A Long Time Gone

Once again, I return to your screens. Yes, it’s been five weeks since I last wrote and five weeks since more of you read & liked what I wrote than ever before. You would think this level of unsolicited testimonial would have dragged me back sooner. Normally, it would, but these past few weeks have been filled with nothing but hell, torment, financial stress, jury service and, after a gap of about 9 years, overtime.

Come with me, if you will, as I share my April 2011 with you.

Let’s get the worst out of the way first.

How Stupid Do You Think We Are?

As I told you all last time, I don’t often resort to anger in my blogs. It doesn’t really make for an entertaining read and I usually walk away from the keyboard angrier than when I sat down. Nonetheless, when you are sitting in front of your TV and see an advert from those nice people at Kelloggs proclaiming that our long wait is over and we can now get our hungry mits on mini Shredded Wheat with jam in the middle, you do wonder where it will all end. Many years ago, I ate a Pop Tart and such was the sugar and chemical rush, I believed myself a member of Kool and the Gang for over an hour. Only the intervention of a close relative stopped me from actually “Getting Down On It” in a place where neighbours could see.

People my age don’t need so much sugar and kids probably don’t either. My dad didn’t even approve of Sugar Puffs. Mini Shredded Wheats with Jam in would probably drive him to complete distraction. He never really got over the fact that you could buy bread sauce in a packet.

Next time I am shovelling  un-sugared Bran Flakes in to my diabetic, overweight body, I will think of those doing the same with jam filled nonsense and thank god that I have an angry fire in my soul that pointlessly rallies against this sort of thing in a blog that about 20 people read. Most of me will  be jealous as hell but just to be on the safe side, I think I’ll stick to my fibre and roughage for now.

Service

Those of you have undertaken Jury Service will appreciate how vague I have to be in describing my three days of civil responsibility. To be honest, it was a bit of a bore and not at all like you see on that universal standard for us all, Television. The first Monday dawned. I rose, completely overdressed and after a bowl of jam filled mini Shredded Wheat, I stuffed almost of all the required paperwork into my coat pocket. There would be more than adequate financial compensation for my trouble, but this would not extend to paying for parking in a busy city all day. A bus it was then. The bus stop is only 5 minutes from my front door, so with about 20 minutes to spare and a growing sense of terror at the unexpected fortnight ahead, I set off.  4 minutes later and I found myself standing at a bus stop with several people who, on a good day, aspire to be the dregs of society. I say “standing with”, but I was actually standing far enough away to give the impression that I might just be looking for my lost pocket watch in the gutter. The game was up of course when the bus arrived, but by then they were trying to shepherd their horrible offspring onto the bus and had no time for the smart bloke who looked shocked at the fact that 20p wouldn’t get you into town these days.

The 48C

Where I got on the bus is fairly near the start of the route, so it was just me and my bus stop companions for a few stops. Gradually, the bus filled with more of them and finally, about half a mile from town, I was forced to share my seat with someone who, until now, I have struggled to share Plymouth with. Their concept of “half the seat” needed some examination, as did their standards of both personal hygiene and inhibition. “Get away from me you greasy-haired witch”, screamed the voice in my head but better sense prevailed and I busied myself with staring out of the window and trying to ignore the toothless hag’s reflection, gormlessly doing the same.

You could say that I am picking on an easy target and falling back on that age-old British habit of pointing fingers at those who are slightly different. You would probably be true but I do wonder why the people I point at seem to be showing off about it. Part of me begs them to stop talking their nonsense or, better still, stop talking completely.  When will they understand that we don’t care about their conversation and actually find it quite annoying to have to listen. Before you all let me know, I do realise that they won’t.

By the time we reached town, the bus was full, loud, hot and stupid. There were 4 O Levels on that bus and they were all mine.

I exited on Royal Parade, far too quickly than politeness would suggest and only slowed down to walking pace about 50 yards down the pavement.

I don’t like buses.

In common with most ex-pupils of my school, I am ridiculously early for everything but,   thanks to non-nonsensical bus timetables, it would be at least 10 minutes before I was ridiculously early. I could actually see the court building, so I had no fear of being late. Only a coffee could fill the void. Now, some of you may work in a big city and will appreciate the temptations that surround you. In addition to refunding my bus fare, I was to be paid £5.71 subsistence allowance per day. It wasn’t even 9am and I had already spent £2.50 on a small latte and a paper. This was going to be an expensive fortnight.

With 10 minutes to spare, I found myself and several others outside the side entrance to the court building. After establishing that we were all there for the same reason, much very British small talk took place and time passed very nicely. 9.20am came and went, but nobody had let us in. With the world-weariness of someone who had done the same thing very other Monday, a young man leaned out of the window and told us in no uncertain terms that we should be at THE OTHER side entrance. Sure enough there was another one and after a thorough security check, we found ourselves in the Jury reception room with about 40 other upstanding members of the community. I had left the most important documents at home but it didn’t seem to matter. What did bother me was how many people had a big pile of books and/or a laptop. It never occurred to me that such things would be allowed. On re-reading the leaflet, the instructions could be so interpreted but not by me unfortunately. After a quick introductory video and a talk by the chief usher, we waited to be called. With only a small pile of old magazines and a muted TV showing Sky News, the time crawled by. Seriously. I had read 3 copies of Private Eye, had a good stare at everyone else, written their life stories in my head, thought of at least 12 things to blog about (soon forgotten) and even had a quiet doze, only to look at the clock and see I had only been in there 35 minutes. If there is one thing sure to make time drag, it’s the idea that someone will need you at any moment. Finally, at about noon, 20 good people were taken away and not long after, all but 12 returned. They were told to come back tomorrow and we were told not to come in tomorrow and just to call in at 6pm to enquire about Wednesday.

At 6pm on Tuesday night, the answer phone message told us to come in on Wednesday. At about 10am on Wednesday, we went down to the court and I was selected to the jury.

Lunchtime

We broke for lunch at about 12.50 and after using almost all of my subsistence allowance on a sandwich and a coffee, I went outside to sit with the good people of Plymouth. Unfortunately, I was to be disappointed as the good people were all somewhere else. The courtyard outside The Civic Centre was bathed in sunlight (unlike in the photo) and full of people. I finished my sandwich and coffee in about 5 minutes and then wondered to myself what I would do for the next hour or so.

Then I smelt a pasty. Then I saw the bakery on Royal Parade. Then I went and bought one. Along with a diet coke and a donut, I had now spent almost £8.00 that I couldn’t claim back. This was going to be an expensive fortnight.

