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.

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.

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.

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...

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!

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!

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.