Monday 31 January 2011

Carrie's War

Students stand outside Top Shop shouting 'pay your taxes'. And without a hint of irony. Love it
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All this fuss about Andy Gray and Richard Keys being sacked for something they said in private reminds me of a joke Jimmy Greaves used to tell about a fellow player who went up to a referee and said 'If I call you a wanker, what will you do?' 'Send you off, of course,' said the ref. 'And if I just think it, then what?' said the player. 'I can't punish you for what you think,' said the ref. 'Ok' said the player, 'I think you're a wanker.'
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And so to the sad bit I wasn't looking forward to writing about but regular readers of this little egotistical outpouring will recall that a week or so ago I went our for a drink with my friend Kevin who was dying of cancer. It was, rather blackly, a chance for some of us to say goodbye. And so it proved. He died last night, in a hospice, being loved and cared for by those who were there and a great many of us who weren't. He leaves a young child who didn't have long enough to know his dad but will grow up with one of the best support networks I think I have ever seen.
I can't do this whole business any kind of justice at all. I watched my mum die of cancer so I have an inkling of what it was like as, unfortunatley, do millions of others.
But someone who has somehow managed to translate this whole thing into the most admirable, beautiful and grippingly honest account I could imagine is Kevin's widow, Caroline, on this blog called Carrie's War.
Read it but don't weep, she wouldn't want that.
http://carrieswar-cbolam.blogspot.com/2011/01/is-it-crunch-time.html?spref=fb
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A number of people have complained that The Shard, which will be Europe's tallest building when it is completed - is a blot on the landscape because it ruins the view of St Paul's and other buildings from such vantage points at Hampstead Heath, Primrose Hill and Parliament Hill. Bollocks. It doesn't.
And I don't want to appear all pro-South London but when it is finished, the view from this side of the river including Bermondsey, will be vastly improved, standing by the side of the grim Guy's Hospital tower, with the Gherkin visible behind it.
I have come to the conclusion that The Shard is wonderful and am embracing it completely.
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Apart from City Airport, you can't see The Shard from any of London's other airports. There's a good reason for that. The clues are in the names - London Heathrow, London Gatwick, London Stansted and, perhaps, the most ridiculous of all, London Luton. And soon, London Southend. Yes, Southend, on the Essex coast, miles away from civilisation let alone the capital, is now London's latest airport. I hope the car park there has big spaces for caravans.
Next week I'm going on holiday to London Madrid, leaving from London Manchester.
Must fly....Solly

Thursday 27 January 2011

The Milky Bar Yid

Because I'm old enough to get annoyed about these things....the new advert for Milky Bar has people recreating the famous old jingle. You know, the one that goes 'the creamiest milk' etc and ends with the line 'Nestles Milky Bar'. And Nestles is pronounced as it is written or, if you prefer, nessels.
Except today that's not good enough. Oh no. This time there's four blokes singing 'Nes-lay's Milky Bar.'
Neslay? I know it's the proper way to pronounce it but we've been pronouncing it wrong for years and it's been good enough for millions of us. And it just sounds so very wrong.
What next? Will Faust become a play about a man who wrestlays with his conscience? Next time I go camping will I have a picnic on a treslay table?
As a pointless protest that will make no difference at all to anyone or anything, I am not prepared to buy Milky Bars any more. So there. Instead I'm going to only eat Marathons, Opal Fruits and Treets.
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Am I the only one cynical enough to think that Tessa Jowell has filed a complaint about her phones being hacked because no one has mentioned her at all for at least two years?
I have a vague recollection that when I was a kid, she was my GLC councillor but I could be wrong.
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Some former pupils have set up a Facebook page dedicated to those of us who left my old primary school - Ilford Jewish - during the mid-70s.
Interestingly a few have commented on how wonderful they thought it was and how good an education we received. So much so that many have sent their kids there.
Personally I think it helped teach me something that has had a massive bearing on my life and that is, there is no God. It's wonderful how a religious education can open your eyes to how ridiculous much of it really is.
Many also recollect - and seem to do so with some affection - how teachers would hit us with rulers, shake us up and down or carry out other physical punishments. We were aged 7-11 at that time. I can recall a couple of wonderful teachers who made a difference to my education. Like Shirley Rudie and Harry Balkin who saw potential in me that others may not have. But I also remember a couple of others that I hated. No amount of rosy recollection will make me now look at them differently just because a few decades have passed. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't abuse like you get in some religions. Jewish choirboys don't have much to fear for instance. But looking back, it wouldn't be allowed today. And rightly so.
What I enjoyed about that school is that it did teach me something about Judaism - which, despite my atheism, will forever cling to me like a Mr Byrite suit - and about my history and ethnicity. And I formed friendships which still last to this day and, I hope, will last forever.
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Speaking of Jewish...I hate Seinfeld but love Curb Your Enthusiasm. I'm only halfway through the box set of the latter and now it's going to be shown, from series one, on that new Sky Atlantic channel. Good for them. For years this wonderful series has been wasted in various graveyard slots on Channel 4 and its spin-offs. It will be nice to see it - and indeed The Sopranos - on at the same time, every week and, hopefully, not after midnight.
Shalom - Solly