I ate the second course of my lunch on a bench overlooking the pond you can see in the photo. I was on the bench in the bottom right hand corner. For reasons best known to himself, a bloke was playing (I am sure that’s not the right word) with a remote controlled tug boat in the pond and nudging an un-powered model oil tanker around. It was fascinating to watch and very impressive.

42 minutes to go…

I went for a walk up to The Hoe and by the time I got back to the court, I only had to 17 minutes to spare. I think Plymouth city centre is in some sort of time warp.

Court business sped past and we were released at about 5pm.

That was it. The end of my Jury service. Part of me was a bit sad but, financially, I was probably better off getting back to work the next day and returning to the normal swing of things. I could have not been so lucky and ended up with a case that dragged on for weeks, I suppose, but I had seen enough of civil responsibility in 2011.

Kerbing My Enthusiasm

Regular readers will be more than familiar with my Rover 214. Sunday last, things took a turn for the worse. It seemed so simple. Take mum to breakfast at Royal William Yard and then tidy up the garden, do some ironing, tidy out my bedroom cupboards and generally do Sunday things.

An Unrelated Photo

On the way to Royal William Yard, I drove into a traffic island. Over a week later, I have no idea why or how it happened. Perhaps something caught my eye. It doesn’t really matter any more because it happened. The impact wasn’t that terrible – just a hard thud as the driver side wheel hit, followed by another as the back wheel hit in roughly the same place. The car bounced quite high but I wasn’t hurt and neither was mum. We scraped to a halt a bit further up the road. On first inspection, it looked like I had two burst tyres and nothing much more. The RAC arrived and he seemed to agree. He took both wheels off and we drove in his van to Kwikfit, a short distance away. We jumped the queue, as only an RAC man can, and £132 poorer, we drove back to the car. After both wheels were re-attached, it was quite obvious that the bottom of the car was completely f**ked. I could moan at the RAC bloke but the truth is, I should have spotted it too.

To cut an already long story short, on the advice of my local garage, I scrapped the car the next day and got £90 for it. The keen mathematicians amongst you will already be writing in red and you’d be right. To be honest, I have been using that red pen since I bought the car in July 2007. Tax, insurance and petrol aside, I have spent about £2000 repairing it and I would certainly have gone throwing similar amounts at it had this not happened.

After a week of taxis, buses, dodgy car dealers and endless on-line searching, I now have a Vauxhall Vectra. It seems fine but time will tell. The Rover cost me about the same and lasted 4 years. Hopefully, this one will do the same and cost a little less. In the meantime, I have to get used to new controls, a new seat and a car that feels like it weighs twice as much as the last one. Oh yeah, and it’s a 1.6 so the tax is bloody expensive too.

In a fitting, and appropriate smack with the 2011 reality hammer, I was none-too-pleased to be charged £25 by Halifax Car Insurance for changing the car on my insurance policy. This growing trend of charging “admin” fees is getting to be a real pain. It’s not the first time in recent years this has happened. They would no doubt blame the current economic climate but I would suggest that in the current economic climate, they should be grateful for the £330 I chuck their way each year. In amongst that exorbitant fee, I assumed there was already a considerable amount of “admin” fee.

Total, Complete Bastards

Over month ago, I was having a good day. It was a Friday, it was sunny and I was off to spend the morning with a good chum. She was on the way back the doctors when I arrived and I thought it would be a good idea to park outside her house and then walk to meet her just up the road. As it was hot, I threw my coat in the back of the car, tucked my wallet into my left trouser pocket and my phone into the right one. At some point in the next 10 minutes, my phone fell out of the pocket. Whether this was on the pavement or during my quick visit to the corner shop, I don’t know. For all I know, someone could have nicked it from my pocket in the shop.

Over the next hour, I retraced my steps time and time again. I went into the shop and asked and I even took everything out of the car. Nothing. The phone was gone. As it was locked, anyone finding it would have no idea who I was, but part of me hoped they would hand it into the shop or the police.

Work time came and thanks to Google Latitude, I was able to ask one of my four closest colleagues where my phone’s GPS indicated it was. For those of you who don’t know what Google Latitude is, it allows me to let chosen people see where I am on a Google Map. It sounds intrusive and stalkey but actually its just a bit geeky and harmless. In this case, I hoped it to be bloody useful. Curiously, my friend Tiger’s phone showed it to be about 2 miles away and after a quick refresh of the data, it showed up in Victoria Park, about 2 miles further on. After a moments consideration, it was obvious that the bastard who had picked it up had just driven past where I work.

I could have gone to Victoria Park but even if there was only one person there, I am not the sort of person to accuse a stranger.

It was all moot by now as I had informed Vodafone of it’s theft and by the time we went upstairs to being the working day, my HTC Legend was a useless brick and of no use to anyone, bastard or not. Could they have cracked my password in the hour or so I looked for it? I doubt it. The SD Card was encrypted too. At most, I lost a few photos and about a year’s worth of text messages (I hate to delete).

Unfortunately, the month that followed was anything but smooth sailing.

The Police were fine. They freely admitted there was little they could do and that it was unlikely that I would get my phone back. Depressing, but at least they were honest. They supplied me with the required crime reference number and even asked if I had been traumatised by the event. I was a little, but I doubt any offered counselling would have helped much. I suspect I would have had to pay for it anyway.

The phone was insured by those nice people at Barclays. It doesn’t cost me anything as it’s included in my account fee. As the same £16 a month also covers my RAC membership (9 call-outs this year and counting) I have nothing to grumble about. Vodafone sent me a new SIMM immediately and all seemed to be well. Unfortunately, Vodafone haven’t responded to a single one of the many emails I have sent them in the last month. Not one. The call centre is a little better but, as always, the language barrier complicates things terribly. The SIMM card came in an envelope addressed to me but the despatch note mentioned some bloke in Bristol. “Thanks Ok”, said the call centre chappie, “all SIMM cards are blank. We can activate it to your number when you have your new phone.” Naively, I took this at face value. After four requests that Vodafone supply a written proof of purchase on letter-headed paper, nothing was forthcoming. Finally, and in desperation, I convinced Barclays to accept the one and only email Vodafone had sent me as proof. 1 day later, I had a nice new Blackberry Torch 9800.  Once again, in the spirit of the current economic climate, I had to pay an “excess fee” of £25. Excess of what? God knows.

