Someone once said, “Life's a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get” Whoever said it was a fool. A 24 carat jackass. A buffoon. Because as you get older and you’re part of the working class, I’ll tell you what you get. Cacked on, that’s what. Not content with cacking on you, they do it from a great height. They’re quite open about it. Your position in life is under them. You are there to be cacked on.
Perhaps it’s me? I’ve almost reached a half century and… God that sounds bad. A half century. That’s, whisper it, fifty years. FIFTY YEARS! Buggeration!! And that deserves a double exclamation mark. I’m older than my dad was when he told me off for listening to music “too loudly”. I’ve lived longer than Gordon Ramsay for goodness sake and look how gnarled he is. I’m older than the leader of the opposition/PM in waiting! And have you noticed that the policemen are looking younger these days?
No, I’m not having that. I still think The Who had it right when they sang “I hope I die before I get old.” Put the age thing out of your head Rob. I work with young people. They keep my outlook young. I’m in the loop regarding what’s hip and what’s not. Believe me, if you utter some “old man’s” garbage in front of teenagers, they’ll let you know soon enough.
I’m pretty well up with technology too. I can find my way round the innards of my PC in no time. I’ve streamed tunes over the net. I’m a geek! So why is it that some smart assed kid from a phone shop can upset me so? No, I take that back, she merely contributed towards the cacking from on high that I received today. She, if you like, positioned the defecator (or is it defacatee?)above my head.
Look, last week, rushing about as is far too normal in this hectic world, I stormed home and quickly changed from my work trousers. Got to get them in the wash at night time, it’s cheaper electric. It was only an hour later that I found that I’d also washed my mobile phone. The poor thing gurgled a bit but even after mouth to mouth it refused to jump back into life. It had died. I’d even given it a burial at sea with full honours. I’ll be honest here. I don’t even like mobile phones. Intrusive little shits they are. If someone wants you so badly, they’ll get hold of you. But, damn and blast it, they do come in handy. I tried doing without over Christmas. The silence was deafening. The trill “toodley doot de doo” of an incoming text message never sounded. I never thought I’d miss reading “mry xmas m8” or even asking me “hw r u m8, u ok?” I never have any idea what they mean but they are quite comforting to know that some illiterate person somewhere cares for your wellbeing.
So today, I’d decided. I was going to buy a new mobile phone. That’s a work of art in itself. But strolling through a well known Rochdale supermarket I spotted one for the right price. Basic as they come. Small enough not to get in the way and on the same network as before. What’s more, the price included £10 of credit! Result.
Hopes high, I marched into the Orange shop in town. I wanted them to transfer my existing credit onto the new sim card and apply the new credit. Can it be that difficult? Oh damn yes, of course it can! Believe it or not, the “Orange” sales representative couldn’t touch my “Orange” phone because I’d bought my “Orange” phone at another store. No matter that the “Orange” phone is locked to their network. No matter that my old sim card was supplied by “Orange” Aaaaaaaaargh!
No matter, I’m a geek, remember? I’ll do it myself. One hour later and the phone is up and running. All I need to do now is get the £10 voucher validated and added to my account. A quick look on the net and it all comes to an abrupt halt. I have to be registered to use the “Orange” site. No matter, I’ll phone them up! Twenty minutes and I’m still being told that it’s a busy time and they really value my call. Ok…. Take a deep breath. Try another sequence of key presses. Bingo! I’m through to some lady in Delhi. For a one off fee of 25p. Aaaaaargh!
Ok, let’s get through this. I explain to the lady that I have a voucher included as part of a package with my new mobile phone. I need to add the voucher to my account on this phone, with my old sim card. “Not a problem”, she assures me. “Just read the voucher number out and bob’s yer uncle” ok, I made the last bit up. You’ll not believe this. Eleven numbers in the code. “Orange” codes have to be twelve numbers. “You need to take it all back to the supermarket and tell them the code doesn’t work” Aaaaaargh!
So here I sit on New Years eve, a bottle of Stella by the side of me, a bottle of wine warming nicer for later. Goodbye 2009. Hello 2010.
A resolution? Yeah, the first person that texts me “Hppy nw yr m8!” is gonna get “pss off” right back at ‘em!
Thursday 31 December 2009
Monday 23 November 2009
Katie's Tits
Oh no! How will we manage? Katie Price, AKA Jordan, has quit the jungle! Bless her, she only went on the show to avoid publicity and seek “closure” on her relationship with six pack Olly from Oz, AKA Peter André. Those nasty viewers continually used their own money phoning premium phone lines so she could participate in the latest “Bushtucker trial.” Nasty viewers! Now look what you’ve done. She may even have to forfeit the reputed £350,000 fee for appearing on the show. Listeners to the Radio two’s Jeremy Kyle’s phone in programme couldn’t get on the air quick enough. She’d worked hard to get where she was battling adversity along the way. “I met her and she seemed genuinely interested in my life” shrieked one listener. The British media love it! Eager to satiate the public’s seemingly endless hunger for frippery, they’ve whipped out their collective genitals and worked themselves into a mass frenzy over this collagen enhanced, overpaid, talentless nonentity. It’s a money-shot for the masses.
