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As one of the usual 26,000-plus fans watching Derby v Swansea, I was tickled to see the bloke in front of me literally bowing down in homage every time Tealhinio (Gary Teal) or Robbie Savage (blond hair blowing in the wind) touched the ball.
Humbled Rams fan have transformed their attitude towards these two players of late - and gladly admitted they were wrong. Both Teal and Sav have been playing brilliantly under Nigel Clough's stewardship.
Nevertheless, some of the massed ranks of Rams fans are clearly squirming with niggling guilt for being so flamin' orrible to their own players in the past.
After months of yelling less than complimentary comments at the two Derby County stars, it's time to make amends.
Not sure that the new song, Teal Wonderland, about our Gary, cuts the mustard, though. It's lyrics go along the lines of: "He used to be **** but now he's all-right. Bet Gary just loves that little ditty!"
Anyway, thankfully some Rams fans are trying to make amends in other ways. The supporter I spotted clearly felt so guilty when the Derby boys did another star turn, that physically bowing down to the floor, arms outstretched in homage, was the only way to make up for his rotten ranting, even if it meant missing a goal or two.
Gary and Sav... may the force of humbled Rams fans be with you!
Wednesday, 4 March 2009
Are you Parent Number 1 or 2?
MIDDLE England and people across the globe who think we’ve all gone nuts are frothing at the mouth at what is claimed to be an assault on fatherhood – women being named as dads.
There has not been some amazing medical breakthrough to turn us all into hermaphrodites – it’s far more complicated than that.
The Embryology Bill, passed by Parliament, will make it possible for women who have had successful IVF with anonymous donor sperm to name anyone as their baby’s father or ‘second parent’ on the birth certificate.
“Put Gordon Brown on all the birth certificates,” urged one irate commentator. “Or Harriet Harman, or Roger Rabbit.”
To attempt to explain this perceived madness, the rule changes have come about because, under the current system, fertility clinics must consider a child’s need for a father before approving patients. Though this does not automatically deny treatment to single women and lesbians, the Government considers it discriminatory.
It plans a new requirement to consider “the need for supportive parenting”.
The fresh rule states: “The women receiving treatment with donor sperm can consent to any man or woman being the father or second parent.”
I’m no Einstein but if donor sperm is ‘the father’ then that’s the only fact that needs to be recorded, surely?
Also, I was never too hot at biology at school but I am absolutely certain a woman can’t be a dad.
As for being a ‘second parent’, surely that’s discriminatory in today’s politically correct Britain? Second rate, second in command, second class… being named ‘second parent’ could cause all manner of psychological difficulties in later life!
It’s hardly surprising the anti-politically correct brigade is having a field day. Online commentators from around the world have dubbed the British loonies, absurd, obscene and a disgrace. At least it gives them all a break from moaning about worldwide recession.
But while people rage about the role of a father being downgraded and birth certificates failing to provide a true record of a child’s genetic heritage, it is something else that really seems to irk.
They fear that this is another nail in the coffin of the basic nature of a man and a woman bringing up a child together as parents.
“British babies now have the same spiritual value as Cabbage Patch dolls,” a critic raged. “All the hoo-ha about child welfare, yet they are as easy come by as something from Toys r Us. If the human race sinks any further into the amoral mire, Armageddon might not be such a bad idea. We’re all raving mad.”
Point taken but we can hardly blame one rule on one piece of legislation about IVF for all that is wrong with Britain.
Nevertheless, I agree, we are all raving mad.
For a start couples, same sex or otherwise, are raving mad not to consider adoption instead of IVF. In Derby City alone there are always around 400 children in care. But rather than so much as glance in their direction, people become obsessed with having their own perfect baby while thousands of children face neglect and misery.
We’re also raving mad because we continue to act like kids in adulthood, giving up on relationships as easily as teenagers dumping their week-old boyfriends in the playground.
It’s OK when you’re 14 and without responsibilities but not so good if you’re a grown up parent of two, perhaps.
As for all those dysfunctional, screwed up kids, when they look back on the bad times, will the excuse be “I came from a broken home”, “I had a female father” or “I was brought up by my second (rate) parent”?
Perhaps we should axe the words mother and father altogether. Just call all parents Person A and Person B. Every time couples split up and meet someone new they can come into the family as Person C, D, E and so on. That should avoid any confusion for the kids!
Perhaps that New Zealand guy commenting on the Daily Mail’s website was right – Brits have lost the plot. Mind you, wasn’t it a Kiwi couple who named their child Talula Does the Hula from Hawaii?
Take heart. It’s not just us, is it? The whole world has gone nuts.
There has not been some amazing medical breakthrough to turn us all into hermaphrodites – it’s far more complicated than that.
The Embryology Bill, passed by Parliament, will make it possible for women who have had successful IVF with anonymous donor sperm to name anyone as their baby’s father or ‘second parent’ on the birth certificate.
“Put Gordon Brown on all the birth certificates,” urged one irate commentator. “Or Harriet Harman, or Roger Rabbit.”
To attempt to explain this perceived madness, the rule changes have come about because, under the current system, fertility clinics must consider a child’s need for a father before approving patients. Though this does not automatically deny treatment to single women and lesbians, the Government considers it discriminatory.
It plans a new requirement to consider “the need for supportive parenting”.
The fresh rule states: “The women receiving treatment with donor sperm can consent to any man or woman being the father or second parent.”
I’m no Einstein but if donor sperm is ‘the father’ then that’s the only fact that needs to be recorded, surely?
Also, I was never too hot at biology at school but I am absolutely certain a woman can’t be a dad.
As for being a ‘second parent’, surely that’s discriminatory in today’s politically correct Britain? Second rate, second in command, second class… being named ‘second parent’ could cause all manner of psychological difficulties in later life!
It’s hardly surprising the anti-politically correct brigade is having a field day. Online commentators from around the world have dubbed the British loonies, absurd, obscene and a disgrace. At least it gives them all a break from moaning about worldwide recession.
But while people rage about the role of a father being downgraded and birth certificates failing to provide a true record of a child’s genetic heritage, it is something else that really seems to irk.
They fear that this is another nail in the coffin of the basic nature of a man and a woman bringing up a child together as parents.
“British babies now have the same spiritual value as Cabbage Patch dolls,” a critic raged. “All the hoo-ha about child welfare, yet they are as easy come by as something from Toys r Us. If the human race sinks any further into the amoral mire, Armageddon might not be such a bad idea. We’re all raving mad.”
Point taken but we can hardly blame one rule on one piece of legislation about IVF for all that is wrong with Britain.
Nevertheless, I agree, we are all raving mad.
For a start couples, same sex or otherwise, are raving mad not to consider adoption instead of IVF. In Derby City alone there are always around 400 children in care. But rather than so much as glance in their direction, people become obsessed with having their own perfect baby while thousands of children face neglect and misery.
We’re also raving mad because we continue to act like kids in adulthood, giving up on relationships as easily as teenagers dumping their week-old boyfriends in the playground.
It’s OK when you’re 14 and without responsibilities but not so good if you’re a grown up parent of two, perhaps.
As for all those dysfunctional, screwed up kids, when they look back on the bad times, will the excuse be “I came from a broken home”, “I had a female father” or “I was brought up by my second (rate) parent”?
Perhaps we should axe the words mother and father altogether. Just call all parents Person A and Person B. Every time couples split up and meet someone new they can come into the family as Person C, D, E and so on. That should avoid any confusion for the kids!
Perhaps that New Zealand guy commenting on the Daily Mail’s website was right – Brits have lost the plot. Mind you, wasn’t it a Kiwi couple who named their child Talula Does the Hula from Hawaii?
Take heart. It’s not just us, is it? The whole world has gone nuts.
Wednesday, 21 January 2009
Why Rams fans reign supreme
There is a certain art to being an underdog. It demands skills that successful people can only dream about ever attaining.
It is in the very blood of Derby County fans and manifests itself superbly in the face of the biggest challenges.
For those of you who couldn’t be there, let me take you to Old Trafford on Tuesday night, a football stadium modestly called the Theatre of Dreams.
Lit up like Las Vegas, bright red neon signs shout out the club’s name, lest we should forget. Chance would be a fine thing.
Outside, a mass of burger bars and merchandise stalls, give the appearance of a tinkers’ fairground. A bit down market, I summised, for a club ranked the richest in any sport, with an estimated value of £897m.
It all makes me feel faintly queasy. You can almost smell the arrogance. In case you haven’t guessed, I am one of the many people who cannot stand Manchester United.
For every fan they have in Japan – because that’s where most of them live, I gather – there is a sane and sensible person over here who thinks that for one sports club to have so much is hopelessly unfair, destabilising and unhealthy.
And what does it get you? Fans all over the world who have never set foot in Manchester, hapless UK-born glory-hunters who latch on to the Red Devils because it’s easy to support a winning team and corporate boxes full of hangers on more interested in knocking back the vino than watching the game.
“Have you ever been to Manchester?” is the chant Rams fans love to yell at away supporters when Utd come to Pride Park.
“We support our local team,” was the key message they sent out to the massed ranks of Reds at a quiet Old Trafford. For a stadium that holds 76,000 you could have heard a pin drop at times. Well, you might have done if the black and white army hadn’t been so noisy. Fans didn’t even use their seats, standing up throughout the game, scarves held aloft or swirling wildly.
Home supporters, a tad irritated and clearly bemused by the exuberance of people supporting a struggling team in a lower division – who were losing – did have a feeble effort to bring us down. About half a dozen managed to muster: “You’re going down with a fiver in the bank,” to which our lot swiftly retorted. “We beat you with a fiver in the bank.”
Childish, I know, but it makes you feel better.
Love or hate football, everyone should respect the ceaseless devotion of Rams fans, their wit, repartee and stoical loyalty. They are easily among the best supporters in the land.
It was heartwarming to be among them, people like Adie Prince, 23, who reckoned he’d been a Rams fan so long “it probably started when I was a foetus”. He’d travelled from his home near London to be at the game – but was swift to point out that he hails from Kilburn. “I support my local team!”
Then there was 64-year-old Maureen Howorth who went to watch the Rams for the first time at the age of nine 55 years ago. She was at Old Trafford with her son, Ian, 40, having taken him to his first game when he was a boy.
The myth that women don’t like football is hopelessly out-of-tune with reality.
Among many Ramettes on the road were identical twin sisters, Ann and Beverly Green, 43, from West Hallam, supporters since the age of 10. They booked time off work to go to Old Trafford, as did thousands of others. More than 9,000 made the journey, from tots to pensioners, a family of fans.
Among older supporters was Spondon’s Richard Piggott, 62, a fan since 1957. “People sing ‘We’re Derby ‘til we die’ and they mean it,” he said.
It said it all for me on Tuesday night when many Man Utd’ fans left the stadium before the end of a game. No wild celebrations because they had clinched a trip to Wembley. I am so glad I support my local team.
It is in the very blood of Derby County fans and manifests itself superbly in the face of the biggest challenges.
For those of you who couldn’t be there, let me take you to Old Trafford on Tuesday night, a football stadium modestly called the Theatre of Dreams.
Lit up like Las Vegas, bright red neon signs shout out the club’s name, lest we should forget. Chance would be a fine thing.
Outside, a mass of burger bars and merchandise stalls, give the appearance of a tinkers’ fairground. A bit down market, I summised, for a club ranked the richest in any sport, with an estimated value of £897m.
It all makes me feel faintly queasy. You can almost smell the arrogance. In case you haven’t guessed, I am one of the many people who cannot stand Manchester United.
For every fan they have in Japan – because that’s where most of them live, I gather – there is a sane and sensible person over here who thinks that for one sports club to have so much is hopelessly unfair, destabilising and unhealthy.
And what does it get you? Fans all over the world who have never set foot in Manchester, hapless UK-born glory-hunters who latch on to the Red Devils because it’s easy to support a winning team and corporate boxes full of hangers on more interested in knocking back the vino than watching the game.
“Have you ever been to Manchester?” is the chant Rams fans love to yell at away supporters when Utd come to Pride Park.
“We support our local team,” was the key message they sent out to the massed ranks of Reds at a quiet Old Trafford. For a stadium that holds 76,000 you could have heard a pin drop at times. Well, you might have done if the black and white army hadn’t been so noisy. Fans didn’t even use their seats, standing up throughout the game, scarves held aloft or swirling wildly.
Home supporters, a tad irritated and clearly bemused by the exuberance of people supporting a struggling team in a lower division – who were losing – did have a feeble effort to bring us down. About half a dozen managed to muster: “You’re going down with a fiver in the bank,” to which our lot swiftly retorted. “We beat you with a fiver in the bank.”
Childish, I know, but it makes you feel better.
Love or hate football, everyone should respect the ceaseless devotion of Rams fans, their wit, repartee and stoical loyalty. They are easily among the best supporters in the land.
It was heartwarming to be among them, people like Adie Prince, 23, who reckoned he’d been a Rams fan so long “it probably started when I was a foetus”. He’d travelled from his home near London to be at the game – but was swift to point out that he hails from Kilburn. “I support my local team!”