Following another call to Vodafone to activate the SIMM, the phone stopped working. Just after buying the new car, my first trip took me to The Vodafone Shop in town and 3 minutes later, it was all fixed. A new car and a new phone inside an hour. It only took a month.

Being without a phone AND a car at the same time was a bit like I imagine life in 1950′s Cuba. You wander about, completely unable to contact the outside world. Quite why this feeling is so terrible, I still haven’t worked out, but it is. Before the car was

Cuba, 1950

wrecked, I used to drive home terrified – what if I break down? I even had to resort to reading a book at break time in work and walking around as everyone else had either popped out for a fag or was hunched over their little 3″ display checking out Facebook or Twitter. I felt left out and I felt like everyone was talking about cool things behind my back. How the hell did this happen? What turned me into some sort of paranoid nut-job wandering around the earth, fearing everyone and everything around me like a Russian dissident?

Looking for a second hand car is complicated ever-so-slightly too by not having access to the Internet on the move and not being able to ring the number of anything you find on-line. The realisation that you are in the middle of an nondescript housing estate with no way of contacting anyone you know and/or love or need is scary as hell. Also, things are a REALLY long way away. Bus Stops, shops and eateries that you speed by in the motor are REALLY, REALLY far away when you have to walk.

Tech-up luddites. I have seen life in 2011 without a car and a mobile phone. It ain’t pretty. It ain’t even life. Pathetic it might be, but progress doesn’t wait for you and the longer you stay away, the worse it seems. If you haven’t done anything about it by now, it may actually be too late. I have a revolver you can borrow and I know where there are some woods.

So how was your April?

Good, If Blurry Friends

Preamble

Good evening. As an unusually festive and icy wind blows around the turrets of Argue Towers, the blush of shame reddens my cheek as I realise it’s been ages since I last filled your monitor with legibly arranged letters. No excuse this time. I suppose I just ran out of weekend last week and although I often intend to knock out a few hundred words in the morning before work, I seldom succeed. So, a week late is the remainder of my Rememberance Weekend Reminiscences.

Saturday

When we last left young Neil and his chums, he was drifting off to sleep (or at least trying to) whilst the European Trade Deficit drove past below his window. He was mildly pissed, a little cold and much uncomfortable on something that was once sold as a bed….

They say it’s perfectly normal to start the day with a horn but the cacaphonic violence that reached up to room 405 at 5.15am would have woken the dead, dressed it, shown it a good time and sent it home to a surprised and terrified family. A few seconds later, I was completely awake and again surprised that I ever fell asleep in the first place. Had I not known better, you could have easily convinced me that I had fallen asleep on the pavement outside.

I will now stop mentioning the noise of the traffic.

I dozed, rolled about, gave up and an hour later, I strode into the cold fright of the bathroom.  Like most hotels, the complicated genius that most of us refer to as a plug has been replaced by a metal plunger arrangement that baffles understanding, particularly after a restless night. The walls are covered in notices asking you to save the environment by “putting your towels in the bath” and “tuck the shower curtain in the bath”.

To be on the safe side, I just put everything in the bath.

Shaved, showered, medicated and dressed, I joined Sean in the dining room for our full English breakfast. “Choose from the following items” it said on the menu. We chose all of the items and were presented with all 5 items. One of each. It was possibly the most unimpressive breakfast I had ever encountered. I was sad, Sean was sad and even the food itself looked pretty ashamed. “£9.95 to non-residents” it said boldly on the front of the menu. Really? Has that idea ever been tried out?

Perhaps I am being mean. The staff at The County are effortlessly nice and the place clings to the seafront with an uncertain future. Will it have to close next year? The year after? For a while it looked like it would close 3 years ago when the modernisation of the seafront first looked like becoming reality. It’s still there though and for one weekend a year it is still full. Will I stay there next year? A definate “maybe not”.

So not a brilliant night and not a brilliant breakfast.

Oh for god’s sake Neil, cheer up.

I am happy. Honestly, I am happy. I have travelled 248 miles and spent a few hundred quid. I must be happy.

So what else happens on the Saturday of Old Boys Weekend?

Well first, thing Sean and I went for a walk in Dover. I can’t remember why. We definately had a reason but as I have again waited too long to recount the weekend, I have forgotten. A belt, that’s it. Sean wanted a belt and I wanted another poppy.

Yes! The poppy. Every year, next to the town hall. Some very nice old soldiers sell poppies and will hammer a little balsa wood cross into the grass, clustered with other crosses and arranged in regiments. I have never seen this take place in other cities but then again, I don’t travel much. It is strangely moving and I have always taken the time to thank them for the effort they make.

The pitches from the comparative warmth of the clubhouse.

At 12.30 we all head for Dover RFC to watch some rugby games. Dover RFC put up two teams (an under 30 XV and an over 30 XV) and DYRMS Old Boys put up two teams to play them. It’s all great fun and Dover RFC put a tremendous effort into looking after us. I hate to bring up the cold again but it’s hard to relate the events of this game without it becoming neccessary. It’s nobody’s fault, it’s just bloody, bloody cold. There is a great big bar and all I want is some bovril and a balaclava. The England international had an unfortunate effect on the numbers attending, even to the extent that some turned up, saw it wasn’t on in the clubhouse and headed back to Dover to find somewhere showing it. Poor show boys!

Not for the first time was I assaulted by greetings from groups of people I couldn’t remember. I always feel terrible when this happens, after all, I am the self-appointed flag bearer for my year (Class of 86) and about 5 years either way, so I should be a little more prepared and able to put names to faces. Sadly,  I rarely succeed and none of the generally accepted tactics for remembering names works all that often. This year, the Class of 90 did well, particularly the crowd that Sean and I still refer to as “our lot”, namely the guys who were in Wolseley 3rd form in our final year and those who also had the dubious pleasure of our company at mealtimes. I could be wrong but I think all but 3 made it. Well done chaps.

I am not the biggest rugby fan in the world and have no idea of the final result of either match. Sean and I stayed until about 5pm and made our quiet way back to the hotel. After an abortive visit to the busiest KFC on the planet, we blessed Dover’s finest chippery with our custom and smuggled steaming packages past reception and into our rooms. As many have since pointed out, it’s not against the rules to eat fish and chips in your room and I can only conclude that a visit years ago to a Dover B&B must have instilled that idea in our heads. A feeling of wrong-doing and danger does improve the appetite however.

