Posts in category "UK"

Please dont tell Norma but, earlier this week, I spent £25 in Shagorika. Such is the life of a sad, lonely IT consultant on a slow Tuesday night in Sunderland.

Unfortunately, contrary to my expectations, Shagorika turned out to be a rather mediocre, overpriced Indian restaurant rather than the sordid den of sexual iniquity I was hoping for.

It took me a while to summon up the courage to cross the threshold. My nerves were soothed when I was warmly welcomed by a beautiful, flirtatious lady who led me by the hand to a cosy waiting area. She gave me a complimentary drink and asked me to wait a minute while she prepared a table. A table, not a bed ! How very exotic.

I looked nervously at my surroundings; comfy seats, a well stocked bar, motoring magazines and stunning ladies peeking out from behind net curtains. Then my host returned with a warm smile: 'Sir, I are ready for you now'. And by now, I was also ready for her. In fact, I could barely contain my excitement.

My glamorous hostess led me to a table with an immaculate white table cloth, set for 3 courses with wine glasses. Perplexed, I reluctantly sat down. I wasn't really that hungry so I asked if this foreplay was absolutely necessary and whether it cost any extra.

My hostess looked a little confused, proffered me a food menu and ran back to the bar. Then the awful realisation slowly dawned. This was not a brothel but an Indian restaurant. Words can not describe my utter embarrassment and how stupid I felt. Particularly, as I had already stripped down to my vest and boxers.

I immediately and rapidly got dressed again and ordered 'The Chef's Choice'. Fortunately, I was able to bury my head in the July-August 2007 copy of Oracle Magazine to avoid the stares of my fellow diners.

Originally, I was going to savour this fine publication with my partner, in the glowing aftermath of our steamy, breathless sexual encounter. Normally, I would smoke a cigarette but a recent change in the law prohibits that nowadays.

One of my favourite sections in Oracle Magazine is the interviews with real-life DBA's. However I nearly choked on my Prawn Patia as I read this inappropriate and leading question to M. K Rizwan:

'What's your favourite tool or technique on the job ?'

I am now frantically leafing through my 157 back issues to see precisely how Tim and Doug replied to this question.

Two weeks ago, I sat in the business lounge at Newcastle airport. I chose a desk right in the corner away from everyone else because I am like that.

Inevitably, the lounge filled up with business types trying to impress everyone else by speaking loudly on their slimline toy phones.

A gentleman came and sat down next to me. He fetched an orange juice and two packets of delicious Kettle Chips (Sea Salt with crushed black peppercorns and Mature Cheddar and Chives) to occupy himself for the next 25 minutes.

Now Kettle Chips are very tasty and I am quite partial to a packet myself but when you are trying to concentrate and not partaking, the act of ripping open the packet(s) and noisily crunching crisp after crisp is incredibly irritating.

Finally, the second packet was exhausted. All the crumbs at the bottom had been shovelled down his greedy throat. Peace at last.

Peace until he got up from his chair and fetched another two packets. Not one but another two.

Now I know that food and drink are complimentary in the business lounge, but, for God's sake, Kettle Chips simply aren't exactly a delicacy that you never get at home.

This afternoon, I find myself in the same business lounge, with a new immediate neighbour for company. Incredibly, he has also just noisily munched his way through two packets of Kettle Chips.

Jesus Christ - he has just got up and and returned with another two packets (Salsa Mesquite and Sea Salt & Balsamic Vinegar).

I've had enough. I can't take any more without saying anything I regret.

I am now going to show some solidarity with the man in the street and sit in an empty departure lounge with no flight until next Monday.

As far away from everyone else, and Kettle Chips, as I can possibly get.

Boring, alcohol fuelled haze

• Prelude
• Friday
• Saturday

My friends were disappointed, insulted and absolutely mortified at the suggestion (from a comment on this blog) that the Hook Norton Festival of Fine Ales was merely a

'Boring, alcohol, induced haze'

However, I simply loved the turn of phrase that captures the very essence of Hook Norton in just four words. So much so, I had T-shirts made up for this weekend's antics.

