Happy New Year

With a third of the New Year now passed, it seems I owe all my readers a somewhat belated Happy New Year wish. Where has the time gone? This my first blog of 2014, which suggests that either nothing of interest has happened since January 1st, or, given my usual frantic lifestyle, so many interesting things have been happening that I haven't had time to write about them. This seems more likely.
I can't think of anything specifically, but I'm sure there must have been things going on.
Perhaps I should liven things up a little by tempting fate, or poking Death with a big stick? I'm sure that will liven things up a little, and give me something more interesting to write about next time.
If you were expecting my usual witty vitriol, or a rant, then I apologize. Normal service will resume as soon as possible.

Life on mars wallpaper from back to the future

Living near a city the size of Hull, one would expect there to be a plethora of wallpaper outlets with a multitude of designs to choose from. Not so.
Our local DIY store used to supply wallpaper that you could choose from a number of sample books, but apparently their supplier treat them like a third world country because they didn't buy enough, so now they have stopped supplying at all. That leaves a small independent trader on one of the city high streets, who has apparently closed early for Christmas, and the usual suspects who for commercial reasons I will refer to as Q & B and Basehome. Oh yes and a local cut price chain called B & M, who for commercial reasons I shall refer to as .............. oh bugger, I've said their real name now, too late.
No matter, all of these stock exactly the same wallpaper. There are currently three wallpapers available. Well okay, there are more than that, but to me they all look the same and fall into four categories, which are retro 1970 psychedelia, huge floral designs, Indian Restaurant flocks and the sort of thing your gran would have had in her front room in the 1970's. It was like walking onto the set of Life on Mars.
After an exhaustive search of all four potential wallpaper emporiums and an hour of deliberation we settled on something which was at best a compromise for our dining room. Why are wallpaper designs suddenly so stale and restrictive? Is it the financial recession? Is paint taking over as the wall covering of choice? Or is it a fashion thing, whereby "designers" are dictating what they think we should have on our walls?
In these modern times where we can manufacture objects on a 3D printer I think we have missed a trick. There must surely be a market for a large wallpaper roll printer on which we, the general public, can design and print our own wallpaper, to ensure we get a sensible design of what we want, and not what "they" want to sell us.
Dragons Den here I come.

How to shop for shoes in November when surrounded by Christmas shopping zombies.

Yesterday I had to take the girl child for new shoes and boots for school. This filled me with dread. During the summer I tried to buy some sensible shoes for myself. In any shoe shop there will be a ratio of around 16:1 womens shoes to mens shoes. The same applies to the clothing department. Do women have more feet than men? and do they really need 16 x the amount of sweaters, jeans and shirts? Clearly they do, because whilst I make do with two very thin wardrobes and four drawers my wife has two double sized wardrobes and 8 drawers. Anyway, in the quest for sensible mens shoes I visited several shops and eventually secured a pair, albeit in Amsterdam. I didn't travel overseas specifically, you understand, I just happened to be there and popped into that old British stalwart C & A (which we no longer have in the UK) and found a nice sensible pair of shoes. This cannot be done in the UK, or at least it couldn't during the summer, both Tescos and Asda have a good range of shoes now I no longer need them.

Anyway, I digress, the issue was shoes for the girl child. Girl child has grown out of her old shoes. Girl child has reached the age when she hovers between girls shoes and lady shoes in size. Head boss at school has strict guidelines as to what girl children may wear on their feet. This makes it almost impossible to buy shoes for the girl child. Girl child is at impressionable age where every shop she enters has something she simply must buy/wear/try on/discuss at length/drool over. This makes Dad man very impatient, particularly as a species known as "Christmas shopping Zombie" has descended upon the shopping centres. We will discuss christmas shopping zombies in detail later. After an hour of aimlessly perusing stores Dad man introduced girl child to a revolutionary concept known as Dad shopping. This involves going into the shop straight to the shoes and making an immediate assessment of suitable shoe availability. i.e is it black, is it shiny leather, does it have a flat heel and is it size 4. If the answer is no, then move on to the next shop. You have sixty seconds to decide. Using this simple formula we were able to visit around 16 shops within the remainder of two hour period allocated in my day as "Shoe shopping time." and we were able to secure said pair of boots and shoes for the princely sum of £35 total. Although I almost had a Sean* when I saw the price of one likely pair of boots at £129.99 (reduced) Luckily girl child decided she didn't like the zip up the back. This made Dad man happy, and daughter, at the tender age of 13 is now equipped with the understanding of shopping without being brainwashed by consumerism. This will make her future husband very happy. I can foresee a time in her later life buying a sofa suite in 30 seconds on the basis that it is wipe clean, comfortable and can seat six, without being hypnotised by the myriad of swirly patterns or her mind melting in chintz. 