Wednesday 26 January 2011

Sorry Keys

Big Fat Gypsy Weddings got an amazing 8.2 million viewers on C4 last night while the Arsenal-Ipswich semi final - shown on the BBC and not Sky by the way - got a mere 4.35 million.
And one can only assume that Gooners living in Southend, not to mention Ray Parlour, probably watched one and recorded the other.
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Alastair Campbell has suddenly remembered to complain about the News of the World possibly hacking into his phone...er...seven years ago! But he must have forgotten to mention it in the intervening years when he and the Labour Party had their heads up Rupert's arse.
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I have to say I never did like Andy Gray and nor do a lot of people who actually go to football and don't think the sun shines out of Steven Gerrard's bottom. But this strange new streak of puritanism at News International does look awfully suspicious.
I worked at The Sun for six years and if everyone who ever expressed a sexist opinion got fired, the paper would never have come out. That's not a defence for sexism but you have to wonder at the agenda down at Sky.
After all, try watching the autocuties on Sky News and try and work out how many of them were employed for their journalistic skills. And more to the point, how many good female journalists have not been employed by Sky for aesthetic reasons. This is an industry which in many other areas is not afraid to promote good women to senior positions.
But back to Gray and Keys.
For a start, someone in their close knit team obviously disliked them enough to leak the first clip. And there seem to be no shortages of people willing to leak further clips.
I have a friend who deals with Keys a lot and she reckons he is an arrogant shit at the best of times.
This could be the excuse Sky needs to get a younger, fresher team in to present football, as opposed to two men who model themselves on Gene Hunt. Though I really hope they don't choose Jamie Redknapp - at least, not until he has his adenoids done and stops making those God awful holiday ads.
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The advert for The Independent's spin-off for thick people - i - has an ad which boasts that it will not focus on meaningless celebrities. And then shows it being read by Jemima Goldsmith/Khan.
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I've been asked to go to a reunion of my old football side, now that we're all old and fat. No wives allowed. Mainly because we may want to discuss the offside law.
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Apparently there is a bit of debate over how to open and close business emails as the format does not suit the traditional 'dear' and 'yours faithfully' greetings of old. It all comes after a US congresswoman sent a message to journalists which opened with 'Hey folks'. I find Yo or Wotcha works for most occasions but tend to go for Hi. As for goodbyes, I don't see the point of BR because if you can't be bothered to spell out Best Regards then they can't really be considered best, can they?
See ya...Solly

Sunday 23 January 2011

Dojo was a man who thought he was a loner

Some scally has been up and down our road and nicked all the metal grills that cover the storm drains, leaving great chasms helpfully covered up with traffic cones.
You can't win. Too much lighting and a road starts to look like the front at Blackpool and everyone complains about light pollution. Not enough and you step out one morning into fall into a black hole.
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Which reminds me - have you seen My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding? It's fabulous TV and I reckon it will be the cult show of the year. Even more than that one about the Kardashians.
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I have discovered a fantastic new place to go people watching. The grading examinations for Tae Kwon Do in your region. My two had to go and do some kind of martial arts line dancing and answer questions like 'name the five tenets of Tae Kwon Do' which, of course, is something like 'determination, pride, a lack of self awareness, nice shiny white suits, clean fingernails' I think.
Most of the people there are normal. Lots of earnest kids and put upon parents who have just seen the cost of the accessories.
But among them are a few oddballs. There's a few 'types'. There's the aggressive martial artist who, despite all the teaching about peace and love and meditation, just wants to learn a few moves they can use to smash someone's face in.
Then there are whole families who do it. Mum, dad, brother and sister. All lining up to practise their moves in unison, shouting 'hurgh' at the end of each move, like the Dooleys clearing their throat. In all honesty it's slightly creepy in a kind of Brady Bunch synchronised way rather than in a Woody Allen/Stepdaugther thing but creepy nonetheless. He is something in financial accounting, she is a housewife with a part-time job as a teaching assistant and the kids have been taught how to keep their clothes lined up in a colour co-ordinated order in the wardrobe.
And then there's the socially inept loner. The kid who was bullied at school but has seen The Karate Kid and has taken up self defence classes so that one day he can either a) meet his nemesis in the final of a televised tournament where he breaks his leg but still wins or b) be confronted by his bullies, many years later, in a New York alleyway where they decide to teach him a lesson once and for all not realising he is now Jackie Chan and proceeds to beat them all up, before leaving with some smartarse oneliner like 'see you in assembly tomorrow suckers.'
Of course that doesn't happen. His main bully goes into petty crime before ending up pulling off a really big bank job and retiring to the Costa del Crime on the proceeds and becomes a TV personality on a reality show while the bullied goes to martial arts classes but finds he's useless at it. His job gives him a meagre income for a decade or so until he gets made redundant and, just when he hits rock bottom he turns on the TV and spots his bully smoking a cigar and lying on a lilo in a pool in Spain a la Ray Winstone.
Amazing what you can pick up sitting round a draughty school hall in Watford waiting for your kids to finish their grading.
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Karen Brady is one of the few women in football. So she is one of the few people who, when making a complete cock-up of running a football club, can turn round and blame blatant sexism in a newspaper column that she has been given because she is one of the few women in football.
This is a woman whose taste in entrepreneurial companion is David Sullivan, David Gold and Alan Sugar. If I was Avram Grant I'd have a suitcase packed just in case.
I used to work for Sullivan. I'll share some anecdotes about him when there's more time.
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Rules of journalism continued: Columns written by presenters of the popular children's programme Top Gear are not meant to be taken seriously so don't base economic/environmental or any other argument based on what they say.
And on that bombshell goodnight...Solly