New for 2007: The entire event will be live mob-blogged from start to finish so don't forget to tune in to this blog, Twitter, Pownce, Facebook and BBC World Service for exciting, real-time updates.

PS. This will be news to wives, partners and mistresses who have always been told that there is no mobile reception whatsoever in the beautiful, unspoiled Cotswold village which is the only reason their loved ones are incommunicado for a blissful 48 hours.

Last Thursday, I enjoyed an superbly entertaining taxi ride back from LHR. Unusually, the taxi driver wasnt waiting for me at the meeting point. I called the taxi company and was told he was 3 minutes away. He was actually 10 minutes away but, to be fair, he was extremely apologetic when he arrived.

The driver was a rather tall, imposing, Indian gentleman. Once in the car, he immediately got into a protracted and increasingly heated argument with the dispatcher about the address for his next drop-off. The dispatcher insisted the location was 'Surbiton' with no address. Not unreasonably, the driver argued that he needed an exact address.

Finally, he turned to me and asked 'Sir. May I ask you for your address ?' so I obliged. He then exploded at the dispatcher who eventually conceded that my address was indeed correct, wasn't actually 'Surbiton' and did include a road and house number.

Puzzled, I asked the driver why he simply didn't ask him where I lived when I got into the car. 'Because you, Sir, are the customer and I shouldn't have to pester you just because I work with complete idiots.'

He then informed me that 'while he wasn't a racialist (sic), British people were all incredibly stupid' and proceeded to expand this sweeping generalisation with the startling fact that 'last years Mensa study reported that 68% of the world's population was below average intelligence.'

He then proceeded to regale me with a variety of hilarious anecdotes from just two years in the minicab business.

One lady asked 'Are you a cab ?' to which he replied 'No, madam. I am not a cab. I am a taxi driver so please do not leap onto my shoulders.'

Another teenager asked if she could smoke in the car. He politely pointed to the 'No Smoking' signs clearly displayed and said 'No. I'm sorry madam. That won't be possible.' Undeterred, she then asked 'How much extra would it cost to smoke ?'. 'Well, madam, if you pay me the current market value of this car, I will get the bus home, you can drive this car to your garage and you can smoke there all night long.'

On another balmy summer evening, a rich lady from Mayfair didn't answer the door or phone for 15 minutes. When she eventually deigned to open the front door and announced 'she had been sitting out in the back garden with a glass of wine because it was sunny', he replied 'You're right. It is a lovely evening so I am ending my shift right now and going to sit in my garden with a glass of wine'. He promptly left her standing, speechless, on the doorstep.

Another customer threatened to call the office because the driver was slightly late and he had a flight to catch. He said 'Well it's not my fault that I'm late. Blame the idiots working at this company.' When the customer said 'That is outrageous. I am going to call your manager', he replied 'Sir, you can call New Scotland Yard for all I care.'

But my favourite story involved another rich lady. It was late on Saturday night, the roads were busy and the driver wasn't familiar with the area so he started to enter the destination address into the SatNav system.

The well spoken lady said 'Oh don't bother with that. Just follow that blue Mercedes'. My friend said 'Certainly madam but I really would like to key in the address as well if you don't mind.' The lady said 'Look. I've already told you once. Just do what you're told and follow the blue Mercedes.'

The driver complied. 25 minutes later, the blue Mercedes pulled into a driveway. The taxi driver pulled up at the kerb and stopped. He looked into the back seat. His well dressed female passenger was asleep and suddenly awoke. 'Are we there ye - What are we doing here ? Where the hell are we ?'.

The driver gestured to the car in the darkened driveway: 'Madam, you told me to follow the blue Mercedes.'

My son, Norman Junior III, plays competitive junior tennis. When I watch him play, I tend to stand at a distance and remain completely silent. Outwardly at least. I always try to offer positive encouragement - congratulations if he wins and commiserations after a defeat.

My son wins some matches and loses a handful more. However, he always enjoys playing, he doesn't scream and shout or thrash his racket into the ground. He wins and loses with the same good grace which makes me just as proud as his sporting prowess.

