Quent of a Woman

It used to be just the preserve of universities but now it seems they are everywhere. They live in shared houses with usually 4 other women but haven’t slept with any of them, their opinions are safe and measured not to offend anyone and worst of all they use collective terms like “guys “ and “people” and when they occasionally get in a bad mood they might summon up the hatred to utter –“oh for sure”

I don’t know what you call them, a friend of mine who first spotted them  in the early 90’s calls them Quents. And the mere mention of the word conjures up goatee beards, rizzlas and a staunchly macrobiotic diet. The Quent in essence is a heterosexual man who latches on to one or more attractive women for the sole purpose of trying to one day, although in most cases fruitlessly, get into her pants. And yet when questioned they strenuously deny this.  

Now there is nothing wrong in this course of action  were it not for the fact that they totally relinquish all vestiges  of who they once were.  At some stage in their teenage years they must have stood for something but the one year spent living in a stoodent house has turned them into the worst kind of lap dog. Think Tony Blair with a roll necked sweater and James Blunt CD.

It’s not always obvious from the start when a quent will rear his head.  The catalyst is normally a filthy joke.  Years ago they probably would have belly laughed or at least nodded in agreement but now they shake their heads for all to see – “That's disgusting ” they cry as if their whole sensitive disposition  has been violently destroyed  by a mild joke about penises.  It’s one thing to feel cold, it’s another openly critiscise. He’s playing the sensitive card and he wants her to see it. However this move has back fired as she is now on the floor crying with laughter in to her snake bite. Sensing this he joins in , completely forgetting the po-faced stance he had taken. It’s ok, she is not offended I must therefore join in.

There’s nothing wrong in standing up for or displaying chivalry but the quent does it purely for brownie points rather than based on principle. Some people, believe it or not grow tired of the football team they have supported since childhood and change allegiances, the quent would do it after 5 minutes but first checking with their friends which team they support.

When  you have a man who is perpetually joined to the hip of a woman and they are not dating, the initial reaction might be – “ Is he gay”. The problem is with this is that it works on the assumption that gay men do not have opinions of their own, that they do not answer back or chastise their  friends.  I’m sure even Elton John bollocks David Furnish now and then.

And therein lies the problem. The quent is neither a work colleague or mate neither is he a boy friend so he is stranded perpetually in a buffer zone of a muted voice.  As he is neither he is not free to vent his frustrations or anger as he does not have the solid ground of love or true friendship to fall back on or at least he is not prepared to find out.  His role is very much akin to the chef who refuses to tell unruly customers to fuck off because he needs their money. And so she has him on a string but share no pity because he loves it there.

The quent’s true colours are shown when he feels threatened by another man  who might be making inroads on the object of his desires. Even worse if she actually enjoys  the advances.

“ Listen, fancy coming to Cream this weekend, there’s an all nighter on “ says the young man trying his luck. Before she has a chance to respond the quent is in  “  Yeah I wouldn’t bother ,  Laura and I went to the real Cream at Amnesia in Ibiza this summer , it was banging, no chavs or anything like that just proper good looking, intelligent clubbers .. the pills were amazing, not like the weak one’s you get in the UK.”

Before Mixmag reaches the end of the runway, Laura speaks-

“ I’d love to go “

“ But we were going to go shopping in Manchester this weekend?”

“ Oh we can re-arrange that for another week”

And lo and behold they never do re-arrange as she has now found a boyfriend. And so the quent steps up his game to win her back. He’s in the same pub when they go out and just has to go over and share the stressful day of one lecture he has had , he’s  watching telly downstairs when they come back from the nightclub and refuses to make himself scarce and plans nights out knowing she won’t say no -

“ I got tickets for Dirty Dancing being shown in the Student’s Union, I know it’s your favourite “ . He says beeming like a Cheshire cat.

The poor boyfriend hasn’t had a chance to work these things out yet. Why ask direct questions about the hobbies and interests of your girlfriend when you have her world’s biggest fan sitting on a bean bag.

When the issue of the quent’s interference is raised it is normally met with – “ oh he’s ok “ , “ he means well “ or even worse  “ he’s  a mate , mate’s look out for each other.” Just not in the same fucking bed.

And so her inability to tell  “ Si “ to fuck off results in another relationship casualty. And so the status quo is resumed.  He continues to massage her ego – “ Smoking is so passé unless of course you like it “ and she continues to retain the upper hand which he is happy to revel in. On this basis who needs honesty.

Get up, stand up........and stay standing

A friend of mine hates American sports, partly because they don’t play “proper” sports like football, cricket and snooker but mostly because as he puts it they “can’t sit down for 5 minutes without wanting to get up and stuff their faces”. And I have to admit growing up watching American movies the crowd at  baseball or basketball games  always seemed more interested in what was going on around the stadium rather than on the pitch. But then again when you have James Bond dressed as a clown trying to defuse a bomb it can admittedly be distracting.

Whether this is a true reflection of the recreational habits of the average American remains to be seen but from my own recent experience of watching cricket these worrying habits seem to have penetrated international cricket in this country, particularly within the realms of 20/20 where you are from the moment they open the gates seemingly against the clock in terms of gluttony.

From the moment you arrive at the ground there is very little desire to actually strap yourself into your designated seat and spectate. Like a school boy avoiding homework the average 20/20 cricket fan will do anything to avoid watching the action. And maybe there is a valid reason behind this ambivalence as once you are comfortably seated and a level piece of tarmac has been found to rest your beers you are then having to rise from your newly acquired seat every 30 seconds  to let the whole townsfolk through.  Instead of following the easy to read signs on the end of each row to find their seats they stop mid row and chat – you wouldn’t mind if it was cricket related. “ Hang on there Dave, Bill is just bringing  the beers, Mary is getting the Cornish pasties , June is taking a wee and Brian is buying some programmes, if we sit now they’ll never find us “

Hard reading a ticket stub isn’t it? So they stand obscuring everyone's view. That is until a juiced local who can stand this bourgeois flower show shit no more shouts- “Find a seat and sit down”. So they find the nearest seat. But this isn’t good enough as now that the group is fractured they are worried that Bill, Mary, June and Brian will not find them, so they begin to locate, like looking for a patch of sand on a pebble beach, a group of seats so they can all sit together. And guess what, they don’t do this sitting down or between overs. England by this stage have lost 2 wickets and barely anyone has noticed. 

