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.

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...

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.

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.

Oh for a drive in Robbie Savage's Merc

Robbie Savage, bless his cotton (Armani) socks. The Rams star may not have quite found his form on the pitch but when it comes to grabbing headlines you just can’t keep this boy down.
Quite why Beckham’s made more of a global impact than our Robbie with his lovely, blond flowing locks, gawd only knows.
I mean, whatever you may think – and everyone’s got an opinion on Robbie – he’s just brilliant.
First, after taking stick from national press nasties just for having a posh new car when Derby are in the doldrums (the rest of the lads in the Prem are driving Ladas, of course), he comes up with the brainwave of turning his new Merc – reputedly worth anything between £95,000 and £160,000 – into a free matchday taxi.
The golden boy pulled up his “flash” motor alongside two fans waiting at a bus stop on the A52 last Saturday and offered them a lift to the ground.
The lucky blighters were then whisked to Pride Park Stadium by the man of the moment, in the very car which allegedly riled fellow players when he turned up to training in it.
Mmmm, I can understand why they were might have been upset. I’ve noticed their battered, ageing motors parked outside the ground on match days next to all those Aston Martins, Hummers, Mercs and Bentleys. They must belong to the cleaning staff, I guess.
When Derby are doing badly all the players should, it seems, be driving eight-year-old Peugeot 106 diesel hatchbacks (with dents) and taking part in ritual self-flagellation sessions en masse.
I can help Robbie there, not with the self-flagellation but with the Peugeot. If he wants to further turn the tables on the nationals, who just love to put the boot into our team (I stopped reading snide, London-based rags ages ago), I am quite happy to swap my 106 with his Merc for a whole day – a week if he prefers – and pose for a photo opportunity in my lucky Rams knickers.
However, I have to admit that, if I was a Prem player earning loadsa money, I’d never splash out on a Merc, particularly if the team were doing badly. I’d buy a Ferrari.
Anyway, as if our Sav had not dished out enough good turns, he has now given a huge lump sum to the Wish Upon A Star charity. It is, we are told, a gift to say sorry to Rams fans for not playing particularly well since his arrival at the club in January. The four-figure donation was so generous, news got out.
As a season ticket holder at Pride Park, I thank him very much. My 11-year-old son, also a season ticket holder, pondered this generous gift for a moment and then said: “If he wants to say sorry to the fans, shouldn’t he be giving all season ticket holders a tenner each?”
He was only joshing Sav. He thinks you’re great. As far as we are concerned, you could not have donated to a better cause.
In this season of doom and gloom, Robbie brings a smile to my face. Larger than life, bold as brass, he is a true character in every sense. And, as far as I am concerned, you can’t have enough of that in today’s bland society. That’s a key reason why Rams gaffer Paul Jewell wanted him.
Chatty, wacky Sav is a man who can lift spirits – and frighten opposition. When Jewell signed him he said: “You don’t want to play against him but it’s great when he’s on your side.”
Everyone, it seems, has a Sav tale to tell. Shy is not a word you associate with him. When Googling images to print off a picture of him for my sons, my eye was drawn to a shot of him wearing only white underpants – on a football pitch! Or did I imagine it?
And Sav’s house has been on TV’s Footballers’ Cribs, which explores the pads of the rich and famous. A vision in white, I understand.
But away from the glitz and glam of being a Prem player, a person who cares deeply about others is emerging. Sav is also honest and sensitive.
“I am not making excuses, I have been poor,” he told our sports team. “When I’m finished I don’t want people to say ‘Robbie Savage at Derby was rubbish, he was slow, he had gone’. I am proud to play for Derby County and all this makes me more determined to lead this club to promotion.”
God bless you Sav. I’ll be cheering you all the way. In the meantime, I hope to be the next person to be on the receiving end of some Sav generosity
For the last four days I’ve spent every spare moment standing at a bus stop on the A52, wearing my Derby County scarf and shirt and a sign on my back saying “Gissus a lift Sav!”
I’d just love a spin in that Merc - preferably behind the wheel!