Thursday 20 January 2011

Wizard idea

What a great wheeze. Some bloke on the tube who dresses as a wizard has taken the chip out of his Oystercard and put it in a magic wand. So he gets to the barrier, produces his wand and, shazam, the gates open. Brilliant and thank you James Crawford for pointing this out.
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I know it's fashionable to think young people are stupid and deep down I know they're not but I have caught two conversations this week involving young ladies who work in the public relations industry. In the first, the person in question had no idea who Nick Clegg is. In the second a different girl had just come off the phone to a regional newspaper who clearly felt there was no local interest. She turned round and asked 'is Kent near Buckinghamshire?'
I bet they've both got degrees in media studies.
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A dilemma for readers of The Guardian. They love intelligent US TV drama - there are regular blogs on Mad Men, The Wire, Lost and, er, Glee - but the first chance in this country to see the acclaimed Scorsese-directed gangster series Boardwalk Empire is going to be on the new Sky Atlantic channel. And no matter how much they love good television, they hate Rupert Murdoch even more.
Of course there are ways to watch such things via the internet, but it has to be on an Apple product for Guardianistas.
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A different dilemma for Daily Mail readers. Jonathan Ross's daughter is gay. Blimey, how much ammunition do they need? Ross AND homosexuality. If only her partner was Eastern European and they got refused admission to a Christian B&B in Cornwall and you'd have the full set.
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I rarely watch Film 'fill in your year of choice' but I happened upon it last night where it is hosted by Claudia Winkleman who obviously has some kind of sponsorship deal going on with that Orange Wednesday film promotion. If that wasn't bad enough, she had so much mascara on she could hardly open her eyes. I kid you not, she squinted throughout the whole thing. Which makes you wonder if actually manages to see much of the films she 'reviews'.
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Orcadians. I thought they were aliens in Star Trek with crinkly heads or, at the very least, a family of cetaceans. I honestly had no idea that it is the name given to people from Orkney. And I may never have found out if it wasn't for the Daily Record once again illustrating the rich lexicon that exists across this great nation of ours. And thanks to what looks like a fantastic new film coming out, we'll all be familiar with another great Daily Record favourite - Neds - before too long.
See you Jimmy....Solly

Tuesday 18 January 2011

Flaming Express

Every year in Spain they celebrate the Luminarias Festival where they ride a horse through fire and every year at least one paper uses the headline 'Blazing Saddles' alongside a spectacular photo of a horse and rider galloping through soaring flames.
Congratulations to the Daily Express for doing it this year and keeping up a fine sub-editing tradition.
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Don't want to seem too heavy but what constitutes a life changing experience? I did a two week trek along the Great Wall of China last year for charity. It was fantastic, it was memorable and it made me think about all sorts of things. But life changing? No. Yet, you could argue that the most life changing thing I ever did may have been to pass the 11 plus. It determined which school I went to and which one I didn't. That, in turn, determined who I become friends with - some of whom have yet to take out restraining orders on me and remain in contact. These friends and the general environment were major influences on my choice of career which led me to my first full time job where I met the woman who was to eventually become the second (and final) Mrs Solomons and...well, you get my drift.
It may be that I would have gone on to follow the same profession from another school and made even better friends - no, I'm joking guys, not possible!
The point is, life changing experiences are not what we may think. And I believe the biggest life changers are often events that you would rather not happen. My friends lost their child a few months after she was born very prematurely. They decided to use the experience to set up a charity to raise money in order to stop others going through the same awful situation (the money goes towards research and equipment and the training of medical specialists).
Their view is that they wanted something good to come out of it and ten years later the charity is still going strong. I did the walk to raise money for them. They're the ones who have coped with a life changing experience, not me.
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Mate of mine went into a pub at lunchtime today - The Bunch of Grapes by London Bridge as it goes - and asked for a glass of Merlot. Once poured, he was charged £7.50, for a GLASS!
There were cheaper wines on the menu but he did ask for Merlot. But what really grates is that after he had drunk it, we found a wine menu and there was an alternative, cheaper Merlot on offer too.
It's enough to make you think that the principle of good service has disappeared from our pubs so hats off to two other pubs nearby - The Boot and Flogger and The Olde King's Head where the wine was just as good and much cheaper but, more importantly, the bar staff made sure we knew the options before we ordered.
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Good point made by my friend, the PR guru Mark Borkowski, who pointed out that Barclays have spent a fortune sponsoring commuter bicycles across the whole of London yet they are universally known as Boris Bikes, and probably always will be. And the mayor didn't have to spend a penny to get that publicity. That's the difference between advertising and PR I guess.
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So, two bigoted tosspots have been made to pay compensation to a gay couple they would not allow to share a room in their bed and breakfast. And then had the affrontery to hide their prejudices behind the catch-all excuse that it was their 'religious beliefs.' I know quite a few devout Christians. While I scorn their belief in a God that clearly doesn't exist, I also happen to know they are among the most fair minded people I have ever met so that excuse doesn't wash with me.
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Having some work done at home, I cleared out a room for the builder but overlooked a couple of items on a shelf. Builder must have found them because he left them on my bedside table. One item just happened to be a deck of cards given to me by a very gay friend of mine several years ago as a joke (I think!) Each card has a picture of a naked man on the back (and so did the box). The builder hasn't made eye contact with me since.
See ya later, big boy...Solly

