Do airport managers spend so much time thinking of ways to make a journey through their fiefdom so unpleasant? I dislike intensely zigzag queuing but understand that it’s an efficient way to stack a lot of people in a confined space. However, when there are no queues, zigzagging like some demented pinball to achieve going forward twenty feet by a walk that would be an Olympic long distance event, is completely daft.
Do fancy restaurants insist on the loos being as dark as a coal hole? My wife complains she can never find anything in her handbag, let alone have enough light to touch up her war paint. As for me, after a few glasses of Bordeaux, these black holes are an obstacle course. More than once I have returned from turning wine into water with a bruised leg or burgeoning black-eye.
When we can create such marvel’s as the Hadron Collider, the Millau Viaduct, eye transplants and microwave popcorn, can we not create tamper proof voting systems? My American niece’s partner is in the election business and has a brain the size of a planet, so I only understand about ten percent of what he says. But if I grasp the basic gist you could make things 100% foolproof… but no one agrees unanimously to the system yet! As you all know I steer away from any personal political stance on these missives, but I would have thought life in the US, Venezuela, Iran, Russia, China and India might have been less bumpy if there was 100% confidence in the X cast for a vote. But of course outside of the first example I presume the people in power in the other countries listed don’t really want a foolproof system. They want one they can manipulate. There are those who say the same for the US… but that’s a dangerous path I don’t want to go down. Rather like playing hopscotch on a mine field.
The long silence?
Apologies all round.
I have just completed my third book, giving my agent the pitch of two completed books to secure a new publishing deal on top of my published first book Fall Out (by MN Grenside available on Amazon in paperback, Kindle or audio book. Got to be allowed a plug. It’s Christmas)!
This has meant much of the time when I would be tapping out these missives I have been completing the trilogy. Even as I write this on a plane to New York to see a number of producers about film and TV rights, I have spent a few hours noodling over book four.
I thoroughly enjoy my new occupation as a published author, despite some days of staring at a blank screen for hours on end. Even more frustrating is deleting large sections that a few days before I reckoned were ubergripping but I see now are as exciting as watching toast get cold!
Writing is the creative equivalent of three steps forward and two steps back…with a zillion miles to walk.
So, this is my apology for my recent silence and undertaking that normal service will be resumed in 2024.
Do companies blather on for eternity trying to convince me to buy the latest wonder; be it a drug to change me into a rampant teenage sex God, an electrical thingummybob to turn my stomach into ab heaven or gel that could grow hair on a billiard ball.
In each case the purveyors of this snake oil somehow believe that teasing out, in a thirty minute commercial, what we really want to know (ie price and what the miracle is made from) will be a help to their pitch.
It’s like they are performing a verbal striptease, teasing us with removing one piece of information only to reveal another layer rather than the ultimate goal!
Who on earth thinks this works? I would love to know the percentage of those people who click and start to watch these video versions of a shaggy dog story to who actually get to the end. 5%?
I’m about as likely to watch this endless drivel as I am to pay Elon Musk to be on TwiX or whatever he calls it.
Have people started flinging things at stage performers? Adele recently at her Las Vegas concert dared anyone to throw anything at her and see what happened! Well, it’s not exactly a new phenomenon. Originally performers were paid by money thrown at them on stage. I assume the more that was thrown the more grateful they were. Tom Jones has had enough knickers thrown at him to supply a decent sized Marks and Spencer store and no doubt Ozzy Osbourne has enough headless bats to build a wall. Recently the objects have ranged from a lemon at Arianne Grande (is that a subtle comment), a dildo at Lil Nas X, a mobile phone lobbed at Drake, a teddy at Lady Gaga and weirdest of all, the urn of a fan’s dead mother’s ashes tossed at Pink! (Before that someone tossed her a Brie de Meaux cheese)! There are three issues here that worry me. Firstly, who goes to a concert with a massive roundel of cheese or even a funeral urn as something suitable to toss at a performer. Secondly, with supposed security at these events how on earth do they get in? Thirdly, don’t the people sitting next to them think this is a tad unusual?