By overs 7 and 8 spectators become like newly born babies demanding their next feed. If you are a part of a stag do, a gopher is normally despatched to bring back quantities of beer an octopus would struggle to handle.

“Get a dozen fish and chips “shouts Mad Brian “and more beers “. More beers? On top of the 50 you’ve just ordered?  It’s thirsty work missing cricket. When you do get to see the action the general response is one of goading, constantly daring the batsman in the middle to hit the ball out of the park as it gives them another chance to rise to their feet. " Do it again KP" shouts a man who thinks trying to hit a tight line and length spinner for a six is like trying to do that trick when you pop your shoulder out. And then a hush descends and everything settles down, no one needs the toilet , no one needs refreshment and suddenly like the sermont on the mount everyone is paying attention. " This is shit " shouts one and suddenly it's over. Normal service resumed. 

Don’t for a minute get me wrong, sporting atmospheres are built on crowd participation and when you are paying £45 for a ticket you want to get the most enjoyment out of it as possible. However, when one’s enjoyment comes at a price of stopping others from enjoying the action out in the middle then it is to the detriment of people who are there first and foremost to enjoy the game 

 

Logan's Fun

Pick up any celebrity magazine and they'll be a cover shot of a celebrity looking pensive with the caption - " Since turning 30 it's time to grow up." Now I wasn't aware there was an age when you had to grow up, in fact I'm fairly sure it just happens. You don't hit 15 and go - " it's time for my balls to drop" or at 50 - " right it's time to get fat" so why is 30 so significant? Part of it is I believe due to this compartmentalised and pigeon holed society which orders you to do things by a certain age and yet they never give a date by which time you should become a decent human being. I was talking to someone recently and we were talking about plans for the weekend and I explained that I was probably going to hit the town on Saturday night , " What about you?" I enquired,  " Oh God! I don't go out these days, I'm way beyond that." Way beyond what? Having fun? Generally enjoying oneself away from the drudgery of every day life?  I wasn't for a minute suggesting she anadon all her principles and have a one night stand (although granted she was attractive and probably wouldn't fail in that department) so why this fulsome reaction? Stating that you are beyond going on a night out is like saying you're beyond sleeping or walking in a straight line. I can fully understand someone who says they can't be bothered with nights out as in the last few years nights out have had  a tendancy to be very samey and in truth they prefer to stay at home with their partner and kids, but when did going out become a phase rather than a part of everyday living ? The implication is that if you're still drinking at 30 then you're stuck in the dark ages. You could argue that being in the dark ages is more fun and it's society that needs to get on the bus to enlightenment,  not you. The worst part of the opening statment is the notion that people who enjoy nights out beyond 30 are somehow immature, that they don't exude the same level of responsibility as the stay at home adults. But how do you measure maturity? Whether they pay their mortgage on time or remember to pick their kids up from school? At least with cheese you can stick your finger in it. Can one not be a responsible citizen and still get rat arsed in the process?  I would argue that having the freedom to escape life for a few hours actually galvanises individuals in action. Carrying out those actions beyond walking home singing Maggie May eating a deep pan Hawaian might be awkward but at least the intent is there. Would you get the same motivation to write a song or a sonnet watching the Vicar of Dibley? I doubt it.
Granted drinking has it's casualties but it's arguable that if it wasn't drink it would be something else and if they are of the mind to run away from their responsibilities then they will irrespective of the catalyst. Some of the smartest brains on the planet have been drinkers, as God hater and all round wit Christopher Hitchens once said- " I drink because I don't want to be boring." Or words to that effect. Some people deserve to be boring, when you're spending an hour in TK Maxx looking for a pink frying pan to go with your pink toaster you know that fun dosen't really figure on their radar.  But just because you party  that dosen't make you any less of a bore, bizarrely i've met people who become even more boring the more they drink. Me included. Conversely I've also met people who never go out because they simply don't like it and they are some of the most entertaining people I've ever met, the difference is that they  base their actions on a personal preference rather than because they are not 19 any more. So until you can find a reason better than because you've got a stack of washing and ironing to do because that's what adults do, then don't. After all you never see Jack Nicholson with an iron.

Weigh Out

Of all the diets my favourite is the one like the vegetarian diet where you chose to throw all your morals in the bin, you know the one, the “ I’m vegetarian but I eat chicken and fish for the protein.”  My favourite diet involves watching carbohydrate and fat intake for 6 days, taking regular exercise to burn off excess fat and then on day 7 you can eat what you want. Sounds a good diet no? Well that is until you review one’s choice of meal on pushing the boat out day, no slightly larger salad for them. No, it’s ringside seats at the arena of kebab meat and chips.
Of course it’s never the dieters fault, the scales were too big, the floor was too shiny, my hair was too thick. Excuse after excuse and all for £5 each week to stand in a cold, dank church hall and clap for Deborah who can now see her feet after 17 years.
But they love it and what they love more than talking about it is talking to people who really don’t give a flying fuck. Remarks such as “Careless “ are forbidden when congratulating Sandra on losing  her pound and not maintaining for that week. Jenny thought she’d never lose her baby weight but eating a stick of celery every day followed by a period of incarceration caused for assaulting her husband who dared to eat a KFC in front of her, got her to the target weight
Of course the simple answer to dieting is to go and live in the jungle, but such suggestions are met with fierce rebuttal. “ Where am I going to find a blender to make my macrobiotic shake in the jungle?” Brenda wants to know as she has parted with £300 for 8 sachets of NASA dung and a paste which goes under the arm pits and is suppose to generate “diet energy”. Presumably this is the energy that replaces the need to run around the block a  few times.
Of course, the mere mention of going for a run is met with the kind of look that Bob Dylan once gave to one of his backing singers who suggested he should try an electric guitar to jazz it up a bit. Its gyms now, gone is physical, heart pumping aerobic exercise, guaranteed to result in weight loss , instead we’ve replaced it with exercise which causes the fat to harden and sit on top , a bit like left over curry.
“ Have you lost weight?”  No I’ve just firmed it up and pushed it through it through my ankles. “ You look great though”.  Thanks.
Like the reformed smoker and the reformed drinker there is naturally the reformed dieters. So indoctrinated into the way of the fat fighter that to even suggest half a vol au vent is an undoing of everything they live for. So they sit, waiting to pass judgment on the nearest passer by who is unfortunate to pop their Marks and Spencer ready meal into the staff canteen microwave
“ Do you know how many calories there are in that ?” they ask if it is some sort of quiz. You ask if they can give some options but in the end  it would just be a guess. “ There’s 400 calories in that one meal” said with the kind of authoritative tone normally reserved for Historical Documentary presenters. But this isn’t Iron Bridge, this is lunch and I’m starving. She continues - “ You’ve eaten one 6th of you daily dietary intake of calories in just that one meal”. I see a flaw in her argument - “ So I can eat 6 of them?”
“ Well yes if you want to get big and fat.” But if I did I could go to fat club with her and eat her diet and she can be my mentor. Never has over weight seemed such a desirable option.
She on the other hand sits and eats lettuce, iceberg to be precise, once described by  film director John Waters as the “ polyester of greens”, contained as it is in Tupperware. Tupperware is not the vessel of choice of someone who is having regular intercourse. They then proceed to get out the rest of their calorie counted condiments, the thimble of butter, the atom of mayonnaise (low fat ) and proceed to paste it on like they’re doing a water colour. I’ve seen diabetics throw more caution to the wind.
Once they’re prepared their low calorie, low carb, low fat, low enjoyment ryvita they are ready to begin eating. That is until their colleague  from “ It’s the World’s Fault Not Ours slimming club” comes in to give some support and at the same time share with the rest of the diners the pain and torture they have been  experiencing over the last week. “ I couldn’t believe when my husband replaced my shovel with a tea spoon last week.” complained one  “ The scales always vary from Tuesday night weigh in to Wednesday  night, so you can take off at least half a stone “ reassured another. |And the world continues to revolve.

