Hello to anybody who reads this blog. Just to say that I rarely post here these days. My main blog, which has been updated weekly ever since it was started in September 2009, is called NoVisibleLycra and can be found by clicking here.
I still post on TeashopandCaff too, which can be found by clicking here, and I've recently set up Hotel Splendesto, which brings together all of my hotel reviews, and it can be found by clicking here.
Best regards to all.
Tuesday, 12 December 2017
Saturday, 25 March 2017
Last night Panorama screened a programme about ageism in the workplace. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black! The BBC is renowned for being ageist as the recent case concerning Miriam O'Reilly, a Countryfile presenter, proved; and let's not forget countless other people who have been told they're too old to be on the beeb – Moira Stewart was one and then there was Arlene Phillips, who was replaced by Alesha Dixon.
Arlene Phillips knows more about dancing than Alesha Dixon, but because Dixon is younger than Phillips, the beeb thinks that people sitting at home in front of the television would rather stare at Dixon than Phillips. We're not THAT shallow, are we?
Phillips must have been inwardly fuming over that scandal, but surely Dixon is secretly thinking, "I'll be next" as she stares pensively into her bathroom mirror, checking for any early wrinkles.
The problem with the BBC's ageism policy is that it's sexist. Strictly Come Dancing's Len Goodman and Bruce Forsyth, for instance, are both really old men – Brucie is in his 80s – but they are still going strong and if you take a look at Newsnight, good old Paxo, now white-haired, is as stroppy as ever. Mind you, I'd rather have Paxo presenting a heavyweight current affairs programme than Adrian Chiles or Dominic Littlewood.
Fortunately, Panorama chose Fiona Phillips to present its ageism programme, probably because she's no spring chicken, although she scrubs up well, to coin a phrase. Phillips turns 50 this year and I guess she was chosen to quieten down the beeb's critics who would have been in uproar had Fearne Cotton been the chosen presenter – and rightly so.
The programme focused on a real problem: the fact that employers in the UK don't want people in their 50s working in their companies. Why? Well, there must be many reasons. One must be that by the time people reach 50 they've kind of sussed things out. They know that loyalty means nothing and that if you work your arse off for anybody you'll get no thanks. They're aware that burning the midnight oil is a mistake, especially where there's no overtime payments, and they don't want to hear any rubbish about team work.
When you're in your 50s you just want to do your job to the best of your ability and get paid for it; you're not going to suck up to the boss, not only because he or she will probably be younger than you are, but because you know it's not going to get you anywhere and you've realised that you work to live, not live to work.
Panorama focused on four people: three men and one woman, all of whom were out of work and having real problems finding a job. Why? Because they're considered to be past it. All four of them have been trying to get work for a very long time, but they've failed despite being well qualified for the roles in question.
What I found really annoying – alright, I found it really irksome – was the absolutely useless presence of Digby Jones. That man failed to grasp the problem and spent any airtime he was given patronising four decent people who already felt bad enough about their lot and certainly didn't need Baron Jones of Birmingham telling them what do.
Jones got it completely wrong. If you're reading this, 'Baron', the point of the programme was this: people in their 50s – qualified people who might have studied hard to become professionals in some sphere or other – are being turned away from jobs that they want to do and for which they are more than qualified. They want to do the job but one thing stands in their way – their age.
But did Jones grasp it? No, he didn't. "Why don't you re-train, become a plumber?" he said as the hapless individuals were given a patronising one-by-one audience with the Baron, who resembled a poor man's Wizard of Oz, after the curtain had been pulled back, and our four 50-somethings were, perhaps, Dorothy, The Tin Man, The Lion and the Scarecrow.
That's not the point, Mr Jones, they don't want to become minicab drivers, driving instructors or plumbers. Why would they? They want to remain as accountants or teachers and they're perfectly capable but they are being stopped by employers who are more concerned about saving money or, in the case of the Beeb, with cosmetic issues.
What I also found rather amusing about the Panorama programme was the occasional input from Age UK, a charity that is obviously anti the whole ageism thing. Sadly, though, the charity's representative was a young bloke who was definitely not in his 50s – they missed a big trick there.
There was no happy ending to the programme either. I was expecting written announcements prior to or during the end credits, stating that the programme's subjects had all found work in their chosen fields, but no, they hadn't. One resorted to voluntary work, the other considered turning a hobby (picture framing) into a job and another – who was sent to work in a bar – gave it up because he felt it was below him. The female former teacher had started her own business, but it all went wrong for her when she lost a contract.
The big problem for the UK and its growing population of over-50s, is that while we're all being expected to work longer before we pick up our state pensions, there are people, like Digby Jones, who expect professional people to simply down tools at 50 (largely for cosmetic reasons) and accept jobs that aren't so important in a 'people-facing' sense. It's as if the general public as a whole – and employers and their workforces in particular – have some kind of aversion to people with a bit of white hair or a more wrinkled face and shouldn't have to endure looking at them for fear of being offended.
