18 October 2008
16 October 2008
Now there’s a subject. You’ve either closed down my blog immediately or else you’ve dived into the body of the text to see what’s going on. Good for you. I hope you have a strong stomach.
Now let me state, right at the outset, that I have nothing against homosexuals. I just don’t like what they do in the confines of their pink bedrooms. So now that’s out of the way, why am I writing about them? It’s a long story.
Like most people, Mandelson, Portillo, John Prescott……(no – that last one is a mistake) ….I’ve had a homosexual experience and it’s one I’ll never live down. Why am I writing about it – well it’s to show people that I obviously have a caring, sensually attractive side to me. Either that or I have a great bum – whatever.
I’d not long joined BT when they sent me, with a few other BT guys (I said guys), to California to do a deal with a major credit card company who shall remain nameless although it’s not the one with the orange and yellow circles or the one with the greenish corporate colour – that should narrow it down a bit. Once the deal was pretty sure to go through, the lead deal maker in the
Move on a few months and we’re now in
Dinner continued and things became a bit more relaxed, now that everybody knew that I knew. Wine flowed and the conversation returned to the deal. I noticed Oliver becoming bored and I manfully (note the term) started a conversation with him. I apologised for being late and taking his seat and he replied that he had been late because he’d been off buying Paul some new shoes – some burgundy brogues in some fancy shop somewhere. Paul overheard this and complained that nobody wore burgundy brogues these days, whereupon, in the absence of all logic and shame, I professed to actually wearing some that very night. Chaos ensued as Oliver strode round the table, pushed my chair back, lifted my right leg into the air and showed everyone my burgundy brogues. I don’t know who was more embarrassed, me, Paul or the other diners but again within a few minutes normality (if that’s the correct word) returned and dessert arrived.
After coffee and liqueurs had been served it was time for me to apologise (again) and set off for home. I don’t recall the exact reason why I was leaving before anybody else but I stood up and bade my farewell. Again, Oliver got up, strode round the table, grabbed my face in both hands and started snogging me.
I was apoplectic but logical thoughts raced through my mind. How dare he. But he’s the boyfriend of the main customer. What will my colleagues think? What will Paul think? Is the deal now dead? BT will kill me.
All I can remember in those awful few seconds (it seemed like an eternity) was Oliver trying to push his tongue through my clenched teeth and me thinking that women do have a point when men with a growth on their chins try and snog them. It was horrific.
So, I’ve done it. Been there and got the t-shirt but didn’t like it one bit….and that was only a snog!
15 October 2008
I should take it as a slight but I’m not one to hold a grudge. Anyway, I wouldn’t know who to phone or e-mail. If you wanted to write to someone in charge of your native city it would probably have to be, in the case of my beloved
The problem you see, is that for the first 30 years of my life I lived in all that was bad about
And then I left. Heading for bright lights of
The east end, where I was born, was completely flattened (unfortunately they did not include Celtic Park) and once it was rebuilt with shopping centres and new, wide roads, was completely unrecognisable apart from the newly refurbished off-licences which still had grills inside the shop through which the shopkeeper would peer at you and then pass you your bottles of booze in exchange for cash – no cheques or credit cards here. However, the improvement in infrastructure did not wholly translate itself into an improvement in people’s lives – the average male life expectancy is still only 54 – below some African and 3rd world countries! But hey – let’s not quibble. The new roads were great!
So what is causing this sudden look back in anger. Actually it’s not anger, just misplaced pride. You see yesterday a deal was signed which will give
It will have roof-top cocktail bars and an infinity pool and its restaurants will no doubt present the highest levels of cuisine to all those Glaswegians who prospered after I left. Am I bitter? As they say in Glasgow - is the Pope a Catholic?http://thescotsman.scotsman.com/scotland/New-6-star-hotel-announced.4590750.jp
13 October 2008
I sat on my terrace yesterday afternoon waiting for John and Sandie, our lunch guests to arrive. I’d had a glass of rose and was sitting waiting for them, looking up at the glorious blue sky which was dotted with paragliders who jump off the mountain behind our house. It reminded me of a presentation I did in BT about ‘Courage’ (please don’t confuse me with
Just as I was thinking this, the music I had put on suddenly bust into ‘ Here's To the Heroes’. Not a great classical hit but something which stirs my soul and, I’m not afraid to admit it, brings a tear to my eye.
I looked up above and thought of my neighbour, Rene, who was a paraglider. I say, ‘was’, as he used to jump off of our mountain, Les Courmettes, but one day he missed a thermal, his wings folded and he hurtled towards earth. He tells me that there were two choices given that the was too low to deploy his parachute. He could either land on his back or his legs. He chose his legs………and ended up in
As the song progressed and the lyrics became more synonymous with personal achievement and the music became more emotional, I thought, ‘Why did they not play this when the Olympians, or Paralympians returned home’? Why is this song not played when our returning heroes from Afghanistan and Iraq step off a plane? We’re crap at this sort of thing. We’ve no idea how to celebrate heroism. OK – they go to
Listen to the song and think about our guys fighting in distant lands.http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=658KDwu0soY
12 October 2008
As I said in yesterday’s blog,, reading the paper over a relaxed lunch is one of my pleasures. I read the papers online every morning but the Daily Mail has a crap site which forces me to buy their paper whenever I’m at a loose end with a glass of wine – I’m sure it’s a marketing ploy….which works! Tan , my neighbour, reckons I like the Mail because it’s a right wing rag and because it has loads of pictures in it, but I actually read it because it’s got a good sports section and some excellent (right wing) columnists. Normally, I can get through the Mail in about 20 minutes (when I ignore the pictures) but on Friday there were loads of articles which made me chuckle out loud, much to the annoyance of those Froggies reading the Nice Matin.
Let me share some of them with you……
(1) The Big Picture – normally a double-page spread which shows some subject in glorious technicolour but on Saturday they had a wonderful picture of the Palladium Mansion at Stourhead, Wiltshire with the accompanying text – ‘What Better Sight is There Than Nature’s Glorious Show of Autumn Colours’. All very well….. but it was in black and white!
(2) Then there was the article about
(3) There was a woman of 105 who stated that her longevity was down to having no sex in her life – ever. Having seen the picture of her I don’t think it was her choice.
(4) A brilliant cartoon by ‘Mac’ showing some British soldiers in Afghanistan approaching their commanding officer and stating that…’The Taliban are prepared to surrender en-masse if they can get a nice big house like the woman in Ealing’. See yesterday’s blog about the Afghan immigrant who gets £170k per year in benefits including a £1.2m house.
(5) An article on ‘Brew Your Own Biodiesel’ to lower your car fuel costs. Given that my brother is in the business and I get all the problems ad-nauseum – e..g. – collecting hundreds of gallons of the stuff, boiling it to remove impurities, filtering it and then trying to get the smell off of your clothes (you end up smelling like a chippie - sorry Janie), it’s just not worth it….unless you live in the West of Scotland where the average Scot goes through several gallons a week in their quest to deep fry their internal organs.
(6) And finally (and I know I shouldn’t start a sentence with ‘and’), the allotment owner who was told he couldn’t put up barbed wire because it might hurt the thieves who continually raid his vegetable plot.
So, a good edition on Friday. I’m still laughing.