To be honest, I couldn’t give a flying fig. There are more than enough things in this world to get upset and angry about. Now, at this point, I could quite easily reel off a list of causes close to my heart. Deforestation, climate change (when did that change from global warming?), world hunger, the rise of the far right and the demise of standing areas at football matches. But I’m sure you have just as many and we could be at this all night. On ITV’s “This Morning” programme, the saint like Phillip Schofield could barely contain his crocodile tears over our Katie’s departure. Luckily, he regained his composure so he could rationally discuss Jedward’s departure from the X Factor. For goodness sake! Has the world gone completely mad??
Look a bit deeper into the news. Buried deep within their world sections comes news of an explosion in Assam. At this point, perhaps it’s appropriate to thank goodness for online editions of newspapers. Seems like persons unknown, parked their bomb laden bicycles outside a police station and calmly left them to detonate, killing whoever in the blast. The bicycle bombs killed seven people and injured another twenty five. You can bet your life the folk caught up in this mayhem were ordinary folk struggling to get by and put a crust on their family’s table. However much we might feel repulsed by the acts, one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter. The people who carried out this vile act have obviously done it to promote their cause. Now the next bit I’ll never understand. The perpetrators are believed to be the ULFA, who are pursuing their intended goal to cede from India. They haven’t claimed responsibility. Nor has anyone else. So then, what was the point of it? Have innocent people lost their lives for absolutely no reason? As you know I’m off to Assam in February, The FCO website gives out advice to tourists about countries. It advises “Although foreigners have not been the deliberate targets of violence, attacks can be indiscriminate. Kidnapping, banditry and insurgency are rife throughout the region.” That’s good to know then. I like a challenge.
Top and bottom of it all is, if the worst comes to the worst whilst I’m over there. Don’t expect to hear about it from any national daily newspapers. Don’t for one second think that British editors will be in the remotest bit interested in what happens to a working class lad from Rochdale, foolish enough to try and explore some remote part of India. Not that I care less if I’m honest. Well, not for me anyway. I care about the poor people that have to endure random acts of violence on an almost daily basis without any recognition from the western media. After all, they’ve only just come through a couple of earthquakes; a few explosions should be easy to cope with. The Sun, The Mirror, The Daily Star, even the BBC will be more interested in the size of Jordan’s breasts, or who’s been voted off “Strictly Come Dancing”. Hey, I’ve just had an idea! Perhaps I should take a camcorder with me? Then, if I get taken hostage all I have to is make one of the kidnappers fall over face first into a plate of rice. I could smuggle the film out on the back of an elephant. Maybe it’d get on “You’ve been Framed” ?
To be honest, I couldn’t give a flying fig. There are more than enough things in this world to get upset and angry about. Now, at this point, I could quite easily reel off a list of causes close to my heart. Deforestation, climate change (when did that change from global warming?), world hunger, the rise of the far right and the demise of standing areas at football matches. But I’m sure you have just as many and we could be at this all night. On ITV’s “This Morning” programme, the saint like Phillip Schofield could barely contain his crocodile tears over our Katie’s departure. Luckily, he regained his composure so he could rationally discuss Jedward’s departure from the X Factor. For goodness sake! Has the world gone completely mad??
Look a bit deeper into the news. Buried deep within their world sections comes news of an explosion in Assam. At this point, perhaps it’s appropriate to thank goodness for online editions of newspapers. Seems like persons unknown, parked their bomb laden bicycles outside a police station and calmly left them to detonate, killing whoever in the blast. The bicycle bombs killed seven people and injured another twenty five. You can bet your life the folk caught up in this mayhem were ordinary folk struggling to get by and put a crust on their family’s table. However much we might feel repulsed by the acts, one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter. The people who carried out this vile act have obviously done it to promote their cause. Now the next bit I’ll never understand. The perpetrators are believed to be the ULFA, who are pursuing their intended goal to cede from India. They haven’t claimed responsibility. Nor has anyone else. So then, what was the point of it? Have innocent people lost their lives for absolutely no reason? As you know I’m off to Assam in February, The FCO website gives out advice to tourists about countries. It advises “Although foreigners have not been the deliberate targets of violence, attacks can be indiscriminate. Kidnapping, banditry and insurgency are rife throughout the region.” That’s good to know then. I like a challenge.