Who the fucking Mel are you....?

Who the fucking Mel are you....?

I think back to the 1980's it seems that 3 things always happened. Liverpool FC always won the league championship, Steve Davis always won the World Snooker Championships and Mel Gibson was always an Aussie. The truth is that during this decade Liverpool only won the league championships 6 times , Steve Davis only won 6 World Championships and Mel, well , Mel still seems to me to be Aussie Mel. Even all these years on I can still sSometimes when

ee Mel, clad in leather , chasing the Toe Cutter through the ravaged wastes of the outback in the movie Mad Max. You couldn't get anyone more Australian than Mel Gibson, unless you spliced the DNA of a kangaroo with Paul Hogan's craggy face. If he told you he was born in the back of his father's utlity truck you wouldn't doubt it. Ask a contestant on Family Fortunes to name a famous Aussie and they wouldn't say Merv Hughes or Rod Laver or Dame Edna. Pound to a penny they would say Mel. He was as Australian as Alice Springs, sheep shearing and short term memory. Whenever a newspaper ran a story on Mel it always included a caption; " Aussie hunk Mel Gibson", unless of course it was The Sun when it would read "Ayres Cock". To the average Brit in the 80's Mel and Australia were as inextricably linked as Max Clifford and making money is today. And then he went to the United States of America to film Mad Max 3 and it spelt the beginning of the end. The transformation of Mel wasn't sudden but built up over time. At first he made references to his upbringing in New York, something that was news to about 99% of world's population. Remember these were the days before wikipedia. Then he began slowly diluting his aussie twang. Now supporters of Mel would contest that anyone who lived in the States as long as Mel had would start to talk with an American brogue. It was only a matter of time before his voice changed. But I didnt buy it one bit, to me it seemed too convenient. And when I saw him in the Lethal Weapon films sporting a mullett I knew the conversion was complete. Mel had defected to the other side.
I didn't resent Mel chasing fame and fortune in the bright lights of Tinsletown but the way in which he became a different person seemingly overnight I found odd. I don't recall, during his time as Aussie Mel, him ever making references to his upbringing in New York (he only moved to Australia at 12 years old) . I don't remember him ever giving a shout out to the New York Knicks or Yankees or complaning how much he missed Taco Bell whilst someone shoved another shrimp down his gullet. Likewise when he became an American hero, I dont remember him ever commenting on the policies of Paul Keating, the music of Inxs or even looking out for the score in the Ashes. Even the most fairweather of Aussies (if there is such a thing) would look out for the score in the Ashes. It was as if the road he took from 12 years old to super stardom never existed. It's natural for people to be ambivalent about their home town if they endured a tortuous upbringing but there seems to be no clear reason for Mel's reticence. Particularly when we are talking about Australia, a nation that would get it's flags out if they found out one of their natives was taking part in a tiddley winks contest. I don't dislike Mel, I don't necessarily agree with his views although I admire him for speaking out amongst the banal liberalism that pervades Hollywood. I just find it intresting how he seemed to surgically remove any reference to his Australian life as if it never existed.

er existed. It's natural for people to be ambivalent about their home town if they endured a tortuous upbringing but there seems to be no clear reason for Mel's reticence. Particularly when we are talking about Australia, a nation that would get it's flags out if they found out one of their natives was taking part in a tiddley winks contest. I don't dislike Mel, I don't necessarily agree with his views although I admire him for speaking out amongst the banal liberalism that pervades Hollywood. I just find it intresting how he seemed to surgically remove any reference to his Australian life as if it never existed.n. Remember these were the days before wikipedia. Then he began slowly diluting his aussie twang. Now supporters of Mel would contest that anyone who lived in the States as long as Mel had would start to talk with an American brogue. It was only a matter of time before his voice changed. But I didnt buy it one bit, to me it seemed too convenient. And when I saw him in the Lethal Weapon films sporting a mullett I knew the conversion was complete. Mel had defected to the other side.
I didn't resent Mel chasing fame and fortune in the bright lights of Tinsletown but the way in which he became a different person seemingly overnight I found odd. I don't recall, during his time as Aussie Mel, him ever making references to his upbringing in New York (he only moved to Australia at 12 years old) . I don't remember him ever giving a shout out to the New York Knicks or Yankees or complaning how much he missed Taco Bell whilst someone shoved another shrimp down his gullet. Likewise when he became an American hero, I dont remember him ever commenting on the policies of Paul Keating, the music of Inxs or even looking out for the score in the Ashes. Even the most fairweather of Aussies (if there is such a thing) would look out for the score in the Ashes. It was as if the road he took from 12 years old to super stardom never existed. It's natural for people to be ambivalent about their home town if they endured a tortuous upbringing but there seems to be no clear reason for Mel's reticence. Particularly when we are talking about Australia, a nation that would get it's flags out if they found out one of their natives was taking part in a tiddley winks contest. I don't dislike Mel, I don't necessarily agree with his views although I admire him for speaking out amongst the banal liberalism that pervades Hollywood. I just find it intresting how he seemed to surgically remove any reference to his Australian life as if it never existed.dn't resent Mel chasing fame and fortune in the bright lights of Tinsletown but the way in which he became a different person seemingly overnight I found odd. I don't recall, during his time as Aussie Mel, him ever making references to his upbringing in New York (he only moved to Australia at 12 years old) . I don't remember him ever giving a shout out to the New York Knicks or Yankees or complaning how much he missed Taco Bell whilst someone shoved another shrimp down his gullet. Likewise when he became an American hero, I dont remember him ever commenting on the policies of Paul Keating, the music of Inxs or even looking out for the score in the Ashes. Even the most fairweather of Aussies (if there is such a thing) would look out for the score in the Ashes. It was as if the road he took from 12 years old to super stardom never existed. It's natural for people to be ambivalent about their home town if they endured a tortuous upbringing but there seems to be no clear reason for Mel's reticence. Particularly when we are talking about Australia, a nation that would get it's flags out if they found out one of their natives was taking part in a tiddley winks contest. I don't dislike Mel, I don't necessarily agree with his views although I admire him for speaking out amongst the banal liberalism that pervades Hollywood. I just find it intresting how he seemed to surgically remove any reference to his Australian life as if it never existed.