However, recently, he was given a real hiding by a lad of a similar age, ranking and ability. When he came off, I said 'Jesus. If you're going to play and serve like that, I think even I could take a set off you.' I always call him 'Jesus' when I am cross with him.

This lunchtime, work and school commitments finally allowed the great Brightside veteran-junior invitational challenge to take place.

He thrashed me 6-0. I took him to a couple of deuces but only because he made a couple of unforced errors and threw in a few double faults. When Sue Barker interviewed me, in a sweaty and breathless state (me not Sue) immediately afterwards, she made the preposterous claim that I only made two outright winners during the whole 24 minutes.

When I asked my son for tips to improve my all-round game, he graciously replied

'You actually weren't as bad I thought. You did get some serves in.'

I may have lost but I can tell you, I really looked the part as I strolled out onto court 14, immaculately attired in cream flannels, cream blazer with a cream holdall embossed in gold lettering with 'NB'.

We then adjourned to Asda for an emergency purchase (toilet rolls) and I cheered myself up with the purchase of Editors 'An End Has a Start'.

This CD has been on my wishlist for a whole but I have been poised on tenterhooks, waiting for Doug Burns to divulge his innermost thoughts on this indie band but, sorry, Doug, I simply can not bear the suspense any longer.

I see Interpol's third album ('Our Love To Admire') is also out which has received negative reviews for being too similar to the previous two with vivid echoes of Joy Division so that has also been ordered.

Dear Cathy and Claire

I wonder if you can help me. I recently was asked to host a deluxe barbecue for some Scottish friends who live in a town called 'Glasgow', near Scotland. I live in London and had stocked up on decent cuts of meat, firelighters, barbecue coals (impregnated), vegetable kebabs and fish because some veggie always turns up unannounced.

As my wife is so quick to prepare her lovely potato and pasta salads and often brings the baked potatoes out before my BBQ is actually hot enough to start cooking, I took the precaution of stocking up on a few gas canisters and hundreds of gallons of fuel accelerant. She won't mock me in front of my friends this time. Oh no.

Anyway, I just popped into a corner shop to buy 514 gas lighters, and guess what. My beautiful silver Mercedes got a ticket from a traffic warden and then got towed away. In the dead of night, in the heart of London, those blinking traffic wardens and damned wheel clampers are still working for their stupid commissions. Can you believe it ?

A friend, Ali Akbah, kindly lent me his black 4x4 Jeep for the jaunt to Glasgow and it was a long, tedious journey particularly as I wasn't allowed to stop at service stations or smoke for some odd reason. Why - I was pretty relieved when I finally got to ~~the safe house~~ Uncle Mustafa's house and could use his toilet. I cracked that old joke 'Mustafa Wee' but he didn't get it.

Some of the very important guests for the BBQ were flying in from all around the world so I drove to Glasgow airport to meet them. Unfortunately, as I was so tired from the long drive, I lost control as I approached the terminal building. Instead of braking, I mistakenly hit the accelerator and crashed into the front of the terminal building and Ali's lovely, brand new black Jeep caught fire.

Imagine my surprise, when I managed to leave the vehicle and tried, in vain (and excruciating pain for that matter) to save my 756 Birds-Eye (100% beef) Quarter Pounders. I felt pretty warm and sweaty and slowly became aware that was because my clothes and hair were on fire so tried to grab an ice-cold can of Grolsch from the boot to cool down.

Imagine my relief, when a friendly policeman came to my assistance and tried to drag me away from the vehicle into the terminal building to buy me a Coca Cola. I fought with him, pleading with him to help me retrieve my 128 portions of finest rump steak but no, he insisted on dragging me away to safety.

To add insult to injury, a Scottish BAA employee then waded in and started to attack me, raining in kicks and blows, talking in a language I couldn't quite understand. It sounded like 'Whityedaein? Yae dinna come to Glasgae and mess with the polis, you wee bawbag !'.

My questions are:

• Will I make a full recovery from my burns ?
• If I rearrange the BBQ for Monday 30 August 2018 (late August bank holiday), would you both be able to attend ?

