Day 137 - Tarnished Name

My significantly better half has tarnished the family name in this part of middle England. It is unlikely that we shall be made welcome into village halls, summer balls, fetes and Morris dancer competitions in Staffordshire for the foreseeable future. A black cloud has descended and if the practise was still in existence we would be in the stocks on the high street for a week. People and even small children would throw rotten vegetables at us while passing. The vicar would chastise us and may even break into prayer. Beer would turn as the stench of our aura infiltrated every room. This woman knows no bounds. She has dared to raise her voice, to show her passion. While watching football.

Not Premiership or FA Cup. Not even Barcelona or Real Madrid. Instead the mighty Under 8 Sunday League football. In the cold. With a flask of coffee. On a frozen pitch. These conditions were the catalyst that took her from zero to hero and swiftly back again. All in the space of an hour or so. And with such noise that would have landed us in the stocks. Now lets be sensible. For those who know her this behaviour will come as little surprise. With her pint size comes a Latin temperament that can reduce grown men to tears. Many have witnessed her passion and heard her sometimes - most of the time - loud and insightful comment on everyones performance. Couple this with her knowledge and passion for football and the fact that our son was playing and you have a recipe for, um, well, disaster? Humour? Um, candid camera? Don't know to be honest but not having been there for this one I can only expect a club disciplinary letter in the mail. You see here its so not PC to have any passion because its 'all about having fun and not about winning'.

What a crock of shit. Winning is fun isn't it? Here is my little bit of opinion. Yours may differ. If you teach a generation of children that's its not important to win then they will stop trying to win and stop believing that they can be better. If you teach a generation of children that's its OK not to try harder because they'll get a game anyway then don't expect them to do any different. They will carry this tainted view into their adult life and we will be left with nations of losers. Obsessed with high visibility jackets, health and safety, equality and tree hugging. Or has that happened already?

On a lighter note and only to compound my better half's misery for the day, the chosen one, the 12 year old who thinks that she might be eighteen also lost in her netball match. And then, good news and the result of the day, Nadal lost to Djokovich in the Aussie Open final. What a fine day it has been for Mrs C.

And finally. When someone tells you that age is just a number you should immediately extend your arm and bitch slap them. Its not just a number and I have the scars of war to prove it. I have the limp of a veteran, the thousand yard stare of someone who has seen more that he should. The twitch has returned. Tonight shall be torrid. Yes today I played squash. For the first time in more than half a year. With an outside temperature of 1 degrees and an inside temperature of I swear 148 degrees I ran and stumbled across the vastness of a squash court hoping, no preying, that my racquet thingy would connect with the ridiculously small ball. It did occasionally. Fortunately. With my heart pumping its way out of my mouth the game finally came to an end. And not a minute too soon. I had miraculously won. I think my opponent knew that my other half needed some positive cheer.For that I thank him. We shall be grateful for some time. We shall worship his feet until the next time we meet in the hallowed halls of the leisure centre.

Until the next time.

Day 136 - Water Water Everywhere

OK I accept that I am a bit of a novice when it comes to the system over here. And since we arrived and went pretty much straight into running our own business we've had to learn pretty quickly, relying on previous lessons, some sage advice from a best guess choice of advisers - who I can add have turned out OK - and a bit of common sense and probably quite a bit of luck.

Now in business or domestic bliss the system where you are you'll just know what its all about. You'll know just about how your phone bill is calculated, how your electricity bill is calculated, how long it takes for the post to be delivered, how often you get the water bill, when you put your rubbish out, when your rubbish is collected. You'll just know. The process in these times of austerity hasn't really changed much and where it has changed your mate will know, or your neighbour and you'll get to know. And you won't really give it too much thought. But for all the people that have moved countries and don't have that support network. They don't know. Its different. The bins are a different colour. And certain colours get collected on certain days and they only get collected once every two weeks. And you have to figure out when the sneaky neighbours put theirs out and then quickly put yours out. And you have to know what happens when there is a bastard public holiday...

And then there is the water bill. And this is the subject of today's little missive. I have received mine and I am unpleasantly surprised. At no point have I had any contact with the fine folk at Severn Trent Water. But they know me. They know where I live and like animals in the Masai Mara, they charge like wounded Buffalo's. Their horns scraping against ones soul and in the depths of ones wallet. Like animals without emotion they have formed pincer movements, charging from all sides, going for the grisly kill. Parading their trophy. Without any sense of guilt. And this is what happened when I received my bill a few days ago. An eye watering fuck me that's a lot of money bill. Yes one of those. As the tears have dried up I have started thinking about it and looking a little closer at it and it seems they have over charged me. The air starts to re-enter my lungs. I might see the sunrise tomorrow afternoon.

So I ring up customer services today, wanting to point out the error of their ways. And so I start. I say ' I got your bill, thanks you so much', but I think you may have over charged me.' Oh yeah they say, obviously having heard this before.

'Yes' I continue ' it seems that you have charged me twice from the same amount of water used, you see in the breakdown of the bill the first paragraph is opening reading vs closing reading equals usage times by pence per m3 ' I get all that' I say, and then I say ' in the second paragraph you're charged me again for the same water used and i think this is where the error is.' I hear a snicker. No says Stuart, patiently explaining, the water used is the water that we have already charged you for to come out of your tap and is now going down the drain into our waste pipes so we charge you again. I start to choke, my breathing has quickened ' you mean you charge me twice for the same water?' . Yes he says. Flustered now I ask about paragraph three on the bill - this one is titled surface water. And so Stuart goes on to explain that they also charge me for rain water that falls on these premises and runs off into the drainage network. I'm now just about in cardiac arrest, I feel Baba has had his way with me. I am violated. £547 just for rainwater removal is one serious load of rainwater. And they say that water reservoirs in the UK are at an all time low. What the fuck is going to happen when it really does rain!?