I was going to finish this article with the phrase 'grow up', but then I realised that growing up and getting older was the nub of the problem when it shouldn't be.
Napoleon once referred to the United Kingdom as a 'a nation of shopkeepers', but if things keep going the way they are, we'll be a nation of driving instructors and 'white van men' and newsagents windows will be inundated with 'man and van' cards.
Such a fate awaits us all and there must be thousands of people in college today wondering whether it's worth studying hard if they're going to end up stacking shelves in a supermarket or a DIY superstore. Why not simply leave college and go there now? That way you'll avoid disappointment later in life.
When I was a kid I used to have many pathetic and ridiculously time-consuming ideas for making money; one was to go around the streets collecting refundable lemonade bottles and them cashing them in at the local sweet shop. Just imagine for one minute how long that would take and how mind-numbingly boring it would be. And then, of course, like most things, the whole thing dried up (in this case, refundable bottles have long been a thing of the past). Back then, of course, I had big plans for my scheme – including a huge depot holding loads of empty lemonade and Tizer bottles – but had I got started, no doubt I would have been severely disappointed and – worse still – if there had been money in the idea, somebody else would have done it before me.
So, there's Andy and I sitting at the Tatsfield bus stop, munching our cereal bars, sipping our tea and looking out across a barren landscape of fields and woods, a solitary road dividing the two and disappearing in the direction of Botley Hill.
"I've got an idea," I said. "What about if I slept rough for a year and rented out my house? I'd make around £20,000 on the rent after a year and I could write a book about my adventures under canvas."
I ignored the fact that I had a wife and a child at home – where would they go while I indulged this hair-brained scheme? Well, they would have to go to the mother-in-law's (where, of course, I could go too, so why bother sleeping rough?). But that, of course, was not the point.
Women often wonder what men think about and this is a prime example: the feasibility of sleeping rough for a year and what it would entail. To be totally honest, I was getting quite excited about the prospect of putting my house up to let, finding a tenant and then heading off to Halfords to buy a one-man tent. I had it all sussed out – or so I thought: first, the big problem of where to pitch the tent, but there's plenty of woodland around.
"I could set up over there," I said, pointing towards some woodland, which was probably private property. Still, my plan (during the winter months) was to sneak into the woods in question under cover of darkness and then be up with the lark in the morning. I had no plans to give up my job, so I'd still be earning good money, plus banking the rent money. I could cycle everywhere, wash and shower in a local leisure centre (and get a swim in every morning too) and then work in a local library or business centre where there are power points for lap tops and internet connections. I only need a suit for meetings, so I could keep one on a hanger round at mum and dad's or the mother-in-law's and use it as and when.
The rest of the time would be straightforward: I'd work during the day in the library or business centre (bike triple-padlocked somewhere outside) and then at night, I'd cycle back to the woods and set up my one-man tent. There'd be no television, so I'd be forced to read books or listen to a small radio and then, in the morning, I'd head off for a swim and a shower. I'd shave there too and then make my way to work.
After 365 days – my point proved (what is the point?) – I'd simply resume my normal life, but I'd be twenty grand better off and, who knows, there might be a book deal involved. I doubt it, but stranger things have happened.
To be honest, I'm amazed at my immaturity. Here I am, married, kids, responsibilities, and I'm sitting at a wooden bus shelter in the middle of nowhere, early in the morning, fantasising (and getting quite excited and inspired) by the looney idea of sleeping rough in local woods for a whole year. Where's the logic?
Well, actually, how else would I get a twenty grand raise? Is there ANY other way? Probably not as that's a lot of extra work whichever way you look at it. Sleeping rough would mean no extra work at all, although there's always the possibility that I wouldn't be married at the end of my crazy adventure and, of course, I might be attacked during the night by some local nutters.
"There's a small risk of nutters," said Andy, as if there was a real chance that I might turn around and say, "Good, well that's sorted then; I'll nip down to Halfords later on and call the estate agent too."
Sadly, of course, I'm going to do neither. Perhaps if I was single, but even then, what kind of nutter sleeps in the woods when he's got a perfectly decent house in which to kip? I would be the local nutter. People would get to know about somebody odd sleeping in the woods. In short, it's not a good idea. But for me, there was something appealing about the idea and I think it's to do with the notion that I'd still be working, I'd have much more disposable income than I have now, I could still see my wife and child most days – although every day there would be that moment: "Do you have to sleep in the woods tonight, darling? You could always stay here." But that would be to admit defeat, to give up the ghost and start on that slippery slope towards calling the letting agent and giving my new tenants notice to quit. No, I'd have to see it through, but the reality is quite simple: it's a stupid idea with no foundation in reality and it will never happen. I think my wife would divorce me if I even mentioned it with a straight face. "Darling, I've got an idea..."