Waiting at the bus stop for Robbie Savage

For the last four days I’ve spent every spare moment standing at a bus stop on the A52, wearing my Derby County scarf and shirt and a sign on my back saying “Gissus a lift Sav!”
Sadly, however, I still haven’t drawn the attention of Rams player Robbie Savage, who stopped to pick up a couple of Derby fans in his brand spanking new flash Merc last Saturday.
The lucky blighters were driven to Pride Park Stadium by the man of the moment, who received some stick in the nationals the week before for turning up to training sessions in a flash car.
When Derby are in the doldrums they should, apparently, be driving an eight-year-old Peugeot 106 diesel (with dents) and taking part in ritual self-flagellation sessions en masse.
I can help Robbie there, not with the self-flagellation but with the Peugeot.
If he wants to further turn the tables on the national press, who love to put the boot into our team, I am quite happy to swap my 106 with his Merc for a whole day – a week if he prefers – and pose for a photo opportunity.
As for me, if I was a Prem player earning loadsa money, I’d never splash out on a Merc, particularly if the team were doing badly. I’d buy an Aston Martin.

Beauty secrets of an ageing siren

It was one of those stomach-churning moments, the like of which I hadn’t had since 1979 when a teacher asked an atrociously difficult question, cast her evil eye around the room and said:“Jill, what’s the answer?”This time the question came from a bubbly woman from Decleor, the ultra posh skincare company.“What do you use on your skin?” she asked an assembled group of women.“Clarins,” chirped one. “I love their Flash Balm.”“Elemis,” said another. “I love the smell.”“Clinique,” volunteered the third. “My mum loves it too.”“Emu oil,” I offered, with an embarrassed but truthful shrug.There was a momentary stunned silence. Did I imagine the disdainful stares? Were women half my age with skin so perfect a quick rub with a dishcloth was all they needed to achieve a healthy glow, assessing my mental state?I started babbling: “The thing is, I did this story on this Derbyshire woman who sells emu oil products. I tried her moisturiser (www.naturesnaturalbeauty.com) and it was really good. They melt the fat of the emus you see. It’s got medicinal properties. The Aborigines swear by it.”I’m not sure when everyone’s eyes started to glaze over but the Decleor lady moved swiftly on, and I am sure she was thinking: ‘Is she totally mad?’ Not mad, just open to ideas. And emu oil is good. As well as the moisturiser, I have a little pot of pure emu oil which eases my son’s eczema.When I’m 90 and some fresh-faced kid asks me the secret of my baby-soft skin I’ll tell her: “Emu oil, a nightly tot of rum and yelling my head off in the south stand at Derby County.”From this you may decipher that I do not take my skincare routine terribly seriously. I confess, I am a little dubious about age-defying products.Let’s face it, if the ravages of time have taken their toll it takes more than a good moisturiser to restore your zing. I’m thinking more along the lines of Sharon Osborne-style plastic surgery myself.When feeling ultra craggy, I head to the caring hands of Susy Jacob at Advanced Laser Care in Duffield. She is just brilliant. I am not revealing my beauty secrets, but suffice to say, after a visit to Susy, I no longer feel that I could be mistaken for Ozzie Osborne’s great grandmother.According to Susy, sun damage is the worst thing she comes across and it costs nothing to stop baking yourself in the Med every summer.So that’s it in a nutshell. My beauty secrets revealed. That and splashing my face with cold water every morning, as taught to me by my mother and her mother before her.I still wake up looking like Ozzie Osborne most mornings but a couple of hours at my dressing table can soon put that right. When 20-something myself I remember regaling people with the story about an ageing aunty who got up an hour before everyone else on a family holiday so that no-one would ever see her without make-up. I am now that aunty. I would rather streak through Derby’s streets than go out without full slap – because I’m worth it.
For the last four days I’ve spent every spare moment standing at a bus stop on the A52, wearing my Derby County scarf and shirt and a sign on my back saying “Gissus a lift Sav!” Sadly, however, I still haven’t drawn the attention of Rams player Robbie Savage, who stopped to pick up a couple of Derby fans in his brand spanking new flash Merc last Saturday. The lucky blighters were driven to Pride Park Stadium by the man of the moment, who received some stick in the nationals the week before for turning up to training sessions in a flash car. When Derby are in the doldrums they should, apparently, be driving an eight-year-old Peugeot 106 diesel (with dents) and taking part in ritual self-flagellation sessions en masse. I can help Robbie there, not with the self-flagellation but with the Peugeot. If he wants to further turn the tables on the national press, who love to put the boot into our team, I am quite happy to swap my 106 with his Merc for a whole day – a week if he prefers – and pose for a photo opportunity. As for me, if I was a Prem player earning loadsa money, I’d never splash out on a Merc, particularly if the team were doing badly. I’d buy an Aston Martin.
But, the older you get, the harder it gets to stop the rot, prevent the creaking boat from sinking. As a 20-something, I recall telling people how my aunty had to get up an hour before everyone else on holiday to avoid being seen without make-up. I am now that aunty. I would rather streak naked through the streets of Derby than be seen without full slap.