And so onto the aforementioned Christmas Shopping Zombies. They were out in force yesterday, and earlier than usual. The CSZ do not move quickly. They are unable to make decisions, and move in huge packs, the basic CSZ comprising of an adult male, adult female and up to four little CSZ, the smaller ones admittedly being a little more animated than their parents. But the CSZ also come in mixed social groups, and can comprise of anything up to 15 females in a pack, or two or three mixed couples. What would appear to be the dominant male in any pack is immediately recognizable in that he will be carrying all the bags. He will also have the emptiest wallet and the biggest credit card bill. Even when they cease shopping to drink Costa Coffee, he will be readily identified as the one paying for the coffee, and by the red lines across his palms cause by carrying heavy plastic carriers all day. Is i beyond the wit of mankind to develop a bag that doesn't attempt to sever fingers? We can make them dolphin friendly, why can't we make them human friendly? At least one CSZ in any group will be taking orders from a command centre somewhere via a mobile phone. They will attempt to relay commands in an over animated and piercingly loud voice to others within the group. Their voice is in fact at such a volume that the phone is often unnecessary. Tarquin would be thrilled to open his surprise present on Christmas Day if a) it wasn't socks (again) and b)he hadn't overheard from the other side of the shopping centre that that was what he was getting. 
The CSZ once on the move, will move erratically and slowly, picking up goods at random, and as often as not, putting them down IN THE WRONG PLACE. They will circle, stop suddenly, repeat a route for no obvious reason, appear as if about to turn left then go right, and then go left, or suddenly walk backwards. All behaviours that we would not tolerate if we were driving. Yet we apologise to them when we suddenly bump into them or trip over them, or are poked in the eye by their umbrella (don't get me started on umbrellas) And being British, if they apologise first, we apologise right back at them. What I really want to do of course is punch them, very hard about the head until they fall over. And then hit them with a shovel. And then use the shovel to clear a path through the rest of the CSZ to get to the shoes. Having paid for only two hours parking I couldn't waste time, because in the weeks running up to Christmas, whilst the CSZ moves slowly, their partners in parking enforcement move like demented bees. Usain Bolt would have been put to shame by one keen parking enforcement official I saw, dashing from one car to another, checking each tyre was within the white lines and that the driver had paid the Bacon Tax.*
I foresee the CSZ problem getting worse, because last year nobody had any money and this year it seems we are coming out of the recession and have money to burn. And so they will be out more often and for longer spending cash and clogging up the shops so I can't. 
Happily I fall into the category of LMCS a different kind of shopper altogether. As a Last Minute Christmas Shopper I may appear to be rushing about on Christmas Eve in blind terror, but I'm not. I know exactly what I want, where it is and how much it costs, and I have the right money ion my wallet. Sadly, there is none left when I get there. So I will buy everyone unsuitable shoes.


Sean* - Sean Connery - Coronary (Hull Rhyming Slang - famous for not necessarily rhyming or being very good)
Bacon Tax.* Bacon Rind - James Hind. (Hull Rhyming Slang) James Hind was famous for Highway Robbery, although not as popular as Dick Turpin. 

Shakespeare. - Good fun but over rated.

