Retrospectator

2008-07-19T10:36:00.002Z

In hindsight...

I've learnt through personal experience that it's usually best not to say exactly what you think sometimes or reveal everything about yourself all the time......but occasionally things happen to you that you feel compelled to tell other people about. Still - that's no excuse for what I'm about to tell you now.

A prostate examination is an unpleasant but necessary procedure for any man over the age of forty. I'm lucky. I have a doctor with a sense of humour and warm hands, and until recently I've suffered nothing more than a momentary cringe of indignity and embarrassment.

However, a couple of weeks ago, I was referred to a specialist. As you can appreciate, I was a little apprehensive as I approached the reception of a small surgery in St Leonards. I exchanged nervous glances with a couple of other moist-palmed patients in the waiting room and took a seat beneath a large medical diagram of a penis on the wall.

Grey haired and brow beaten, he wore the weary expression of a man that sticks his finger up stranger's bottoms for a living. The proctologist read through my referring notes, checked my lab results and inquired about my general health. 'Okay let's take a look, shall we', he said with a half smile.

I'd been through this procedure with my regular doctor and started to remove my trousers in preparation to climbing side saddle onto the examination table. 'No need to take the trousers off - just drop them down to your ankles', he said as he plumped up a pillow on the bed. It's at this point I started to feel a little uncomfortable....

Half expecting to hear the strains of porno music, I glanced apprehensively over my shoulder and looked for the hidden video camera, but I only caught a glimpse of the proctologist adjusting his latex glove and squirting a generous amount of lubricant onto his stumpy fingers.

Now. I'm not going to go into the details with you. However, anyone who has gone through the same experience will tell you that the last thing you expect your doctor to say is 'Can you spread your legs a little further apart and lift your bottom towards me'......some mood lighting and a couple of glasses of Merlot may have helped me relax a little more at this point.

When I returned to the reception area there were a few more patients in the waiting room. They all looked up at me in unison, silently searching for a clue that would betray their fate beyond the closed door.

'How are you feeling', asked the receptionist.

'He has very large hands, doesn't he', I stated loudly to her.

I could hear the nervous shuffle behind me......

2008-07-19T09:58:00.002Z

Light a match...

Well, it's been a while hasn't it? Where have I concealed all this cynicism over the past 8 months? It can't be good for my sense of wellbeing - can it? No wonder I've been feeling somewhat bloated with sarcasm lately.

If writing is a laxative for self expression, I hope these few sentences provide me with the creative colonic I require...

2007-11-26T03:39:00.000Z

Banging away...

Earlier this week I woke to the not so gentle sound of banging of hammers. Bleary-eyed, I peered out of my window to see that the house behind ours was having a second floor added. 'That's all I need', I thought to myself. 'A month of abusive builders hitting a house with metal objects, urinating against the fence and flicking their cigarette butts into my yard'.

Imagine my surprise when, armed with only nail belts and rusty hammers slung from the elastic of their loosely fitted pants, they managed to build the extension in under a week...

2007-11-19T11:09:00.000Z

Flap, Flap, Thump...

Who said slap-stick was dead? I entertained the inner Western Suburbs today with a hilarious display of incompetence involving a Queen sized mattress, a set of roof racks and some losely fitted rope.

The load certainly seemed secure when I exited from the IKEA carpark in Rhodes. However, I was a little concerned when the mattress started flapping wildly everytime I exceeded 40 kph. None-the-less I continued my 16 kilometer journey back to civilisation to the accompaniment of blaring horns and derogatory hand signals.

I was quite relieved that, when the restraining rope eventually snapped, it was as I turned into my driveway, and not the expressway leading down to the Roseville Bridge.

2007-11-15T08:30:00.000Z

That's not a shark...

I was out beyond the breakers at North Curl Curl Beach today, teaching Larisa and Liam how to surf, when the shark alarm was sounded. At the time I was holding onto Liam's board as Larisa was drifting a little further out in a gentle rip.

For those that have not been in the water when a shark alarm sounds, it an amazing sight to see, as swimmers and surfers surge onto the safety of the shoreline. I pushed Liam onto the second last wave in the set and watched him head for shore. Larisa had drifted even further out to sea and couldn't get onto the same wave, so I started to swim out towards her.....this would have looked interesting from the beach, as everyone else was headed in the opposite direction.

However, before I could reach her, she managed to turn her board around by herself and catch the last big wave in the set. I was now stranded out the back, between sets and caught in a rip which was steadily dragging me further out to sea.

After a few nervous moments of treading water I was finally able to catch a wave in the next set and body surf most of the way back to the beach. As I waded through waiste deep water I could see the kids frantically waving me ashore. I looked back over my shoulder and could see a few other people struggling in - I could relax a little. I wasn't on dry land, but there was a meal between me and the shark.

The kids were standing next to a Lifesaver.

'How big is the shark', I asked her.

'Aw, about this', she motioned with her arms apart.

'That's not a real shark', came an incredulous voice from behind her.

I lifted my chin to look over shoulder. There was a bronzed surfer leaning nonchalantly against his board.

'My c*ck's bigger than that', he said. As he strode towards the surf.

2007-11-14T08:47:00.000Z

Mr Mom...

For the past three weeks I have been performing the role of a single parent. My days have been dominated by my children's needs. I've packed more lunches, laundered more clothes and cooked more dinners for my kids in the past 21 days than I have over the previous 14 years.

My domestic skills are a little rusty - some would say underdeveloped. A fact that has not gone unnoticed by my children, who insist on providing me with genuine and honest constructive criticism.....constantly.

However, I have settled into a routine and I am beginning to run a tidy household. All I need now is to be up to my ears in debt, wallow in a relationship based on resentment and see little prospect of future happiness and I'll feel like a real housewife.........hang on.

2007-11-07T10:58:00.001Z

World Class Service...

Last week I attempted to re-activate my private health insurance. I was in Brookvale so I decided to visit the local branch of HCF personally instead of tackling their computer voice-activated, multi-choice push button service.

'Hello, I'd like to re-activate my account', I said smiling at the frumpy woman behind the counter.

'Yes, sir', responded the customer services assistant. 'I'll just need some evidence that you have returned to Australia'.

I paused for a moment. 'Okay. Here's my passport'.

'I'm sorry sir, but I'll need some proof that you have returned to Australia before I can re-activate your account'.

'Yes, that's what I am doing', I quipped.

'No, I need to see some evidence that you have actually returned to Australia', she persisted.

'Here's my passport and here I am - what more do you need?', I responded with some frustration.

'Do you still have a copy of your boarding pass?, she asked me.

'My boarding pass?', I asked in disbelief.

'Yes, your boarding pass will be proof enough that you have returned to Australia'.

'But I'm standing in front of you - surely that's enough proof that I have returned to Australia', I blurted out a little too abruptly.

What followed was a frank and detailed discription of my theory on time-space quantum science and its relation to metaphysics.

'Please wait a moment sir, I'll just have to get my manager'.

She stormed off as the stranger, who had been standing behind me in the queue, called out after her 'I can vouch for the fact that he is actually standing in Australia'.....

The manager returned after a few minutes, rolled her eyes at the situation and personally processed my payment to re-activate my account...

2007-11-07T10:58:00.000Z

Bird Brain...

The Lorikeet is an attractive, but stupid bird. A couple of years ago one of them flew straight into the grill of my car - I was doing 50 km per hour at the time. How the bird failed to see over a tonne of moving metal has always baffled me - maybe it was just looking the other way?

An error in judgement is such a human trait. You don't often see a seagull apologising to one of its flock for taking out an eye with a wayward beak, or a cat pretending it never actually tripped over as it dusts itself of and limps off at pace.

I've recently been hand-feeding a flock of Lorikeets pieces of apple from my kitchen window. I've marvelled at their speed and precision as they swoop in low through the gum trees onto my deck - you can imagine my surprise to see, while standing in my dining room eating an apple, one of the Lorikeets swoop in low and at high speed straight into the glass doors I was looking out of.

The bird looked genuinely embarrassed. I don't know how he could possibly explain to his mates that he didn't see the house....

2007-10-12T10:38:00.001Z

Bag of nuts...

A bag of peanuts and a complimentary glass of cheap red wine is all you get for £292 on British Airways. I remember the days when they would serve you a 3-course meal on any flight longer than an hour. Unfortunately, the smell of Chicken Korma that greeted me as I entered the aeroplane cabin was was just the scent of my disheveled Flight Steward....

2007-10-03T09:50:00.000Z

The Black Nectar...

I was in Dublin earlier this week and took the opportunity to confirm whether Guiness does in fact taste better in Ireland than anywhere else in the world. In order to achieve a 'valid result', this research had to be conducted in an objective manner and under strict scientific conditions - so I had a pint of the black nectar prior to boarding my flight at Gatwick and abstained from eating on the plane.

Successive pints at Temple Bar in The Dubliner, Donoughues and some nameless establishment, decorated in lepricorns, did indeed confirm that Guiness does taste significantly better in Ireland - However, these results must take into account a margin for error, as I was distracted by a folk 3-piece playing something that vaguely resembled traditional Gaelic music.....or maybe they were just tuning their instruments.

2007-09-28T12:21:00.000Z

The Formula for Disappointment...

As a long suffering fan of the Sea Eagles I will, no doubt, be disappointed if they lose the NRL Grand Final against the Melbourne Storm this weekend. Will I shake off the loss with a shrug of the shoulders or wallow in self pity for a week? The answer to this question lays not in the result, but in my ability to manage my own expectations. I have therefore developed a mathamatical formula designed to assess the level of disappointment I am likely to suffer:

Value of Opportunity x Level of Desire = Satisfaction Factor/100 > Probability of Success :. Probability/Satisfaction = Level of Disappointment

If the Satisfaction Factor exceeds the Probablity of Success, I will be disappointed if that bunch of cheating Victorians beat my team. The degree of my disappointment can be calculated by dividing the the Probablity of Success (represented in decimal terms) by the Satisfaction Factor - the lower the negative result, the greater the pain and anguish I will suffer - so let's see how it works:

Value of Opportunity - How much is this worth to me in either emotional or material terms? Rated 1 - 10, with 10 representing the higher value to me. Level of Desire - How much do I want this? Rated 1 - 10, with 10 representing the highest level of desire.