I put the phone down, tears streaking my pale cheeks. From now on we bath only once a month. All dishes must be licked clean. Plants must be plastic. It may be cheaper to brush our teeth with Evian. What has the world come to?

I can't wait to get the gas bill.

Until the next time. Send money. 

Day 135 - Two Phone Phil

Hello?
Yeah…on the train…
Yeah London mate…just for the day…and you…what you up to?
Oh ok…and after that what you up to?
Yeah yeah.
No mate ain’t got the time to be honest, gotta get back…
You should come up sometime….

Ah hang on mate…me other phone’s ringing…ok yeah I’ll call you back later, bye

Hello?

We’ve all seen Two Phone Phil. Two Phone Phil is the bloke that always speaks the loudest on his mobile phone. Everyone hears his view and his half of probably a made up conversation on Lesbian World Domination, the fate of Kodak or the state of the US Dollar vs the rising value of the Pakistani Rupee. In fact, it is documented (ok it’s not really) that the smaller the place or the busier the place is, is directly proportional to how loud ‘ol Phil speaks. Two Phone Phil also has, well yes, two mobile phones and a huge opinion on everything and himself. Why he has two phones? I have no idea so, and for me there could be just about nothing worse, so I will merely surmise that he is a/ either very important in his own world, b/ his expression on world affairs is sought after c/ he’s hiding something from someone or d/ he’s a drug dealer with a cocaine problem or…a combination of these things. But he’s more important that most anyway and very clever, and needs both handsets to ensure that he can hold a simultaneous conversation, you know two ears two phones… Or he’s just schizophrenic. 

So two phones. Does this means he has to memorise two numbers and memorise who gets what numbers. And does he store your contact details on both phones in case he loses one. And can he get onto his facebook profile using both phones at the same time? And to which phone does his email go to. Can he send an email to himself.

And does he have two business cards? What if the battery goes flat in one of them, does he swap batteries? And which one does he charge first. Is the ring tone different on each? Jesus I thought my life was complicated at times!

Months ago I wrote on this ramble of a blog about how we had moved into the only village in the northern hemisphere that doesn’t have mobile phone reception. The words went something like ‘people in Somalia have more mobile phone reception…’. It turns out I was wrong. I have discovered that if I lie flat on my bed, on my back with my phone on my chest I get full signal strength. Which is great. As long as the volume is set to deafening. We also get faint signal by the table by the fire and in the middle cubicle in the ladies. And if you stand on your left leg in the middle of the car park facing east. Yes dear reader. Vodafone will sponsor the opening of an envelope but a mobile phone signal in 21^st Century provincial Britain…

So, no phone signal. And it’s bizarrely therapeutic. No ringing phones, no funny at home but not so funny in the pub ringtones. No bar staff thinking that their mobile phone conversation with their mate or their mom is more important than serving my customers. 

No irritating one sided conversations to listen to. And no Two Phone Phil. Can life get any better? Is the pub not a refuge from the daily grind of life? Surely that email can wait. I think so.

I have arrived.

Until next time in the near future.

Day 134 - Face First Mud Diving

Three forty something men should be collectively clever enough to know that taking on a battalion of seven year olds in a Dad's vs Lads football match is never going to end well. We should have known that running around a half sized rain soaked muddy pitch (thank God it wasn't a full size pitch) for ninety minutes in nothing more than jeans, t shirt and trainers (takkies for Saffers) wasn't the best idea.

Yes. We should have read the writing on the wall when they all turned up in football strip, shin guards and boots with viciously, even purposely honed on a grinder, sharp studs. Oh and the reapers grin, minus a tooth or two, that stretched from ear to ear on each of the little shits faces was also a sign. And another that we missed.

For three grown men, all of distinction - OK the other two had distinction - , character and considerable skill we thought, we sure misread the intention of the little bastards. As they ran rings around us slotting Beckham quality goals at random. And caused me to think, momentarily, that face first mud diving was the new in thing. The new must do sport of champions. Or in our case losers.

It is now two days later. The pain of that humiliating defeat is still evident. Physically I have become a marvel to medical science as I have discovered new muscles that for decades have lain unused, waiting only for this occasion to show their faces. I now walk with a limp, I may never recover. And mentally we are scarred, images of toothless grinning little bastards coming at us studs first will forever blot our vision. And the noise of their goal scoring celebrations will haunt our dreams. We have elected to take private football lesson and to buy our own boots with sharp studs so that next time we will show them who's boss. Money is no object, we will pay whatever it costs. And next time we will ask for a pitch side ambulance just in case and a professional referee. And goal line technology. And linesmen. And really small goals for them to score into and really big ones for us in case we score.I'm sure they were cheating you know. And we will warm up before thinking that we're still young. And that will separate the men from the boys. 

But is all depends on making tomorrow morning. You see some of our injuries are horrific. I'm limping and one of the other young old dads did his back. There may not be another time. Our team of three may have to be split up, or as some would say, put to pasture. And that wouldn't be a bad idea. That way, we could continue to be side line experts, all knowing in the ways of all sports. We could, while our kids still believe that we have what it takes, continue to influence game strategy and team selection. Hell we could still even step in and ref the game. Just so long as we don't play again. You see one more game and our kids will start seeing the real skills that we have. And its not football. Shhhh. Don't say a word.

Happy New Year. God Speed.