewish boss, and a card apologizing to Nain (Grandma) for forgetting her wedding anniversary.
And to think that I once sold an IBM Mainframe to Hallmark....
Here endeth today's lesson.

Cup Final

2010-03-01T04:37:00.004-05:00

The UK seems to be obsessed with 'football'. Not the American version you understand, but what the Americans would call soccer.
In fact, there are three versions of 'football' in the UK. There's soccer (a game for hooligans played by hooligans), rugby league (a game for hooligans played by gentlemen) and rugby union (a game for gentlemen played by gentlemen). The latter two bear some similarity to US football without the heavy (sissy-like) cladding.
As a child, all boys in North Wales were encouraged to be soccer player/fans. Personally, I could never understand why. Standing there in shorts, a thin shirt, braving a freezing wind and rain coming off the Irish Sea was beyond me. And that was Summer.
I digress. A couple of weeks ago, America enjoyed the Super Bowl. This is a national event, to be enjoyed by all. This year I missed it, as it was played in the middle of the night to appease the Californians (I blame Mrs. Pelosi, but then I would!). However, a smart BBC TV presenter (there are some) asked an American commentator to describe what it means to watch the Super Bowl in the US as compared to the Cup Final (soccer) over here. The commentator gave a very good description of the 'day' of Super Bowl. I miss that, but hope to be part of it next year after moving in September this year!
Now, time to explain the Cup Final. Any team who can muster 11 able-bodied men can apply to play soccer in a rounds elimination contest for the Cup Final. The emerging two teams are usually two from the Premier League (or Division One as it was called in the old days).
I hope, dear reader, that you are keeping up with this. It reminded me of Cup Final day over here when I was a child. I especially remember Cup Final Day, in 1953. My father (the local Minister) and I duly went to Uncle Non's house. He was known as Uncle Non - but his name was Owen - but he was no relation of mine, although he was thus called by every young lad in the village. He was however related to my best friend Billy. Uncle Non had a TV (perhaps 9 inches - a large one for those days) in his house but an outside lavvy. (There were only 4 TVs in the whole village - population 1,800 - at that time, but some homes had progressed to inside 'toilets' by then, and one's social standing was determined by the 'convenience' being indoors or outdoors. But one's own TV added stature to one's standing in the community.) Uncle Non had fought in both World Wars, and he was a stickler for protocol.
Twenty or so rampant males were crammed into Uncle Non's parlor. Young boys like myself and Billy sat on the floor in front of the TV. A distant cousin of Billy's was also in attendance. He was a little 'odd' - he did come from Blaenau Ffestiniog after all, but perhaps it was because he spoke a strange dialect - BF was five miles away after all.
The smoking effects from the adults meant that I was regularly admonished for coughing. Uncle Non always wore a black suit, white shirt, sensible tie, and a silk scarf for the Cup Final (protocol).
We all stood for the 'Community Singing' section before the game. It has to be said, that the Welsh and singing go hand in hand (think Tom Jones, Bryn Terfel, Paul Potts, or even myself at a push). This was Uncle Non's finest moment. He always sang with gusto (in between the coughing and sometimes off-key). I think I learnt the words of 'Abide With Me' before I learnt anything else in English. After the singing, beer was handed round, which my father refused being the Minister. Bad language was also forbidden by him. I have no idea who played or won - the commentary was in English, but who cared? There was much glee! Auntie Non brought in cakes at half-time. I think they were called 'butterfly cakes'. They were a small cup of sponge, with cream, and 'slices' of sponge supported in the cream. Tea or lemonade was available for the non-drinkers. Us young 'uns devoured the cakes and the lemonade! Uncle Non's daughter - a rather feisty 23 year old as I recall would keep the men supplied with beer. Nain - grandmother in Welsh, pronounced like 'nine' in English - (Uncle Non's mother-in-law) would pop in now and again to ask what was going on. I sympathised with her, as I also had no idea what the rules of the game were. She usually retired to the lavvy to read her newspaper, thus causing a 'blockage' for the men.
Happy days.
Here endeth today's lesson.

R.I.P. Robert B. Parker

2010-01-21T07:44:00.003-05:00

Yesterday, I learnt of the passing away of Robert B. Parker. He was a brilliant author, responsible for the Spenser, and later Jesse Stone and Sunny Randall crime/mystery books. These books brought enjoyment to millions, and he was revered in his field.

I first encountered one of his books in a Thrift Store in Palm Springs, California where I lived in the mid/late 90s, and decided to have a read. As a result, I scoured every Thrift Store I could find, and I still manage to find a new book every now and again - he was publishing up to four books a year. In fact a few more are still in the pipeline.
Spenser was my favorite. The ultimate Mr. Cool. Never afraid of any one. A fine example was in his book 'Small Vices', where he meets a lady, who says,

"'Can I get you some coffee?' she said. 'Or something stronger?'

'Coffee would be fine,' I said.

She unbuttoned the last button and shrugged out of her coat. Except for the high boots, she had nothing on under it.

'Or maybe something stronger,' I said."

Brilliant writing, and much of it derived from his relationship with his wife Joan, who was Susan the psychatrist in the books and his love of dogs, especially Pearl who was his wife's dog in real life. He often said that he and Spenser were similar, except that Spenser was taller. His wry wit always showed through. I have to admit, I've often used some of his words from his books (but I've never met a lady in such a situation as described above, you understand)!

He was a very clever, well read man, and at one time became an Assistant Professor at Boston's North Eastern University. I once wrote an email to him to show my appreciation of his work. He actually responded, I was very proud of that.

I feel as if I've lost a good friend. Someone once said that a good book is similar to a good friend. I guess he was right.

R.I.P. Bob, you will be sorely missed by your 'family' around the world.

Snow Snow, Thick Thick Snow

2010-01-12T03:39:00.004-05:00

A title reminiscent of a dance called the Foxtrot, which many clodhopping spotty youths like myself were encouraged to learn back in the late 50s. It was an all male school. The Spanish Master (note - not a 'teacher') accompanied us on the piano. The Physical Education Master and Miss Jones the School Secretary led this motley crew. Failure was not permissible, and despite my best efforts, my dance 'partner' - a strapping lad of 15 and 6 foot 2 called John Evans - and I (five foot nothing at the time) failed, miserably in fact. Detention was the only penance though. However, we both discovered that nubile young 'things' from an all girl school nearby had been drafted in to extend and improve the learning curve. John and I were not admitted to these sessions. I recall the Headmaster revoked this treat due to several of the girls going 'missing' during the dance lessons. I suspect they waltzed to other places..... One of the girls was noted to be singing 'I should have danced all night' a few months later.
Be that may, why such a title? Well, it's been snowing most of the last fortnight here in Hockley Heath. The mercury within the gauges have barely managed to creep into the positive even during the 'heat' of the day. And, at night, the mercury has been conspicous by its absence. However, today will be a warm 32F or 0C. Flurries are promised.
Sadly, the wildlife around here are suffering. I have been buying bread and seed for the critters, and it was a treat to watch nine pigeons, a robin and a pair of blue tits (they were cold) enjoying this repast. They were joined by a squirrel, who had forgotten to fly south for winter.
I was so glad to see the cold weather though. The conference on Global Warming in Copenhagen did the trick without a doubt. How can 15,000 'experts' be wrong? The response has been dramatic, it's the coldest winter for eons in most parts of the N Hemisphere, but our antipodean cousins are (not) enjoying extreme heat.
But our Government here in the UK is still adamant that CO2 must be reduced to prevent said Global Warming (BTW, it is now officially called Climate Change). Nothing to do with the taxes that they derive from punishing vehicles that produce masses of CO2, of course. This is another folly of Government. A vehicle that produces under 120gm of CO2 pays £0 a year in vehicle tax. This applies to any small vehicle that can accommodate a squirrel and a mouse. CO2 emissions attract a scale of taxes according to the amount of CO2 given off. My trusty Honda and Toyota are both 'bad', so the tax is £175 ($270) per vehicle (both engines are under 1.4 liter). An Aston Martin (8 liters) which allegedly produces a truck load of CO2 is charged at £400 (the maximum). No one in the Government (our Prime Minister cannot drive, BTW) has realized that if one can afford an Aston Martin, surely £400 a year is a mere drop in the ocean, which my £175 is a necessity as public transport around here is as rare as hen's teeth.
I also have to wonder how can one 'weigh' CO2. I know I breathe out CO2, but when I tried this on the kitchen scales, it registered nothing. Not even after 20 minutes of breathing out of a plastic bag attached to my head, but allowing me to breathe air through my nostrils, and another bag to seal the scales. I did, however, discover that this is not an exercise that should be tried by children. The exercise was limited to 20 minutes as my head became woozy, and my legs decided they could no longer support me.
One of my New Year's Resolutions is to not experiment with science. I think I'll stick to trying to grow roses, bamboo and tomatoes.
Here endeth today's lesson.

Ring The Bell That Still Can Ring

2009-11-11T10:44:00.002-05:00

Today, I attended the funeral of Jimmy James - a neighbor. He would have been 90 in a few days. He was born at the end of a major war, and we are still fighting wars. Sad indictment. Jimmy was a truly lovely chap, music and his family were his life. He is credited with having played more pianos in N Africa during the war than guns - not a bad epitaph, is it? He smoked most of his life, and in the last days, would remove the oxygen so he could have another drag! Always happy, and always smiling. He told me a few days before he went that he'd had a great life, no complaints. He'd known his wife Phyllis for 70 years. Now that's true love. He hated stupidity. He once saw a yob dumping his cigarette ends in the park. Jimmy duly emptied a trash can in the idiot's car. Sadly, in this PC country, he would have been arrested today.

While sitting in the Church during the service, I thought of Leonard Cohen's Anthem, and I think it would be fitting.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_e39UmEnqY8&feature=related

It is a beautiful song, and Leonard Cohen says it all at the beginning and throughout.

RIP Jimmy, you will be sorely missed.

Modern Travel

2009-10-10T07:09:00.006-05:00

I consider myself to be an experienced traveler, having traveled in excess of 1 million miles around the globe in my lifetime. I've never counted the hours spent in planes, but the hours spent in airports these days almost equate to those numbers. A veritable number of my life, no doubt.

Now why do I raise this matter you may well ask, dear Reader? Some recent newspaper articles have revealed some of the plans that some Airlines have for you and I. All Nippon Airways (ANA) in Japan have announced that travelers must use the 'facilities' before boarding the flight. The reason? It will reduce CO2 emissions by 5 million tons a year. I find this amazing. I thought that human waste was ejected after being frozen, at several thousand feet. This also begs the question, what does 5 million tons of CO2 look like? Not wishing to challenge our experts on 'climate change', but this excuse has been extensively used by the UK Government to charge mere mortals exhorbitant charges for the CO2 emissions of vehicles. It's resulted in diesels being the vehicle of choice in the UK as they emit lesas CO2 than conventional petrol engines. So short sighted in my view, as diesels belch out black smoke (eventually, despite particulate filters) and are very noisy.

Back to the plot. Ignoring CO2 emissions for a moment, what other ideas do Airlines have for us. Ryanair seems to lead the way. They now charge for checking-in with a person - it's free if done on-line. They're also looking at charging £1 ($1.60) for using the bathroom. This bathroom is about the the size of a yoghurt pot. If you ever dare to remove your pants to use the facility, you will hit the Emergency Button. This will either bring a female attendant to your 'unwanted' help, or a male attendant, and I'm not going down that route.

Ryanair are now also looking at short-hop flights whereby the customer will not actually get a seat. The passenger will have to stand. There will be straps to hold one in, but for up to one hour, there will be nowhere to sit.

I saw a photo of the troop transporters to the war-zones. Inside the plane, seats are lined up along the fuselage, next to each other. The middle of the plane is empty, and people can get up and walk. To me, this is a fantastic idea. None of the problems of the idiots who want to tilt their seat into one's already cramped space, or the others who insist on using your seat back as a prop to get up/move along the narrow aisle.

I wonder what other ideas the Airlines have in mind. Smaller seats? Narrower aisles? Smaller toilets? Seats that don't recline? YES please! Only one bag per person, and no overhead lockers? YES please!

Here endeth today's lesson.

More Travels

2009-10-05T10:12:00.003-05:00

Just over two weeks ago, I traveled to Germany for a three day meeting, held in German. Upon my very tired return, I had a couple of days to prepare myself for a trip to God's Country. I know, NZ comes close, but in my experience, the US takes a lot of beating. I flew Continental from Birmingham (England) to Newark NJ. This flight was not too bad apart from a 'serious' injury to my wrist. My hand slipped over 'the new ergonomically designed headphone socket'. This resulted in the plastic covering breaking, and the exposed metal caused a lot of blood. My fellow passenger in the next seat was a retired fireman/paramedic from a town called Dudley (mentioned in the Bible, no less - 'The Seven Dudley Sins'), who immediately called for help. Despite the requests of the flight attendants to 'please stop bleeding all over the place', I failed. Suffice to say that they did patch me up, and offered me a small bottle of wine as compensation. It was after all, the same color as blood.
Upon arrival at Newark, I sought medical attention, but was denied this - something about being potentially sued. So I joined the onward flight to Tampa to have to share half a seat with a 400 pound man sitting next to me. He couldn't even do up his seat belt. I thought this was illegal, but the attendant disagreed. No chance of a free upgrade then....

All was well upon arrival in Tampa, and BLS did her best impersonation of a nurse when I got to her abode. 10 days later, I have a rather nasty scab, coupled with the words of a nurse I met in FL still ringing in my ears telling me I should have had stitches!

But being back in FL was like a tonic for my weary body. 93/94 most days (that's 'hot' in Celsius), sat on the beach with Carys and BLS, had a few brews. Walked in the water with Carys. She's a doll. I watched the gulls watching me; as ever, they were vigilant in case a tasty morsel came their way. My granddaughter obliged when she dropped a couple of crackers.... Hitchcock came to mind...

The driving in FL does not improve. It's Road Rage State in my view. Most people in the State of FL are fun people, but put them behind the wheel of a car, and they become 'the evil ones'. So sad. There's a report in the local paper about drivers shouting abuse at cops and paramedics attending accident scenes as the delays piss them off.

Talking of sad, a brief intro is in order. I was staying in a La Quinta hotel. Quinta pleasant actually. Large room, with two large beds - I know, I can only occupy one at a time. $35 a night after my Senior's discount, my AARP discount, my Florida Resident's discount - I'm sure you get the picture... the normal rate is 'from $55', and we all know that this rate is only available if you book 60 years in advance.... But back to the Sad. I watched TV - a man and his jet-lag has to do something. There was the inevitable 'Wrestling' night. Hosted by the guest appearance of the Rev Al Shrapton..... doesn't that tell it all? I did change channel, before anyone asks!

I was quite amazed that I was still more tanned than my daughter who lives there! She was 40 while I was there! Makes me feel old, but we had a lot of fun. We had a small party of old friends around, I cooked the bratwurst. I've been told my bratwursts are to die for....

I've now returned to the Olde Worlde, where my wife has the flu, and I have the growing symptoms of this malaise. But I'm still Matron. Rik should be grateful that I'm not his Matron.

Here endeth today's lesson.

This Takes The Biscuit

2009-09-15T05:29:00.005-05:00

While I was waiting for the local bus to leave the other day, I tried to take my mind off the choking diesel fumes by reading a local free newspaper. I came across this article. For some of our Colonial Cousins, a biscuit is a cookie. For those in The New World, a biscuit can loosely be described as a scone, mainly without the sultanas. Not to disappoint my Antipodean readers, the much favored Tim Tams are biscuits in that part of the world.

Now for some explanations. In The Olde Worlde, a scone is sliced in half, buttered (both sides), and a generous helping of home-made raspberry or strawberry jam added. For those without a care for calorie intake, a substantial dollop of Cornish or Devonian Clotted Cream can be added. In the New World, a biscuit is eaten with country (white) gravy, or honey. I know which I prefer. Perhaps they didn't have Clotted Cream on the Mayflower.

Be that may, back to the plot. I read this article in the free newspaper, and wondered if my esteemed readers might have experienced any 'accidents' while eating a biscuit.

Just for your informaton, the word biscuit comes from Latin which loosely meant baked twice. I've certainly known a few people who fit the category of 'half-baked'. BTW, In Russian, the word biscuit means 'sponge cake'.

Now, I'll go dunk some Custard Creams into my coffee and hopefully stay accident free.

Here endeth today's lesson.

Dedicated Follower Of Fashion

2009-08-20T03:53:00.002-05:00

As many of my readers will know, I'm not a Dedicated Follower Of Fashion as the old Kinks song said (1966!), but I have been known to start a trend. For example, when I worked for a large software house in London in the early 80s, I was the first person there to wear a double-breasted suit. I know these were popular in times gone by, but had been side-stepped by the 60/70s. Within a year, nearly everyone was wearing them. (I rue the day that I cannot buy such a suit these days, unless I pay a fortune, and my main usage of suits these days is regrettably to attend friends' funerals.) I was also the first to attend a social 'do' wearing a shirt and tie, complete with a suede vest (waistcoat to the Olde Worlde) and no jacket. However, on the other side of the coin, I once met my then wife, who asked me, "Did you get dressed in the dark this morning?" My ties are still revered in Florida, where ties are rarely worn (see below).
Now all this started me thinking about fashions, trends or fads. Back in the late 70s and early 80s, it was de rigeur to walk around with a Filofax. One then looked significant. It was vital to walk into a meeting holding one of these, and drop it (noisily) on the table before taking a seat (again noisily). This established the person's importance and credibility within the hierarchy. For those who don't know, a Filofax was a leather clad 'folder', which had room for notes, names/adresses, a calendar, credit cards and pens, essentially a personal organizer. Numerous companies set up training seminars entitled Time Management. I was sent on one of these, and after three days, I realized I would have been better off clearing the crud off my desk. I was given a Filofax at the end which I threw away in disgust. I should have kept it, some of these are exchanging hands at over £100 ($165) these days.
The next fad that I noticed was the need to carry a small (designer label) bottle of water into meetings. I suspect this gave the holder a few moments to suck on the contents (sometimes not water) while thinking up an answer. I found that women used this device far more than men. I don't see it so much these days.
I also noticed the growth in 'marketing terminology'. My old boss always told me to 'think outside the box'. I still haven't found out what the box is. There was always the line, 'let me run this up the flagpole' as a way to introduce possible new ideas. This marketing jargon was not new, but if one wanted to establish some credibility, one had to use the latest. I spent hours poring over this web site http://www.theofficelife.com/business-jargon-dictionary-A.html
which gives you all the latest buzz-words.
These days, what I see at meetings makes me cringe. There is always some idiot with a dark cauliflower in his ear. My wife has complained about my deafness for a while now, but these things are ridiculous. Ah, as always, willing to learn I'm reliably informed that these are cell/mobile phones. Why it is necessary to wear one of these in meetings is beyond me. I've even seen people in the street wear them and talking to themselves. All I can say is that they must be more important than me.
The latest fad is for men to turn up to presentations/customer meetings and other important events under-dressed. I've just had a meeting with a VP of one of the largest US corporation who turned up in a suit with a shirt that hadn't been ironed, sweat stains almost to his navel, and no tie. The first thing he did was remove his jacket to display 'dark stains' and 'whiffiness'.
I'm told that this is 'normal' these days and I shouldn't be so 'stuffy'.
My old IBM sales manager once told me that it might be 100 degrees, but 'you will keep your jacket on at all times'. I guess I'm old fashioned. The UK is so different to the US. A/C is not prevalent over here.
I wonder what the next 'fad' will be.
Here endeth today's lesson.

Wonderous Things

2009-08-07T09:53:00.014-05:00

My wife and I ventured West last weekend. To a place called Weston-super-Mare (the 's' is in Lower Case by decree of some regal being back in the 1700s). It rained. It is summer over here after all. I recall taking Rik and BLS there in my yoof, but it didn't rain then. Last weekend, we stayed at the Royal Hotel. In the Princess Diana Room no less. It's one of those British hotels where there is no A/C in the room, and if you wish to turn around, you walk back into the corridor, turn around and re-enter. There were legs on the 'large' bed which could cripple someone with 20-20 vision. Outside, they'd obviously had a minor problem when a concrete slab had come adrift, and the repairer obviously didn't have 20-20 vision. See picture.

There are several things in this world, nay Universe that amaze me. One of them is one's Credit Rating. Now anyone with a desire to live on this planet must know that a high Credit Rating is paramount. In the US, these are classified as, 'very poor (320, which is the lowest one can get), poor, not too good, average (all of these will NOT allow one to get a mortgage, even at 20% per annum), better, even better, leading eventually to 'excellent' (850), which is about where the bank will pay your monthly mortgage and smile sweetly in the process. According to statistics, about 38% of the population of the US are in the sub-400 category. In other words, you're screwed when it comes to getting any credit, except if you pay through the nose.

Now, this brings me to the crux of the matter. After many years in the doldrums in the US's credit rating system due to an errant wife, and many regular phone calls, I ended up in the mid-500s. Today, I'm in the 800s. Wowee! If only I had a mortgage! But woe betide me when I get to the UK. Not having had any kind of 'record' in the last seven years (their maximum, despite not living here for 24 years), this denies me the status of a 'decent risk'. The UK does not have the US version of a Social Security Number. Actually, it does, but this is not used for credit rating purposes - that would be against our 'uman rites.

But, I despaired not as I received a letter - not an email - from none other than Capital One offering me a Credit Card here in the Queen's Realm. They said that as I had 'failed to qualify for a Credit Card', they could help. How did they know I had failed, when I'd never applied for one? I digress. I was offered a credit limit of £200, which translates into about US $350. And this service would be available at 'only' 34.9% p.a. interest rate, and I could draw cash against it. I worry as to what the majority of cash-strapped people will do to relieve the effects of redundancy, unemployment, late mortgage, car payments or whatever. Suffice to say, I dumped the 'application' in File 13. Fair Issac have a lot ot answer for. And I find myself even more annoyed that I sold them a mainframe about 7 years back.

Here endeth today's lesson.

Golf, the EU and Metrics

2009-07-20T02:07:00.003-05:00

You will, dear reader, be in no doubt of my hatred of metric measurements. They're fine in those countries where they have been used since Adam was a lad, but not in the Queen's Realm. After all, wasn't she known as Her Imperial Majesty? Her Metric Majesty doesn't have the same ring to it does it. It was therefore bliss to watch golf yesterday. Now I'm not a fan by any means, but to hear distances being quoted in yards, feet and inches was bliss, without having to try to work out what some plonker on Formula 1 meant when he said something about 30 centimeters. And why did the Brits do this? To appease the European Union, which is about as democratic as a game of Russian Roulette, and there's no Union about apart from the French and the Germans trying to rule everything. Those EU idiots have recently spent another fortune looking into how to get the UK to convert to driving on the right. The idea is that cars from say 2020 would have to be built with the steering on the left to make it easier to transition to the other side of the road a few years later. These are the same clowns who decreed some years back that bananas and cucumbers would have to conform to a certain shape (almost straight), but they have recently announced they are relaxing this edict as it will be better for the environment not to have to throw good food away.
We now have liters over here, but consumption figures are mostly quoted in miles per gallon. Some newspapers have already done away with horse power and torque in pounds/foot and substituted Kw and Nm. None of the 'new' numbers bear any relation to previous numbers, so the poor punter who wants to buy a car, has to have a degree in arithmetic to work out what things are.
I wonder how long will it be before the EU attack golf. Can you imagine Peter Alliss saying something like, "this is a seven thousand, two hundred and thirty two point thirty-eight centimeter Par 4 hole." And would they have to change the number of holes from 18 to something that's a factor of 10? And why did they choose 18 holes in the first place? Because a fifth of whisky (fifth of a gallon) would last 18 holes if the player had one 'shot' of whisky per hole - there are usually just under 18 shots in a fifth. Thanks goodness the Americans do not 'do' metric. The Canadians do, but I'm not sure if the majority of the population understand it any more than I do.
Another aspect of watching and listening to golf is some of the comments are priceless. Peter Alliss said yesterday that one player washes his balls in hot water for two hours before a game as his balls become easier to handle.
On that note, here endeth today's lesson.