The Flotilla - 7.30pm

We headed over to The Flotilla at about 7.30, only to find it a little quiet. This fact probably won’t surprise anyone born after 1980 and who is now use to meeting up just after 10pm for drinkies but it struck us a little odd. There we stood, freezing cold ale in our hands and unfashionable middle-aged denim on our hips, wondering when the hell £1 for a go on a slot machine became the norm. They didn’t even have the decency to dim the lights, highlighting our shame to any young family wandering past the window on the way home from M&S.

Luckily for us and shortly before I was forced to order a cheese ploughmans and ask for a quiet table for two, others dribbled in. The place soon filled up and the next 5 hours or so were filled with drinking, laughing, Kareoke of astonishingly variable quality and generally good times. I think I caved in at around midnight whilst others lasted a little longer. For the first time in many visits, I was a bit drunk and managed to fall asleep with the telly on a few hours later.

Sunday

The weather this year was wet and the chances of the parade going ahead were slim from the start. Some years you get lucky and crisp, bright sunlight shines down. This year, it drizzled from the early hours and only stopped briefly at about 9.30am. Poppies in our lapels and umbrella’s over our heads, we wanted it to be dry and at exactly the same time 400 Dukies wanted the exact opposite. I  well remember the joy at a parade being cancelled due to rain and I would like them all to know that we all understand. It’s just that we had come such a long way.

Marlborough House, 2010. Temporary and a bit scary...

After being depressed by the sad sight of a burnt-out Marlborough House on the way in, we decided to check out the temporary replacement building on the grass next to Haig House. I am not sure what I was expecting but it wasn’t the white monstrosity that we saw. To be fair, more than one person promised that the inside was great. I can’t confirm this, Marlbrough being a girls boarding house and even the good intentions of a blogger are probably not enough to secure me entry. Even if they were, a camera would probably not be appropriate. Sorry folks. It’s white, a bit like a portacabin and exactly the same shape as the other boarding houses. No, really. What it is like inside, you will just have to imagine.

Best guess wins a school scarf.

The 6th Form Block

Just round the corner and behind Haig House is the new 6th form block. From speaking to folks in the know, I understand that only the lower 6th are in there at the moment, boys on one floor and girls on the other. It all looks a bit Ikea to be honest and have no idea what it means to the school.

Biggest surprise of the weekend was Simon Whitton and Matt Colgate turning up in the Nye Hall. It was great to see them but frustrating as we only had about half an hour with them before we had to start our journey back.

..and so we did. Chris, Sean and I bid farewell to everyone and in no time at all, we were on the A2 and heading back to Sean’s place. I think Chris and I both slept most of the way back to Oxford, waking occasionally to all laugh at something we all remembered. A nice quiet end to it all really.

We stopped briefly at Sean’s for a chicken baguette and a coffee, but were soon back in my car and Devon-bound. The trip back was quieter but still full of conversation and laughs. I know Chris was a little worried at my level of tiredness and as we swerved into the M4 services, I kind of saw what he meant. Still, we were safely home in fairly good time.

So, how to sum it all up. You can’t really read the above without picking up a slightly lower level of enthusiasm on my part this year and you wouldn’t be wrong if you did. It was a bit of let down, despite being full of wonderful moments. Time spent with old friends is never wasted and if it was in a pub 10 miles from where I live, I would be one happy bunny. Perhaps I am at fault for building it all up and expected more than there is? Next year is the 25th anniversary of my leaving the place and I am going to make a concerted effort to get as many back as possible. If it looks like not happening then maybe this year has been my last visit for a while. Sad, but maybe it’s time for a rest.

*My apologies for the poor quality of the photography.  I keep forgetting how badly my phone performs in poor light.

The Most Expensive Car In The World

Marooned

..and so I dribble to the end of one of the most full, stressfull, penniless and dismal months of my short young life. With no irony whatsover (considering the medium on which you are reading this), I won’t bore you with the minute details. A lot of you with whom I speak on regular basis will know about most of it. The maroon metal monstrosity pictured above played it’s part in no small measure. So far this year, I must have spent the best part of £1000 on it, despite only paying £595 about 3 years ago. The world is full of people willing to dish out advice when this happens but the answer is never so simple as most believe. “Get rid of it!” they yell. But you can’t “get rid” of a car that is broken can you? Who will take it? So, you fix it and then you don’t need to “get rid of it” at all. In fact, the thing you have just fixed is one more thing on it that is less likely to go wrong again. I use this dubious logic to convince myself that after this year’s repairs – the thermostat, clutch, exhaust and alternator will not go wrong again for ages. I know…I know…

Anyway, it’s booked in tomorrow at the garage next to work (I know…I know) that I have often spoken about. Yes, I always feel stupid in there but you have to understand that it’s very convenient and thanks to my kind friends, I won’t have to spend £25 on taxis. By this time tomorrow, I will be able to stop disconnecting the battery every time I park up at home, at work and anywhere else where I am going to be more than about 10 minutes. It’s amazing what you can put up with sometimes isn’t it? If it does have one downside, it’s that I  have to wait around at work so that all my colleagues have driven off before I lift the bonnet to fiddle with the battery. They are all really kind but you do get a bit fed up of “are you ok?” or “do you need a hand?”. It’s my fault really. I shouldn’t know so many nice people.

I shouldn’t knock it too much though. As is always the case in the middle of diversity like this, I have learnt so much. I can now disable and re-enable the immobiliser with consumate ease. I know where the fuse for the horn is, I know how to change the battery, I know how to tell if the battery is charged just by looking at it and I even finally got round to putting new batteries in my key fobs.

But you are right. I should get rid of it. But look at it..it’s 13 years old and it’s still so shiny. It still has new car smell. Still!

So one final thank you to the RAC men who have helped me these past few weeks. Most of you were friendly, kind and helpful. One of you wasn’t but in his defence, it was very early, very cold and I did jibber like an idiot in an effort to pretend I knew the first thing about motor vehicles. To say I have got my money’s worth out of an annual RAC membership this year would be something of an understatement.

So that’s what’s been happening. It is certainly the only part of it entertaining enough or amusing to post here.

Progress

Long time pals will have been watching this blog on an almost daily basis for signs that it is going to be a going concern anytime soon. Well, I have now finished putting the last seven years of blog posts in and like most such jobs, it was a drag. This is mostly my fault as I re-read most of them before putting them in. Some I left out as a result of sheer tediousness or irrelevance. Some of them were too short to bother and after reading and disregarding the third of forth such dribble, I remembered that my first blog template was a skinny, single-columned affair where such tiny snippets would have filled half a page. Most of them would barely fill a Tweet these days.