Don't call us we won't call you

Don't call us we won't call you

A few months back I happened to switch over to Channel Five's Wright Stuff with the conveniently name Matthew Wright. During the course of the show one of thepanellistslaunched into a tirade concerning cold callers and tele-marketers constantly blocking up their phone. They then proceeded to read from the newspaper in front of them a list of tips to avoid such nuisance calls. Unfortunately, this wasn't a topic up for wider discussion. Had it have been then I would have been first on the phone advising that if you wish to stop the phone from ever ringing then simply register with a Recruitment Agency. They'll never ring back.
Recruiters in such agencies are the best bosses, the best life coaches you've never met. They are like a teacher who invites you into their office to give you words of comfort shortly before an exam. They are Mickey to your Rocky. Brierley to your Botham. And yet unlike these father figures once you leave the room they want nothing more to do with you.
You spend one hour filling in a form in a drafty reception area, another hour sitting in a small room with a ZX Spectrum in front of you being asked if the "Glass is Half Full" or alternatively asking you whether you agree, strongly agree or are just not sure that "finishing second is the same as failure". By this stage your brain is so shot that you just want to write " well it depends , if someone had a gun to your wife and kids head then I guess finishing second would be construed as failure but if it was the olympics then at least you get a silver medal."
After the form filling and the aptitude test you are then welcomed into a suite to go through your application. They will then read from the form "I note you don't drive and you have a phobia of chickens. Let me just check. Ok a job has just come up at a KFC in Edinburgh. It's a 300 mile round trip but we will pay a 16th of your expenses. " That tedious job you wanted so desperately to leave doesn't look so bad now.
You point out a job you saw in the window that you might be suited for and they immediately try to skirt over it as if they've reserved it for a friend.
" A vacancy has come up for a washer up, any thoughts?" Yes, plenty, but in terms of work I was looking for something more permanent.
" Well they might take you on full time." You ask if they have anything in the field of office work.
" Well we might have something come in next week but they go quite quick."
It's not the bloody Next sale. Isn't there a priority system for these things? Surely once a job comes in that matches my skills my name will be put forward. And just as you are about to give up the ghost a nugget of salvation is thrown forth. " As regards references " she says as you move eagerly forward in your chair " do you think you'll have a problem getting references from your employer in China".
You put down your pen, your clipboard and move closely before whispering in their ear;
"I said fucking Cheltenham."