Printing Rip-Off

2009-05-25T09:17:00.002-05:00

We have a modest printer in the Hughes household, which sits in a bedroom, complete with a PC which was rescued from a rich Floridian-based Brit some 7 years back. I shall digress for a moment. The PC was about 15 months old, and out of warranty. His business depended on it, and after much drawing of sharp breath through clenched teeth, I told him that it was about as limp as a parson's handshake. We went to Circuit City (sadly gone under, but thankfully now under new ownership), and bought a new PC. After several hours, I got the new PC to work just like the old one, including downloading his saved files etc. I'd had the forsight to suggest to him to invest in a daily back-up.
As he had no use for the old PC, he suggested that I take it away.
As it happens, Rik was around a short time later, and duly reloaded the OS and everything else I wanted. When I moved back to Blighty. I brought the beast with me (UPS told me it was only cost $67 to ship it - this turned out to be only the tax!), and it now sits here complete with my wife's old printer. I suspect that after so many years' service, it might be time to start saving the pennies for a new one for when it packs up again.
Now, after that digression, where is this leading to I here you say. Well, I discovered that the printer uses print cartridges faster than an MP gets through public-funded expenses. I also use this printer for this laptop, but have to either use a memory stick, or email a file to myself. We went out to buy new ink cartridges on Saturday, and we were appalled to discover that these were almost £50 (about $80 US) for the black and white and the color versions. A delightful young lady sales assistant pointed out a brand new Kodak printer was less than £20 more, including cartidges. This printer's ink cartidges cost about £20 per pair. Kerchung. I was sold. Of course, by the time I'd paid for the attachment cable (the old one would have done, of course), a 3 year warranty and a partridge in a pear tree, I'd parted with over £100. I was assured by the delightful young sales lady that ceteris paribus, I was 'quids in'. I wish I'd been two weeks younger....
It took several hours to install the darned thing, as being a typical male, I decided to look at the destruction manual after three attempts.
However, we now have a new 3-in-1 printer - much the same as the old one, but this one doesn't swallow all the paper at an angle when it is printing, not is the black print a weird shade of pink. My wife called it lilac or puce. (That's a subject for another day perhaps. Men have a few basic colors in addition to the major rainbow ones - red, blue, green, yellow, but women can have at least 1,000 variations on beige, for example.)
What I want to know is how Lexmark, Canon, Espon, HP and the other printer manufacturers can charge so much for ink cartridges when Kodak can do it for less than half? One manufacturer even gives a printer away free if you buy two of each cartridges.
I recall about two decades back, I used to sell large Hitachi printers to IBM Mainframe customers. These printers produced bank statements and their ilk in their millions. The cost of the beasts was usually under $100,000, but the running costs in cartridges was many times this cost over a year.
Perhaps I'm in the wrong business. I've even tried these offers whereby one injects ink into a dead cartridge, and apart from getting cartridge ink into places that I'd rather not mention (which are guaranteed to take until new skin grows before looking clean - alternatively use a Brillo Pad, which has the same desired effect), their efficacy was dubious.
I read once about the 'Paperless Office'. Tell that to the printer manufacturers!
Here endeth today's lesson.

Travelling Man

2009-05-20T01:11:00.004-05:00

The last two weeks have seen me travel an awful lot of miles. The first leg was from Birmingham to Toronto, courtesy of a Thomas Cook 8 hour flight. I never knew that they owned aircraft. Interestingly, the distance from the seat in front (pitch for those in the know) was about 2 inches more than normal, but the seats themselves were very narrow - especially for some like me who are wide of girth.
After two days, we left for Florida - a mere 3 hours. Picked up the rental car which was a small Nissan - about the size of the Honda Fit/Jazz but with a smaller trunk. The Avis lady told us it was small and uncomfortable, so would we like an upgrade to a Sebring Convertible. At an extra $50 this seemed a bargain, until I was told this charge was per day - that was more than I was paying for the Nissan per day! Anyway, a convertible in Florida in the May sunshine is a perfect recipe for a burnt head. We visited my daughter's house and spent a while there before driving to Rotonda about 80 miles South to the rented house we had booked. This house is owned by some ex-colleagues of my wife's, and is superb. Check out their website, and let me know if you fancy staying there: http://www.lingerlongervilla.co.uk/
It has a nice pool and hot tub outside, plus a lot of space which is all screened in to avoid the mossies and noseeums. There's even a jaccuzzi in the main bathroom. Say no more. Susan, Doug and Carys came down Friday until Monday, and a good time was had by all. Doug and I sang a few songs, but we were not appreciated. We spent an hour on the beach, this was long enough as every person in Florida seemed to descend complete with their ghetto blasters. Why come to the beach and inflict noise on others, I shall never understand. It was a decent beach, and a smoke-free zone! I'd never seen that in Florida before. Mind you, several people ignored this. I managed to collect a few sharks teeth.
On the Tuesday, back to Canada. I love Canada, but still cannot comprehend why the whole country has to put up with French/English signs when only the East (Keybeck) speaks French. Everything in the national Parliament has to be translated. Such a waste of money in my view. A visit with Ricardipus on Mars was most enjoyable, and we discussed this and other important matters of the day. We spent a day in Niagara where I won some money, until my wife heard about it, and decided to buy some new handbags! The Falls never disappoint me. They are truly awesome.
Then an overnight flight back to Birmingham, arriving at 7 a.m. Saturday. This was most uncomfortable due to a group of Russian louts deciding to have 'fun'. Sleep was not possible. But at least no babies!
At 7 a.m. Monday, I had to fly to Germany for a meeting. I left home at 5:15 and got back about 9:30 p.m. I now need to sleep for a month! I'm getting way too old for this!
We returned to learn more about our glorious parliamentarians' shenanigans with their expenses. The Speaker of the House was finally forced to quit yesterday, and a good job too. He has been guilty of expenses misuse as well. He's the first Speaker to go in such a fashion since 1695, when Sir John Trevor - a Welshman - took a bribe of 1,000 guineas. Sir John had terribly crossed eyes, and started the habit of naming the MP who wanted to speak as he often saw three people in front of him. This habit continues today. It's sad when MPs abuse the system, and the whole country is up in arms about it. So many of the MPs have taken liberties, including Ministers. Our Dear Leader Mr Brown has promised that any Labour MP found guilty of fiddling their expenses will not be allowed to stand for Parlaiment next time. Unfortunately, that includes himself as he's been claiming all kinds of expenses for his 'second home' when he doesn't need one as he lives in No. 10 for free. Even the Queen has expressed her concern at the level of fiddling that's been going on. But MPs do work hard, don't they? They will close the shop tomorrow for three months - the Summer Recess. Maybe I should become an MP. I suspect that some of my friends would be aghast at such a thought as I have somewhat right-wing views in their opinion. I think I'm pure middle of the road. Mind you, as Maxine said, 'I'd like all our politicians to be middle of the road, that would make it easier to run them down.' She's priceless!
On that note, I must try to do some work to earn a crust.
Here endeth today's lesson.

Insurance Claims - The New Lottery Winners?

2009-04-03T08:42:00.002-05:00

I just received a phone call from an Indian guy called Gupta (I kid you not) from Accident Insurance Pty Limited, their Claims Department in Mumbai no less. I'm sure he doubles up as MicroSoft's support in Mumbai during his spare time. And as a Vodafone support person in faraway places. (Like Oz.)
"Mr. Norman Docker? We have now authorized your claim." Saith he in a very strong Indian accent.I cannot repeat this accent in the written word Dear Reader, you understand.
"Mr. Docker passed away some years back." Saith I. (BTW Norman Docker was my wife's father, and a thoroughly hard-working decent man who sadly passed away many years back.)
"Mr. Docker (without missing a heartbeat), all we need from you is your bank account details and we can expedite the money to you." Saith he.
"Which claim was this?" I'm now obviously interested. Methinks I could share this loot with my family, and my cousins in far-flung places, like Perth AU, KY, TN, PA, FL, Wales, Canada and Tristan Da Cunha.
"The one which you claimed after your accident in 2007. That is why our Insurance Company is called Accident Insurance."
"Oh, I remember now. Please can you send me a check."
"But Sir, it would be a lot easier if we sent the money directly to your account. After all, £1,800,000 is a lot of money, and there are many things you could do with that money. Please to give me your account details now, and I will have the money in your account within a few seconds, and there is no commission charge."
"Ah, there's the rub, Gupta, if it takes a mere few seconds, it ain't kosher is it sunshine. A nano-second I can believe. Go shove your grapefruit up your varicose vein." (There was an article in the papers today about why women on birth-control pill should not eat grapefruits.)
I don't know why, but he hung up on me. So rude.
Here endeth today's lesson.

On Smoking And Other Important Matters

2009-03-14T05:03:00.005-05:00

After battling with how to add pics for several days, I have finally found out that all the hieroglyphics mean that the picture has actually been added. How silly of me not to realize that. Thank you Mr Gates for not sharing that information with a mere mortal. I feel so sorry for you Mr Gates that your wealth has dropped from $58 billion to $40 billion. You'll be sympathetic to my cause, no doubt, as I have also suffered. My wealth has dropped from 58 cents to 40 cents.
Be that may, Dear Readers. Today, I show you below a picture of a gem of wisdom seen on a Greek Ferry - Who Pays The Ferryman notwithstanding.
It reminds me of the hotel in Israel - there are no Non Smoking rooms. Ashtrays abound, and burn marks in the carpets. This seems to be the norm in Israel. But restaurants do not allow smoking.
I've just been to Hamburg Germany, where the law forbids smoking in restaurants. But, the restaurant owners mostly ignore this rule 'because the customers want to smoke'. I just hate having to sit in a smoky environment just because some lunatic wants to smoke and pollute the air that I have to breathe. (Mind you, I'd rather have to breathe in cigarette smoke than the smell of garlic.)
I once stayed in a hotel (should that be an hotel, Joy?) in China. Cigarettes were included in the price of the room - they were on offer just like chocolates. I took some back with me to Germany, where my then girl-friend thought this was a great idea. They were Marlboros after all. Then she lit one. I never saw her again. Marlboros in China are not the same as US ones it seems. Marlboro Man I ain't!
And before anyone comments (yes, you, Rik) I used to be a 3 - 4 pack a day man. Then I saw the light.... there must be a joke there somewhere. I'll be fuming if no one sees it. Or the butt of someone's comments.
Here endeth today's lesson.

On Being Left-Handed

2009-02-20T09:42:00.002-05:00

Jeremy Clarkson, who declares his love of cars (but actually likes diesel - the most foul smelling an asthma inducing odor in the world) on a BBC program pontificates about us lefties:

Quite rightly, it is no longer acceptable to mock people for being black, homosexual, ginger, deformed or Irish, so let us start this morning by mocking Gerald Ford, George Bush Sr, Bill Clinton, Ross Perot, Al Gore, Obama Barrack and John McCain. People, in other words, who are all left-handed.

At present, this terrible condition affects around 11% of the world’s population and yet in certain fields the number is high enough to raise statistical eyebrows. Quite apart from American politics, there is tennis, which is dominated by lefties. McEnroe, Connors, Rusedski, Ivanisevic and that Spanish ape whose name I’ve forgotten all hold their bats with the wrong hand.

What’s more, if you give birth to a leftie, there is a good chance he’ll go into space. One in four Apollo astronauts were left-hand-drive. But conversely, things are not so rosy if he wishes to become a top-flight racing driver. All the big stars in recent years have been normal, apart from Gerhard Berger. He’ll also struggle to be a writer because his handwriting will be all smudged.

We can see from all this that left-handed people are different to you and me. In short, they are what science calls “weirdos”.

History is less kind. The word “sinister” is actually derived from the Latin sinister, meaning left. Gauche is left. Maladroit is left. Derek Hatton is left. All the things you don’t want to be are left. Left has come to mean bad, clumsy, difficult or awkward. And it's easy to see why this happened.

It is, for example, very difficult for a left-handed person to operate a camera or be a woman. Almost all are men and that’s sinister for sure. What’s more, a left-handed person can adjust more easily to seeing underwater than a right-hooker. There’s only one conclusion to be drawn from this — their eyes are not human. Furthermore, they grow more pubic hair more quickly than a normal person, and this would imply that they may be wolves, or bears.

Certainly, we can deduce from this that it’s not only the wiring of their arms that is the wrong way round. Their whole body is an electrical mess. I’m surprised they don’t sneeze every time they get an erection. Certainly, they have a greater tendency to stutter. And many are slovenly time-keepers.

(Actually, I made that last bit up simply to annoy the producer of Top Gear who is a) left-handed; b) three hours away from where he’s supposed to be at any given moment of the day; and c) like all left-handed people, absolutely convinced that he is in some way “special”.)

People from other minorities never try to claim they are better than the majority. You never get gingers going around saying that because of Simon Heffer and Nicholas Witchell, people with orange hair are cleverer than average. Nor do you get homosexuals pointing at Oscar Wilde with a smug look on their faces. They just want to be seen as “the same” as everyone else.

But people who need upside-down hands to write their signature on a cheque spend a huge amount of time and effort forming clubs designed to prove that because Leonardo da Vinci was left-hand-drive, they are superior beings.

In this respect, they are a bit like the freemasons or Mensa, that magnificently strange organisation for people who think they're special because they can put some shapes in the right hole while playing chess.

Mind you, left-hookers are worse. They lobby the makers of household appliances to consider their plight when designing computers, cookers and power tools. They even complain about sinks, and I’m sorry, but I fail to see how something that is perfectly symmetrical can possibly favour right-handed people. Maybe they are saying the plughole isn’t big enough to handle all their pubic hair.

Back to reality. I'm now worried about my pubic hair.

Here endeth today's lesson.

The Holy Land

2009-02-02T02:42:00.010-05:00

Some of my readers have been aware that I visited Israel and other places a couple of weeks back. It was truly one of the great experiences of my life, and one I'll never forget. I need to record this trip.
My wife and I traveled from London Heathrow (or Thiefrow as the locals call it due to the high number of thefts allegedly committed by baggage handlers - allegedly, that is - all Union-Affiliated Magpies as far as I am concerned). The flight is long - about 5.5 hours, almost as much as traveling to New York. Unusually, food was free - and excellent in quality (turkey with rice and veggie bits, and no onion or garlic), and drinks were free! An added bonus, where most airlines charge at least $6 for a small can of beer. Another major bonus was that there were no infants and screaming brats on board. There was no doubt that an armed member of the Israeli securiy service was on board. Experienced this situation in China many moons back. I suspect the situation in Israel does not enamour families to travel there, but they are missing a great treat.
Ben Gurion Airport is THE finest airport I have ever been to. London's airports could learn a thing or three. It is vast, but well secured. Questions were asked by officials, but they were polite. We were on our way in a taxi just 10 minutes after landing, having collected two large suitcases (my wife was disappointed not to be able to bring the kitchen sink, but the weight equated to one).
We arrived at our hotel in Tel Aviv. 'Sea views' exclaimed the brochure. Yeah, right. Only if one leaned out of the window at a precarious angle. The room (and the hotel) was grim. They did not have non-smoking rooms - I kid you not. There was a mini-bar, but nothing in it, and a lone kettle. No coffee. My wife was all for leaving, but after a walk around the hotel's advertized 'excellent restaurant, and comfortable bar', it was all I could do to persuade her to stay until morning at least. It was truly grim. She was not happy. I had managed a discount on the price when booking - down 30% to $120 a night. I checked other hotels in the area, they are all overpriced. We decided to walk to a local 7/11 equivalent without the gas station. Instead of venturing out into the main city - something the UK's Foreign Office strongly advised against at night - I decided to prepare a chicken fricassee in the room. My wife loved it. It was actually some wonderful fresh bread, with cheese and chips (US variety). Israeli bread is one of the best I've ever tasted, and their cheese is also first class. All washed down with a local beer which at over $2 a bottle was a bit steep in my view (the beer is called Maccabee - sounded Scottish!). There was no TV guide in the room (there was no guide to anything except the phone in the room), but I found Eurosport and Communist Nonsense News (aka CNN). Neither appealed, but there was some ice-dancing on Eurosport. I remember taking my daughter Susan to skating classes in Streatham all those years back, and she was so proud of her 'cerstificate'. We took Rik on the ice once. He successfully up-ended me twice. But I digress.
The morning came, and it was a beautiful day. We went to the old harbor in Tel Aviv. Lots of 'classy' clothes shops and women on bicycles. We then went to the proper beach. This was fantastic. Several artificial reefs have been built about 100 yards out in the Med. The sand is perfect for making sandcastles, and several watering holes along the beach completed the picture. Why families don't come is beyond me. Keep your Majorca. We enjoyed the low 70s sunshine (about low 20s for those who don't understand F).
We took a bus tour of the city, and went to Jaffa. It is very old, and is reputed to be the place where Jonah was swallowed by the whale as he tried to escape from God. There is a metal memorial to this event in the city. The architecture is an eclectic mix of Middle East, North African and some dubious 60s wonders. Our guide stated this was 'international architecture'. Personally, I was impressed with Jaffa. So many Welsh chapels in my homeland seem to have been built in a similar style, and many named after Jewish towns - Moriah, Engedi, Nazareth, Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Calfaria, etc. My father would have been proud.
We went through many parts of Tel Aviv, where Jews, Muslims and Christians live in what appears to be perfect harmony. I wondered about this, but could only dwell on it. We saw where several suicide bombers had attached civilians and children. Although out of reach of Gaza and the murdeous Hamas (until now that is), we saw what effect these rockets fired by Hamas can do.
We traveled by a mini-bus to Jerusalem and Bethlehem. This was extermely memorable. We saw Mount Zion, and walked the way Jesus walked carrying the cross to Calvary. There is one place where apparently, Jesus leaned against a wall, and people have been placing their hand in that spot for 2,000 years, and it is indented. We saw where Jesus' body was prepared after he died; it is a stone slab in the Church of the Sepulchre. We saw the Garden of Gethsemane. A very important place is the Wailing Wall. This where many Jewish and Christian people come to pray. You can write a note asking God for help for anyone. I made my note, praying for my family and in particular, for friends who need those prayers, and put it in a crack in the wall. I had to wear the 'kippah' to enter. Pam had to go to a separate place as women and men are not allowed to mix. I was again surprised how the different communities lived happily together. Maybe there's hope there yet. It's been nearly 42 years since the Yom Kippur War.
After Jerusalem, we went to Bethlehem. We had to change vehicles and guides, as we went to the Palestinian Authority's bailiwick. This new guide was not a nice man. Rude, arrogant, opinionated, and the 'Israelis are not nice people'. Apart from the Church of the Nativity, including the spots where Jesus was born, and placed in the manger, Bethlehem has nothing going for it. It is a city that Israel have placed walls all around - just like Berlin in the bad old days. But this is to stop the suicide bombers going into Israel. Both parties hate each other. Tourists were hassled all the time in Bethlehem to buy their stuff. All very sad, in my view. The Palestinians never mentioned that all their water, plumbing and other essential services are supplied by Israel. I must stop getting political!
One of the funniest things I saw in Jerusalem (in the Muslim Quarter) was T-Shirt which said, 'Don't Worry America, Israel is Behind You' complete with a picture of a military jet.
The following day, we went to Masada. This is an ancient site on top of a 1,400 foot mountain build by King Herod. Today, it has a cable car to carry us up the 1,400 feet. This is by the Dead Sea, which lies over 1,400 feet below sea level, so we were at sea-level. Makes Death Valley look positively tall! The site is well worth a visit, and much of the relics of the past have remained. I think there was a Mini-TV series about it many years back with Peter O'Toole.
After that, a thrilling time was had in the Dead Sea. Now, conventional wisdom says that humans cannot drown due to the salt content. I can assure everyone that this is false. If it hadn't been for the quick reactions of a fellow Brit, I would have been no more. To be fair, I walked out to about 3 feet of water, but being unable to swim, I found the experience 'worrying'. Suddenly, my legs came up, and I was floating on my back - a totally alien position to a human being in my view. I tried to turn over to save myself, and swallowed much of the salty water. Not nice. Stings the eyes too. My fellow Brit rescued me (reluctantly, I might add), and with a few words like 'bugger', I was out of there. Much to the mirth of about 200 Nigerian folks. These people seemed to follow us everywhere. It seems the Nigerian Government (when not running their scams) donate $1,500 to each Christian to visit the Holy Land. We saw them at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem where their women's chanting was the epitome of 'wailing'. They followed us throughout Old Jerusalem, and bought half the goodies that were on offer. They piled these morsels into plastic bags. Apparently, they will sell these tidbits at a premium when back in Nigeria. The Nigerian women were all inappropriately disrobed in my view - 'bits' were loudly displayed, slightly, but unsuccessfully covered by some green nylon, but they kept encouraging me to try to float again. It sounded like, 'Papa drown', but I was assured it was 'Papa swim'. Papa? Pah! Pam thought it was funny, and took snaps. Thankfully, it was the low 70s (translate that Kim), so it wasn't too bad when I walked out of the water. When I was in the men's changing room, sharing with 130 male Nigerians, one explained that my display had heartened all of them. I was so pleased. Not sure I understood what they meant. However, we parted as best of friends with much handshaking.
We crossed the Judean desert. Nothing but sand and hills of sand. And a few Bedoiuns, who seem to scratch a living from the desert. They have their camels, donkeys, goats (their cheese is excellent, and guaranteed to remove all plaque from your teeth) and some of them had satellite TVs. I couldn't quite work out where they got their electric power from. I didn't venture to consider their plumbing arrangements despite Pam's incessant questioning on this subject.
We returned to the relative calm of Tel Aviv, and had another chicken fricassee. Cheapskate, I hear? No; reality! We were both too tired to venture out. And it was nothing to do with the Foreign Office's advice to stay indoors at night. That is all poppycock! And Pam wanted to watch the final of the ice-dancing. I think I can honestly say that an upright spin, and a toe loop jump does nothing for me.
On our last night, we ventured out against all the Foreign Office's advice. Peace. Perhaps there is some political issue involved. Personally, I think that Israel is the best place for a vacation. I really do. The beaches are great, prices may be high, but with the security around, there is not a problem.
Oh, security. I forgot to mention, that at any store one enters, there is security - armed - ditto any hotel entered. It is comforting to see off-duty military folk carrying their Uzis with them at all time. Some people may not like that, but to me, it signified a sure environment.
I can provide any snaps at will.
After this trip, I had to go to Germany two days later to record my experiences. The result is that I am totally 'knackered'. But, after a few days' rest, I am now OK again.
Here endeth today's lesson.
PS. Please remember to ask for snaps...

