As I sit here in the dark with naught but the glow of various monitors to currently keep me company, whilst back on the nightwatch tending to the ill of the parish, I have been considering that which is my recently hectic schedule and wishing greatly it were not thus .

Within this small slice of time I have had time to reflect that it was almost a year ago to the month that I was privy to a week spent dwelling in the company of strangers. That the strangers were in France and, for the most part, French makes no never mind to me but it does play a small part in that which is to follow. I shall elucidate….

I had agreed a while before, after much badgering from my other half, to attend the wedding of a couple she had known for many a year but who were utter strangers to me. So far, so blah blah blah. Nothing unusual there, I know. It happens to the best of us all at some point to be counted in the numbers to attend such formal affairs. It is the way of things, I concede, but I am never greatly pleased by these calls on my time.

I am not by nature very keen on the attendance of these things when they are arranged by my own family. I am sure as hell not getting any more excited about being summoned to attend the various hatches, matches and dispatches of people that I hardly, if at all, know purely based on the fact that I am the ‘plus one’ in the deal.

A touch grumpy, I will admit. Not one of my more endearing qualities but there we are. As Popeye said, ‘I yam what I yam’.

Any how, the crux of the matter was that I had reluctantly agreed to this attendance. The larger issue was that it was to be held in the South of France. Amongst French people. French people whom I had never clapped eyes upon afore. French people who, as far as I was aware, spoke no English.

Oh joy be mine….

Before it be said to me, I personally have nothing against the French in the least. I am not afflicted by the tendency of others in the UK who have an ingrained distrust and general dislike of all things Gallic. I have actually always liked France and the French. Every time I have been there I have had un grand temps altogether.

No, the trouble I foresaw was that I had not been to France for many a long year and my command of the lingua franca as a working, living, spoken tongue was all but forgotten. I don’t like doing small talk in my own chosen tongue with strangers. How to get around this as the only paddy in the village, then?

The solution was as timeless as it was simple, really. Alcohol. Lots and lots of lovely alcohol! Well, it was a wedding after all. I won’t bore with the details but, suffice to say, that once this concept was grasped and embraced, the whole affaire was a grand success and everyone had a whale of a time all round.

Which leads me back to my reverie and thinking that I could do with a top-up on my on-going education in spoken French.

Well, it would be rude not to reinforce the entente, n’est-ce pas?

As they say in another French(ish) speaking part of the world; Laissez les bon temps rouler…..!!

OK, I have a puzzler for the more laterally-minded and quizzical in nature out there in the ether. 

I will keep this short and sweet because I am currently employed on the graveyard shift and will all too soon be hard at the drudge in the nether hours when all you good little flaxen-haired cherubs will be enveloped in the arms of Morpheus.  I need to get me some shut-eye meself  afore I go back into the belly of the beast….

I was recently out and about in the general environs of Stratford in the east of London, as is my wont. For those of you kindly souls who are not familiar with the area (or indeed, the country, come to that!) it is where they are digging like furious banshees at the present in order to render unto us a glorious sporting arena, that we may welcome athletes from foreign shores with open arms, kindly smiles and marvel as they win all the medals, drink all the beer, do some sightseeing, buy some tourist tat and bugger off home again from whence they came.

Personally, I don’t know why they don’t just get all the money for the project, throw it in a hole with a liberal sprinkling of accelerant and apply a naked flame. It would be, frankly, more honest an act and less convoluted in the long run. It really would be a kindness all round. 

Ah, but I digress. Truly, I do. Where was I? Oh yes….

There was I in the glorious edifice that is Stratford station and I hied myself hence to the Jubilee Line (the purpose of my journey both escapes me and is of no consequence for the purposes of this harangue). I had just boarded a waiting train and was patiently biding my time till we got underway.  

Whilst sitting in quiet contemplation on the nature of things, I noticed a small but rather outré addition to the platform furniture. 

What was it, pray, I hear you cry? Well, I shall show you rather than describe. It had my mind agog and perplexed me mighty, I can tell you. Have a gander for yourselves and see if it doesn’t fox you just a wee touch, hmmm?