Cathy & Claire reply:

'Sadly, I have some bad news for you. Very bad news. You have 90 degree burns over all of your body. Your medical prognosis is not good. Even if you survive, you will be condemned to a life of skin grafts, complicated operations, expensive plastic surgery and you will have to learn to tolerate extreme levels of pain. You will also be horrendously disfigured for life. In fact, you are more likely to die than survive, particularly if the British authorities refuse you any medical treatment.'

'In the unlikely event that you survive, Ali Akbah is not pleased with the state of his Jeep, the loss of his no-claims bonus and has issued a £20,000 contract on your life.'

'PS. Cathy & myself would be delighted to attend the event if an alternate host (and venue) can be found. Just so you know, Claire is a recently converted vegetarian but still eats fish.'

LHR-NCL (BA1326) Dep: 09:40 Arr: 10:45

Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Newcastle airport where the local time is 12:50. Once again, we would like to apologise for the [2 hour] delay to this service. We hope this does not inconvenience you and wish you a safe and pleasant onward journey.' 'Passengers wishing to smoke should note that, following changes to UK legislation that came into effect over the weekend, smoking is not permitted anywhere in the terminal building.'

'Passengers wishing to smoke should only do so on the concourse in located front of the main terminal. For the safety of fellow passengers, please dispose of all cigarette butts carefully. In particular, be aware of fast moving vehicles packed with gas canisters, petrol and sharp objects, as these may cause damage if inadvertently ignited by a stray cigarette.'

'Thank you for your attention. Good afternoon.'

If you are the parent of a teenage girl, I have some fantastic news for you.

Good news - You will never have to purchase an air freshener for your car again. Ever.

I kindly gave my daughter and three girlfriends a lift yesterday. As each young passenger boarded, pleasant smells and odours of various perfumes and fragrances wafted and swirled around the car interior until it resembled a perfume counter at Boots.

By the end of the journey, as I jettisoned my precious cargo, the smell was overpowering and I started to feel positively nauseous and light headed. 15 minutes later, I found myself slumped unconscious over the steering wheel. Or rather, the police officer did. Thank goodness, I passed that breath test and the policeman also had a grown-up daughter, who has just graduated from Exeter University.

Despite opening all windows, the sun roof and leaving the boot open in a futile effort to de-fumigate the vehicle, this pleasant smell will persist for a period of six months, rendering the need for small, refillable air fresheners that attach to the air vent grille completely superfluous.

Bad news - the cost savings of the air freshener won't make up for the unspecified and intangible costs of owning a teenage daughter.

This year, like the previous three, we applied in the LTA ballot for Wimbledon tickets. This year, unlike the previous three, we were allocated two tickets for Court 1 for the middle Saturday in blazing June.

I checked the Order of Play on Friday night. My wife asked me who was playing. I casually replied 'Oh - just some ladies playing pit-a-pat tennis then Djokovic (Men's #4 seed) against Kiefer followed by another ladies singles match.'

'Are the ladies well known ?'

I manfully tried to control my rising excitement and the quiver in my voice: 'Oh I dunno - someone called Sharapova. I think she's the pretty, athletic one. Tall, blonde hair with long shapely legs who also does modelling.'

After a cold shower, I checked the weather forecast, looked outside at the torrential rain and, for the first time in 23 years, said a little prayer before turning in.

The day dawned grey and wet. We arrived at Wimbledon, prepared for the increased security checks. A gentleman in a blazer asked me and my son to open our coats. An unusual request but, in the interests of homeland security, we complied. He said 'I'm awfully sorry, Sir but you can not wear those T-shirts on Court 1.'

We looked down at our chests. My son's read 'Blog in Isolation' and mine was adorned with 'www.nbrightside.com'. 'Why not ?'

'Those shirts constitute "ambush marketing" which is strictly not allowed by the LTA. Come to think of it, didn't I see you two dancing on stage at Glastonbury last week behind Iggy Pop waving a "Bring back Wispa" flag ?'

Undeterred, we promptly removed one layer to reveal our contingency shirts

'Come on ~~Andy~~ !' 'Come on ~~Tim~~ !' 'We love you, Maria !'

'That's much better, Sir. Have a great day and enjoy the tennis.'

Pictures here.