Another of my Seven Wonders of The World

2008-11-20T10:05:00.003-05:00

Following the glowing success of my previous entry about my own Seven Wonders, I started mulling some of the other places that I’d visited, which I believe are also worthy of mention. I have not included such wondrous places such as the Coliseum in Rome or the Parthenon in Athens, but places which, perhaps, dear reader, you might have never visited or even seen a picture thereof.
I shall start with The Cape Of Good Hope. This, as you will know, is close to the tip of Southern Africa. However, the actual southern tip is Cape Agulhas which is where I wish to show. It is something of a magical place in that Nature shows its sheer might and character. Here is where from the Western approach, the Atlantic Ocean meets on its Eastern approach, the Indian Ocean. To stand on the headland is to see the full force of Nature. The Atlantic Ocean is dark and angry, while the Indian Ocean is almost blue tranquil. The two meet in a never ending battle, and is a sight to beholden.

For my second choice, I have to return to the US. One of my most memorable trips is the ‘17 Mile Drive’ in California. This delightful road is mostly on the edge the Pacific Ocean. It includes allowing a chance to see the famous Lone Cypress, much used in films etc. One has to pay to drive along it, but in the change, one always gets a 50 cent coin. I remember once stopping in a parking area, where my daughter (BLS) was so pleased to see an otter, and was able to feed the animal with some bread. It actually was a squirrel, but who am I to spoil the fun of a 24 year-old. To the North of this is the famous city of Carmel. This enchanting city is an absolute must if one travels in that area. It has the inevitable overpriced ‘galleries’, but it also boasts the original ‘Hog’s Breath Inn’ (there’s another famous one in Key West). Once owned by Clint Eastwood when he was Mayor, he frequented the bar/restaurant regularly and mixed with the punters. A lovely man. My daughter made another discovery here. Corned beef in the US is nothing like corned beef in the UK. I seem to recall her comment was ‘yuck’ when she saw it. Clint was followed as Mayor by Sonny Bono, who went on to become Mayor of Palm Springs, California, where I lived for a while. He went on to become a member of the House of Representatives for the Palm Springs area, and was much admired by the locals and all politicians. Upon his untimely death, even Bill Clinton praised him for his honesty and integrity as a politician. High praise indeed. If only the politicians were as honest today!

My third choice takes me back to South Africa. I was fortunate to visit Kruger National Park to address a sales/customer meeting many years back. This park is over one-third the size of the UK. The meeting lasted about two hours, and then followed much jollity, with lashings of beer to wash down the meats from the braai (the S African equivalent of a barbeque). We all retired at about 9 p.m. We set off at 4 a.m. to see the animals waking up and feeding. I cannot express the pleasure of seeing the animals in their natural environment, feeding, mothers looking after their young ones, but saw some brutal scenes too – but that is Nature. I will never forget walking down to a river’s edge, and a hippo coming out after me. I believe they are permanently angry. A bit like some people I know. One photo does not do justice (to any of these choices in reality), but there is a live webcam at three locations which can be found at http://www.sanparks.org/webcams/

For my next choice, I select Brussels in Belgium. This is another fabulous city to visit. Famous for its range of beers, chocolates and to a lesser extent, lace (Bruges, about 60 miles to the north has that accolade). Of course, everyone expects that they have sprouts and images of Hercule Poirot, but in reality, they do not, but they have Le Grande Place, the central square, where many restaurants and bars vie to force good food and alcohol down one’s gullet. The ambience is excellent, with its 18th Century architecture, and sometimes, they dim the lights and play Mozart. But this is not where I choose to take you, dear reader. I choose the ‘Atomium’. Built some 50 years back, this has been designed to look like a scientist’s atom cell. People can walk from sphere to sphere. My children loved this place. When I was last there in the mid 90s, it was a little ‘tired’, but it is still magnificent to see. Who said the Belgians are boring.
My fifth choice takes me back to Africa, to Kilimanjaro in Tanzania. At almost 20,000feet, it is one of the highest volcanic mountains in the world. Although not active, it seems that the snow around the top is melting at an alarming rate. Cue Al I-Invented-The-Internet Gore with his climate change.
My penultimate stop is back in the US. In Joy’s home State – Tennessee. The Cumberland Caves. A truly incredible place, carved by eons of water. I’ve seen such caves in Wales and in other countries, but this one ‘takes the biscuit’ as we Brits would say. It is vast, and stunning. In one massive ‘room’ called the Volcano Room, there hangs a ¾ ton chandelier, originally from Loews Metropolitan Theater in New York.
My last choice is an antipodean marvel – Rotorua in New Zealand. Nature has performed another miracle here with its hot thermal springs and bubbling mud. The smell is awful – sulphur, or rotten eggs. But buildings are heated by literally hammering a tube into the ground, and piping the liquid into filtering systems and around the houses. The locals told me that the smell doesn’t bother them – a fact borne out by several people, they just got used to it.

So that my friends, is another world tour finished. I have diligently followed my son's and Ricardipus instructions on how to get some pictures attached. As you can see, I failed. But I have them separately if anyone wants them.

Here endeth today’s lesson.

The Seven Wonders Of My World

2008-11-13T08:30:00.004-05:00

Joy and Debi have cajoled me into another blog. Apart from bitching about the UK’s weather - a national pastime I might add - politicians, and Prince Charles, thus potentially making me into a boring OF, I decided to take a more positive view.

The Seven Wonders Of The World

In my life, I have been fortunate to have traveled widely. I have visited all the countries of the so-called Western Europe, and some of the Eastern ones too. It has been an experience that has left an indelible mark on me. I have seen some fantastic sights, including that of the ‘Iron Curtain’ between West and East Germany during the Cold War. My children were petrified as I walked over to the East at one border! I have visited some of the great cities of Europe, all steep in their own history, language and architecture. I have eaten a bear steak with cranberries in a small village in Russia – I didn’t know I had actually crossed from Finland at the time – and consumed far too much of their local ‘lemonade’ in the process to even care. We sang great songs, but no Welsh hymns. I have visited India, complete with the statutory visit to the Taj Mahal, but a country so corrupt and racist I vowed never to visit again.
I wanted to select some pictures of my trips, but decided to limit those to seven places that I believe are truly astounding. Unfortunately, I don't know how to attach those pictures to this blog. After all, I've only been working computers for 42 years! So, please use your imagination.

I’m sure we’ve all seen the Biblical Seven Wonders Of The World, but I have chosen my own versions. Undoubtedly, there are other places on this planet which qualify, but these are places I have seen and have great memories of. These are all based upon personal experience. They are in no particular order.

The first has to be the Menai Suspension Bridge in North Wales, which links mainland UK with Anglesey. This is the ‘Land of my Fathers’, and is a sight to beholden.

My second is the Grand Canyon in Arizona. This has to be one of the most amazing places on earth. No camera shot could ever do it justice.

My third choice is the Corinth Canal in Greece. This canal is about 300 feet below the surrounding land, and is nearly four miles long. I cannot begin to imagine the work that went into building this canal.

My fourth choice is another bridge. The San Francisco Suspension Bridge. A magnificent bridge. Worth crossing from San Francisco to the city of Sausolito on the other side, a beautiful city with its quaint (read overpriced) art galleries and T-Shirt shops. But to sit on the waterfront sipping a beer has to be there amongst the tops. No wonder Clint Eastwood chooses to live there.

My fifth choice is the Great Wall of China. Apparently, it can be seen from space. Again imagine the effort to build this magnificent wall – over 4,000 miles long. I wonder if anyone could build such a structure today. Not with Unionization, they couldn’t. The view is to beholden. When I was there, a Chinese family, complete with their solitary child asked if they could have a picture of themselves taken with me. I was the Western Giant! A thrill to meet them, and share a few of my Cantonese words (unfortunately, I was in Mandarin speaking country, but what the heck, we managed).

My sixth choice is the Great Barrier Reef in Australia. Another natural wonder. I only saw it from a plane going from New Zealand to Singapore, but it was fabulous to see from 35,000 feet up. One of my ambitions is to get to personally visit it one day.

My final choice is Niagra Falls. That great divider of Canada and the United States. A wonderful place to visit, and not just for the Casino!

On a final note, since I was a child, I’ve always wanted to go to The Holy Land – it was my upbringing, three times and more to Chapel on a Sunday. I will be going in January. I will take pictures, and hopefully share some with you, dear readers. (I'm sure Rik will help correct my problems.)

Here endeth today’s lesson.

On Elections, Teachers, Racism and Rationing

2008-11-09T04:05:00.001-05:00

Another ‘historic’ election has passed in the USA. Haven’t they all been ‘historic’? But this one has been especially ‘historic’ as a black person has won the nomination. Actually, he is not black – his mother is white, and his father is black, he therefore has claim to being half-white and half-black. That is not any fault of anyone. And should not be. He is an excellent orator, and deserves the chance to prove that he can change things in the US. Personally, as Joy will attest, I suspect his rhetoric will be just that. Congress, being run by Democrats will undoubtedly stifle most of his ideas. Be that may, let us hope and pray that a new era can begin, and that solutions to America and the world’s ills can be found.
But one particularly galling scene came my way.
http://www.belch.com/blog/2008/11/06/reason-142-to-homeschool-obama-teachers-wont-bully-kids-who-support-mccain/
This is the story of a black teacher at a school in Cumberland County poking fun at one of her white pupils as the white pupil’s father served in Iraq. It was filmed by Swedish television. The teacher is entitled to her view, but to subject a child who has yet the chance to vote is beyond reproach. She should be teaching them the subjects she has been hired to teach. And she is also so racist. We often hear that only whites can be racists. Check out the Rev. Jeremiah Wright. And the ‘Rev’ Jesse Jackson.
Now stop it, I hear you say. But I have experienced racism since I was a child. At the age of 12, I passed an exam to enter the local Grammar School. Having only been learning English as a second language for a few years, this was a major trauma for me. About half of the kids came from an Anglicised part of Wales – Barmouth. Us Welsh kids were retarded according to most English kids who attended the same school. Fights always ensued. But the worst part was that many of the teachers did not speak Welsh at all. So we Welsh kids were at a major disadvantage from the start. Just as an example, our Mathematics teachers, Science teacher, Biology teacher, French teacher, PE teacher and Art teacher couldn’t pronounce an ‘LL’ to save their life. In addition, our Art teacher (Mr. Palmer) was given the task of being our Religious Instruction teacher. He told us he was an atheist. At the time, I had no idea what that meant. He pontificated long about that there was no God, but we Welsh kids couldn’t understand him. We just used to just ignore him. My father, a Welsh Minister, learnt about this teacher, and stormed off to the school to protest. Mr. Palmer was duly assigned another post. He disliked me even more after that. I had the misfortune to meet Mr. Palmer many years later, and (by now I was fluent in English) asked him about his racist views. He told me that all Welsh people are stupid and illiterate. I understand that he was at a school reunion a couple of years back. I missed it, but one of my friends in his welcoming speech said, ‘Sullied be thy name, Mr. Palmer.’ There was a loud cheer.
Mr. Scary Duck reminded me of my time in Primary School. This is the UK’s 7 – 11. Prior to 7, there is Infants, 5 - 7. Picture the scene if you will. WW2 had barely finished. The UK was ‘rebuilding’ the country. Anything that could be moved was converted into vehicles for sale in the US, was. The Austin A40 Devon comes to mind (the UK version was my first car, BTW). And then the Austin Atlantic. The latter was an august failure. A beautiful looking car, especially in Convertible form, but had a straight four engine that had about as much oomph as a mouse in heat. Austin had the venerable 3 litre six pot at their beck and call, but, no they chose a tractor-like four cylinder 2.2 litre. Much like a diesel these days, only less smelly and less noisy. Mr. Clough Williams-Ellis (he of Portmeirion fame, where ‘The Prisoner’ was filmed) had one. The car was screaming for a V8. A time when Chevy’s had a suitable rumbling sound, the Brits had a boring four-pot special.
This post-war period was marked by ‘Rationing’. Anything that contributed to any fun food-wise, was ‘rationed’. I even had my own Ration Book, my name emblazoned on the front. The book had coupons which would be handed over to purveyors of goodies along with cash in return for such wondrous things as oranges, but not apples. As a child of about 8 or so, the majority of those items that were available with a ration coupon were beyond my grasp. I wanted sweets (candy). Most sweets were rationed. Even Chewing Gum. But, one could buy Beech Nut, but not Wrigley’s. The latter required thrice the money AND a coupon.
One day in about 1952, the Government of the day decided to abandon rationing of sweets. Imagine 100 kids descending upon the local shop. We all bought what we could with our meagre savings. A couple of the lads bought chocolate, and ate it all. They then deposited the remains a few hours later after ingesting it, on the school yard. Being smart, I bought a whole Wrigley’s Spearmint Chew tube. When I got home, my mother could smell it about 100 yards away, and I was forced to spit it out, and deposit the rest in the trash. I must admit, I couldn’t argue with the point that it would remove fillings. The latter had been perfectly fitted by an English gentleman called Mr. Chase, who knew that as he didn’t speak Welsh, had the manners to recruit a Welsh speaking nurse. Not that it made much difference when one had a whole load of metal prongs etc. in one’s mouth. But I liked Mr. Chase. He never chastised me if I bled all over his chair. If he did, I never understood, anyway. And he would remove teeth with gas. That is, the gas was applied to the child.
Pseudonymph and others mention the lifestyle their kids have these days. And they bitch that they’re hard done by. See above.
Halcyon days, in my mind.
Here endeth today’s lesson.

Phishing, Phraud and Phun

2008-10-10T09:16:00.002-05:00

On Phishing, Phraud and Phun
Phishing.
I’m sure, Dear Readers, that you’ve been a victim of the Nigerian idiot who has millions in his bank account in the name of either yours, or some Government official who has suffered some sudden demise. The claim is often the same; one only has to send some ‘administrative fee’ to ensure that vast amounts of money will descend upon your personal bank account in nano-seconds. This fraud is known by various monikers, including the ‘401 scam’. These usually refer to Nigerian individuals who have either been refused entry in the UK, or one of the many lunatic locals in Nigeria who believe that the average member of the human race who live on this planet will send their hard-earned crust to these people. Oh, and I forgot, that the UK police estimate that about 20% of the UK’s populace actually do this. Sorry, but the ones who have done this - you’re jerks.
The second scam involves ‘cashing cheques/checks which have been drawn on US banks and we have no US bank account’. I got involved with one ‘Mike’, who asked me to help him. Mike was a delightful person. Lived in Erith, Kent. Sold rare African paintings to US persons who had no UK bank account. Unfortunately for Mike, I worked at the Woolwich BS (no, Building Society) about a mile away, and I knew the address was false. I contacted one of the UK’s daily newspapers. To cut a long story short, I still have in my possession a banker’s draft for $6,250 made payable to me. It looks authentic. My US bank said it was OK. I placed the funds in one of the bank’s savings account, after alerting them to the fact that the money was probably fraudulent. The draft was sent to me by UPS. Mike called almost hourly on my cell phone to check on its progress. After six weeks, the bank informed me that the draft was fake, and that they would debit my account. Harrumph/Bugger. By now, Mike had disappeared into that quagmire that is ‘Internet Fraud’. The UK newspaper no longer wished to know about this. 123 points down on my credit report in the US. More Harrumph/Bugger.
Phraud
Avid readers of my column (you must be out there somewhere, aren’t you?) will recollect that I had my UK Bank card rejected in Canada. I received a new card. Complete with ‘Chip and Pin’. This ‘Chip and Pin’ will eradicate even the most prolific of hackers, and ensure that my meagre funds are safe. That’s what the banks in the UK say.
Until I get to Tesco, that is. Tesco is to the UK what Winn Dixie/Publix is to Florida, but with prices that are twice as much – it’s a UK ‘thing’. I tried to get to use the new card at their ATM, but it failed. Now this should have rung warning bells. I later tried to pay for my groceries – veggies, juice, does anyone really want to know what I buy at grocery stores? If you do, get a life! Be that may, my card was ‘declined’. This is a universal word which attracts the attention of a ‘Manager’ within nano-seconds. Shouts of ‘Unclean’ comes to mind. One of my US bank cards does the trick. But it doesn’t have the ‘Chip and Pin’. Sharp intake of breath from all concerned, except me. It requires the Manager to verify my signature with HQ. Is this a fate worse than death, I question? My Florida driver’s license serves to probably ensure that I am a possible phraud. To bore you no more, I am let out with my groceries, feeling suitably humbled, along with some cretin in the line behind me who called me a ‘Bleedin’ American’. My retort that ‘we’ saved his ass during the war, almost started another war.
When I got home, I spoke to Gupta in Mumbai. I confused them all, as there is a Welsh only number that I can call. I now have yet another card on the way....... There’s lovely for you isn’t it.
Phun.
I’m going to have a few brewskis with my son in the morrow. His birthday. I'm going to enjoy this over the phising and phraud! How I wish I was 37 again!

Visit to The Colonies

2008-10-01T15:45:00.000-05:00

Having returned to The Old World in February, I ventured out to see family in Canada (one of Pam's cousins) and then onto Florida to see my own kin. The flight to Canada was awful, some girl of about 5 kept nattering the whole flight, in a very loud squeaky voice. I was tempted to fix her vocal cords, but the plastic cutlery was not strong enough. But, once arrived, it was nice to see the sun! It has forgotten to come out here in the UK for two months now.
The first job was to get some beer. In Ontario, beer is only available in beer stores, run by the government. You usually go up to the (only) cashier, and order what you want. They will go out of a door, and the beer appears on a conveyor belt type of thing. The cost is almost on a par with beer in the UK - expensive, but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. These beer store employees are on a par with rabid alligators when it comes to manners and demeanor. They must be related to government workers in the UK. They are called 'civil servants' here in the UK. Both words are oxymoronic in their world.
I digress. I got the beer. I then went to an ATM to get some cash. My bank in the UK declined my card. Once settled into my abode, I called the bank in the UK using the number on the back of the card. Spoke to some guy in Mumbai. He put me on hold so that I could talk to the correct person. This holding pattern lasted 11 minutes - all at my expense of course, but he did assure me that the call would go through. Eventually, I spoke to another guy in India. By now the quality of the line was abominable, and it was very difficult to understand him. The gist was that they'd noticed I'd tried to make a withdrawal in Canada, and as I hadn't told the bank that I was visiting Canada, they'd canceled the card. Best not to put into print what my reply was in case children might read this, but I did ask when did they decide that I needed to tell them of my travels. Pulling teeth from a hen in heat would have been easier. I was lucky, I could still transfer funds to my wife's account, who could then withdraw money. Her card had been cloned the week before, so they knew she was on the road.
In the meantime, we went for a meal, and I tried to pay with a credit card. Declined. Turns out this one (from a US bank) had been cloned, and a new one issued a few days previously. As it is a US bank, the card had been sent to my US address (I'm not allowed to have the card using a UK address). The new card was sitting at my daughter's house, waiting to be activated. Fortunately, I had another credit card, but I'm beginning to think that the best way of traveling is to carry wads of the real thing. Plus a 44 Magnum.
I made it to Niagra Falls, and duly lost $40 at the Casino. But it was nice to be there as I met up with the widow of my old buddy Bob who passed away a couple of months back. Joyce and Bob moved to Ashtabula, Ohio about a year back, which is only about a two hour drive from Niagra. I still miss Bob, he and I used to chew the fat a couple of times a week over a few brews. When he retired a few years back, he bought a PC, and became one the most knowledgable amateurs I've ever met. He was good. (Worth mentioning that Rik saved his life story which Bob had written and somehow managed to delete!) He and I were known the Grumpy Old Men where we lived. Very appropriate. Bob was also an avid reader. He would read history books, science books etc and could ingest the knowledge where I could only marvel at his ability to understand the big words. He was chief security officer at a casino in Vegas at one time. Told me about a lot of tricks that people get up to. RIP Bob. You're sorely missed.
I also managed to meet up with an expert blogger - Ricardipus himself. A terrific guy, and he showed me around his place of work. An excellent time was had chatting and sorting out the woes of almost every country in the world. Except France.
He's a great guy, and added to this was the fact that he spent a year in N Wales when a lad in short trousers. We discussed why the Canadians insist on placing all signs in French and English. Even where no one speaks French. We also discussed why they went metric. Bad move in my view.
Then off to Florida. God's own country. Having lived in, or experienced many countries, I still believe that the US is the best country in the world. Many people berate Dubya, but despite the politicians, the country is still great! I fear that if Obama wins, things will dramatically change. (Enter Joy with rebuttal... In my defence, the Dems should have chosen Hillary. She did get more votes after all. I fear that Joy and I will finally agree on something!)
Unfortunately, another flight to Florida spoilt by screaming infants. But my daughter and granddaughter were there to meet us! We spent 4/5 glorious days, sitting outside on the beach, getting sunburnt, and generally enjoying the heat. It was 91 which I believe is about 32 in new money, or Civilized as my Antipodean friend would say. It was great on Sunday to get an opportunity to drink beer, watch the game (the Bucs won in overtime) and meet up with the old gang. A lot of my old buddies turned up at my daughter's house. My son-in-law and I sang a few songs while I was there. We do that. Make the words as we go along. The tune is irrelevant. Maybe we sould be on one of these talent shows, maybe not. My granddaughter is delightful. Most people who know me know that I have a passionate dislike of children and babies, but this little girl is like my grandson - special. Cute too, well, I guess taking after her grandfather.... Maybe I'm mellowing in my old age.
The flight back to the UK was the worst ever. An infant cried solidly for over six hours. The child was obviously distressed, and the parents had no idea how to calm the child down. I wondered if the child was really theirs. The proffered food was an Indian Curry, complete with onions and garlic. About 30% of the passengers were Asian, so I suspect this concotion was to their delight. However, not all Asian food is ruined by these ingredients. At least the bread was edible.
The pilot and crew were from 'Keybeck'. No one on the flight could not understand English, so the need for French was superfluous. It would not be so bad if the crew spoke French, but the accent that the Keybecks pass off as French is not French.
Upon landing, it was 3 degrees Civilized. Or very uncivilized after 91 in Florida....
Now to enjoy the trauma that is jetlag. I swear that once I hit 40 (in hexadecimal), it has gotten worse. But I have the Internet to amuse me at all hours.
Here endeth today's lesson.