Some of the entries reflected how much has changed since in the last 5 years. I had few friends at work who read my blog and it was very much a school friends blog. This is by no means a bad thing but nowadays, many of my work friends read this and would be a bit bored and/or mystefied by talk of things boarding school. I did (unwisely) bitch about work on occasion too. Why I thought this was appropriate is a bit of a mystery.

There is no mention of my dad passing away although there is of his funeral a week later. Likewise, there is little mention of my being diagnosed of Diabetes but there is of my memorable visit to a medical “workshop” a few weeks later. On reflection, I probably didn’t feel like blogging about dad at the time. I suppose the same could be said of my medical bombshell too.

So I guess I am “back” now.  My next blog post will be the first concerning the writing of my book. If you didn’t know I was doing such a thing then you will no doubt be fascinated by what I have to share with you over the coming weeks. If you did know, then once again I promise that I will actually get on with it.

Look at me, all back of the bus and shit…”

You will hunt in vain for the relevance of the quote, I just like the sound of it. Try saying it at work and stare in wonderment as the Pitch Black fans pull odd faces as they try to remember where they have heard the phrase before.

Don’t get too big for you boots though and try it with Shakespeare though. A few will silently admire your education, most will think you a tosser.

Today started well. A flat car battery. That’s the short version anyway.

The long version. I turned the key in the ignition and the holy audio hell that is my car alarm woke a sleepy Plymouth housing estate from its peaceful slumber.

Sweet baby Jesus and the orphans…

I tried everything – taking the key out of the ignition, putting it in again, getting out of the car and pressing the lock and unlock on the key fob, getting in again, turning the ignition. As blood began to pour from my eardrums and the grey-haired might of the Badgers Wood Net-curtain Nazi squad grew more angered, I noticed the “boot open” light on the dashboard was lit. I tore round the back and slammed it shut. I slammed it shut in just the way I should have done after returning from Tescos on Saturday morning.

Shit.

The little light in the boot had been burning for almost 2 days and whatever charge remained had been sucked away by the loudest car alarm in all Christendom.

Fortunately, I pay £20 or so a month to a well-known motoring association in case of just such an event. A mere 20 minutes later the nice man arrived. I gave up singing “You’ve Got A Friend” only after it became abundantly clear he wasn’t going to join in and we passed the rest of our time together time happily, as only we British people can do with someone they have never met before and will never meet again, first by talking about the weather and then about work. I really shouldn’t have mentioned who I work for and I certainly shouldn’t have mentioned the strikes. Let’s just say that politically he was slightly to the left of me and leave it at that.

” You just call out my name and you know whereever I am….”

In other news, work continues apace on my Excel project at work. I have learnt more in the last 3 weeks about VBA code than in the previous 39 years. I even started calling it VBA…

Night Night Mary…

Red Rover

Well, one part of it anyway. I got a new car. Well, a different one anyway. I don’t think “new” is much of an option for most of us. It is actually newer than the last one and has done about one third the mileage. It’s body work is very nice (as you can see) and the inside has to be seen to be believed (it’s nice too).

Anyway, it will do me until the inevitable Deal or No Deal win. It’s only a matter of time Noelly. Also, I gave the last one to my sister and she was very, very happy. Which made it an even nicer Saturday.

The strangest thing about the whole affair was that the dealer turned out to be the husband of someone I sit near at work on a fairly regular basis. Small world.

The Argue Family

And so to last week’s reunion. It was a surprisingly enjoyable affair. I don’t mean to imply that I wasn’t looking forward to it at all, it’s just that I had no idea what to expect. Because we all live in the same city, I tend to know a lot more about my mum’s side of the family and less about dad’s. My paternal grandparents have not been with us for some time and my dad’s brother and his family live away in Portsmouth. When we last saw them at dad’s funeral, it was the first time in 15 years or so. I would love to present a cohesive argument as to why this is so but I don’t think there is one.

So Saturday 7th came along and myself, Mum and Jo set off for Wiltshire. On the way, we stopped off at Bromham and dad’s wife Jane passed on some more of dad’s photos and such. Even now, I am recovering from the shock at seeing some of these. Some are so old and yet there I am. I last saw them when I was 9 or 10 I suppose which is pretty much the same as me never seeing them at all. Dad served overseas, mostly unaccompanied from 1983 onwards on and off and it never occurred to me that he took this cache of his family with them wherever he went. Included in the box was a photo album full of dad’s photos from his early army days -Borneo and the far East. It’s full of maps of where he went and shows a young man that I hardly knew. As mum has pointed out, most of these are from before I was born so he is not even 21. Looking at them now, I wish I had sat down with him at some point and let him tell me more about them. Still, life is not for regretting.

I was strange for Mum too. It was the first time she had been to Bromham. Jo and myself had been there many times in the last 7 or 8 years but it was quite odd to see her sat in the kitchen. Quite literally the last place I ever expected to see her sat.
After an hour or so, we headed over to a place called East Grafton where some kind soul had laid on a bit of a spread and opened their patio doors to a large group of strangers. The rest of the day was spent meeting people who knew me, or certainly of me which was a little strange, as I didn’t know them. My dad’s cousin Peter Beighton (I think that’s right) had spent a large portion of his life investigating our family and his work is quite stunning in it’s depth of detail. I am sure that most of you couldn’t give two hoots for the details but here is the briefest of summaries.

• The Argue family are Irish Protestants, with roots in the counties on either side of the boundary between Southern and Northern Ireland. The earliest records date back to about 1710; there is conflicting evidence as to whether the Argues originally emigrated from Scotland or came over as Huguenot refugees. Many Argues left Ireland during the 19^th century and branches of the family were established in the USA, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa and Britain.

• Robert Argue (1834 – 1919) – Robert Argue joined the British Army in 1852, served overseas in the Crimea and India for 17 years and returned to England in 1871. He was then posted to the Lancashire Militia prior to his final discharge in 1873. He lived in Broughton and Chorlton-on-Medlock, Manchester for many years before moving to Liverpool in 1908 or thereabouts. He was admitted as a Chelsea Pensioner in 1911 and died in 1919 at the age of 85 years.

  For those of you reading this who didn’t go to boarding school with me, the Chelsea Pensioners live in what was The Duke of York’s Royal Military School. In 1903, the school moved to Dover where it remains today and in 1979 I went there for 7 years.