Top and bottom of it all is, if the worst comes to the worst whilst I’m over there. Don’t expect to hear about it from any national daily newspapers. Don’t for one second think that British editors will be in the remotest bit interested in what happens to a working class lad from Rochdale, foolish enough to try and explore some remote part of India. Not that I care less if I’m honest. Well, not for me anyway. I care about the poor people that have to endure random acts of violence on an almost daily basis without any recognition from the western media. After all, they’ve only just come through a couple of earthquakes; a few explosions should be easy to cope with. The Sun, The Mirror, The Daily Star, even the BBC will be more interested in the size of Jordan’s breasts, or who’s been voted off “Strictly Come Dancing”. Hey, I’ve just had an idea! Perhaps I should take a camcorder with me? Then, if I get taken hostage all I have to is make one of the kidnappers fall over face first into a plate of rice. I could smuggle the film out on the back of an elephant. Maybe it’d get on “You’ve been Framed” ?
Wednesday 18 November 2009
Just take the money!
Why is it that actually paying somebody some money is incredibly difficult? Oh, I’m not talking about utility companies that seemingly rape your bank account every month on a whim. Nor am I talking about the myriad of online retailers who take the cash from you instantly only to then, two days later, inform you that the item you purchased is no longer in stock but will be shipped as soon as new stock arrives. “Give me my money back until then!!!” No, what I’m talking about is sending money overseas, in my case to the wilds of India. Yes, I know what you’re thinking, “why not just go somewhere less remote?” well, that’s not the point is it? Look, I’ll tell you what happened.
As you know, I’m off to N.E. India come February. The bit that sticks out on its own, next to Bhutan, under China and lodged against Myanmar/Burma (I bet you’re dead impressed with my use of technical geographical terms?) Not the most popular tourist destination in the world granted but that suits me just fine. The less chance there is of me seeing another European/Western face, the better! Not that I’m totally against the western world, in fact it’s actually not bad most of the time. It’s just that when I decide I want to immerse myself in another country for a while, then that’s what I do. I really don’t want reminding of the world to which I must return after my all too brief sojourn.
Now, where was I? Oh yes, the money. Well, being the remote area it is, my contact in Majuli Island hasn’t even got an online payment facility. About three months back I forwarded him my first instalment of USD. Being the nervous type and wanting to keep tabs on the money as much as possible, I approached my bank to help me send the cash (see; Dogs, idiots and fat, ugly women). I know that there’s a banking crisis in this country and most of the banks have been haemorrhaging money but there’s no need to get it all back from me in one transaction. They charged me twenty quid to send the cash and then they charged him another twenty to actually receive it into his bank account. Why the teller never wore a mask and striped jumper I’ll never know. Now it’s time to send some more money and this time the thieving swines can bugger off! I’ll give that Western Union a go. I’ve seen them all over town, claiming to send cash to the Asian sub-continent. I guess a lot of Asian families must use this service. I’ll have a dabble!
Two and a half hours it took me. TWO AND A HALF HOURS!! My contact has requested the payment in USD as before, the Indian rupee being slightly less desirable than goat droppings. Problem is, Western Union will only transfer in GBP and payout in local currency, in this case goat drop…sorry, Indian rupees. I’m not the greatest at maths, in fact I’ll never understand how I got that position as professor emeritus at Oxford specialising in quantum physics but that’s for others to ponder. So to be told I had to convert GBP to USD then to INR frightened the bejaysus out of me. And from where does one get the exchange rate from? Well, I’ll tell you where not to get it from. Don’t believe that little ticker thing on the BBC’s website. It gives you the current rates for USD to GBP but that’s for large transactions. Anything like the amount I’m transferring and you get tourist rates only which clock in at a staggering nine cents lower! Back to the bank to find out what rate they are quoting. Now back to Western Union. Now back to the bank for GBP to INR. Now back to Western Union. It’s like financial tennis but without the schh, you know who. Lo and behold, what a surprise! There’s a disparity in what they’re both quoting. Aaaaarrggh!!! Four cups of tea, one packet of crisps and six bitten fingernails later and the money is despatched to Majuli Island, ready to be picked up within two hours. It’s cost me best part of twenty quid again but it’s done and dusted.Three days later Western Union text me to say the recipient has picked the money up. It’s worked!
My contact, now armed with a copy of my visa, recent photographs and passport photocopy has obtained my restricted area passes. My plane tickets are booked. My internal return flights from Kolkata to Guwahati are sorted. I’m good to go! Either that or my contact in India is now going by the name of Rob, has a bank account overflowing with cash and is equiped with a not very convincing, photocopied British passport. Time will tell I reckon. If the worst comes to the worst and I’m left on skid row, I wonder if he could send me a couple of quid? I can recommend Western union!
As you know, I’m off to N.E. India come February. The bit that sticks out on its own, next to Bhutan, under China and lodged against Myanmar/Burma (I bet you’re dead impressed with my use of technical geographical terms?) Not the most popular tourist destination in the world granted but that suits me just fine. The less chance there is of me seeing another European/Western face, the better! Not that I’m totally against the western world, in fact it’s actually not bad most of the time. It’s just that when I decide I want to immerse myself in another country for a while, then that’s what I do. I really don’t want reminding of the world to which I must return after my all too brief sojourn.