It's double points if you go on the floor

It's double points if you go on the floor

Schools love to show off their achievements. They love to wax lyrical about the time the school came third in the National Schools Choir contest and that summer many moons ago when the first XI Cricket team went a whole season unbeaten. They'll even point you to a headline about it from the local newspaper stuck above the head master's office. History, teachers will tell you, is what schools are built on. Each pupil passing through the front gate, each academic or sporting success is only adding to the history of the school. But this is only the history that is documented. A lot of a school's history goes un-recorded and the only proof is in the memories and testimonies of those who were there when it happened. Every school has a sub culture, an underworld where achievement is measured not in how many people pass their Wood Work GCSE (or Wood and it's Environment AppreciationStudies GCSE as it is probably called these days) but in how many 1st years Biffo Wilkins kicked the shit out of in one day or how many up skirt shot of Frau Renard one was able to get during german conversation. These are the achievements that galvanise the pupils.
At our school it was the infamous Dump League of 1992 that did it.The Dump League wasn't a conscious teacher/pupil initiative to eradicate the litter problem around school or take a keener interest in the welfare of the planet. No, the Dump League involved a pupil taking a shit and getting it marked. The concept was simple. The participant excused them selves from their lesson, completed the deed in as long a time possible without arousing suspicion and then returned to the class only for the appointed "Judge" (i.e any pupil willing to stick their head down a toilet) to then excuse themselves to do some marking. The results were then passed onto the official recorder and then presented in the form of league table, kept at all times in the safe keeping of Martin Dirkin. Dirks, as he was known, was too street smart to be accosted by bullies so there was no danger of the results being leaked.
The league started in February 1992. It was made up of 8 competitors; of which some volunteered freely but others had to be persuaded. They approached me because as they put it I was a " fat bastard and my shits are bound to be massive". I was reluctant at first but after some verbal harassment and a threat of a dead leg I agreed. The rules were set out on day one. The "attempt" would be judged on size, smell, texture and how many flushes it took to wash away. Any "attempt", big or small that disappears up the U Bend is exempt from full marking. Should any section still be visible after it has disappeared up the U Bend then that section alone will be marked. You could go as often and little as you liked and there was no law against what you ate or drank before hand. Like a chef in a Michelin star restaurant it didn't matter what ingredients you used so long as you produced the goods. Oh and if you dropped the kids off on the toilet floor you got double points.
Despite the interest shown towards me taking part I wasn't one of the pre-race favourites. Simon Barker was head and shoulders above the rest. His pedigree was well known way before the tournament; which was surprising as he seemed to exist solely on a diet of Super Crunchies and chewing gum.
After week one I was in 4th place, respectable I thought. By week 2, I was in 7th. And by week 3, I was last. Dirks' sole words of consolation were always ; "remember it's double points if you go on the floor. " Taking a dump whilst semi - bunking off lessons and getting some one to mark it had a sense of danger to it but taking a blatant crap on the floor was just wrong. I mentioned this to him and all he would say was " Well you won't get into Europe with that attitude" . After 4 weeks the competition was going global, well Europe anyway. It wasn't just Europe that was taking notice. Girls who have never even paid us time of day in the past would stop us on the way to the geography block. " Is it true you're in some sort of turd league?" To which you'd nonchalantly agree before preparing yourself for the inevitable snog. But of course it never happened, but at least people were talking. Unfortunately it wasn't just the pupils who were talking. I had a habit of being quite regular. Which was quite handy when you're participating in a Dump League but it always meant that my toilet trips coincided with double Maths, more precisely around 11.45 on a Monday morning . As per normal I put my hand up to be excused and normally the teacher Mr Johnson would say " be quick" but for some reason on this occasion he put his foot down. " No! You know it's come to my attention that you and Parsons ( John Parsons, committee member and lying in 3rd place) always seem to go to the loo on the same day. I don't know what's going on, I'm not entirely sure I want to but I'm keeping my eye on you." Someone at the back of the class shouted "nonce" but I didn't laugh. All I could think was that we'd been rumbled. That lunch time we organised a meeting. I was adamant we should stop so were 2 others but all the rest were eager to carry on. The eager beavers it should be noted weren't exactly propping the league up. They had good reason for carrying on. And so in the light of the majority decision, even though they wouldn't agree with us if we had the majority, we continued onwards. Shortly after this decision I became aware that there always seemed to be school maintenance men in the vacinity of the toilet every time we went. It wasn't unusual to see them around school it just seemed a bit of conincidence that they should be there every time I went for a bowel movement. But there was no knock at the door, we were not frog marched there and then to the headmasters office to spill the beans so I put it all down to my paranoia. And then everything went quiet until one lunch beak everyone was milling around the yard when Simon Barker emerged from the lavatory, arms aloft, nodding his head shouting "Double Points". The unthinkable had been done. A parka clad first year lept out in front of Barker nearly retching. Within minutes word had got round and pupils flocked to see this 7th wonder of the world. As the dust settled and the lunch bell rang, I saw 2 workman in deep conversation with the deputy head. This time I was sure it wasn't paranoia. That afternoon in French I expressed my feelings to Dirks and all he could say like a true humanitarian, was: " You're talking out of your arse, if you shat out of it once in a while you wouldn't be bottom of the league."
I felt vindicated when they came for us the next day. Parsons and I were dragged out of Maths and interviewed separately. I was first in. But no one had de-briefed me on what to say. There was no point in lying, especially when you've been under surveillance by maintenance men ( one of which was ex-Army) . Should I name names or just take the rap myself? I had visions of me sitting there stoney faced, muttering "no comment " whilst the charge sheet was read out. The minute I got back into class Parsons or maybe even Dirks would put their arm around me and say; "You learnt a valuable lesson today, you never rat on your friends". As it was I owned up to my side of it, didn't mention any other names and signed the confession in the presence of the deputy head and left. I returned to Maths and nothing more was said. When Parsons came in, he sat at the back: " Did you say anything?"he said. " No " I answered with a certain amount of gangster pride. " I did " he replied " I ain't getting kicked out of school for those numpties" So much for loyalty. Until then I hadn't even thought about the punishment. I was so relieved to get my story straight and not drop anyone in too much shit that I hadn't dwelt on the repercussions. Had they all fingered me after all?
I spent an uneasy night contemplating my fate. To get kicked out of school for fighting or cheating was one thing. At least you could argue that it was a moment of weakness or in the case of fighting that you were defending someone's honour. But to be involved in an operation whereby you examine each others poo and then grade it in terms of smell, colour and whether or not it disappears up the U bend. I'd never be able to hold my head up high again.
The next day we were marched into the Head Master''s office like squaddies facing a court martial. The Head gave a speech on being young and the exuberance of youth. I felt at one stage that he was about to allow us into some secret that he had from his school days. Had he himself partaken in some such activity? As it was he said no further action would be taken and more importantly our parents would not be informed. Probably more out of wishing to spare the school secretary's blushes than our own.
For the next couple of weeks random pupils would come up to us to call us twats or make them laugh by regaling some of the stories. I later found out that I was only one who hadn't named names during the interrogation process. I may have finished rock bottom with possible relegation to the second division if Dirks' plan for resurrection came off ( his proposal was that we do it in our own time and in public loos) but I learnt that in the face of overwhelming pressure I didn't buckle and more importantly I didn't rat on my mates. Something that in the 17 years since I have taken absolutely no comfort from what so ever.