Therefore, to calculate the Satisfaction Factor I simply have to multiply the Value of Opportunity by the Level of Desire and then divide that to create a decimal representation. Or in numerical terms (8 x 8)/100 = 0.64

The Sea Eagles have played well all year, but the Storm finished the season as Minor Premiers. Bookmakers have listed the Storm as hot favourites at $2.50 - the Probability of Success when assessing the liklihood of the Sea Eagles winning is probably 50%. So let's see how the final equations looks: (8x8)/100=0.64 > 0.50

Therefore the Level of Disappointment I will experience, should those undeserving, no-necked plodders from the South win, can be demonstrated as (0.50/0.64) = -0.22

Probably best to avoid me on Monday.....

2007-09-28T09:58:00.000Z

To the Pompous Plonker...

There are two office farewell parties on this evening, and I don't know which one to go to. Should I head off to the Fight'n'Spew with the sales guys? They're always good for a laugh, but the scenario is always a little too predictable. After the copious consumption of 'Temporary Happiness Facilitator', followed by shots of flaming 'Aggressive Mannerism Promoter' the sales team tend to go on a tired and emotional bungee jump of ever diminishing coherency and responsibility - I really don't want to end up in a club of ill-repute at four in the morning with 8 drunk Account Managers arguing about who has the largest salary package.

Maybe I should wander off to the Pompous Plonker with the Training Team? The drinks are a little more expensive, but it's a far more refined crowd. Mind you, the last time the training girls held a farewell, one of them threw up all over her lap and three of them got into a fight in the ladies toilet with a group of legal secretaries from Middle Temple.

Alternatively, I could just go for a quiet drink after work at the Geek'n'Freak with the IT department........but I haven't played Halo 3 yet and would have little to contribute to the conversation.

2007-09-27T09:48:00.001Z

23 degrees 27 minutes of seperation...

Is this just a cold snap we're experiencing, or is the Earth tilting a little closer to 23 degrees 27 minutes? In under a month the UK once again plunges into premature darkness with the end of British Summer Daylight Saving Time. Coincidently, the same phenomenon signals the start of the beach season in Sydney and my return to Australia.

So when I am sunning myself on the white sands of Curl Curl, I'll spare a thought for my friends in England - standing (at a 23 degree angle, some 27 minutes from seasonally adjusted declination of the sun's trajectory) white knuckled in some wet beer garden complaining about the cold - just stand a little closer to the outdoor heaters and pretend your on the Tropic of Cancer.

2007-09-25T07:48:00.000Z

Burn on the flame...

Last weekend I lit a bonfire, and in the process of doing so, slipped out of my slim leather, enviro-loafers and into a pair of size 11, carbon footprint-kicking, industrial boots. Four hours of stoking embers eventually burnt away 18 months of accumulated garden waste and any greenhouse goodwill I had acrued.

With the amount of smoke that bonfire produced it won't matter how many plastic bags I recycle or how often I defer jet flight for train travel in the future - I fear that my eco-account will always remain in the red.

2007-09-18T13:31:00.000Z

International 'Talk Like A Pirate' Day...

Surely there must be a regulatory body somewhere on this planet that officially allocates and performs the necessary administration for debacles like this. Apparantly, tomorrow is International Talk Like A Pirate Day:

http://www.news.com.au/story/0,23599,22441594-2,00.html

Who do I complain to?

2007-09-12T21:16:00.000Z

Mika's Everest...

He's been staring at it for nearly a year. A couple of times he has even stood at the top and looked down, but on Saturday Mika dropped in on the half-pipe at Skaterham.

Well done Mika!

2007-09-11T20:05:00.000Z

Who let the dogs out...

I'm sorry, but can someone explain to me whose disco biscuits that scruffy, little dog had eaten at Josh's birthday party? When it launched itself at the hedge and tried to wrench 10 yards of shrubbery from the ground with its bare teeth, the plant shook so violently that I was half expecting it to transform into something much more sinister than screening flora. It isn't usually that hyperactive......is it? The dog didn't look that calm either.

2007-09-06T08:17:00.000Z

Drive Thru...

The Chaser, an Australian satirical/comedy show, has pulled off some sensational stunts over the years. However, it sounds like they have outdone themselves when 11 of the crew were arrested yesterday for gate-crashing the APEC Summit in Sydney.

Apparantly, they attempted to welcome the leader of the free world, George Bush, to the event by driving a fake diplomatic motorcade to the event with a lookalike of Osama Bin Laden in the back of one of the limos. They did manage to pass one checkpoint before local enforcement officers noticed that Osama wasn't on the invite list.

The authorities appear not to me amused....

Check out their website at http://www.chaser.com.au

2007-09-05T11:41:00.000Z

Excuse me waiter, but there is a hair in my soup...

I think it was the huge tusks of facial hair that first alerted me to the fact that this was not going to be a normal daytrip to Brighton. In fact, such was the wide variety and large volume of face craft on display, that I feared that I had inadvertently wandered onto the set of an English period-drama.

After a few inquiries, I found out that Brighton was hosting the World Beard & Moustache Championships 2007. These were the elite competitors in their specialised fields - and like prize-winning budgies they stood proudly in front of shop windows to admire their own reflections.

My sparse sideburns were but a futile gesture when compared to their hirsute exclaimation marks...

http://blogs.guardian.co.uk/news/archives/2007/08/31/top_taches.html

2007-09-04T20:40:00.000Z

On the darkside...

How do you tell the difference between an EMO and a Goth? My mate Ben reckons it's easy - the EMO is the one rolling on the ground being kicked by the others. Last Saturday we took the boys down to the Concorde II in Brighton for a Greenish Day gig and our boys were accused of being on the wrong side of the alternative cult genre. I think her exact words were 'Oi, EMO', in a slightly condescending manner.

Talk about the kettle calling the pot black - they all looked the same to me. However, I was reliably informed by my cultural advisor, Ben, that to the trained eye there was a significant difference between the various tribal factions that made up the orderly, but sullen queue. Sure, they all wore black. Yes, they also all seemed to have smudged their eyeliner and they all looked a little depressed, but I still couldn't confidently categorise most of them.

I thought about sneering 'Oi EMO' at the crowd, just to see who turned around, but that would have only attracted more attention to the fact that I was the only one over 40 years of age and not wearing black. If we looked a little tougher we might have been mistaken for security, but to be honest with you a lifetime of desk-work gave us away for what we really were - a middle-aged Publisher and thirty something IT Director trying to prop up the bar as their kids hit the moshpit.

2007-08-28T11:41:00.000Z

The Day after The Fringe

I'm not the type of person that likes to draw too much attention to myself, so I was a little alarmed when the street performer started pointing in my direction. We were inconspiciously (or so I thought) seated on the hard cobblestones, in a square off the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, watching a group of juggling comedians entertain the crowd. It was the day after The Fringe closed, but it seemed like most of the acts from the festival had set up impromptu roadside skits to pay for their bar tabs and transport home.

I'm not sure whether I was relieved or horrified when a silver painted man enticed my daughter to ride pillon on a pretend, kazoo powered motorcycle in front of several hundred laughing onlookers - oh well, at least it wasn't me. The finale of the show involved a mono-cycling juggler, escape artist and Scottish strongman that lay on a bed of nails as a mime artist cracked a concrete block over his torso.

From where we were seated I could see all the way up his kilt - so did my daughter, before I could cover her eyes. I think she saw more of Edinburgh than she bargained on...

2007-08-24T10:38:00.001Z

Cultural capital...

Is Leicester the tracksuit pants capital of England? I know that first impressions can be deceiving, but they do influence how you perceive a place. Granted, it was a cold and wet morning when I alighted from my Mainline Midland service into the grey streets of Leicester.

Mullet-headed men in track pants loitered around the train station forecourt, as single mums with prams puffed hard on fags. One of them handed a still smouldering butt to her five year old son.

'Go put this out for me luv', she said.

She reached into her handbag, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit another one, as her son expertly flicked the fag butt into the gutter....

2007-08-24T10:01:00.000Z

Action Drama...18+

Getting to and from work can be difficult at times. Delayed trains, over-crowded tubes and roadworks in the capital make my journey to the office a challange. However, with continued heavy rain and rising gun crime my morning commute is starting to resemble a trailer to the Bourne Ultimatum.

So crowded are the tubes that I have to fight, hand-to-hand, just to get onto the train. Local flooding ensures that I usually spend several minutes, trapped in the dark, between stations fending off killer mosquitos that are thriving in the damp conditions underground. Once I've surfaced from the tube I end up combat rolling to the office to avoid BMX riding teenagers with hand guns.

I am sure that if don't drown, contract a deadly tropical desease from an insect bite or become mortally injured in a drive-by, there is a high likelyhood I'll get shot by the police for looking suspicious.....

2007-08-15T20:46:00.000Z

You need to learn to walk before you can swim...

The island was about half the size of a football pitch, but contained a surprising variety of trees, bushes and rocks. It was about 300 metres offshore, but it still took my daughter and I about 15 minutes to swim there.

'Be careful dear', I said to Larisa. 'The stones are very slippery and sharp'. She was clambouring over the big rocks on the shoreline and didn't appear to be listening.

'If you're not going to be careful you might hurt.....aagghh'. After many expletives and much bleeding we decided to swim back to the mainland.

'Careful dad, those stones look sharp....' I limped back into the lake without answering her.

2007-08-12T20:15:00.000Z

Good Moaning...

'Terve' (Hello). Uncle Sulo shook hands and met me with the standard Finnish welcome.

'Good Moaning', I responded. 'My calves ache at the thought of pickled herring - what is your thinking?' Somewhat startled, he paused - stared blankly at me for a moment, but continued with our doomed conversation.

Despite the fact that I was born in Helsinki, my grasp of the Finnish language can be best described as remedial. I left my former homeland when I was just 4 years old and still revert to the vocabulary of a pre-schooler when engaged in conversation.

'Monta paiva te olette Soumessa?' (How long are you staying in Finland?), inquired Sulo.

'I will weave a net in a number of days', I responded.

He bowed his head slightly towards my mother and whispered under his breath. I think I heard him ask her if she had dropped me when I was a child.

2007-07-28T21:46:00.000Z

Crime Scene (the band)...

Nirvana had to start somewhere, didn't they? I'm sure Blink 182 didn't always sound that tight - and that The Used hit a bum note now and then. So when the boys had their first rehearsal I could hear a glimpse of talent beyond the distortion, flat notes and strangely syncopated rhythm - they looked the part and they had the right attitude.

