5 June 2009

We're Doomed. We're All Doomed

So, you’ve finally managed to make it to the top job you’ve been working so hard to make your own. It’s taken you a long time – 10 years no less – but you think the wait, although longer than you imagined, will have set you up perfectly as the new captain to ‘run the ship’.

You appoint all your trusted lieutenants and set course (continuing to use the maritime analogy) and for a while things look ship-shape and Bristol fashion.

Having waited so long to be the boss, you waste no time in implementing some of the ideas you’ve been cooking up on the sidelines as the number 2. You’ve no need to consult anyone now – you just do it and sod the flak you might get – you know it’s the right thing to do.

After a few more months of turbulent but manageable waters (more shippy stuff) you’re keeping your head above water – just. And then, there’s a crisis and you come into your own. This is what you’ve been waiting for, a chance to show the rest what you’re made of,  a chance to resurrect all those socialist ideologies which you’ve just been waiting for an opportunity to implement.  It’s a heaven sent opportunity which you are going to grasp with both hands.

So what’s this crisis then? Well, your cruise liner (the one you’ve become master of) is losing all of its on-board boutiques. One by one they are going bust and the passengers are complaining. I mean, there’s only so many meals one can have each day – one just has to shop as well otherwise what’s the point?

So you start to bail the boutiques out, handing over lavish amounts of cash to keep them afloat, in more ways than one! You can’t really afford all this cash but your view, taken in splendid isolation, is that you can’t do without them. The fare-paying passengers need some R&R and everybody knows that shopping is just the best R&R about.

Your purser tries to tell you that you’re spending too much. Indeed, all the financially savvy ship’s passengers tell you also – it’s just not sustainable. Eventually, there'll be no money left to run the ship. Keep this up and the whole thing will go down, not just the boutiques.  But you’ve no long-term strategy to solve the underlying problem other than your socialist belief that if you throw money at a problem, the problem will be solved. Your crew and the passengers are increasingly questioning your direction. But you pay them no heed. You're doing the right thing.

The frequent polls done amongst the passengers tell their own story. You’re not a very popular captain and people don’t like the direction you’re taking. But you don’t listen – 40 knots, straight ahead please! You've waited 10 years to get this job, you're not going to give it up now.

More polls and more dissenting voices. Then one of your crew does an interview for the on-board magazine which is not terribly complimentary and then another appears on the on-board TV programme. Again, the underlying message is that the Captain is steering in the wrong direction.  The body of negative opinion is growing but none of the crew will stand up to the Captain – that would be the start of a mutiny.

Eventually things get so bad that one of the engineers jumps ship at the next port. No problem, we’ll just promote one of the Fillipino waiters. He’s no idea about engines but he’ll learn. Then one of the passenger liaison officers goes – no warning – she’s off. Again, no problem. There’s a cleaner down on deck -15 who could do that job.

The senior members of the crew start to get twitchy. The passengers are starting to revolt – the tips are getting few and far between. At the next port, the navigator does a runner. Then the chief engineer, then the purser. And all the while, the passenger polls, which the ship does on a weekly basis, tell him that he’s the most unpopular captain ever to sail the seven seas. It’s just a blip, he thinks. We’ll sail through these stormy waters – no problem.

Then one morning your coffee doesn’t arrive in your cabin. You look outside – nobody around. You go up to the bridge and the auto-pilot is on – there’s not a person in sight. No passengers, no crew, no cleaners, no chefs  – nothing!

Then you see that the ship is heading for a notorious reef but there’s nothing you can do. It’s too close. You’ll never stop in time. You should have listened to your crew, some of whom were friends. It’s too late now – we’re doomed, we’re all doomed!  

4 June 2009

Things I’ll Never Hear Said To Me

There are things which are said and then there are things which remain unsaid. The following are things which I’ll never hear being said to me:

1.       Guy – will you help me with my PC (he’s a gooooroooo)

2.       Kitty – I’ve cleaned and tidied my bedroom

3.       Julie – let’s roll about on the floor in front of the fire

4.       Julie – what would you like to watch on TV?

5.       Waiters – would you like a drink before you order sir?

6.       French Drivers – after you, please you go first

7.       Neighbour Tan – you don’t want another drink, do you?

8.       Shadow – woof, woof, woof, woof (he only ever barks 3 times)

9.       Kitty – I only need 4 euros for lunch today (usually it’s between 8 and 10)

10.   Julie – you sunbathe today and I’ll do the weeding in the garden

11.   Julie – I just can’t stand going to the shops today

12.   Julie – let me pay for lunch this time darling

13.   French Shopkeeper – of course I’ll change it sir or would you like a refund?

14.   France Telecom – can I help you?

15.   French neighbor – bonjour

16.   Julie – would you like me to help you wash the car?

17.   Lottery Organisation – you’ve won!

18.   French Bank Manager – we’re going to refund all those charges we’ve made on your account

19.   Local Wine Merchant – you buy so much we’re going to give you a discount

20.   UK Inland Revenue – we’re paying back all the extra tax you’ve paid

21.   French woman in car park who bashes your car as she opens her door – oops sorry – let me pay for the damage

22.   Mayor’s Office – Mr Cupples you’ve got such a big garden we’re going to do it for you

23.   Guy – Thomas I’ve written to the TV channel and you have dinner dates with Suzi Perry, Vicky Butler-Henderson and Britney Spears