Now, where was I? Oh yes, the money. Well, being the remote area it is, my contact in Majuli Island hasn’t even got an online payment facility. About three months back I forwarded him my first instalment of USD. Being the nervous type and wanting to keep tabs on the money as much as possible, I approached my bank to help me send the cash (see; Dogs, idiots and fat, ugly women). I know that there’s a banking crisis in this country and most of the banks have been haemorrhaging money but there’s no need to get it all back from me in one transaction. They charged me twenty quid to send the cash and then they charged him another twenty to actually receive it into his bank account. Why the teller never wore a mask and striped jumper I’ll never know. Now it’s time to send some more money and this time the thieving swines can bugger off! I’ll give that Western Union a go. I’ve seen them all over town, claiming to send cash to the Asian sub-continent. I guess a lot of Asian families must use this service. I’ll have a dabble!
Two and a half hours it took me. TWO AND A HALF HOURS!! My contact has requested the payment in USD as before, the Indian rupee being slightly less desirable than goat droppings. Problem is, Western Union will only transfer in GBP and payout in local currency, in this case goat drop…sorry, Indian rupees. I’m not the greatest at maths, in fact I’ll never understand how I got that position as professor emeritus at Oxford specialising in quantum physics but that’s for others to ponder. So to be told I had to convert GBP to USD then to INR frightened the bejaysus out of me. And from where does one get the exchange rate from? Well, I’ll tell you where not to get it from. Don’t believe that little ticker thing on the BBC’s website. It gives you the current rates for USD to GBP but that’s for large transactions. Anything like the amount I’m transferring and you get tourist rates only which clock in at a staggering nine cents lower! Back to the bank to find out what rate they are quoting. Now back to Western Union. Now back to the bank for GBP to INR. Now back to Western Union. It’s like financial tennis but without the schh, you know who. Lo and behold, what a surprise! There’s a disparity in what they’re both quoting. Aaaaarrggh!!! Four cups of tea, one packet of crisps and six bitten fingernails later and the money is despatched to Majuli Island, ready to be picked up within two hours. It’s cost me best part of twenty quid again but it’s done and dusted.Three days later Western Union text me to say the recipient has picked the money up. It’s worked!
My contact, now armed with a copy of my visa, recent photographs and passport photocopy has obtained my restricted area passes. My plane tickets are booked. My internal return flights from Kolkata to Guwahati are sorted. I’m good to go! Either that or my contact in India is now going by the name of Rob, has a bank account overflowing with cash and is equiped with a not very convincing, photocopied British passport. Time will tell I reckon. If the worst comes to the worst and I’m left on skid row, I wonder if he could send me a couple of quid? I can recommend Western union!
Sunday 18 October 2009
struggling
I'll admit it, I'm struggling. I want to go to NE India and write about the experience. That bit's easy. What's a bit more, no what's a lot more difficult, is getting someone who is willing to publish my scribbles.
I recently completed a freelance journalism course. Damned good course it was too. They even showed me how to pitch ideas at prospective publishers. So, I think I'm doing things right. But want to know what irritates me more than anything? What really gets on my wick? No bugger replies. I send in a quite professional pitch, all complying with their submissions guidelines and wait. It's a good job I don't hold my breath, I'd be dead three times over now. What would it cost them to say "thanks but no thanks"? I'll tell you what, nowt!
Ho hum
I recently completed a freelance journalism course. Damned good course it was too. They even showed me how to pitch ideas at prospective publishers. So, I think I'm doing things right. But want to know what irritates me more than anything? What really gets on my wick? No bugger replies. I send in a quite professional pitch, all complying with their submissions guidelines and wait. It's a good job I don't hold my breath, I'd be dead three times over now. What would it cost them to say "thanks but no thanks"? I'll tell you what, nowt!
Ho hum
Tuesday 22 September 2009
Earthquake
In 2004, just two months before I was due to visit Bangladesh, the tsunami struck causing devastation. And now, more devastation. An earthquake has hit the NE Himalayas. The epicentre of the quake, measured at 6.3 on the Richter scale, was just inside Bhutan’s border with India. The tremors caused panic in Guwahati, Assam. My first port of call in the Seven Sister States.
My contact and his family live in an Assamese village where there are no tall buildings, so they are safe. Thank goodness.
My contact and his family live in an Assamese village where there are no tall buildings, so they are safe. Thank goodness.