Sunday 16 January 2011

I'll risk it for a Swisskit

I once mentioned the fact that I still put chopsticks up my nose in Chinese restaurants and pretend to be a walrus and shout 'woo hoo' when the TV announcer says 'the following may contain scenes of sex, violence and bad language.'
I was reassured to receive messages from friends - albeit of a similar vintage - to say that they do exactly the same.
So here's a couple more. How many of you still can't say 'I'll risk it' without adding 'for a Swisskit?' Anyone under 30 may struggle with this but some things stay with you for life.
It's like all those growing up saying lovely jubbly which, thanks to Dave, keeps adding new generations.
The other, which is childish and immature I know, is to break wind and then pretend the noise is from a fly in the room.
I know there are more examples out there, I'd love to hear them.
It is so we can all continue to ignore anyone who tells us to 'grow up.'
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There's a very dishy woman who plays the hero's legover in the TV detective series Zen. Apparently she came third in a Miss Italy contest which begs the question....what on earth did the top two look like?
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My daughter, 14, and I saw an extraordinary film last night. It was long - about two and a half hours - was in black and white, made in the 1950s and called Ikiru, which is Japanese for living. Oh yeah, it was in Japanese.
It was about a very boring civil servant who finds out he has six months to live and ends up building a children's playground because he wants to do something for someone before he dies.
Doesn't sound like a barrel of laughs but it was brilliant. And the central theme, of a man with a deadend job - literally in this case - who only comes alive when he discovers he's dying, will resonate with a lot of people.
But more than that my daughter loved it. Really, really loved it. And so, perhaps most importantly of all, I think I have found something to do with her than no one else in the family wants to do. It's called bonding and it's wonderful.
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I haven't seen the film but I reckon Colin Firth is probably a racing certainty for a best actor Oscar. Why? Because he's playing a real person. The Oscars love people doing impressions as much as they like people who act. Marion Cotillard as Edith Piaf and Helen Mirren as The Queen. Sean Penn as Harvey Milk and actors playing Truman Capote, Ray Charles and even Idi Amin have all won in recent years.
That's not to put these brilliant actors down but it does seem easier to win an award if the person you're playing is based on a real person.
And while we're at it, why have a best actor and best actress. Surely they should mix them all together and have a best actor that could be male or female?
I'd like to thank all those who made this possible...xx Solly

Thursday 13 January 2011

Kevin

This is bizarre. Next Friday I was supposed to be going to the cinema to see Ikira, a film about a man dying of cancer. Instead I'm going to a pub in St Alban's to see Kevin, a man dying of cancer.
 I met Kevin on a charity trek on the Great Wall of China. Climbing the Wall was on Kevin's bucket list so his friends got together and paid for him to go, and in particular raised the money for the massive insurance cost. In the end they covered their costs and raised thousands more for charity.
 You see, Kevin was diagnosed with terminal cancer some time ago and has already gone two years past his sell-by date, as he put it. I don't know how old he is but he's probably around 50 and has young kids. Imagine what that must feel like. Better still, don't.
 Because you would end up feeling sorry for him and the one thing Kevin is not, is sorry for himself.
 In China he impressed us all with his demeanour, good humour and, incredibly, his fitness. Although the cancer meant he had half the lung capacity he used to have, he was still able to get up and down the strenuous sections of the wall better than most of us, a remnant of his days as a regular marathon runner.
 He made the rest of us ashamed every time we complained about the odd blister or primitive toilet facilities or repetitive food.
 The group of strangers who became friends during 11 days on one of the wonders of the world included firemen and nurses and people who have raised thousands and thousands for charity. And yet to all of us, Kevin is probably the biggest hero most of us will ever meet.
 So next Friday a few of us from the walk are going to meet in St Albans where, if we're lucky, Kevin may just about get through a couple of hours in the pub before he has to call it a night.
 And while it may seem to be a morbid thing to do, many of us know we're going so we can say goodbye to Kevin for the last time. I guess it's not that often you get the chance to say your goodbyes to someone before they go - usually you do it over the coffin when it's too late.
 As I did with my mum, who also died of cancer, it is - from a purely selfish point of view, admittedly - more than a little liberating to be able to say goodbye properly.
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Right, enough of all this. Things that have cheered me up this week. My son may well get the part of Ben Gunn in the school production of Treasure Island. This cheers me up for a number of reasons. One, it's only his second term of school and this is a major boost to his ego after failing to make the football team. Second, although the school is in East London, it's a private school and one of the reasons he may get the part is that he 'does' a good Cockney accent - well, I can't have my kids being too posh can I?
So, hopefully he'll be making his acting debut soon. But I won't be pushing him into stage school. That's just too Essex, even for me and I suspect his future lies elsewhere.
Of course it was Robert Newton as Long John Silver that first did that accent all pirates now have. Why are pirates called pirates? Because they arrrrrrre.
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Friends have been asking me, as a Spurs fan, if I'm against the club moving from Tottenham to the Olympic Stadium at Stratford. In truth, most of the guys at the Lane seated around me are against it. They cite the tradition of being in N17, the fact Stratford is in East, not North London, that the Olympic Stadium will be flattened anyway for a new one so we don't get the site as it looks now, and that it's a bit close to West Ham.
Personally, I've always felt Tottenham as an area is a bit of a shithole. Every week as I walk through the estate to get to the ground I see another lamp post festooned with bouquets and grammatically incorrect messages of sympathy to the latest 'gangsta' stabbed to death there.
And seeing as no one in the ground on match day actually comes from Tottenham, I don't give a fig for the geography. Everyone there comes from Hertfordshire, Essex and beyond - and Bill in the next seat but one to me comes from Bromley.
So, with Stratford being half a dozen stops on the tube from where I live, it suits me.
As far as I'm concerned, sell off White Hart Lane, flatten the Olympic Stadium, build a new one in Stratford and let's go for it. Best of all, it will really piss off West Ham supporters. It's a win win situation.
Thanks for reading and by the way, you can vote for this blog by clicking the button on the right. Stroll on....Solly

