Posts in category "UK"

In my job, I am often summoned into very important, high powered meetings at short notice. It doesnt matter what I am doing, who I am doing it with or where I am, I simply have to make my apologies and leave.

Last week, a client took this approach to conducting business to extremes. I was standing at the urinals, fondly remembering previous posts on manners and officious, distracting and confusing corporate directives.

As I attended to business, a gentleman in a dark suit, no tie (yes, you've guessed it - 'Dress Down Friday') and wearing a rather incongruous pair of white trainers, came into the adjacent stand.

'Hi, David. Listen - just a quickie. I just want to check that we've covered all bases before the call at 3:30'

I looked down. Thankfully, I hadn't covered all bases and everything had landed in the urinal. If only she could have witnessed this, Norma Jeane would have been so proud.

'OK Dave. That sounds cool but Debenture will be on the call so I just need to check we are all aligned.'

I looked down. We weren't really aligned that well. Subconsciously, uncomfortable at my noisy, immediate neighbour, I had slightly turned away. Acceding to his plea for corporate alignment and strategic business partnerships, I re-aligned myself by facing forward.

'Listen David - I don't think your team really appreciate the enormity of the matter in hand here.'

I snatched a surreptitious glance sideways - above average perhaps - certainly not enormous but then Norma Jeane does say that men do tend to exaggerate a little.

'David - look if we don't get any joy in the next 25 minutes, we are going to have to escalate this to the very highest levels.'

Well, I would probably describe what I had just experienced as 'relief' rather than 'joy'.

Pause. Bliss. Peace at last.

'David - are you still there ? Speak up. The reception is this place is appalling - it's as if I am calling from a toilet. Absolutely. Unfortunately, the worst case scenario does mean dragging Anthony into this.'

What did this idle threat mean ? Was the mysterious 'Anthony' was going to be summoned from cubicle #3 to join us in a Holy Triumvirate ?

'Hey Dave - I fully understand your position but I am going to have to drop off the call now.'

With that, the important man in the suit and white trainers, equipped with the Borg headset, ended the call, shook hands with the unemployed, pulled his zipper up and left the Gents urinals.

On Friday, Norman Junior III and myself loaded up our picnic hamper, packed the cool box with brightly coloured Bacardi Breezers and set off for SW19.

We had been lucky enough to get tickets for Wimbledon tennis in the public ballot last year but, thanks to the English weather, we only saw grey skies and 63 minutes of play. It was scant consolation that we saw Maria Sharapova in the flesh. OK, I'll admit it - that was a massive consolation !

This year, we applied again in the public ballot and we got lucky. Very lucky. We were allocated Centre Court tickets for Friday 4 July, the day of the Men's Semi Finals. Or as those posh stewards from the Wimbledon Championships prefer to call it, the 'Gentleman's Singles'

We used my own private and exclusive 'Park & Ride' scheme which entails parking on a residential road and walking through Wimbledon Village, admiring the beautiful people, en-route to Wimbledon Tennis Club on Church Road.

After clearing security, ('No sharp objects just ham & cheese rolls') we wandered around the outer courts which were hosting doubles and junior matches. We saw the world's sporting journalists and TV crews setting up in the media centre, had a look at Aorangi Terrace - sorry 'Henman Hill' - sorry 'Murray Mount' and gazed at hundreds of people, soaking up the sun and the atmosphere, preparing to watch matches on a very big screen.

Norman Junior asked why Wimbledon was charging a staggering 85 pence for a Toffee Crisp and £2.60 for a bag of Maynard's Wine Gums. I told him it was so the LTA can pay off the rest of Brad Gilbert's contract and finish the retracting roof.

At 12:30, we took our seats on Centre Court and were delighted to discover we had brilliant seats on row 10, to the left of the umpire's chair, bathed in brilliant sunshine.

Roger Federer against Marat Safin was the first match and Federer did indeed look impressive in his cream cardigan, with five gold embossed buttons (signifying the number of his Wimbledon triumphs). Federer beat Safin in straight sets and he's an awesome player. It must be soul destroying to play against Federer as the guy never seems to make a mistake and barely seems to be exerting himself. Safin tried manfully but rarely looked like breaking Federer's serve and, after losing a second set tie-break and smashing a racket on his chair, Safin understandably lost heart and Federer triumphed 6-3, 7-6, 6-4.