Thursday 17 September 2009
Owt for a couple of bob
Want to swap jobs for a week? Bet you my job’s worse than yours! Even if you’re unemployed and make do with gravel for breakfast, you wouldn’t swap with me. Even the chap that works at the sewage plant picking cotton buds out of last night’s vindaloo, looks down on me. You don’t have to swap with me for a whole week, just the last twelve hours. In fact, yes, last night would be a good one. Go on, what shall we say, a fiver? You’re on!
10.30pm and so to bed. Telly watched, hot milk drank and chocolate hobnobs consumed. Just drifting off into the land of Nod and… the damned phone rings. I should know better. I’ve been doing this job now for over seventeen years. It’s going to be the alarm monitoring company telling me that there’s been an activation at work. I could just ignore it. Pretend I was deep in the arms of Morpheus, dreaming of pies and beer. But damn, that ring tone is just so alluring! “Hello?”… “Hello, it’s the alarm company….” D’oh!
I’ve been doing the job so long, I know when I’ve got a way out of this without lying. “Is the alarm a confirmed or an unconfirmed signal?” I gingerly inquire. You see, if it’s unconfirmed it means that just one sensor has activated and neither I nor the police have to attend. It could just be a spider passing the lens on his way to a dinner of plump, tasty wasp. Huzzah! The activation is unconfirmed. I can close my eyes and go back to pies and beer. I’ll just have go to make room for my second gallon by visiting the bathroom. And with eyes still closed, halfway into dreamland, disaster! The barmaid rings the last orders bell. For the first time in my life, I actually wish it was the last orders bell. It’s actually the phone and, naturally enough, the alarm company once again. Another activation at work and this time the signal is confirmed. An intruder is in the premises, the police have been called and my presence is requested.
You know it, I know it and my bank manager knows it, I’m paid a pittance. But now it’s after midnight, I’ll get a guaranteed two hours of pittance at double time. Wuhooo, let’s splice the main brace and do a jig. On second thoughts, better make it bogof Irn Bru from Asda because once the chancellor has got his share, I’ll be left with about fifteen quid. Is it really worth getting out of bed and braving the night air for fifteen measly quid? What in the name of sweet baby jeebus can fifteen quid buy in Britain these days? Even the working girl, with no teeth and a gammy hand on Molseworth street is asking for more than that… so I’m told. But dash, damn, buggery and blast it all I’m saving for NE India. Fifteen quid will buy me a fair bit over there. With a bit of luck it’ll buy me enough rice beer to be off my head for a week. So I dress and drive out into the cold, autumn night air.
Arriving on a rough housing estate at midnight is always a chastening experience. The feral kids are still out and about. I’m not talking teenagers now, I’m talking eleven and twelve year olds. Still, most of them know me and once they’ve concluded their drug deals and waved to me, they’re off. The building’s alarm is deafening when I enter and why can’t I open the security door first time? Instead I fumble around pressing the wrong codes into the panel. Only to remember I’m using my house code instead of the work code. It’s going to be a long night, I can feel it already. Still, nothing looks damaged. No sign of any intruders. Perhaps it was two spiders off to dinner and it’s a false alarm after all? After a quick examination of the alarm panel I find out it’s one of our sublets whose sensor has been activated. I trek deep into the bowels of the building and my worst fears are confirmed. The internal doors have been kicked off and there is debris strewn all over the floor. They’ve been in, grabbed what computer equipment they could and legged it. To make it worse, only a few people could have know what was stored behind those doors. The culprits must be known to us. It feels like a kick in the danglers.
Ok, onwards and upwards. A quick call to the police to let them know I’m on site and within thirty minutes, a police officer calls to take a statement. Now only the alarm to sort out. Once an alarm has been activated, it needs to be reset. This can only be done via a machine that’s held by the alarm company. I can’t have one of them. I’m just not important enough. I bet Bill Gates has got one. Richard Branson probably has two. Rupert Murdoch would love one but they won’t let him have one. That’s why he looks like he’s sucking a lemon all the time. If he had just a small one he’d rule the world. You phone them up (the alarm company, not Billy or Dicky), tell them what numbers the alarm panel is displaying, they tap them into the machine. It beeps, whirrs and clicks and out comes a reset code. Only this time it didn’t. They’ve changed the system and not told anyone. Because the alarms have worked and actually detected burglars, the panel can only be reset by an engineer visiting the site. Gosh, I can picture the engineer now, in a gold lamé jumpsuit, huuuge sunglasses and a Harley Davidson motorcycle. Probably.
An hour and forty minutes later and I’m still sat there awaiting the arrival of *deep voice* The Engineer! My eyes are half closed and I’m beginning to slip back into that dream about beer and pies. Perhaps The Engineer has been stopped by an over officious policeman concerned that his gold flares may catch in his gears? Or maybe, just maybe, the lazy sod hasn’t got out of his bed yet? The clock ticks remorselessly on. It’s an eleven hour working day today and I have to be back here at seven as it is. It’s now two am and still no sign. Just as I begin to fear I may be here all night. I hear the unmistakable roar as his Harley pulls onto the car park, encased in a mystical light, surrounded by cherubs and seraphim sounding golden horns, his gold flares flapping in the breeze. Actually, I’m lying. He was in a van and wearing a blue polo shirt.