I can imagine the appalled look on her face as she realised that I was serious and she was married to a complete idiot who, for purely fiscal reasons, had plans to sleep rough in the woods – for a whole year! – just to accumulate twenty grand (or thereabouts).
But what's not to like: I'd have a mobile phone (that I could charge daily in the library), I'd have a laptop, similarly charged, and if I had a dongle I'd have internet access even in the darkest of woods. I could eat in cafés – so I wouldn't have to carry food around with me – and as long as I had a radio for company, I'd be on top of things like current affairs. There's a good chance that nobody would know I was sleeping rough as I'd always be clean shaven. I'd probably lose weight through regular cycling and swimming – there are so many plus points! In fact, as I write this, I wonder how many people are in the woods now, settling down for the night in their one-man tents while their new tenants make themselves at home?
It was around 9am when I snapped out of it and Andy and I began the eight-mile cycle home. I was back by 9.30am and, it has to be said, glad to be in my warm house, reading the papers and contemplating the crossword.
I wouldn't regard myself as an expert where politics is concerned. I am, if you like, the man in the street. I watch the television news programmes, I enjoy the BBC's Question Time, I pick up stuff on the internet, I read newspapers and, like everybody else, I occasionally engage friends and colleagues in debate about the Government, the opposition, international affairs and so on.
And right now I'm sitting on the sofa, laptop on lap, watching Newsnight's analysis of the first ever televised debate between the three leaders of our mainstream political parties and guess what? Michael Crick is sitting on a high stool in front of Kirsty Wark criticising Gordon Brown's performance. Earlier, on the BBC 10'o'clock news, they were attacking his persona during the debate, using a new 'worm' from a polling company, Ipsos Mori, to say that while Nick Clegg's and David Cameron's worms rose as people liked what they were hearing – and so did Gordon Brown's – they still had something negative to say about Brown's performance.
Cameron and Clegg were praised, but for Brown, the worm didn't like him; Ben Page, for Ipsos Mori, talking to Justin Rowlatt on Newsnight, said Brown 'failed to connect', he tried a joke, 'it didn't work', he 'somehow failed to reach the heights of approval'.
My question is this: why is everybody misrepresenting Gordon Brown? It seems to be rife and totally unjustified.
Now I know that back in the eighties everybody was slagging off 'Thatcher' – especially Ben Elton – and perhaps that's one of the roles of the media, but what I find particularly irksome about the constant Brown-bashing (some of it plain rude, from the likes of Jeremy Clarkson) is that it is misleading.
Brown is constantly being attacked for his handling of the economy. The Tories (understandably because they're in opposition and we're now approaching an election) keep saying that Gordon Brown is presiding over the biggest deficit in recent history and how he has borrowed a ridiculously large sum of money, as if he was just borrowing the money for the hell of it and because he's a Labour politician and that's what Labour politicians do.
What the Tories and the media seem to forget is that Gordon Brown has steered us through the worst GLOBAL economic recession almost 'since records began' and yet it seems that everybody thinks that the recession is only in Britain and that it's all Gordon Brown's fault. It is interesting, and extremely frustrating, how everybody: the media, the public, those 'celebrities' (like Clarkson); everybody forgets that Gordon Brown was awarded for his handling of the economic crisis.
Allow me to quote the Guardian of 23 September 2009: "Gordon Brown may be trailing in the polls at home, but in the US last night he was hailed as a hero for "stabilising" the world economy and showing "compassionate leadership".
"The prime minister, in New York for the UN general assembly, was honoured as world statesman of the year at a VIP-packed gala dinner. The award was presented on behalf of the Appeal of Conscience Foundation, an interfaith organisation which campaigns for religious freedom and human rights, by the veteran US former secretary of state Henry Kissinger."
Having gone through the early nineties recession (when the Tories were in charge) and its aftermath (I was made redundant three times), as soon as I heard that a recession was looming, I was understandably worried. But my worries were misguided. I am still working and despite the awful crisis – caused by bankers who, I'd imagine, will vote Tory – I hope to continue working.
I'm glad there was a televised debate tonight for one reason: it gave Gordon Brown the chance to warn against Tory plans to cut £6bn out of the economy at just the wrong time. I believe Gordon Brown when he says that making such cuts now will plunge the country back into recession. I don't believe the inexperienced David Cameron, the man who fronts up the party of business. He talks about how 'leading businessmen' support his party's proposed £6bn cuts (as if that's something to boast about) but abhor Brown's so-called 'tax on jobs' (the planned rise in National Insurance contributions).
People talk about not being able to trust politicians, but the thing is, can anybody trust a businessman? A lot of Tories are both politicians and businessmen and the latter care about just one thing: profit.