Here we go, dear reader. Cast thine own gaze ‘pon the source of my confabulation and render your own feelings regarding this most perplexing matter, won’t you? Splendid!  

Well, quite…..

A short, pithy, instructive indicator of what this is most emphatically not. What is it then, if not a waste receptacle?

This conundrum was further exacerbated for me when one of the platform staff blithely strolled up with an armful of detritus gleaned, one has to presume, from the morning commute, smiled at me and dumped said collection in the ‘not-a-bin’.

I mean to say, really. What is one to make of such a ludicrous state of affairs?  Any and all answer are welcome. Just be sure and put them in the properly labelled receptacle, hmm? 

My cousin is a sick, sick man. To my mind, that is one of the more endearing characteristics he has. He is a constant source of the odd and bizarre that is out there in the ether. He is a very giving man also. He has absolutely no problem in sharing his largesse to his kith and kin. 

Frankly, he will show his oddities to anyone who is prepared to answer his emails. Like I said, he is a funny boy and I love him so. 

With this in mind, I have just been the recipient of a video he sent me which has brightened my otherwise mundane Sunday. I have been inundated with the world of academia all the weekend and my mind is sore in need of some irreverence. This fits the bill. 

Puts the concept of high tea into perspective, don’t it? Another slice, anyone? 

In light of the recent events in the shining new edifice that is Terminal Five at Heathrow I saw this ad and, oddly enough,  found a compelling connection.

Plus it just plain makes me laugh.

If you flew into T5 within the last week you have my sympathies but you might just spot your luggage careening down the runway here at a breakneck speed…..

I was mildly perplexed when I first read about the case of one Alexander Martin-Sklan who decided to take the shop chain Marks and Spencer to court this month. 

It appears that he was leaving one of their stores in North London when he slipped over and, unfortunately for him, managed to do himself some not inconsiderable injury. The kicker is that he blames the store for his injury. He blames an errant grape which managed to lodge itself into the sole of one his sandals.  He stated that the offending piece of fruit could well have been picked up whilst in the store or, indeed, in the very car park that the misfortune occurred.

Could have being the operative phrase here. Not definitely did. Could have. Remember that phrase, people. It will be important later.  

His reaction. Well, he felt aggrieved enough against the chain to determine that they were responsible for this individual specimen of soft fruit and, as a result, should pay him for his calamity. He felt that he was entitled to compensation to the tune of some £315,815 for the usual, ‘loss of earnings and psychological damage’. 

That is a lot of fruit salad in anyone’s money…

The claimant stated that the store was remiss in it’s cleaning regimen for the outside of the store. This was within the main body of the claim that also stated that Mr Martin-Sklan was leaving the store and, when walking down a ramp, a car passed in front of him at speed causing him to have to stop suddenly. This was the point when the slip occurred. Just prior to leaving the store, he passed through the fresh fruit section. 

As a result of his injuries, this chap also claims that the on-going depression and lack of confidence engendered had caused him to lose further business.

This is a man who charges £225 an hour. He is an accountant. Call me cynical but I am having some hard time eliciting sympathy for this fellow at this point. Not a manual labourer, he.

I may be talking out of turn but I am pretty sure that accountancy has not become a calling that requires an individual to be in the upright position when pursuing it. 

All that notwithstanding, apparently this wicked fruit has allegedly also curtailed this lad’s apparent pastimes  of tennis, football and he can’t go on his skiing trips. 

My heart bleeds for him. Really.  I feel his pain (figuratively, of course). 

The main upshot of all of this is that the case was contested and Mr Martin-Sklan chose to represent himself. A risky manoeuvre by any standards. 

 So what happened next? Well, the long and short is simple. 

He lost his claim.

Shame.

The judge felt that he could not rule that there was compelling enough evidence that the offending fruit article was indeed even to blame, let alone that it was from the store in question. He said (I like this bit) he was not persuaded that the ’substance in the void’ caused the slippage.  Simple as that. Done and dusted.