Monday 10 January 2011

Sudan Lee Last Summer

Well done Southern Sudan/New Sudan and good luck for the future.
But now the world's newest country needs a new name and what an opportunity to avoid the same, lame old options.
SoSu would be quite modern, or NileRePublic which is suitably colonial in that it has capitals in strange places.
Of course, they could bring in image consultants, pay them millions of pounds and come up with something Latin-sounding like Centricum or Publicis (what do you mean it's been done?) with a snazzy logo that looks ever so similar to the one for Arriva or Accenture or half a dozen others. There's only nine knitting patterns after all. And if it's good enough for British Gas then why not?
They could go down the union route - you know, like Unite or Accord and call themselves Advance or Freedom. Or something snazzy and descriptive like Desertworld or Land of Sand.
Perhaps they should get a sponsor, like football grounds and be The Democratic Republic of the Nile sponsored by Axa or Eon.Africa.
Alternatively there is the ethnic-but-not-too-different approach in the way Calcutta is now Kolkata and call itself Suddan Soodjan. Or find some short native word like Juma that actually translates to something like Land Where A Million Stars Shine Upon Your Righteousness.
And then there is the PR/Marketing/Retail/Dotcom formula to think up two completely random words and put them together like Piano Bullfrog or Reticular Birdcage or whatever.
Personally, I think they should recognise the country's most famous advocate and go for The People's Republic of Clooney. It has a certain ring to it.
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If Howard Webb is the best referee in the world then I'm a Dutchman, or my dick's a bloater, as my old editor used to say.
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Talking of which. According to a test in the Daily Mail there are 12 ways for a woman to spot if her man is a cheat. Several of them - he is sex obsessed, someone in his family has had an affair, he doesn't like most of her friends or family - apply to pretty much every man in Britain.
Others - you lived together before getting wed, he has been married before - apply to most of us over the age of 40.
And some - he had a religious or private education, he spends all his time on social networking - apply to a fair smattering of us ex-Ilford Jewish Primary, Facebook-addicted would-be love rats too.
For me, most of the rest also apply - she earns more than me, we live in the country (ish) and if I didn't admit her IQ was higher than mine then I'd be in more trouble than if I was having an affair.
So that's 10 out of the 12 that apply to me. Thank goodness I don't have a twin or work long hours otherwise I'd have the full set. Even though I've never had an affair in 20 years of being married (to two women mind you), reading this has already made me feel guilty and shifty. They might as well have said other ways to tell include getting your eyes lasered when you're 47 and being a slightly overweight (but devilishly handsome) Spurs supporter obsessed by bridges and Bowie.
Thankfully my wife doesn't read the Daily Mail. Mind you she reads this blog. Oh, shit.
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I have a 'follower' from somewhere mysterious (possibly Denmark, possibly Slovenia). Thank you and welcome but just one thing...why? Mind you, a few more would be nice so that I know there is someone out there!
Vi ses...Solly

Friday 7 January 2011

That's the way Alastair Cookie crumbles....

I wish Piers Morgan all the luck in his new role as the world's greatest interviewer (according to P.Morgan). I like Piers, really I do, though he does strike me as the kind of person who would write his own Wikipedia entry.
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Things that require little comment, number 473: The name of the mistress who is allegedly blackmailing a tycoon, claiming he fathered a child with her, is called Fuk Wu.
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Every now and again sport confirms its ability to be reassuringly wonderful and it wasn't just England winning the Ashes, it was both the manner in which they did it and the manner in which they celebrated the victory and Australia accepted defeat (step forward and take a bow Shane Watson).
It's not just cricket. By which I don't mean 'it's not cricket old boy' but that cricket is not alone in this. Golf and tennis often throw up admirable losers as well as gallant victors. Remember Nick Faldo consoling Greg Norman for instance or the way so many female tennis players seem to be so tactile with each other, even when no one is watching them.
But the sight of the England players celebrating with the Barmy Army was magnificent and the way the Aussies invited them into their dressing room for a drink was truly noble.
My favourite scene was seeing the England players sitting in the middle of the pitch, several hours later and still in whites, and passing round what looked suspiciously like some kind of cigarette. But surely they can afford a whole packet between them rather than have to all share the same one.
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According to the Express we now have a 'plague' of swine flu. Maybe someone should remind them of this in a few months time when we'll have a new Express plague (immigrants, interest rate rises, heatwaves, housing market collapses, Princess Di evidence, Maddie McCann revelations and so on).
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The Sun is offering a £50,000 reward for anyone who might have information on the murder of Jo Yeates. Thank goodness for that. Now all those people who know whodunnit can tell the police instead of sitting on the information!
Like any newspaper reward, you have to wonder how much it actually helps find the murderer and how much it will help shift sales of the paper.
And also, if it turns out not to have been the much pilloried landlord who had the affrontery to look a bit odd, will there be an apology from some of our leading newspapers for doing all but painting little horns on his head and giving him a photoshopped pointy tail when he was interviewed by the police?
It's easy to be nostalgic but there was a time when, if someone was 'helping police with their inquiries', the spirit of the law - if not the letter - made us all think carefully about what we would write about them.
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According to today's Daily Mail, Facebook may be behind the murder. The murderer may well have been a F/B friend of the victim apparently. Strangely it also carried a story about a 1974 murder which may be linked. Does this mean a murderer from the mid-70s was also a Facebook friend of a young architect 36 years later?
I have a number of Facebook friends, some of whom I freely admit I don't know that much about because I haven't seen them for many years (it's why people of my generation are on it I think). So if anything happens to me, be warned - the Daily Mail may well think it's you what done it!
The papers will follow you round and dig up old photos of you in drag for a stag weekend or that picture of you in the 1980s with a haircut of the time that we now recall with much humour. They will discover a former colleague of yours who will say you always did have an unhealthy interest in school playgrounds or fashioned a hedge in your front garden into the shape of an erect penis.
They will find out that you once appeared in an AmDram production because everyone knows that being slightly theatrical is just a thin veneer to cover up psychopathic tendencies.
And for those of you who are fanatical cyclists, just make sure you burn any photos of you in the homo-erotic outfits popular with the sport (remember that spy found in the holdall?)
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FA Cup starts tomorrow (for us glory hunting supporters of 'big clubs') and, of course, the year ends with one. Now all we need is a Chas and Dave reunion and we're all set.
Yours with the trembley knees....Solly