  It’s also interesting to note that there are many more Roberts in the family. My middle name is Robert, a name my mum chose because she liked it and for no other reason.

Peter has provided me with quite detailed biographies up to and including my dad’s father, Bill and there were even things in there I didn’t know.

Included in the biography are home addresses. Places where my ancestors lived. There are few stranger or moving experiences than searching for these addresses in Google Earth and zooming down to house level in the aerial photographs. Most are still there.

And so it happens. I still feel fine and not really down but I had a bad day. Sometimes work just surrounds you and it gets stuffy and pointless. Then it goes a stage lower and I find myself bitching about it to somebody. Then I worry that somebody has heard me and I will be in the shit at some point. Then I stress that bitching about it brings me down to the level of those I am bitching about. Then I get a migraine and then (10 minutes ago) I throw up. Then a nice person says one nice thing and it all goes away.

Such is my life. Such is the shit in workplaces all over the world I suspect.

It doesn’t really matter does it?

No, of course not.

Sometimes you need a hug and the cat walks into the room at the wrong time. You pick it up, rest it’s head on your shoulder and you know it has the same expression as Lisa Simpson when she disapproves of something. It’s brow is nothing but a squiggly line..

“There, there dad…now you can put me down.”

Getting Old

Just after drinking a posh coffee that was way too strong with the J lady today, we (well mostly me) decided that getting old is going to be fun. I really can’t wait.

I am going to get to about 55 and go deaf. I will be amazed if I last that long but certainly by 55 I am going to voluntarily stop listening to people. “Pardon?”, “Ay?” or “what?” will be my new commas.

Not long after, if not before I am going to start walking with a stick. This stick will be waived indignantly at those who piss me off, ignore me, treat me like an idiot or just generally annoy me. Along with the stick waiving, I will rant about fighting in a ficticious war to make this country better for the likes of anyone with jeans that show too much of their pants.

On a non-related note. The Conservatives retook the city of Plymouth today. I feel better already. I didn’t vote. I tore my postal form into shreds by accident.

A Glorious Minor Victory

I have to be really careful here, because this could all backfire soon. What the hell, I just won’t tell you if it does.

The old Honda Concerto has not been well and today it went to the nice man at the garage. I described the symptoms to the bod behind the counter at the car shop but suggested that if one of there greasy, cheerful mechanic chappies tried to drive it up a hill it would be blindingly obvious what was wrong. So off went said bod to the nearest 1:4. 10 minutes later, he sped back into the workshop, stuck the thing on the raise-the-car-up-thingy and twiddled as only they know how. Then he reversed out and drove away. The guy behind the counter said it was probably the clutch and after I quietly asked how much a clutch was he tapped away and chirpily replied £348.90. Jesus Christ.

I thought maybe £100…

Anyway, back came greasy mechanic dude.

“I have adjusted it. Hills are no longer a problem but it is still slipping a little.” He tossed the key over to me and went for a fag/pee/read of The Sun.

Bod behind counter…

“I can book you in for tomorrow.”

Me.

“To be honest mate, £350 is about twice what I can afford at the moment. I will have to think about this.”

So, I turn on my heel and head for the car. The mechanic chap is removing the polythene seat cover from my seat and as he holds the door open for me says “That adjustment should do you fine. I am not positive its slipping, it could just be your engine. Come back if it starts over-revving again.”

So I drive off. The clutch is fine. Hills are fine. No over-revving. No slipping.

I am half-tempted to stick two fingers up to the bod behind the counter as I drive off but good sense prevails. Instead I will call him a wanker here.

Wanker.

Night Night

Red

Many of you have been holding your breath waiting for my detailed report following Operation Fence Spray. After one week’s delay the news is not good.

What a complete waste of bloody time.

Picture if you will the television advert with the laughing fat bloke. There he is spraying his fence quickly and with consumate ease whilst his nerd-like neighbour flounders about with the traditional “brush”. Well, I may have started off as laughing fat bloke but I ended the job rather happily with my trusty brush.

Points to ponder, re: The Sprayer.

• I stupidly bought one that runs on batteries. Shouldn’t be a problem I thought, after all its only a little pump and they are 4 big batteries. Wrong. Batteries lasted almost 2 fence panels (I have 18).
• You are advised by the enclosed pamphlett that you hold the nozzle (ooerr) about 25cm from the fence and move it from left to right in a continuous smooth motion. If you do this, the slightest whisper of wind blows the fine red mist up in the air, left, right or even worse back in your own bloody face. The 2 fence panels I managed to took almost 2 days to dry and are now covered in an uneven, gloopy mess.
• It goes bloody everywhere. The grass around the bottom of the fence has a nice red moustache, as has the top of my neighbours hedges and the back of his shed. Luckily, he can’t see the back of his shed unless he stands in my garden.

So I gave up and used a brush. Yes it took 4 hours and my back hurt like hell after, as did my arm the next day but it looks so much better.

The Sleeping Car

Part of the reason for my lack of blogging in the last week of so is a serious case of insomiability. Oh come on. You never saw that coming did you? A new and original excuse if ever there was one.

Let me explain.

The car is not well. It all started about 6 months ago. Over-revving when pulling away from traffic lights, lack of power going up hills forcing me into 2nd and, last Saturday, 1st gear in front of huge queue of rapidly-angering drivers.

I also did a bit of a freelance jobby last week and I could not solve one of their problems. This bothered the hell out of me and for some reason combined with the car nonsense to prevent me from having a decent kip for a few days.

I am not overly stressed about it but when you find yourself lying in bed wide awake at 8am on a Sunday morning listening to a church service on Radio 4, its quite unsettling.

It all seems ok again now though.

Work is fine. I am managing a team this week and there is not too much stress. I had to break some bad news to somebody which always lightens the day. Once again, I had a desperate need to keep talking and fill the gaping hole in the conversation whilst the news sank in. I really need to sort that out.

Excitement

Spiderman 3, Fantastic Four 2 and Die Hard 4 all coming soon. How excited am I? Like a 12 year old child. I have been to Quicktime and looked at the trailers for all 3. Bruce’s 4th outing looks particularly proposturous and over the top.

These Made Me Laugh

There is great truth in the statement by someone whose name I can’t remember that it would be a really good idea to write down every joke you ever hear the minute you hear it. I would have a huge and very valuable tome already after my 38 summers but as we all know, theory is one thing and practice is another.