Well, not quite…..

It transpires that not only does our down-in-the-dumps skiing bean-counter not get his payday from Marks and Spencer, he has to kick in and pay them to the tune of £15,000 to cover the legal costs.

It will be a while before his next trip to Whistler or Val d’Isere, I feel.  

Never mind. At £225 an hour I don’t think that he will be wanting for a dinner anytime soon. 

I just don’t think that it will be coming from Marks and Spencers in the near future.  

Now we all know that Big Brother is watching us these days at all times, pretty much. That is a given. We also know that there is a lot of debate regarding the relative merits and downsides of constant CCTV intrusion/observation in all our lives and I am not going to open that particular can of worms here at the present moment. That is a thorny issue at the best of times, I find, especially here in the UK. We are, after all, the most watched nation on God’s creation. 

I do, however, have a little something to say to one Deputy Charlette Marshall-Jones of Hillsborough County’s Finest. When you felt the need to up-end a quadriplegic man from his wheelchair and search him whilst he was face down and unable to right himself due to his disability, did it never occur to you that there were cameras in the room making a record of this act of sheer stupidity? 

More than an act of stupidity, even. An act of downright ignorance in the face of ALL the fecking evidence. There were a couple of clues that you should have picked up on when you asked him to stand and he didn’t.

•  The chair he was in had dirty great wheels on it. Not unlike a wheelchair
• He told you that he was disabled and, as such, needed a chair with wheels. A wheelchair, in fact

You thought he was having you on, did you? You reckoned he was having a laugh at your expense? Who do you reckon is going to be laughing now? Well, I will wager that you are going to have a fair while to ponder that particular conundrum.

Honestly, I would love to hear what to ‘protect and serve’ actually means in her world. I have only more thing to add to this sorry wee tale. We have heard down the years of many travesties of justice carried out by police officers, in many and various countries. All heinous in their own right and worthy of righteous scorn by all proper thinking people. 

It does beggar belief, however, when the police are downright asinine enough to be recorded for posterity and, in turn, earn their own twisted fifteen minutes of fame. To paraphrase a legal term here, there is a precedent for this.

Two words, people.

Rodney. King.

A short one but a sweetie….

A friend of mine sent this to me and, in the proper spirit of interweb camaraderie, I felt the compulsion to share.

Enjoy.

…..Come the power and the glory! Yes, dear readers, I am a happy man again. We are once again blessed with one of the finest collections of teams hard at each other again in one of the most glorious sporting tournaments ever conceived. 

The Six Nations is with us once more! Glory be!

It seems only a short while since last we met and yet I feel I have been hanging forever with eager anticipation for the kick off! I have been caught at work whistling and humming various rugby favourites with a silly grin plastered all over my face, much to the annoyance of some my work colleagues.

Mind you, these individuals wouldn’t know a line out from a driving maul so they don’t count….

As the more astute of you out there will be aware by the title of this latest offering, I am achingly longing for the Irish lads to do us proud. We have to salvage some pride once more following our abysmal showing in the World Cup last year. I have no idea what happened there but it is time to chalk it up to piss-poor efforts all round, bury it and move on.

That being said, I have just watched the first match, with Ireland hosting Italy at Croke Park for the first time…..and I am not a happy camper, people! I am, in fact, a nervous soul, if the truth be told……

We won. Just. Only just….by the grace of God and the skin of our teeth did we only just win!

I have to say that a lot of folks down the years have been disparaging of Italian rugby but I have always had a grudging respect for these lads. Given that they finished ahead of two of the home nations in the 2007 tournament there is a lot of raw talent there to be tapped. That along with the fact that the opening line up today looked like it was able to block out the sun was a bit of a worry!

They are young, fit, hungry and fecking huge!!

That was reflected quite convincingly in the fact that the score-line was  so tight at 16-11 to the Irish lads. 

Now that is a worrying notion, boys. I am not sure about anyone else but I think it smacks way too much of the start that we had in France against Namibia.