Struggle at the typewriter?
It seems to me the woke brigade have won in their determination to extract the humour chromosome from humans along with rejecting any disagreement with their point of view as either racist, right wing or offensive.
Ladies and Gentlemen, where is the woke version of the biggest selling book in the world? No, not Agatha Christie or the terms and conditions of Twitter… but The Bible.
Is watching 24 hour news reminding me of a primary school fight over break-time sticky buns?
If you try and explain to kids today that once we only had a news reader who told us the facts, leaving us to make up our own minds as to the substance, they look at you with utter incredulity.
The trouble all started with CNN and 24 hour news. Someone or something had to fill in the time between bulletins so what could be better or cheaper than an organised debate between opposing views.
Of course that’s about as exciting as watching toast get cold. However, screaming, shouting, abuse and the odd guest even flouncing out of the studio in a strop, is ratings gold. So out went decorum, in came the forum. In fact worse than the forum, more like the Colosseum with the collective audience giving the thumbs up or down as to who can live or die.
Who cares if fact takes second place to drama? Fuel to the fire was added with the relentless advance of digital media, where people’s inability to grasp basic facts is not a valid argument against them!
Do some people who shriek for privacy, remind me of a quote from Hamlet, “The lady doth protest too much, me thinks”. In days gone by, certain people really meant it when they withdrew from the limelight. Every female mimic in the world vamps us as Greta Garbo famously saying “Dahlink, I vant to be left alone”. The difference then was the Swedish icon stuck to it. No frantic interviews as to why she wanted to pull away from the public, an oxymoron of an event if ever there was one. She retreated to Manhattan and her art collection. Manhattan! Can you imagine that? No seeking out the paparazzi and in the one of the most publicity hungry cities on earth. At the height of her fame and beauty she had decided to retreat from the world, possibly due to the negative reviews of The Two Faced Woman. She was 36. The title of that failed movie is pretty ironic when you look at the two-faced women since, who have protested their desire for privacy but who continue seeking the limelight and would attend even the opening of a fridge.
Can nostalgia be dangerous? Brrrm Brrrm! Walking straight onto a plane with no security checks Carrying my speargun as cabin baggage in a plane First and business class transatlantic flights with no beds Airplane tickets made by travel agents only Smoking carriages on the subway/smoking sections on a plane Asking what is the movie on the plane Hovercraft to France Railway carriages with compartments and corridors Going for a Sunday drive 101 Octane Fuel Buses with conductors Driving without a seatbelt Just a radio with a single speaker in the car Spare tyres in cars No speed limits on motorways Electric Milk Floats Parking meters fed with coins
Does the impending holiday season now revolve exclusively around my TV? Firstly I should say that while tapping out this blog, the sky here in Malta is blue and the dogs are sunbathing in 22c/72f. Thanksgiving and Christmas are about as far from my mind as next year’s tax bill. However television commercials insist on dragging me away from my balmy reality into the fantasy of snow, turkey, goodwill to all men….and get me to start buying. I really do not understand how these companies who start commercials in November and scatterbomb the schedule for nearly two months with the same message, think this warms viewers to their cause. No matter how brilliant a commercial is, there comes a tipping point when repeated viewing turns into watching it again is worse than nails dragged down a backboard.