Thursday 6 January 2011

Still Looking For A New England

There's a two hour Kurosawa film on at the BFI next week which I quite fancy seeing in which a mild mannered civil servant learns he has incurable cancer. I've asked a few mates if they want to come with but strangely they all said no. Anyone? No? Oh.
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When I were but a lad I would often pitch up to see the young Billy Bragg performing, usually just him and a guitar in somewhere obscure like a bar in Piccadilly called something like The Captain's Table or Cabin (they gave out playing cards instead of tickets I do remember). And I saw him in his hometown performing at a civic hall in Barking.
I've met him twice. The first time was a blag on my part. He was a support act for U2 at a massive concert called The Longest Day at Milton Keynes Bowl in 1985. I had to look it up to discover that Burning Spear, The Ramones and The Faith Brothers were also on the bill.
I was at the Ilford Recorder and I persuaded the concert's PR to let me have two backstage passes on the basis that Billy Bragg was from the paper's patch. I took fellow reporter Brent Baker (it must have been all that alliteration) who went on to invent the idea of I'm A Celebrity for ITV many years later.
We got our passes and had a great day. When Bragg came off stage the PR insisted on introducing us to him. 'But I'm not from Ilford' he said, to which I revealed my deception. So he insisted I ask him questions which ended up being 'did you go to Ilford a lot' and 'give me a funny anecdote about you and Ilford.' He was brilliant, played ball and it made a decent piece in the Recorder despite the fact we didn't cover Barking.
I was reminded of this by a story in the papers today. Billy now lives in a quite big house in Dorset and his neighbours have been getting spiteful anti-Bragg hate mail from some vindictive sod who may or may not be in the BNP. Personally I've nothing against Socialists making money out of their talents. Nothing's too good for the workers after all. But what I noticed was the particularly high number of BNP Trolls who have left comments on the Daily Mail website under the story. Just look at the green arrows of approval for all those who have expressed a sympathetic voice for the far right. It's quite a concerted campaign and would be a lot more effective if racists could spell. Here's a link:
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1344406/Musician-Billy-Bragg-victim-malicious-hate-mail-attack-Dorset-village.html
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It's not just the Mail though which attracts looneys. The Guardian carried a story about the new Sky channel devoted to HBO and other US series like Mad Men, Curb Your Enthusiasm and Boardwalk Empire which is supposed to be the next big thing. All natural viewing for your average Guardinista...except when they are brought to you courtesy of Rupert Murdoch who, in the eyes of some achingly stereotypical Guardian readers, is a cross between the Great Satan and the Yorkshire Ripper.
The number who said they would miss out on programmes they would clearly enjoy - as well as top sport - simply because it was Murdoch owned Sky was remarkable. But so too were the number who said they would buy US series on box sets instead, not realising Murdoch gets royalties from the sales of many of these too.
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And while we're on the subject of the press, just a note to say how much I support my mates at Solent, the Southampton based press agency who got an exclusive interview with the father of murder victim Jo Yeates, sold it to the Southern Evening Echo and saw it lifted word for word by PA and syndicated far and wide. PA is the country's national news agency which is supposed to set the standard for others. Well, it used to. Now it's just a cut and paste factory and while the old guard toil away to produce real stories, the penny pinching wankers who run it can't be bothered to properly staff the biggest breaking stories in the country. I hope Solent sue their arses off quite frankly.
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How much do the BBC pay to host a tournament which claims to be a world championship but is, in fact, a contest for darts players who are not good enough to play for the proper world title shown on Sky?
Must fly...Solly

Wednesday 5 January 2011

From dodgy Barnet to honest Tottenham

The mighty Tottenham Hotspur have appointed a 'PR Guru' to help win the hearts and minds of anyone who doubts that the North London giants should move to the Olympic Stadium. But what is a PR Guru?
Well, there's several ways to spot one. They have a massive sense of self importance but can poke fun at themselves, they've been around for a few years, can tell wonderful anecdotes with frequent name dropping but, most importantly of all, they have to have a ridiculous barnet.
 Spurs have appointed Mike Lee, a sports specialist with a thatched top worthy of Shakespeare's original home in Stratford with wispy bits falling over his brow. He's very definitely a PR Guru. Talking of Thatch, have you ever seen the strangely coiffured Lord Bell, formerly Mrs T's PR man who has tightly wrinkled silver curls at the back of his regal head.
Then there's Mark Borkowski, a wonderful man and close personal friend (that's what we say in PR circles) and there's a link to his fab blog alongside this one. He is famously referred to as a floppy haired PR maestro and has a wonderfully vainglorious crop.
But best of all, did you ever wonder what happened to his white cat after Blofeld was killed by James Bond? Simples. It went and found a new home atop of Max Clifford, possibly the PR Guru's PR Guru. From one pussy loving evil genius to...er, a litigious PR masterminded who does a lot of good work for charity but doesn't like to talk about it.
So to Andrew Bloch, Nick Hewer, Messers Band and Brown, Trevor Morris (now he's got a sensible haircut) and all the others. If you want to make the leap from Aston Martin owning public relations bigwig to a true PR Guru, then don't concentrate on the fancy offices and famous clients, get yourself a dodgy barnet.
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Working in South London is proving to have its benefits. So far we've checked out gastropub The Garrison (chicken sandwich and chips for a tenner) and, by contrast, The Horseshoe Inn, nestling betwixt Guinness Trust buildings, low rise council blocks, the out-of-place Bermondsey Village Hall and the magnificent Shard. For those with a fondness for this sort of thing, it sells both Pride and Jennings, satisfying both Londoners and Northerners at the same time.
Tomorrow we may well try The Woolpack and The Leather Exchange (a Fullers pub) before going a bit upmarket and trendy for The Tunnel Bar and The Hide which looks like it has something to do with the Wine and Spirits Association.
Kudos to the enterprising curry house owner in Tooley Street who has renamed his establishment The Shard rather than something corny like King Curry or the Taj Mahal.
But whether or not I'll ever get used to the sight of co-workers wearing black leather hotpants to the office is another thing. I've had a word with him and he says he won't do it again.
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Apparently a vulture tagged by the University of Tel Aviv flew into Saudi Arabia where it has been arrested on suspicion of being a Mossad spy. You expect me to talk Goldfinger? No, I expect you to fly.
The story is so funny that I hope it runs and runs. Perhaps they will adminster Saudi-style justice and chop its wings off. Or stone it to death and leave it out for good old Saudi vultures to pick out the bones.
Last month the Egyptians said the shark that was eating people may have been acting under instructions from the Israeli government. A gefilter fish or smoked salmon I could understand but a shark?
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I'd like to thank Mike of iTunes, not just for helping me out over having some thieving git nick credit from my account but for ending his messages with 'thank you for being the best part of iTunes.'
He's in America of course. It just wouldn't work if he wasn't.
So thank you, all of you out there, particularly whoever it is in Slovenia who is reading this blog, for being the best part of Solly Blog....Solly