I was never really into Shakespeare, but last night I sat through three productions of his plays, abbreviated mind you, but plays performed by local schools at Hull Truck Theatre. They were, in no particular order, Much ado about Nothing, The Tempest, and The Taming of the Shrew. If like me you have never really studied Shakespeare you will know little of the plots of these masterpieces, so having had the benefit I will summarise, thus:

Much Ado about Nothing was based in the 1960's, for reasons which didn't really become clear, yet the actors still spoke in Shakespearean English, which sort of put a weird slant on things. And it relied heavily on a 60's soundtrack. Very energetic performance though. I haven't a clue what it was about. Someone people got married at the end.

The Tempest, which starred my daughter Emma as Ariel was strictly old school Shakespeare, with the oldie language and costumes. She was very dynamic in her dancing, but what threw me is that whilst she was Ariel, so were fifteen or so other people. The spirit was omnipresent. I have no idea what it was about. Some people got married at the end.

Which brings me to the taming of the shrew, which was set in the roaring '20's, for reasons which didn't become clear. This included Groucho Marx and a poor mans Sammy Davis Junior, and a leading man who despite being a schoolboy looked about 30. Scenes of Domestic Violence were portrayed without warning. I have no idea what it was about. Some people got married at the end. 

It was thoroughly enjoyable, if you like that sort of thing, which normally I don't. What have I learnt form the experience? Well, I have always maintained that William Shakespeare was over-rated. He was after all nothing more than a soap opera scriptwriter of this day - had he been around today he would have been writing for Eastenders, and penning classic lines like "Get out of my pub," and "Sort it out!"

As it is, so far as I can fathom, he wrote short stories with a romance, usually with some hitch, that ended happily ever after with a wedding. Mills and Boon would have loved him.

Themed Garden

This time last year I had a bank of trees at the bottom of my garden. I say trees, but many of them where shrubs or bushes, the likes of blackthorn and hawthorn, and any other sort of sharp pointy thorn, along with ivy, and a couple or three stout trees, the name of which escapes me, but which I will call "a bloody nuisance." Every year these trees grow higher and higher shading the lawn and the roof mounted solar panels, and every autumn they drop leaves all over the garden. Which I then have to tidy up. Like I say, a bloody nuisance. So in the end they got hacked down, year on year until last year when I invested in a chain saw and spent many days off and weekends getting them all out. All except the biggest stumps. These were an even bigger nuisance than the trees. Getting out the root ball and stump of a mature tree is a major undertaking. These buggers refused to simply die off, they kept trying to regrow, and I was permanently pulling new growth right throughout the summer. I tried digging them out, but after going down a couple of feet I ran out of enthusiasm and energy, and so they remained until this week, when in a state of renewed vigour I dug even further down tot get the roots right out. I had considered explosives, heavy plant machinery, a stump grinder and prayer, but in the end it was pure physical labour needed to get to the (excuse me) root of the problem.
I now have the big stump out, but my garden looks like a World War one theme garden, with a trench system and mounds of earth to protect from incoming fire. The crater must be over four feet deep and at least five feet in diameter. It's as though a bomb went off in the garden. This will take much remedial work to put right, but one thing is for sure - no trees will be planted there again. Not in my lifetime anyway.
I now have sunshine on my lawn for the first time in 17 years - such a pity winter is coming.

Where has all the money gone?