Businessmen like to make cuts. If they can get something for next to nothing, they will. They like to save money, cut corners, anything to turn a bigger profit. Apply the business model to running the country and you get job losses, hospital closures, text book shortages in schools, poor transportation safety records (remember the Hatfield train crash when four people were killed and 70 injured?).
The Conservative Party is not only the party of big business, it is also run by people with huge personal fortunes. George Osborne, the shadow chancellor, stands to inherit millions of pounds and yet he, along with others in his party, will, if elected, tell the electorate that it must tighten its belt as the Tories put in to place their 'austerity measures'.
Give me Gordon Brown over David Cameron any day; the last thing the UK needs right now is for the Hoorays to be in charge of the country again.
Addendum: I notice that the BBC is doing its level best to give Gordon Brown a bad press; they're doing it at every possible opportunity they get and now they're making a huge mountain out of the mole hill that is Brown's 'off air' comment about a member of the public in Rochdale. Okay, fine, he said it, he might have been stressed or whatever, I don't know, but just take a look at the ridiculous amount of air time they're giving to this minor gaffe. Furthermore, if the BBC is not going on and on about Brown's 'bigot' remark, they'll be talking about the election as if it's already taken place. Clegg is doing the same thing, arrogantly assuming he'll be involved in a coalition government, making it all sound like a foregone conclusion – that we're going to have a hung parliament – and letting the media know who he will support and why. Why can't the BBC and the politicians talk about the policies? We don't want to hear speculation on the outcome of the General Election, we want to know what each party stands for. Nick Clegg says he doesn't want to form a coalition if Gordon Brown is still the leader of the Labour Party – as if there is currently a decision to made; there isn't, the election is on May 6. Start talking about forming a coalition government AFTER the election day, NOT before!!! Why does the BBC have such a hate campaign against the Government? Is it something to do with the David Kelly affair, their journalist Milligan and the resignation of Greg Dyke? Are they still smarting over that incident? I think the BBC has behaved very poorly towards the Government and seems to have nothing decent to say about Gordon Brown when, as far as I and plenty of others can make out, he and the Labour Party are most certainly the best bet if our economy is going to remain out of recession. Come on, somebody say something positive about Labour and Gordon Brown before it's too late. We don't need such negativity – and we certainly don't need David Cameron.
"Whenever I hear the word culture, I reach for my revolver." said Hermann Goering at a time, perhaps, when the word 'culture' had some meaning. Had Goering been alive today, he'd have reached for more than his revolver: how about a bazooka, what about a small Howitzer or even a Trident nuclear missile? Personally, I'd rather use a Gatling gun; you know, those machine guns with a cylindrical magazine used in Westerns, something noisy, ungainly and guaranteed to do the job properly without killing any innocent bystanders.
I mean, let's face it, things are definitely NOT getting better on the cultural front; it's been one long and miserable decline where the most marked deterioration has been in the field of pop music – mainly because our so-called stars are not so much bothered about being accomplished in their field; they're more focused on the fame bit – getting out of limos at film premieres, running from the paparrazi, that sort of thing.
Piers Morgan. That probably says it all, and while chat show hosts generally have never been anything to write home about – they all suck up to their guests, squeeze their knees, come over all gushy and showbizzy and generally act in a sycophantic manner that is nothing short of embarassing – Morgan plumbs deeper depths by interviewing people who aren't really that famous.
I mean, at least Parkinson, for all his bad points (being a professional Yorkshireman, going on and on about cricket and being cringeingly 'buddy buddy' with the Big Yin) interviewed some of the greats. I'm thinking John Lennon, Paul McCartney and Mohammed Ali.
Morgan sits there chatting to tabloid people like Katie Price and, tonight (March 13th 2010) that girl from Hearsay whose name escapes me, she's THAT famous. Hold on, while I go and ask somebody. Ah, yes, Kim Marsh. You remember her, don't you? She was in Hearsay and she's now 33, I've just heard Piers say. Look, I've got nothing against her personally, I'm sure she's a really nice person and yes, she's had a few issues in her life, like most of us, and she's been in 'Corrie', but please, Piers, you're sitting there in front of her treating her like Parkinson might have treated the great John Lennon. But she hasn't had an airport named after her, she's not even Enid Sharples or Hilda Ogden and there you are acting as if you've got a major interview on your hands when you haven't. Marsh won a talent competition, for heaven's sake. She was in Hearsay! And you, Piers, have the audacity to talk to her about issues that proper musicians suffer from: tension from within the band, 'differences' which led to the split as if anybody really cared or, indeed, remembered. Hearsay were not Nirvana, they were not Blur or Oasis, they were not even Boyzone.