Then there was 64-year-old Maureen Howorth who went to watch the Rams for the first time at the age of nine 55 years ago. She was at Old Trafford with her son, Ian, 40, having taken him to his first game when he was a boy.
The myth that women don’t like football is hopelessly out-of-tune with reality.
Among many Ramettes on the road were identical twin sisters, Ann and Beverly Green, 43, from West Hallam, supporters since the age of 10. They booked time off work to go to Old Trafford, as did thousands of others. More than 9,000 made the journey, from tots to pensioners, a family of fans.
Among older supporters was Spondon’s Richard Piggott, 62, a fan since 1957. “People sing ‘We’re Derby ‘til we die’ and they mean it,” he said.
It said it all for me on Tuesday night when many Man Utd’ fans left the stadium before the end of a game. No wild celebrations because they had clinched a trip to Wembley. I am so glad I support my local team.
Cloughie and Burtonians...
Every reader of the Evening Telegraph should spare a thought for all-shook-up Burtonians, me being one of them.
Now there’s an admission. Having worked on this newspaper for 14 years, the fact that I don’t actually originate from Derby is a fact I usually keep tucked away.
But not today. That’s because I feel torn in half like an old rag by the news that Cloughie jnr has left Burton Albion to take over the reins at Derby County.
I am delighted for Nigel, of course, but there is one problem. On the one hand I am a huge fan of Derby County, on the other I am a huge fan of Burton Albion.
Consequently, I feel emotionally drained and confused. I buy season tickets for both clubs. I take my sons to Rams games while my dad takes the lads to the Brewers, and, when time allows, I go to the Pirelli Stadium too.
I was there on Boxing Day along with my entire family – aged from seven to 70 – in corporate hospitality for the York City game. What a huge success that was. Not only did Burton win (as usual), the food was great, and 300 people were being catered for! Corporate was a complete sell-out, hardly surprising at £35 for a three-course meal, coffee and the match. Plus, in a sweet touch, the entire Brewers team mingled with guests before the game, signing autographs for the kids and stopping for chit-chats with Albion stalwarts.
“I bet you dread this don’t you,” I said to star striker Greg Pearson as he gamely posed for a snapshot with my son. He burst out laughing but, like all the Brewers boys, humbly performed his PR duties with a smile.
Now this is what football should be all about, I thought as I tucked into my roast beef – friendly, family-orientated and without an over-sized ego in sight.
More than that, I felt great pride in both the Brewers – flying high at the top of the Blue Square Premier – and Burton itself, the place I call home.
Forget the Cotswolds, London or Peak District beauty spots, there are few better places to be than Burton. No wonder Cloughie stayed with us for 10 years.
Locals call it “a big village” and, laughably, Westfield-blessed Derbeians often come to us to do their shopping.
“Well, it’s all so easily accessible and flat,” they tell me, “and you can park close to the shops.” I can also tell you that it has never taken me three-and-a-half hours to get out of a Burton car park.
A fellow Burtonian who moved to Worcestershire a few years ago goes cold turkey for the place. She misses the people, the aforementioned shopping, its compactness and down-to-earth attitude.
Like me she is feeling a tad weak and emotional just now. We were so proud to have Nigel on our side, you see. He helped to make Burton even more special. We’ll always be grateful to him for that.
As a Rams fan, I hope from the bottom of my heart that he can repeat his success at Derby.
And, as a Brewers fan, I hope new manager Roy McFarland – one of my favourite players from the 70s – can keep the lads on track for promotion. I have high hopes.
Long before this week’s machinations, both men appeared on posters in my young sons’ bedrooms. Each has a wall devoted to the Rams on one side, the Brewers on the other, a vibrant array of yellow, black and white.
“Don’t worry about Derby, mum,” said my 12-year-old. “Nigel is a brilliant manager. And with Roy at Burton (a former England central defender) we’ll have the best defence ever.”
Unfortunately there is no defence against being a football nut. That’s just something I have learned to live with.
Good luck Nigel and Roy!
Now there’s an admission. Having worked on this newspaper for 14 years, the fact that I don’t actually originate from Derby is a fact I usually keep tucked away.
But not today. That’s because I feel torn in half like an old rag by the news that Cloughie jnr has left Burton Albion to take over the reins at Derby County.
I am delighted for Nigel, of course, but there is one problem. On the one hand I am a huge fan of Derby County, on the other I am a huge fan of Burton Albion.
Consequently, I feel emotionally drained and confused. I buy season tickets for both clubs. I take my sons to Rams games while my dad takes the lads to the Brewers, and, when time allows, I go to the Pirelli Stadium too.
I was there on Boxing Day along with my entire family – aged from seven to 70 – in corporate hospitality for the York City game. What a huge success that was. Not only did Burton win (as usual), the food was great, and 300 people were being catered for! Corporate was a complete sell-out, hardly surprising at £35 for a three-course meal, coffee and the match. Plus, in a sweet touch, the entire Brewers team mingled with guests before the game, signing autographs for the kids and stopping for chit-chats with Albion stalwarts.
“I bet you dread this don’t you,” I said to star striker Greg Pearson as he gamely posed for a snapshot with my son. He burst out laughing but, like all the Brewers boys, humbly performed his PR duties with a smile.
Now this is what football should be all about, I thought as I tucked into my roast beef – friendly, family-orientated and without an over-sized ego in sight.
More than that, I felt great pride in both the Brewers – flying high at the top of the Blue Square Premier – and Burton itself, the place I call home.
Forget the Cotswolds, London or Peak District beauty spots, there are few better places to be than Burton. No wonder Cloughie stayed with us for 10 years.
Locals call it “a big village” and, laughably, Westfield-blessed Derbeians often come to us to do their shopping.
“Well, it’s all so easily accessible and flat,” they tell me, “and you can park close to the shops.” I can also tell you that it has never taken me three-and-a-half hours to get out of a Burton car park.
A fellow Burtonian who moved to Worcestershire a few years ago goes cold turkey for the place. She misses the people, the aforementioned shopping, its compactness and down-to-earth attitude.
Like me she is feeling a tad weak and emotional just now. We were so proud to have Nigel on our side, you see. He helped to make Burton even more special. We’ll always be grateful to him for that.
As a Rams fan, I hope from the bottom of my heart that he can repeat his success at Derby.
And, as a Brewers fan, I hope new manager Roy McFarland – one of my favourite players from the 70s – can keep the lads on track for promotion. I have high hopes.
Long before this week’s machinations, both men appeared on posters in my young sons’ bedrooms. Each has a wall devoted to the Rams on one side, the Brewers on the other, a vibrant array of yellow, black and white.
“Don’t worry about Derby, mum,” said my 12-year-old. “Nigel is a brilliant manager. And with Roy at Burton (a former England central defender) we’ll have the best defence ever.”
Unfortunately there is no defence against being a football nut. That’s just something I have learned to live with.
Good luck Nigel and Roy!
Thursday, 11 December 2008
Fancy being a 70-year-old mum?
“If I had another baby,” said my 70-year-old mother as I swept into her house from work to collect son number two, “would you give up work to look after it for me?”
My head shot round to face hers, agog with horror, only to watch her convulse into hoots of laughter. “Well, a 70-year-old in India has just had a baby girl, why not me?” she continued, warming to her theme. “A bit of IVF and I could be a mum again – maybe of triplets. And as I’ve helped to look after your kids for years, it’s payback time.”
A weird image of my mum nursing a baby sister 42 years my junior leapt into my head and I couldn’t help chortling at the improbability of it all.
This week the world discovered that Rajo Devi had given birth to her first child at 70. She is believed to be the oldest new mum in the world. Husband Bala Ram, 72, is said to be thrilled at finally conceiving. Apparently, in their community, there is a stigma attached to a couple’s failure to have a child.
Rajo, a delicate white-haired woman with the biggest new-mum smile imaginable, has beaten the previous oldest birth record held by a Romanian who had a baby at 67.
It’s all left me momentarily dumbstruck, not least because the moment I gave birth, at the tender age of 30, I felt as if I was 70. A combination of illness during pregnancy, blood pressure problems and intense fatigue caused by countless sleepless nights, left me looking like a worn-out yeti.
But like many mothers I went through it all again three years later because I dearly wanted another. And despite the motherly exhaustion, stresses and strains, wrinkles and crow’s feet, I have to say it’s the best thing I have ever done.
But would I do it again at 70? Absolutely not. Another baby would about kill me off now, never mind then. In fact, I am amazed that, though medical breakthroughs can make babies so late in life, ageing mothers are able to carry them without causing themselves severe health problems.
Then, of course, there’s the three score years and 10 argument. Should anyone be allowed to have a baby around the age we’re supposed to be nearing the end of the road?
In India, of course, the way of life is very different. Raho will reap the benefits of a joint family arrangement, which means all will rally round to care for the child come what may.
In Britain we are not so well blessed so age does matter, especially when you’re up half the night with a screaming baby or tearing around after a toddler with no sense of danger.
Nevertheless, I still felt my shackles rise when a male chum started ranting: “It’s disgusting. No woman over 50 should be having babies. It’s totally irresponsible. The menopause happens for a reason.”
Quite true but why, then, have men, for generations, been making babies well into their twilight years without anyone batting an eyelid?
It should come as no surprise to learn that, when it comes to geriatric parenting, a man holds the world record.
Nanu Ram Jogi, a farmer in the Indian state of Rajasthan, fathered his 21st child at the age of 90 last year.
Nanu could not remember exactly how many children he had produced with his four wives, but estimated that he had 12 sons, nine daughters and at least 20 grandchildren. Well, some people do get forgetful at that age.
“Women love me,” he said. “I want to have more children. I can survive another few decades and want to have children ‘til I am 100. Then maybe it will be time to stop.”
Nanu sparked quite a debate but I can’t recall him being attacked for his “disgusting behaviour”.
In fact there was a good-on-yer-son tendency to pat him on the back. One blogger commented: “Way to go man!”
And instead of lambasting him for his selfishness in being unlikely to see his kid grow up, there was discussion about his fertility success. Camel milk and a meaty diet of lamb, chicken and rabbit played their part, apparently.
There’s still no way I could give birth at 70, though. No, I’ll wait until I’m 91 - and kick Nanu’s record into touch. That will give everyone something to moan about. Now where can I buy some camel milk?
My head shot round to face hers, agog with horror, only to watch her convulse into hoots of laughter. “Well, a 70-year-old in India has just had a baby girl, why not me?” she continued, warming to her theme. “A bit of IVF and I could be a mum again – maybe of triplets. And as I’ve helped to look after your kids for years, it’s payback time.”
A weird image of my mum nursing a baby sister 42 years my junior leapt into my head and I couldn’t help chortling at the improbability of it all.
This week the world discovered that Rajo Devi had given birth to her first child at 70. She is believed to be the oldest new mum in the world. Husband Bala Ram, 72, is said to be thrilled at finally conceiving. Apparently, in their community, there is a stigma attached to a couple’s failure to have a child.
Rajo, a delicate white-haired woman with the biggest new-mum smile imaginable, has beaten the previous oldest birth record held by a Romanian who had a baby at 67.
It’s all left me momentarily dumbstruck, not least because the moment I gave birth, at the tender age of 30, I felt as if I was 70. A combination of illness during pregnancy, blood pressure problems and intense fatigue caused by countless sleepless nights, left me looking like a worn-out yeti.
But like many mothers I went through it all again three years later because I dearly wanted another. And despite the motherly exhaustion, stresses and strains, wrinkles and crow’s feet, I have to say it’s the best thing I have ever done.
But would I do it again at 70? Absolutely not. Another baby would about kill me off now, never mind then. In fact, I am amazed that, though medical breakthroughs can make babies so late in life, ageing mothers are able to carry them without causing themselves severe health problems.
Then, of course, there’s the three score years and 10 argument. Should anyone be allowed to have a baby around the age we’re supposed to be nearing the end of the road?
In India, of course, the way of life is very different. Raho will reap the benefits of a joint family arrangement, which means all will rally round to care for the child come what may.
In Britain we are not so well blessed so age does matter, especially when you’re up half the night with a screaming baby or tearing around after a toddler with no sense of danger.
Nevertheless, I still felt my shackles rise when a male chum started ranting: “It’s disgusting. No woman over 50 should be having babies. It’s totally irresponsible. The menopause happens for a reason.”
Quite true but why, then, have men, for generations, been making babies well into their twilight years without anyone batting an eyelid?
It should come as no surprise to learn that, when it comes to geriatric parenting, a man holds the world record.
Nanu Ram Jogi, a farmer in the Indian state of Rajasthan, fathered his 21st child at the age of 90 last year.
Nanu could not remember exactly how many children he had produced with his four wives, but estimated that he had 12 sons, nine daughters and at least 20 grandchildren. Well, some people do get forgetful at that age.
“Women love me,” he said. “I want to have more children. I can survive another few decades and want to have children ‘til I am 100. Then maybe it will be time to stop.”