Anyone for Tennis? So long as it's British

Anyone for Tennis? So long as it's British

If ever I was famous to be invited to go on T.V's Room 101, one of the things I would have consigned to the nightmarish room, apart from Piers Morgan, would be Wimbledon. Not the area in London or the re-born football team but the annual Tennis extravaganza.
I am not against Tennis. I can appreciate the sporting endeavour, the history, I can even just about stomach the endless cavalcade of middle aged women called Jan who constantly shout "Come on Tim" whilst emptying the contents of a tub of face paint.
No, what really raises my ire is the way in which the BBC seem hell bent on getting as many positive references to British Tennis in as possible, whether it is relevant or not. Anyone visiting the Earth to take in a day's viewing on the BBC would naturally assume Great Britain to be some fallen super power in the sport. Longing for a return to the days when everyone had a tennis court in their garden and trophies were won on great regularity.
Don't believe it. Anyone who can remember tennis, P.T.H (pre-Tim Henman) will remember just how shit we were and to some extent still are at this sport. You only need to look at who fills the seats in the BBC's commentary booth for that. Chris Bailey's major claim to fame, apart from having nice hair, was that he once took a set off Goran Ivanisevic. Andrew Castle is there I understand because he once won a game of Swingball in 1987.
The BBC seem compelled to sell the sport of Tennis at any cost. If the BBC production team cannot get a positive sound bite they practically go into convulsions. But it just doesn't make any sense. The lean years of the 1980's and early 1990's was the time to sell the sport not now when you have a crowd who can still remember the heroic runs of Tim Henman and occasionally Greg Rusedski. And yet they still try to shoe horn in as many positive references they can.
For example the BBC will dispatch a reporter to do an interview, probably Gary Richardson (the Richard and Judy of investigative journalism), with an unranked Croatian player who has not only won their first match ever at Wimbledon but had never even played at Wimbledon or even been to England before. Instead of wrapping up the interview with the customary - " Do you know much about your opponent? Have you had a chance to see them play yet?" No, instead of that they will say " Andy Murray's got a great chance this year? What do you think?"
What ? I'm sorry ? Is the purpose of the interview not supposed to be about me and my game?
Now there's a strong chance that this player has never played Murray or is ever likely to , so how can he possibly comment. In terms of a relevant question it is like asking a recently released detainee from Guantanamo Bay whether he thinks Gran Canaria is a good holiday resort. And yet the Croatian player will stand for a few moments trying to politely mask his admonishment before saying - " Well he's got a great chance." To anyone else this is a fairly non - commital admission. I don't really know the answer but I don't want to look dull on national telly. But the reaction in the studio is something approaching fever pitch, with Sue Barker positively grinning like a Cheshire cat - " Well Mario seems to think Andy's going to win."
And yet at the back of all this hyperbole is poor Andy Murray who has yet to open his bag of balls let alone play a match. They sit discussing crumbs of comfort as one player is left in the women's draw on the opening morning whilst on court 14 Marat Safin has just completed a ten hour epic which scarcely raises a mention. When Roger Federer equalled Bjorn Borg's achievements of five Wimbledon singles titles, instead of the viewer being allowed to bask in the enormity of what had just happened, all you could hear in the background was the BBC commentator talking about an upcoming British Davis Cup tie against the Sandwich islands. The one's I really feel sorry for are Boris Becker and John McEnroe who are brought in to provide a perspective of what its really like to win at Wimbledon, to elaborate on how the pressure on you grows as the tournament progresses and how you deal with it as an athlete. And yet these great figures in the game are reduced to providing expert analysis on Lilly Butterworth's chances in the forthcoming challenger match in Newport Pagnell. You know when you are on a sticky wicket when the commentator has to resort to finding any opening they can to prevent the viewer from switching channels to watch Bargain Hunt. " Well she won her first service game in the opening set, let's see how she gets on in this one." She went on to lose 6-1, 6-0.

The Power Five and the Glory

The Power Five and the Glory

liked Deal or No Deal when it first started. After years of throwing any item I could find at the telly during shows like The Late Late Breakfast Show and Noel's House Party, I was actually quite pleased to see Noel back on the TV. The intervening years had been kind. He still had the beard, the jovial demeanour and didn't appear to have gained any weight. Although wearing shirts a few sizes too small may have contributed to that. He had it seemed taken on the appearance of a trendy, older, university lecturer. The sort of man who would gladly crack open a bottle of wine if you paid a visit to enquire about a time extension for your essay.I liked the unfamiliarity of the format. A seemingly disparate group of people standing behind a hat box waiting for Noel to bring them into the game. These weren't veteran quiz players, chomping at the bit to answer a question on The Carry on... films but people who had by the look of them just come straight from work with a chance of winning money.
The quirkiness of the banker and in particular the phone itself seemed to work. The Spanish version of the show, despite winning huge ratings, involved the contestant in the hot seat speaking into a bog standard Nokia mobile phone. It therefore lacked the theatrics of Noel teasing the audience as he spoke into a prop from an episode of Miss Marple. Even the ever burgeoning catch phrases such as "East Wing" and "West Wing" , although a little cheesy at first, did eventually add to the drama.
It was refreshing that there was absolutely no skill involved, although some contestants would try to convince us that they had a pre-prepared fool proof system based on the number of houses in their street times the number of cats they owned. This they promised would lead to untold glory. The contestants would add to the tension by revealing insights into their make up. Were they a gambler by nature or overtly cautious? Information freely volunteered under the gaze of the studio lights. Before long, Noel became a local confidant, held in higher trust than a G.P or a Justice of the Peace.
But the biggest draw was the scale of money involved for comparatively little work.Millionairehad some years previously set the standard for prize winning but the participantsstill had to have some quiz knowledge, they still reserved the right to stop if the questions got too tricky. There was no disgrace to walk away with £32,000 in your back pocket. But with Deal, faced with accepting the sort of offer that would make a tramp blush or ploughing onwards towards a potentially life changing sum, the tension was unbearable. And all this rested not on knowing when Cliff Richard came second on the Eurovision song contest but on the toss of a coin or in this case the flip of a box.
So where did it all go wrong? Where did this seemingly indestructible format start to show chinks in it's armour? Well, it wasn't the format that became tiresome, more the way it was presented. Like a rock star, high on the continual flush of success, it became aware of it's self importance. The people standing, patiently waiting in the wings to offer advice when called upon were suddenly plucked from the shadows and given a leading part in the play. The short pre-ambles suddenly became confessionals. Husbands, wives, brothers and sisters were invited down from the audience to join in with the re-telling of woe and strife. The back story became more important than the story being told on stage. And before long the flood gates opened.
The people on the wings started to get nick names, David became Big Dave, unassuming Stuart from the North East became Geordie Stu, like some larger than life caricature from that corner of England. Sometimes the nicknames were slightly abstract, Sue in the hot seat would ask advice from "Armitage", so called because he fell asleep drunk in the hotel bath. The banker would then ring up to say he approved, like an office winding down on a Friday afternoon and all the while the subtlety and distance that made the show what it was, was quickly evaporating. It was being humanised when it didn't need to be. Like a punch line to a joke having to be explained over and over again, each time losing less and less of it's impact.
The hot seat, so sinister on shows like Mastermind became overnight The Crazy Chair,making it beguiling rather than terrifying. The high end sums of money - £30,000, £50,000, £75,000
became the Power Five, making it sound like a political movement intent oneradicatingpoverty and famine. I'm sure if you asked Noel he would have said it was next on his agenda.
The banker, so long a mysterious figure who no one would dare oppose suddenly became a figure of ridicule. His aura seemingly stamped out. Humbling reverence that had normally been displayed when being offered the equivalent of a years salary in Venezuela was tossed aside with disdain. Trepidation had now given way to cockiness. I stopped tuning in way before the East Wing and West Wing started to link arms like women at a C.N.D protest. My stomach just couldn't take it any more.
And for months and months I didn't watch it and then last year in the run up to Xmas , full of booze and Xmas spirit I tuned in for one last fling. I reasoned that if liked it again I might start watching it more often and just before it started I began to wonder if maybe I wasn't a little bit too harsh , maybe I had grown too cynical in my old age and after all 5 million viewers can't be wrong can they? But no sooner had Noel arrived wearing a Xmas tree imploring people to join the Dream Factory that i realised that my initial instincts were right.