Summer Impressions of The UK

2008-09-28T10:30:00.000-05:00

Well, dear readers, I seem to have been tardy in writing again. This is primarily the result of having moved from Sunny Florida to a small village called Hockley Heath in England. This is a rather pleasant hamlet, consisting of two pubs, a canal, a butcher's and a couple of newsagents. In addition, there is a rather large emporium selling every conceivable light fitting known to mankind, and then some. The latter is staffed by some rather unpleasant people. Little wonder that they are always on the prowl for someone willing to devote some of their valuable 40 hours a week for the princely sum of £6 (nearly $12 in the US) an hour, which I believe is (or close to) the minimum wage for the UK. Saturday working is mandatory, by the way. On a recent visit to buy strip-lighting for the kitchen here (why are kitchens always dark where I choose to live? - Methinks another subject to ponder). I was unpleasantly greeted by some youth, who was garnished with what seemed like 10 pounds of metal in his face and his tongue. This made it difficult to understand what he was saying - his accent was enough to make most people leave the store. This reminds me that Rik does a good Brummie accent. I have been amazed at how many variations of said Brummie accents there are. But, I digress.
I find that the locals are not quite hostile, but distinctly unfriendly. This is in stark contrast to Florida, where you are always greeted with a hearty 'How you doing' wherever you go. Here, if I greet the checkout person at a supermarket in such a manner, security guards descend..... Usually they are rejects from the light fitting store.
However, all is not lost. The weather can be relied upon to elicit a conversation. I have managed to sit out in the sun for four days this summer. Sure, the sun has shone more frequently, but this was the only time when I felt it was warm enough (over 75) to venture out without a T-Shirt. Due to the lack of sunshine this year, and an abundance of rain, people will stand and discuss the weather for what seems hours on end. Eat your heart out Michael Fish. Oh, and for those that understand Celsius, 75 in old money is about 24 in Celsius. I never understood why the Brits chose to adopt this silly measurement which is so inaccurate. I said about 24. In Celsius, that is 75.2 F, but if you choose 23, that is 73.4. What a difference a degree can make.... Let's not go with metric. Another edict by the beaurocrats in Brussels to make us more 'European'. The Americans manage very well with feet, inches and Fahrenheit, so why should the Brits have been subjected to such a change? Who won the war after all?
On a final note, I made a brave attempt to grow tomatoes. The first examples should have been ready by mid-July, but duly arrived in September. Just in time for a visit to Canada and Florida..... More on that in my next exciting episode.

I Climbed Everest When I was 12 in one Day, Without Oxygen and Carrying a Sherpa

2008-02-22T06:31:00.002-05:00

A long title you might assume. You assume correctly. I have to say that such a feat must be on a par with moving house after seven years. As those who know me will attest, I have led a somewhat nomadic life. This stared when I moved to Sweden in 1984, and as one does, I gathered numerous baubles in addition to memories – most of them unhappy ones I might add, as previous reference to that awful country in this blog will demonstrate. Said baubles were gathered in a large wooden crate, and as far as I know, apart from a few prized possessions, they still languish in some dark cellar in deepest Sweden.

I then moved to the UK in mid 1988, and gathered more baubles. Staying for less than a year (although I kept a place there) I moved to Germany in early 1989. I stayed in Germany until 1995 when I was made redundant. I stayed in no less than five different places in Germany. My primary aim was to be in accommodation where there were no children as neighbors. I was assured that at every place I visited, there would be no children. So much for such assurances, as weekends became a nightmare. I eventually found a wonderful apartment in Downtown Mannheim (or Casa D’Uomo as we foreigners used to call it). It was within walking distance of my favorite hostelry too. The landlady was a lovely lady, who had a parrot who used to call me ‘murderer’ every time he saw me. Who can argue with a parrot?

After trying to get a job anywhere in Europe, and discovering that no one wants a smart-ass aged 50, I decided to try my luck in the US, and found gainful employment within a few days. I decided to move to the US. I returned to Germany, and by now my treasure had accumulated to massive proportions. In fact, I filled a rental car to such an extent I could not see through either the interior or one side mirror. I deposited much of these treasures in my daughter’s loft in England. A while later, she decided to bring me some of the suitcases when she visited California, and she found my gun which was loaded, and the safety was off. To say she was not pleased is an understatement.

After some years in California, I settled into Florida – commonly known as God’s Waiting Room – in 1998. This was supposed to be a three-month assignment, but I enjoyed the lifestyle so much, I stayed. After living in five different places, I finally settled in my last place in 2001. This had an area of about 600 square feet, which by last year had accumulated so many ‘treasures’ that I could hardly move. In view of Homeland Security’s need to be rid of undesirables, I was not going to be able to stay, and although my initial plan was to live in Florida in the Winter and the UK in the Summer, this was not going to be possible. So, after getting married to Pam on the beach a few days before Christmas last year – in glorious sunshine and 75 degree weather – I moved back to Blighty earlier this month.

This is where the title of this tome comes into its own. I decided it was prudent to be rid of much of the crap that I’d accumulated. This included nine computers, many of which were dead, but I did manage to get six of them working and donated them to a variety of friends – mainly older folks who only wanted them to be able to send dirty jokes! I decided to cull my clothes. I often wonder why clothes seem to shrink when they are not regularly worn. Other ‘priceless’ items were either dumped, or sold for a nominal fee, including my furniture. I found items that had been faithfully carried to each abode over the years, and never looked at during the intervening years. There was much dumping, but a painful process nonetheless. In Florida, one can dump any old electrical piece of equipment, or an old piece of furniture outside one’s house hoping the trash people will take it. Fortunately, some sharp-eyed two-bit thief will spot this, and remove it within ten minutes. A dead washing machine will be gone in five minutes.

This reminds me of ‘Turks’ Night’ in Germany. One Wednesday each month, the Germans are allowed to dump all their unwanted chattel onto the street outside. This can be anything including washing machine, furniture, dead bicycles etc. This process starts about 6 p.m. and then the streets are filled with the Turkish immigrant population, dragging most of it away to be fixed or whatever they do with it. At about midnight, the local authorities come round and pick up whatever’s left. I suspect that this practice is still going, but the Turks have now been joined by the cream of Eastern Europe’s criminals.

I digress. My abode was sold for a pittance. But I still made what I paid for it in 2001! The place was in need of ‘tenting’ – an expensive solution to dealing with termites. There were traces of their work everywhere. Fortunately, the new owner never noticed, and as he could have offered me more money for my place, I was not upset. He has since redecorated and remodeled the whole place anyway, and put it back on the market. A serious gamble in my view, as he still has to pay $400 ground rent for the place per month. There are so many places for sale right now.

My trusty steed, the Mercury Grand Marquis, was also sold for a pittance. But this was a good idea, as the power steering was on its way out. The electrics were a mess. Easier to list what did work - the windshield wipers, but only in the dry. I essentially got 18 month’s worth of driving for under $900 including repairs. Can’t be bad. I would have loved to have it over here, but with its wide size, poor gas consumption (about 12 around town) and broken headlights, I doubt if it would have lasted long. As an aside, gas is now hovering around the $9.50 a gallon mark over here.

I was quoted $2,200 for shipping charges for the remainder of my stuff. I took it to FedEx in four large heavy boxes, and it came to less than $350. I even managed to get my PC over, although I immediately blew the power supply – a common mistake so I’m told. They don’t come much more common than I do. I still have to get the PC hooked up to Broadband. What a tedious affair this is. When I switched to Broadband in the US, it took about two days. Here in the UK, after getting a new phone line (which can’t be in my name as I have no credit record here), the process started, and it will take over a week to be able to use it. Thankfully, Rik is standing by to give advice.

So, moving all that stuff either to the dump or here was a nasty experience all told. Now I’ve got to find places to put it here. But Pam does enjoy my Winnie-The-Pooh cushions.

Here endeth today’s lesson.

Insurance Companies

2007-11-20T09:48:00.000-05:00

Dear Diary

Rik's blog about insurance company rip-offs prompted me to write this tome. Here in the US, I have a very nice insurance policy which although will not allow Rik or his sister to lead a life of leisure, will ensure that when the day of departure comes, there will be sufficient funds for a good send-off. The rules about no wooden casket still apply naturally. Why burn a perfectly good piece of wood when a couple of large boxes duct-taped together will have the same end result? Ashes-to-ashes is the same if it's wood or cardboard, after all they are both made from the same material. This policy costs a less than $3 a month. There is however, no value if I choose to cancel it. I'm happy with this arrangement.

Upon my impending departure back to the Olde Worlde, I enquired about a similar policy from my UK bank. My original email requesting information asked me to call one of their Insurance Advisers who are certified to answer my questions which cannot be done by email 'for legal reasons'. These legal reasons are never explained. I called. You've guessed it, Gupta from Bangalore did his best but there's a 'problem'. I've been banking with this bank since Adam was a lad, but due to some 'glitch' back in the days when computers allegedly made mistakes, my date of birth on the records has moved from the original 1944 to 1958. So glad that I'm only 49. Of course, I can't change my date of birth. The proffered copy of my birth certificate (in both Welsh and English) was declined, as was my request for a life policy.

I have spent several hours asking other insurance companies for quotes. This usually extracts a sharp intake of breath through clenched teeth due to my 'pre-condition'. This pre-condition was established after answering 194 questions about my health (including the one that asked if I had ever died), and they have all established that I have asthma, and therefore am 'unclean'. A quote from one insurance company was the equivalent of $100 a month for the same cover as I get for $3 here.

To add to my woes, after my return, I decided it would be smart to get travel insurance. In fact a trip to Canada and the US next September has been planned but the airlines need proof of travel insurance. Back to Gupta. He couldn't deal with this request, so he passed my call to their Insurance Financial Adviser in the UK. Seeing as I'd called a UK number in the first place, I was a little surprised to find that my call to the UK was routed to India, back to the UK, and then I spoke to Brenda in Bradford. People who live 'oop' North in the UK are not known for their Shakespearean skills when it comes to spoekn English. Combine this with a telephone line that had the quality of two cans on a piece of string and you can imagine the conversation. I finally got a quote for just over $100 (this blog site don't do the pound sterling sign) for two weeks. But, and of course, there was a BIG BUT, that only applies if I am a UK resident. I explained that I will return in February next year. I was advised by the Learned Adviser that I should apply after I return, and am a registered resident in my chosen domicile. Big word that. I then explained that I need this travel insurance before the ticket can be issued, and that as prices are about to go up, I need to get it now. Deaf ears come to mind.

I haven't given up, but by now Skype love me as I'm spending a small fortune on phone calls. All I can say, is watch this space.

Here endeth today's lesson.

Airline Travel

2007-10-13T11:14:00.000-05:00

Anyone who thinks that airline travel is 'romantic' needs to lay off the whacky baccy. I've just completed a round trip to Birmingham (England, that is, not Alabama), then on to Wiesbaden, Germany and back again. Four days. Any surprise that my brain is somewhere in mid-Atlantic?

The first leg of this journey was from Tampa to Newark. Unfortunately, due to a thunderstorm over north Florida, no plane could leave Tampa. We sat on the runway for just under three hours. Outside, the temperature was hovering near the 90 F mark. Inside, it seemed to be worse. There was only a little air coming in, and on a flight where every seat is taken, this makes life somewhat unbearable. Especially if someone nearby has flatulence. Sitting next to a fat lady doesn't help either. Talking of which, there was an extremely fat lady sitting on one row near me. The lady next to her objected to having to share at least a quarter of her seat with the fat lady. A quite heated argument ensued. My view is that the seats are too narrow for a dwarf let alone an adult, and any fat person should be obliged to pay for two seats. This woman must have been well over 350 pounds and only five foot five. No solution could be found, and the thin lady (actually quite plump in her own right) had to endure the fat lady for the three hour flight.

The crew were not informed on anything that might happen to any connecting flights. This was the province of the ground staff at Newark, they said. An Indian gentleman kept walking up the aisle to complain that he had a connecting flight to catch and it was vital for him to be on it. He demanded to speak to the pilot, but was refused. He said that he was a personal friend of the Chairman of the airline. In my experience, they always try that line.

On eventually getting to Newark, I'm informed that I've missed the connecting flight to Birmingham by about 1.5 hours. Now there's a surprise! "Please go to Customer Service and they'll help you," quoth the friendly stewardess. I get to said Customer Service to join about 50 - 60 people who have equally been inconvenienced by the storm in N Florida. It was 8 p.m. After almost an hour of not moving - there were two parties from Sweden and Ireland who wanted to be re-routed - I took a hint from my daughter and called the airline on my trusty cell phone. Very helpful chap. Told me I could have the next flight to Birmingham the following evening. After some mumbling, he offered to send me to London's Heathrow where I could catch a coach to Birmingham. Great! I had almost an hour to get to Terminal B to catch the flight at 9:35 p.m. I was advised to pick up my luggage. This might have a been a good idea, but the luggage was destined for Birmingham, and was nowhere to be found.

Terminal B is a loooong way from Terminal C in Newark. Takes a train journey and a long walk. By the time I got to Terminal B, there was no sign of the plane, until my daughter explained that I'd obviously been transferred to a different airline. A dash to the check in desk informed me that I was too late for that flight as the doors were closing. Sphericals.

Back to Customer Service, but now had to go through Security again. Off with shoes etc, and just before 9:50 p.m. I arrived back at Square One. The Swedes were still doing what Swedes do best. Mumbling amidst sharp intakes of breath through clenched teeth. At 10:00 the desk closed. Not before I expressed my discontent in a manner which one passenger described as a loud manner. Not me, surely. A kindly lady took pity on me, and managed to get me a flight to Manchester, England instead. Once there, I was on my own, quoth nice lady.

To add to all this woe, there was a live S American band playing on the concourse - for the benefit of the customers, of course - together with nubile young things dancing. I have never heard anything so loud in my life. My ears are still ringing a week later.

I got to the departure gate to be allocated a seat. I requested an aisle seat, and the check in lady was so impressed with my German that she gave me three seats! A chance to sleep perchance....

A call to my daughter allowed Pam to drive early on Saturday to pick me up from Manchester. I was greeted with a can of Fosters and a pork pie. What more can a man want? The choice of food on a long haul Continental flight gives one a choice, garlicated beef or garlicated chicken. One must order a 'special meal' if one doesn't eat garlicated stuff. The salad was good though, as was the apple pie (at least that's what I think it was).

My luggage? Well that arrived on Sunday, which was good as I was about to depart for Germany in the morning.

That trip and the subsequent trip back home to the US were bliss in comparison. Especially as the return flight from Birmingham had no children on board! Can you imagine no screaming infant or child on a flight? Maybe they had taken my advice, given them a shot to sleep, and put them in the hold as they do with animals.

Here endeth today's lesson.

England - Where is it?

2007-09-30T23:41:00.000-05:00

I was at the local supermarket buying some essentials (yes, Rik, beer was there on the list, but not milk and bread) when the check-out lady said, "So you're English." Smart, she could detect an accent. I wanted to point out that I didn’t have the accent, but I declined to be so educational.

"No, I'm Welsh."

"Isn't that part of Engalnd?" piped the lady behind me.

"No, it's a separate country, unless you listen to than plonker Prince Charles."

An argument ensued. The lady behind me was an 'English major' and other things which I did not understand, and so she ‘knew’. She quoted me Shakespeare:

"This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England."

Shakespeare was as demented as the next person when he wrote this. Couldn't spell to save his ass. England is not an island. It needs Scotland and Wales to keep it afloat.

Why do Americans relate England as the UK? I guess it's because most English people don't realize the difference. I recently read in a US newspaper that "Gordon Brown, the English Prime Minister".... that's the last time I read that newspaper. Tony Blair is Scottish too!

Unfortunately, even the Prince of Wales doesn't realize the errors of his ways. (A title thrust upon the Welsh who never wanted it.) He once mentioned that one day, he'd be the King of England. Such a plonker. Hasn't been an English monarch for over 200 years. Any wonder why the Scots and the Welsh want to break up the UK Union? Unfortunately, due to inbreeding, I suspect that Charles' IQ is on a par with my waist size - in inches. Check the eyes (too close together), and the low comb-over parting...

Here endeth today's lesson.

Rip-Off Britain

2007-09-29T08:26:00.000-05:00

As an ex-pat (I have never been called Pat, by the way), I am always amazed at the way the Brits are being ripped off in so many ways when it comes to prices.

My biggest gripe is the motoring industry. Let's start with the price of new cars. As an example, a new Honda Accord in the UK will set the customer back about £18,000 ($36,000). Here in the US, the equivalent is about $24,000. A 50% price hike. Oh, Honda will argue that things are different in the UK and that the steering wheel has to be moved etc. Nothing but BS in my book.

Not only content to charge 50% for the same car in the US, a Honda dealer charges £135 ($270) for a 3,000 service, which is an oil change and a new oil filter. We have "Ladies' Tuesdays" over here, where any woman can take he car in, and get the same 3,000 mile service for $27. It does not affect the Warranty if the car is taken to a non-Honda shop. It invalidates the Warranty if the customer does that in the UK. My own local garage does an oil change for me for $10. Cash. My trusty Mercury steed is happy with that, despite the fact that it does leak some oil and burns some. But then, a gallon of oil here is about $8. In the UK - £20 ($40). I know oil is heavily taxed just like fuel is, but it's still a rip off. I guess the taxes pay for the free health care, which I believe is having serious problems coping with the number of ill people. If you have a cold or the 'flu, you must make an appointment to see the doctor. Usually three days away.

I don't smoke, but I was amazed at the price of cigarettes on a recent visit to Blighty. £5.50 ($11) for a pack of Marlboro (here it is about $4 and they are longer). It is claimed that it is the poor and those on welfare that smoke, begs another question, how can they pay this?

A desktop PC in the UK is nearly twice the price of a system in the US. Ditto laptops. It's the same systems but with a different keyboard! And they can be programmed to any country. They don't even have to change the power supply!

It isn't just the UK that is ripping people off. I've just come back from a delightful trip to Toronto, Canada. People often tell me, "We know where Toronto is, you don't need to mention Canada."

Well 'scuse me, but I want to make sure that people are aware that I'm talking about the Canadian one, and not any of the cites of the same name in Iowa, Florida, Kansas, South Dakota or Ohio.

Back to the plot. Alcohol seems to be a problem in Canada. Purchasing it that is. It is all controlled by the government. Interestingly, a can of beer is about $2 in Canada (the US/Canadian exchange is about on a par these days), and here in the US you can get a four pack of the same beer for about $2.50. I can't see me moving to Canada any time soon despite winning a nice sum at the Casino at Niagra Falls.

Lot to be said for the US of A. Best country I ever lived in. We have our problems, but I'll miss it when I move next year.

Here endeth today's lesson.

Education

2007-09-21T23:43:00.000-05:00

There are a few things available in the UK that I greatly miss here in the US of A. (There are a lot of things I don't miss, but that's another topic.) One of them is a pork pie. For those bereft of knowledge of this wonder of food, a (circular in shape) pork pie is made of cooked pork (the name gives that away - duh) although which parts of the pig are used is best not asked, which is wrapped in a delightful crusty pastry. Between the pastry and the meat, a 'jelly' is used. Personally, I don't like the jelly and discard it, but I've been told by learned friends that this is the best part. Be that may, there's nothing quite like a pork pie and a bag of crisps (chips in these here parts) - smoky bacon flavor is my favorite. I have frequently arrived at a UK airport and visited a small food emporium at the airport to buy these items and consume them before embarking to the world outside. Always good at 07:30 in the morning on a cold day in the UK, whereby one's brain struggles to accept the 07:30 time instead of 02:30 at home, and the 35 degree drop in temperature. There is a drawback, of course - I have to eat with my fingers, as a knife and fork are not supplied. Nor is a napkin. Shudder.

In a moment of being unable to sleep, I started to think about pork pies. An insomniac sometimes uses the time to further enhance his education.

So I've discovered a fascinating piece of information that will no doubt change some peoples' lives. In the 17th century, the pastry on the outside of a pork pie was known as the 'coffyn', and was there merely as wrapping to keep the meat intact. It was thrown away with only the meat being eaten. Sad. In later years, the populace started eating the pastry, mainly due to poverty and a lack of edible material.

The 'home' of the pork pie is a town in England called Melton Mowbray, whereby the manufacturers of said pie are strict in their claim that only a Melton Mowbray pork pie deserves to be called a pork pie. A somewhat dubious claim in my view, as the most prolific purveyors of pork pies are a company called Dickinson & Morris which has (only) been baking pork pies at Ye Olde Pork Pie Shoppe in Melton Mowbray since 1851.

After complaints from Dickinson & Morris, the European Union governing mandarins have pondered the question of the rights to use the term a 'Melton Mowbray Pork Pie' for years. Even Dickinson & Morris have admitted that their pork pies are made in the nearby city of Leicester. So much for authenticity.

Nowadays, supermarkets' own brands of pork pies proliferate, and in my view, are equally tasty, have less jelly and are much cheaper.

In my days of living in Palm Springs California, an enterprising Brit took to making pork pies and selling them. He was soon forced out of business by the authorities for using ingredients that were not authorized in California, and his attempts at using authorized food failed dramatically.

The pork pie gave birth to a famous hat - the pork pie hat, as worn by Gene Hackman in the movie 'The French Connection'. The hat does resemble a pork pie, without the rim, of course. Sadly, we rarely see a pork pie hat these days. I would love to have one. It would keep the sun out of my eyes when cycling.

Here endeth today's lesson.

Political Correctness

2007-08-08T01:48:00.000-05:00

Over the last few years, I've watched, read, been fascinated and been horrified by the march of Political Correctness in the name of ‘progress’. The original idea was no doubt meant as ‘a good thing’. Unfortunately, we now have an army of ‘Equality Officers’ whose job is to meddle with every known aspect of life. We have to be so careful of any words that may be construed as being racist or bigotist (is that a word Joy?). Nowhere is this stupidity more prevalent than in the UK and to a much lesser degree, the US.

Why do I believe that the UK is worse? Since the European Union said that anyone from a member country could work in any other member country, about one million Eastern Europeans have descended onto the shores of the UK. Is this a good thing? It certainly seems to be for the Polish community. An estimated 500,000 have arrived in the last few years, despite the UK Government’s (now there’s an Oxymoronic name) claim that only 50,000 would arrive. The problem is that now, Police Forces are seeking to recruit Polish-speaking constables. Polish lessons are being forced upon local plods in such exotic places as Wrexham in Wales. Before anyone asks, no, they don’t have to speak Welsh, so the indigenous folks are no longer catered for.

I recall that a few years back, I had the misfortune to end up in a hospital in Wales due to an asthma attack. I was attended by two doctors, one who was Welsh and paid attention, and the other an Indian doctor who didn’t. I was castigated for speaking Welsh by the Indian doctor, and when I happened to mentioned that I was in Wales, he called me a racist. I never quite understood that logic or the conclusion.

I also remember visiting my 90 year-old Aunt at her house on Anglesey (this is the nearest place to the Garden of Eden, but then I’m biased!). During my visit, my Aunt’s ‘health visitor’ came to see her. I was hurried into the kitchen. Turned out that the health visitor didn’t speak Welsh. My Aunt didn’t speak English. I was hurriedly recalled and did the translations. Well, most of them. My Aunt’s comments about the health visitor wouldn’t be good material for family reading. According to the health visitor, my Aunt was both demented and stupid for not being able to speak English. Of course, my Aunt was the racist. Thankfully, due to the efforts of a health worker whose name was Aled Hughes (no relation that I know of) the health visitor’s services were dispensed with. She had the temerity to sue, but lost her case as she should have known that she would be required to speak Welsh.

Be that may, I digress. The latest round of being Politically Correct has reached my eyes. Today's Political Correctness comes in the form of no longer being allowed to refer to dates as AD or BC. They are now to be referred to as CE - Common Era, or BCE - you've guessed it, Before Common Era. These initials have been touted as more sensitive to people of faiths outside of Christianity. These initials are now appearing in school textbooks in place of AD and BC. By the way, the year of Christ’s birth is referred to as ISO 8601. Stop the planet, I want to get off! Is there no end to this lunacy?

Here endeth today’s lesson.

PS I was born in 1944 CE. 63 years ago next week.

