That’s a wrap

December 13, 2019
Friends Kids/Family/Relations Technology
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Why...

Is the ability to gift wrap beyond my and most men’s skill set? If there is one action, I find hypnotic at this time of the year, it is the origami-like skills of people in the gift-wrapping department... or my wife. They can wrap the most obstinate and obvious of shapes in a trice, disguising the original into something totally different; a starfish into a perfect cube, an umbrella into a triangle. My wife could wrap up Michael Angelo’s David and make it a perfect hexagon, with possibly a bow discreetly tied to his gentleman’s salami. Give me even a simple rectangle like a hardback book to wrap and it’s a disaster. Scissors never cut in a straight line, or snag and leave little waves of scrunched paper along the edge. Immediate ticking off from my scalpel perfect wife. Even if I trim again, the fold at one end will be pointy while the other end will be squared off. The top of the book will be face against the bottom of the join of the gift wrap paper. The finished object will have an excess of paper so large at one end that it will look like something is trying to escape from the book; like that little monster that popped out of John Hurt’s tummy in Alien.

...and another thing

Scotch tape is the sticky forked tongue of Satan as far as I am concerned. It never cuts cleanly off the tooth edge of the dispenser. When given a sharp tug, it either unspools a length far too long that then sticks to everything on the table, or simply comes apart from the dispenser itself; the roll swinging onto the half-wrapped parcel and sticking there.

When I do get a piece of tape…

“No darling, not your teeth, it makes the tape ends so ugly”!

The damn thing always refuses to secure and stick one particular corner down; it just peels away five seconds later with a sudden phhht taking the pattern off the wrapping paper, leaving an ugly white scar in its place. And so, I have to begin all over again.

As for those prissy dispensers you can wear on your wrist and are meant to dispense pre-cut lengths of tape in a zig zag motion… they last maybe three pulls before sticking to the actual tape. I waste an hour trying to prise apart a near invisible join and end up stamping on the damn thing.

...and another thing

I pride myself on passing my onshore sailing exam with ease. Ask me to whip you up a reef knot, bowline, clove hitch in a truce and I’ll have your cleat attached to my rope before you can say ‘double entendre’.

However, ask me to decorate a gift-wrapped parcel with ribbons, bibbons and bows and they all tie themselves into knots faster than a set of Apple earphones in a tumble dryer.

The result of all this, if left to my own devices, is I need never put cards on my presents. You can identify all my gifts around the tree because they resemble an explosion in a paper factory. They are so ugly and lopsided that I am beginning to wonder if anti-wrapping could become an art form; I mean if Tracy Emin can display an unmade bed in the Tate Modern, surely my ‘present fighting the wrapping’ could garner equal nods of appreciation from the glitterati of the world of Modern Art. An exhibition at MOMI awaits?

...and another thing

There are some advantages to being a crap wrapper. No one ever utters the totally futile phrase:

“Oh, it’s so pretty! It’s such a shame to unwrap it.”

Mine just get ripped apart in seconds. The only thing no one wants to unwrap is a disappointing present. Who gives a shit if it’s pretty? Is it what I want?

It’s like your first date at the prom. No matter how pretty that dress is, it’s coming off as quick as you both can rip it open!

...and another thing

Despite the rather pointless waste of time pretty-pretty wrapping takes, I was in Paris when those artists Christo Vladimirov Javacheff and wife Jeanne-Claude decided to wrap all the biggest bridges across the Seine in pink taffeta. Pointless as a chocolate teapot, but I have to say I rather liked it.

I wonder if God looked down said:

“Oh, it’s so pretty! It’s such a shame to unwrap it.”

Beelzebub on the other hand I’m sure could not wait to tear it all apart. He won. It lasted only a few weeks.

Happy wrapping.

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My Eyebrows are Silky Soft and my Hair Smells of Listerine

December 5, 2019
Fasion Health & Beauty, Food & Drink, Life, Travel/Nature
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Why...

Hotel room designers must have one thing in common (apart from calling their children Nathanial or Poppy); vision so perfect they could see a flea get a hard on. Even with all the lights on, hotel rooms at night are as dim as a village idiot. It has some very disturbing results. Instead of the bell hop pointing out the bloody obvious like opening a small door and expecting me to be hugely impressed when he says 'fridge' instead of 'hotel cash machine' why can he not explain how the inevitable mishmash of light switches all relate to each other? I am forever getting into bed and hitting some knob that instead of turning the lights out, turns on a hairdryer or activates the TV. Even once I’ve mastered how the actual switches work, the lighting is so bad that my wife insists I bring a flashlight to help with her make-up.