After a quick break to play 'Spot the Celebrity' in the Royal Box (Prince Michael of Kent, Des Lynam, Michael Parkinson and Trevor Macdonald), it was time for Rafael Nadal. When Norman Junior III asked me for my prediction, I loudly said 'It will be close but I'm going for Schuettler in four sets' which drew some puzzled looks from our immediate neighbours.

Nadal is a big man and taller than I imagined. He is very strong, athletic and muscular. In fact, I think he has muscles on top of his muscles. Nadal swept into an early 3-0 lead after breaking the serve of the German, Rainer Schuettler. The game looked like it could be an embarassing, one -sided affair but credit to Schuettler who actually broke Nadal's serve and was on top in the second set. Nadal came back though and levelled to take the set into another tie-break. Inevitably, just like Federer and like a true world class sportsman, Nadal went up a gear and won the tie-break (and the match) easily.

We finished our cheese and cucumber sandwiches, drained our flask of tea, cracked open our packet of Wine Gums (60p from Asda), took some more photos and watched one set of Mixed Doubles (Jamie Murray) before making our way home to try to (successfully) spot ourselves on the TV highlights.

Obligatory photos (with captions) here

Two weeks ago, I made my annual pilgrimage to the Surbiton Trophy where I enjoyed a day in the sun watching an excellent Mens Final between Frank Dancevic and Kevin Anderson.

Norman Junior III also plays tennis at Surbiton albeit not to such a high standard. In the lull between the main event and the Men's Doubles Final, Norman Junior III and the juniors came on to entertain a handful of spectators on the two main courts, performing some standard drills with their coaches.

After two hours on court on a blisteringly hot day, I expected the winner, Frank Dancevic, to hoist the trophy for the obligatory photo, pocket his cheque and beat an hasty retreat to get a shower and a cold drink. However, much to my surprise, Dancevic joined in with the boys and girls playing with some 6 year olds on a quarter size court with orange balls.

Dancevic was absolutely brilliant with the kids, laughing and joking and even throwing in some grunts if he struggled to make a return. He then rallied with some up and coming teenagers who were very keen to score a point off the professional. Even after the fun session was over, Frank still made more time available to chat and sign the kids' tennis bags.

Last night, on Court 1 at Wimbledon, there was a minor shock as Frank Dancevic beat David Nalbandian in straight sets (6-4, 6-2, 6-4). Nalbandian was the 7th seed for Wimbledon while Dancevic is ranked 98 in the world and unseeded.

Well played Frank and good luck in the next round against Bobby Reynolds.

Met up with some friends last night in a very busy Freemasons Arms in Covent Garden.

Les Battersby (some bloke from Coronation Street apparently) was drinking in there. Les kindly and repeatedly passed our rounds of '6 Spitfire and 2 Guinness' into our little alcove as we enjoyed Liverpool versus Arsenal.

'So, you're in Coronation Street then ?' 'Yeah' 'Red or blue ?' 'Blue.' 'Oh.'

There is a memorial plaque on the northbound M40 motorway in Oxfordshire.

Out of morbid curiosity, I pulled over this morning to pay my respects and read the inscription:

Do not stand at my grave and weep Bring a picnic here instead Just be careful opening the driver's door Because that's what I did and now I'm dead

Saddened to read that Miles Kington died recently at just 66.

I used to really enjoy Kington's columns in The Independent. There aren't many writers capable of making laugh out loud. Kington was one of them.

Another of my favourite journalists is Giles Smith of The Times. Last week, he wrote a brilliant article about the appointment of Dennis Wise as 'Executive Director (football)'.

Similarly, Smith's piece in today's edition is about the proposed changes to the Premiership:

'606? I'm a City fan coming home from Nairobi and I tell you, we wuz robbed...'