Tuesday 4 January 2011

Bermonzey Boyz

My first day working in Sarf London has passed without incident though a failed train at Stratford and a person trespassing on the Northern Line did their best to try and prevent me getting across the Thames.
I noticed the sandwich shop on the corner of my new street has closed down. Something I said? Apparently not. A worker there got sacked for smoking cannabis so he went home and, presumably once the peaceful effects of the pot had worn off, went back and stabbed the owner to death.
It's enough to make one break out in stereotypes.
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Talking of transport, I noticed that the local BBC news - South East Matters or some such bollo - asked viewers to comment on the inflation busting fare rises planned for commuter trains and London Transport.
Guess what, everyone thought they were a bad idea and everyone was critical and not a single email, text or phone call had anything good to say.
That was five minutes of editorial well spent. Though compared to the dross that is local TV news and has been for 40 years or more, why should anyone be surprised.
Local papers are great and have a genuine purpose. Local TV news is crap and serves no use whatsoever. How can the news on a regional network be called local when it's not local to 95 per cent of those watching. It's about time these expensive wastes of space were abolished. Sorry for going all Littlejohn about this but I'm a passionate believer in local news and this is not worthy of the name.
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Have you ever seen the self-serving spin off of Mastermind where the contestants are all 'celebrities'? Interesting to see just how far they have dumbed down the questions to give the participants a chance of getting a few points on the board.
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The BBC's Stargazing continues and after sniggering about Uranus, I now notice the programme is coming (oo er) from Jodrell Bank (fnarr fnarr) and is presented by Brian Cox (titter, titter). It is fast approaching birdwatching for double entendres.
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Apparently there's some kind of mass debating going on this week over the state of sports journalism in this country which, you just know from the line-up of Tom Bower, Tessa Jowell et al, is going to be all about how shite the tabloids are, ignoring the fact that most of the 'news' in the broadsheet sports pages and on the telly is merely a follow up to what has been in the redtops the day before.
Of course you can point to some of the columnists in the heavies and I agree that on cricket and racing, for instance, they are often superior. But when it comes to football I'd rather have a Martin Samuel or a John Dillon or a Rob Shepherd or anyone who actually knows about football (and went to a certain school) than posh racing writer turned soccer 'expert' Henry Winter, long haired egotist Simon Barnes or Mihir Bose - who can somehow suck the life out of the most exiciting of sporting events in a couple of thousand words (when 400 would do.)
But if you want to pick one thing wrong with football journalism in particular, then it is any interview which is only allowed to take place if the piece ends with a little note that 'Jermaine Inkpad was taking part in the Adidas Bastards Challenge Event' or 'Wayne Shagnasty wears Nike 'Exloitakid' Boots with extra spring provided by the tears of Korean children'.
Cheers - Solly (Solly's Blog is brought to you in conjunction with the Central Line and The Newton Arms)

Monday 3 January 2011

Finbar Saunders

My most enjoyable moment of the BBC's spaceathon Stargazing was when Prof Brian Cox - or 'The Sun's boffin' as he is also known - dropped his guard and instead of calling it yura nus (or the ridiculous Ooranus), went back to the good old schoolboy pronunciation of Your Anus when talking about everyone's favourite planet, Uranus.
At that point my 12-year-old and I sniggered like, well, 12-year-olds, and my wife simply rolled her eyes.
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RIP Pete Postlethwaite who was, I believe, great in a number of film and TV roles. But just because Spielberg loved him and just because he did a few right on roles and just because he's dead does not mean that everything he did was brilliant. And no doubt the forthcoming Clash of the Titans will confirm that.
As does Brassed Off. In my opinion one of a wave of 'It's Grim Up North' flicks that confirmed Britain's reputation as making films which are beloved of the Guardian and considered pessimistic crap by the rest of us. It was the usual condescending rubbish that everyone up north is poor but funny, hard working and honest and gritty sexists whose stone cold hearts can be turned thanks to a barnstorming speech by a veteran working class, granite faced elder.
And Pete's accent in The Usual Suspects was pretty dodgy too.
It's The Michael Caine effect. We remember Zulu and The Italian Job, Alfie and Get Carter but thankfully we quickly forget The Swarm and The Jaws sequel and Blame It On Rio and dozens more.
Robert de Niro has now done THREE Meet the Parents films for crying out loud. This is the guy who did Goodfellas and Taxi Driver - the latter a film so good that I saw it five times in a late night double bill with Midnight Express at The Swiss Centre in Leicester Square, once on my own.
Few films are SO good that they are worth going to see, on your own, late at night, in Soho, without having to sit next to someone in a dirty mac.
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A New Year and a new office. Tomorrow I begin my first new daily commute for 17 years when I will have to remember to change tubes at Stratford and go south of the river to work - the first time in my life that I have travelled to the dark side of the Thames to earn a living.
Wish me luck. It will be strange fitting in to all those strange South London ways. The odd accent, the way everyone speaks from the side of the mouth and holds their cigarette between their thumb and forefinger, unlike us North London sophisticates who have adopted the continental style of holding it between first and second fingers. I am expecting pubs with meat raffles and the description of 'up and coming' applied to a street where the cafe sells capuccino.
I'm not sure what to pack but I'll play it by ear.
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The boiler's fixed, the dog recovered and is back home and a very nice American man called Mike has refunded me the £14.76 that a Chinese hacker spent on my iTunes account.
So perhaps it won't be such a bad year after all. Cheers everyone, I hope this year brings you what you want...Solly