The Avengers

2007-08-05T00:42:00.000-05:00

A guest appearance on Frasier (US Comedy) by Patrick Macnee (John Steed) reminded me of the Avengers. Not the Hillman kind, you understand. When I lived in Palm Springs, California, I used to bump into Mr. Macnee regularly at one of our watering holes. I recall he used to drive an old Rolls-Royce, with the steering wheel on the right. He was always a very pleasant man to chat to.

Back to the Avengers. There was Honor Blackman. Every schoolboy in short pants' dream of a woman. In my Grammar School, we would spend hours in our lessons imagining what pleasure she could bestow. She's now over 80, and has a relationship with a 57 year old.... on a par with Norma, one of my neighbors, and her toy-boy Juan! She recently had major 'plumbing' surgery, and her concern was, "Will I still be able to have sex?" There's hope for me yet!

Then there is Diana Rigg. Spent much of her childhood in India, and is apparently still fluent in Hindi. Must be useful in Doncaster, England, where she was born. Many pundits claimed that she was/is a lesbian, but this has been dismissed by her several husbands. During her filming as James Bond's wife in "On Her Majesty's Secret Service", she often refused to play the part opposite George Lazenby (Bond) as he had eaten garlic! She's gone up in my estimation! Saw her once in the West End of London.... no, she didn't remember me. But then again, that was Honor Blackman.....

Then there was the Chrysler 180 in the UK, an overgown Hillman Avenger, followed by the Chrysler 200, which had a two liter engine and came with an automatic gearbox as standard. One of my buddies in my previous life in the Woolwich Building Society had one. Wonder what happened to Roger. Rumor has it he moved to San Francisco.

Here endeth today's lesson.

Hurricane Season Is Here.

2007-06-26T03:20:00.000-05:00

I watched a somewhat puerile local weather man on TV earlier. He said some of us had received 'localized' rain and thunderstorms. I’ve never understood what ‘localized’ means. The word hospitalized means that someone has been put in a hospital. I would have thought that localized would mean that someone had been put in their local (pub). But then again, I’ve never understood Dew Point.

Mr. Boy Weather Man said that there's something brewing in the Atlantic - enough for the weather forecaster to send us mere mortals to Home Depot to buy lashings of batteries, plywood for our windows and Winn Dixie (Floridian supermarket) for bottled water and canned foods. And after the weather forecasts then come the commercials from Home Depot and Winn Dixie. This Atlantic activity ‘might’ be a tropical storm, which ‘could’ become a ‘hurricane’. “Stay tuned for the next three days, and we might be able to tell you more.” I still have some canned foods from 2004.

This local news station is really quite pathetic. I swear that their weather forecasts are based upon looking out of the window. Their studio is not too far away, and recently there was a tremendous downpour which covered the whole Tampa Bay area. They continued to say there was a 20% chance of rain that day. Duh! Their traffic reports always tell you that there is a short delay on the Howard Franklin (Bridge) of about a quarter of a mile. Sitting six miles behind stationary cars on the HF does make you want to break the radio.

Hurricane Season (officially June 1st to November 30th) is a godsend for weather forecasters. They can stand there in front of the camera with loads of colorful charts showing that any disturbance in the Atlantic ‘could’ become a hurricane. Obviously, we must all be vigilant and prepared. We ‘could’ even have to be evacuated. This is where millions of South Eastern US people take to their cars, load them with bottled water and canned foods and drive ‘somewhere safe’. Most end up riding out the storm in their cars as the roads are clogged. Eating cold baked beans from a can and drinking bottled water is not to be encouraged as it might exacerbate the wind situation. All commercials before and after the weather forecasts are for Home Depot/Lowes, or hurricane service vendors or supermarkets.

This smacks of crying ‘wolf’, and people tend to ignore the warnings. TV Stations were castigated for this a few years back, but then Florida got hit by four hurricanes within a five week period. (That was a scary time. I shall never forget the sight of a fully grown uprooted tree traveling down the street at about 30 – 35 mph.) But the weather forecasters were happy again. Their credibility was restored (in their eyes). I suspect that after three years, most people will tend not to listen to them again, which is a shame, but they really shouldn’t try to scare the crap out of people for the benefit of advertising revenue.

A worrying aspect of all this is that one of the major satellites that gives information and monitors any hurricane activity has developed a fault, and ‘could’ be sending out wrong data. There’s that word ‘could’ again.

Where is Michael Fish when you need him?

Here endeth today’s lesson.

The Unfortunate Ms P. Hilton – A View From The US

2007-06-09T09:10:00.000-05:00

The cry to her mother from this despicable cretin of “Mom, it’s not right” maybe says it all. This 26 year old (going on three) was convicted of driving under the influence of drink or drugs. Her license was suspended. She could have easily killed someone. And she was fined $1,500. My friend Dave Matthews was fined $2,000 and he has had to re-mortgage his house to pay the fine and the subsequent rehab etc. I doubt if P Hilton had to do that. Fines should be apportioned to their wealth. Fines are meant to ‘hurt’. Her fine could have built several hospitals/homes for the poor.

She then decided to drive her car not once but twice without a valid license. Go To Jail, Do Not Pass Go. America is agog that this woman could be treated as if she was a goddess. Even the racist ‘Reverend’ Al Shrapton says she should be locked up. But his contention was that as she was white, she got preferential treatment. Pot, kettle, black, Al. Remind me of OJ, Michael Jackson, and Mike Tyson…. Where is that other racist Rev. J Jackson when he is needed – when he’s not begatting another child that is, while his wife scrubs the kitchen floor.

The latest news is that Hilton’s lawyer ($$$ per nano-second which doesn’t even hit her purse) is appealing – nothing about her is appealing in my view, especially her videos. If I was the judge, I would double her sentence to 90 days and then 180 days every time she appeals, and she has the gall to turn up in court 20 minutes late. I wonder what Judge Judy would make of her.

This ‘lady’ has zero respect for the law. Just a trumped up little tart. Rich, but still a tart.

Here endeth today’s lesson.

The Mystique of Flying

2007-06-01T16:35:00.000-05:00

Flying to the US

For those of you who are naive enough to think that flying an airplane to some exotic location is romantic, let me say just one word - sphericals. In recent years, it seems that the airlines have perfected the art of making seats smaller, and the aisle width narrower, which insures that your elbow will get attacked by a cart several times during the flight. Be that may, this tale of woe is only part of my intrepid journey from Birmingham, England, to Tampa, Florida via Newark, New Jersey.

The flight attendants on the first leg informed us that the flight was ‘extremely full’ (I wonder what ‘full’ would mean), and would people who have reached their seats please get out of the way so that others can pass by before they get their myriad things out of their bags. This advice always falls on deaf ears. One guy insisted that he would only be a few seconds getting his crap out of his bag, but the flight attendant finally took action and demanded that the doofus move out of the way. It actually took him over ten minutes later, and he duly decanted three UK newspapers all over the floor. Why do people do this? Are they retarded or what? Do they really want the plane to leave late? Then there was the loony who brought his way-oversized bag on board and demanded that it be placed into an overhead locker. He’d never had this problem with the airline before, and his father knows someone in authority. He actually demanded to speak to the pilot before the errant bag was taken off and checked in. He also had a very large nose - it explained a lot. I actually suggested to him that he read the rules, but apparently they do not apply to him, and I would be wise to shut up. The attendant advised him to shut up or he’d be taken off. His wife glared at me. I was scared, really scared….

Then, worse was to come, there is always the statutory mother and screaming baby on any flight. This flight from Birmingham to Newark had the screaming baby. The baby screamed the whole way - I would if I was 8 months old. All of 7 hours and 25 minutes. Why do people want to take their babies on a flight is beyond me. And to add to my woe, the parents think the baby is cute. If they take a dog or a cat, the animal gets a shot, and is placed in the hold with luggage, and everyone gets to enjoy their small can of beer at $5.

After the meal and 15 stabs at my elbow, we duly landed at Newark. I’m going to suggest a name change to New Awkward. The Immigration and Customs folks couldn’t be friendlier. Unfortunately, the fact that half the population of Europe has just arrived means that we all have to go through ‘Security’. Here one finds hundreds of people with TSA on their shirts, pants, jackets and anything else they can think of. The one missing part is their ability to speak English. I think that TSA stands for Totally Stupid A**holes. I cannot believe that they would subject us ‘aliens’ to this after the folks in Birmingham had gone through the same rigmarole and confiscated my Heinz Salad Cream as it is ‘liquid’. I’ve never heard of a bomb being made out of Salad Cream, but what the heck….

It seems that my shoes indicated that they had metal in the heels. They were x-rayed twice. This confirmed that there was metal in them. Ditto my upper jaw, courtesy of a mishap in Ghent, Belgium (aka Fractured Jaw according to my children) some years back. The outcome was being marched to a ‘private’ room, and strip-searched. I seem to get strip-searched on many trans-Atlantic flights. I cannot believe that it is because they want to admire my body. Perhaps the name Aled is Rukmaniksthan for ‘terrorist’.

I then visited the ‘men’s room’. We call it the lavvy in the Old Country. I somehow managed to lose my cell phone. I discovered this after I’d boarded my connecting flight to Tampa. My day couldn’t get worse.

Oh, yes it could. When I got home, I discovered that my Broadband modem was busted, and the Mumbai techies advised me it would take $149 to replace it. And 10 business days for the new one to arrive. Why they can’t say two weeks is beyond me. A call to their Billing Department showed them the error of their ways as I have been a loyal customer for 10 years. The cost will be borne by AOL, but not the 10 days. In my jet-lagged state, I realized that I had my old trusty dial-up modem, and so, I wired that up. At least I can now get my emails etc., and feel like I’m human again. The only website I cannot access is the UK’s communist newspaper the Telegraph, but I suspect they only cater to Broadband customers anyway.

Getting home was bliss. I can cope with my snail-mail (just about) with 25 offers of credit cards, and the perfect cure for cellulite. Even e-harmony has written to me.

I realized though, that I can really survive without a cell phone and Internet access! But only just!

Here endeth today’s lesson.

Good Friday

2007-04-06T21:29:00.000-05:00

As a child, every Good Friday, my two sisters and I were packed into the family Austin 7, and driven early (about 7 a.m.) to a village called Llandderfel, near Bala in Merionethshire. This is where my Mother grew up. The day was pretty well planned (!). There was the village Eisteddfod, which is still a national treasure in those them parts... There are singing competitions for all ages, ditto poetry recitation. In the evenings, there are similar competitions for the adults, followed by choirs, both men, women and mixed voices. The morning was taken up with "Prelims". This was where the contestants were taken to the Vestry of the local chapel, and made to perform. The best five or six were allowed into the main Eisteddfod in the afternoon. As my sisters Ann, Menai and I had to perform individually, sitting on hard benches for hours was the norm, so there was little time to spend time with my wonderful Grandmother. There was also the duet competition (Ann and Menai) and the Trio (all three of us) I did the soprano bit. I was always in a light blue double-breasted suit (short pants), and gray knee-high socks (not white). I sang my little heart out, and one year, about 1951, I won first prize for singing, and got 4/6d. This to me was the equivalent of a gazillion dollars today, but was actually 23 pence in new money (45 cents). But imagine what you could buy with that kind of money in 1951! I was allowed to go to one of the three village shops, and buy a Crunchie Bar, and a bag of Crisps with blue paper-wrapped salt inside. Of course, I had to present my Ration Book. But I still had four shillings left. Saved some of it all summer. I nearly always came away with money after the Eisteddfod, so I’m glad I learnt to sing. People don’t appreciate me doing that today, but their loss.

I'd love to have been there again today. Menai was the music adjudicator there a few years back, but never bothered to tell me. My parents would have been so proud! All my cousins, Aunts and Uncles, were there at these events, and Auntie Nell (my Mother's sister) kept us well fed. Nain (Grandmother) lived with her in the village. Today the amount of cooking would have been a major feat - there was no electrickery in the village. There were about nine of us plus her family of five! The hall where the Eisteddfod was held was lit by gas lamps. Shades of Wild West? Probably! We'd all have to stay until the last competition, which would be about 1 a.m. A good Eisteddfod always lasts until at least 1 a.m. If it's before midnight, it was not a success! Then the long drive home. 30 miles. In an Austin7. It took an hour, and we were not allowed to sleep. Mind you, it was always so cold, it was impossible to sleep! We had a traveling rug, but one of my sisters always hogged most of it. Those that know my sisters will be able to guess which one did that. There was no heater. In fact there was only one windshield wiper! The drive was also over the mountains, and fog was always a major problem. Dad had to stick his head out of the window to see where he was going, then his glasses would steam up. We’d eventually get home, and hurry off to bed.

The hope of a lie-in was dashed as my Dad always got up at 7 a.m. Rain or snow. If he was up, everybody was up. And no chance of an afternoon nap either. There were always “manly” things to do. Weeding, chopping firewood and carrying coal to the living rooms. I was always sent to the village to collect the groceries, which my Mam had listed for each store. In those days, we paid our bill at the end of the month when Dad got paid. I don’t remember what my sisters did on those days, but at least they were indoors.

Happy days…. Sometimes.

Here endeth today’s lesson.

Internet Advertising

2007-04-02T22:14:00.000-05:00

Apparently global spending on internet advertising increased from $18.7 billion in 2005 to $24.9 billion (£12.6 billion) last year. The UK had nearly double the world average, and radio stations are rightly worried about it. I say rightly, because commercials on radio (and TV for that matter) are devised by idiots and aimed at idiots. That’s why we have mute buttons for TVs, and the channel hopper in the car. (There are exceptions, but they are few and far between.)

I like to read the UK and other European newspapers, and although I don’t mind the advertising, video-streaming is becoming a regal PITA. You just start to read, and up comes this banal movie. Of course, you can close the thing, if you can find the close button, and more recently the sound button! I know the newspapers need the revenue, but they don’t have to make it so offensive and it does distract from the article. The UK’s Telegraph is – in my mind – the worst offender. I even quit sending them £30 ($60) a year for a subscription for the on line Telegraph Crossword. You can check out their website at www.telegraph.co.uk I’m sure you’ll get the gist.

Now, I know a few brainy people in this world. I almost heard some ears prick up then! It seems that software has been written to (almost) get rid of Pop-Ups. How difficult would it be to write an application to do the same thing with video-streaming? I bet customers would pay a decent price for that. So get your thinking caps on Bright Ones. I will gladly do the sales-work!

Sadly, on reflection, I think that the internet will eventually be the death of the printed newspaper, except perhaps on Sunday. I swear that here in Florida where for $1 you get to buy a newspaper that has involved the destruction of several trees as it is so heavy, and full of advertising and little else. Riding my bicycle each Sunday morning to pick it up is very hazardous on the return journey. The best way is to take a grocery-store plastic bag with you, and insert said ‘forest’ into the bag. Then cycle home. Unfortunately, the chances of grazed knees are increased as the bag will try to stop the front wheel from doing its nominated task. I like to do my bit for the environment. But that’s another story, perhaps for another day.

Here endeth today’s lesson.

Smelly Cheese

2007-03-24T08:26:00.000-05:00

Why do I even raise this matter, dear readers? Well, back in the early ‘70s, I spent a while working with IBM in the Southern France. We were working on getting network connections to work faster than 2400 bps on a phone line. We are talking ‘slow‘here by today’s standards, but in those days, it was unbelievable!

Those were the days – flared trousers (pants), jackets with wide lapels, platform boots, and shoulder length hair. I was employed by a well known UK bank at the time, and I recall having to go to a ‘training’ school. Despite the fact that I was in IT, as part of my ‘career progression’ I had to take a class in Accounting. For a week. For a week. We all stayed at an old English country house near Oxford. I once overheard the course leader stating to someone that I was from the IT Department, and that this explained my appearance. To this day, my knowledge of accounting amounts to this: do I have enough money to buy another beer?

I digress, back to the communications.

The upshot is that we failed to up the communications speed higher than 2400 bps, but being in the south of France, I learnt a lot about cheese, and it did give me a chance to appreciate some ’really good cheese’. The kind that makes your tongue curl.

Enter Vieux Boulogne fromage.

Although from Northern France, it was de rigueur to have it in places like Nice, and Cannes in the South. It is a soft cheese (like brie) which was voted the smelliest cheese in the world some time back. For those who do not understand the French language, it means ‘Old Boulogne’. And ‘old’ it certainly is! Even according to the BBC (which cannot be challenged, naturally), it is the world’s smelliest cheese.

Back to the plot. I was going home to London for a week or two, and managed to buy a pound of this stuff. Traveling in the taxi to the airport at Nice should have been a warning. The driver thought I was some kind of terrorist. But in the 1970s, those folks were few and far between.

As I was one of the last to board the plane, there was no room for my hand luggage in the overhead locker. This is always a pet peeve, how come some idiot gets to bring half his closet with him on a plane, and then fills up three overhead lockers?

I digress again.

I got some pretty weird looks on the plane. The stewardess finally plucked up the courage to ask what the smell was, and I explained about the cheese. She found two plastic bags, but this didn’t really help. At least the customs people didn’t stop me. I suspect the smell put them off.

After getting home, my wife was not amused to have this smell about the house. I ate some of it, but it really is a very strong cheese, and leaves one thinking that the roof of your mouth has been blown off. She declared that either the cheese goes, or I go. I made the wrong choice. I decided to give it to my friend Roy – a regular at the local bar. He was over the moon about it! He was like a kid with a new toy. The other patrons of the bar did not agree, but we did soon have the place to ourselves.

The following day, I saw him, and he was not pleased. His mother had woken in the middle of the night to a bad smell, and realizing it came from the refrigerator, had put the cheese onto the rubbish tip at the bottom of their garden – some 100 feet away from the house. Roy told me he could still smell it several days later, in both the garden and the house.

So if you ever get the chance to taste some Vieux Boulogne, please do so. You will never forget either the taste or the smell!

Old Ladies and Sticks

2007-03-19T23:13:00.000-05:00

In England, when it rains, they mention "Raining Cats and Dogs". In Wales, it's "Bwrw hen wragedd a ffyn." This translates (for those of you who are bereft of God's language means, "Raining Old Ladies and Sticks.")

Now this made me think of current events in the UK, which could possibly be duplicated here in the US.

Bringing me to the subject matter - Old Ladies and Sticks.

I read a very sad tale today of an elderly 79 year old lady who lives alone in Barnstaple – a delightful town on the north coast of Devon in England. Apparently, some unspeakable children knocked on her door, and she let them in. There were several of them, which were about 3 to 8 years old. They claimed they were collecting money for charity. When they left, she realized her purse was gone. Later her debit card was used and she lost a lot of money.

The Police suggest that the Pikeys did this, and are organizing their kids accordingly. Sorry, I really meant to call them travelers – got to be politically correct these days. But, in my experience, they are all criminals – has anyone seen the litter they leave behind?

My main point here is – do not ever open your door to anyone you don’t know, let alone kids (asking for a glass of water, for example). If someone is banging on my door, and I don’t know who they are, I ignore them. They can die of hypothermia for all I care. If they keep doing it, I call the Cops! Here in the US, they will turn up fairly quickly – less than 20 minutes. I believe in the UK, due to Mr. T. Blair’s edicts, they will turn up in 18 hours, if you’re lucky.

The last time I was in the UK, a yoof in a wooly hat turned up at the house I was staying at, banging at the door. He had an “identification tag”. He was collecting for something or other. I refused to open the door, and he then kicked it. He regretted that action an extremely short while later. Sorry Joy, you're right.

Here endeth today'd lesson. Lock up your daughters and your door.

Viagra

2007-03-03T01:43:00.000-05:00

Viagra and Smoking

It appears that the UK National Health Service in Glasgow, Scotland have been involved in a study to help people stop smoking. The patients were supposed to be prescribed Zyban, but it seems the computers did not recognize this name, and so selected Sildenafil – the proper name for Viagra.

Of course, the NHS blamed a computer error – inanimate objects cannot make an error, only a human.

You can imagine the conversation when a male patient returns home.

“Hi honey, I’m home.”

“I picked up your stop smoking pills. Maybe you should start taking them now.”

10 minutes later.

“Honey, how about you and I got upstairs for a bit of how’s-your-father?”

“Not now, dear, I have a ton of ironing to do…. What’s that bulge in your jeans?”

PS Here in the US, there's a commercial for Cyalis. It says that if the 'erection lasts for more than 4 hours, you should seek medical attention'. Isn't that the whole point?! Mind you, four hours.... four minutes would be good...

Here endeth etc…. but not the bulge…

Thank You, Mr. Scargill

2007-02-12T23:43:00.000-05:00

Back in “The Good Old Days”, the UK was essentially ruled not by the Government, but by a band of extreme left-wing trade unions. By January 1974, the coal mining strike led by one Arthur Scargill (who used hairspray to keep his comb-over in place) of the National Union of Mineworkers had meant that, as coal supplies dwindled, the UK Government had to impose a three day week on businesses, whereby they could only work for three days a week, unless they could work without electricity. The Conservative Government of the day decided to go to the country in March 1974, where they lost the Election. The new Labour Government granted Scargill virtually his every wish, including a 35% increase in wages for miners. The price of coal went up 22% as a result. It was another 10 years before Scargill tried his luck again against Mrs. Thatcher, who had seen off the Labour Party in 1979, and Scargill was seething with anger over that situation. By now, the British public realized that Scargill was dangerous as he had his own political agenda – he made Hoffa seem like a nice guy. Many of his own union members turned their backs on him. The Coal Board (funded by the taxpayer) management was able to introduce ‘reforms’ which meant that unprofitable coal mines were closed. From about 170 mines in 1984, there are today a mere 20 or so.

I digress, and I’m sure that, Dear Reader, you are on the edge of your seat as to why the title of this tome. During the period of the Three Day Week, I was employed in the IT Department of a major UK bank. It had about 3,400 branches. A group of about six of us was charged with finding a solution to the bank’s need to service customers’ accounts. It was obvious that getting power to our computer center was going to be a problem. We looked at buying vast numbers of oil tankers/trucks which could power back-up generators, but this proved impractical – we were in the middle of the City of London, and the computers occupied three floors of the 30 storey building – 24th to 26th. We did in fact buy a tanker, but it sank into some mud at the place we kept it. Insufficient planning I guess.

We decided to examine the bank’s profits. It turned out that 85% of the bank’s profits came from a mere 15 branches. It was decided that we would service the computer/accounting needs of those branches, and let the rest fend for themselves during the ‘dark’ days. This system worked well for the duration of the Three Day Week. We would power the computers only for a few hours each day, which meant we had enough to keep those branches going.

Now, as an extension of this exercise, our group was charged to find out why the remaining 3,385 branches or so were not contributing as much to the profits – I felt that this was outside our bailiwick as IT guys, but I was over-ruled. This erstwhile group was sent into the wilds of Oxfordshire, and we spent our days in an 18th century country house which belonged to the bank. This country house had about 30 bedrooms, but we were the sole occupants. Each evening, after a sumptuous dinner where they even served a choice for the cheese course – about 10 - we would sneak out to the local village pub to play darts with the locals. Sadly, we always lost.

I digress again. Many branches were contributing to the bank’s profits, but on a much smaller scale. After much scratching of heads and research, we were able to determine that the actual cost of processing a single cheque (check) was about £1 ($2). And this back in 1974 when the average cheque was about £5. Cheques were the norm in those days. All bills were paid by cheque, whether it be grocery bill, or utility bill.