Nanu sparked quite a debate but I can’t recall him being attacked for his “disgusting behaviour”.
In fact there was a good-on-yer-son tendency to pat him on the back. One blogger commented: “Way to go man!”
And instead of lambasting him for his selfishness in being unlikely to see his kid grow up, there was discussion about his fertility success. Camel milk and a meaty diet of lamb, chicken and rabbit played their part, apparently.
There’s still no way I could give birth at 70, though. No, I’ll wait until I’m 91 - and kick Nanu’s record into touch. That will give everyone something to moan about. Now where can I buy some camel milk?
Thursday, 27 November 2008
No money, wise old folk and Kilroy
To anyone shell-shocked by a redundancy notice or struggling in mountains of debt, the idea that the recession may be good for them could cause them to rip this column into tiny shreds.
A senior Tory who said just that this week has had a severe rollicking in these sensitive times.
Apparently he wrote on his blog: “I’ve been reading up on the impact of previous economic downturns on our health. Interestingly, on many counts, recession can be good for us. People tend to smoke less, drink less alcohol, eat less rich food and spend more time at home with their families.”
The latter being inevitable if you’ve just been made redundant, meant his comments went down about as well as a wichetty grub.
Nevertheless, I’m not about to jump on the Tory-bashing bandwagon. That’s because a colossal shift in the way we think, act and pay is taking place – and some of it is definitely for the better.
You may be familiar with star silver surfer geriatric1927, otherwise known as Peter Oakley, a Derbyshire 80-year-old who gained worldwide popularity and fame when he started posting video clips on YouTube.
His first posting was such a huge hit he received 4,000 e-mails. Since then, his thoughts have been read by millions, he has fans all over the world and he is courted by the media.
It’s all a bit much sometimes for a quiet pensioner who, when asked what his goal was for 2008 said: “It would just be nice to stay alive.”
Not asking for too much is the norm for Peter, an attitude described as refreshing by his fans.
They love the fact that he couldn’t give a monkeys about being a celebrity – are you listening jungle embarrassment Robert Kilroy-Silk? – and the fact that he is an old-fashioned gentleman – are you listening smut-aholic Jonathan Ross?
For me, Peter epitomises an honourable, sensible state of mind that is, I am glad to say, beginning to take a firm hold again.
He has something in spades that the entire world needs badly, especially Kilroy, Ross and American mortgage lenders – common sense.
The following is one of Peter’s many gems of wisdom: “In my day, at 21 you were considered to be a man, your wage was fixed and you cut your cloth according to your purse. You didn’t say: ‘What do I want’, you considered: ‘What do I need?’ ”
Isn’t that the fundamental principal, long since tossed aside, that is costing us so dear now?
Banks loaned money wrecklessly to those who couldn’t afford it. People took out mortgages that were way beyond their means.
And, when it all goes wrong, instead of recognising our own stupidity, we blame the money men for “encouraging us” – anyone, in fact, except ourselves.
Considering what we need rather than rushing out to buy what we want has suddenly become de rigueur again. It’s all about make-do-and-mend, shopping around – cutting your cloth to fit our purse. Peter was talking about a bygone age – the 20s and 30s – but his comments are as relevant today as they have ever been.
No wonder he has so many fans. For a man ostensibly just stating the obvious, it seems incredible to Peter that people find his take on life so thought-provoking.
One net reponse he received said: “The world is rotten. Pollution, corruption, crime, drugs – the news is filled with more and more bad news. But again, this week, you pulled me up Peter. And you’ve done it many times before. Your wise words have shown me there’s still hope in this world.”
If we all take a leaf out of Peter’s book, especially world leaders and East Midlands Euro MPs who prefer to build up their celebrity status than serve their constituents, I guess there is.
A senior Tory who said just that this week has had a severe rollicking in these sensitive times.
Apparently he wrote on his blog: “I’ve been reading up on the impact of previous economic downturns on our health. Interestingly, on many counts, recession can be good for us. People tend to smoke less, drink less alcohol, eat less rich food and spend more time at home with their families.”
The latter being inevitable if you’ve just been made redundant, meant his comments went down about as well as a wichetty grub.
Nevertheless, I’m not about to jump on the Tory-bashing bandwagon. That’s because a colossal shift in the way we think, act and pay is taking place – and some of it is definitely for the better.
You may be familiar with star silver surfer geriatric1927, otherwise known as Peter Oakley, a Derbyshire 80-year-old who gained worldwide popularity and fame when he started posting video clips on YouTube.
His first posting was such a huge hit he received 4,000 e-mails. Since then, his thoughts have been read by millions, he has fans all over the world and he is courted by the media.
It’s all a bit much sometimes for a quiet pensioner who, when asked what his goal was for 2008 said: “It would just be nice to stay alive.”
Not asking for too much is the norm for Peter, an attitude described as refreshing by his fans.
They love the fact that he couldn’t give a monkeys about being a celebrity – are you listening jungle embarrassment Robert Kilroy-Silk? – and the fact that he is an old-fashioned gentleman – are you listening smut-aholic Jonathan Ross?
For me, Peter epitomises an honourable, sensible state of mind that is, I am glad to say, beginning to take a firm hold again.
He has something in spades that the entire world needs badly, especially Kilroy, Ross and American mortgage lenders – common sense.
The following is one of Peter’s many gems of wisdom: “In my day, at 21 you were considered to be a man, your wage was fixed and you cut your cloth according to your purse. You didn’t say: ‘What do I want’, you considered: ‘What do I need?’ ”
Isn’t that the fundamental principal, long since tossed aside, that is costing us so dear now?
Banks loaned money wrecklessly to those who couldn’t afford it. People took out mortgages that were way beyond their means.
And, when it all goes wrong, instead of recognising our own stupidity, we blame the money men for “encouraging us” – anyone, in fact, except ourselves.
Considering what we need rather than rushing out to buy what we want has suddenly become de rigueur again. It’s all about make-do-and-mend, shopping around – cutting your cloth to fit our purse. Peter was talking about a bygone age – the 20s and 30s – but his comments are as relevant today as they have ever been.
No wonder he has so many fans. For a man ostensibly just stating the obvious, it seems incredible to Peter that people find his take on life so thought-provoking.
One net reponse he received said: “The world is rotten. Pollution, corruption, crime, drugs – the news is filled with more and more bad news. But again, this week, you pulled me up Peter. And you’ve done it many times before. Your wise words have shown me there’s still hope in this world.”
If we all take a leaf out of Peter’s book, especially world leaders and East Midlands Euro MPs who prefer to build up their celebrity status than serve their constituents, I guess there is.
Thursday, 13 November 2008
Derbyshire's first street shooting
Derby, the place I have always been so proud of, the city I have defended to the hilt, shopped, worked and played in, has suddenly been plunged into the mean streets league in my eyes.
The death of a 15-year-old, gunned down in Caxton Street, brought a tear to this mother’s eye and, I am sure many more parents, shocked by the savage act. Like me, a thought for their own children’s future safety may have flitted through their minds, too.
As for the youngster’s family and friends, their pain must be unbearable. How I feel for them.
I feel for Derby as a whole, too. This incident sets a new crime low for the city.
No longer can I boast that I could never bring my children up in a place like London because of the gang warfare and brutal murders among young people.
Liverpool, another place often in the news for gun crime, always felt a million miles away from Derby’s leafy streets.
When 11-year-old Rhys Jones, was shot in Croxteth on his way home from football practice, dying in his mother’s arms, I was horrified but comforted myself with the fact that it would never happen in Derby.
Of course I was being naive. But sometimes the only way to save your sanity is to push the truth to the dark recesses of your mind.
I know Derby has gangs, I know it will also have people without reason, conscience or the ability to conquer violent tendencies. No place is immune from that.
But this killing, this mindless act is so awful for us. It comes on top of another dreadful child-related news story that made my heart bleed this week. A 17-month-old boy, seen some 60 times by the authorities, died after enduring eight months of unimaginable torture.
The toddler suffered 50 injuries including a broken back, eight fractured ribs and ripped fingernails. His own mother and two men caused the death.
While a witch-hunt to blame the authorities goes on, I can only think about the depths of evil displayed by the perpetrators.
They appear to be devoid of human kindness or basic standards of decency, not to mention intelligence. If they were incapable of offering love, care and support to a child, they should have handed him over to people who could.
Like every sane parent out there, I am left in aching despair that anyone is capable of causing such dire harm to a tot too young to do anything other than cry for help – in this case only heard by those poised to snuff out his life.
And this all comes in a week when on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month we stopped what we were doing to honour the war dead on Armistice Day.
Two minutes to think about all the people, so often young men with their whole lives ahead of them, taken from us by a bomb or gun shot.
Whenever I hear the poignant notes of The Last Post I recall my history teacher at school crying as she told us about the misery endured by so many in the First World War trenches.
Some 20 million people died in the 1914-18 war, a whole generation lost.
It was regarded as the cull of the innocent. Unfortunately the cull of the innocent is still going on, but, mindlessly, without a call to arms being necessary.
Today’s cull is taking place in our own streets and behind closed doors.
In recent months, we’ve watched the world plunged into financial chaos, with all thoughts turned to rescuing our economy.
Perhaps, with equal passion and determination, all thoughts should be turned to restoring basic standards of human decency in every strata of society.
Or is that simply asking too much?
For all our sakes, I hope not.
The death of a 15-year-old, gunned down in Caxton Street, brought a tear to this mother’s eye and, I am sure many more parents, shocked by the savage act. Like me, a thought for their own children’s future safety may have flitted through their minds, too.
As for the youngster’s family and friends, their pain must be unbearable. How I feel for them.
I feel for Derby as a whole, too. This incident sets a new crime low for the city.
No longer can I boast that I could never bring my children up in a place like London because of the gang warfare and brutal murders among young people.
Liverpool, another place often in the news for gun crime, always felt a million miles away from Derby’s leafy streets.
When 11-year-old Rhys Jones, was shot in Croxteth on his way home from football practice, dying in his mother’s arms, I was horrified but comforted myself with the fact that it would never happen in Derby.
Of course I was being naive. But sometimes the only way to save your sanity is to push the truth to the dark recesses of your mind.
I know Derby has gangs, I know it will also have people without reason, conscience or the ability to conquer violent tendencies. No place is immune from that.
But this killing, this mindless act is so awful for us. It comes on top of another dreadful child-related news story that made my heart bleed this week. A 17-month-old boy, seen some 60 times by the authorities, died after enduring eight months of unimaginable torture.
The toddler suffered 50 injuries including a broken back, eight fractured ribs and ripped fingernails. His own mother and two men caused the death.
While a witch-hunt to blame the authorities goes on, I can only think about the depths of evil displayed by the perpetrators.
They appear to be devoid of human kindness or basic standards of decency, not to mention intelligence. If they were incapable of offering love, care and support to a child, they should have handed him over to people who could.
Like every sane parent out there, I am left in aching despair that anyone is capable of causing such dire harm to a tot too young to do anything other than cry for help – in this case only heard by those poised to snuff out his life.
And this all comes in a week when on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month we stopped what we were doing to honour the war dead on Armistice Day.
Two minutes to think about all the people, so often young men with their whole lives ahead of them, taken from us by a bomb or gun shot.
Whenever I hear the poignant notes of The Last Post I recall my history teacher at school crying as she told us about the misery endured by so many in the First World War trenches.
Some 20 million people died in the 1914-18 war, a whole generation lost.
It was regarded as the cull of the innocent. Unfortunately the cull of the innocent is still going on, but, mindlessly, without a call to arms being necessary.
Today’s cull is taking place in our own streets and behind closed doors.
In recent months, we’ve watched the world plunged into financial chaos, with all thoughts turned to rescuing our economy.
Perhaps, with equal passion and determination, all thoughts should be turned to restoring basic standards of human decency in every strata of society.
Or is that simply asking too much?
For all our sakes, I hope not.
Wednesday, 22 October 2008
Who needs Gok, Trinny or Susannah?
I confess, I’m not a Heat magazine reader and only pick up Hello magazine when I’m in the doctor’s surgery, but the British infatuation with celebrity infects us all a little.T
hat’s why I found myself sitting open-mouthed on my settee watching Katie Price on TV having around four sets of cosmetic surgery in as many days in LA.
Her desperate desire? Well, among other slight irritations tainting the body beautiful was the fact that her belly button stuck out a bit – and she hated it! Stoical hubby watched in despair, begging her to make this her last bout of surgery.
“I’ll do what I want,” she snapped. And she did. But I got that Whacko Jacko feeling as I looked at her strangely altering features. Constant surgical tweaking on the super attractive has a negative affect in my humble, plain Jane opinion.
And that’s when I started feeling relieved that I am ordinary. Relieved that I couldn’t give a stuff about my baby belly, flabby thighs, spot on my chin or the fact that the wrinkles are starting to blend into one giant network of cracks and bumps – a bit like the Grand Canyon.
Strangely, I have never scrutinised my belly button and felt waves of nausea at any perceived deformity, though I did find some fluff there once. Heaven help me!