Charity begins at home.. so why not stay there

Charity begins at home.. so why not stay there

I can just about deal with someone bursting into the office at one minute to lunch. So long as I give the burstee some fragment of assurance that I will chase up whatever it is i haven't done after lunch they don't mind. But when you come up again a force so powerful that any reasoning or act of excusing oneself is gobbled up faster than left overs at Rick Waller's house, it becomes a far more unsettling matter. I'm talking of course about the street nazis or as they are better known.." people in kagools collecting for charity." I just don't get it, what happened to the kind ladies of the salvation army who used to stand outside shop fronts on cold saturday mornings handing out pin badges or the man who sold the poppies who understood if you were having a busy day and didn't bat an eyelid if you didn't have time to stop. When did charities start adopting the hard sell? You will listen to me and i don't care that you're running late for picking your kids up from school.

"It's all about raising awareness" a spokesman for the charity will say. Is it ? I mean aren't we already living in an age where we are constantly bombarded with so much information that even before Brian from West Bromwich is arrested for burglary we know his name, where he lives and what his favourite meal is (pasta and chips with muller yoghurt to follow). With Facebook, Twitter, Mobile phones, plus the old stagers like newspapers and television it is almost impossible to know nothing about any given topic. Living on the moon is no longer a valid excuse.

And yet with all this information it is still not acceptable to suggest that you'll have a look later.

If someone holds a subject close to their heart and wishes to campaign on it's behalf then they should have the right to do so. But that dosen't mean that someone who literally has to be back in the office in 15 minutes and still has to go to the bank and get a sandwich from Boots should be made to feel guilty. And no one does guilt like the kagool wearing charity collectors. At least with Jehovah's Witnesses you can shut the door.

Part of the reason for disliking this form of press ganging is due to the fact that they have an uncanny knack for stopping people at the worst possible moment. I went to a funeral once and they were flocking outside the church with their free pin badges. The deceased was the lucky one. They always stop you on your lunch hour or straight after work, if they approached you on a saturday afternoon when you've just had a liquid lunch then you would probably be more prepared to pour over and digest the information in front of you. You might even sign up for a year in order to get the free T -Shirt. It's partly that but it's also the feeling you get that by 3 o'clock that afternoon, after standing around in the sun all day, they're going to be in the pub singing Maggie May on the karaoke whilst you're in the office taking flack for sending out the wrong insurance document for the 50th time.

I got stopped once , whilst i was walking home from work and and I was having guests that evening so my mind was firmly fixed on what frozen pre -cooked nibbles I could bung in the oven. As I entered the high street, I was attacked. Well it was more of a skip, that skip they do with their clip board and insincere smile seldom seen outside a sales conference.

" Hi mate " I ignored this bit- " How has you day been?" No need to look up, default setting already set to " sorry I'm in a rush."

" That wasn't what I asked?" she said. Fuck! I wasn't prepared for that. I stopped and turned towards her and tried to not to fix her glare. I made a stab at humour, " I have to be in the house by six o'clock, doctor's orders." She gave me a look that suggested that I explain that to the starving kids in Africa. " It will only take 10 minutes, what's 10 minutes out of a whole day?" A lot when you have 4 dinner guests and you haven't even got to Iceland yet. " Just 20 pounds can pay for a mosquito net, we can even spread the payments". She showed me a financial breakdown of how those monthly instalments. When I saw in big bold letters " the equivalent of £1.66 per month " I thought I was going to explode with guilt. I should have heeded the advice of my colleague at work who said " I just ignore them, annoying twats" but now I was digging myself into a hole. I'd finished reading the propaganda but she wasn't paying attention as she was now talking to her colleague. She carried on as if I wasn't there. I wanted so much to get away but by ignoring me i felt like someone in a bar just before closing time who has made a stab at chatting someone up. Just as the conversation is dying on it's arse a male "freind" she knows turns up and they start chatting. You know full well that she's probably going to leave with him but you stay in the picture to see what happens. So you stand, shit faced, propping yourself up against a wall, muttering to yourself until you think there might be an opening. Oh for an opening now.

" I won't be long " she said to her departing friend. She swung round to me and for some reason I looked again at the dialogue in front of me even though I'd just spent 5 minutes before reading ti from top to bottom. This vexed her, " Tell you what I'll leave it with you." And with that she left. Hold on, don't get arsey with me. I'm not the one who pestered someone who was in a hurry to get home. For someone who was looking for an escape route I wasn't very grateful.My ordeal wasn't over. I still had to make it from one end of the high street to the other and that involved walking straight into the heart of their lair. I bowed my head to avoid fixing eye contact, any one making goose steps towards me was quickly halted as I walked the other way. A white man with dreadlocks probably called Spider or Ebola raced at me bellowing in a scottish accent - " Hey Big Man"- like I was some long lost relative. I didn't stop. Sensing my annoyance he escalated it further by shouting after me - " You have a nice day now eh?".

This Nazi thing is just a passing phase

This Nazi thing is just a passing phase

Just imagine a world where taxes are levied on people for talking bullshit. Granted I would be destitute and there would be no more Big Brother house but think of the positives: free education for all, pot hole-less roads and no more of that condescending lispy twat on GMTVwho dishes out the same financial advice irrespective of your circumstances or the reason you got into debt in the first place; " You don't need 2 kids, sell one!".

I'm not for one minute suggesting that it won't be tricky selecting who should be up for eviction .. I mean taxation. I mean Louis Walsh can talk shit with the best of them but would you really relish seeing him opening his front door on a Saturday morning only to see a brown envelope lodged in his post box asking for immediate payment to the sum of the national debt of a small African country. He's harmless enough isn't he? But if you let Walsh off the hook then it pretty much opens the floodgates to everyone else and that is not what we want. Maybe we need a criteria, one that protects the more vulnerable groups in society. One that tolerates a level of bullshit but brings the foot firmly down if any transgression is made. So with this in mind I propose forthwith that people can only be taxed if they are deemed to use language or a group of related phrases that are recognised as bullshit under the laws of....... well me . This will include taxation to be levied on persons who have been proved to be using and I quote " modern phrases that elevate someone's self importance more than they scarcely fucking deserve. For example term such as " What goes on in Blackpool stays in Blackpool " a term used frequently by hen and stag goers the length and breadth of the country. Not only does it wreak of "look at me" but suggests that that the event that they are waxing lyrical about was far from the hedonistic roller coaster they are making it out to be.

