Friday, March 13, 2009

Red No Day

(this is NOT me)

Before I wax lyrical can I just say one thing: It has come to my notice that certain people have been casting aspersions on, and questioning my sanity. I find this quite hurtful and would like to state categorically that there is absolutely no truth in the rumour that I am sane.

Right, Friday 13th. Some people get really uptight about this although there seem to be no valid reasons as to why, apart from Friday and 13 both being unlucky. I have sympathy with all paraskevidekatriaphobians but the day actually heralds fear and dread in my heart for another reason - it's that time of the year again. That day when normally staid professional and rational people get coerced , blackmailed or shamed into turning themselves into total dicks and people pay money to them out of sheer embarrassment or a desire to end the ritual humiliation as soon as possible. Red Nose Day dawns once more.

I have absolutely no problem with the reasons or the rationale but I'm afraid that it's past its sell-by date as far as I'm concerned. Kids doing silly things at school - fine. Teachers dressing as Peter the frigging Pixie or whatever they do in a bid to try and prove that discipline is totally dead these day, I'm not so keen on. As far as I'm concerned, teachers (or "masters" in my day) should still be wearing suits and gowns, not jeans and I heart Edukayshun teeshirts.

I decided to get the shopping done this afternoon so toddled off to Sainsbury. "Sainsbury?" I hear you ask, "What's happened to the wondrous delights of Scummerfield, that halcyon Nirvana of which you normally wax so lyrical?" Well, apart from actually wanting to buy something rather than gazing at empty shelves and the occasional retarded shelf stacker gazing in puzzlement at his pallet of foie gras and puy lentils, I happened to notice that they were having an "event" today. Scummies are very good at dressing up. One mature lady called V*l enters into things wholeheartedly and dresses as a Christmas Elf from November right through to February whilst the Area Manager has (allegedly) been known to dress himself as a blonde in a small black cocktail number (mind you, not many people know that). Apparently, 2 of the staff are going to be waxed with the vast hairiness of their legs being removed in the name of charity. I idly wondered which of the ladies were involved but then read that it was actually a couple of the guys.

Finding a problem reconciling gaiety and fun with shopping at Scummies, I climbed into the car and zoomed off to Sainsbury. The first thing I saw was a big set of stocks and an exhortation to throw sponges for Red Nose Day! Too late, I realised that they were heavily involved in the whole thing. The foyer had people trying to sell tickets for a raffle to New York (fair enough) whilst this poor sod was to be seen sitting disconsolately in a corner wearing an old fashioned swimming costume and a strange pattern to his legs. Hurrying past, I filled my little trolley with the staples of life; microwave popcorn, strawberry laces, banoffee pie and Tassimo tea then remembered the list of boring stuff I'd been given and went round again. Staff were wearing teeshirts explaining how the company was supporting Red Nose day and I almost felt quite guilty when it occurred to me that there might be a marketing advantage to them. Wonder if that had occurred to them? Perish the thought.

Forcing my way through café staff all dressed in pyjamas.........see what I mean, what on earth is funny about spending the day wearing pyjamas? They do it all the time in hospitals but do you see people falling about laughing and giving money to pay for a skateboard park in the Gobi Desert? Where was I? Oh yes, forcing my way through café staff, I was just calming down and there was suddenly this almighty ringing behind me. I climbed ruefully out of the freezer chest where my jump had taken me and realised, to my horror, they had a fucking* Town Crier! Assuming that people might not realise that it was Red Nose Day (if they were deaf and blind that is) this tricorned plonker was screaming the fact at the top of his voice. He also solved the puzzle of the bloke in the swimsuit as it transpired that this was,in fact ,the manager and he was yet another waxee. Apparently he was being done at 1 hour intervals throughout the day - more fool him.

Tonight, of course, we have a collection of saddoes desperately trying to resurrect their failing careers by making total tits of themselves. Oh how the great British public must long for assorted newsreaders recreating the chariot race from Ben Hur or the cast of Eastenders playing hopscotch in a Gaza minefield. Can we handle the excitement of who will be sacked from The Apprentice when none of them actually want a job? No doubt there will be a few bits that will be amusing but I'm afraid I will live without those and we'll be watching other channels.

As I said at the beginning, I have no problem about the concept. I get a little disturbed however about the rationale behind this and other "events" like Live Aid etc. We are subjected to harrowing shots of those far less fortunate than ourselves and exhorted to ring and make a donation as we sit in our comfortable homes, drinking our drinks and eating our food. We ring and pledge and can thus feel good. We've done our bit and can get that warm feeling that we helped .......... then we forget all about it until next year. Something there doesn't seem to add up.