Clearly, I am no glamour model relying on my looks to make a living, but the thought “too much money and time can make you completely barmy” did flash through my mind as I watched Katie positively enjoying yet another anaesthetic.
Years ago, when I went to my GP about having a bit of a lump removed she said: “Think long and hard because there is an element of risk with every operation. If you don’t really need it, if it’s only for cosmetic reasons, my advice would be don’t bother.”
Try telling that to image-obsessed celebrities as they head off for their fifth boob job.
I like to think that if I won the lottery tomorrow I’d stay completely grounded. Though I’d definitely buy a car to make Robbie Savage’s latest motor look dull, I wouldn’t jet off to LA for a Demi Moore-style makeover.
Take me as I am, lardy thighs an’ all. Plus, the fat keeps me warm in the South Stand at Pride Park.
What all women fail to realise until they are old and grey is that, actually, when they were young they looked pretty damn good – even without a scrap of make-up.
In the meantime, women of all ages appear far too ready to expose every inch of their bodies to scrutiny on national TV in the name of yet another makeover show.
Quite why the programme makers find it necessary to get, for example, lots of ladies with fuller figures to bend over in their undies to show us how big their backsides are is quite beyond me. Why women do it leaves me even more baffled. Everyone wants their 15 minutes of fame but naked bottoms!
I note that there is no male equivalent to this plethora of vanity-based shows. Instead the lads stick to watching the football or rugby. How wise they are. They don’t waste precious hours listening to Gok Wan telling women how to look good naked.
Now, conversely, Gok is presenting Miss Naked Beauty, a programme which gets women back to basics, stripping off the make-up to discover the beauty underneath together with that other vital key to attraction – personality.
The hunt is on for confidence, spirit, sex appeal, brains and beauty. Look no further Gok. You’ll find me in the South Stand at Derby County next Tuesday night, lardy thighs an’ all. Join me there and I’ll give you personality all right. No mascara necessary. In the meantime fellow women, young and old alike, do remember you are all brilliant. And you don’t need Gok, Trinny, Susannah, or even me, to tell you so.
hat’s why I found myself sitting open-mouthed on my settee watching Katie Price on TV having around four sets of cosmetic surgery in as many days in LA.
Her desperate desire? Well, among other slight irritations tainting the body beautiful was the fact that her belly button stuck out a bit – and she hated it! Stoical hubby watched in despair, begging her to make this her last bout of surgery.
“I’ll do what I want,” she snapped. And she did. But I got that Whacko Jacko feeling as I looked at her strangely altering features. Constant surgical tweaking on the super attractive has a negative affect in my humble, plain Jane opinion.
And that’s when I started feeling relieved that I am ordinary. Relieved that I couldn’t give a stuff about my baby belly, flabby thighs, spot on my chin or the fact that the wrinkles are starting to blend into one giant network of cracks and bumps – a bit like the Grand Canyon.
Strangely, I have never scrutinised my belly button and felt waves of nausea at any perceived deformity, though I did find some fluff there once. Heaven help me!
Clearly, I am no glamour model relying on my looks to make a living, but the thought “too much money and time can make you completely barmy” did flash through my mind as I watched Katie positively enjoying yet another anaesthetic.
Years ago, when I went to my GP about having a bit of a lump removed she said: “Think long and hard because there is an element of risk with every operation. If you don’t really need it, if it’s only for cosmetic reasons, my advice would be don’t bother.”
Try telling that to image-obsessed celebrities as they head off for their fifth boob job.
I like to think that if I won the lottery tomorrow I’d stay completely grounded. Though I’d definitely buy a car to make Robbie Savage’s latest motor look dull, I wouldn’t jet off to LA for a Demi Moore-style makeover.
Take me as I am, lardy thighs an’ all. Plus, the fat keeps me warm in the South Stand at Pride Park.
What all women fail to realise until they are old and grey is that, actually, when they were young they looked pretty damn good – even without a scrap of make-up.
In the meantime, women of all ages appear far too ready to expose every inch of their bodies to scrutiny on national TV in the name of yet another makeover show.
Quite why the programme makers find it necessary to get, for example, lots of ladies with fuller figures to bend over in their undies to show us how big their backsides are is quite beyond me. Why women do it leaves me even more baffled. Everyone wants their 15 minutes of fame but naked bottoms!
I note that there is no male equivalent to this plethora of vanity-based shows. Instead the lads stick to watching the football or rugby. How wise they are. They don’t waste precious hours listening to Gok Wan telling women how to look good naked.
Now, conversely, Gok is presenting Miss Naked Beauty, a programme which gets women back to basics, stripping off the make-up to discover the beauty underneath together with that other vital key to attraction – personality.
The hunt is on for confidence, spirit, sex appeal, brains and beauty. Look no further Gok. You’ll find me in the South Stand at Derby County next Tuesday night, lardy thighs an’ all. Join me there and I’ll give you personality all right. No mascara necessary. In the meantime fellow women, young and old alike, do remember you are all brilliant. And you don’t need Gok, Trinny, Susannah, or even me, to tell you so.
Wednesday, 8 October 2008
A very merry credit crunch Christmas
Credit crunch and Christmas, both begin with ‘C’ – and the similarity doesn’t end there.
Christmas, a happy time? In fact, it sees a frighteningly high suicide rate, it’s the Samaritans’ busiest time and mountains of marriages hit the rocks come January 1.
Likewise, the credit crunch has seen calls to the Samaritans spiral and it has killed off many a marriage.
Divorce rates in London rocket when the spouses of high-earning city workers see the cash cow in trouble. Quietly breathe the word redundancy and I’ve-only-married-you-for-the-money partners are out of the house, designer bags packed, before they hear the dreaded words “stop spending”.
On the plus side (sort of), the credit crunch is preventing some warring couples from divorcing because they cannot afford to separate.
So much for festive – and credit crunch – cheer. Better, then, that we contemplate the coming season of goodwill like Scrooge – complete with miser gloves, miserable faces and a determination not to waste a penny.
After all, redundancies are 10 a penny, home energy and food bills are rocketing and if you’re not growing your own veg and walking round the house in six jumpers and a bobble hat to save on heating, you’re not playing ball.
Anyone who boasts an inner Scrooge is definitely coming into their own right now.
I feel a wartime, batten-down-the-hatches mentality emerging. What’s wrong with bread and dripping sandwiches anyway? Rationing? Bring it back and we can fight obesity at the same time.
Anyway, it’s not all doom and gloom, some people like the credit crunch. Ryanair chief executive Michael O’Leary says it’s good for business and reckons his low-cost airline will reap the benefits of the current economic gloom.
“We are not just looking at a recession but a depression,” he said cheerily.
Meanwhile, as our belts are pulled in so tightly we almost crush out vital organs, it’s good to see frugality return.
Aldi and Lidl are awash with new amateur bargain hunters struggling with that crazy race at the tills to shove everything into the trolley at breakneck speed. Help with your packing? Get a grip. View it more like a Krypton Factor challenge.
Other discount retailers are thriving, too. The East Midlands Designer outlet was so packed last Sunday people were parked bumper to bumper on the pavements outside. Not shopping? We’re shopping more, just in different places.
For example, Domino’s pizzas are doing a roaring trade as people are cutting back on eating out but – despite Jamie Oliver’s best efforts – still can’t be bothered to cook. The compromise? Order in a pizza. Not exactly Scrooge-like but it saves a few bob.
In addition, Domino's has been a rise in the sale of potato wedges. In the last recession supermarkets saw sales of rice and potatoes surge, which means we all comfort eat on starch when times are tough.
Meanwhile, meat and organic food sales are down but sales of Tupperware and plastic sarnie bags are up because we’re buttering our own cobs to take to work.
Apart from the starch obsession, that all seems fairly sensible to me but market analysts say that we are not reacting to the credit crunch in a rational way.
Perhaps not but when, day and night, we’re told that the world economy is crashing around our ears, it’s hard not to rush into the kitchen for a giant baked potato served with rice, chips and a Domino’s pizza. The starch overload sends us to sleep and, for a few hours at least, we can stop worrying about the credit crunch.
As for me, a sensible girl when it comes to money, I have to confess that I have changed my buying habits this Christmas. Weirdly, I’ve stockpiled a pile of presents. Strange indeed for someone who normally dashes out to buy gifts at 2pm on Christmas Eve. I have no explanation for this, or my obsession with rice and potatoes.
As for Christmas Day, I’m wondering if Domino’s will be delivering. I can only hope...
Christmas, a happy time? In fact, it sees a frighteningly high suicide rate, it’s the Samaritans’ busiest time and mountains of marriages hit the rocks come January 1.
Likewise, the credit crunch has seen calls to the Samaritans spiral and it has killed off many a marriage.
Divorce rates in London rocket when the spouses of high-earning city workers see the cash cow in trouble. Quietly breathe the word redundancy and I’ve-only-married-you-for-the-money partners are out of the house, designer bags packed, before they hear the dreaded words “stop spending”.
On the plus side (sort of), the credit crunch is preventing some warring couples from divorcing because they cannot afford to separate.
So much for festive – and credit crunch – cheer. Better, then, that we contemplate the coming season of goodwill like Scrooge – complete with miser gloves, miserable faces and a determination not to waste a penny.
After all, redundancies are 10 a penny, home energy and food bills are rocketing and if you’re not growing your own veg and walking round the house in six jumpers and a bobble hat to save on heating, you’re not playing ball.
Anyone who boasts an inner Scrooge is definitely coming into their own right now.
I feel a wartime, batten-down-the-hatches mentality emerging. What’s wrong with bread and dripping sandwiches anyway? Rationing? Bring it back and we can fight obesity at the same time.
Anyway, it’s not all doom and gloom, some people like the credit crunch. Ryanair chief executive Michael O’Leary says it’s good for business and reckons his low-cost airline will reap the benefits of the current economic gloom.
“We are not just looking at a recession but a depression,” he said cheerily.
Meanwhile, as our belts are pulled in so tightly we almost crush out vital organs, it’s good to see frugality return.
Aldi and Lidl are awash with new amateur bargain hunters struggling with that crazy race at the tills to shove everything into the trolley at breakneck speed. Help with your packing? Get a grip. View it more like a Krypton Factor challenge.
Other discount retailers are thriving, too. The East Midlands Designer outlet was so packed last Sunday people were parked bumper to bumper on the pavements outside. Not shopping? We’re shopping more, just in different places.
For example, Domino’s pizzas are doing a roaring trade as people are cutting back on eating out but – despite Jamie Oliver’s best efforts – still can’t be bothered to cook. The compromise? Order in a pizza. Not exactly Scrooge-like but it saves a few bob.
In addition, Domino's has been a rise in the sale of potato wedges. In the last recession supermarkets saw sales of rice and potatoes surge, which means we all comfort eat on starch when times are tough.
Meanwhile, meat and organic food sales are down but sales of Tupperware and plastic sarnie bags are up because we’re buttering our own cobs to take to work.
Apart from the starch obsession, that all seems fairly sensible to me but market analysts say that we are not reacting to the credit crunch in a rational way.
Perhaps not but when, day and night, we’re told that the world economy is crashing around our ears, it’s hard not to rush into the kitchen for a giant baked potato served with rice, chips and a Domino’s pizza. The starch overload sends us to sleep and, for a few hours at least, we can stop worrying about the credit crunch.
As for me, a sensible girl when it comes to money, I have to confess that I have changed my buying habits this Christmas. Weirdly, I’ve stockpiled a pile of presents. Strange indeed for someone who normally dashes out to buy gifts at 2pm on Christmas Eve. I have no explanation for this, or my obsession with rice and potatoes.
As for Christmas Day, I’m wondering if Domino’s will be delivering. I can only hope...
Friday, 15 August 2008
Random (Female) Rams fan
I've always wondered why it's always blokes pontificating about football in newspapers, online and at matches so, in an effort to redress the balance, I am starting my own Random (female) Rams Fan blog.
As someone who has been watching Derby County since the age of eight, one of the fist things I'd like to mention is the most irritating comment ever heard at football matches: "We mustn't swear, there's ladies present."
Seeing as every football chant includes every swear word known to man and we're surrounded be people venting their spleen in gay abandon, it's a bit late and, frankly, pretty patronising, to suggest that they should protect our pretty little ears from bad language. Who do you think you are? Darcy?
Secondly, can the man with the squeaky duck mobile ringtone in the South Stand at Pride Park switch it off. Or get something decent.
Finally, can all Rams fans PLEASE give the team a chance to gel before they start turning on the boys? They never built Rome in a day and they're certainly not going to rebuild the Rams in five minutes.
The team were way out of their depth in the Prem and the cash, or will, to keep them up was sadly lacking. At least PJ and Adam Pearson are trying, without breaking the bank, to give us a new young team.
I met Adam recently and was well impressed with what he had to say. As he points out, a £5m player is never going to come to Derby because they want to be with a Prem team. So we have to think out of the box to find hidden or unknown talent.
PJ is clearly doing that. I for one wish him all and the lads all the best for the season.