No matter, he’s here. Somewhat disappointingly he uses a mobile phone to obtain a reset code. And within fifteen minutes, he’s done. The alarms are set and I’m good to go. Only problem is, I’m now wide awake. Back home, settled into my bed and sleep is a distant memory. A voice in my head screams, “Go to sleep! Dream of pies, beer, mucky women!” Nope. My eyes are beginning to resemble Wile E. Coyote when he’s been up all night waiting in vain for the roadrunner. Just when it can’t get any worse, it does. I’m woken by the nauseating whine of Sarah Kennedy’s dulcet tones. I must have drifted off to sleep twenty minutes back and “Sick note” (it’s her BBC nickname apparently) is now harping on about “chesticles” and her “liberty bodice”. Time to go back to work. Aaaaaargh!
10.30pm and so to bed. Telly watched, hot milk drank and chocolate hobnobs consumed. Just drifting off into the land of Nod and… the damned phone rings. I should know better. I’ve been doing this job now for over seventeen years. It’s going to be the alarm monitoring company telling me that there’s been an activation at work. I could just ignore it. Pretend I was deep in the arms of Morpheus, dreaming of pies and beer. But damn, that ring tone is just so alluring! “Hello?”… “Hello, it’s the alarm company….” D’oh!
I’ve been doing the job so long, I know when I’ve got a way out of this without lying. “Is the alarm a confirmed or an unconfirmed signal?” I gingerly inquire. You see, if it’s unconfirmed it means that just one sensor has activated and neither I nor the police have to attend. It could just be a spider passing the lens on his way to a dinner of plump, tasty wasp. Huzzah! The activation is unconfirmed. I can close my eyes and go back to pies and beer. I’ll just have go to make room for my second gallon by visiting the bathroom. And with eyes still closed, halfway into dreamland, disaster! The barmaid rings the last orders bell. For the first time in my life, I actually wish it was the last orders bell. It’s actually the phone and, naturally enough, the alarm company once again. Another activation at work and this time the signal is confirmed. An intruder is in the premises, the police have been called and my presence is requested.
You know it, I know it and my bank manager knows it, I’m paid a pittance. But now it’s after midnight, I’ll get a guaranteed two hours of pittance at double time. Wuhooo, let’s splice the main brace and do a jig. On second thoughts, better make it bogof Irn Bru from Asda because once the chancellor has got his share, I’ll be left with about fifteen quid. Is it really worth getting out of bed and braving the night air for fifteen measly quid? What in the name of sweet baby jeebus can fifteen quid buy in Britain these days? Even the working girl, with no teeth and a gammy hand on Molseworth street is asking for more than that… so I’m told. But dash, damn, buggery and blast it all I’m saving for NE India. Fifteen quid will buy me a fair bit over there. With a bit of luck it’ll buy me enough rice beer to be off my head for a week. So I dress and drive out into the cold, autumn night air.
Arriving on a rough housing estate at midnight is always a chastening experience. The feral kids are still out and about. I’m not talking teenagers now, I’m talking eleven and twelve year olds. Still, most of them know me and once they’ve concluded their drug deals and waved to me, they’re off. The building’s alarm is deafening when I enter and why can’t I open the security door first time? Instead I fumble around pressing the wrong codes into the panel. Only to remember I’m using my house code instead of the work code. It’s going to be a long night, I can feel it already. Still, nothing looks damaged. No sign of any intruders. Perhaps it was two spiders off to dinner and it’s a false alarm after all? After a quick examination of the alarm panel I find out it’s one of our sublets whose sensor has been activated. I trek deep into the bowels of the building and my worst fears are confirmed. The internal doors have been kicked off and there is debris strewn all over the floor. They’ve been in, grabbed what computer equipment they could and legged it. To make it worse, only a few people could have know what was stored behind those doors. The culprits must be known to us. It feels like a kick in the danglers.
Ok, onwards and upwards. A quick call to the police to let them know I’m on site and within thirty minutes, a police officer calls to take a statement. Now only the alarm to sort out. Once an alarm has been activated, it needs to be reset. This can only be done via a machine that’s held by the alarm company. I can’t have one of them. I’m just not important enough. I bet Bill Gates has got one. Richard Branson probably has two. Rupert Murdoch would love one but they won’t let him have one. That’s why he looks like he’s sucking a lemon all the time. If he had just a small one he’d rule the world. You phone them up (the alarm company, not Billy or Dicky), tell them what numbers the alarm panel is displaying, they tap them into the machine. It beeps, whirrs and clicks and out comes a reset code. Only this time it didn’t. They’ve changed the system and not told anyone. Because the alarms have worked and actually detected burglars, the panel can only be reset by an engineer visiting the site. Gosh, I can picture the engineer now, in a gold lamé jumpsuit, huuuge sunglasses and a Harley Davidson motorcycle. Probably.