Yes, if there were 'musical differences' or disagreements within the Beatles, that might have been a big issue, but Hearsay! In Hearsay, musical differences probably meant they were out of tune. Whose idea was it to put Kim Marsh in front of Piers Morgan during the prime time slot on Saturday evening commercial television? Where's my Gatling gun? Hold on a second, though; that sounded a bit like Piers Morgan was some kind of television chat show 'big gun', up there, perhaps, with the likes of Parky, Letterman, Leno or Wogan, but no, Morgan's television career has been carved out of similar television shows to the one that put Hearsay in the public spotlight, and wasn't he once editor of the Daily Mirror and the man in charge when those bogus photographs of Iraqis being tortured were published?
The worst thing about the Marsh interview was the way it was couched. Morgan's questions, his whole attitude, his stance, gave the impression that he was interviewing somebody heavyweight, someone with a bit of history at least, a few major albums under her belt, perhaps, a serious acting career, perhaps, but no, it was Corrie's Kim Marsh – she's not even the biggest star on Corrie and yet there is Piers, asking (or trying to look as if he was asking) the big questions.
As I say, I've got nothing against Marsh, but she was the first of many 'manufactured' personalities from the Simon Cowell Play Dough factory, the man who gave us Cheryl Cole and a whole host of other people who are more interested in 'celebrity' than anything else and really aren't that good.
The main problem with the manufactured 'artistes' is that they don't appear to have any lofty cultural ambitions. I mean, would you ever see Pete Townshend, Robert Plant, Roger Daltry, Liam Gallagher, Damon Albarn, to name but a few, presenting television programmes let alone embarking upon their careers by winning a talent show? No, of course not; they struggled, they played the clubs and pubs and practiced in garages and then chased record deals before hitting the big time and turning into big festival and stadium attractions.
I know what you're going to say: if you don't like it, turn it off; and I did, to be fair. Actually, I left the room to sit here and write this article because I've noticed a marked decline in real talent in this country. I'm not saying that Marsh is not talented, it's just that she and Cheryl Cole and Katie Price and whoever else is out there queuing up to be interviewed by Piers – who, no doubt, is being heralded by the naive as 'the new Parkinson' – are really not 'big' enough to be given that 'big interview' treatment. Gordon Brown, yes; Paul McCartney, of course, but all these 'celebrities' who have found fame far too early, no.
What amazes me is the recent trend towards celebrity autobiographies; books written by people who are too young to have much to write about. I can understand established musicians wanting to put pen to paper about long and distinguished careers, discussing interesting subjects like gigging in Russia before the Iron Curtain came down, say, but imagine a book written by Sir Paul McCartney in, let's say, 1964 when there was so much still to happen?
If, God forbid, I was involved in an air crash and was, for whatever reason, the sole survivor, clinging to the tailplane as it is gently washed ashore on a desert island, I would, no doubt, be overwhelmed with joy to discover that I still had my mobile phone on my person. I would be elated if I then discovered that I had a signal and more elated still if there was power left in the battery.
On wading ashore and finding a shaded spot under a palm tree, I would reach for my mobile, dial home or the office, tell them what had happened and get them to organise a rescue party.
"Hello? Yes, it's me. I've been involved in an air disaster, looks like I'm the sole survivor and I'll be late home tonight. Actually, I won't be home at all unless you can organise some kind of rescue party as I'm stuck on a desert island, just me and the tailplane."
Well, yes, if I had a Nokia or a Sony Ericsson, maybe, but not if my phone just happened to be a Samsung Omnia. In fact, the realisation that I was a Samsung Omnia owner would, quite literally, induce suicidal tendencies I didn't know I had as I realised I would be stuck on the island for all eternity and would have to resort to remembering what Bear Grylls had taught me from his programme, Born Survivor.
Touch wood, I haven't been involved in an air crash or any other kind of disaster. All that happened to me this morning was that I discovered I didn't have my debit card in my wallet when I went to buy a ticket. This, of course, is worrying as I started to wonder whether I had lost it, dropped it or just left it in another pair of trousers or the breast pocket of yesterday's shirt.
Fortunately, I was still able to buy a ticket because I had my trusty credit card with me, but I thought I'd better call my wife and let her know the situation before she put yesterday's clothes in the wash. Not a problem, I would simply whip out the mobile, press the speed dial button and hey presto! My wife would answer the phone. All would be well with the world.
But no. I'm a Samsung Omnia owner, which means that life is anything but simple. Get this: my phone is on, it had been on all through the night and there was still enough of a charge on the phone to be able to make calls. I hadn't received the usual warnings about power being low and please charge your phone. Everything was fine. When I depressed the keys they made a noise, the home page was before me, I could access my stored numbers. There was nothing to suggest that anything was wrong, so I pressed speed dial, found 'home' and pressed the button.
Hold on a minute! What's that? The phone is switched off? Eh? How? If it's switched off, how can it tell me it's switched off? If the phone is not on, how come I can dial the number, how come I can see the ****ing home page, how come? Ah! Of course, the Samsung Omnia does a really good impressions of being on, when it's off! I should have known!