They've suffered for their art - now it's our turn...

2007-07-21T21:52:00.000Z

Typical English Summer...

Two months of rain in just one day - no wonder half of England is under water! I knew I was going have some difficulty getting home when they started pumping water out of our office. Fortunately, the District Line from Temple to Victoria was relatively dry, but other parts of the underground had been transformed into underwater canals.

Victoria Station was heaving with people. I'd been through this scenario a couple of times before - the slightest adverse weather conditions and the public transport infrastructure collapses, so I just jumped on any train heading south. It was the Brighton train (one of the last for the day as it turns out) and it got me as far as East Croydon.

From there I started walking...

This afternoon I sat, shivering under an umbrella in the beer garden of a country pub in the pouring rain. I guess it's just a typical English Summer...

2007-07-15T20:17:00.000Z

Yeeee Haaaa!

I suggested that the boys go for a bike ride today. I'm not too comfortable with them jumping stairs on their skateboards and thought a nice leisurely cycle around the village would distract them from these higher risk activities. I didn't expect them to ride off into the woods and find a huge 50 degree slope leading into a natural dirt bowl over two storeys deep. Even if they were to find such a natural phenonomon I didn't expect them to ride into it.....I was wrong.

2007-07-15T13:13:00.000Z

Fat Old Gits...

They may be wearing trousers a couple of sizes larger than when they first started playing, and they may not have enough hair between them for a decent mullet, but they still sound as good as they used to. The Fat Old Gits (FOG) hit the stage (slightly elevated platform) at the local club around 9:00pm last night and the dancefloor was immediately inundated with handbags.

The FOG have a small but keen fan base of middle-aged women and resigned husbands that accompany them to the few gigs they play locally. The boys reformed about a year ago and seem to be having the time of their lives...

2007-07-15T12:47:00.000Z

Off to the fair...

The Woldingham Village Fair centred around The Green, where there were numerous rides and stalls of dubious ethical standing. I arrived in time to witness the demonstration on fox hunting etiquette and hound whistling. I was just grateful (and suprised) they didn't actually release a live fox onto The Green so we could see it expertly torn apart by the hounds in front of our very eyes - the graphic description they gave us did not need to be eleborated upon.

The highlight for me was the aerobics demonstration given by the Wives of Woldingham. With the aid of a dozen over-inflated rubber balls, they bounced, bobbed and bent-over through a 10 minute routine that will remain the talk to the village for some time to come.....surely a potential entrant for 'Britain Has Talent'.....

2007-07-12T19:52:00.000Z

The new 'black' also comes in a cardigan...

Mika went to Wembley Stadium last weekend with his mate Max (and his dad, Jerry) to watch Metallica. The three of them joined a seething moshpit of black t-shirted, nasal-ringed, mullet-headed metal fans, to raise parted fingers and bang heads to thrashing guitars and screaming vocals.

The boys looked the part, but I feared for Jerry's safety.....I don't expect there were too many other metal fans there wearing a black cardigan. Either cashmere is now considered 'rock' or Jerry managed to maintain a low profile, because they all returned unscathed just after midnight...

2007-06-29T20:53:00.000Z

The Long Way Home...

I knew things were serious when I rounded the corner and headed east along Fleet Street, only to be stopped by a policeman armed with chequered tape and a stern look on his face. I'd left the office earlier, when the second car bomb was discovered, but only made it as far as the Blue Anchor. My 'fleeing' work colleagues insisted on buying me a birthday drink.

My plan was to walk to London Bridge and get the first train heading south, but after and hour and ten minutes I'd only reached the first set of traffic lights around the corner from the office. Faced with a cordain of chequered blue and white tape, I was going to have to find a creative route to London Bridge - or head back to the pub. I stood there for a few moments to consider my options and decided it would be best to arrive home late....not late and pissed.

I opted for the path of least resistance and weaved my way through Middle Temple and joined a long queue of corporate refugees - who appear to have all had the same idea - trudging along the River Thames. With wailing sirens fading in the background, I crossed at Vauxhall Bridge and made my way through the narrow little lanes in Southwark until I finally reached the railway station.

With the current alert status in London classified as 'Severe', the 20 minute trek to London Bridge might end up being my regular way home...

2007-06-24T20:37:00.000Z

Welcome home...

I peered down the queue that eventually led to the Passport Control Desk at Stanstead Airport. In the distance, if I squinted, I could see grim little officials grinding through passenger documentation. It was 11:30pm and judging by their demeanour, they weren't getting paid overtime.

When we eventually arrived at the head of the queue a bitter looking librarian with foreboding features and abrupt manner looked down the length of her nose at our collection of mutli-national passports and rolled her eyes at the offending documents.

'Where is your paperwork', she launched into an interrogation. I felt like telling her that she was looking at it, but I could tell she was in no mood for banter. I offered up our letter from the home office that confirmed that we weren't illegal immigrants, fundamentalists, criminals....or French.

'No. I need to see your documentation', she barked at me. Virginnia took this as a signal to question her intelligence. 'If you don't have the correct documentation I won't let you in', responded the bitter one.

The Passport controller was in stark contrast to the jolly fat German official that joked with my children and waved us goodbye at Schoneveld airport. She tutted at us and scanned the length of the line behind us - the message was clear. She was threatening to send us to the end of the queue....and another hour to consider our position.

'I'm exercising my rights as a....', Virginnia tested the waters with a full frontal assault. 'I hope you are not telling me how to do my job m'aam', retorted the ogre behind the counter. It was a Mexican stand-off as my wife and the passport controller stared each other down. I tried to defuse the situation by apologising. They both turned and stared at me with that 'F#ck off' look.

We eventually cleared passport control, but Virginnia wanted to give her some customer feedback......full credit to her.

'Can I have your name please....'

'Why do you want my name?'

'It's for my documentation...'

2007-06-24T20:02:00.000Z

Oh Deer...

'Mmmm, I think I'll try the venison goulash', I told the waitress. 'Und ein gross Berliner Pils, Danke'. Virginnia and I had entered a cold war of our own, so I decided I would enjoy a very large beer on the last day of our trip to Berlin.

'Daddy, what's venison?, inquired my daughter Larisa. We were in a little restaurant just off the River Spree in the old part of what used to be East Berlin. I had a sudden pang of guilt. Only last week I was feeding carrots to deer in the Knole with her.

'It's a special German meat', I paused. 'Dear...' While I hadn't lied - technically....I did feel bad. I chewed quickly on my venison goulash, and changed the subject.

2007-06-19T21:16:00.000Z

Only for sheep...

I stood on the railway station platform, in the very same spot that I have stood every morning for the past year. I stepped onto the same carriage that I have stepped onto, everytime I have stepped off the same platform, from the same spot I have stood.......you get the idea.

As I sat in the second seat from the door on the shady side of the train (as I always try to), I realised that I am a creature of habit. I peered around the carriage and all the tired faces that stared back at me were familiar. Had I really been on this train so many times that I could recognise my fellow travellers?

We were all part of the same flock of migrating corporate sheep. I have made a mental note to join the herd in the second last carriage tomorrow morning - I may even sit on the sunny side of the train...

2007-06-17T18:10:00.001Z

Life in the fast lane (part 2)...

Sitting on the High Street, Camberwell, in a greasy spoon cafe with three irratated children and police sirens blaring in the background was probably the more pleasant part of the day. I'd spent the previous three hours in heavy traffic, in a slow grind from South Croydon to Highgate - the return journey wasn't much better.

Next year, I think we'll do something else, rather than go for a 'pleasant Father's Day countryside drive'...

2007-06-14T20:21:00.000Z

If only it were as easy to get your life together as it is to assemble an IKEA wall unit...

Thank you for choosing to purchase a life. Inside this box, you will find all the components required to lead a fulfilling existence (tools required). First check to ensure that you have all the materials:

One Hollow, Worthless, Human Carcass
A Healthy Dose of Blind Optimism
Extended Credit Facilities
General Good Health
Life Partner (optional - does not fit all models)
A Specific Purpose for Being
AA Battery

Step 1:
Grasp Hollow, Worthless, Human Carcass by the throat and force it mercilessly to its knees.

Step 2:
Throttle the carcass until it is drained of all cynicism.

Step 3:
Connect a Healthy Dose of Blind Optimism with General Good Health and insert into carcass (suppositories supplied)

Step 4:
Finally program the unit with a Purpose for Being and furnish with Extended Credit Facilities (can be replaced with a life partner)

Step 5:
Insert AA Batteries

2007-06-13T20:16:00.000Z

Dear valued client

Further to your recent voicemail message, I am writing to inform you that we are unable to credit the invoice in dispute. Furthermore, I must regretfully decline your request to roll up and insert the document in question up my arse.

While I appreciate your frustration relating to this outstanding matter I am, due to current work commitments, unable to fu#k off. However, as a gesture of goodwill, I will re-issue your invoice, with a 15% surcharge, and place your account into collection.

Once again, let me sincerely apologise for introducing you to reality. You are a valued client of ours and over the years we have established an honest and transparent business relationship....so you won't mind me telling you that I think you are a cock.

Yours sincerely
Account Director

2007-06-12T19:21:00.000Z

Corporate lunch...

I was offsite today, for a strategy session, with a number of deep thinking corporate types. Around midday I was feeling a little hungry, so I asked a colleague of mine where I could buy some lunch. She told me (in all seriousness) that the shop across the road did 'bespoke sandwich solutions'.

I have a little less respect for her now...

2007-06-11T20:45:00.000Z

Not the outdoors type...

My son Mika went to summer camp with his school today.....I miss him already. I remember the first camp I ever went to. I won't humiliate myself by telling you how long ago it was, but I can tell you that I was wearing flares and tight fitting polyester body shirt.

Some of you may have gathered from my previous blog entries that I'm not exactly the 'outdoors type', but I must admit that I did benefit from the experience. No - it didn't make a man of me. I returned home the same insecure, snivelling 'big girls blouse' that left apprehensively seven days earlier.

However, I was far more grateful for the small comforts in life and food that appeared on my plate rather than from the bottom of a pond, or from inside some hole in the ground. I think my dad may have even missed me...

2007-06-10T20:02:00.000Z

Life in the fast lane...

I had Ben's Audi convertable over the weekend. I was going to take it for a drive onto mainland Europe, but I think he would have noticed a few thousand miles on the clock, so I settled for a cruise around nearby Kent and a bit of posing on the Caterham High Street.