May Nathan's hat trick be the first of many!
As someone who has been watching Derby County since the age of eight, one of the fist things I'd like to mention is the most irritating comment ever heard at football matches: "We mustn't swear, there's ladies present."
Seeing as every football chant includes every swear word known to man and we're surrounded be people venting their spleen in gay abandon, it's a bit late and, frankly, pretty patronising, to suggest that they should protect our pretty little ears from bad language. Who do you think you are? Darcy?
Secondly, can the man with the squeaky duck mobile ringtone in the South Stand at Pride Park switch it off. Or get something decent.
Finally, can all Rams fans PLEASE give the team a chance to gel before they start turning on the boys? They never built Rome in a day and they're certainly not going to rebuild the Rams in five minutes.
The team were way out of their depth in the Prem and the cash, or will, to keep them up was sadly lacking. At least PJ and Adam Pearson are trying, without breaking the bank, to give us a new young team.
I met Adam recently and was well impressed with what he had to say. As he points out, a £5m player is never going to come to Derby because they want to be with a Prem team. So we have to think out of the box to find hidden or unknown talent.
PJ is clearly doing that. I for one wish him all and the lads all the best for the season.
May Nathan's hat trick be the first of many!
Mad happy campers!
“I lurrrvvve you,” sang out the drunk. “You fill me up...”
There were a few precious moments of silence, followed by a large burp, then he started again, warbling like Simon Cowell’s worst X-Factor nightmare: “Youuu fillllll me up.”
I still haven’t worked out which song he’d wrenched these lyrics from to “serenade” his wife in “Brit-on-hols-drunk style.
She wasn’t impressed. She told him to “shut it” in no uncertain terms but, encouraged by the mobile home decking, which in his drunken stupor he mistook for a stage, he couldn’t stop himself making a complete idiot of himself.
It was then that the thought “never again” imprinted itself on my brain.
Never again would I spend my precious holiday time with a bunch of happy campers on a giant Euro site.
Because, the happier they are, the more miserable they make the people who go about their lives quietly.
You know, the sort who don’t turn up the TV or music full blast just in case their neighbours are in.
The sort who don’t start mowing their lawn at 7am or 9pm.
The sort who pop a note through the door if they have a big party coming up to apologise for any parking inconvenience.
I am among the thoughtful one, which is why I hate noise abuse. That’s what I call it.
Never mind you, Jack, I’m drunk, I’ve paid for this holiday and I’m flamin’ well going to enjoy it by singing like a tuneless moron into the early hours of the morning.
Never mind if you or your kids want to sleep, you’re going to have to listen to me.
Bricks and mortar would struggle to block the sounds, never mind a scrap of canvas or a thin mobile home wall. If you get bad neighbours on a camping/caravan holiday, you’re done for.
A chum admitted the very same thing had happened to her on a campsite in France.
“A load of people next to us were talking and drinking late into the night. It went on and on. Eventually my children were crying because they just couldn’t get to sleep,” she recalled, with a helpless grin.
“So, I went round in my nightie and, very politely, said I was sorry to spoil their fun but could they quieten down. They apologised and said yes but as I walked away the shrieking laughter started again. Then I fell over a hedge.”
Need I say more? Camping has some major drawback. And yet it’s all the rage thanks to the credit crunch.
Brits, from every walk of life, are heading for life under canvas this summer in a massive cost-cutting exercise.
In fact, just by going abroad, I broke the mould because this year the “stay-cation” is de rigueur.
The Benidorm bars are half empty while British campsites are turning people away.
Holidaying in the UK is all very laudable, and surprisingly sensible on our part.
But let’s be logical about this. Every year, millions of us leave gorgeous, lovingly cared for homes and all mod cons to sleep on a mat under canvas in a field. Why?
Alternatively, as in my case, we swap the squishy settees and pillow-soft beds of home for a static van with about as much appeal as a garden shed.
We give up dishwashers in favour of communal dish-washing sinks and leave our en suite bathrooms behind to queue up in our jim-jams for shared showers covered in body hair from the previous occupant.
We eat al fresco, come rain or shine, and feast on blackened barbecued food, served up by the man of the van/tent in some strange male ritual. Man never cooks but must do barbecue to protect cave woman from fire.
It is mystifying. OK, I know I am being a bit harsh here. Some of my best friends are campers – and my father’s the proud owner of a caravan. But I really have had my fill of chemical toilets. And the next drunken karaoke slob to stumble across my path could find himself throttled with my Derby County scarf.
Next year’s UK stay-cation is definitely going to take place within bricks in mortar, preferably in my own home!
There were a few precious moments of silence, followed by a large burp, then he started again, warbling like Simon Cowell’s worst X-Factor nightmare: “Youuu fillllll me up.”
I still haven’t worked out which song he’d wrenched these lyrics from to “serenade” his wife in “Brit-on-hols-drunk style.
She wasn’t impressed. She told him to “shut it” in no uncertain terms but, encouraged by the mobile home decking, which in his drunken stupor he mistook for a stage, he couldn’t stop himself making a complete idiot of himself.
It was then that the thought “never again” imprinted itself on my brain.
Never again would I spend my precious holiday time with a bunch of happy campers on a giant Euro site.
Because, the happier they are, the more miserable they make the people who go about their lives quietly.
You know, the sort who don’t turn up the TV or music full blast just in case their neighbours are in.
The sort who don’t start mowing their lawn at 7am or 9pm.
The sort who pop a note through the door if they have a big party coming up to apologise for any parking inconvenience.
I am among the thoughtful one, which is why I hate noise abuse. That’s what I call it.
Never mind you, Jack, I’m drunk, I’ve paid for this holiday and I’m flamin’ well going to enjoy it by singing like a tuneless moron into the early hours of the morning.
Never mind if you or your kids want to sleep, you’re going to have to listen to me.
Bricks and mortar would struggle to block the sounds, never mind a scrap of canvas or a thin mobile home wall. If you get bad neighbours on a camping/caravan holiday, you’re done for.
A chum admitted the very same thing had happened to her on a campsite in France.
“A load of people next to us were talking and drinking late into the night. It went on and on. Eventually my children were crying because they just couldn’t get to sleep,” she recalled, with a helpless grin.
“So, I went round in my nightie and, very politely, said I was sorry to spoil their fun but could they quieten down. They apologised and said yes but as I walked away the shrieking laughter started again. Then I fell over a hedge.”
Need I say more? Camping has some major drawback. And yet it’s all the rage thanks to the credit crunch.
Brits, from every walk of life, are heading for life under canvas this summer in a massive cost-cutting exercise.
In fact, just by going abroad, I broke the mould because this year the “stay-cation” is de rigueur.
The Benidorm bars are half empty while British campsites are turning people away.
Holidaying in the UK is all very laudable, and surprisingly sensible on our part.
But let’s be logical about this. Every year, millions of us leave gorgeous, lovingly cared for homes and all mod cons to sleep on a mat under canvas in a field. Why?
Alternatively, as in my case, we swap the squishy settees and pillow-soft beds of home for a static van with about as much appeal as a garden shed.
We give up dishwashers in favour of communal dish-washing sinks and leave our en suite bathrooms behind to queue up in our jim-jams for shared showers covered in body hair from the previous occupant.
We eat al fresco, come rain or shine, and feast on blackened barbecued food, served up by the man of the van/tent in some strange male ritual. Man never cooks but must do barbecue to protect cave woman from fire.
It is mystifying. OK, I know I am being a bit harsh here. Some of my best friends are campers – and my father’s the proud owner of a caravan. But I really have had my fill of chemical toilets. And the next drunken karaoke slob to stumble across my path could find himself throttled with my Derby County scarf.
Next year’s UK stay-cation is definitely going to take place within bricks in mortar, preferably in my own home!
Thursday, 10 July 2008
Why the Quiet Ones CAN get on in llife
IT was like reading my old school report: “Jill doesn’t talk enough in lessons...Jill doesn’t contribute in class...Jill is a very nice but quiet girl”.
My nine-year-old son’s school report had arrived home and that feeling of deja vu hit home with a vengeance.
Replace my name with his, and it could have been my report from 1975.
I had to laugh, though. This is a lad who, due to his foghorn vocal chords, I am forever telling to pipe down. He never stops talking, rattling away like a machine gun as soon as he wakes up at 6am.
Nevertheless, as I read through his school report, that same old comment, once aimed at me, came home to roost. And I had to ask, for the umpteenth time, what’s wrong with keeping stum? What’s wrong with listening while the gobby ones dominate the show? They talk rubbish most of the time anyway.
As a kid, I hated sticking my hand up to answer a question in class. If you got it wrong, the other kids smirked. If you got it right you were labelled a swot. And, when you did pluck up the courage to put your hand up, the teacher never noticed and let gobby answer it yet again.
To be honest, I’d rather crawl under a stone than have all eyes turned on me.
A few years ago, when I had the opportunity to be hypnotised, I asked to be cured of my fear of public speaking. And I’m not just talking about a major speech in front of hundreds. I crumple if faced with talking in front of no more than half a dozen or so. If asked to speak at the tiniest WI meeting I would be keeling over with nerves and vomiting in the public loos.
I have, and always will be, mouse-like but, as I said to my son last night as he looked glumly at his otherwise good report, when it is truly necessary to open my mouth I can do so – with gritty determination.
Like when I wanted a job, for example. After leaving school, I put university on hold for a year and, by the end of the summer holidays, had managed to land a cub reporter position on a local paper. I made a call, wrote a letter and talked myself into my dream job.
On seeing my byline, my old sixth form tutor rang me up in amazement to ask why I wasn’t at university and how on earth I’d managed to get a job. “The gift of the gab,” I replied. He was stunned. The Quiet One had used the power of speech.
Another place where I make myself heard with great clarity is Pride Park, the home of Derby County. Now there I am stripped of all inhibitions and will yell quite happily until I am blue in the face. It’s therapy, truly. Roll on August 9 when the news season kicks off.
And I never shy away from making a difficult phone call or saying what I think in a tricky situation - especially when faced by forceful, nasty, gobby people.
When I have to talk, I will. But, if there is nothing of major importance to say, why bore people stupid?
At least I don’t suffer from AMOC (Automated Mouth Overload Control), a defect which prevents some individuals from knowing when to stop rattling.
You must know one of these? They just don’t know when to shut up. They chitter-chatter endlessly, killing you softly with their sounds. A one-legged sloth would hare off like a rocket, if they so much as ventured in their direction.
AMOC is particularly prevalent among women, apparently.
Researchers have no idea what produces the defect but, as far as I am aware, it has nothing to do with the inability to speak in front of classmates during your formative years.
So, if like me or my son, you freeze in front of crowds, go suddenly shy and look at your shoes, never fear. All is not lost. The best people know when to shut up.
My nine-year-old son’s school report had arrived home and that feeling of deja vu hit home with a vengeance.
Replace my name with his, and it could have been my report from 1975.
I had to laugh, though. This is a lad who, due to his foghorn vocal chords, I am forever telling to pipe down. He never stops talking, rattling away like a machine gun as soon as he wakes up at 6am.
Nevertheless, as I read through his school report, that same old comment, once aimed at me, came home to roost. And I had to ask, for the umpteenth time, what’s wrong with keeping stum? What’s wrong with listening while the gobby ones dominate the show? They talk rubbish most of the time anyway.
As a kid, I hated sticking my hand up to answer a question in class. If you got it wrong, the other kids smirked. If you got it right you were labelled a swot. And, when you did pluck up the courage to put your hand up, the teacher never noticed and let gobby answer it yet again.
To be honest, I’d rather crawl under a stone than have all eyes turned on me.
A few years ago, when I had the opportunity to be hypnotised, I asked to be cured of my fear of public speaking. And I’m not just talking about a major speech in front of hundreds. I crumple if faced with talking in front of no more than half a dozen or so. If asked to speak at the tiniest WI meeting I would be keeling over with nerves and vomiting in the public loos.
I have, and always will be, mouse-like but, as I said to my son last night as he looked glumly at his otherwise good report, when it is truly necessary to open my mouth I can do so – with gritty determination.
Like when I wanted a job, for example. After leaving school, I put university on hold for a year and, by the end of the summer holidays, had managed to land a cub reporter position on a local paper. I made a call, wrote a letter and talked myself into my dream job.
On seeing my byline, my old sixth form tutor rang me up in amazement to ask why I wasn’t at university and how on earth I’d managed to get a job. “The gift of the gab,” I replied. He was stunned. The Quiet One had used the power of speech.
Another place where I make myself heard with great clarity is Pride Park, the home of Derby County. Now there I am stripped of all inhibitions and will yell quite happily until I am blue in the face. It’s therapy, truly. Roll on August 9 when the news season kicks off.
And I never shy away from making a difficult phone call or saying what I think in a tricky situation - especially when faced by forceful, nasty, gobby people.
When I have to talk, I will. But, if there is nothing of major importance to say, why bore people stupid?
At least I don’t suffer from AMOC (Automated Mouth Overload Control), a defect which prevents some individuals from knowing when to stop rattling.