The motley crew of six were set a target – how can modern IT help this situation. We had meetings with other banks, and we eventually agreed on the standard for the magnetic stripe on the back of bank cards – still used to this day. The rest is history as they say.

The Internet has meant that I haven’t issued a check since May last year. And that was only for the Internal Revenue Service (IRS) here in the US. They can’t take online payments. I suspect that if they could, they could cut their staff numbers dramatically, but I fear that would be politically incorrect to do so.

I understand from people I know at one of the US’ largest bank that the cost of an electronic card transaction is under 2 cents (1 penny) these days, but there is no available cost for a check transaction. I still cringe when I see someone at the checkout desk of the local supermarket get a check/cheque out. They delay the line, but must cost the banks a fortune in processing fees. But I suspect they enjoy the two day grace period they get before the check is presented to the customer’s bank.

Thank you Mr. Scargill. Without you, I suspect none of this would have happened for several more years.

Here endeth today’s lesson.

The End of the Floppies

2007-01-31T00:18:00.000-05:00

No, to those with a mind that might need a good dose of carbolic, this has nothing to do with Viagra. Let’s get that out of the way.

It seems that a major chain store has announced they will no longer sell the 3.5 inch floppy. This odd name came about after the original was 8 inches, and then scaled down to 5.25 inches. And that was a floppy. It moved/flopped. The 3.5 never ‘flopped’. But it had the then ‘massive’ capacity of 1.44 MB of data. Wow! Today I can buy a 4 GB memory stick for about $120.

The death of the floppy has been foreseen for some time. I believe that Dell stopped installing them in 2003. I know my system doesn’t have one. And I have a 150 page document I want to get at, which I created in 1995 stored on one. I took it to my friend Bob, and his PC could not read it! I guess I can kiss good-bye to that. Mind you, my son might be able to retrieve the data when I’m next in The Old World. Hint, hint, Rik. It’s the start of a mystery novel I wrote years ago based in N Wales – the story, not me. The main mystery is I can’t remember what happened.

Why am I musing about the floppy then? Well, the so-called father of the disk drive, Alan Shugart passed away last month. He was a major force in IBM’s first disk drive offering back in 1956. He went on to be involved in successful companies, including Seagate which is a $10bn corporation with 60,000 employees. It was named Company of the Year in 2006 by Forbes magazine. He is credited in many circles with creating the 3.5 inch floppy. Or at least the environment for it.

R.I.P. Alan, and thank you for your contribution to the world.

Here endeth today's lesoon.

If I was a Soldier, but then Again….

2007-01-20T16:05:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine mentioned that a colleague’s wife was from Sweden. Turns out she was much more civilized/normal – she came from Finland where the terrain is similar, but they know how to have fun! At the risk of incurring the wrath of the Swedes, let’s not mince words here – they are the most boring, arrogant and rude people in the world. This reminded me of today’s lesson.

Back in the 1980s, in the midst of a very unpleasant divorce, I was thankfully transferred by my company to their office in Stockholm, Sweden. I readily agreed to this to get away from my eventual ex. The Swedes are a strange lot. Very democratic. After their King died many moons back, they held an election to choose a new one. They chose a Frenchman who had been on Napoleon’s death list.

Back to the plot. You cannot do anything without having a ‘personnummer’ – a personal number. It’s like the Social Security number here in the US. I was not even allowed to open a bank account until this had arrived. This involved many hours of standing in line waiting to speak to someone in the relevant department. It appears that some 56% of Swedes work for the Government. Inevitably, there are lots of Departments. In my day, after greeting them in my best English, I was usually greeted with, “Jag kan inte tala Engelska.” It’s like being in Miami and being greeted at the hotel Reception Desk with, “No hablo inglés.” I’m sure you get the drift.

It took over a week to sort this situation out. I was interviewed, asked why was it necessary to bring a foreigner in etc but was finally granted my Personnummer. Yipee!

A couple of weeks later, I received a letter which had ‘officialdom’ written all over it. I opened it with trepidation, only to discover that it was in Swedish. I took it to my boss, who read it, and started laughing loudly – a rare sight in Sweden when a Swede laughs. It seems that I had never done my 12 months statutory military service in Sweden – a requirement for all able-bodied men from the age of 18 onwards. Thus, the letter advised me to report to the military office in Stockholm to receive my instructions where I was to perform my duty for the country. The boss made many attempts to explain to the authorities that I should not be required to perform this 12 month duty, but after a few days of arguing, I was on a 16 hour train journey, on my way to a military training camp in Jokkmokk, which is a few miles north of the Arctic Circle. In December. There are no daylight hours in Jokkmokk in December or January. But there’s cold and snow.

I was kitted out in my uniform, and pushed out with many spotty youths onto the campground in minus weather at 6 a.m. (When it’s that cold, the temperature gets to minus whether you choose F or C.) I was screamed at by an officer in a language that I did not understand. I explained in a very calm voice to this officer, “I have no idea what the heck you are talking about, and please can I go back to my warm bunk.” Sign language became the norm for me, although a guy who befriended me (had pity on me) called Kjell (pronounced shell as one finds on the beach) was eventually allowed to translate for my benefit. Kjell and his family had emigrated to Tennessee when he was two years old, but returned when he was 14. His English accent was wonderful! It seems the officer expected me to climb a 15 foot rope ladder over a large fence, and drop down the other side. A word that I quickly learnt in Swedish was ‘nej’ (the ‘j’ is silent). No. I was arrested for insubordination, and put into military jail. At least it was warm there. I was interviewed by the camp commander who thankfully spoke English. He said that it seemed obvious that there had been a mistake – probably a computer error. Immigrants did not have to do the 12 months military service, but his hands were tied. I was allocated to cleaning the toilets. After a few hours of this task, the word nej came back. I was then allocated to kitchen duties. Peeling potatoes was a relief after my toilet duties. But after another day of this activity, I said nej again. I spent several days in solitary, but as I couldn’t speak to anyone except Kjell, this was not a problem. The camp commander called me after about a week, and informed me that I was being given the equivalent of an honorable discharge as there had indeed been a computer error. Train ticket. 16 hours, back to Stockholm.

When I hit 65 which will happen (way too) soon, I will receive a pension from Sweden. It’ll amount to the princely sum of about 29 cents a week. I will receive it with glee, despite the fact that it’ll cost them much more than that to send it to me.

I lived in Sweden for three years. Apart from the countryside, they have very little going for them in my book. Perhaps I’m biased. My legacy is that I can speak the language. If you can speak and read Swedish, you can read Danish and Norwegian. The folks from there are in a different (good) league!

Here endeth today’s lesson.

Andy Walks With Me

2007-01-01T23:54:00.000-05:00

This little tidbit of information came to me over the Season, which purportedly relates to a child telling the Minister that he knows God’s first name – Andy. He quoted from the Austin Miles hymn “In the Garden”, where in the refrain the words are:

And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own;
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.

The child believed the words to be Andy walked with me etc. A typical mondegreen – a result of mishearing or misinterpreting words. Something with my slowly failing hearing I find happens all the time (my children call this selective hearing – I disagree!)

There is a famous mondegreen attributed to the British Army during WW1. Communications was difficult to say the least, but a platoon was about to launch an attack. A message was passed to the General that said, “Send reinforcements, we’re going to advance.” By the time the General got the message, it had become, “Send 3/4d (three and fourpence), we’re going to a dance.” Seems the platoon never got their reinforcements. (Another lesson in history here – 3/4d. Three shillings and fourpence. Prior to the UK government deciding to totally confuse people by changing real money to ‘decimal’, in today’s money, that would be about 17 pence (34 cents in US).

Another fine example is, “I led the pigeons to the flag,” instead of, “I pledge allegiance to the flag.”

Anyone know any other mondegreens?

Here’s wishing all you thousands of readers out there, a Happy New Year.

Here endeth today's lesson.

Childhood Christmas

2006-12-22T00:59:00.000-05:00

My life in the late 1940s and 50s was dominated by all things ‘Chapel’ – my father being the local Minister. As a child, the magic of Christmas was paramount to me. Christmas was consumed with endless ‘practices’ at the Chapel’s Vestry for the annual display of children who could not sing, playing and singing Angels and Three Wise Men. My parents had high hopes for me as a boy soprano. I was always one of the Three Wise Men. I must admit, coyly, I was good. But in musical terms, I was never in the class of my sisters. My downfall. Tom Jones I never was.

My memories of the annual display reminds me, that unfortunately, Baby Jesus was always a rather scruffy doll in a box of hay. But the congregation enjoyed our efforts.

This brings me to ‘three days before Christmas’. The Welsh language is rich in its ability to have words that are not present in the English language. The English have the words ‘today’ and ‘tomorrow’. The Welsh have a word for ‘today’, ‘tomorrow’, the day after ‘tomorrow’, and the day after that too!

So as a child, December 22nd was vital, because it was the day that I could use the words “dradwy mi fydd hi’n ddiwrnod Nadolig” – it will be Christmas in three days’ time! Somehow, this brought the event closer. I recall that as a four-year old, my mother found me in bed during the afternoon. To a child a ‘day’ constituted being in bed for some time, so I worked out that if I slept, Christmas Day would become sooner. There was logic in my brain even in those days.

One of my memories of these happy times was that on this day - three days before Christmas Day - it would be the annual pilgrimage to the local chemist shop (pharmacy). Mr. Griffiths (the pharmacist) was also a member of the chapel. His shop was a latter day version of Walgreens, but on a much smaller scale. Not only would he dispense medicinal compounds that would cure anything from coughs to a bee sting, his emporium had fragrances that would have little boys thinking they were in heaven with 30 vestal virgins - whatever they were.

I would first go in with my mother to buy a present for my father - usually a handkerchief - and then return to the Austin Seven for my father to escort me to buy a present for my mother. All in the strictest of secret, you understand. I remember well that I had saved my pennies all year for the event, and split my meager savings between both. The gift for my mother was always beyond my means, but Mr. Griffiths would always be able to get me a wonderful gift. I suspect that my father had almost always doubled (and more) my savings to buy a suitable gift for my mother.

The result was always wonderful. My mother and father were so surprised on Christmas Day when they opened their gifts - they were the best gifts they’d ever received.

So, Dear Readers, “dradwy mi fydd hi’n ddiwrnod Nadolig”.

Here endeth today’s lesson.

If I Was A Mechanic, But Then Again….

2006-12-11T00:43:00.000-05:00

During another ‘Really Intelligent Serious Conversations’ with my son Rik, and his subsequent account of the purchase of his newly acquired Volvo, I pondered a little. Why is this lad so keen to buy an old car and do work on it? Well, Dear Reader, it is because in my youth, I was exactly the same, and monetary reasons also dictated such things. Trying to drag up two children in Sarf London was expensive! I suspect that this activity became de rigeur in Rik's young mind, and continues to this day. The word 'tinkering' comes to mind.

We lived in a pleasant house at the end of a cul-de-sac. That’s a posh term for a dead-end street. We even had a patch of lawn (posh term for weeds) outside the front, which was actually the ‘dead-end’ of the street. Outside our house, there was often a motley crew of vehicles belonging to the Hughes household. Most were two-tone in color – whatever Mr. Ford or Mr. Austin had originally chosen, and rust, the latter being quite prevalent. The road took on a wonderful hue when it rained. That'll happen when it rains on leaking oil. The vehicles of the 60s had a knack of doing this. I was also in the habit of assisting other neighbors with their cars, who, for monetary reasons would resort to using The Aled Hughes Guide To Fixing Cars. A very thin book, you understand. This all added to the desolate look outside the house.

One day, after the failure of a rather snazzy (but flawed) Triumph 2000, I had purchased a French car (I know I should have been shot!) complete with white flag. It was a Simca, later taken over by the Chrysler Corporation – the company, not the car. This was an Estate Car (Wagon over here). It had such a small engine that it took about 30 seconds to get to 60 mph. The driver’s floor was always wet, and upon examination, there was a hole big enough to escape through and perhaps wave the white flag. However, duct tape, and a piece of ply-wood saved the day. Some carpeting was put over it so that the annual road test would not give the game away. Silly me. It failed miserably. But it kept my feet dry.

A brief digression here, the UK is obsessed with testing cars annually (after the age of three – the car, not the driver) for road-worthiness and one of the major causes of failure used to be rust. Now in a country which has more rain than Noah ever had to cope with, who in their right mind would declare that rust is not going to pounce upon your hard-earned treasure! To add insult to injury, salt is freely sprinkled onto roads upon the mere mention of snow or ice coming - usually in August.

Back to the plot. After a serious welding job, and many ££, the Simca was back in action. Unfortunately, while driving home one evening, I smelled smoke. The car was actually on fire in the engine department. I was able to coast home, and then to extinguish it with some ingenuity – my jacket. The white flag remained intact though. For the princely sum of £50 (about $100 in real money), I was able to purchase another Simca, albeit a saloon. Unfortunately, the rear axle of the saloon was shot, but the other one was fine. What could be simpler, I thought? Exchange the dead axle with the one from the burnt car. This is where DIY and the Hughes family meet. And this is where I learnt the word 'oxymoronic'. DIY and Hughes.....

With Rik’s (enforced) help, I was able to place about four jacks under the original car. One of these was a bottle-jack, where pressure keeps it working - it's a mechanical thing, where E=MC to the power of two or something like that. I’ll never forget the hiss from that thing – worse than a snake. Every few minutes required another pumping. The axle was removed. There were mutterings from neighbors about how was I going to get rid of the original car. There’s always someone willing to complain isn’t there. The jacks were used for the ‘new’ car. This is where problems started. The road that the car was on was not exactly flat, and while I was under the car, the snake decided to give up, and the other three joined in sympathy. Rik spotted this situation first, and screamed at me to get out as the car fell to its doom. I’ve never moved so fast in my life. Rik was very obviously concerned for my safety and welfare. It took him 10 minutes to stop laughing.

The upshot of all this was that both cars were towed to the graveyard to rot away in peace. At the same time, an MG Midget and a Ford Capri were also removed, closely followed by a Renault 16 and a rusting caravan. Much to the relief of the neighbors, I might add. I acquired a little Austin which was fine for my needs. This was soon traded for another Renault, which my dear wife crashed - twice. But that’s another tale of woe. Both wife and car.

Here endeth today’s lesson.

The Worst Polluter In The World

2006-12-04T23:04:00.000-05:00

Sometime, my son and I have Really Intelligent Serious Conversations. During a call today on Skype to divulge the news that he’s bought a new Volvo (new to him that is), we started discussing pollution. He came up with a snippet about pollution. After much research, a ham sandwich and a cold beer, here's something which I felt you, Dear Readers, would be dying to know about.

If you were asked who was the worst ever polluter in the world, some would no doubt mention one of the US Presidents for the country’s record on pollution. Or Rudolf Diesel who invented the dreaded diesel engine. But you would be wrong.

This accolade must surely be awarded to Thomas Midgley Jr. The historian J.R. McNeill commented that Midgley “had more impact on the atmosphere than any other single organism in earth’s history.” Praise indeed. Although born in Pennsylvania in 1889, Midgley grew up in Ohio. After graduation from Cornell University, he ended up working at the Dayton Research Laboratories (part of General Motors). In December of 1921, Midgley discovered that the addition of tetra-ethyl lead (TEL or Lead to us mere mortals) to gasoline prevented internal combustion engines from "knocking" or “pinking” as it’s known in other parts of the world. The company called the substance "Ethyl", avoiding all mention of lead in reports and advertising. Oil companies and car makers, especially GM which owned the patent, strenuously promoted leaded fuel as an alternative to ethanol or ethanol-blended fuels, on which they could make very little profit. (Remember, Dear Reader, this was in the 1920s. With all the chatter in the media about hydrogen and electric cars of the future, do you think the oil companies and car makers are going to change their 80 year old habits?)

The addition of lead to gasoline eventually resulted in the release of huge amounts of lead into the atmosphere, causing health problems around the world. Midgley himself had to take a prolonged break to cure him of lead poisoning!

When he returned to Ohio, GM asked Midgley in 1930 to develop a non-toxic and safe refrigerant for household appliances. He discovered dichlorodifluoromethane, a chlorinated fluorocarbon (CFC) which he called Freon. CFCs replaced the various toxic or explosive substances previously used as the working fluid in heat pumps and refrigerators. CFCs were also used as propellants in aerosol spray cans, and metered dose inhalers (asthma inhalers). I suspect that anyone inhaling CFCs would have had asthma as a result!

In 1940, he contracted polio which left him severely disabled. This led him to devise an elaborate system of strings and pulleys to lift him from bed. This system was the eventual cause of his death when he was accidentally entangled in the ropes of this device and died of strangulation in 1944 at the age of 55. The same year D.D.T. was invented.

His inventions have caused more pollution than any other, but he died before anyone knew of it. I guess hindsight is 20/20 vision.

Here endeth today’s grave lesson.

If I Was A Carpenter, But Then Again….

2006-11-24T00:29:00.000-05:00

During a moment of madness, perhaps called a ‘senior moment’, I decided to add a shelf in my bedroom. ‘The’ bedroom in this erstwhile establishment, you understand. The following day, I asked my dear son-in-law if he had any discarded pieces of wood that would be suitable. He did indeed, and after assembling his wonderful electric saw, I ended up with my 33 inch shelf, with fingers intact. In faux wood exterior, chip board interior – the shelf, not my fingers. It also required a small one inch wide piece of wood to bolster one bracket. Doug also managed to provide that. On Monday morning, I visited four stores before I found the right size brackets. I returned home all excited. Unfortunately, one of the needs when putting up a shelf with brackets attached is screws. So, I re-fired up the trusty steed, and took off to buy screws. Another senior moment. I’d forgotten that there is a Home Depot about 3 miles away. I hunted high and low for screws, and found some in Walgreens. Returned home. I discovered that all the screws were the wrong type. All of them had heads that were not big enough to ‘hold’ the bracket. Should have bought a few politicians if I wanted big heads.

I remembered Home Depot, and the trusty steed was fired up yet again. For those who do not know this wonderful place, it is a massive area with every conceivable ‘thing’ that you could ever need for ‘home improvement’. It also permanently echoes to the sound of incessant ‘beep-beep’ of electric trucks being driven backwards. I have no idea why this is, but the staff takes great pride in annoying me with this noise. I blame Ralph Nader – he was the one who introduced this idea, so that trucks can be heard reversing in California from Florida.

I digress, so back to the plot. I needed six half-inch screws, and four one inch screws. During my deliberations, a rather rude young man demanded to know where hinges were kept. My obvious reply did not amuse him. The idiot actually thought I worked for the store. How he worked that out is beyond me, but I strongly believe that his parents should have been restrained in the bedroom department.

I ended up buying six one inch screws – the lowest number they sell in a package, and 12 half-inch screws. All in nice sealed little plastic bags. After waiting in line for a while (called queuing in some countries), I presented my screws to the check-out lady. “$685.43” she said. “For 18 screws?” I retorted, immediately regretting my unintentional innuendo. Seems that there was a numbering error in the bar-code. I was actually on the brink of buying a two-speed mower! Wow! Unfortunately, the only ‘cure’ for this mistake was for me to buy the mower, and then take the receipt back to Returns for a refund. I would then be allowed through the check-out to buy the screws, but hopefully not the mower. Did I wish to pay cash, check or credit card, inquired the check-out lady. I commented on the farcical situation, while enduring wild stares from other home improvement aspirants standing in line behind me. A manager was called. He assured me that it was vital that I paid for the said mower, and then I’d be given the refund; it was a ‘computer error’. I tried (in vain) to explain that computers do not make errors, only humans who used them. The alternative was for me to leave the store.

I did, and went to Lowe’s. Another emporium of home improvement gizmos. The only difference in the end result was that I did not have to purchase and refund a mower. They also have the stupid beep-beeps, and in addition, Christmas music…. Sorry, to be Politically Correct, ‘Holiday music’. All I can say is Bah humbug!

The shelf is now in place, and is a treat to the eyes. The moral of this story? Always plan before embarking of anything in the home improvement arena.

Here endeth today’s lesson.

Mercury

2006-11-16T03:10:00.000-05:00

Now being a proud owner of a Mercury Grand Marquis (which, as an aside, is a better trimmed Ford Crown Victoria, favored by Messrs. Plod in these here parts, but a lesser trimmed Lincoln Town Car favored by old codgers and pimps in Florida), I was worried to read that the oft-hated European Commission/Parliament has decided to ban Mercury. Picture the headline, dear readers, “Europe to Ban Mercury”. Shock, horror, because sometimes, on a very rare occasion, what happens over the Pond eventually happens here in the good ol’ US of A. I know that Joy would also be equally horrified.

However, upon reading the article, all was clarified. My Mercury is safe, as obviously is the planet of the same name. It seems that the European Parliament has given its backing to a directive banning old-fashioned mercury thermometers, of the sort that were lodged so uncomfortably under the tongue since time began, or at least since I was a child. I don't know whether they are still made or used in Europe. Over here when I had my last medical a few weeks back, something was pushed into my ear. Nurse assured me it wouldn’t hurt. She lied. That’s what nurses and dentists do. When my children had a temperature I would push one of those under their tongues for two minutes, with a promise that if they tried to remove it, it would be placed ‘where the sun don’t shine’. It usually worked.

I understand that mercury is dangerous - isn't that why the Mad Hatter was mad? But I also remember in the Chemistry Laboratory at school, breaking the top of a thermometer, and then holding it over a Bunsen Burner to get the mercury out. When cooled, I would roll some of the stuff round on my hand pushing it around with my finger and impressing girls. I remember both the girls and I being entranced by this magical liquid metal. To my knowledge, this has not affected my later years, but with Arthur creeping into my hands, I do have to wonder.

Now, dear readers, back to the Mad Hatter for a moment. I once read that Hatters really did go mad. The chemicals used in hat-making included mercurous nitrate, used in curing the felt used in the making of the hat. Apparently, prolonged exposure to the mercury vapors caused mercury poisoning (vapors? It has vapors? I never smelled anything). Victims working at poorly ventilated hat factories developed severe and uncontrollable muscular tremors and twitching limbs, called "hatter's shakes", hence the expression,”He was mad as a hatter”. Other symptoms included distorted vision and confused speech. I can sympathize and indeed display such symptoms until I’ve had my three mugs of caffeine each morning.

Here endeth today’s lesson – don’t mess with Mercury.

Modern Gizmos and Call Centers

2006-11-12T10:55:00.000-05:00

As I get older, I find that the so-called time-saving devices make life more difficult. A little while back, I found a cheap $60 VCR. I thought it would be nice if I could record some of my favorite programs when inevitably something happens that I can’t watch them. I opened the box with glee. There was even a remote control with it! Rather small, and difficult to see even when held at arm’s length which is where most readable matter seems to be held these days. It needed its own batteries. Return to store, and buy batteries. This did have the effect of taking a bit of the edge off the purchase. I then found out that I had to buy tapes, so another journey was required to buy three (can’t buy one) VHS tapes with which to record my programs. ‘Do not pass go, do not collect $200’ came to mind. Several hours later, the aforementioned glee had turned to total frustration. I called the store that sold me this thing, only to be told that, “Any 7-year old could operate it.”
“Well, as one was not supplied with the box, please give me some help,” I retorted. The box now gets a weekly dusting, but I have finally worked out what VCR stands for – Very Confusing Resource. I’m waiting for my grandson to visit so that he can install it. If he can’t, I’m sure Rik will be able to. I hope the DVDs will fit into it, but the opening does seem to be terribly large.