A flash sports car does make me feel a little younger and more handsome. I could almost feel the air whistling through what is left of my hair, as I diligently maintained the correct speed limit on the M23.

'Will you put your foot down you old fart', barked my wife at me.....instantly ruining any preconceptions I may have about to have had about my station in life.

I managed to maintain the correct 10 to 2 hand formation on the contoured steering wheel, as I gently eased my foot off the accelerator to reduce our speed by a couple of miles an hour....just to annoy her.

2007-06-05T20:28:00.000Z

Ring, Ring.....I'm a Barbie Girl in a Barbie World...

The mobile telephone has come a long way since the 1980s. I remember a mate of mine, Ben, turned up at East Croydon train station carrying what looked suspisciously like a car battery with a home telephone attached to it.....he'd get shot nowadays as a suspected terrorist (I know it's off the subject, but it's amazing what you could take onto a train with you back then). Calling it a mobile telephone was a bit misleading. You couldn't fit it into the glovebox of your Ford Escort, let alone the breast pocket of your frilly, New Romantic polyester jacket...but, once you raised the antenna, cranked up the battery and sprayed everyone with radiation you were making a statement.....you were an individual.

In the 1990s someone's mobile would ring and we'd all reach into our Boss suits or draw the offending piece from our custom-made leather holsters - like some sort of synchronised street theatre - because we couldn't distinguish between the ringtone of our telephone and that of our fellow 'merchant bankers'.....the aim of our individualism was to fit in with the crowd.

In the 2000s the personal ringtone seemed like the ideal solution! Now you could customise your ringtone to match your personality.....unfortunately, when someone calls you on a crowded train and your telephone bursts into a ear-splitting, polyphonic rendition of Barbie Girl it also reveals your poor taste in music, general lack of self esteem and complete lack of self awareness.

You are an individual.....you are the only one in the carraige that is a tosser.

2007-05-25T21:05:00.001Z

Do the math...

I don't gamble, because I am very bad at it. However, I made an exception at a recent charity event hosted at the 2007 Tax Awards. Me and 700 accountants hit the Black Jack tables with fists full of 'funny money' and a head full of wine.

Usually, a trip to the Black Jack table is a brief and demeaning encounter for me. I'm not renowned as a high roller ('tight' is probably a more accurate description). What little money I am prepared to throw away is done so quickly and incompetently. However, the accountant seated next to me was making me look like a card-counting professional gambler.

'Double-up', slurred the grossly overpaid beancounter. We all looked at the five of hearts and three of spades in front of him.

'I'm sorry sir, but you can't double up on those cards', said the dealer.

'Okay - hit me'. The third card was the six of spades. He squinted at the table and struggled with the math.

'That makes fourteen', I explained to him. He looked at me with some annoyance.

'Hit me again', he demanded. We all considered the option, but resisted the tempatation.

The dealer slide him a face card. He stared at it for a moment and swayed a little.

'Hit me again', he growled.

Believe it or not, away from the Black Jack table he manages the finances of a major FTSE 100 company...

2007-05-25T20:06:00.000Z

It was so taxing...

The highlight of my evening at the 2007 Tax Awards was the anouncement of the Tax Personality of the Year Award (surely an oxymoron!). At a glittering event held in the Hilton Hotel, on Park Lane, 700 of the finest stereotypes in London spent over 4 hours locked in mutual self congratulation.

I was fortunately insulated from the intense heat of professional worship by the VAT specialist seated beside me and a riveting conversation on the merits of Land Tax - Section 4, sub-point B is zzz zzz zzz (Oh sorry. Did I nod off for a moment).

2007-05-13T20:49:00.000Z

Eurovision 2007...

The Eurovision Song Contest has enlightened me.

I have learnt that the French have a sense of humour....they must have - judging by their entry.

I have also learnt that being young, attractive and suggestively attired won't win you the event (Russia).....but being talented will make it even harder for you. I've learnt that the Swedish still worship Glam Rock, that the Finns have turned to the darkside and that Ireland should not have bothered.

I'm at a loss to explain what the Ukraine were trying to do...

2007-05-06T20:42:00.000Z

Gay icon or corporate puppet...

As I was driving to Canterbury this morning I couldn't help but notice that the special guest at this year's Caring Parent Fair, at Kent Showground, is none other than Noddy. I was expecting a hunched-over, bitter old cartoon caricature - after all he just recently celebrated his 50th birthday.

So imagine my surprised to see a spritely, smiling Noddy waving at me from the billboard on the side of the road. I was traveling relatively fast and increasing speed, but from the fleeting glance I had, it certainly looks like he's had some work done....not a wrinkle on him.

There aren't too many 50 year old men that are prepared to wear tight blue hotpants, shiny red pumps and pokka-dotted yellow cravat in public. Are there? So what is a corporate puppet, like Noddy doing moonlighting at a rural fun fair? Maybe things are a little slow at Toyland, because it looked like he was freelancing this gig - there was no sign of Big Ears, Martha Monkey or Tessie bear. Perhaps there has been a split...because of creative differences?

Many critics have accused Noddy of being two-dimensional, but he has transformed into quite a colourful character in recent years. I'm just pleased he got out of rehab...he was looking absolutely pasted last time I saw him.

2007-05-05T21:10:00.000Z

Here kitty, kitty kitty...

One of our neighbours has reported seeing a mountain lion in the village. Clive, our local ploddy, was unable to locate the beast. However, our over-zealous neigbourhood watch team had executed a pre-prepared emergency contingency plan for 'escaped circus animals' within minutes of hearing about the giant cat - no point in valiating the report. After all, what else could it have possibly been? Perhaps another gin and tonic made it go away? Not surprisingly it hasn't been spotted since...

2007-05-02T20:41:00.000Z

Corporate self-abuse...

I was interviewed by B2B Marketing magazine today (You haven't heard of it? Neither had I) about 'business information services'.....and the impact that web 2.0 is having on 'business intelligence systems'.

I banged on about customisation, scalability and accessibility. I droned on about cost-effectiveness, business efficiency and future proofing. I even used the word 'leverage'.

I think I may have sounded a little too........'corporate'.

It felt so good at the time......but now I feel a little dirty and ashamed.

2007-04-26T20:49:00.000Z

'Well Oil Beef Hooked....'

There were a pair Irish men on the same flight from Amsterdam as me. They looked like they had been partying for the past week. I watched them emerge from Baggage Claim with the wobbly boots well and truly attached. Tired and emotional, they couldn't face the long queue at passport control, so they opted to use the OCR reader at Gatwick airport - a fancy new piece of technology that scans and reads the unique image of your eyes for recognition.

The slightly less pissed of the two staggered into the glass containment cage and lurched over the optical reader - after several failed attempts he was able to stand still enough for the machine to scan his eyes and let him through. The second, significantly more pissed of the two, bumped his way into the glass containment cage like...like...a very pissed person bumping his way into a glass containment cage.

He leaned up against the scanner and started swaying backwards and forwards as he tried to keep his balance.

'Please stand closer', said the computerised voice. The drunk man swayed forwards.

'Please stand further back', said the computerised voice. The drunk man swayed backwards.

'Please stand closer', repeated the computerised voice. The drunk man swayed forwards.

This continued for several minutes as the man performed an intimate dance with the scanner.

'Oim fooken well standin on top o you', he slurred at the computerised voice.

'Please stand closer', repeated the computerised voice.

He then proceeded to debate whether he was standing too far back or too close to the scanner with a computerised voice generator.

'Please stand further back', asked the computerised voice.

Our drunken travel companion finally gave up and joined the end of the queue to the wild applause of hundreds of witnesses.

2007-04-26T20:27:00.000Z

The Young Fatty...

I'm always impressed by Dutch cuisine - it's so creative. Almost as creative as some of the venues it is served in. The highlight of my recent business trip to Amsterdam was dinner at The Young Fatty (rough English translation). It's a big old windmill that has been turned into a restaurant.

The Dikkert (The Fatty) is the orginal name of this 300-year-old mill, which used to be a watermill situated just north of Amsterdam - they've just refurbished it so it's now referred to as The Jonge Dikkert......it's worth the effort to get there.

2007-04-26T20:13:00.000Z

En-ger-land, En-ger-land, En-ger-land

It was St George's Day on the 23rd of April. A day of national pride, when the nation unfurls and waves the St George's Cross across the land. It's also a day of tacky medievel themed village fetes and novelty promotions in all the pubs in England.

My local pub held a 'Trivia Knight' and whipped the crowd (12 of us) into a frenzy of national pride by replaying great moments in English sport on the TV over the bar - we watched a black and white fuzzy replay of the 1966 world cup victory over Germany....ate our free portion of toad-in-the-hole and promptly left.......glowing with pride and burning with gastric reflux.

2007-04-22T20:23:00.000Z

It's not just skateboarding...

My youngest son, Liam, has informed me that he wants to become a professional skateboarder....that's him getting some air at Skaterham (a refurbished church). His elder brother Mika insisted on skating for two hours despite torn ligaments in his foot - they are both obsessed with skateboarding.

2007-04-22T14:23:00.001Z

Home away from home...

They started eating sweets on the bus out to the airport and finished the last one just as we pulled up to the terminal. The kids were flying even before they got onto the plane....500 grams of pure sugar left them wide-eyed and hyperactive.

We herded them through customs and into the duty free area in Barcelona International Airport......then spent the next 90 minutes to bring them down from a massive sugar rush by administering water. Maybe Spanish sweets are a little stronger then they are used to.

Our flight into Gatwick was a short one. You tend to forget how conveniently positioned London is to the rest of Europe. In under two hours we were in an entirely different culture....I had gone from wearing a t-shirt to sporting a jacket. The sunny skies over Barcelona had clouded over in Surrey and the friendly locals around La Rambla had turned a little cranky.

Welcome to Gatwick said the large sign over customs - I read between the lines - it said 'now you can bugger off to where you came from...'

2007-04-21T21:18:00.000Z

Barcelona Ole!

'Hola' (Hello), beamed Manjeeta.

'Ole!' (Hurrah!), I responded.

Okay, my Spanish sucks, but at least she was polite enough to just raise an eyebrow at me. We decided to rent a penthouse apartment just around the corner from Plaza de Catalunya. It was spacious, with sweeping views of every TV aeriel south of Calle Fontanella.....it also had a faint smell fo sewerage to it.