Care about a fake? I note with interest a puff piece in The London Times about the Hollywood nouveau riche hiring Art Consultants. The need is because these well coiffed beings can shuffle their A list clients to the heads of the queue to get a chance to gobble up a piece of art before anyone else. It also makes A listers feel less insecure having someone there to praise or confirm their good taste or have the expert lend Hollywood Royalty some of their own. Really? I agree if you made a few zillion dollars parading around in Spandex with the superpower to create a hurricane by blowing through your nose, you don’t really have much credibility as a Serious Actor; but in the art world, like any other, money is money. If the Hulk is prepared to pay more than a Titan of Wall Street for a scribble and dots by Cy Twombly, let the richest man win. I would lend more credibility to all these art experts were it not for the unfeasibly large amount of fakes or overbid artwork that has been sold to our brave Hollywood friends! As long ago as 1989 Sylvester Stallone sued his art consultant for $5m.(Brave person. I would have been more worried about a jab and a hook rather than a law suit). Steve Martin bought a fake Heinrich Campendonk (crazy name crazy guy) as have hoards of others. It appears these consultants no more protect you from a painting by Pinocchio rather than Pollock as anyone else
Am I feeling the teensiest bit envious today? They used to say the definition of rich was when you could not hear your spoon hit the bottom of the caviar jar. This winter in the UK, rich as Croesus will be if you can live in your home without wearing thermal underwear or not sucking on frozen TV meals like ice lollies. Meanwhile the Czars of energy will be taking a dip in their heated swimming pool followed by a nice sauna and a dinner of roasted lark’s tongues and baked Alaska, the country not the pudding. Well, my imagination is a strange thing but you get the picture. Now don’t get me wrong. If you build up a company from scratch, eat nothing but pot noodle and sleep on a bean bag for years, you deserve all the rewards you reap. But common decency also needs to step in. Do you really have to pay yourself £469m per annum (as is alleged for Bet 365 founder Denise Coates)? Greed seems to have made a comeback, making its first appearance in the 1980’s when it meant missing lunch with Gordon Gekko, look like it was a philanthropist. What is more galling is most of these energy companies are not run by the people who created them. Talented as I am sure they are, these are salaried people, whose risk reward ratio has gone potty. Someone was always going to be head of these companies. Unless I missed a trick, none of them persuaded Putin to duff up Ukraine causing a tenfold hike in what Vlad charges for a therm of gas, so resulting in the energy companies with a bonanza of profits and bonuses. The current situation for the energy companies is really serendipity.
To add to the list of things you do on holiday and leave on holiday is dancing to disco music.
Are some airlines hellbent on pi##ing off their passengers, whilst some notable exceptions bend over backwards to be helpful? Let’s face it. Airports in certain cities are in chaos. I recently heard of a passenger checking into First Class on an international carrier asking for his bags to go to Rio as he went to New York. An exasperated check in staff called over the manager who explained this was simply impossible. Baggage had to accompany the passenger. “Well, you managed it last time I flew to New York”, came the response, to a ripple of applause from other passengers.
Is everyone so coy about admitting ‘I am doing it for the money?’ There is a huge brouhaha going on because a bunch of sportsmen dressed in awful tartan and plaid clothing have decided to whack a few balls around God’s largest bunker, Saudi Arabia. Now, dear reader, have a guess what attracted these already rich men to play golf there? Was it… 1. The quality and diversity of the golf courses bathed in 100 degree heat 2. The range of free alcoholic beverages on offer 3. The chance to dance the night away with local unescorted ladies in some jiving nightclub and the wonderful variety of nightlife and entertainment 4. The opportunity to mingle freely with people of either sex or sexual orientation without fear of segregation or arrest 5. Their support to the regime that chopped up poor journalist Jamal Khashoggi in October 2018, and has a habit of beheading people whose sexual orientation or religion they disagree with, bans free speech and can use torture as a punishment from courts…… or 6. Could it possibly be the multimillion dollar prize money? Whilst trying not to reveal themselves as the money grabbing venal people most of us are, the golfers have tied themselves into a Gordian knot trying to say money was the last reason they agreed to the tour. Such a shame. I would have hugely respected the man who had piped up and said: “The only reason to visit this godforsaken sandpit with stone-age rules about women and gay people is to make vast amounts of money. If people honestly believe my presence here has anything to do with supporting a repressive regime they are either dreaming or drive in Formula I.” Previous F1 events have taken place in such well known beacons of human rights as Russia, Turkey, Bahrain, China, Qatar, Azerbaijan, Saudi Arabia and AbuDhabi.