24.   Google Blog Organiser – you’re blog is sooooo good we’re going to publish it.   

 

3 June 2009

They’ll Find You …. Even In The Jungle

Well I’m pleased to say that the jungle is being cleared, slowly but surely and my goal of getting to my neighbour’s lane before the end of June might be achievable. I have a few friends and some family members visiting in June so there’ll be quite a few days when nothing will be done.

Over the last few weeks I’ve actually looked forward to getting down there in the mornings and immersing myself in undergrowth so thick that I am almost invisible. But not so invisible that some passing neighbours don’t shout the occasional ‘bonjour Thomas’.

There’s Daniel, a retired IBM’r who walks his dog every morning and stops to have a chat. He knows that I’m also an ex-IBM’r but our chats normally revolve around my progress that morning, the state of my fire (for burning the rubbish) and motor racing – Daniel is a keen Formula 1 supporter.

Being an ex-IBM’r in an international lab (La Guade), Daniel had to learn English, so each morning the language of our discussion changes between English, French and Franglais. I don’t suppose he gets much chance to use his English a lot these days so sometimes we find that he talks in English and I respond in a mixture of French and Franglais.

After our normal 20 minutes, a break which comes at just the right time for me, he continues on his walk with his dog and I get back to the jungle, trying to find my tools which I’ve laid down somewhere!

Next it’s Patrick or his wife, Anise who pass in their car and shout a greeting. They don’t stop as they’re usually on their way to work (the French seem to start work quite late !) but a cheery wave from me in return and they carry on.

Occasionally Gunter, a German who lives in our lane but further up the mountain, stops and we have a chat. Gunter actually climbs into the cleared bit of the jungle and congratulates me on my progress.  It’s like a ritual. This morning was something of a bonus however, as Gunter noticed that I was cutting and storing wood as I hacked into the jungle and he suggested that I go up to his place as he had loads of mature, already cut, wood for me. 

It’s just about this time of year (i.e. a couple of months after our last fire in the lounge) when I start to have to plan next year’s wood stock but having cut down a couple of trees in the jungle, I should be ok for next year’s fires. But, never one to say no to a freebie, I’ll be up at Gunters asap to load my trailer.

And so yesterday morning, after a longer than usual set of little chats, I was bemoaning my lack of progress and was slashing and burning with gusto when about 5 minutes later a stranger stopped to say ‘bonjour’. This guy was smartly dressed and carried an official looking black leather folder and started talking animatedly in French. I stopped him to say that I spoke only a little French but he carried on as before. I did get something about my fire and the direction of the smoke (I do try to light it when the wind direction is away from the other houses but the wind changes frequently) and I immediately came to the conclusion that he was from the council and was reprimanding me on having a fire during the prohibited period.

I am unsure as to when the ‘prohibited period’ starts but as it rained heavily on Monday I thought I’d be ok but he carried on lecturing me, waving his free arm about. Just occasionally I managed to understand a word or two he was uttering but it all pointed to me receiving an official reprimand. He then started to open his black folder and pulled out a sheaf of papers. This is it I thought. After leaving the jungle to flourish for ten years against local regulations, I start clearing it and then I get into trouble with the council. Bugger !

He handed me the paper and along the top, in bold blue lettering it said, ‘Jehovah Witnesses’.  I nearly fell over. They can get to you – even in the jungle!

PS – the picture might give you a view of my progress. Just in case you haven’t spotted it – the cleared bit is in the foreground.

2 June 2009

I’d Swear It Was Tourettes

Now before we/you ‘re go any further, I have to warn you that this posting has lots of references to sweary words in it so if you’re in any way sensitive or you’re below the age of say, 14, please stop reading. I’d also like to say that the sufferers in the programme I discuss are well aware that their affliction usually causes a certain degree of mirth……. so here we go.

Now where was I? Ah yes, Tourettes Syndrome which has absolutely no link whatsoever with where I live.

When I moved over here I’d never heard of Tourettes Syndrome (note the single ‘R’). I’d go back to London and they’d say, ‘So where is it you live?’  And I’d reply, ‘Tourrettes ….’, and before I could get the, ‘Sur Loup’ bit out, they’d say, ‘F*** off. No f***ing way’. Then they’d collapse into fits of laughter and think it was hilarious.