We had travelled to Barcelona to meet up with my brother Jaakko and his partner Alessandro. They were staying at a funky little boutique hotel deep in the Gothic lanes - it smelled of expensive aftershave.

Finding it was always going to be a challenge. In fact, if my brother's street directions had any vague similarity to the actual layout of the city it would have been difficult, but as he was probably studying a map of Mexico City when he gave me directions to the hotel it was actually a bloody miracle that we found it.

2007-04-13T20:42:00.000Z

Shaun the Sheep...

'Inquisitive, fun loving and mischievous, Shaun is a sheep who stands out from the rest of the flock. You can always count on this natural leader to get ewe into, and out of, trouble!'......this is the bio of the protagonist in my son's copy of Shaun the Sheep comic - a literary masterpiece that documents Shaun's Baa-a-a-a-army adventures.

It was only a matter of time before Shaun expanded his very successful TV franchise into magazines and merchandising. Such is the pulling power of this animated bag of wool that children all over England, aged between 3 and 10 years old, have started to bleat and baa in homage to this under-cooked leg of lamb.

I picked up the inaugral issue of Shaun the Sheep Comic with disdain and ended up giggling like a little schoolboy.....there wasn't a word of English in it - the whole thing is written in sheepish.

Check out his website http://www.shaunthesheep.com

2007-04-12T21:01:00.000Z

Mountain of meat...

The Napier Pub in Fitzroy, Australia, has just launched the 'Bogan (insert Chav here) Burger'. Constructed of Turkish bread, steak, chicken schnitzel, potato cake, bacon, egg, cheese, onion, pineapple and beetroot, it stands at an impressive 17cm, weighs 7,000 kilojoules and contains over 94 grams of pure fat.......with potato wedges on the side. Apparantly, the pub sells around 15 a day - 'it's mainly blokey action', says the landlord.

It seems that, nowadays, a coronary only costs AUD$15.50...

2007-04-09T18:17:00.000Z

Destination Heathrow...

I have just learnt that it is still dark in England at 4:51am. No, I hadn't got up early to watch the sunrise. Nor was I returning from a big night out.....I was driving my brother Jaakko to the Heathrow Airport. These are the types of things you do for your family - because one day we all call in our favours.

Not surprisingly, there was very little traffic on the M25 on a public holiday at that time of the morning. In fact, I had the road to myself, apart from a couple of truck drivers, no doubt well into the final leg of a cross-continental transit and dangerously high on amphetamines. We covered the 48 mile journey in record time and I was back home in time to get back into bed before anyone had woken up.

2007-04-07T20:08:00.000Z

Badger and out....

'Look, I've photographed a badger!', exclaimed my brother breathlessly. Was this code-talk for some sort of fetish that he'd developed in my absence from Australia? Apparantly not.

'A badger?', I couldn't help but sound surprised. There are plenty of badgers around the Surrey Hills, but they are supposed to be nocternal. I was genuinely impressed - until I saw the photograph.

'Is it asleep?', I asked sarcastically. There was not doubt about it...it was a photo of a badger. A badger that had either had a very heavy night on the sauce and passed out in the gutter or....

'No...it was hit by a car', he deadpanned back to me. He could sense that I was unimpressed.

'It was really difficult to take the photograph', he said - a little defensively.

'It doesn't look like it was moving very quickly', I offered.

'No, I know', he paused. 'I just didn't want your neighbours to catch me taking photos of roadkill.....'

2007-04-07T19:52:00.000Z

Role reversal...

Some kids grow up far too fast - some adults never grow up.

My daughter told me today that one of her friends at school has just given up smoking - she is 11 years old.

My brother nearly killed himself on a skateboard today - he's 41 years old.

2007-03-24T11:22:00.000Z

Room with a spew...

I was very tired when I finally got to the check-in counter at my hotel in Paris. So tired, that when I exited the lift on the 3rd floor I thought I'd somehow lapsed into sleep and was dreaming when I saw the state of the place.

The hallway to my room looked like the set of a crime thriller. I had suddenly been transport to a 1920's low-rent, low-life dump. The carpets were badly stained and shredded wallpaper was peeling from the walls.

My room was worse still. I was expecting CSI to burst in at any point, because it looked like the mattress to my bed had been murdered in a rather violent attack. I attempted to wedge open the window, but I couldn't budge it. There were no curtains on the bathroom window so I entertained the other guests with a quick shower before dressing beneath the only remaining lightbulb that worked and hurrying downstairs to meet my colleague downstairs in the lobby.

'Does your room look like a crackhouse', I asked Sam. We attempted to move or upgrade rooms, but were firmly told that the hotel was full - 'What!', I responded. 'Is there a drug dealers convention in town?'. For some reason they ignored me after that.

Bleary-eyed and exhausted I finally drifted off to sleep to the serenade of random thumps, bumps and faulty plumbing only to be woken earlier than planned by the vibrations and rumblings of the Metro train that apparantly ran directly below my hotel.

I will not be staying at the Mercure Hotel rue de Ponthieu again......ever.

2007-03-24T11:04:00.000Z

The Office...

With the same efficiency and dedication to detail that has enabled the Home Office to incorrectly issue over 10,000 passports to illegal immigrants and known terrorists over the past 12 months - in addition to losing more than 3 passports a week - this world class organisation has managed to lose my family application for EEA status - again!

Just as I pondered whether there is in fact a more incompetent Government department to deal with, I received a letter from Inland Revenue.....the same department that lost my children's birth certificates, that paid me tax credits and then demanded them back - the same department that (apparantly) lost all records of my existance, but has now informed me that their records indicate that I may (they are not too sure) have paid too much tax between 2001 - 2005....even though I was neither living or working in the UK.

No doubt I will receive some sort of tax credit....and then a demand for its return 3 weeks later.

2007-03-18T21:47:00.000Z

This Great Britain...

The English pub is a national institution. Nowhere else are the thoughts, feelings and aspirations of a nation better reflected than over a pint in a poorly lit, badly kept and oddly named local (no - the pub). Whether it is the Firthin Duck & Dog, the Cheshire Cheese or just the Cock - you will always learn more about this great nation in a pub, than you will watching TV or reading a book.

The three things I learnt at The George today were:

1. That the UK will be represented at Eurovision this year by a group called Scooch - they will apparantly sing a song about a gay aeroplane....or so the girl chatting to her friend at the next table said.

2. Apparantly if I remove the Sky satellite dish from my roof and wave it randomly in the air, I will pick up some 'wicked porn' from Eastern Europe - according to the drunken Chav playing the fruit machine with his mate.

3. The barmaid explains, with great patience, that my pint of Tanglefoot should look like swamp water and be served at room temperature - still doesn't explain the flavour.

Not that much of a surprise really - wine, women and song.

2007-03-12T17:50:00.000Z

Shop till you drop...

There is a blackhole located just outside the Kentish town of Bean, in an old chalk quarry just off the M25 - it's called Bluewater Shopping Mall. My car became trapped in the gravitational pull of this life sapping vortex on Saturday, and before I could accelerate away we were parked in the outer reaches of its extensive car park and walking towards the entrance.

Once inside, we joined the other victims in a mind-numbing walk around the shops. Encased in marble and glass, with artificial lighting and plastic plants I soon lost all track of time and the will to live. I ended up wandering into a youth shop called Urban Kaos where a spotty little teenager, with more facial peircings than a pin cushion engaged me in conversation.

'Any big plans for today', inquired the pin cushion.

'Just shopping', I responded half heartedly.

'Yeah...nothing much else to do around here', continued my perferated pal. 'I used to think this place was great, but there is absolutely nothing to do around here!', he moaned.

'How long have you been here', I inquired.

'This is my second week', responded my despondant dartboard.

That was exactly 13 days and 22 hours longer than I could handle. I said goodbye, wished him luck and hurried back to my car.

2007-03-04T17:15:00.000Z

Lost in translation...

My Australian accent must be softening. Very few people seem to be able to pick where I come from. In fact, I was talking to an Australian woman a couple of days ago and she thought I may have been from South Africa. I haven't purposely attempted to lose my accent, but you do tend to try and drop the upwards lilt at the end of every sentence - constant ribbing from work colleagues makes this a necessity.

Liam has adopted the local lingo with ease. He is constantly correcting my poor pronounciation and practices the art of village slang. If anything is bad or particularly corny he says it's 'pants' - at the moment most things seem to be 'pants'.

Mika is communicating entirely in MSN language with the rest of the family.

'What did you say?', I'd ask him.

'DW Dad', he'd respond.

'What?'

'DW Dad, G2G. BRB', he'd say as he wanders back upstairs.

We don't talk as much as we used to. Primarily because I can't understand a word he says nowadays.

2007-02-25T18:00:00.000Z

Here come the hoodies...

When I was 15 years old and fancied a Barcardi Breezer, or the modern equivilant of a slug of cheap white spirit, I'd usually hide somewhere - I wouldn't stand at a bus stop with twenty of my closest Chav friends, urinating in public and throwing up over someone's front fence.

I probably wouldn't drink openly and threaten to bash my younger 9 year old brother if he didn't hand over another ciggie. Nor would I intimidate an innocent Australian ex-pat as he nervously crossed the road to avoid two young girls fighting in the middle of the footpath.

Just as I crossed the road a police car slowed down in front of the group....they gave the coppers a send off as the bus turned up. They threw away their empties and got on.....everyone else got off.

2007-02-24T10:15:00.000Z

You can turn this one up to Eleven...

I initially thought I'd found a crack house instead of a restaurant.....the graffiti covered walls and rubble-strewn forecourt of the old postal building did not look like the entrance to one of Amsterdam's most fashionable eateries....it looked like I was lost.

I eventually found the service elevator (beneath the explicit picture of a woman, who looked like she had tripped over and had her skirt fling over her head - it must have been a particularly nasty fall, because she seemed to have also lost her panties in the accident). The double doors opened to a large loft with communal dining tables and a crowded bar.

'Elf' (Eleven in English) is mostly frequented by younger and far more fashionably aware patrons than me, but I wasn't the only middle-aged executive in the room. I spotted my colleagues from Amsterdam at the bar and joined them for a beer. The views over Amsterdam were sensational and so was the food.

The toilets in Elf were set up like a nightclub - there was mood lighting and loud music. I didn't hang around in there for too long - it's not the type of place you should strike up a friendly conversation with one of the other patrons.