Since accumulating 9 penalty points, Norma has been very worried about the possible consequences of my irresponsible actions and dangerous driving. A driving ban would have severe, wide reaching consequences for my glamorous job in IT consultancy, affect our busy social life not to mention the logistics of ferrying the kids to all their hobbies.

After lodging an appeal with Surrey Traffic Police, I gleefully accepted a place on a half-day 'Speed Awareness Workshop'. Attendance at the workshop cost £95 but was in lieu of the proposed 3 point penalty so was well worth the money. Plus the instructor was an attractive lady. After registration, coffee and friendly introductions, we all swapped amusing anecdotes of our various speeding offences, recounted hard luck stories and were tested on stopping distances in the rain.

After lunch (lovely sandwiches and volavons), we all looked at some horrific photographs of mangled car wreckage, listened to victims of car accidents and, worse of all, watched the instructor viciously smash a peach on the table with a claw hammer.

As I wiped peach juice off my face, I cunningly positioned myself next to the instructor for the grand finale which was an evangelical type experience where we all hugged each other and proclaimed in a single, united and very loud voice: 'In the name of the Father, the Son and Surrey Traffic Police we hereby pledge, that we will never exceed the speed limit ever again'.

The only problem was that the roads were really empty on my route back home and the weather conditions were dry with excellent visibility. I was a little late for my evening meal (Chicken Kiev on Tuesday night), Manchester United were playing live on TV and so I promptly picked up another £60 fine and the very 3 penalty points, I had spent the afternoon avoiding.

Norma was not pleased. Since then, I have been accompanied on every single trip by a new backseat driver. A voice from the passenger seat who keeps piping up:

'Speed camera, 500 yards. Limit - 40 miles per hour'

'Yes, yes OK, I know this road and I am doing 42 mph and they never do you for that.'

'Speed camera. Limit - 40 miles per hour. Reduce speed.'

'All right. All right. Just shut up will you ? I am down to 39.5 mph now.'

When the danger has passed, the backseat driver gives a distinctive 3 toned whistle and is silent until she spots the next possible hazard. Once again, my irritating back seat driver pipes up in that dull, monotone voice

'Possible mobile camera site ahead. Limit - 50 miles per hour.'

We all frantically scan the landscape for police hiding in the bushes wielding a hand held radar gun and wait for the triumphant 3 tone whistle that means 'OK - put your foot down.'

Sometimes I am sorely tempted to go for a crafty drive on my own without my back seat driver in attendance.

Sometimes, I am tempted to ask the back seat driver to shut up and just let me drive.

Sometimes, I am tempted to silence the back seat driver by cutting her communication cord.

Sometimes, I am tempted to grab the back seat driver by the neck and shove her back in the glove box.

But I can't because the back seat driver is my friend.

Last Thursday, 152 people (16 crew and 136 passengers), in addition to a significant number of people living in Hounslow, narrowly escaped death when a British Airways flight from Beijing (BA038) was forced into an emergency landing at Heathrow airport.

Several things struck me about this incident and the aftermath:

• After a phone call to update me on all the domestic news and gossip, my wife somehow negated to impart this tidbit of useful and relevant information. I hung up and turned on the TV news to be staggered by images of the wrecked fuselage of a British Airways jumbo jet lying of the fringes of the runway, 15 miles from my house, surrounded by foam, slides deployed with 18 fire appliances surrounding the scene.
• As I was flying from Belfast into Heathrow the following day, I consulted the BMI website which curiously maintained flights would be subject to delays and cancellation following, in a slight understatement, the 'incident at Heathrow'. Funnily, enough, the AAIB agrees with me and defines an accident as 'an occurrence during the period of operation of an aircraft where the aircraft incurs damage'.
• A man from Oxford who walked away with his life would have quite liked British Airways to provide him with a cup of tea followed by some counselling.
• Another couple thought they had just had 'a bumpy landing' and therefore didn't require any tea and biscuits. In fact, these Aussie backpackers were just delighted to get their baggage back without queuing at the carousel and to receive a complimentary return ticket for the Heathrow Express.
• A surreal moment boarding the flight at Belfast, picking up a newspaper with the stricken 777 plastered all over the front page.
• British Airways' decision to parade the pilot, co-pilot and Julie, your cabin service director, before the world's press. The BA crew all looked shell-shocked and distinctly uncomfortable. Mind you, so would I, if I was slowly starting to assimilate the events and trying to recover from a near death experience (without a cup of tea). This implied to me that BA were either very keen to get the media off their backs and leave them alone and/or BA are already absolutely certain of the circumstances of the accident and knew for a fact, pilot error was not a possible contributory factor.