An hour and forty minutes later and I’m still sat there awaiting the arrival of *deep voice* The Engineer! My eyes are half closed and I’m beginning to slip back into that dream about beer and pies. Perhaps The Engineer has been stopped by an over officious policeman concerned that his gold flares may catch in his gears? Or maybe, just maybe, the lazy sod hasn’t got out of his bed yet? The clock ticks remorselessly on. It’s an eleven hour working day today and I have to be back here at seven as it is. It’s now two am and still no sign. Just as I begin to fear I may be here all night. I hear the unmistakable roar as his Harley pulls onto the car park, encased in a mystical light, surrounded by cherubs and seraphim sounding golden horns, his gold flares flapping in the breeze. Actually, I’m lying. He was in a van and wearing a blue polo shirt.
No matter, he’s here. Somewhat disappointingly he uses a mobile phone to obtain a reset code. And within fifteen minutes, he’s done. The alarms are set and I’m good to go. Only problem is, I’m now wide awake. Back home, settled into my bed and sleep is a distant memory. A voice in my head screams, “Go to sleep! Dream of pies, beer, mucky women!” Nope. My eyes are beginning to resemble Wile E. Coyote when he’s been up all night waiting in vain for the roadrunner. Just when it can’t get any worse, it does. I’m woken by the nauseating whine of Sarah Kennedy’s dulcet tones. I must have drifted off to sleep twenty minutes back and “Sick note” (it’s her BBC nickname apparently) is now harping on about “chesticles” and her “liberty bodice”. Time to go back to work. Aaaaaargh!
Friday 4 September 2009
Dogs, idiots and fat, ugly women
I’ve got a sign above my head that can only be seen by dogs, idiots and fat, ugly women. I’ve no idea what the sign says but it must be there as they all make a beeline to me. The worrying thing now is, I think this sign can be seen even when I use the phone. Don’t get me wrong, I quite like being approached by dogs and the occasion fat, ugly woman. In fact, some would say the two groups are one and the same. However, the idiots of this world, I can do without.
All I want to do is transfer USD to an account, held in the name of my Indian tour operator, at the State Bank of India. I’ve contacted the chap in India, he’s contacted his bank and equipped with all the relevant details, we’re set to go. How difficult can it be? Being a tech savvy kind of guy, online banking is the way forward. I can keep out of the sweaty branch at lunchtime and conduct all my business online or over the phone. Tickety boo!
Whilst I can open a new deposit account “in a few easy clicks” there’s no way to transfer money from one bank to another. So, it looks like it’ll have to be phone banking. After fifteen minutes talking to some lame-brained Lloyds telephone monkey, my life force is being sapped from me at an alarming rate. Have I got the receiving bank’s identifying code? No. Have I got the BIC? Have I got Saturday’s lottery numbers?...Ok, I made the last one up but you get the idea. No matter, let’s go direct to source and speak to someone at the State bank of India.
I’m in luck. There’s a State Bank of India branch just down the road from me. I’ll give them a phone call. Surely, I can buy some travellers cheques (commission free) and then just deposit them into the tour operator’s account? If only life were that simple. Have I got an account at the State Bank? No. “Oh well you’ll have to open one and then transfer the money to the receiver’s account and then keep the account open with a minimum of $1,000US.” What about the traveller’s cheques idea? I might as well have asked her about football’s offside law. Gibberish, that’s what she came back at me with, gibberish!
Meanwhile, the local dogs must have smelt my presence. Woof! Woof woof! I could just about hear the bank employee now over the noise of the dogs. Woof woof! “look on the…”woof woof! “and you’ll be see..” woof! Woof woof!”… then contact your bank…” woof woof woof! “...but there’s a charge” I lost the will to live, hung up and contacted Lloyds again. Thirty minutes later and I was still dealing with a phone monkey reading from a pre-determined, un-wavering script when… my phone gave up the ghost and, like me, its batteries went flat.
Tail between my legs, I trekked to my local branch of Lloyds at lunchtime. Another soul destroying experience. The place was crammed to the rafters with folk. Luckily, the good folk at Lloyds have come up with a novel way of managing the queues. Shut a couple of teller’s windows and go for lunch. No noisy, inconsiderate customers for them. A Greggs steak slice and sit on a bench for thirty minutes, that should see the queue die down a bit! Bastards!
Forty minutes later, with my lunch missed, the transaction is complete. Apparently, it’ll take twelve to fifteen working days for the money to get India. There’s no guarantee the money will get there and they won’t notify me if it does. I’ve been charged £20 for this wonderful service and I’ll be paying again when the recipient receives the money. I can’t understand why we have a banking crisis with this standard of service. Ah well, as long as there’s a couple of pounds left over for them to award their executives a nice bonus. Bastards the lot of ‘em!