...and another thing (continue to read this post)

The Grand old Duke of York

Why...

Does arrogance always trump common sense? I rarely write about “moments du jour”, that is what editorial in journals and newspapers are for but... I have never watched anything so toe-curlingly embarrassingly thermonuclear-awful as Prince Andrew’s performance on his recent interview with the BBC. Forget about when Pat Nixon (wife of President Nixon and accused of taking bribes) cried on TV that she never had a fur coat, only a good Republican tweed one, or Jimmy Swaggart blubbing from the pulpit begging forgiveness and swearing he is off hookers and cocaine for life...until the following week. It made Sarah Palin’s comment that she knows about Russia coz she can see it from Alaska look positively electrifyingly brilliant. Prince Andrew’s performance was a televisual feast of what not to do. No sympathy for victims, laughable excuses for staying in Epstein’s house for five days, just to tell him their friendship is over, that our hero can’t sweat from a condition from being shot at in the Falklands War, he never noticed girls running about any of Epstein’s houses because he never notices staff. The problem is he is just so honourable! Andrew has managed to take what was a bubbling under story into being front page news for five days worldwide. 6% of viewers believed him! He has lost a ton of sponsors to his charities, asked to not be Patron anymore to others and as I write agreed to step back from Public Life for the time being. Furthermore, he has pushed the FBI closer to feeling his collar, all because his self belief rode roughshod over other people’s advice. His actual defence is his arrogance and self belief mixed with a confidence he can wing an interview against a real pro. Prince Andrew is his own perfect storm. An IQ rating the same number as his shoe size but thinks he is the smartest man in the room All the on screen charm of a traffic warden with halitosis and as pompous as a Maitre D in an overpriced restaurant Non-existent sympathy for Epstein’s real victims. Indeed he is trying to make himself the victim! I suspect when Prince Charles eventually takes over, a ten year posting to Tristan de Cunha (a remote British atoll in the South Atlantic) will be next on Andrew’s CV.

...and another thing (continue to read this post)

Welcome aboard…. is enough

Why...

"Welcome aboard flight UR OXN flying from Heathrow to Sydney. My name is Sandra and I will be assisted by Dee in First class, Ben and Jerry in business and some trainees I look down on in economy. We understand you have a choice of other airlines and appreciate your custom ........We will be cruising today at 35, 000 feet at approximately 900 kilometres, or 560 miles or 490 knots per hour. First I need you all to pay attention to the safety demonstration, even those amongst you who have flown before…..” And so it begins. Flight attendants have become nannies in the sky, ready to instruct and scold. They know best. So listen up….and just to make you are awake the speakers screech with feedback. Most of us just want to recover from a cavity search after foolishly packing a pair of nail clippers in our hand luggage and watch a movie. The only thing we may ask the cabin staff (whose name is on their badge) is to turn the heating down.

...and another thing (continue to read this post)

Where there’s a will, there’s a... relative

November 8, 2019
Friends, Kids/Family/Relations, Politics, Sex, Uncategorised
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Why...

Did God invent money? To keep you in touch with your children.

It’s a sad truth that money trumps politics, religion or sexual orientation as the biggest buster-upper of families.

Here I stick my hand up and admit in my own family if mention is made of wills and inheritance it’s like nails down a blackboard.

Before we get personal, let me start with the tax logic... or utter lack of it. If you’ve had your nose to the grindstone, worked hard and paid your taxes, why do you get taxed again gifting it to whomever you please. Now I know in the UK there is a daft provision that if you live for seven years after the bequeath then what you bequeath is tax free. But why? What cockamamie logic is that?

When you are on the last lap of the race of life and you need money to look after yourself and lessen the burden to others... sorry, you must give it all away to lessen the inheritance tax bill. Either you live in poverty in your last years or rely on those you gave your money too will look after you. Either has the potential for disaster.

Next. The taxman's beady little eyes are more shortsighted than a mole. They value an Estate at time of death, not at the grant of probate. Mad. Let me give a simple example. Let’s say you sadly popped your clogs before the crash of 2007 when stocks were high but your wife who achieves probate afterwards when stocks were often more than halved; she would find there was very little left after the taxman had his Jaws like bite.

Then there is probate itself. Legal constipation at its finest. Even simple probate takes a year and more complex ones taking up to five times that.

Once you have got through all this... the legal challenge. A minefield and the explosive device upon which many a family have trodden and blown themselves to smithereens.

...and another thing (continue to read this post)

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