A speech bubble has appeared. It says that the phone is switched off and would I like to switch it on? Just press the yes or no button. Well, that's easier said than done. I press Yes. Or rather I try to press yes using the Samsung's pen. Nothing happens. I know, I'll press the No button as the Omnia is like that, you press the key NEXT to the key you want and you might get the key you want. Good idea. But it doesn't work. The phone is on but it is telling me that it is off and would I like to turn it on. I press the yes button but it doesn't work. I press the no button and it still doesn't work.
I know! Take the battery out of the phone and effectively re-boot it, like pulling the plug on a frozen computer. That'll work! So I dismantle the phone and take out the battery. Now the phone is DEFINITELY off as there's no power. Phew! That was easy, I think to myself. Now, put the battery back in, turn the phone on in the normal manner and all will be well with the world.
I switch the phone on, the words Samsung Omnia appear followed by the dainty oriental sounding greeting tone as if a Geisha girl is standing in front of me, bowing politely, and handing me a working phone. Within about 15 seconds I'm back at the home page, I press the speed dial button and then I press 'home' and guess what? "This phone is switched off. Would you like to turn it on?" Off course I want to ****ing well turn it on. I want to call my wife to tell her to have a look around for my debit card before some bastard tries to use it and nick all our money!
I dismantle the phone half a dozen times but the same thing happens. The phone is switched off, despite the fact that it is clearly very much on. By now I'm getting flustered. I look for and find a pay phone, which doesn't work, and then I get on the train and fret about the situation. There's nothing I can do. I am completely powerless. I can't do anything until I reach Richmond station and then I can use a call box on the platform. This is what I do and then things are fine, but no thanks at all to the Samsung bloody Omnia.
Over the years I have had many different gadgets: mobile phones, Walkmans, radios, hifi systems, Tamagotchis, you name it, and none of them, none of them at all, even the Tamagotchi (my son's) that often woke me up in the middle of the night because it needed a poo, even that was not as infuriating as the Samsung Omnia. I'm so annoyed with it that I'm now going to write to Samsung in the UK, tell them what a useless lump of plastic their Omnia is and well, that's not the end of it. I might even direct Nokia and Sony to this blog and tell them that their phones are a million, trillion times better.
Most of the mobile phones I have owned have been pretty good in terms of reliability and usability. I've owned a basic Nokia and two Sony Ericssons and none of them have caused me any problems. My latest phone is a different story.
The Samsung Omnia is, in my opinion, 'a poor man's iphone' at best, and an infuriating piece of useless plastic at worst.
Unlike a conventional mobile, the Omnia relies upon a touch sensitive, computer-generated representation of a keyboard. In other words, the keys aren't really there at all. 'Dialling' any number requires thought and I don't want to think too much about such a mundane task; I never had to with my other phones. With the Omnia, it's a case of 'dialling' carefully and slowly, using a pen, watching all the time in case, as often happens, the machine inputs, say, half a dozen 3s or 4s – it's that sensitive. Dialling 0208 could easily become 02000008. You get the picture. Not ideal if you're in a hurry.
I know what you're thinking: use the phone's speed dialling function. Under normal circumstances I'd say fine, but not with the Omnia. Problems lurk on every corner for Omnia users. I have stored around a dozen pre-set telephone numbers, but first I have to access them by pressing a small blue keyhole symbol at the top right of the screen. Pre-set numbers are supposed to pop up, but they don't. Instead, I am given a page of icons offering me the web, the camera, media player, alarms, everything but my pre-set numbers. If I press 'exit' to try again, the same thing happens. Then, to add insult to injury, the phone locks itself, meaning that I have to press 'unlock', which is more difficult than you might think. It's virtually impossible to unlock the phone using the pen (of which, more later) so I have to thump the phone hard with my index finger and then start again, but I get greeted with all the unwanted icons for a second time. Arrrggghh!!! The solution is to press another icon at the top of the screen, like 'settings', and then, as the icons shuffle to the left, press the speed dial icon when it has moved to the far left of the screen – that way the pre-set numbers pop up.
Finally I get to my speed dial numbers. Now I've got another problem. If I press the icon for my home number, it accesses the number represented by the icon to its left and I find myself dialling somebody I don't want to talk to; then the problem of stopping the phone dialling a wrong number, which involves a frantic thumping of the black button below the screen to cancel the call. I have numerous calls from one particular work colleague who thinks I am trying to reach him when I'm not.
The Omnia likes to keep me on my toes by constantly inventing new problems. For example, when I press 3 it's 2 so once again I can't simply dial a phone number on the move, I have to stop, concentrate hard, use the pen to tap the 3 key at its far edge in order to key in a 3 and not a 2. This often takes more than one attempt and is further thwarted by the fact that the cancel key (the orange arrow at the top right of the keypad) then types a 3, the key to its immediate left. Try to keep up: the 3 key is really a 2 and the cancel key is really a 3, but there is no way I can cancel the wrong number so I have to quit the keyboard entirely and start again. But then, the phone locks again and I have to thump it hard again with my index finger to unlock it as using the pen, for some inexplicable reason, won't unlock it.