You must know one of these? They just don’t know when to shut up. They chitter-chatter endlessly, killing you softly with their sounds. A one-legged sloth would hare off like a rocket, if they so much as ventured in their direction.
AMOC is particularly prevalent among women, apparently.
Researchers have no idea what produces the defect but, as far as I am aware, it has nothing to do with the inability to speak in front of classmates during your formative years.
So, if like me or my son, you freeze in front of crowds, go suddenly shy and look at your shoes, never fear. All is not lost. The best people know when to shut up.
Wednesday, 25 June 2008
The RIGHT Apprentice!
So wacky pterodactyl impersonator Lee McQueen won The Apprentice. What a huge relief.
Common sense triumphed over the intensely clever stupidity so often displayed by people who are super bright but, somehow, don’t live in the real world.
Hard work and effort triumphed over a fistful of academic qualifications.
It makes the heart sing, because after Lee’s CV rumpus, I thought he was out for the count.
For those not addicted to one of the most gripping TV shows of the year, Lee told a fib on his CV. I say fib because lie seems too harsh. He said he’d spent two years at college when in fact he dropped out after four months.
It was a fib born out of embarrassment. Lee thought he wouldn’t stand a chance without a list of academic qualifications as long as his arm. So, he reinvented himself, ever so slightly, like countless others before him.
He could have done far worse, like claiming he was an Oxbridge grad.
I don’t condone what he did but I do understand why. So did Sir Alan.
What Lee failed to realise was that if anyone was not going to judge him on academic results alone, it was the multi-millionaire tycoon.
Like so many of Britain’s top entrepreneurs, he came from a humble background and left school at 16. The hard work started there – not five or more years later after partying on down at uni for three years,
Sir Alan saw beyond that CV slip-up and recognised that in Lee a bright, loyal grafter with passion, enthusiasm and good humour was waiting to be moulded.
Nevertheless the holier-than-thou brigade have been casting their eyes heavenwards at Lee’s CV faux pas.
But, it’s not as bad as stealing from your employers, surely? Shirking on the job? Having more academic qualification than you know what to do with but being utterly hopeless?
In fact, while I’m motoring on this theme, Derby City Council’s corruption allegations spring to mind.
Is lying on your CV as bad as using your employees’ materials and joinery shop to build stuff for private homes?
Telling a white lie on your CV can hardly rank alongside theft, misuse of company property or just being a complete waste of space in the workplace.
After more than 20 years in half a dozen different jobs, I’ve pretty much seen it all. Graduates who, like Lee, struggle to spell; shirkers who got away with doing as little as possible, a couple of alcoholics and a thief – not at the Evening Telegraph I hasten to add.
Talking of shirkers, my favourite was the woman who insisted on having her hair cut in works’ time – because it grew in works’ time.
For all of these reasons and because like Sir Alan Sugar, I am crusty, old and wise, I am chuffed to bits for Lee.
He displayed more energy and enthusiasm than the rest of the apprentices put together and was that rare thing – a good team player but also a great leader.
He’s also good fun, a vastly underrated strength in the workplace. Who wants to be surrounded by an army of high maintenance whiners?
Attitude and hard work count for everything in my humble opinion. And if you smile along the way, hallelujah!
Yes, you need to be bright but degrees don’t guarantee that, especially these days as youngsters are pushed into higher education whether it suits them or not, because so few jobs are available.
And why on earth don’t we value practical intelligence, a much rarer commodity than a degree?
It was Lee who led The Apprentice team who located the Jewish quarter in Marrakech to buy a kosher chicken during a bizarre task for Sir Alan – unlike a lad with a degree from Edinburgh who went to the halal butcher.
Lee, if you don’t like it at the Sugar empire, you’re hired.
Common sense triumphed over the intensely clever stupidity so often displayed by people who are super bright but, somehow, don’t live in the real world.
Hard work and effort triumphed over a fistful of academic qualifications.
It makes the heart sing, because after Lee’s CV rumpus, I thought he was out for the count.
For those not addicted to one of the most gripping TV shows of the year, Lee told a fib on his CV. I say fib because lie seems too harsh. He said he’d spent two years at college when in fact he dropped out after four months.
It was a fib born out of embarrassment. Lee thought he wouldn’t stand a chance without a list of academic qualifications as long as his arm. So, he reinvented himself, ever so slightly, like countless others before him.
He could have done far worse, like claiming he was an Oxbridge grad.
I don’t condone what he did but I do understand why. So did Sir Alan.
What Lee failed to realise was that if anyone was not going to judge him on academic results alone, it was the multi-millionaire tycoon.
Like so many of Britain’s top entrepreneurs, he came from a humble background and left school at 16. The hard work started there – not five or more years later after partying on down at uni for three years,
Sir Alan saw beyond that CV slip-up and recognised that in Lee a bright, loyal grafter with passion, enthusiasm and good humour was waiting to be moulded.
Nevertheless the holier-than-thou brigade have been casting their eyes heavenwards at Lee’s CV faux pas.
But, it’s not as bad as stealing from your employers, surely? Shirking on the job? Having more academic qualification than you know what to do with but being utterly hopeless?
In fact, while I’m motoring on this theme, Derby City Council’s corruption allegations spring to mind.
Is lying on your CV as bad as using your employees’ materials and joinery shop to build stuff for private homes?
Telling a white lie on your CV can hardly rank alongside theft, misuse of company property or just being a complete waste of space in the workplace.
After more than 20 years in half a dozen different jobs, I’ve pretty much seen it all. Graduates who, like Lee, struggle to spell; shirkers who got away with doing as little as possible, a couple of alcoholics and a thief – not at the Evening Telegraph I hasten to add.
Talking of shirkers, my favourite was the woman who insisted on having her hair cut in works’ time – because it grew in works’ time.
For all of these reasons and because like Sir Alan Sugar, I am crusty, old and wise, I am chuffed to bits for Lee.
He displayed more energy and enthusiasm than the rest of the apprentices put together and was that rare thing – a good team player but also a great leader.
He’s also good fun, a vastly underrated strength in the workplace. Who wants to be surrounded by an army of high maintenance whiners?
Attitude and hard work count for everything in my humble opinion. And if you smile along the way, hallelujah!
Yes, you need to be bright but degrees don’t guarantee that, especially these days as youngsters are pushed into higher education whether it suits them or not, because so few jobs are available.
And why on earth don’t we value practical intelligence, a much rarer commodity than a degree?
It was Lee who led The Apprentice team who located the Jewish quarter in Marrakech to buy a kosher chicken during a bizarre task for Sir Alan – unlike a lad with a degree from Edinburgh who went to the halal butcher.
Lee, if you don’t like it at the Sugar empire, you’re hired.
The joy of being a frugalista (tight!)
Careful with your money? Harshly dubbed tight? Not any more, you’re a funky new frugalista.
You’re so stylish, Madonna would kill for just a fraction of your money know-how.
I bet she wishes she had a Home Bargains store close by, stuffed with cut-price toiletries and packs of 18 toilet rolls – yes, I said 18 – for an astonishing £2.99.
Yep, the credit crunch is biting hard. Thanks to the mighty media’s scare stories about rocketing gas and electric bills, plummeting home values and rising fuel and food costs, we’re all cutting back.
Phew! What a relief. I no longer feel guilty for being a frugalista (OK, tight), something I have been all my life.
It all started in 1972 when, clutching my 10p pocket money tightly, I walked to the sweet shop and thought long and hard for half an hour before buying a bag of chocolate tools for 1p each. Mmm... those hammers and spanners tasted good. Whatever happened to chocolate tools?Though just a tubby tot, I knew then that money definitely didn’t grow on trees. I had to make every penny count. When I bought my first house at 21 for £13,000 I felt like I’d borrowed a million. The mortgage seemed huge and it was compared to my measly salary.
My first job paid £40 a week.
Despite the cash shortfall I managed to run a car, though its rickety doors flew open when I rounded a bend, and I never, ever got into debt.
As a student I used thrift shops. I made Amy Whinehouse look like the epitome of chic. As long as I averted my gaze when I passed a mirror, it really didn’t bother me.
As I grew older and started to earn more money, cash pressures eased but that frugal nature never went away.
I’d never go out and blow £300 on a handbag, my mobile phone’s like Del Boy’s brick and I drive a battered Peugeot 106 that rattles when I round a bend. At least the doors don’t fly open!Friends have goaded me over the years, especially a couple who I dub “the princesses”.
One refuses point blank to shop anywhere where they don’t pack your groceries for you. One almost passed out in horror a few years ago when I dragged her into Kwik Save. It was as much as she could do not to vomit.
When we get together they show off their designer buys, Burberry is a favourite make. In fact, I fell off my bar stool when one revealed the purse she’d just bought – for £295.
More money than sense is the phrase that springs to mind as I quickly decide in my head what I would have bought for the same amount of money – a new bathroom suite maybe, or flights for a holiday.
But now, despite their laughter at my expense, their hoots of derision when I confess that my new dress cost a fiver in New Look’s sale, I am in tune with current thinking and they are so 1980s, so bling.
Even the London luvvies are having lessons in how to save cash. I saw one on telly this week being introduced to the delights of Aldi.
Shopping around, she discovered – surprise, surprise – could save hundreds of pounds a year on her groceries. It was a total revelation to her. “Their bacon is incredibly cheap,” she gasped in awe.
It is indeed. Come to Derby, love, and you’ll really bag a bargain. Where have these people been? Bathing in vats of £50 notes?
Now, suddenly, they are realising how incredibly stupid they are. As a fellow frugalista said: “ I hear people whining about being poor and in debt while feeling like they’re too good to lower themselves to ‘that level’ of hard-core frugality. Screw that. Party like it’s 1959 – or 1929 if you’re really on a tight budget. Live on a smaller income, think like our grandparents and great-grandparents. I'd rather clip money-off coupons than be an indentured servant to Mastercard for the rest of my life.”
Me too. Frugal and proud – and oh so fashionable! This credit crunch thing isn’t so bad after all.
You’re so stylish, Madonna would kill for just a fraction of your money know-how.
I bet she wishes she had a Home Bargains store close by, stuffed with cut-price toiletries and packs of 18 toilet rolls – yes, I said 18 – for an astonishing £2.99.
Yep, the credit crunch is biting hard. Thanks to the mighty media’s scare stories about rocketing gas and electric bills, plummeting home values and rising fuel and food costs, we’re all cutting back.
Phew! What a relief. I no longer feel guilty for being a frugalista (OK, tight), something I have been all my life.
It all started in 1972 when, clutching my 10p pocket money tightly, I walked to the sweet shop and thought long and hard for half an hour before buying a bag of chocolate tools for 1p each. Mmm... those hammers and spanners tasted good. Whatever happened to chocolate tools?Though just a tubby tot, I knew then that money definitely didn’t grow on trees. I had to make every penny count. When I bought my first house at 21 for £13,000 I felt like I’d borrowed a million. The mortgage seemed huge and it was compared to my measly salary.
My first job paid £40 a week.
Despite the cash shortfall I managed to run a car, though its rickety doors flew open when I rounded a bend, and I never, ever got into debt.
As a student I used thrift shops. I made Amy Whinehouse look like the epitome of chic. As long as I averted my gaze when I passed a mirror, it really didn’t bother me.
As I grew older and started to earn more money, cash pressures eased but that frugal nature never went away.
I’d never go out and blow £300 on a handbag, my mobile phone’s like Del Boy’s brick and I drive a battered Peugeot 106 that rattles when I round a bend. At least the doors don’t fly open!Friends have goaded me over the years, especially a couple who I dub “the princesses”.
One refuses point blank to shop anywhere where they don’t pack your groceries for you. One almost passed out in horror a few years ago when I dragged her into Kwik Save. It was as much as she could do not to vomit.
When we get together they show off their designer buys, Burberry is a favourite make. In fact, I fell off my bar stool when one revealed the purse she’d just bought – for £295.
More money than sense is the phrase that springs to mind as I quickly decide in my head what I would have bought for the same amount of money – a new bathroom suite maybe, or flights for a holiday.
But now, despite their laughter at my expense, their hoots of derision when I confess that my new dress cost a fiver in New Look’s sale, I am in tune with current thinking and they are so 1980s, so bling.
Even the London luvvies are having lessons in how to save cash. I saw one on telly this week being introduced to the delights of Aldi.
Shopping around, she discovered – surprise, surprise – could save hundreds of pounds a year on her groceries. It was a total revelation to her. “Their bacon is incredibly cheap,” she gasped in awe.
It is indeed. Come to Derby, love, and you’ll really bag a bargain. Where have these people been? Bathing in vats of £50 notes?
Now, suddenly, they are realising how incredibly stupid they are. As a fellow frugalista said: “ I hear people whining about being poor and in debt while feeling like they’re too good to lower themselves to ‘that level’ of hard-core frugality. Screw that. Party like it’s 1959 – or 1929 if you’re really on a tight budget. Live on a smaller income, think like our grandparents and great-grandparents. I'd rather clip money-off coupons than be an indentured servant to Mastercard for the rest of my life.”