During two years of lockdown and feeling like Papillon on Devil’s Island, locked in and no way out, my wife and I took the sports car to Sicily then on to Calabria and Puglia in the boot of Italy. The problem was we did not want to come home. After being cooped up in Malta, an island so small you could carpet it in an afternoon, the sense of freedom was overwhelming. And just like a single Pringle, a short break is not nearly enough. Had we not had two pooches waiting for us, we would be in Croatia by now on the way to Istanbul!
Are descriptions of taste so pompous and indecipherable? I read recently that a wooden cask tub of Macallans Whisky, which was bought for £5,000 thirty years ago on a whim of I suspect some rich dipso, has just sold for over £1m! To justify this ludicrous bar bill, that works out at around £2,000 a bottle, the descriptions of the taste have reached epic proportions of nonsense. Can anyone really tell me what… “a yellow halo with a mesmerising nose with a scent of salted caramel drizzled chocolate brownie restrained with a background of fresh orange marmalade and neroli with a dying hint of tobacco leaf” really smells like? To me it stinks like an Oreo cookie covered in Robertson finest Golden Shred marmalade, sprinkled with fag ends. And that’s just the smell. The rapturous pretentious waffle goes into overdrive when describing the taste; I dare you to read this and take it seriously. “On the palate waves of sweetness carries and mingles mature oak and library leather bound book dryness. This breaks into a regal spice mix of nutmeg ginger and ground coriander, over a wash of ginger perkin biscuits, soft buttery dates and freshly baked Danish apricot pastries.” (London The Times 27 April 2022) A perkin biscuit? WTF is that? I mean, just line up six whiskies and tell me which one they are referring to. “I say, Cedric, I think it might be this one though I not sure if the spice mix is regal enough and I think sweaty sock juice mingled with old leather football boots more apt than library books.” What makes my jaw hit the floor in admiration at the effusive nonsense is the ingredients of scotch are simply malted barley, water and yeast. And yet it reads here that someone tipped half the content of the unused drawer in the kitchen into the still used to ferment the whisky. The people who write this tripe I assume double as Real Estate novelists. The people who describe bathrooms as bijoux when you have to stand on the loo to shut the door.
Is streamed TV drama suddenly so boring? I don’t know if you have noticed but after a cracking first few years, Netflix, Prime and Hulu et al are abandoning main stream entertainment for more PC and worthy subjects. “Shame on you,” I hear you all cry. However, this is my blog and you are welcome to challenge me. My theory however, is very simple. Back in the day when Netflix etc. were Davids to the established broadcast Goliaths, the middle aged owners took a keen interest in the commissioning process. Not least because they simply did not have the luxury of appointing high flying commissioning editors. They sought out established producers which gave out massive hits like, Bosch, Money Heist, Sneaky Pete, The Grand Tour, Catastrophe, The Kominsky Method, The Handmaid’s Tale etc., etc. (Before you say Breaking Bad remember that was an AMC show that caught fire on Netflix due to every episode being available in one go).
Ever since some Roman Oligarch came up with the idea of a vomitorium, have orgies have gone down hill? In this little cubicle there was a flowerpot full of feathers with which you could tickle the back of your throat, throw up then go back to eating and fornicating with an empty stomach so you could start eating again… but with breath that could strip wallpaper. I mean would you snog a puke smelling orgy participant, even if it was Bradus Pittus or Angelina Jolia? The orgies from the Ottoman’s must have been as exciting as watching paint dry. One bloke, the Sultan, and dozens of members of his harem. I suspect the whole shebang lasted five minutes with most of the girls just casual observers till the Grand Vizir, seeing his Lord and master already spent, called for a time out with a round of backgammon and some squares of Turkish delight. A male fantasy but in reality all over before all the ‘toys’ have been unwrapped.