Oh, and just in case you think I have always been a miserable git, I seem to recall a certain branch of a building society who decided to turn the place into a desert island for the first Red Nose Day. All the young ladies were attired in bikini tops and grass skirts whilst the Manager was deputed to be their Man Friday! Recognise him at all?



Oh, and just in case you're wondering, the boxer shorts are adorned with parachuting crocodiles!

* Please don't think I meant that there was a Town Crier performing an act of fornication in Sainsbury. They have standards, dontcha know.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Phones and Bones

I was in the opticians the other day queueing patiently behind a bloke who was busy explaining to a poster that he was there for an eye test. I waited with my normal patient manner as he was eventually sorted out and, just as we were about to be served, the telephone rang whereupon the optician smiled sweetly and asked us to excuse him whilst he answered the call. WHY, in the name of all that's holy? Why should a telephone take precedence over a person? Have we reached the point in evolution when the insistent "answer me" of a phone's ring is more important than the person who has actually taken the trouble to get off their butt and actually come in? Is it the mystery of "who could it be?" That eternal hope that it might be someone interesting at the other end which inevitably ends in disappointment. As regular readers will know, I do seem to be eligible for the Grumpy Old Men's club but this is really one of my pet hates. Sadly, as Mrs B was just about to spend Swaziland's national debt on some new specs I felt it prudent to not make a fuss but contented myself with putting sticky thumbprints over the lenses of all the glasses on display.

It got me thinking about telephones and those halcyon days of my youth when my only involvement with them was the hopeful pressing of button B in the hope of getting some coins out of the local phone boxes. Since then, of course, we have had the mobile phone revolution and the effect it's had on lives. I noticed the other day that the phone box outside the flat had disappeared and my first thought was admiration at the ingenuity of the local scallies but apparently it was removed by BT some months before as it was no longer cost effective and there was already a public convenience around the corner.


I got a phone call the other day from BT. I knew it was goimg to be a bad one when he asked how I was? - another thing that really pees me off. Resisting the temptation to take him through all the ailments Mrs B and I have had in the last few months I answered that I was jolly well and expressed the wish that he also was similarly chipper. He went quiet for a while and then asked me if I had considered taking my call package back to BT and could I tell him with whom I had my account at the moment? As luck would have it, I had been sent a bill only that morning and the conversation then went something like this:

I currently have my account with Pipex but use my mobile predominantly.

Ah, I'm sure we can save you money so can you tell me how much your last bill was?

(Gotcha!) By all means, £1.38

pause............But we can offer you free evening and weekend calls

I have those with my mobile

Erm, well there are lots of other things we can offer you.

Really? Like what?

Well, we have a package that gives you free evening and weekend calls which costs nothing.

Yes, you mentioned that just now but you seem to be missing a vital point here.

What's that?

You charge for all the other calls don't you, so tell me how I can save money?

Thank you for your time, sir. Have a nice day.


I'm afraid I don't see BT as part of British life any more. My own personal feeling is that they started going downhill when they withdrew the Trimphone and its wonderfully evocative ringtone (of which, incidentally, I can do an excellent imitation). Right, rant over. What other exciting things have happened in the Bassett household recently? The sojourn down in Zummerzet last week was great and will be the subject of a separate blog and the only other excitement was an MRI scan last Monday.

I've had them before so no worries there and I duly set off for the hospital with my iPod primed, book in hand and a supply of emergency Caramac bars in case of a really long wait. RSCH X-Ray Dept has a nice, comfy waiting room and I arrived about 25 minutes early as you need to allow several hours to find a parking place within a radius of 5 miles. I was pleasantly surprised to find my name called withing 2 minutes and was instructed to go into a cubicle and put on one of those lovely gowns that haute couture specialists have spent ages designing to be as unflattering as possible.


Having spent several minutes trying to tie the stupid thing so that my bum wasn't hanging out I duly took a seat in a corridor as instructed. Now, call me paranoid but I'm sure they saw me coming and I was set up to provide entertainment for the passing throng. I sat there, feeling extremely silly, for 35 sodding minutes! Talk about feeling embarrassed as the sniggers echoed down the corridor. I was wondering why passers-by kept standing behind me and grinning when I suddenly realised what was happening. You know at Alton Towers, Thorpe Park and the like, they take your photo as you plummet, screaming, down some ride or other and then flog it to you for several quid? The hospital had obviously decidied to supplement it's income by selling photos posing with the begowned loony with the knobbly knees and the bored expression! I had just started signing autographs for a load of Japanese tourists when I was called in for the scan thus ending a truly lovely experience.

Oh, and incidentally, when you're slid into the scanner rather like the hotdog into a roll and told not to move otherwise the scan is ruined, getting cramp in one's back is not advisable. The radiographer, once it had finished, said she'd heard me humming along to the music on the headphones and my ego wouldn't let me admit to it actually being me whimpering in agony as I tried to keep still.