We eventually left the restaurant the same way we came in (the woman in the large picture above the lift was still struggling to get up). Then it was a brisk walk back through the red light district to our hotel on the southern outskirts of the city.

2007-02-17T19:34:00.000Z

Life in the fast lane...

If given the choice, I probably wouldn't volunteer to speak in front of 1,200 people. However, when the CEO delegates the task to you - you have little choice but to start rehearsing. I arrived early to stand on the stage and get a feel for the place - it was already a little intimidating - and the place was still empty.

I and my fellow presenters had that over-alert, far too confident look that you adopt when in actual fact you are shitting yourself. Fortunately, by the time I climbed the steps to the microphone, the stage was already littered with the grotesque, twisted bodies of badly prepared and poorly delivered speeches. It's amazing how you can thrive off the misfortune of others!

Things started off well. I was confidently striding into my 4th slide and the crowd seemed to be engaged in my topic matter, but then something went horribly wrong. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion.....

I watched aghast as one of my wheels began to wobble (the slide deck stalled), the steering shuddered (I lost track of where I was up to on my notes) and then the tyre just flew off (I skipped a slide and paused for a moment as I tried to regather my composure). If I didn't regain control immediately I was going to hit the wall - there were terrified faces staring up at me from the crowd as I wrestled the presentation back onto the road.

Skidding sideways and applying the handbrake I ejected my notes and took the gamble to ad lib - within a few minutes I crossed the finish line to the applause of the crowd. That was close....I was very nearly cut from the wreckage of my own notes.....

2007-02-11T20:58:00.000Z

Snowed out...

No...it's not an Alpine mountain village - it's the view from our house in Surrey. At least once a year the residents of our village are snowed in and are forced to endure an 'unofficial' holiday.

Damn bad luck! - they are forced to spend their day off work building snowmen, sliding down slopes on make-shift sleds and having show fights.

I would have joined them, but I was snowed out (not in) and had to work.

2007-02-09T20:25:00.000Z

Lounging about in Amsterdam...

I was still flicking flakes of snow off my overcoat as I entered the BA Lounge at Schipol Airport last night. There was a blizzard outside and the whiteout had resulted in most flights being cancelled - so you can imagine the turmoil on the concourse below.

I, and my fellow business-class travellers, were determined to grit our teeth and ride out the storm (in 5-star luxury). With grim determination I made the long journey from my leather bound chair to the free bar (3.5 meters) and poured myself a large glass of Bordeaux - best make it a double to keep the cold out.

I was encouraged to enjoy the hospitality of British Airways, but I fear I may have exploited their generosity. Four hours and twenty five minutes after entering the lounge I finally heard the call for flight BA8118 announced over the PA. With wobbly-boot well and truly double knotted, I fought through the crowd and occupied my reserved exit ailse seat.

'Would you like a complimentary drink sir?, asked the stewardess.

'Why not!', I responded. Afterall, it had been a long walk from the lounge.

2007-02-06T21:38:00.000Z

Banging away on the Algarve...

I spent most of last week on the Algarve in Portugal for a Sales Conference and the highlight of my trip there was the clay pidgeon shoot. I'd never even shot a gun before, let alone fired in anger at a piece of flying pottery - so I was hoping that the session would include some tuition and a few hints on how to hit the target.

Our 'instructor' - chain smoking and bare-footed - handed me a big shotgun (we were apparantly sharing the weapon between 20 of us).

'There you go - blast away', he said - according to my translator. So much for the training...

I shrugged my shoulders theatrically to indicate that I had no idea what I was doing. He just encouraged me by shoving me onto the shooting platform to the cheers of my fellow work colleagues.

I started banging away at the crockery, but after nine misses I was starting to wonder if he had loaded the gun with blanks - he looked far to comfortable giving me the gun in the first place.

'Too fart to head', explained my instructor, while puffing on yet another fag. Surely he can't be qualified, I thought to myself. 'No, no, no...too fart to head', he repeated. 'Oh, too far ahead', I replied.

With my eye in and a little expert advice I shattered the next four clays into dust. The crowd yelped and to a huge roar of approval I knocked over the 'rabbit' - a small clay that rolls across the ground at high speed with my last shot.

2007-01-26T21:01:00.000Z

Muffler...

How is a man supposed to wear his scarf? The Artic Tuck? The Wrap Around Pull Through? Or the Side Knot? According to readers of the Guardian there is only one way to wear a scarf - loosely hung on the inside of your suit jacket with no more than an inch sticking above your collar.

However, I've always regarded the scarf as a little effeminent....so I guess it's not suprising that I was accused of wearing mine like a girl today - but, I was always told that your accessories had to match your manbag.

2007-01-21T21:18:00.000Z

Best of show...

I got a warmer welcome than usual when I dropped in to see Josh this evening. A firm handshake and offer of a glass of red wine was followed by a wet lick of my hand. Josh has just got a new dog - it's a black labrador - he has named the dog Harvey (yes....Harvey McGarvie).

2007-01-18T21:04:00.000Z

Commuter Chaos...

Our train was hit by a flying (okay...falling) tree this morning (there were winds in excess of 80 mph at the time). The train crew jumped manfully onto the tracks and attempted to turn the offending shrub into firewood, but were struggling with probably the smallest chainsaw/set of nose trimmers I've ever seen. I looked down, out of the window, and our conducter seemed genuinely embarrassed to be holding such a small tool.

Two hours later the real rescue team finally turned up with much bigger tools. They swaggered towards the tree and made quick work of it - as our conducter hide his embarrassment behind his bright orange reflector vest and just smiled nervously at them. I finally got into the office at 11:30am.

Getting home was even more entertaining. The scene that greeted me at Victoria Station (it was the only station still functioning) was incredible. Police lined the tube exit and with well rehersed crowd control procedures, we were herded into the main concourse.

There I was met by a huge milling crowd, which I managed to temporarily avoid by seeking shelter in the concourse bar. However, I was eventually enticed out onto the platforms by the announcement of the 19:20 to East Grinstead - unfortunately I wasn't the only one to hear the announcement.

Squeezing several thousand people onto a train that only fits 600 was never going to work....so as the police fended us off with a bullhorn and authoritative gestures, I eventually boarded another train. I didn't care where it was going......it was pointed south and that was close enough for me.

2007-01-17T20:22:00.000Z

'(beep, beep, beep), Mind the doors (you idiot)'...

Have you ever walked into a glass door? Have you ever completely missed a chair, while trying to sit down? Or maybe (this one has happened to most of us) you have casually leaned back in your chair at the bar and your elbow has slipped off the armrest - making you look far more pissed than you actually are.

Don't fret if any of the above - or all - have happened to you. You'll feel much better about yourself when I tell you that, tonight, I forgot to duck when the tube doors closed and nearly got my head stuck.

I have no excuse. There is a warning announcement telling everyone that the doors are about to close. They even beep very loudly before they close. On top of this, the platform attendent even barked 'mind the doors', before my forehead and the sliding door introduced themselves to each over.

An older women next to me gave me a patronising smile. A guy opposite me just smirked into his newspaper - while I gingerly rubbed the red welt between my ears. Let's face it. We all suffer from embarassing mishaps....just the number of witnesses vary.

2007-01-17T20:02:00.000Z

Timber!

It's very still outside, but this is the quite before the storm. Apparantly, authorities are warning us that there will be 80 mph winds tomorrow - and maybe even some snow. Around here, even the slightest breeze seems to knock over a few trees every week, so it could be quite exciting over the next 24 hours......unless you are a large organic tree like thing.

2007-01-13T17:38:00.000Z

No! Not the hair....

There were two of them....gay hairdressers in a Brighton salon, debating on how to tackle the tricky EMO cut that my son Mika had requested. Apparantly, an inverted style like this was a difficult challenge and now they were arguing over who was best equiped to take on the job.

I was already in the chair and the young girl was making an improportinate amount of fuss over my hair, considering the rating of difficulty in a straight trim. I glanced at Mika's reflection in the mirror. He was embarrassed by all the attention and looked a little self-conscious, but was dealing with the situation well.

His friend, Marcus, was in the chair next to him. Both of them looked a treat with towells, hair clips and combs sticking out at all angles.....I'll have to ask them if they went to get their nails done after the hairdresser.

2007-01-10T21:15:00.000Z

We sincerely apologise for any inconvenience this has caused to your travel plans...

It took me three hours to get home last night. No, I didn't have the wobbly boot on, nor did I get hopelessly lost. A train broke down at Wandsworth Common (yes just one) and the entire southern and south-eastern rail networks were thrown into chaos.

I had just put down my beer in the bar above the main concourse at Victoria Station when the large timetable board above the ticket gates began to rattle loudly - then there was silence - apart from the sound of jaws dropping. Every train was cancelled or delayed......a clearly nervous voice came onto the PA system to 'sincerely apologise for the inconvenience this caused to our travel plans' - as two thousand commuters looked for burning stakes and contemplated looting the station.

I had no alternative but to order a second beer and consider my options. After some time staring at the timetable board I decided to make my way down to the platforms. Suddenly there was an announcement over the PA and several hundred people charged the ticket gates. The train at platform 17 was leaving for Bognor Regis. It was nowhere near where I wanted to go, but it was going to pass through East Croydon.

There were soooo many people squeezed into that train that I now know what it feels to 'spoon' with a another man. The doors opened at East Croydon and we poured out onto the platform....it was now bucketing down with rain.

Surely it can't get worse, I thought to myself. 'The 19:45 service to East Grinstead service has been delayed by approximately 49 minutes', moaned the voice over the PA. 'We sincerely apologise for any inconvenience this may cause to your travel plans'.

He didn't sound bloody sincere enough for my liking....

2007-01-09T21:04:00.000Z

Calais to England.....or bust.

Dull, colourless and devoid of any significant cultural influence. No, I'm not describing the last James Blunt CD.....but the city of Calais. I know - I shouldn't be so judgemental. Afterall, anyone basing their opinion of Australia on a day trip to Engadine would not be very complimentary either (I think I may have offended two, maybe three seperate demographics in one paragraph).

The highlight of my trip was the return leg of the Euro Tunnel train when all the toilets, except one right at the back of the train, broke. I'd been frantically searching each carraige for the facilities, when I spotted an official looking chap in a yellow reflector vest walking quickly towards me.

'Are there any toilets working on the train?', I asked him.
'They're all broken this end of the train - there might be one down the back', he replied.