As a young adult living in South London in the 1970s, my family was one of the earliest to acquire a VCR. Having researched the matter, I realized that the best quality was the Betamax format. Rik installed it at the tender age of 6. This almost proved to be a prudent choice (Betamax). The quality was much better than VHS, but in later years, fewer and fewer movies were available in this format. The good news was that no one ever broke into the house to steal it – an almost de rigeur occurrence in South London.

I’ve just bought a new telephone. I have an old one, but it is the type which has a cable attached, so that it is not possible to walk around while talking. I also had a remote one, but the battery was past its sell-by date, and would have cost more than a replacement phone. The new one allows to me call people even if I’m in bed. It has ‘speed-dialing’. That’s covered on Page 287 of the Instruction Manual. Might be Page 237, but I can’t quite make out the small print. Being unable to install the device prompted me to phone the Call Center (on the cable attached phone). I spoke with Rodney in Mumbai over a very crackly line. Rodney explained the error of my ways. I managed to install the batteries. I mentioned the speed-dialing. Rodney had to put me on hold for a moment. When he returned, he explained that I was not using the diaper in the correct manner and spillage may occur. Seems that the call-center tripled up on telephones, diapers and a UK bank. ‘Sir, if you will please press the # key twice, key in your account number, and your new diapers will arrive next week.’

Here endeth today’s lesson.

Car Insurance

2006-11-09T02:39:00.000-05:00

Dear Readers

I sometimes watch TV and occasionally with some regret, I fail to hit the mute button when the commercials come on. In the US, these come on with alarming regularity, and typically spoil my enjoyment of any program, which to my dismay is why I rarely watch TV. The majority of commercials also seem to be aimed at imbeciles. Be that may, yesterday, I watched a very moving program about some animals that had been mistreated, and the wonderful work of the SPCA in helping them. During a break, a commercial came on for AIG (American International Group, Inc.) which highlighted their car insurance scheme. A must have obviously, as the people on the commercial had perfect teeth and no wrinkles – none that were showing anyway, except for the teeth. It seems that a few minutes would solve all my problems and save me up to gazillions of $.

To set the scene. I have been with GEICO for the last 6 years, and pay a smidgen under $400 every 6 months. My car is basically not worth anything if it was wrecked, but I pity the other sod that would crash into it. It is a Mercury (hang in there Joy – not a Mystery or a Miserable) Grand Marquis which answers to the name of Hercules. As previous readers of this un-missable blog might recall, this has a wonderful 4.6 liter V8 with a Single Overhead Cam no less - I'm not sure if it has a 1.8 Ghz or a 2.4 Ghz clock, but I'm told that if one is expected to be technically oriented, one has to at least have the buzz-words. At least my gas pedal is digital. "On" means 'yeah, baby', "off" means sitting at a set of lights watching the fuel gauge go East. However, I digress, but as I discovered yesterday during a downpour, he has a severe disliking to being driven in the rain. The word “WON’T” was constantly belched from under the hood. He was coaxed home on threats, and promises of more oil. (He’s prone to leaking it on my driveway.)

Back to the plot, dear readers. Today, I went online to get a quote from AIG for this worthy steed. In the US there are many questions about the coverage one needs, but after about 10 minutes, I was quoted $671 for 6 months. By my basic arithmetic skills, this is about 70% more than I currently pay. Now, by dint of technology, one can get AIG to call you to discuss said quote. After 4 transfers, I spoke to Matthew. I do believe that my understanding of English is quite good, but Matthew’s grasp left me repeatedly going, “Excuse me?” I began to wonder if Mark, Luke and John were about to follow. After discussing my concerns, he revised the quote to $490. This included a veritable recovery service. However, all my quotes were for less liability. He was surprised when I declined his generous offer. He reminded me that this included the towing service (available from AAA for $60 a year). Arithmetic seems to be amiss in some people’s minds… When I was a child (yes, once), the three Rs were important. Reading, Righting and Rithmetic.

So the little Gecko will continue to get my support. I then went out and bought half a gallon of oil. Hercules gulped down the oil with gusto. He’s now behaving well. Man over machine.

And the moral of the story is? Don’t watch/listen to commercials on TV. And keep your cars well oiled.

Here endeth today’s lesson.

Rain and Other Matters

2006-10-28T00:17:00.000-05:00

Dear Diary

Euphemisms. In English, it is, ‘raining cats and dogs’. In Welsh it is, ‘raining old ladies and sticks’. Please don’t ask me why. I believe that the English expression comes from the 15th Century where cats and dogs used to live ‘upstairs’, and sometime the roof would fall in when it rained. Or something like that. I have no idea where the Welsh one comes from.

Harrumph. It is 1:30 a.m. It is raining old women and sticks. I am expected by a neighbor to be ready by 6 a.m. to stick things in the ground to hold tables which can take bric-a-brac (it’s called a garage sale over here). There is another expression for bric-a-brac - crap.... I told her earlier it will rain until mid-morning. She's now concerned that at her friend's house where this garage sale will take place, the friend's ex-husband will come along and remove some items of furniture. Another altercation looms.

Let me explain. Earlier, I had a ‘discussion’ with a Canadian Greek. He has taken to parking his extremely loud diesel truck next door, where the place is empty. Not only that, the idiot started it up remotely today to ‘warm it up’. Diesel fumes and my lungs don’t go together. If I was President for one day, I would ban diesel from this planet! He said he was about to leave, that’s why he started it (about 15 minutes before he was ready). Why can’t he wait until he’s sitting in it like any other normal human being? The smell in my place was awful. I certainly lived up to my reputation as a Grumpy Old Man in these here parts.

Back to the rain. It has kept me awake for ages - not the rain itself but the constant dripping of the rain on disused drain-pipes outside in my back yard. Whenever Bob the Yard Man comes, he moves said pipes, and the rain drips loudly onto them. Not regular either.... I've told him countless time to leave them alone, but he will move them. In fact they are not even on any grassy bits - there aren't any out the back! I've been out twice, with a rather wonky (technical term) umbrella, the first time (my knickers got wet), and second time with a 'Dave' Cameron special hoodie outfit (my knickers got even wetter). I think I've cured the problem now. Not the old ladies and sticks you understand.... I hope it rains for hours. I really detest the idea of running a garage sale... My neighbor thinks that I'm a great salesman (another word for liar).

I received an email from a friend about a web site which causes some concern.
http://www.zabasearch.com/
Just key in a name, and if necessary a State, and all will be revealed. I entered my name. I really thought I was the only Aled in the US.

Earlier, a friend and I discussed the number of relatives that I have according to this web site - all apparently living with me. He is kinda jealous of the number of women, but we're not too sure about India. Here are their names:
MICHELLE H HUGHES LOREN HUGHES LISA C HUGHES JOELLE MARTINE HUGHES INDIA HUGHES DENISE A HUGHES
TIMOTHY J HUGHES

No wonder I can’t sleep.

Here endeth today’s lesson.

A Glimpse of Childhood Past

2006-10-24T22:56:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time, I was a child. Yes, I know, dear reader, this might be hard to understand and perceive. Having been born in the wilds of Wales, I found learning the English language to be very difficult. My mother decided that maybe I should read some of Enid Blyton’s excellent Secret Seven or Famous Five books. Unfortunately, these books merely confused me more. She would write, “Where are you?” she cried. I could not understand why ‘she’ was crying! As I seemed to spend many childhood days in a sick-bed, my Mother decided to try me with Enid Blyton’s Noddy Books. These books gave me a new grasp at learning English. I seem to recall that Noddy performed a great service to the village by getting rid of the bad Golliwogs, and was rewarded with a red and yellow car. Ostensibly, he offered a taxi service.

He used to drive his car, constantly using the horn “Parp, parp”. His best friend was Big Ears – no, not Prince Charles. Big Ears was a wise, bearded brownie who lived in a toadstool house at the edge of the woods, and rode a red bicycle. Big Ears was very clever – I suspect he still is, thus making him completely unlike Prince Charles. Sometimes, Noddy and Big Ears would ride together in the car. They would drive to Big Ears’ house, and have a spot of supper. As it was often late, Noddy would sleep in Big Ears’ house, sharing the same bed. (More in a moment.)

Another of Noddy’s friends was Mr. Plod, the local policeman – officially Police Constable (P.C. Plod). To this day, the word “plod” is a (somewhat derogatory) term for a Policeman in the UK.

These delightful books (with drawings) appeared from 1949 onwards, and are prized possessions today. I have no idea what happened to my collection, but I know that I acquired many of them until Book 13. I believe that several attempts have been made at making a TV series, but the Golliwogs have gone – the concept was considered racist. Dolls with black faces that were always naughty is a definitely a no-no in today’s world.

An eminent Professor/Expert/Psychologist suggested that children should not read these books as the relationship between Big Ears and Noddy was obviously a gay one. My comment (apart from the fact that Professors/Experts et al are more often than not, just plain idiots) is that when the delightful Miss Blyton wrote these books, the word gay meant a happy, joyous situation. Indeed, the use of the word in its modern sense did not appear until well after her death.

Why do people try to take away/sour our childhood memories? Answers on a postcard. please.

Here endeth today's lesson.

Sunday, a Day of Rest

2006-10-23T07:53:00.000-05:00

The Revised Good Book says in Chapter 2, Verse 2 of Genesis that "on the seventh day, God ended his work which he had made; and he rested on the seventh day from all his work which he had made." Perhaps not the most eloquent of prose, but I'm sure the gist is there. I could quote the original in Welsh, Chapter and Verse, but as anyone reading this is unlikely to be able to follow it without suggesting that “Can I buy a vowel?” I will desist. Today being a Sunday has left me exhausted. It might be a Day of Rest for the Masses, but for the religion of 'Sport' it has been a busy day. First of all, as my daughter is an avid Arsenal fan - a soccer team in London, England where 90% of the players are not from said land - it was necessary to follow the fortunes of today's game against Reading. This is a town that I'm familiar with, having lived there for a while, and where Rik, my son, also enjoyed the twilight of his teenage years. He also had his first legal ‘pint’ with his Dad at a pub which I have unfortunately forgotten the name of. I do remember the Landlady though – her name was Joy. She certainly was. Her husband was a retired boxing referee, and decided in his mid 60s to abscond with Joy’s jewelry to live with a young man of 28. Anyway, I’ve digressed enough. The result of this game was that Arsenal beat Reading by 4 goals to nil. The game was televised live here in the US. Unfortunately (aka spelt thankfully), my cable provider wasn’t able to show me said game, and I had to resort to regular updates by the BBC on their web site. In the meantime, the final race of the Formula 1 Grand Prix season loomed from Brazil. Alonso, last year’s champion was leading the points table, but if Schumacher could finish first, and Alonso not score a point, Schumacher would become the World Champion. Schumacher has a history of being in similar situations in the past, and has been known to foil the race chances of others by dastardly deeds. The race was not televised in the US (well, nowhere that I could find on my remote thingy anyway). The race started at 1 p.m. (13:00 to our Over-The-Pond readers). Unfortunately, this coincided with the start of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers’ football match against the Philadelphia Eagles. This match was shown ‘live’ by Fox TV. The Formula 1 was given a running commentary by the BBC on their web site, until lap 58 of 71 when for some reason known only to them, they ignored the rest of the race. I must have walked many miles between my TV for the game, and the race on my PC. I finally learnt that the race was over, with Alonso becoming the World Champion. I was glad. I never liked Schumacher – he may be a great racing driver, but on a scale of 1 to 10, he scores an -11 as a cheat. He also scores a minus 11 in the sense of humor stakes. It has been frequently said that the Germans have no sense of humor. This is blatantly not true, but he epitomizes the myth. So, two good results so far. I was now able to relax to watch the remainder of the game. At one time, the Bucs were 17 – 0 up, but eventually ended up 20 – 14 up, with less than 2 minutes left to play. The Eagles scored. 21- 20 to the Eagles. With 4 seconds of the game remaining, the Bucs had a chance at a field goal (value 3 points). This was a 62 yard kick – the record is 63 yards. Even the Bucs’ Coach appeared to have given up. But the kicker made it, and the Bucs won 23 – 21. The atmosphere in the Tampa Bay area was electric! You could hear the roars outside. As an aside, the temperature at the Stadium was about 103. Many of the Eagles’ players were seen taking oxygen. We love our ‘cool fall days’ here in the Bay Area. I’m not sure how many more of these Days of Rest I can take! Three good results? Now if only I could win the Lottery too…. Here endeth today’s lesson.

Positive Things About The Old Country

2006-10-17T00:04:00.000-05:00

In deference to my previous musings, I shall comment on one of the decent things about 'Blighty'. I've already mentioned pork pies and sausage rolls (not Tesco's abominations).

One of my most endearing memories is of my father's Morris Minor (license plate FJC 276). This car was originally owned by Miss Jennie Thomas, the author (with Mr. J.O. Williams) of the very popular children’s story of Wil Cwac Cwac (http://www.toonhound.com/wilcwac.htm). Miss Thomas taught me a lot about human beings and child behavior, as she ran the local Sunday School in my father’s chapel. Mr. Williams and Miss Thomas are still revered in Welsh literary circles, and quite rightly so.

Not to digress too much, my father’s Morris was a 1957 two door, with a front seat that folded twice to allow access to the rear. This ensured that ladies with a desire for modesty were somewhat deluded, but a sneaked view of a stocking top was guaranteed – this was a major plus for a spotty 17 year-old youth. (Peterkins would have been proud of me.)

The Morris was a great car. It delivered me and my friend John Ffrancon to the wilds of Scotland on eight gallons of petrol (gas), half a gallon of oil, and about half a gallon of ale. We spent many happy days fishing in the Lochs, and looking at young women coming out of the kirk in such erstwhile places as Oban. The Morris failed in its attempt to lure the Loch Ness Monster out of its hiding place though.

Here in the US, these cars were not sold in vast numbers - not the USA's fault, but the result of some internal shenanigans within the UK.

There were many versions of the car – a 2 door, a 4 door, a Traveller which was essentially a small wagon (Estate Car), complete with wooden trimmings, and the convertible. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morris_Minor)

Which brings to me back to the plot. I recently witnessed a lady, not in her youth, driving one of these cars here in Florida. She had a convertible, and the top was down. The steering wheel was on the left as well. I have made enquiries of Mr. Charles Ware of Bath – an expert on Moggies (as they are affectionally known in the UK), who assures me that he can provide me with a convertible, fully restored, left hand drive version for a modest sum. (I will win the lottery one of these days.)

On the other hand, I saw one of these cars with a Range Rover (Buick) V8 installed at a car rally outside Orlando, Florida. Not nice in my view. The Moggy, not Orlando. On second thoughts, Orlando too. Said car rally is best saved for 50s American cars. If only they still made them…… A ’59 Cadillac convertible and a ’56 Thunderbird still reign supreme.

Here endeth today’s lesson.

What Have They Done To The Old Country?

2006-10-05T23:35:00.000-05:00

Now, a visit to the Old Country always causes me some concern. Not least of which is what the heck have they done to coins? Not content with getting rid of sixpences, shillings, two bobs and half-crowns, a coin that was once 5 pence in ‘new’ money (the old shilling) has now been replaced with a thing that is half the size. The old 2 shilling coin (the ‘new’ ten pence piece) is now the same size as the old 5 pence piece. Confused? I was. It seems that all coins are made smaller these days. Perhaps this reflects the true value of the coins, and also makes it difficult for old people with arthritis to pick up the coins. They haven’t changed the size of the one pound coin, which if sufficient numbers are filled into an old sock, makes a very useful weapon when swung to repel yobs, of which there seems to be millions of them. Crime seems to be out of control. We hear almost daily of a kid stealing a car, and killing a pedestrian or another driver. And all they get is a couple of years in jail. After all, the poor things have rights, but the victims seem not to.

Another concern is manners. For example, in the US, when you go to the check-out at a supermarket, you are greeted with politeness and a ‘How are you’. What do you get in the UK? Not even a grunt. I tried hard to be nice, but was almost arrested for accosting a young check-out lady. All I did was greet her in a civil manner. Standing at one bar waiting to be served was an experience to be missed. The bartender came up, looked at me, and moved his head backwards in a rapid movement. I later found out that this was not an affliction, but a form of sign language which means, ‘What do you want to drink?’ At the pub, I merely echoed this head movement, until eventually the bartender spoke to me - he told me to leave.

Measurements et al. We are now informed that something is 20 meters tall and 40 centimeters wide. Temperature is given in Celsius, and weights are in grams. What all this means, I have no idea. I’m told that the UK is now part of Europe, so there is nothing to be done. So the country adopts the French way of doing things. I just hope we don’t learn the art of waving white flags. I’d still like to know who won the War.

Now for some interesting and positive stuff. I stayed in Birmingham (England, not Alabama), a city which is steeped in history, and a dialect which makes the S’thern US accent sound like the Queen’s English. A learned professor once said that regional accents would die out with the advent of TV. Never trust a learned professor or an expert. In Birmingham, one doesn’t ask for the restroom, one asks for the larpom. And you can go out of an evening and get ‘bosti fittle’ in a pub or a restaurant – good food. Safta means ‘this afternoon’. So a sentence uttered could be, ‘Safta, Ar bin gunnyarta get some bosti fittle after gunna to the larpom and put me stroids on.’

Every time I make a visit, I realize how much I miss two great things – pork pies and sausage rolls. I had two of each every day when I was there. Naturally, there is no cholesterol and no fat in them…. Yeah, right! With a dab of brown fruity sauce, there is nothing better. Unfortunately, several purveyors of these wonders have started adding the dreaded onion to them. Why in heck ruin the taste of good food? They’ll next add garlic!

One last comment on the state of the UK. The smell of diesel is everywhere. As is the clatter from the engines. I understand that diesels are supposed to be more economical, but the noise, black smoke and the smell are awful. I can’t imagine my old Morris 1000 making such pollution.

Here endeth today’s lesson.

No Pooh Sticks and Other Matters

2006-09-06T20:47:00.000-05:00

This is what my son has produced to show that there is no longer Pooh Sticks allowed in 100 Acre Wood. I have printed it, and it's in the window of my Grand Marquis (to those of a foreign bent, this is a Mercury - an up-market product by Ford). It has a stonking V8, and as I've mentioned before, will seat 8 comfortably as long as they are friendly and not married. Hercules (his name) has started the habit of turning on the Check Engine light regularly. This requires a quick shift to the N position, switch off, and then restart the car, and back to D. Problem solved. There are no strange sounds from the engine, so one has to assume all is well. It does need another dose of oil, as there is a leak.... maybe Hercules is Welsh! Leak... leek... oh, never mind... On my way home from being a scrubber this evening, I saw that monumental Big M sign that make small boys pee themselves - McDonalds! I really did fancy the chicken McNuggets. I've liked them since I first tasted them in Slough in 1984. For those who are too young to remember, Slough is a town west of London, and would be unforgettable if it were not for two things. First, Sir John Betjeman, a fine Poet Laureate, wrote a wonderful poem in 1937 about Slough: "Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough! It isn't fit for humans now, There isn't grass to graze a cow. Swarm over, Death!" Secondly, if one ventures on the notorious M4 from London westward, one cannot fail to be subjected to an awful smell. The Sewage Works in Slough hasn't for years. Back to the plot. McDonalds. I drove up to the place where you must place your order. A loud voice emits, making you wish that there was a restroom nearby, and fond memories of Slough waft about. Me, "I'd like half a dozen Chicken McNuggets please, and a medium sized plain fries." (I had hear that McDonalds will allow the customer to choose whether they have a gallon of salt on their fries or not these days.) Her, "We only do McNuggets in 6, 9 or twelve, Sir." Me, "So I can't have half a dozen?" Her, "No Sir, only 6, 9 or 12." Me, "I'll take six then". What worried me more than the educational standards over these here parts was that the lovely chicken cost $1.91, but the fries, which were made from a large spud cost $2. Imagine a poor chicken somewhere scratching a living, and he becomes half a dozen - sorry six McNuggets. And a spud sprouts a medium sized portion of fries. Here endeth today's lesson.

Pooh Sticks

2006-09-03T22:38:00.000-05:00

It appears that the present owner of 100 Acre Wood has decided that 80 year old (forever young) Winnie the Pooh will no longer be allowed to play Pooh Sticks in 100 Acre Wood. Nor will anyone else. Such a sad day. I recall a very pleasant afternoon in Strasbourg, France (Germany before the dreaded war) with Sonia - originally from Strasbourg, but by then living in Mannheim, Germany, and Juergen - originally from Germany, but from Los Angeles from the age of 3, also by then living in Mannheim. I suspect that Juergen never left the brain of that 3 year old child. This is not derogatory - I envy him.... He will be the subject in my Blog one of these days. A very gifted musician and one of the best mainframe engineers I ever knew. He could also drink beer. He and I worked together in said Mannheim and many other places across Europe. I love the guy to death! Back to the plot. Sonia, Juergen and I had enjoyed a very pleasant lunch on the banks of the Rhine in some hostelry that was at least a million years old. We decided to take a walk before going back to Sonia's parents house for a spot of supper. We came across an old wooden bridge of equal vintage to the lunchtime restaurant. I suggested we play Pooh Sticks. Neither Sonia nor Juergen had heard of Dear Old Winnie. In the best of British tradition, I set about fixing this lack of education – little wonder that Mainland Europe has so many problems. There was much mirth and jollification, such that parents allowed their children and dogs out to watch this event. Ever the brave, I invited a few of the kids to join in. Language to these kids was not a barrier (a rather ferocious French Poodle had to be dealt with, but then he waved his white flag), and my mixture of French and German propelled the children to learn the Art. I suspect that Le Pooh Sticks is still played in Strasbourg but I doubt if the kids even remember the name Aled The Pooh.
Some years later, in this wonderful land of the USA, I was working on a Y2K project in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. It was a weekend, and my colleague and I – a somewhat 'robust' lady called Darlene – decided to sample the countryside. I can recommend it. The countryside, not Darlene. We found an ancient village (by US standards). It was built in the 1920s to support a railway that never came. But they have a slow stream and a bridge. I introduced Darlene to Pooh Sticks. Initially, mothers and fathers came out to see what was going on, even had a Crown Vic looking on, but eventually, they allowed their children out. No French Poodles this time. I’m not that keen on children as those who know me will attest (I’m of the 'best seen and not heard' brigade), but the look on their faces when they understand the Pooh Sticks activity was priceless. What was so nice is that grown-ups can get equally silly/keen over it. I know I did. Even Mr. Plod (British for Crown Vic) got into it. I still would, if I could find a stream here in Florida. As Rik relayed in his blog, if your Florida Driver's License says "Florida", one is in a flood zone. Loosely translated, that means 'no Pooh Sticks'. I suspect that Rik could generate a drawing to that effect. One of his talents that has never been used is his artwork. He is a brilliant artist. He recently drew a pencil drawing of a castle that he and I visited in Wales. I can see a picture with Pooh and his friends playing Pooh Sticks, with a red thingy across it. Here endeth today's lesson.