Writing a text message is a nightmare too. Sometimes it works, sometimes not. Invariably, the latter. A big problem with texting is that the keys do not represent the right letters. If I try to write 'Good morning' I need to be aware that G is F and that O is U and that P is really i, D is S and so on. In short, it's impossible so I am forced to give up.
If I try to exit the messaging function, another problem arises: I can't. The pen simply won't work if I use it to depress the 'ok' in the screen's top right hand corner which should close the window. More often than not, a text bubble will appear saying 'contract WAP (GPRS) which I don't understand, but can't delete however hard I try.
The scrolling function on Call Log, Phonebook and Messaging is temperamental, only working effectively when it so chooses. With messaging in particular, it is very hard to move the scroll bar up or down to review messages received or sent, and to exit a message and return to the main list of messages is nigh on impossible, even using the pen, which is supposed to make life easier for Omnia users. It is best to depress the phone icon on the bottom right of the phone and then re-open the function from the phone's 'home' page.
As for the pen, well, it's there to be lost. Miraculously, I still have mine, although it has spent a few days under the car seat during which time I have relied upon assorted ballpoints and my chipolata fingers. The pen is supposed to make things easier, especially dialling and messaging, but it is just another irritation, especially when the P key is O, the G is F and so forth. And I can hit that 'ok' at the top right of the screen as many times as I like but it won't remove the page I'm on for love nor money: all I get is annoying speech bubbles that refuse to go away.
If somebody calls me I have to call them back as, by the time the phone is out of my breast pocket and in my hand, the right way around and without the pen swinging about uncontrollably, they've gone. Even if the phone comes out of my pocket easily enough, I've got to hit the word 'answer' and that's harder than it sounds, believe me; forget using the pen, by the time you've unleashed it from its housing, your caller has hung up. If I call back I'm confronted with the aforementioned call log problems. If I use the speed dial function, I end up calling somebody else. Trying to stop a mis-dialled number is very hard and usually involves a lot of thumping on the screen to avoid a call from somebody else which, if they get through, results in, "Sorry, I dialled you accidentally, new phone," I might lie, ignoring the fact that I've had the Omnia for months.
Knowing what I know about the Samsung Omnia, I would never buy or recommend one to friends. Enemies, maybe. I am seriously considering transferring the SIM card to my old Sony Ericsson and using that instead. Mind you, the Omnia does have a decent 5 mega pixels camera, but that is the phone's only redeeming feature.
It's hard to know where to begin on this one, but probably the best place is a small picture house in a sleepy Surrey town in England where, I'd imagine, Pixar's John Lasseter would feel at home. It's one of those places where dreams are brought to life and where the past and the present somehow co-exist.
My father used to visit places like this little picture house when he was a kid, during the Second World War. He probably saw The Wizard of Oz in just such a cinema and felt as inspired as I did when I emerged, with my 11-year-old daughter, into the bright summer light of evening having watched and enjoyed Pixar's latest outing of the Toy Story franchise.
I say 'franchise', but to be truthful, the word doesn't really fit the bill. Toy Story One, Two and Three are better than that word, they're not a 'franchise' at all, they're three excellent movies that haven't in any way been ruined by anything. Nobody can say that One is better than Two or that Three was better than One; they're all good and there are many reasons: the characters, the storyline, the general vibe and, above all, the fact that all three movies follow a time line.
People – adults – went through their child-rearing years with these movies (my son Max was five when Toy Story 1 was released) and through the stresses and strains of raising kids, parents and kids alike had the pleasure of Buzz and Woody, Ham, Rex, Mr and Mrs Potato Head and Slinky Dog to make them laugh as they tried to make sense of the world around them.
And while this article is all about the three Toy Story movies, let's not forget Pixar's other excellent stuff: Monsters Inc, The Incredibles, Finding Nemo, Cars, Up, Bolt, Wall.E, A Bug's Life and Ratatouille – all great movies worth watching again and again.
And let's face it, Pixar is not just making good movies, but defining the future of the children's picture – making the old two-dimensional Disney cartoons a thing of the past, not in a negative sense (they're all still great in their own right) but things have moved on – and got a million times better.
I love Toy Story. Infact, a friend of mine recently told me that I was very sad because I'd not only watched the movies, but analyzed them too. I was, he said, not only a dab hand with some of the movies' great quotes (like in Toy Story 2 when Ham says to Rex, "You can be the toy that comes with the meal"); I've noticed things that others have allowed to pass un-noticed.
For instance, the same friend asked me why it was that Woody still had the word 'Andy' written on the sole of his shoe when, in Toy Story 2, it had been painted over. Well, it's like this: everything is rectified in the Toy Story movies. Everything is 'put right' at the end.