Me too. Frugal and proud – and oh so fashionable! This credit crunch thing isn’t so bad after all.
Tuesday, 29 April 2008
My Rams fan shame...
The Arsenal game on Monday night was sadly marred by what can only be described as racist chanting. I am usally proud to be a Rams fans. Everyone has commented on our supporters' loyalty in this most dire of seasons.
But the tendency, almost through boredom, to wind up star Premiership players in the opposing team actually works against us in every way. In fact, it fires them up to score hat-tricks. Not so clever, then.
Come on Rams fans. Support your team, don't just get bitter and twisted with our opponents. Roll on next season and some opposition we can actually beat!
But the tendency, almost through boredom, to wind up star Premiership players in the opposing team actually works against us in every way. In fact, it fires them up to score hat-tricks. Not so clever, then.
Come on Rams fans. Support your team, don't just get bitter and twisted with our opponents. Roll on next season and some opposition we can actually beat!
Sir Alan Sugar and Me
SIR Alan Sugar’s down to earth attitude of mind would mean we would get on just fine. I am sure of that.
Nevertheless, in the unlikely event of me ever getting onto BBC’s hit show The Apprentice I would be sacked in the first week.
That’s because I failed to get a degree in back stabbing, a Masters in bitchiness or even an A* GCSE in selfish survival at all costs.
“You’re out of your depth, love,” Alan would say with a sorry glint in his eye. “You show compassion for goodness sake. You need to be a right cow to survive with this lot.”
Apologies for a rare TV addiction but right now The Apprentice is the only programme I make time to watch – along with more than seven million others.
And, though I know I shouldn’t as the language can get pretty ripe, I let my sons watch it, too. It’s an education.
“Watch and learn lads,” I say. “This is how horrible people can be at work sometimes.”
But the most revealing lesson in life that The Apprentice proves with a vengeance is my mediocre theory.
Many moons ago a fellow news reporter and colleague on the smallest daily paper in the country landed himself as a job on The Guardian in London, the sort of rag that would eat itself if it was chocolate.
“Aren’t you intimidated?” I ventured as he prepared for the big move.
“Jill,” he said in his lovely Geordie twang. “If there is one thing I have learned in life, especially at university, is that everyone is mediocre.”
How right he was. It’s just that the mediocre people who shout the loudest often get on. If there is one thing The Apprentice triple underlines it is that even arrogant know-it-alls are pretty useless, it’s just that they never admit it. Either that are they are hopelessly deluded.
We see this with amazing clarity thanks to fly-on-the-wall TV. The cream of Britain’s entrepreneurs and go-getters come together to do a task and a battle of egos emerges.
The project managers are undermined by members of their so-called team, everyone thinks they could do things better and they always make giant errors. Like trying to sell ice cream to shops that make their own, or offering a washing service and getting everyone’s clothes hopelessly mixed.
And when it comes to facing the steely gaze of Sir Alan in the boardroom afterwards, the blame shifting and blatant lying is incredible to behold.
Women, of course, are the worst. Men can stick the knife in but never with the intensity that some members of the fairer sex display. They plunge the knife through the shoulder blades at a rate of knots and give it a few sharp twists for good measure.
Their attacks get personal and their character assassinations ferocious.
They make each other cry for goodness sake, eyes ablaze with bitterness, mouths belting out bitter vitriol.
They stitch each other up, let each other down and are hopelessly indiscreet.
“Listen and learn lads,” I say to my sons. “Whatever you choose to do in life, make sure you’re never stuck in a job where you’re just working with women.”
Us girls can’t help stirring it, can we? Men, bless ‘em, just stand on the sidelines, mouths agape, looking confused.
They might give each other a thump of they have a fall out but then it’s all forgotten and they start talking about football. But the conversation will never last too long. Men also know when to button it.
Women, on the other hand, sometimes don’t.
A chum was trying to get away from work on time earlier this week but her female boss demanded a word just as one of her friends passed in the corridor.
Instead of a swift “cheerio, see you tomorrow” a conversation was struck up while my pal stood on the sidelines, blood pressure building as she needed to pick up her son.
Though the first thing the women said to each other was “I only have a minute” more than 20 minutes of tittle tattle followed. They discussed, among other things, the unexpected death of a pet rabbit and its effect on the entire family; what colour pegs they used to hang out the washing (they should be the same, apparently); hair appointments; what they were having for tea and the fact that Delores (name changed, of course) had had a two-and-half hour lunch break with Jack.
My chum, being a little like me, was too polite to interject. Our parents brought us up to have manners, something now sadly lacking in society according to a recent survey.
Manners, kindness and compassion do not seem to get you very far these days.
Nevertheless, I’ll still teach all three traits to my sons – with a little help from Sir Alan.
Hard man he may be, but I detect a touch of compassion – and he still got to the top.
Nevertheless, in the unlikely event of me ever getting onto BBC’s hit show The Apprentice I would be sacked in the first week.
That’s because I failed to get a degree in back stabbing, a Masters in bitchiness or even an A* GCSE in selfish survival at all costs.
“You’re out of your depth, love,” Alan would say with a sorry glint in his eye. “You show compassion for goodness sake. You need to be a right cow to survive with this lot.”
Apologies for a rare TV addiction but right now The Apprentice is the only programme I make time to watch – along with more than seven million others.
And, though I know I shouldn’t as the language can get pretty ripe, I let my sons watch it, too. It’s an education.
“Watch and learn lads,” I say. “This is how horrible people can be at work sometimes.”
But the most revealing lesson in life that The Apprentice proves with a vengeance is my mediocre theory.
Many moons ago a fellow news reporter and colleague on the smallest daily paper in the country landed himself as a job on The Guardian in London, the sort of rag that would eat itself if it was chocolate.
“Aren’t you intimidated?” I ventured as he prepared for the big move.
“Jill,” he said in his lovely Geordie twang. “If there is one thing I have learned in life, especially at university, is that everyone is mediocre.”
How right he was. It’s just that the mediocre people who shout the loudest often get on. If there is one thing The Apprentice triple underlines it is that even arrogant know-it-alls are pretty useless, it’s just that they never admit it. Either that are they are hopelessly deluded.
We see this with amazing clarity thanks to fly-on-the-wall TV. The cream of Britain’s entrepreneurs and go-getters come together to do a task and a battle of egos emerges.
The project managers are undermined by members of their so-called team, everyone thinks they could do things better and they always make giant errors. Like trying to sell ice cream to shops that make their own, or offering a washing service and getting everyone’s clothes hopelessly mixed.
And when it comes to facing the steely gaze of Sir Alan in the boardroom afterwards, the blame shifting and blatant lying is incredible to behold.
Women, of course, are the worst. Men can stick the knife in but never with the intensity that some members of the fairer sex display. They plunge the knife through the shoulder blades at a rate of knots and give it a few sharp twists for good measure.
Their attacks get personal and their character assassinations ferocious.
They make each other cry for goodness sake, eyes ablaze with bitterness, mouths belting out bitter vitriol.
They stitch each other up, let each other down and are hopelessly indiscreet.
“Listen and learn lads,” I say to my sons. “Whatever you choose to do in life, make sure you’re never stuck in a job where you’re just working with women.”
Us girls can’t help stirring it, can we? Men, bless ‘em, just stand on the sidelines, mouths agape, looking confused.
They might give each other a thump of they have a fall out but then it’s all forgotten and they start talking about football. But the conversation will never last too long. Men also know when to button it.
Women, on the other hand, sometimes don’t.
A chum was trying to get away from work on time earlier this week but her female boss demanded a word just as one of her friends passed in the corridor.
Instead of a swift “cheerio, see you tomorrow” a conversation was struck up while my pal stood on the sidelines, blood pressure building as she needed to pick up her son.
Though the first thing the women said to each other was “I only have a minute” more than 20 minutes of tittle tattle followed. They discussed, among other things, the unexpected death of a pet rabbit and its effect on the entire family; what colour pegs they used to hang out the washing (they should be the same, apparently); hair appointments; what they were having for tea and the fact that Delores (name changed, of course) had had a two-and-half hour lunch break with Jack.
My chum, being a little like me, was too polite to interject. Our parents brought us up to have manners, something now sadly lacking in society according to a recent survey.
Manners, kindness and compassion do not seem to get you very far these days.
Nevertheless, I’ll still teach all three traits to my sons – with a little help from Sir Alan.
Hard man he may be, but I detect a touch of compassion – and he still got to the top.
I'm an internet dunce
I’VE just discovered – not that it should be any surprise – that I am an online dunce with an internet age of seven.
This shocking revelation was made to me after I tackled a questionnaire on website www.myinternetage.com.
Launched by communications company Orange, it gauges your internet experience to work out your ‘internet age’ and was built to quantify different generational attitudes to the internet.
The site is on track to become one of the UK’s largest ever studies into internet use. I followed in the hallowed web-steps of 16,000 people, including Jonathan Ross and Stephen Fry, who, no doubt, scored a little better than me.
The website told me in a gentle teacher-to-child way, that “I’m doing well but I have a lot to learn”.
My problem soon became apparent. I don’t download or upload, use instant messenger, talk to anonymous online punters, parade my private pictures across Facebook or make funky video clips for You Tube. In fact, I am so out of touch the computer survey could only assume I was a child.
Bit patronising really. Most seven year olds are more computer literate than their parents. For example, my high-tech, switched on, internet-savvy kids (aged nine and 12 but with a joint internet age of 182) wanted a Facebook page. I said no but (and this is probably illegal) said they could create a site for me. It kept them quiet for all of five minutes.
Consequently a web page exists in my name plastered with rotating Burton Albion and Derby County logos. It also states that my favourite TV programmes are The Simpsons and Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and the person I would most like to meet is Robbie Savage “because he’s a real character”. So far, the sophisticated online community – with respectable online ages – have not cottoned on to the fact that an ancient mother-of-two is living in a 12-year-old’s world.
And that says it all for me. The internet is a make believe wonderland, where people sit for countless hours escaping from reality when they should be doing the garden, housework, essential DIY or at least cooking the tea.
Me? I’m too busy doing the washing to bother with it all. Just coping with oodles of e-mails and text messages is enough for me.
This morning I had 600 spam e-mails in my work inbox. The vast majority were utter junk but, irritatingly, I had to flick through the lot as genuine stuff gets trapped amid the rubbish.
To my tender, seven-year-old- internet-age sensibilities, the online world seems to be obsessed with replica watches, cheap viagra and men’s privates.
Tempting subject lines among this hefty batch of spam included: Playboy bunnies in beach photo shoot; No woman can resist you; Express your masculinity better!; Nominated for an MBA; Safe natural way to size up; Very CheapPrice Bacheelor, MasteerMBA, and Doctoraate dip1omas eklyvjxa yq33rp3 (that’s how it read, by the way) and Be as attractive as 007.
All laudible pursuits, no doubt. I’d love to look like Daniel Craig but I am not sure his macho muscles would look so good on me. These spam machines really should learn to differentiate between the sexes!
Anyway, those waste-of-space e-mails have been sent to the great recycling bin in the sky – but still used up valuable minutes of my day. They underlined to me yet again what a complete waste of time the web world can sometimes be.
Yes, it’s great for shopping, football news and booking holidays but, beyond that, I can’t help feeling it’s seducing a generation of people into being obsessed with the virtual world rather than the real one.
For example, a chum practically married to his PDA (Personal Digital Assistant) spent his entire weekend downloading a whole series of the Sopranos. He hasn’t actually watched any of it yet. When time allows, he can enjoy countless hours of fun glued to a screen as big as the palm of his hand. Whatever lights your fire...
Personally, I haven’t got the time to download that lot, let alone watch it. Perhaps I’m spending my time stupidly doing mundane stuff like washing the car, shopping for food and scrubbing the bog. I’m going to be left behind, a technological dinosaur, unable – or unwilling – to embrace the digital age with the passion it demands.
The trouble is I have hit 42 – the official age when your brain gives up the ghost when it comes to learning anything new, or so the experts say. I’m sure anyone reading this who is beyond that age will beg to differ.
I certainly do. What age has taught me, however, is that life is too short to spend countless hours glued to a computer screen.
If that means I’ve got an internet age of seven, so be it. I’m rather proud of the fact. Because at last it means I’ve got a life.
This shocking revelation was made to me after I tackled a questionnaire on website www.myinternetage.com.
Launched by communications company Orange, it gauges your internet experience to work out your ‘internet age’ and was built to quantify different generational attitudes to the internet.
The site is on track to become one of the UK’s largest ever studies into internet use. I followed in the hallowed web-steps of 16,000 people, including Jonathan Ross and Stephen Fry, who, no doubt, scored a little better than me.
The website told me in a gentle teacher-to-child way, that “I’m doing well but I have a lot to learn”.
My problem soon became apparent. I don’t download or upload, use instant messenger, talk to anonymous online punters, parade my private pictures across Facebook or make funky video clips for You Tube. In fact, I am so out of touch the computer survey could only assume I was a child.