Credit Card

2006-09-02T23:43:00.000-05:00

I have a Capital One credit card. If you live in the US, you have to have one! Had it for 3 to 4 years. I use it to buy gas, and pay the $20 odd bill each month. Never a late payment, never an over limit fee. I was always told, this was the way to improve my credit status in the US - in fact they've just raised my credit limit by another $200 a month or so back, and raised my interest rate from 16% to 28.15%. I’ve never borrowed from them. A simple request by email as to why this interest rate had happened elicited no response. Now there’s a surprise. Made many phone calls. Was eventually told that “this would be looked into”. I made the last call a couple of days back. Still no response. Doesn't really matter, as I don't pay any interest, but why did it go up? Was there an 'R' in the month. Was Hades in conjunction with Mars?

Had a phone call yesterday. In fact several of them, from the same number. Eventually, I answered them. Capital One. I could barely understand the lady. I kept asking her if she was responding to my request, but it seemed she had a script to follow whatever the poor customer on the end of the line responded to. I kept asking what she was trying to sell me. Seems that as my account was in good stead (it stands at $0.00) I was entitled to 3 months of free mortgage protection, ditto free life insurance to cover my burial arrangements (I wish to go in a cardboard box in a furnace - hey, I won't be there!), insurance coverage for my personal jewelry, and $2,000 for my personal property in the event of a hurricane. I didn’t know that my pineapple plants might be worth that much. My ’92 Grand Marquis certainly ain’t worth that much.

I explained that I had no mortgage and no personal jewelry – apart from my four (ex) wedding bands, this aspect was moot. I also mentioned the increase in my interest rate. The words that followed belied belief. I could not understand any of them. I protested I could not understand, but I gave up, and hung up. I hate doing that as I have been taught to be polite. Why do these companies do this? They employ some poor person from a poor country who hardly speaks English, and try to make me think that their offer is the best in the world, and how can I refuse.

As Winnie the Pooh said, “I am a bear of little brain, and big words bother me.”

Yucky Huge

2006-08-28T21:52:00.000-05:00

Forgive the lapse into the past, but a very dear friend of mine who nowadays lives in München, Germany, otherwise known as Munich to us lesser mortals, emailed me to thank me for reminding her about Play School. Mandy worked for a while at BASF in England, and was transferred to Mannheim, Germany where a BASF subsidiary operated. This is where I worked. Mandy worked a block away. A friend in England asked me to “keep an eye out for her”. As a lady less than half my age, who was very pretty (still is!), this was not a mean feat. Be that may, we would regularly meet, and dine in Pizzerias, and also eat at an English Pub called Number 9, and another place which I could never pronounce, but we called it Nick’s place. Nick was from Hastings, England, or somewhere equally revolting. The Pizzerias are where you get real Italian food, without garlic and such nonsense. We’d sometimes venture to France at weekends (a mere 70 miles), and buy groceries at the supermarket. The cheeses were to die for.
One day, Mandy was down, and I offered that perhaps we should have a vacation together – just a few days. I mentioned that I’d always wanted to go to Capri – an Italian island. However, I really didn’t care where we went. Mandy sent a fax to my company – of some 1,200 people, and addressed it to Mr. Yucky Huge. It duly arrived on my desk a few minutes later! A sure sign that the Germans have a sense of humor! She confirmed that we had a vacation booked.
We went to Frankfurt Airport early one morning, and flew into the resort. After checking into Fleapit Motel, we went to the beach. I did what any red-blooded male would do – I went to buy beer. When I came back, I commented that it was amazing how many people spoke Spanish at this resort. Mandy asked where did I think we were. Capri? Wrong, we were in the Canaries, which is about 1,000 miles away. In the Atlantic. Not even in the Med! Wrong country too. In retrospect, I'm embarrassed to admit that I was so far off! Had a good time though! I recall I rented an open topped vehicle, and drove around the island. Got horribly sunburnt too! Mandy eventually got married (a lot of guys cried), has two lovely kids, and still lives in München.

Play School

2006-08-26T17:23:00.000-05:00

This was the name of a wonderful children's educational program (programme over there) , back before I became a 20 - something. It was hosted by a guy called Brian Cant and a lovely lady called Chloe Ashcroft. Was I in love with her? Was I ever! Once I started to begat, it was a ritual to watch this program with the offspring. They seemed to understand it. Not sure if I ever did. Even my dog liked the furry animals - Chloe was in charge of them. Sometimes they would cause trouble. I recall there was there was Jemima, Hamble, Humpty, Dapple, Big Ted, and Little Ted. Anyone remember the others?

"A house, With a door! Windows, 1, 2, 3, 4. [rat-a-tat-tat] Ready to play?What's the day?*.." was the start of the program. "Today we'll go through the round window" followed...

Later, the BBC decided it was time to introduce some ethnicicity, and a wonderful lady called Floella Benjamin joined the cast. She was brilliant. She once sang a song, "Five grey elephants balancing, Side by side on a piece of string". Wonder what became of her and the others.

Why am I re"cant"ing this today? Mainly because the weather is awful. It's rained most of the day. I drove through a heck of a storm this morning, and the driver's window miraculously opened of its own accord. I was in the wet spot between banking duties. When I got home, I fell into a deep sleep, and dreamt of this program. Having Susan (3) and fidgetting the whole time, and Rik (1) sitting on my lap, complete with dog. Not sure if I could fit Susan and Rik on my lap these days. Would I want to?

I recall one episode where Brian Cant visited The White Horse at Uffington. This is a site where the image is a representation of a horse (some would say dragon) some 374 feet in length, and is thought to date back as far as 1,000BC in the late Bronze Age. It is in the mid-southern part of England. It is said that if you stand in the "head" of the horse, and make a wish, it will come true. Brian Cant said a prayer there for one of his children. It was very moving. I took the begatted there once. They were not impressed. Seems that an illegal saunter into East Germany was much more exciting.

Such is life. Here endeth today's lesson.

Troubled times?

2006-08-22T22:36:00.000-05:00

Having lost my job, I started to ponder the future. A scary thought! Stress set in, as did high blood pressure, but a typical Floridian storm, where I was able to sit on the deck, kept me sane. Watching the falling rain gave me a sense of comfort, despite the ill effects of the rain creeping ever upwards on my deck. Being at 2.7 feet above sea level is worrying sometime. We had some 4 inches today. Thankfully when the tide was out! In the meantime, I think I've come to terms with being stressed out. 'Worrying about it doesn't help.' So I'm kinda relaxed. I now get panic attacks about every 10 hours, not every nano-second as before.
Every lining has a silver cloud, so I appreciate my new job. I now work for a prestigious bank. Night cleaner. I clean 5 offices an evening here in Florida. The cameras roll to check that I do the mopping up each day. I scrub the toilets clean, and I have a flair for vacuuming. The glass partitions that keep the proletariat from tellers has to be cleaned each day, as some idiot will always try to leave his/her finger-print, or worse a slobbery kiss, on it.
I started life as a bank teller back in the early 60s. The most important rule was confidentiality. There seems to be none of it today. I managed to rummage through 28 mortgage applications today. Why did I do that? Because I could. And the bank should not allow their staff to keep their files in the 'open'. I actually didn't rummage, but the point is, I could have. I'll never approach this bank for a loan or whatever. I find it amazing that some guy is about to borrow $150K for a mortgage and he earns $18K a month... a month? He's a call center manager, who has just been tranferred here from India... Now, if I was the bank... I'd fire me in a heartbeat!
I could have had copies of all deposit transactions for the day, including account numbers and names. One of the teller's safes had been left open. Not just unlocked, but left open. Mucho dinero in there. No threat from me... if I'm going to steal, it's going to be millions! Then the final insult.
At one branch, as soon as I'd turned the alarm off before entering, there was a constant 'alarm-type sound'. This was because the computer said that there was someone still in the vault. As the bank had only been closed about one hour, I knocked hard on the vault to no avail. I called the 'Cleaning Supervisor'. His advice was to do what I thought was right. I called the security company. What a farce! I had to provide the customer account number before anything could be done. I called the bank's own security department - same result. So, being a simple Welshman, I called the local constabulary. Not by dialing 911, I might add.
Four of Pinellas County's finest Crown Vics turned up. These folks were great. There was much drawing of sharp breath through clenched teeth, but they were worried (as I was) by the fact that the computer showed that there was someone in the vault. The reaction of the first one was to cuff me. After much deliberation, he conceded that he might have been 'rash'. Eventually, they managed to drag a Vice President (no less) of the bank to check things out. He was hardly of an age to shave, and accused me of all kinds of things, most of which were physically impossible. A conservative estimate put him at about 27, going on 12. He confirmed that all was well, after opening the vault. No-one occupied it.
He then climbed into his car, and one of the 4 Crown Vics stopped him. He was a) stoned, and b) over the limit. Ce la vie.
Perhaps no longer a VP of the bank, I will be 'cleaner' for a while...
Here endeth today's lesson....

History Lesson

2006-08-13T11:24:00.000-05:00

Well, now......here's something I never knew before, and now that I know it, I feel compelled to share it with to more intelligent friends in the hope that they, too, will feel edified. That is if anyone reads this.... Isn't history more fun when you know something about it?Before the Battle of Agincourt in 1415, the French, anticipating victory over the English, proposed to cut off the middle finger of all captured English soldiers. Without the middle finger it would be impossible to draw the renowned English longbow and therefore they would be incapable of fighting in the future. This famous English longbow was made of the native English Yew tree, and the act of drawing the longbow was known as "plucking the yew" (or "pluck yew"). Much to the bewilderment of the French, the English won a major upset and began mocking the French by waving their middle fingers at the defeated French, saying, See, we can still pluck yew!
Since 'pluck yew' is rather difficult to say, the difficult consonant cluster at the beginning has gradually changed to a labiodentals fricative F', and thus the words often used in conjunction with the one-finger-salute!It is also because of the pheasant feathers on the arrows used with the longbow that the symbolic gesture is known as "giving the bird."IT IS STILL AN APPROPRIATE SALUTE TO THE FRENCH TODAY! And yew thought yew knew every plucking thing!

Bad Hair Day

2006-08-09T14:56:00.000-05:00

Today is not a good day. The boss called me into his office early this morning and said he wanted to talk at me before I left for the day. He suggested 1 p.m. , and duly announced that I was fired. Sorry, he actually said "laid off". Poor sales in Europe (down 60%) has contributed to this. I'm calling all Kings, Queens, Presidents, Dictators and Prime Ministers in Europe to complain that as their economies are in trouble, I've lost my job. Still, it'll give me time to tidy up around here!
Always look on the bright side. Until you see the bills....... Something will come up, though. In the meantime, I shall imbibe some beer.... hic....

The Hunt is Over

2006-08-06T05:04:00.000-05:00

Having arranged to meet Tom Brophy to discuss the merits of his Mercury Capri - which is actually a Mazda Miata under the skin - I was dismayed to discover that Tom didn't want to sell after all. He wanted to sell me his aged Ford Explorer for $3,000. Tom has delusions of being important in his own lunch-time. I mounted my trusty steed, and started cycling back when I spotted a Mercury Grand Marquis for sale. Price tag $950, obo. With Se habla Espanol underneath the tag. Not having habla Espanol abilities, I called anyway, and arranged to meet the owner. It's a '92 (the car, the owner was a circa 84 vintage Louisiana gal and very cute), with "poor" paintwork (it's a Florida thing). The interior is like a tart's boudoir, all studded velour, and extremely comfortable and clean. Never been smoked in. I was told the air did not work, but I discovered it did, but the noise coming from the front suggested that it was wise not to leave it on. A quick spin round the parking-lot, and $800 of "In God We Trust" specimens were handed over. It's a barge.... I have a carport, and almost managed to remove both supporting sides in one go. This car will seat 6 in comfort. 8 if you want to get friendly or married (delete the latter). The trunk is bigger than my bathroom! Due to Florida's stupid laws, I'm not allowed to drive it until I "register" it. To register it, I have to go to the Department of Motor Vehicles, which is a gazillion miles away, and without the car... you get the drift.... And they're not open at weekends. It'll have to wait until Tuesday (Monday being a day of rest for DMV workers - rest? After what?). Then I can check it out on the highway. It seems to have plenty of power from its 4.6 liter V8, which actually doesn't frighten little children in the streets. Maybe after tinkering with the exhaust, it might. I can but hope. Notorious for never cleaning a car, I did run the vacuum (small, courtesy of Rik and Chris) over it. It looks just splendid. A quick Polish car wash (leave it in a Florida rainstorm) and it looks quite presentable. Radio works great, and it plays cassettes. Roll on Bruce Hornsby and Bruce Springsteen! None of the windows open. The motors just hum. Maybe they don't know the words.... The interior mirror has been rejoined with it's intended spot. Now I can see what happens behind me. Apparently, the car (according to the EPA) will do about 25 mpg on the highway. Much the same as my Honda Accord. So I don't feel too bad about the V8! Roll on Tuesday!

The Hunt Goes On

2006-08-04T09:33:00.000-05:00

Due to a problem with the transmission of my car - it doesn't, I'm looking for a new set of wheels. Traveling to work by bus and bicycle is not good for my health, especially in the dark times of pre-dawn, and a few times some lunatics have tried to mow me down. Be that may, I have searched for a replacement. Yesterday, I went to a "dealership" - the words Arthur Dailey came to mind (a used car salesman comedy show in the UK in the 1970s) - and saw several cars that had been advetised in my daughter's newspaper for about $800. There was one, a Buick that was long past its sell-by date, with the right side completely mangled in a wreck. I couldn't even open the doors. "Minor adjustment," retorted Dailey (his name was actually Rik...), "it has cold air (AC for any readers in the Old World). I next looked at a presentable Mercury Grand Marquis. Dailey told me its color was 'crimson'. It looked quite nice, apart from needing four new tires. My comment to this effect elicited a "what do you expect for $877." This one had "very" cold air it seems, and I nodded knowingly, as I suspect that there is a difference between cold and very cold air. One does not wish to appear ignorant, does one. It was even painted on the windshield that it had very cold air. I asked to start it, and after some tugging, the monster 5 liter came to life. There was much rattling, "It's been standing and the oil has settled," quoth Dailey. I drove it for 10 minutes, and said rattles did not subside. And the heat coming from the air system convinced me it was time to return to base. Next was a Pontiac wagon (Estate Car). Now this was cool. Another 5 liter monster, which makes tree-huggers grimace as you drive by. The car is about 20 feet long. The back area even had a seat which pulled out of the floor, complete with seat belts. Reminded me of my Renault 16 where I added a back seat from a disused Mini for the children to go on our annual holidays in Devon all those moons back. I drove it, and this had "extremely" cold air. I can attest to that, because after stepping out of it, my glasses steamed up for about 5 minutes in Florida's humidity/heat. This car was also $877. I queried the $x77 factor, but Dailey didn't understand the question. We retired to the "office" to discuss terms. He could see that I was pleased with this car, despite the hood (bonnet) having what looked to me like the paint had been attacked with brake-fluid - a much favored trick in S. London in my days if you upset someone. My thoughts were, it's transport. And if it does have a big V8, that makes it worthwhile! Dailey tapped furiously at his computer. The total came to some $2,200 and change. I grimaced. "How can $877 become $2,200?", I ventured. Dailey said there were taxes, titles etc etc. Oh, and he also confided in me that the price was actually $1,877, not $877. At this point, I bade him fare thee well, and left. He pleaded that the price had been an error. He even followed me down the road, as I was walking away. I thought I might recruit him as a salesman for IBM, but decided against that. His hair was the wrong color. Actually, it was multi-colored. Kinda like Rod Stewart's hair with red, blonde, grey and black streaks. So, I will jump on my trusty steed in a while, and go to see a Mercury Capri. A neat little convertible. Needs work, but as my weekly commute is barely 75 miles, it might be worth it. Belongs to the owner of my local watering-hole - Brophy's. Unfortunately, Tom Brophy's just had a DUI and needs the cash to pay for an attorney. In a league of used-car salesmen in my book.

Ratty

2006-08-01T14:41:00.000-05:00

I've always liked dogs and cats. They are often more human than humans. This story relates to a Jack Russell dog called Ratty. The UK does not have the restrictions placed upon dogs for leashes, so the dog is free to roam - the way it should be. He regularly leaves the farm where he lives, and goes to a Bus Stop, where he patiently waits for the bus. He seems to know the bus times. Dogs travel for free on buses. He takes the bus to a pub, called the Red Bull. He's been entertained there for a long time, but now the new owners have banned dogs from the pub. I'm sure he'll find a new place! If you want the full story, click on:
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/news/news.html?in_article_id=398395&in_page_id=1770
He certainly has more intelligence than a lot of our politicians!

Richard Branson

2006-07-29T11:49:00.000-05:00

Joy asked me why I like the guy. In 1995, my brother-in-law passed away in Wales. I had to get a flight back from Los Angeles to the UK in a hurry. The only flight I could get was a Virgin (Ricahrd Branson's company) flight. The round trip to Manchester cost $1,700, but I was told that if I supplied a copy of the Death Certificate, they would look at reducing the price to a "bereavement fare". I duly supplied a copy of the DC, and a couple of weeks later, I received a personally signed letter from Mr Branson, expressing his sympathies for my loss, and stating that the whole amount had been credited to my credit card. The guy's a champ in my book, and I always fly with Virgin whenever I can. He's one of the people I've always wanted to meet, along with Lady Margaret Thatcher. And Dubya, but I won't go there.

Richard Brunstrom

2006-07-29T09:31:00.000-05:00

No, the title is not a typo for Richard Branson who is a real gentleman in my view (I'll explain why another time). Mr Brunstrom is the well known Chief Constable in North Wales. His dream is to have a speed camera every 100 yards in said N Wales, making sure that everyone obeys the rules about speeding. He is obsessed with speeding. Sod your usual crime and thuggery. "Get those speeders" seems to be the order of the day. I was traveling last year from Birmingham (England, not Alabama) to North Wales to visit family. The best route to take is the highway called the A5. An old road, created by the Romans, who managed to annoy the Welsh who then occupied Southern England, and made them move to N Wales. The Welsh stayed strong, and defeated the Romans, but by then they were pretty much spent with all their war-mongering elsewhere (the Romans). Anyway, back to the plot. The A5 at the border of England and Wales used to wend its way around a tortuous road crossing a valley near a village called Chirk. The roadies built a bridge over the valley a few years back, and it is now possible to drive quickly over this bridge. Too quickly it seems in my case. At the top of this bridge, there is a road, just in Wales, and Mr Brunstrom's finest were there with a camera. I was clocked doing 70 on a 60 mph stretch. A couple of months later, I received a Notice from some of his minions at Prestatyn telling me I must pay a fixed fine of 80 Pounds, or go to Court, and face the wrath of the judge. I responded I would pay. They then sent me details of how to pay, but said that I'd have to send my license as well. As the Florida Police require me to carry my license at all times, I wrote to explain my predicament. I never heard again. I wonder if Mr Brunstrom finest has me on a list of Wanted Criminals List, and when I next cross into Wales, I'll be dumped in Caernarfon castle's dungeon. Now, the thing is that I also have a UK license, and it's in both Welsh and English! They just asked for my license. This is the second time that I have avoided hefty fines for speeding in the UK. I was caught by camera in Eastbourne in 1998 doing 37 in a 30 mph area. I tried to plead that I was driving a Volvo.... that failed. Again I refused to submit my driver's license (a California version at that time). I was called to Court. On my birthday. I stood in the "criminals' box". A bewigged prosecutor stood up and addressed the court. So I thought. He was addressing me, but due to my poor hearing I didn't understand he was waiting for me to answer. The judge took pity, and in a louder voice, asked if I could hear the prosecutor. She allowed me to move to the well of the court. Nice lady. I was asked why I had not furnished my license to the authorities, and I explained my predicament with California laws. The prosecutor said, "But you have a British license." I said that a condition of getting my California license was to hand over my British license, which I had done. I had (wrongly) assumed that the UK license would be scrapped. The prosecutor was livid. He'd wanted to fine me about 70 pounds, plus court costs of about 400 pounds. The Judge said I had to be treated as a foreigner, and fined me 40 pounds. Later that evening, in a very aimiable pub in Eastbourne, I was celebrating my birthday when the Judge walked in. I bought her a drink. Her husband frowned. So I bought him one too. Rik reminded me of my "Trwydded Yrru" yesterday. A cop here in Florida asked for my license once. I gave my UK one to him. He came back a few minutes later, "Now can you give me your Florida one?" He did let me off with a warning as his great-grandfather had been Welsh. Helps sometimes.

Paradise on Earth and Other Matters

2006-06-04T08:12:00.000-05:00

Sir F Gask made a comment recently that I hadn't written in 13 months. I worry about the education system back in Blighty because he can't count - I last wrote in February. However, I take the point. I blame my memory - I couldn't remember my user id or password. Found an old email with them, so here we are in Paradise on Earth aka Florida. It's another gorgeous day, upper 90s and mid 70s at night. Gentle breeze keeps it pleasant. And Thunderstorms in the afternoon keep it wet! Going to the beach shortly. Enjoy the rays. Sir F asked about my night with Joan Collins. I have to confess - I slept with her. Shock horror! Actually, I sat next to her on a flight from Los Angeles to Thiefrow. As it was overnight, we slept together. Except when she was talking. She's good at that. An hour or so before we landed, she dived into the restroom, and stayed for virtually an hour to pretty herself up. At least I got time for some sleep. Let's hope that I won't wait another 5 months before posting.

Good Monday

2006-02-20T22:43:00.000-05:00

OK, I think I have gotten past the basics. Here I am, about to take my Bachelors's degree in 'modern' mainframe computing. Now there's a mis-nomer if ever. If I fail this erstwhile test, I shall be doomed to second-class citizenship for the rest of this millenium. Perhaps wishing that I'd paid more attention to that awful thief Bill Gates. He really ought to be locked up. BTW, apparently, he's also got a personal hygiene problem -to any self-respecting PC merchant, this should be 'normal'..
The good news is that Rik and his brood will venture these shores on March 15th for 2 weeks. He's going to fix 4 dead PCs for me. I can then donate them to neighbors who enjoy sending emails to their fellow sextogenarians. I suspect that said neighbors will enjoy their new-found freedom.... getting emails allows them to call each other to say, "I've just sent you an email."
Amen. And women.

Bad Monday

2006-02-20T22:37:00.000-05:00

Isn't every Monday bad? As it has been several weeks since I posted, I'm going to 'post' this, and if it works, World, await in abject anticipation. Words of wisdom will follow.

It's Tuesday, and it's not Belgium

2005-01-11T08:00:00.000-05:00

Welcome to the strange and wonderful world of Huge Alex. My real name is Aled Hughes. However, most Europeans cannot pronounce Hughes, so they call me Herr Huge when they wish to be polite. In addition, when I lived in Palm Springs, California, a lady telemarketer once called my home and asked to speak with Huge Alex. Hence the name.
I shall endeavor to write some missives which can be thought provoking and fun. I said I'd endeavor, but somehow, I think I might fail. My son requests that I do not write any derogatory comments about him. How could I? When he sorts out all my PC problems.... I'm from the IBM Mainframe world, where problems a la Mr Gates just do not happen.
Today looks like another day here in paradise - Florida. It's chilly right now, just after dawn, (a mere 60), but we're promised another 80 later. For those of you who believe that Celsius is better, subtract 32, multiply by 5, divide by 9, add two raw egss, and you'll get an approximate number.
So welcome to my world, the only Aled in the whole of the US of A. Have a nice day, y'all.

2005-01-11T07:16:00.000-05:00

Hello...

Is this thing on? It looks like it