In Toy Story 2, Woody's boot is painted over and his arm is repaired, but everything has to revert back to reality before the conclusion of the movie; so, if you recall, Woody scratches the paint off of his boot at the very end of Toy Story 2, so the picture reverts back to the reality of the situation, ie that Andy had written his name on Woody's boot and – perhaps – it was never changed in the first place (the whole thing's make believe). Likewise, Woody's arm – at the end of Toy Story 2, despite it being fixed earlier in the movie, the Pixar people ensure it's unfixed by Stinky Pete in the scene on the baggage conveyor towards the end, so it's down to Andy to fix Woody, which he does. Everything is put right at the end.
I often wonder whether strange things happen to people when they have kids; they become more emotional, easily moved, perhaps, I don't know, but something definitely happened to me; or is it that you somehow realise something – I don't know what – but it sends you down a strange and volatile path.
I was driving into a multi-storey car park one morning, on my way to work listening to a band called Spirit and a track on their Spirit of 76 album entitled Guide Me. I don't know what it was, but there must have been something in the tune. When I reached the top level of the car park I kind of broke up.
From that moment on, things were different for me; certain tracks on certain albums by certain bands just caused an emotional reaction that I had never experienced before and had to fight: Wake Up, Boo! by the Boo Radleys; Suburbia by the Pet Shop Boys, even New Order's 1990 World Cup song – they all prompted an emotional reaction. I hasten to add that I'm 'cured' now, at least I thought I was, but then I saw Toy Story 3.
And then there was a poem by Milton Kessler – Thanks Forever – and Michel Houellebecq's novel, Atomised, not forgetting Bruce Robinson's Peculiar Memoirs of Thomas Penman.
Atomised hit me square in the face while in a bar in Warsaw. There was a sadness about it that, for some reason, concerned me and I started to imagine an alternate reality where my kids had suffered unhappiness and it made me realise that you only get one shot at life.
It had a lot to do with my son growing up and no longer being the little kid I bought radio-controlled cars for; and I thanked my lucky stars for having a young daughter with whom I could live it all again – for now.
And I think that is why the Toy Story movies are so poignant for me; they let it slip that nothing is forever and that kids grow up and become adults and lose their innocence. They also make you realise that having kids was the right decision, however emotional things get along the way.
Toy Story 3 finds Woody, Buzz, Ham, Rex, Slinky Dog and Mr & Mrs Potato Head accidentally donated to a Day Care Centre where, it turns out, they're really in some kind of prison. They plan to escape the evil regime and get back to Andy's house where, they figure, that spending the rest of their lives in the attic wouldn't be too bad. Except that – fortunately for them – it doesn't turn out that way.
The toys do escape – as we all knew they would – but then there's some pretty amazing stuff towards the end of the movie that, for me, rivals anything any mainstream picture can dish out. Forget It's A Wonderful Life, Toy Story 3 is the real tear-jerker. I'll admit to it now: I was having major problems keeping it together. My lip was quivering a lot and I thanked the Lord for the cover of darkness provided by that picture house.
My eleven-year-old daughter admitted that she too was trying hard not to cry at the end, but hey, she's eleven – I'm a 6'1" grown-up!
As we left the auditorium and hit the daylight, I was finding it difficult to talk coherently. I didn't want to let on to my daughter that I'd found the whole thing rather emotional at the end, and had to strike the right tone of voice when I eventually asked her what she thought of the movie. She loved it, of course, and we both drove home awestruck. I was in a kind of daze for the rest of the weekend.
I used to cite Kubrick and Tarantino, Peckinpah and Coppola as my movie makers of choice – back in the days when I felt it was necessary to impress other people and pretend that I was a complex individual, but, as Buzz Lightyear would say, "Not today!"
Give me a decent Pixar movie any day. I don't think I've ever looked forward to a movie as much as I looked forward to seeing Toy Story 3. In fact, I don't think I've ever really looked forward to a movie before.
So the big question is: will there be a Toy Story 4? I hope so, but somehow I doubt it. A fourth movie might ruin the magic, not that I think the guys at Pixar will disappoint, but everything has been resolved.
The toys have a new home, Andy's off to college and why would the toys want to escape from their new home? Still, we'll see. Never say never.
My son goes to college this year, just like Andy, and I'd imagine there will be some emotional scenes between him and his mother. I'll try and hold things together as that's what dads are supposed to do, but somewhere along the line I'll probably have my moment too – although, as my mum used to say about me, "he's big enough and ugly enough to look after himself."
I've still got a wonderful little daughter at home, so my life has, in many ways, mirrored what has been going on in the Toy Story movies – right up to the present time.
They say life imitates art, or vice versa, so, I'll leave it there. If you haven't seen it yet, go see Toy Story 3 this weekend, it's the best.