Finally, I must confess that I know absolutely nothing about airplanes, fly by wire or wind shear. I am also totally ignorant of the size of the pigeon population of South West London and possible deficiencies in the quality of Chinese aircraft fuel.

However, if the AAIB investigation subsequently discovers, in the coming months, that the co-pilot had successfully brought a 100 ton aircraft into a crash landing, having lost power to both engines, and miraculously managed to clear the perimeter fence by 10 feet, I will be truly amazed at the skill of the pilots.

If the investigation shows that, following a catastrophic, non-reproducible computer error, the co-pilot somehow had the foresight to raise the flaps to somehow bring the aircraft down on the grass to stop it within 300 feet instead of landing on the concrete runway where it surely would have exploded with complete loss of life, wouldn't that be the most staggering and heroic feat ever ?

I am jet-lagged because a customer asked me to fly, at short notice, from Newcastle to Belfast at 07:05 on Wednesday morning.

I had a suspicion this was important because when I told the client that my flights between London and Newcastle were non-refundable he replied 'I don't care about that. Just get on a plane to Belfast.'

Initially, I was harbouring hopes of watching Newcastle play Stoke City in a Cup Replay on Wednesday evening and I was about to politely enquire about the possibility of departing early on Thursday morning when the project manager added: 'Oh and take anything you might need to install Siebel and clone our existing environment on to brand new, standalone infrastructure.'

My normal concerns about oversleeping were accentuated by the fact I was booked for my first ever flight on EasyJet. I was worried about no e-ticket, additional charges for a seat, additional charges for checking my bag into the hold, additional charges for an overpriced cheese and bacon panini. I was terrified about lengthy queues of people going to Florida and the Alps for £24.99 (+ £110 tax and fuel surcharge) blocking my path to the single check-in desk.

So, I duly went to bed at 20:30 and set my alarm for 04:45 to allow a full half hour to get dressed, double check my passport and Siebel DVD's, find the night porter, check out of the hotel and impatiently wait for my taxi (booked for 05:15).

However, recurring nightmares about being 16 seconds late for the check-in desk and featuring on 'Airline' woke me at 04:12 precisely. I also dreamt of Tony Robinson filming my arrival, flustered and stressed, at the bright orange check-in desk at 06:26.

'Mr. Norman Brightside is desperately trying to get to Belfast for an urgent business meeting but unfortunately for Norman and the hordes behind him, the check-in desk for the Belfast flight has just closed. Norman is now having a discussion with Lisa.'

Holiday makers with young children and lads going to Prague for a stag week are tutting behind me as I plead:

'Listen Lisa, it's not my fault. I have been up since 04:30 but the taxi driver kept talking about Kevin Keegan and I simply must get to Belfast to install Siebel for a training course that starts on Monday.' 'Well I am very sorry, Sir but I have asked the pilot and there's simply no way you can catch this flight. You will have to book on the next one at 17:25 tonight.'

'Listen. You don't understand. This is a brand new environment, on machines yet to be installed, isolated behind a corporate firewall.'

'Why don't the network, comms and infrastructure team just create a secure VPN link between the two data centres ?

'Yeah, I know, Lisa. Tell me about it, but if that was feasible, I could tunnel through from the Sunderland office and I wouldn't be standing here in my pyjamas, would I ?'

Thunderbolt Kid by Bill Bryson. Growing up in the States in the 1950s. This opening (recursive) quote sets the tone beautifully

The State Senate of Illinois yesterday disbanded its Committee on Efficiency and Economy 'for reasons of efficiency and economy' - Des Moines Tribune, 6 February 1955

Watching: This is England. Growing up in England in the 1980's. A superb film.