Comedian Al Murray, the pub landlord, asked an important question when the economy crashed and the recession  began. "Where," he asked the bankers in his audience "is all the fucking money?" This is a good question.
Although only in my mid forties I can recall a time when I was paid cash wages in a little envelope. Folding pieces of paper and round bits of metal (generally round although fifty pences had corners - twenty pences hadn't been invented and thrupenny bits had been phased out) in due course times changed and I was paid directly into the bank, and I then had to cash a cheque to get cash money out of the bank. But it was still money.
Now however we are moving more and more into a cashless society. This is not because we have no money, although in the recession it feels like that, but because we no longer use cash. On  recent trip to "that London" in "Down South" this was brought home to me with a bump. In the North we still but round bits of metal into boxes to get a bit of paper to put inside the window of our car to prevent other people putting bits of paper on the outside of the car demanding that we send them coloured bits of paper with pictures of the Queen on them. Naturally I assumed the same happened in the south. Not so. Down in the wealthy south it is compulsory, if you own a car, to also own a mobile phone and it is a legal requirement, so it seems, to carry it at all times in order to pay for your parking by using the phone. Car parks do not have meters or any means to pay by cash. Indeed in one car park even my phone was redundant and I had to use a credit card to pay for the parking because the meter did not accept cash. What is that all about? Was it afraid of someone trying to pass a forged note or a dodgy Euro coin? What next? Will it demand a reference?
What if, like the dinosaur that I am, you were to leave home without a credit card or a mobile phone (as I often do) but needed to park the car? I would feel rather silly offering other people cash to pay for them to use their credit card to park my car for me. The world has certainly changed. In the old days a man with a limp and facial sores would charge you fivepence to park your car on an old bombsite, but you knew, providing any unexploded bopmbs didn't go off your car was safe for the day. Now you pay £25 (assuming you have a phone and a credit card) to park on an unmanned bit of tarmac knowing that when you come back some low life will have bust your window and stolen your phone charger. he knew you had one of course, because otherwise you wouldn't have been parked there. There will be some excellent CCTV footage of the crime taking place, but no chance of catching the bastard. In the old days the toothless ex-army war veteran would have just breathed his alcohol fumed breathe on the miscreant and frightened him away. Or hit him with a stick.
So, returning to the point from which I have digressed as usual, where has all the money gone? The truth is we don;t need it anymore, and it was never really there in the first place. Money is simple a promise to give something provided it isn't asked for. And the cash tokens we used to satisfy ourselves that the promise would be kept are now redundant, replaced by numbers on an Iphone.
But I for one can't help missing the solid feel of  a coin in my pocket, or the crispness of a fiver in my wallet, the slightly grubby working mans fold of notes in a wad, or the visual appeal of a breifcase stacked with a ransom demand. Somehow a balance on a computer screen just doesn't convey that happiness in quite the same way.

Where are the mens shoes please?

Is it just me or have mens shoes gone out of fashion? I've tried several shoe shops, plus that staple of sensible mens fashion "George" at ASDA, but all I can find is trainers and comfortable shoes that other men would like, if you catch my drift. I'm sorry but I refuse to wear silly crossover trainer shoes that have velcro fastners for five year olds and shout out to the world "I'm a lefty limp wristed office dwelling squeaky voice lisping shiny pants flower watering pinky homosexual and incapable of tying my own laces." The only shoes that are not softy shoes are safety boots. And I'm sorry, but unless you work on a building site that's even more Village People than the trainer shoes. Where are the proper mens shoes? I did manage to find a pair of simple black Oxfords, and a pair of brogues, but is that it? Go to the womens shoes department and you are faced with a thousand different styles, all of which are seemingly absolutely must haves. Ask my wife. She tries them all on. 
The same applies to mens clothes though. At the moment I find it almost impossible to buy anything I like. I can buy jeans, but cargoes, which I quite like seem to have disappeared. I'm not homophobic, I don't have any gay friends as such, but the jury is out on a few. Regardless, I find that when it comes to shirts, I can buy quite gayly patterned chequered shirts, the problem being they are indeed gayly patterned. Buying one would be like asking to be rogered. I can buy all sorts of shorts, shorts and T shirts all of which send out the wrong message. 
But what I need is the Gene Hunt collection. The sort of clothes and shoes that Jack Reagan wore. The sort of Terry McCann ensemble, that shouts I'm gonna punch you, hard, if you try it on. Not some flimsy thin cotton see through shirt and too tight pants, I don't want short sleeves that display my muscles, because I don't really have any. I have a punch that would take down a horse, but the muscles don't look good. And my knuckles don't look good afterwards either, because I'm not some sort of movie star I am a real person. What I want is real persons clothes. But all that the stores stock is trainers and sports wear. Which is pseudo ironic when it comes in XXXXL sizes.

It's over a month since I posted this and I still haven't bought new shoes. My soles are now so thin that if I stand on a penny I can tell you whether it's heads or tails. Roll on the Autumn fashions, because the summer range just ain't doing it for me.