I followed him through the electric doors. After four carraiges we'd picked up an entourage and by the time we got to the last carraige we'd formed a pack of about a dozen desperate passengers in need of relief.

'Don't worry, we're nearly there', said our leader. He seemed to know his way around and we were grateful for his direction. At last we found what we were looking for - a toilet in full working order. I was right behind him when we reached the door and I was expecting him to move aside and let me in, but he just strode into the toilet and locked the door behind him.

Turns out he didn't work for Euro Tunnel. He was a bike rider....I hadn't noticed the helmet he was carrying....I thought he looked a little nervous with all of us following him.

2007-01-06T21:05:00.000Z

What a merchant banker...

I must not have read the terms and conditions of my first class EuroStar ticket properly. Apparantly, you are supposed to act like a dickhead.

'Yes trade', he sighed like he was talking to an imbecile on the other end of the telephone.
'I'm a trader. It's what I do', he snorted through his nose.
'Yah, yah.....yah', he continued. (I think he was trying to say 'yes', but his arrogance kept getting in the way).

'Yah, yah, yah'...he was now nodding a lot.

I turned away and tried to ignore him. At least the drinks trolley was on its way down the aisle - I could hear the comforting clink of the bottles in the distance.

'Yah, yah....yah, he droned on. (was he actually having a conversation - or still wanking?)

'Would you like a drink sir?', asked the stewardess.

'Fuck off. Can't you see that I'm on the phone', he barked at her.

'Listen to me', he sneered down the telephone, as the stewardess turned to me and asked for my drinks order. I shrugged my shoulders and glanced at the trader across the aisle. She just rolled her eyes and smiled.

'I want the money in liquid assets or a cash equivilant', he announced loud enough for someone a few seats away to peer over the top of his FT and look down his nose.

I think the person on the other end of the telephone must have hung up on him, because just as my glass of red wine turned up the trader put down his telephone with a sullen look on his face.

'Scotch on the rocks', he mumbled to the stewardess. She smiled at him. It was a smile of revenge...

2007-01-06T20:30:00.001Z

Three espresso and a baguette...a corporate guide to Paris

I was onto my third espresso in a little office just off the Champs Elysees, but the caffeine hadn't kicked in yet. We had arrived on the first EuroStar out of Waterloo that morning and I could still get a faint whiff of Lamb Rogan Josh from my suit - we'd spent the previous night in a hotel on the Embankment (actually most of the night was spent in an Indian restaurant opposite the Tower of London).

This was my first trip into Paris in over 20 years. Last time I had visited, it was strictly for reasons of leisure. This time around I was sitting around a large boardroom table discussing business and sharing baguettes with three Frenchmen, two of my British colleagues and a couple of executives from Amsterdam.

I am not one to stereotype nationalities, but after galancing around the room....I couldn't help myself. While our colleagues from the low country, dressed sharply in crisp white collared shirts and grey pin striped suits, methodically ploughed through the agenda - our Latin hosts wore black turtle-neck tops, fashionable trousers and puffed on conspiciously heavy cigerettes.

My British colleagues were reserved and serious....with stiff upper lips and the faint smell of curry. God knows what they thought of the strange, unshaven Australian who asked for milk with his coffee?

2007-01-01T18:11:00.000Z

Ouch!

This is me in full retreat after having had my goggles rattled by a bright orange paintball. By this stage of the evening I had perfected several techniques of surrendering and had adopted the role of 'slow moving target' in our team......an often neglected, but very important position.

2006-12-29T20:40:00.000Z

Jump in my car...

Her voice is calm. An educated English accent of indiscernable age. She doesn't talk much, but when she does, I listen intently - she has my undivided attention. Occasionally, I will steal an admiring glance at her slim and attractive features as we drive through the countryside.

In a very short period of time she has become my constant companion. I find myself waiting for her to speak to me......'turn left at the next street - you have now arrived at your destination'.

I think I'm becoming too attached to my new portable satellite navigation system.

2006-12-22T22:24:00.000Z

White out

Five consecutive days of thick icy fog hasn't just clogged up the airports and roads - it seems to have also had a pretty big impact on the gurgling nasal passages of the man sitting next to me on the train. It's not surprising that half of south-east England has a cold.....today it reached a high of zero celsius.

2006-12-20T21:00:00.000Z

It's so much easier to receive...

I read in the newspaper today that there will be over £6 billion spent on Christmas presents in the UK over the next 4 days. It sounds like a few people are leaving it to the last minute.....and I thought I'd be the only one (yeah, right!) rushing from store to store in a desperate, but futile attempt, to purchase that present that says 'I love you' in the appropriate manner.

With four days to go I'm onto the 3rd tier, less desirable items, of the officially sanctioned list of preferred family gifts. 'If you can't get me the grossly over-priced, high profile, brand thingy...then I guess I'll settle for the fashionable, but still pricey and utterly useless fad thingy instead'.

Oh, I'm getting a headache just thinking about it.....I should have started in June.

2006-12-19T21:07:00.000Z

Ho! Ho! Hic!

This Friday, the last Friday before Christmas, is traditionally the most pissed day of the festive season in the UK. Apparantly, over half the country will have the wobbly boot firmly fastened on the wrong foot as the British public engage in the demonstration sport of binge drinking.

Emergency services around the country are expecting to answer around a call every second between the hours of 8:00pm and 12 midnight as Britain lets down its hair to celebrate Christmas.

Unfortunately, drunk on the festive spirit, they will also loosen their trousers to urinate in public, roll up their sleeves to brawl and lower their inhibitions to snog indiscriminently

Merry Christmas....'tis the season to be jolly (well plastered).

2006-12-17T18:54:00.000Z

Concorde 2...

The good news is that my nose is finally functioning well enough to have drained any reservoir of mucus that had not been previously blasted into a soggy tissue prior to our drive to Brighton this weekend. (see photo as proof of pulse).

We went down to the seaside to attend an under-ages gig at the Concorde 2, where The Nines (Ben's son) were featuring their talents in front of a very young crowd - in fact, everytime I dragged my sagging post-illness face into the main hall, I had a multiplying effect on the average age of the crowd.

After the gig we stopped into Fat Leo's for a meal, but while my nose had cleared and I could now breathe without the aid of a foot pump - my taste buds still had some difficulty in identifying the most basic of flavours....I think it was lasagne.

2006-12-14T19:14:00.000Z

Bless you!

Heavy-headed and with a nose like a coffee perculator, I stood on the wet platform suffering from a bad cold. Not only was my train cancelled, but so dangerously over-crowded was the tube this morning that I had to wait 10 minutes on the main concourse of Victoria Station before they would even let us down the stairs to the barriers leading to the tube.

As the gates were flung open and we charged the barriers like a moving mosh-pit at a Bullet For My Valentine gig, security reigned us in once again. Stalled at the barriers for a further 10 minutes, I peered at the CCTV images of the northbound Victoria line platform - it looked like on of those carnival coin machines you find on Brighton Pier - you now the ones where you insert a coin that rolls out onto a tray stacked with coins, hoping you knock a few off into the tray.

It looked far too dangerous for my liking. All it needed was for someone to trip and the domino affect would surely push someone else onto the tracks. When I finally got onto the plaform there was no alternative for me, but to go with the flow. After 6 consecutive trains arriving and departing - absolutely stuffed with commuters I finally found myself standing trackside of the yellow line that the PA system constantly tells us to stand behind - for our own safety.

Once onboard, I was pressed so tightly against my fellow passengers that there was no need to hold onto anything for support - and as my nose continued to run, my eyes began to water, and I had an uncontrollable sneezing fit. We were packed in so tightly that I couldn't even reach into my pocket for a tissue - all I could do was apologise to the man standing in front of me.

2006-12-10T20:08:00.000Z

Bleakberry...

It's sleek. It's metallic and it vibrates.....yes that's right - I have a new Blackberry! Once again a piece of office equipment will run my life. It will let me know who to meet, where to go and what time I should be there. It will ring with a retro tone when someone wants to talk to me....and when I just want to forget about work, sit down and relax with a cold beer - it will send me an email from my boss, who will have arranged a midnight conference call with half a dozen other Blackberry slaves.

2006-12-04T19:54:00.000Z

Foxtrot, Uniform, Charlie, Kilo - Blue Leader 2...out.

The first paintball whistled past my face and the second splattered against the tree trunk I was cowering behind. I'm 194 cm tall and I was a large, slow moving target trying to hide behind a couple of twigs and assorted low-lying shrubbery. Unfortunately, no amount of green, brown and beige camoflage cloth was going to hide my incompetence.

I couldn't even crouch down properly, because every time I bent over, my ill-fitting overalls would perform a wedgy on me. Anyway, younger, fitter and testosterone-charged individuals were on the frontline, while Ben and I volunteered to fight a rear-guard action - we stood out like.......well, we stood out like two middle-aged fathers accompanying their kids to an afternoon paintball session. We were highly prized targets!

This was my first ever paintball session, so it's not surprising that I was a little apprehensive about getting getting hit by a pellet travelling at 300 mph. Regardless of my trepidation, I had already signed a disclaimer, squeezed into a pair of camoflage overalls (2 and a half sizes too small for me) and loaded my semi-automatic machine gun. I was determined to make the most of it. However, no one was going to take a very large Praying Mantis on Cerapax, wearing a gay looking set of fatigues and fogged up googles seriously....I was going to have to earn some respect.

As I gingerly picked my way through the undergrowth in search of the battlefront, I glanced to my right and a dwarf scurried by (it's true). I enviously looked at his perfectly fitted uniform - how the hell did they kit him out so well when I ended up looking like the lost member of the Village People!

Six minutes into the first round, I'd fired off a dozen paintballs and had been shot in the arm by an unseen sniper. By round two I was rolling through mud puddles and encountering the enemy in close quarters. Half way through round three I'd been hit so many times that my overalls were beginning to look like a Monet - Battlefield at Dusk. The green, brown and beige patterns were now contrasted by bright red, blue and yellow splodges of paint.

Dad's Army wasn't faring very well. Ben raised his hands in surrender, but a couple of kids took this gesture as a sign of aggression and pumped a couple of paintballs into his back from close range. The battle was briefly interupted by a yelp, a couple of expletives and the repeated phrase 'you little tossers'.