The reality is that for most people Blackpool equates to a continuation of misery and a strong chance of venereal disease. However by making such a statement they are elevating Mad Mick's stag do to the level of Churchill's war cabinet or the inner sanctum that worked on The Manhattan Project . The truth is probably that Lager Dave had a few two many and pissed himself and Trigger Steve fell asleep in his kung po. Nothing to worry the driver of the night bus let alone the wives and girlfriends standing by the phone with a mug of cocoa fearing the worst. It's too much to admit that the stag do blew out of steam after the first few hours and quite a few fancied going back to the Travelodge and watching Match of the Day whilst struggling to fill one of those travel kettles using the shower head. No fucking way! The first rule of the stag is to exaggerate how much fun you had even though it pretty much disintegrated when the words " Go Karts" were used.

It's probably a good job those who witnessed the atrocities during the second world war didn't buy into this view point; " I wouldn't worry too much about the Nazis, probably just a passing phase. No one will remember them next year let alone in 50. You mark my words!". You never see check out attendants in Tesco huddling in a group shouting " What goes on the scan machine, stays in the scan machine". Why? Because no one gives a shit other than the very people involved but that doesn't give them carte blanche to elevate their own personal enjoyment to that of public consumption. Then again it can only be a matter of time before "Trev the Nutter's Stag Do - Barcelona 2010" is presented as part of an installation art demonstration at The Tate Modern. Another phrase warranting the Bullshit Tax or BST as it will be known from now on is " Step up to the plate". For the uninitiated " S.U.T.T.P." comes from Baseball jargon referring to the incoming batter taking their mark prior to trying to twat the ball out of the stadium, as a metaphor it is used to refer to someone who is prepared to or is in dire need to show some backbone, some balls to actually make a stand,to show what they are made of. The problem is that in the UK a plate is something you eat your dinner off and the idea of having to take a step to eat something is frankly ridiculous. This means nothing to the perpretrators of this idiocy. In their minds they are the Al Pacino character in Any Given Sunday. The reality however is that they are a team leader and they work in Greggs. " Come on guys, we're running low on steak bakes, let's hustle."

Of course the downfall in my argument is that if people didn't use the type of phrases I'mrefferring to then the BST tax wouldn't work and pot holes wouldn't be filled and children would be illiterate so for the sake of students and motorists long may it continue. That reminds me I must book the stripper for Napalm Alan's Hen Party in Truro.

Remember those kids in school, the one's who ran the gauntlet of abuse every morning as they strode defiantly the playground on their way to registration. Their only crime being that they happened to support their local football club and happen to be proudly displaying the team's colours on the new scarf they've just bought. Remember their glow of comfort they used to give off as they removed the "Dick Less" sign from the back of the duffle coat, only for their indignity to be prolonged by further ridicule from the groovy geography teacher; " Don't laugh at Martin, after all he does support the strongest team in the league, yeah, they're holding everyone else up." Cue apopletic laughter as the entire class falls to their feet beating their chest like they are at some satanic rutual. Even those who don't follow football and are there hoping to find out a little more about "meanders" are rolling in the aisles. Martin's not bothered, to him it's water off a duck's back, he's seen it all before. For Martin, knowledge that he follows his local club is enough for him, he lives on a higher plain, something the majority of the class couldn't begin to understand. He looks beyond the results, for him it's the fashions, the smells, the menace, the sad, the pathetic, the futility of life as well as the joy etched on the faces of the fans around. Martin is already years ahead of everyone else in 4C. Ah the memories.

Well the reality is that most fans of lower league teams will say and do anything to avoid getting their head kicked. Simply asking if one went to Old Trafford on Saturday as they seem to recall every second of the action could ultimately result in a series of running dead legs. So you take the easy route and suggest that " Arsenal/Man Utd/Liverpool/Everton (delete as applicable) have excellent chances of winning the league this year." Even worse you adopt a first divsion team as a second team. Bigamy is apparently allowed in football. It's one thing to conform when you attend a school in North London that is 99 per cent either Arsenal or Spurs but when you live in the middle of nowhere and it takes a plane journey to get to Birmingham, surpressing your love for the local team is just wrong. But even though my own experience is one of denying my right to party, thankfully there are Emmeline Pankhurst's out there who will fly the flag simply because however miniscule it may seem to others it represents their life. They can tolerate the final demand letters, the broken boiler, the patronising tone of their boss because come Saturday they will be endulging in the one activity that sets them apart from everyone else. Now all this devotion is well documented, there are hundreds of books and articles written by people far more intelligent and better writers than myself but the monopoly which they exert is being eroded and it's being eroded by a group called " Social Commentators". It sounds vaguely like something to do with not having your bins emptied but the truth is far more frightening . These people are essentially paid to pass comment on the very things me and you take for granted. The difference between them and a rock or sports journalist is that instead of analysing what is in front of them in the context of the arena it is being played out, they make suggestions as to how it fits into the fabric of Society. In a nutshell, think all those twats on Channel 4 list programmes who talk about " how Britpop was a state of mind " and how England's exit from Euro 96 " was an allegory for the end of tory rule and the labour domination that was to follow, and you have some idea. In short, bullshit. Now of course this is all subjective and I am not here to lecture people on what to think ( well maybe a little), but it's the audacity of it all that concerns me. The fact that we now have a self appointed officer through whom we must channel all our opinions. It's farcical that there is a recognised position for something we do everyday. You don't see a professional "queuer" or somone being paid for breathing and yet we now have a representative who is going to represent the mundane, the ironic, the feckless, on our behalf.

If society wanted everyone's opinions to be broadcast they's install mic stands in pubs and bus stops. To the social commentator, nothing is disposable, everything has value. And yet by elevating everything beyond it's station they are sucking what little value or worth it had in the first place. Social commentary is the equivalent of a comedian explaining every punchline or every artist deconstructing their masterpiece.

With the social commentary, nothing is sacred. Everything is turned over until some value can be found. All those years of developing a view point on something you genuinely love can be all but destroyed on the basis of one phone call. And it won't be long before Emmeline Pankhurst gets that call ; " Hi, understand you support a team that's lower down or something ? Great, love to come down and chat to you and then use our own opinions and put them into a context that has absolutely no relevance. Be great yeah? Sorry, i wasn't sure if you spoke english what with you not living in London." Then again I don't think Emmeline has anything to worry about.