It is also true that although TV and Radio comedy is probably as good as its ever been, I still laugh the most at things I hear at work or read on the forum. I have lost count the number of times I have laughed almost to the point of collapse at work and said to myself “I must put that on the blog”. Sadly, after a few hours more work and a drive home, it either seems not quite so funny or I forget.

So here I am trying to write this wrong. Here is a concise list of things that made me laugh over the last week.

• The news story that an airline pilot is currently suspended after an April Fool’s gag he played on the passengers of his 737. Shortly after take off he switched on the cabin radio and addressed the happy band of bleachy white folk headed for Malaga..”Hello, this is you luggage handler. I don’t know what I pressed but we appear to have taken off…”
• The mighty, underated and too quickly dismissed Danny Baker. The man is a genius. I first started listening to him in 1994 when he took over the DLT slot on Radio One. Since then he has been all over the place, GLR and BBC London. In the last few years I have been reduced to listening to him on the BBC Website. This is not exactly perfect, so imagine my surprise when his new podcast popped up on Itunes. If you have the capability, download it and listen. He seems to think that podcasting is where he is going to be now as he seems a little jaded with radio.Also, listening to comedy at work on your Ipod is dangerous at the best of times but this is deadly. Don’t miss the “man with a lisp sings the Pink Panther cartoon theme” or the regular “shoot me I am a session musician”. Anyway, enough eulogising. Just listen to it.
• In the category of “only makes Neil Laugh probably”, we are getting new “daylight” lighting at work. Great news for us. Bad news for the Night Shift who will probably be sent to sleep. Think about it. I know I did.
• Punchline of the week…”I thought I was putting my arm in a butcher’s dustbin.”

Ta Ta

Well. Where to begin?

I will begin two weeks ago. Saturday morning in fact. There I was at the local gas station, pondering at how quickly you can put £10 of petrol in a car these days as always. I was just put the nozzle back into the pump when I noticed a small jet of unleaded squirting out. Looking down I noticed that my entire lower body was convered in petrol. I also noticed that the pump appeared to have been clumsily patched recently with masking tape.

I tried not to panic but it was difficult. Any second now, some chav could leap out of his VW Golf with a fag “on” and I would be a gonner. Anyway, slithering in that way that I suppose someone who had just wet themselves would, I squelched into the mini-mart (as they now choose to call themselves) and presented my all-to-apparant grievance. I suggested that she might like to turn off the pumps but this was obviously ridiculous as this would stop all the other pumps too. Plainly I was being a complete cretin. Alternatively, I suggested I might visit the Fire Station round the corner and see what they thought about it. This changed things and two customers were immediately forced to stare in wonder at their suddenly frozen pump.

So, the shoes, coat and levis were ruined beyond repair.

I was assured the pump had been professionally repaired by their maintainers (insert a well know company more usually associated with door locks). I would have stayed and laughed but the fumes were starting to get to me and I needed to take off my human suicide costume. As I sped home in the car I smiled at the thought that I had not paid for the £10 of petrol – at least half of which was now in the car – result! Once home, I threw the coat and shoes into the garden, retired inside and threw my jeans out of the window. The garage bod had promised that the owner would ring me but despite staying in for the rest of the day, the phone never rang.

By 11am the next day, I still hadn’t heard as much as a peep so I drove back up there. The pump was now marked as unusuable and had enough masking tape on it to cover Boris Karloff from head to foot. The place that had squirted me was now a masking tape melon, created I suspect, not by a bonded and insured professional maintenance engineer but by the same person who had taped it the night before, either because they were untrained and badly supervised which wouldn’t be their fault or because they couldn’t be arsed. I guess I will never know either way.

The manager never rang me so I wrote to him, enclosing an estimate for the cost of replacing my ruined clothes. Two days later, a cheque for £200 plonked onto the doormat accompanied by an apologetic letter.

So, did I let them off too lightly? Probably. Numerous friends and family members encouraged me to do more but what would be the point? Would it stop the same thing happening again? Probably not. Would it make the world a better place? Almost certainly not. Do I still buy my petrol there? Yes…. Its close and convenient you see…

So we leap on two weeks to just yesterday. On my way back from taking mother out to breakfast on Dartmoor (don’t laugh…the Dartmoor Diner does a lovely scrambled egg on toast) I popped into another petrol station (same company actually). I stayed pleasingly dry whilst sticking £20 in the car and went in to pay. The shop was busy, so after barging towards the door I had to reverse out again to let someone pass. I paid the cash and got back in the car. Now where were by bloody keys? Usually, they are in one of 9 pockets and usually turn out to be in the 9th. This time however, I was stumped. No worries. I must have left them on the counter. Nope. I walked back the car and we checked everywhere. Bloody everywhere, inside and out. Nothing.

Now I am pissed off. Really pissed off. So we checked everywhere again. Nothing

Apparantely (and this happens a lot, so say the staff at the garage), some idiot had picked my keys up and popped them in their own pocket by accident. Shit.

Time to ring the AA. They can’t do much except call a local locksmith. Still, like most people I have no spare keys. Whilst waiting for the locksmith, I decided to ring Honda in Plymouth to get a quote. It turns out that it will be a complete replacement of the ignition system – Parts £300 labour about £100. Shit again I wept quietly to myself.

The AA called back and tell me that Leo Locksmith can’t do me until 4pm (its about 11am at this point) so they will send a towtruck to get the car home. Leo Locksmith’s rough quote is £175 which is a little better than Honda’s at least.

So there I am. Glowering Mother. Immobile car. My credit just ran out on the mobile. A £175 bill would completely rule out Old Boys (again). I am not happy. I am sat on the bonnet of an immobile car looking at a display rack of newspapers and some horrible garage forecourt bunches of flowers in black buckets. One of the bunches has a small leather key fob in the middle. My key fob attached to my car keys. Yes. At the place where I had walked backwards out of the shop to let two people come out, the keys had dropped into a bunch of flowers.

With a rush of adrenalin and sudden high that would not have been out of place at one of Pete Docherty’s bbqs, I slid off the bonnet and landed on the oily forecourt.

The AA cancelled the locksmith, the garage staff had a good laugh and I swore to god that I would get a spare car key cut in the week.

No £175 bill. I shall still go to Old Boys.

How like me that would be. To get £200 off one branch of a large oil company’s garages one week and have to give it to a locksmith on the forecourt of another branch two weeks later?

You could not make this shit up.