Two hours and forty three minutes into our campaign Ben and I charged the enemy base....well, Ben walked at reasonable pace (the dwarf ran a decoy to the left and I cleverly drew enemy fire with my head). As I pranced about the forest like a back-up singer in a Madonna music video, Ben calmy strolled into the middle of the enemy base - incredibly a hail of pellets somehow missed him and he was able to exact his revenge by firing off an entire magazine into everyone under 15 years of age and 5 foot in height - while muttering 'little tossers' under his breath.

2006-11-30T21:28:00.000Z

Always look on the bright side of life...

In a few days time, I will be sitting in a company induction. No doubt my out-of-focus photo ID badge will not be blurry enough to hide the fact that my choice of career - management, not male modelling - was not really a choice at all.

I remember my first 'work experience' role. I was 15 years old and I was placed by my school into the post room of Mackellor County Council. For three days I had to fold envelopes in a windowless office with a bitter middle-aged divorcee, an aging hippie and a rather large-breasted lady with a devious sense of humour - she would make suggestive comments to the 'bitter one' just to watch my ears turn red.

While this did not shape my career aspirations it certainly educated me. I decided there and then that it is far more important to do what you enjoy, rather than settle for just any job....but what sort of job should I try to secure?

My Career's Advisor at Balgowlah Boys High School barely managed to raise her head out of her copy of Woman's Day magazine, to tell me (between mouthfulls of her re-heated lasagne lunch) that I had little hope of ever experiencing a successful and fulfilling career, and that I should go back to the council and beg them to let me back into their post room.

I was offended. I had ambition. I had drive and enthusiasm....I couldn't work for the local council - my outlook on life was too positive! Instead, I went on the dole and started busking at Circular Quay. The road to here has not been paved or straight - but at least I'm still doing what I enjoy.

2006-11-27T10:43:00.000Z

Back to the future...

I was the recipient of a gratuitis 'comb-over' at the hairdresser today. It really was a trip back into the future for me. As I stared in disbelief into the mirror. The image that looked forlonly back at me was a strange morph of my childhood and old age.

At first I was transported back to my childhood, when my mother used to drench my hair in Brylcream and execute a severe comb-over from one ear to the other - this fashionable hair style used to be accompanied by a pair of large white walk socks, a pair of small blue shorts and a powder blue bottoned shirt - tucked into my shorts, which were pulled up to just below my chin (sadly, I have photographic evidence).

However, as continued I to stare at my reflection, I got an insight into the future. I fear that I will one day wake up an decide that a comb-over really does look good....I've told Virginnia to perform a mercy killing if I start to tuck my crisply ironed shirt into my underwear and begin to wear my trousers proudly above my belly button.

2006-11-19T21:22:00.000Z

Awwwh, you shouldn't have....no seriously, you shouldn't have.

They've lit up Regent Street, so Christmas can't be more than couple of months away. This year I've decided to do my Christmas shopping online and I have found the ideal website http://www.stupid.com

There are some truly stupid gifts to choose from, such as the Bacon Wallet - actually looks like a slab of breakfast meat. You can also give someone a set of Camo Golf Balls - camoflaged green to make them even harder to find in the rough.

But there are two gifts that have caught my eye. First, the Fidel Castro Action figure (30 centimeters in height) - the promotional blurb says 'Think of the fun you will have recreating the Bay of Pigs invasion or Cuban Missile Crisis! You can oppress your other action figures and nationalise your mother's vegetable patch'.

However, my favourite Christmas gift is the 2007 Dog Poop Calendar. This is a true work of art. A professional photographer has taken a array of spectacular landscapes or tableau with dog shit as the focal point. The depth of field, composition and sympathetic treatment of the subject matter has resulted in a truly inspiring piece of work.

Remember.....it's the thought that counts.

2006-11-15T20:15:00.000Z

Idiot box...

The first time I saw the two beefy gentlemen sitting at the bar watching Neighbours on the pub television I didn't give it a thought. I considered the second time a coincidence. However, when I turned up at The George for lunch today, there they were again.....on their favourite stools intently watching Toady and co struggling through some lame script.

As the actors laboured through their lines the two would exchange knowing glances and hypothosise on the plot.

'I can't believe she's taken him back', says the larger of the two. Shaking his head in disbelief as he sips on his beer.
'E's a sneaky one, that doctor, inn't he', nods the other.
'While she's been in hospital, his been living the life of Riley (another pause in disbelief) and now he just waltzes back into her life'. He thumps his fist against his thigh in anger.
'The prick!', his friend exclaims.

Suddenly the television bursts into the all too familiar Neighbours theme tune and subtitles replace the actors on the screen.

'Awwwh....we're going to have to wait until tomorrow', sighs the one closest to me.

What on earth are a couple of big boofy blokes deep in the English countryside shedding tears over an Australian soap opera? I didn't want to find out....Virginnia and I stood up and left quietly.

2006-11-14T21:25:00.000Z

Please mind the gap between the train and platform...

My commute into the city on Southern Rail is usually pretty predictable. As I enter the train carriage and take my seat the conductor informs over the intercom in an inaudible and and heavily accented voice that I am on the (insert best guess in this space and pray your on the right train)......moments later a computer-aided female voice of indiscernible age confirms that I am indeed on the 8:04am trian to London Victoria, stopping at Upper Warlingham, Riddlesdown, Sandstead, East Croydon, Clapham Junction and Victoria Stations.

It's a routine statement that never changes and nearly everyone on the train, after several trips, can recite it verbatim. However, this morning - for some apparant reason - between Upper Warlingham and Riddlesdown the computer-aided female voice cheerfully informed us that 'Sorry, there will be no meal service on this train today'

Stunned by the sudden change in Southern Rail protocol, we all raised our heads in unison and stared at the intercom.....as far as I knew the only meal you're likely to get on the morning train to Victoria is the half eaten McDonalds hash brown left under your seat by the previous passenger.

2006-11-11T14:06:00.000Z

Imagine a Goth with personality...

You've probably read in one of my earlier blogs that my son is an EMO - if you're over 40 years of age, just imagine a Goth with personality and emotion. I think it's great that he has the confidence to display this creative side. However, he has reached that age in life where the look is far more important than substance.

He spends more time in front of the mirror trying to comb his hair over one eye than both my wife and I spend in the bathroom combined. As I said, I wouldn't dream of inhibiting his personal and social development - despite the fact that his friends look like extras from a horror movie.

However, I think we've reached a family milestone this morning, when he and his 11 year old sister had a fight over a black eye-liner stick...

2006-11-09T21:55:00.000Z

A change is as good as a holiday...I should know, I've been on one for five months.

Some careers are shorter than others. My stint as a Sales Director was so short that it won't even register on my resume....because I didn't actually start. Instead of working for a little start-up in Holborn I will soon commence in my new role in a large multi-national in London. As a confidentiality clause prevents me from telling you more at present, you will need to check back in a week for the full details. It's strange how things work out in the end...

2006-11-07T21:17:00.000Z

The Ghost Dog of Titsey Hill...

I was recently driving up Titsey Road, from Limpsfield to Woldingham. It's a winding road that climbs sharply into woodlands, shrouded in low cloud. It's a spooky place even during daylight hours, but at night it's the type of road that you don't want to breakdown on.

'Don't panic if you suddenly see a dog on the road', says my travelling companion.
'What?', I asked. Suddenly touching the breaks lightly - I didn't see anything.
'I've been told that the road is haunted by a ghost dog', she said soberly.
'A ghost dog? - What does it look like? What breed is it?'
'It's a ghost - you can't tell what it looks like', she continues in all seriousness.
'Does it bark?'
'No' she responds, sounding a little annoyed.
'Well how do you know it's a dog? Has it left a ghostly turd on the side of the road?'
'Don't be stupid', she huffs.

There was a pause. 'Oh sorry, I didn't know we were having a sensible conversation'.

2006-11-05T19:56:00.000Z

From social case to corporate manbag...

It looks like the holiday is over - I've been made a job offer. As with most the jobs I've secured in my life it was neither expected or aggressively sought after....it just sort of happened. I can only assume the fancy new shirt I wore to the final interview must have mesmerised them...I don't remember being particularly engaging or visionary (no more than normal).

I will be (assuming the contract turns up on Monday) the new Sales Director for an online solutions business targeting professional services segments with innovative products and services - however, my business card will most likely just have Sales Director printed on it. I'll be working in Holborn - 5 minutes drive to the station, 37 minutes of contemplation on the train to London and a further 15 minutes of close physical contact on the tube and then a brisk 2 minute walk to the office.

To celebrate my imminent appointment and loss of social freedom, I purchased another fancy business shirt, new leather wallet to put my hard-earned cash into and a brief case, which looks suspiciously like a metrosexual's manbag - but I've been assured that it is actually Hidesign Tiker Sling Across Body Bag, Brown.

If only everything in life was so accurately named...anyway, I'm off to the kitchen to get a Cool Refreshing Liquid, Orange from a Glass Receptical, Transparant - that is stored in my Large Cool Thing that Hums at Night, White.

2006-10-30T21:40:00.000Z

Big Bags...

I've got these bags under my eyes that don't seem to want to go away. I initially noticed that they would appear the morning after a late or heavy night, but gradually the puffiness would subside by lunchtime - then one day I realised that the bags were here to stay.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not talking about big 'suitcase' type bags, just little 'clutch' bags. Virginnia told me not to get too concerned. 'It's just your old man face.....you are getting on a bit' - I'm not sure if she was trying to reassure me or scare the hell out of me! But now I'm a little concerned.

I heard that that hemorrhoid cream will help - yes, that's right, I initially took offence to the suggestion, but apparantly there is some merit to the treatment. I am reliably informed that it is the preferred skin regime of supermodels.

I'm sure there must be a tube somewhere in the house - there isn't any risk of double-dipping? Is there?

2006-10-24T21:55:00.000Z

Bollards to you!

When I lived in Australia I would commute to work in a car. Isolated and insulated from the general population, my view of the world was filtered by what I heard on the radio. Here in England I travel predominently by train.....and what an education it is!

This evening I sat next to a bollard (phallic device used to prevent vehicles from mounting the kerb) salesman. He was a rather conservative gentleman who quietly worked on his crossword - until his telephone rang and his purpose for living was fulfilled....he immediately turned into Bollard Man. A man with such intimate and deep knowledge of bollards that I could not understand the need for such information. Yes, what differentiated this man from his fellow passengers was his immense knowledge of traffic control devices.

I listened intently to his conversation, until my eyes glazed over and I nodded off...