Bit patronising really. Most seven year olds are more computer literate than their parents. For example, my high-tech, switched on, internet-savvy kids (aged nine and 12 but with a joint internet age of 182) wanted a Facebook page. I said no but (and this is probably illegal) said they could create a site for me. It kept them quiet for all of five minutes.
Consequently a web page exists in my name plastered with rotating Burton Albion and Derby County logos. It also states that my favourite TV programmes are The Simpsons and Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and the person I would most like to meet is Robbie Savage “because he’s a real character”. So far, the sophisticated online community – with respectable online ages – have not cottoned on to the fact that an ancient mother-of-two is living in a 12-year-old’s world.
And that says it all for me. The internet is a make believe wonderland, where people sit for countless hours escaping from reality when they should be doing the garden, housework, essential DIY or at least cooking the tea.
Me? I’m too busy doing the washing to bother with it all. Just coping with oodles of e-mails and text messages is enough for me.
This morning I had 600 spam e-mails in my work inbox. The vast majority were utter junk but, irritatingly, I had to flick through the lot as genuine stuff gets trapped amid the rubbish.
To my tender, seven-year-old- internet-age sensibilities, the online world seems to be obsessed with replica watches, cheap viagra and men’s privates.
Tempting subject lines among this hefty batch of spam included: Playboy bunnies in beach photo shoot; No woman can resist you; Express your masculinity better!; Nominated for an MBA; Safe natural way to size up; Very CheapPrice Bacheelor, MasteerMBA, and Doctoraate dip1omas eklyvjxa yq33rp3 (that’s how it read, by the way) and Be as attractive as 007.
All laudible pursuits, no doubt. I’d love to look like Daniel Craig but I am not sure his macho muscles would look so good on me. These spam machines really should learn to differentiate between the sexes!
Anyway, those waste-of-space e-mails have been sent to the great recycling bin in the sky – but still used up valuable minutes of my day. They underlined to me yet again what a complete waste of time the web world can sometimes be.
Yes, it’s great for shopping, football news and booking holidays but, beyond that, I can’t help feeling it’s seducing a generation of people into being obsessed with the virtual world rather than the real one.
For example, a chum practically married to his PDA (Personal Digital Assistant) spent his entire weekend downloading a whole series of the Sopranos. He hasn’t actually watched any of it yet. When time allows, he can enjoy countless hours of fun glued to a screen as big as the palm of his hand. Whatever lights your fire...
Personally, I haven’t got the time to download that lot, let alone watch it. Perhaps I’m spending my time stupidly doing mundane stuff like washing the car, shopping for food and scrubbing the bog. I’m going to be left behind, a technological dinosaur, unable – or unwilling – to embrace the digital age with the passion it demands.
The trouble is I have hit 42 – the official age when your brain gives up the ghost when it comes to learning anything new, or so the experts say. I’m sure anyone reading this who is beyond that age will beg to differ.
I certainly do. What age has taught me, however, is that life is too short to spend countless hours glued to a computer screen.
If that means I’ve got an internet age of seven, so be it. I’m rather proud of the fact. Because at last it means I’ve got a life.
Tuesday, 8 April 2008
Rams fan signs up for another season
"Hey! You've got a text message!"
My trendy (!!) phone alerted me to an incoming text and this one was from none other than Rams player Alan Stubbs. Yes, really.
Unfortunately my monentary hope that he'd spotted me inthe South Stand and just wanted to know me a little bit better, was soon quashed. I swiftly realised that I was just one of around, perhaps, 20,000 people who got the same message urging them to go online to see a special video Stubbsy had made for us.
In it, the poor bloke, clearly embarrassed in front of camera, urges Rams season ticket holders to cough up the sheckles for another season - "I've committed myself to the Rams for another season, I hope you will, too."
Well, of course I will Alan! In fact, unbeknown to you, I'd signed up for the new season that very day. Always intended to. Only the fact that I don't earn Prem wages made me drag my feet.
But I had to smile as I watched Stubbsy's semi-tortured performance in front of a video camera. Good on the Rams for getting so high-tech with their promotions but why, oh why have we all got to become video stars? You Tube has got a lot to answer for.
I've even been urged to put mini video clips of myself on this blog. "What do you want me to show 'em?" I ask."Me pegging out the washing or scrubbing the bogs?"
Any ideas warmly welcomed...
My trendy (!!) phone alerted me to an incoming text and this one was from none other than Rams player Alan Stubbs. Yes, really.
Unfortunately my monentary hope that he'd spotted me inthe South Stand and just wanted to know me a little bit better, was soon quashed. I swiftly realised that I was just one of around, perhaps, 20,000 people who got the same message urging them to go online to see a special video Stubbsy had made for us.
In it, the poor bloke, clearly embarrassed in front of camera, urges Rams season ticket holders to cough up the sheckles for another season - "I've committed myself to the Rams for another season, I hope you will, too."
Well, of course I will Alan! In fact, unbeknown to you, I'd signed up for the new season that very day. Always intended to. Only the fact that I don't earn Prem wages made me drag my feet.
But I had to smile as I watched Stubbsy's semi-tortured performance in front of a video camera. Good on the Rams for getting so high-tech with their promotions but why, oh why have we all got to become video stars? You Tube has got a lot to answer for.
I've even been urged to put mini video clips of myself on this blog. "What do you want me to show 'em?" I ask."Me pegging out the washing or scrubbing the bogs?"
Any ideas warmly welcomed...
Parks rule OK
MOVING house to live near a park has changed my children’s lives beyond belief – for the better.
So I was perplexed to see that Derby City Council is contemplating closing 10 play areas to save money.
Being close to a park was a key reason why I chose my new house.
After years of living in a quiet but dull road with nowhere to play (we had a field behind us but the owner put up barbed wire and sent residents a stiff letter informing them that they we could not use it), I was chuffed to spot a small but well maintained park opposite the house I liked.
It was so close I knew that I would finally be able to give my sons a taste of the freedom I enjoyed as a youngster.
Nevertheless, I could never have anticipate the total transformation of their childhoods which the park has brought about. From day one, the local lads included my sons in their daily football matches. Two or three times a day a youngster arrives at our house on his bike, a ball stuck up his jumper, and asks: “Are you coming to the park?”
It’s a jumpers-for-goalposts mentality which I thought had vanished forever. On long summer evenings the matches last for hours. And it’s safe, too. A glance out the window assures me that they are fine.
That small neighbourhood park has improved all of our lives tenfold.
House builders should be forced to incorporate them into every major development instead of squeezing houses with practically no gardens into every square inch of space.
And they moan that children don’t exercise enough.
Lose parks? We should be making more of them.
So I was perplexed to see that Derby City Council is contemplating closing 10 play areas to save money.
Being close to a park was a key reason why I chose my new house.
After years of living in a quiet but dull road with nowhere to play (we had a field behind us but the owner put up barbed wire and sent residents a stiff letter informing them that they we could not use it), I was chuffed to spot a small but well maintained park opposite the house I liked.
It was so close I knew that I would finally be able to give my sons a taste of the freedom I enjoyed as a youngster.
Nevertheless, I could never have anticipate the total transformation of their childhoods which the park has brought about. From day one, the local lads included my sons in their daily football matches. Two or three times a day a youngster arrives at our house on his bike, a ball stuck up his jumper, and asks: “Are you coming to the park?”
It’s a jumpers-for-goalposts mentality which I thought had vanished forever. On long summer evenings the matches last for hours. And it’s safe, too. A glance out the window assures me that they are fine.
That small neighbourhood park has improved all of our lives tenfold.
House builders should be forced to incorporate them into every major development instead of squeezing houses with practically no gardens into every square inch of space.
And they moan that children don’t exercise enough.
Lose parks? We should be making more of them.
The oldest friends are the best
Like two cackling old dears, we put the world to rights over the cheapest pub round known to man – 65p!
“They only charged me for the crisps,” laughed my all-time best mate. “They didn’t charge for the water! That’s the cheapest round ever.”
Exactly the same cheeky grin I remembered from school lit up her face. We both giggled like schoolgirls.
Deep down, we still are.
We hadn’t laid eyes on each other for two years but that doesn’t matter a jot to hardcore old mates.
You can tell new friends about the past but they did not live it with you. They can never truly understand.
They didn’t see how ridiculous you looked in your denim jacket with Status Quo daubed on the back in felt tip (that was me) or the stripy bubble bee jumper with giant punk rocker holes (that was her).
They never saw the boys you fancied – Elsie, Bunny, Nobbie, Crispie – or knew their daft nicknames.
They never went to Rolleston Youth Club and sat in the punk room trying to look pale and interesting while appearing to enjoy screechingly bad music on vinyl. And they quite possibly never went to the Saturday Night Fever dance lessons. (At least, our musical tastes were varied!)
Our friendship blossomed at 13. We hit it off playing football hangman during rainy school lunch-breaks. She supported Man U (glory fan!), I backed my home team, Derby County.
Chalk and cheese, the phrase must have been written for us. She’s into astrophysics, I’d struggle to describe astroturf. She’s vegan, I eat rump steak.
She’s never married or had children, I’ve done both.
But our differences are the making of us. And our values are the same. That compatibility, common ground, good humour and understanding of the world that linked us as teenagers has never dimmed – nor has our sense of fun.
She was a swine when it came to hangman. At that time, my knowledge of footie was on a par with any football pundit’s but she scoured the globe to come up with obscure foreign players – Outa Mongolia’s centre forward, that sort of thing.
At 40-odd, despite some time apart (too busy, too tired, too wrapped up in our chaotic lives), we met again and proved the irrefutable truth. Women are brilliant at friendship.
The years can roll by, the ups and some terrible downs can roll by, the faces can become etched with lines and the odd grey hair rear its silvery head.
But meet up with an old friend and it’s as if the decades fall away, taking you right back to the person you were all those years ago – the happy-go-lucky kid full of hopes for the future, ambitions and dreams.
The child in yourself never truly goes away.
When I was 17 a woman of around 50 (she was probably only 35 but looked ancient at the time) told me that she remembered exactly how it felt to be as young as me.
“I feel 17 inside,” she said. “You feel exactly the same you know, love.”
Now the years have piled on, I understand completely. I still feel as daft as I did at 14, as does my buddy.
Back together again, we howled with laughter for four hours solid. And neither of us needed alcohol to fuel the fun.
The best things in life are free – or, if you’re lucky, only cost 65p.
“They only charged me for the crisps,” laughed my all-time best mate. “They didn’t charge for the water! That’s the cheapest round ever.”
Exactly the same cheeky grin I remembered from school lit up her face. We both giggled like schoolgirls.
Deep down, we still are.
We hadn’t laid eyes on each other for two years but that doesn’t matter a jot to hardcore old mates.
You can tell new friends about the past but they did not live it with you. They can never truly understand.
They didn’t see how ridiculous you looked in your denim jacket with Status Quo daubed on the back in felt tip (that was me) or the stripy bubble bee jumper with giant punk rocker holes (that was her).
They never saw the boys you fancied – Elsie, Bunny, Nobbie, Crispie – or knew their daft nicknames.
They never went to Rolleston Youth Club and sat in the punk room trying to look pale and interesting while appearing to enjoy screechingly bad music on vinyl. And they quite possibly never went to the Saturday Night Fever dance lessons. (At least, our musical tastes were varied!)
Our friendship blossomed at 13. We hit it off playing football hangman during rainy school lunch-breaks. She supported Man U (glory fan!), I backed my home team, Derby County.
Chalk and cheese, the phrase must have been written for us. She’s into astrophysics, I’d struggle to describe astroturf. She’s vegan, I eat rump steak.
She’s never married or had children, I’ve done both.
But our differences are the making of us. And our values are the same. That compatibility, common ground, good humour and understanding of the world that linked us as teenagers has never dimmed – nor has our sense of fun.
She was a swine when it came to hangman. At that time, my knowledge of footie was on a par with any football pundit’s but she scoured the globe to come up with obscure foreign players – Outa Mongolia’s centre forward, that sort of thing.
At 40-odd, despite some time apart (too busy, too tired, too wrapped up in our chaotic lives), we met again and proved the irrefutable truth. Women are brilliant at friendship.
The years can roll by, the ups and some terrible downs can roll by, the faces can become etched with lines and the odd grey hair rear its silvery head.
But meet up with an old friend and it’s as if the decades fall away, taking you right back to the person you were all those years ago – the happy-go-lucky kid full of hopes for the future, ambitions and dreams.
The child in yourself never truly goes away.
When I was 17 a woman of around 50 (she was probably only 35 but looked ancient at the time) told me that she remembered exactly how it felt to be as young as me.
“I feel 17 inside,” she said. “You feel exactly the same you know, love.”
Now the years have piled on, I understand completely. I still feel as daft as I did at 14, as does my buddy.
Back together again, we howled with laughter for four hours solid. And neither of us needed alcohol to fuel the fun.
The best things in life are free – or, if you’re lucky, only cost 65p.
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