Oh and before I go, this blog has been discovered by some nice people at work so I’d better stop talking about work and keep the swearing down to a more acceptable level.

Peacock Meadow, Plymouth. The last car-boot sale of the year and the final resting place of my cassette collection.

Or so I thought.

I didn’t shift a single one. Not even at 50p each. Unbeflippinlievable. They even tried to haggle – 3 for a pound. Stick it up your arse you burberry clad chav. I bet you don’t even know who Classix Nouveaux are anyway.

It was a pretty pathetic affair. I arrived early due to a miserable experience last year when I was too late for a space. I needn’t have bothered as after complaints by local residents, the sale is a shadow of its former self and only 20 cars made the trip. It was muddy as hell and after some old guy thoughtfully sat on my bonnett so I could reverse properly, I spent most of the 3 hours worrying about ever getting out again. I did manage it after a dayglow-jacketted marshall carefully pushed us all one by one through a very small gap in a very rusty and immovable iron fence.

These sales are a necessary evil and had it not been raining, I would have enjoyed it more. My jovial attitude usually comes to the fore and seems to make people want to come over and pick through my meagre possessions with only moderate distain. After an hour or so, my dislike for the hairy beast that is the british public is re-invigorated. After such a period, I have been confronted by at least one of all flavours of boot sale visitor.

1. The Dealer. Male or female spiv who initially appears pleasant, casually and friendly in beating you down 50p or so and then paying out of the biggest £20 note filled bum bag you have ever seen. Your chipped ornament soon re-appearing on their table or in the indoor market for at least 3 times what you sold it for. Thatcher’s bloody Britain….

2. The Antiques Expert. This one has watched Flog-it, Bargain Hunt and most similar shows and knows a thing or six about pottery. Unfortunately they don’t know enough to realise that the primitive brown glaze ash tray you are asking 50p for was in fact made by your sister about 15 years ago at college. They play it cool but their trembling fingers betray their misplaced excitement as they delve pursewards. The partner stands some distance away, praying that I don’t suddenly realise their expert status and snatch it back. The transaction is completed and they both leg it, confident in the knowledge that they got one over on me. Idiots.

3. The Rummager. This idiot (usually male and a bit of a quiet one) rummages through everything you have – on the table and under it. They usually leave a mess and nearly always leave without buying anything. They do however manage to prevent anyone else getting a good look for at least 20 minutes. I have killed 3 of these.

4. The Chatter. The chatter picks things up and chats with you in a friendly manner for 10 minutes or so. Then they f**k off without buying anything, bizzarely saying “thank you” as they wander away.

5. The Giggler. Usually with their partner. They lean over and spot something you have, point it out to their partner, identify it out loud and laugh quietly. eg “Look….Round The Horne… (giggle)” or “Look…a CD Rack (giggle)”…and so the long day wears on. They never buy anything either.

6. The Tight-Arse. “How much are these tapes if I buy 5″? comes the question, “50p each”, say I. “How much for 8?”, “50p each” say I. Silently they are put back and he wanders off. A variation of this is the veteran tight-arse. This person has been coming to car-boot sales for years and knows how much things SHOULD BE. “Tapes are 30p here”….”Videos are £2″. Not while I still draw breath numbnuts.

7. The Comeback Kid. Witness today my selling of a 1950′s antique radio. Not quite the sad tale it could be as it only picks up MW and is hence pretty useless these days. The Comeback Kid appears early and comes back every 10 minutes until you get so sick of him you drop the price until he buys it. I guess that makes me the idiot. It was either that or beat him to death with Barbie bedside lamp.

8. Horrible Common People. It has to be said. Smelly, unwashed people in dirty ski-pants and shell suits. If only you could dig a moat and throw their purchases at them. They swear at their children, eat cheeseburgers at 8am on Sunday morning, smoke rollies and come far to close to me. They greatest arguement for public ownership of flamerthrowers there has ever been.

9. The Undercover Policeman.Come on guys. Bomber jackets and sunglasses are a little obvious, as is your interest in everyone’s number plates. I was almost convinced by the Jethro Tull LP and Kerplunk Game under your arm.

10. The Burger Van. Actually I like this guy and he is only on the list to make a round 10. Worthy of my respect if only for his wonderful coffee. 50p it maybe but when the drizzle pours down your face and you sink deeper into the Somme, that little polystyrene cup (put your own sugar milk in) it is quite wonderful. I have never been brave enough to try a hotdog but it’s surely only a matter of time. I also dig the way his van looks like a cowboy wagon and I would love to think it played “Home on the Range” when he first arrives.

Oh god that feels better.

How could have I forgot this. Temporary blindness brought on by seething rage probably.

Overnight on Thursday, the yellow line fairy visited my manor and decorated the tarmac at strategic points with its own brand of gutter fascism. Several 10 or 15 feet stretches are now forbidden to the honest parking motorist and I cannot see why they even bothered.

1. People seldom park there.
2. Round here, traffic wardens are rarer than hen’s teeth.

Its happening everywhere. There was a two page spread in the local paper a few weeks back from a well-meaning but dotty councillor determined to banish the evil motorist from Plymouth city centre. How is this to be achieved? Well, if said loon was to be believed, we will all flock en-masse onto the frequent, comfy and excellent value of a thing called a bus. Unfortunately for him, I only use a bus when forced to. These aluminum coffins are smelly, expensive, full of chavs and I wouldn’t “hop” aboard one at gunpoint.

A day-return from my house into town is a little under £4, quite good value when you add the cost of my car’s petrol to a parking space. Not so good value when you consider how picking your nose and singing along to Tears For Fears is frowned upon on public transport. They don’t stop outside your door, no matter how nicely you ask either.

The council is quick to say that car parking is only expensive to “encourage” drivers to use busses.

What complete arse water.

The smokers amongst you will appreciate this line of thinking. A similar strategy is used come budget time when the price of fags is hefted skyward to discourage you all from buying your favourite brand of tobacco death. As you know, making them more expensive works really well and I predict that smoking will cease to exist by February next year.

So we come full circle, because every single side street and alleyway in Plymouth is forbidden to the parking motorist. Yellow lines cover the gutters for mile upon mile. What saints the council are for protecting the residents of these thoroughfares from the evil cackle of Honda driving bastards such as I.

Just think. People less clever than I think you have done it to force us all into your over-priced, crime filled parking caverns.

Thank Winton for out of town supermarkets and their vast free parking, buy-on-get-one-free deals and home delivery service.

So whose won then? I have lost track.