Sunday 2 January 2011

Nutters

My wife did something called a brunch today for around 30 local friends which gives everyone a chance to talk about 4x4s, school fees and Grade 7 Flute exams while enjoying bacon sandwiches and Bucks Fizz.
It was very enjoyable and could become a regular feature on the Golden Triangle social circuit I fear.
I'm thinking of doing something similar for my old Ilford friends involving lager, Marlboro Lights and chewing gum where we can talk about football and laugh about incidents which make me look bad, such as the brief time during the early 1980s when, for reasons which had nothing at all to do with me, I was banned from The Papermaker's Arms in Ilford, The Hare in Harlow and the Camelot in Chigwell all around the same time.
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You can't help it. There's bin a mdda (as Taggart would say) and the TV news focuses on a suspect who has a) a distinctly dodgy haircut, b) an eccentric dress sense or c) talks slightly oddly, possibly a bit posh or affected. And everyone watching Sky or BBC News 24 immediately goes 'I bet he did it.'
The press, I am afraid, does not help. They dig up some odd fact - he was once in an Abba tribute band perhaps - or a Facebook picture where he dressed as as a nurse for a party (and come on, we've all done that...er, haven't we?) and that's it. He's as good as convicted.
Of course there are other signs and not just the usual stuff about playing video games or owning a pitbull called Rooney. Look out for anyone who has changed their name to that of a film star or singer with whom they have an obsession, gives their house a 'funny' name instead of just a number, supports Arsenal and waits for hours outside the stage door of an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical wearing a jacket with badges representing all of Lord Fishface's other theatrical hits - all these are sure signs of a potentially psychopathic nature, some would say.
But if you really want oddballs then look no further at the throngs of weirdos gathered behind the 'expert' on any edition of Antiques Roadshow. Round 'em up and throw away the key your honour.
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I got stopped by the police the other day. First time in ages it was. What happened was I was driving across London taking two office chairs from my old office to my new one when one of the anti-terrorist roadblock officers with nothing to do, put his arm out and got me to stop as a line of traffic gathered behind me.
He lectured me long and hard how it was an offence to transport goods not strapped down in a saloon car which could be a danger, how it could cost me three points and he could impound my car. Then he said 'happy new year' and let me on my way.
I discovered long ago that listening intently, nodding in agreement and saying thank you works a lot better than arguing or calling them a 'jobsworth' - though he did have that odd little jobsworth moustache, you know like Bob Ainsworth has and seems to be particularly popular with Brummies.
For the first time in almost a decade, I have no points of my licence going into the New Year and I intend to keep it that way as it has already cost me around £8k in an invalid insurance claim some time ago.
Anyway, when he said 'why do have two chairs in the back, I resisted the urge to say 'because the wife wants a car with a couple of extra seats in the back.'
Mind how you go....Solly

Saturday 1 January 2011

Obsessed By Death

The Sun's front page today was 'Obsessed By Death' about a murder suspect who has an unhealthy obsession with death. Apart from the argument over whether it should be 'obsessed with' rather than 'obsessed by', there's an interesting point.
The Sun covered this story over three pages. There was also a page on a hubby who died of swine flu and a full page on everyone who died in 2010. Roughly 17 per cent of the paper's news editorial was about death. And most other papers have the same. So who's obsessed?
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In a TV advert for California tourism, Kim Kardashian - so that's what she does for a living - says: "All your misconceptions are wrong."
But isn't that the definition of a misconception in the first place? Surely our misconceptions are right. That's why they're misconceptions.
I have this misconception that people are murdering the English language. But I'm obsessed with literary death I suppose.
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I'm not sure which was more fun. Watching a collection of Cougars dancing in the restaurant where I saw in the New Year and then trying it on with the DJ and various young waiters, or watching the girls trying to get into the nightclub across the road, being refused and then tottering off in the cold night air in possibly the shortest skirts I've ever seen. And then remembering I have a daughter that age.
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No resolutions. A year ago, on Christmas rather than New Year's Eve, I gave up smoking and apart from a few social indiscretions since, I've pretty much kept to it. I reckon this means I'm not a complete non-smoker yet but I'm almost an ex-smoker. If that makes sense.
I will endeavour to blog as often as possible as long as there is still someone out there reading it and I may even try a few new things though I've managed to go this far in my life without attempting to ski, folk dance or go to a rugby match and I see no reason to start now. However, I do fancy having a go at the piano accordian.
Have a great 2011 everyone...Solly