Looked what happened to us thereafter….!

Not pretty lads, was it?  

Irish manager, Eddie O’Sullivan, recognised this fact after the game, 

  “I’d have preferred if we hit the ground running but I have to be sensible and know the winning the first game is hard.”

Hmm, alright. Fair enough, Eddie, but I fervently trust that this is taken on board by the lads when next they stand line abreast and shuffle their way through ‘Ireland’s Call”.   

On a slightly fluffier note, however, I am fresh from bouncing around my abode following the second offering of rugby today. Wales have just comprehensively handed the English squad their arses on a big-ass platter with a very convincing 26-19 trouncing.

It was made all the more delicious given the fact that Wales were 10 points behind going in from the first half and the world and his wife figured that England had it in the bag.

Including my (English) girlfriend.

Really? How’s that, then?  

I think it is fairly safe to say that there will be much jollity in the valleys tonight.

What am I saying? It is not unfair to say that you can pretty much write the weekend off and there will be a shitload of sick calls in the likes of Swansea, Cardiff and the like come Monday morning!

And why not, I say? It has only taken the daft Welsh buggers two fecking decades to beat the English in their own back yard!   

About bloody time….

Yes, yes, I know! Hardly the right spirit in these days of fair play and non-partisan behaviour in sports and that! I know. I got the pamphlet. I chose not to subscribe…..

Guess what? I care not a bar! I am still staunchly of the opinion that I only support two teams when it comes to international sport.

Ireland (natch) and anyone who is playing against England…..  

That put your back up, did it? Good. I couldn’t give a tuppennny cuss! It is a standpoint that I have had for as long as I remember and I do not plan to change now to please the huddled masses. I have no axe to grind with anyone particular. It is just that England has always been considered ‘the old enemy’ and t’will ever be thus!

Get used to it. I have. It still gives me the warm and fuzzies when the wheel falls off England’s sodding chariot……..especially when it happens in such a spectacular fashion! 

That being said, my smugness may well be short lived when the Irish boys face the French next week. In Paris.

True, it will be a fantastic weekend away for all those who choose to make their way over to see the action but I am praying (oh Lord, how I am praying!) that we get our shite together and bring the game to the French. 

But, sure, that is what makes the Six Nations everything that I love about international rugby. We are a long way from the end and there is still all to play for……

Go on, ya good things, ya!!                  

I was working on night shift Thursday night and had not been home for very long today when I was rudely disturbed by a very odd thing. I was relaxing at home, down Hackney Wick way, when there came a thunderous noise over the top of my apartment block.

Being a curious soul, I wanted to find out what was disturbing my reverie so I went onto my balcony just as the building I was in was buzzed at low level by two dirty great Chinook helicopters flying in formation. Honestly, they were so low that I could see one of the crew members in the back of one of the beast machines in all his jumpsuit and flight helmet finery!

What was bizarre also was that I could see him because the back door of his craft was down. Now I am not an expert in aircraft but I am pretty sure that the doors would usually need to be closed in order to effectively get around!

Not only were they flying EXTREMELY low in the east London area at two in the afternoon but they were also jinking side to side rather than flying in a straight path. Truly a compelling spectacle….

This was all very odd but kind of fun in a ‘Boy’s-Own-adventure-pretending-to-be-Action-Man’ kind of way, but then they went and did something I was really not expecting. They turned westward and flew at tree top level into the boundary of the eastern side of Victoria Park whereupon they both, still in formation, dropped into the park itself. They were only there for about 30 seconds to a minute at best when they took off again, turned north, and flew off in formation. They were still going at low level, mind you.

Now, I spent a short time looking around the interweb to see if there was any explanation for this intriguing display and I have noticed that, although there was nothing about covert ops going on in the east end today, there are a lot of people who have noticed more and more the regular exhibition in London of Chinooks flying in formation (albeit not as bloody low!).

I have also noticed these sinister looking things buzzing across the London skyline, usually east to west along the river path, but I am now really curious to know why the general E3 area is now being used for military manoeuvres.