So it was with a degree of curiosity that I watched a programme on Tourettes Syndrome the other night. The show followed a group of people who were diagnosed with the ailment in 1988 (when Tourettes was virtually unknown and frequently misdiagnosed) and it re-visited them. The unfortunate problem with Tourettes, is that Tourettes does not go away – there’s no known cure.

The primary vehicle for this documentary was Jack, who was first diagnosed at 14 years of age. He lived in a small Scottish Borders town and thankfully people there grew to know his problems and accept them. Jack has a serious case of the syndrome. He has multiple ‘ticks’. A tick being either an involuntary and severe movement  of the hands, arms or head, or an outburst of swearing.

The programme flashed back to 1988, when Jack as a teenager would wander through Galashiels swearing at everyone and everything. Today, I’m afraid he’s no better. Although he has a job (youth centre worker), has his own house and a faithful dog (who doesn’t seem to mind being sworn at every 5 minutes), and his family have virtually deserted him, he’s been ‘adopted’ by a rather more understanding household who don’t seem to mind him smacking them in the face at regular intervals or spitting his food out all over the house.

The programme also showed Jack hosting his annual Tourettes get together where similar sufferers got together to discuss their affliction. The outside leader of the group, who doesn’t suffer from Tourettes, stated that grouping these people together in one room is problematic, as once someone starts a tick, it causes the others to respond (involuntary) with their tick.

So we had the rather proper lady from some society or other talking about symptoms and how to reduce them when Jack said, ‘F*** off you pratt’. This immediately started ‘Chopper’ from Newcastle who replied with a ‘No – you f*** off’. Then the others joined in and within about a minute they were all telling each other to ‘f*** off’. It was both sad and hilarious.

Then it showed Jack fly fishing in a gorgeous borders salmon river. In the most glorious setting, he was serenely casting his fly up river, with all the skill that that art requires. The problem was, that each time he cast his fly, he shouted, ‘f*** off’, at the top of his voice. Now trout and salmon are particularly sensitive to noise, and water just magnifies any disturbance and therefore it came as no surprise that Jack hadn’t caught anything – ever!

My own little story,  and I’m quite ashamed of myself (really I am) was when BT was in the final stages of a huge deal. All the execs had gathered in Milan and we had a big, fancy dinner on the last night. I had been warned that I should pick up the bill but worked out that it was going to be humongous and that I might get some brownie points if I managed to get the client to pay.

As the dinner ended and the bill landed at my place, I sneaked a look. Three thousand euros plus! Directly opposite me I had a senior client (let’s call him Jerome), a really nice, but rather quiet Dutch guy. He looked at me as I picked up the bill, probably thanking his lucky stars that BT was paying,  and I said, ‘It’s ok, I’ll pay the f***ing bill’. ‘What was that’, he said. ‘I’ll pay the f***ing bill’, I replied. He was utterly shocked.

My colleague Steve, tapped him on the shoulder, apologised and said that I suffered from Tourettes Syndrome. He was so taken aback he said, ‘Oh let me (pay the bill)’. ‘Is that right ? Are you going to pay the f***ing bill’, I said. With that he got up and went off to pay the bill.

The next morning as we all left to fly back to our respective homes, we bumped into each other in the airport. You’ve never seen anybody do such a quick about turn and disappear!   

1 June 2009

The Difference Between Men and Women

So there I was. I’d been down in the jungle, slashing and burning since about 9.30am. The fire was about 6 feet tall and just added to the ambient temperature which was about 28 degrees. I was covered in scratches, my boots were full of wood chippings from the tree cutting and my face was dripping with sweat. Indeed my polo shirt was soaked through with sweat and my hair was matted with a combination of even more sweat and wood shavings (I was cutting branches above my head). I reeked of a weird combination of smoke, petrol (from the chainsaw), exhaust fumes (also from the chainsaw) and that unmistakably French odour – sweat!

I was so knackered when I got back to the house I could barely take my boots off but I persevered and wandered through to the terrace where I usually disrobed and jumped into the pool to achieve both an instant bath and blessed cooling relief. And there, lying on a sun-lounger, half-naked was my missus.

She was reclining back in the full sun with her Gucci sunglasses protecting her eyes,  a wide-brimmed straw hat perched on her perfectly coiffured blonde hair and no bikini top (aaagh!).   Her latest romantic novel was lying on its side and her perfectly pedicured feet, with  the latest shade of nail varnish were placed in that sort of model pose where they fit perfectly together.

And so I said …… ‘Darling, I’ve worked so, so hard this morning. Look at me – I’m soaked in sweat and smell like a council incinerator. I’m scratched all over and I’m itching like mad. I’m just going to strip off here and jump in the pool’.

‘Oh poor darling’, she said without even looking at me. ‘Before you do, could you just get me another glass of Chardonnay’.

I will refrain from telling you my response.

The photo is one of J I took when she was reclining with her clothes on!