Now then, where’s that fat, ugly woman?
All I want to do is transfer USD to an account, held in the name of my Indian tour operator, at the State Bank of India. I’ve contacted the chap in India, he’s contacted his bank and equipped with all the relevant details, we’re set to go. How difficult can it be? Being a tech savvy kind of guy, online banking is the way forward. I can keep out of the sweaty branch at lunchtime and conduct all my business online or over the phone. Tickety boo!
Whilst I can open a new deposit account “in a few easy clicks” there’s no way to transfer money from one bank to another. So, it looks like it’ll have to be phone banking. After fifteen minutes talking to some lame-brained Lloyds telephone monkey, my life force is being sapped from me at an alarming rate. Have I got the receiving bank’s identifying code? No. Have I got the BIC? Have I got Saturday’s lottery numbers?...Ok, I made the last one up but you get the idea. No matter, let’s go direct to source and speak to someone at the State bank of India.
I’m in luck. There’s a State Bank of India branch just down the road from me. I’ll give them a phone call. Surely, I can buy some travellers cheques (commission free) and then just deposit them into the tour operator’s account? If only life were that simple. Have I got an account at the State Bank? No. “Oh well you’ll have to open one and then transfer the money to the receiver’s account and then keep the account open with a minimum of $1,000US.” What about the traveller’s cheques idea? I might as well have asked her about football’s offside law. Gibberish, that’s what she came back at me with, gibberish!
Meanwhile, the local dogs must have smelt my presence. Woof! Woof woof! I could just about hear the bank employee now over the noise of the dogs. Woof woof! “look on the…”woof woof! “and you’ll be see..” woof! Woof woof!”… then contact your bank…” woof woof woof! “...but there’s a charge” I lost the will to live, hung up and contacted Lloyds again. Thirty minutes later and I was still dealing with a phone monkey reading from a pre-determined, un-wavering script when… my phone gave up the ghost and, like me, its batteries went flat.
Tail between my legs, I trekked to my local branch of Lloyds at lunchtime. Another soul destroying experience. The place was crammed to the rafters with folk. Luckily, the good folk at Lloyds have come up with a novel way of managing the queues. Shut a couple of teller’s windows and go for lunch. No noisy, inconsiderate customers for them. A Greggs steak slice and sit on a bench for thirty minutes, that should see the queue die down a bit! Bastards!
Forty minutes later, with my lunch missed, the transaction is complete. Apparently, it’ll take twelve to fifteen working days for the money to get India. There’s no guarantee the money will get there and they won’t notify me if it does. I’ve been charged £20 for this wonderful service and I’ll be paying again when the recipient receives the money. I can’t understand why we have a banking crisis with this standard of service. Ah well, as long as there’s a couple of pounds left over for them to award their executives a nice bonus. Bastards the lot of ‘em!
Now then, where’s that fat, ugly woman?
Wednesday 2 September 2009
It all started with a toothbrush
How is it that when I go online and buy something as innocuous as a toothbrush, it ends up costing me a fortune? I'd better explain...
Amazon are the masters of online retailing. They seem to sell anything and everything. But beware! Buy just one item and be prepared to receive a deluge of daily emails. They quite politely ask if, because you purchased toothbrushes, you would be interested in the following related items… And there my spending starts. For alongside the associated toiletries was a book, The Lonely Planet Guide to North East India. “You may like this book”, the email read, “because in the past you purchased…” do you see which way this is heading?
And so it was, I bought the book, devoured every page and booked my plane ticket to Kolkata. Already my spending had gone from a toothbrush, to a book, to a plane ticket! Maybe I was a little hasty buying that plane ticket but I was now committed to travelling and the planning had to begin in earnest.
In my office at work I have a map of
The problems seemed to be mounting. Next was the issue of Restricted Area Permits for foreigners. Different websites gave differing advice. “Not possible to visit Arunachal Pradesh unless you pay for 4 people minimum” was one piece of incorrect information. “No access to Mizoram for foreigners”, was another. Even the Lonely Planet guide book was conspiring against me, telling me that a visit to Champai on the
Time to go back online and check out my favourite
Still the map on my office wall enticed me with memories of many happy times, visiting
In 1959, his holiness the 14th Dalai Llama fled
Majuli tourism is a state registered tour company based in
organise Restricted Area permits and Protected Area Permits (something I wasn’t even aware I needed). He would include Majuli island in the tour, along with two, yes two National parks! Even more, He would take me to Champai . Remember Champai? The place that the Lonely Planet guide book said that I couldn’t visit? Jyoti seemed to think it was no problem. My itinerary was complete.
I fly to Kolkata and from there to Guwahati. It’s then Jeep all the way to Tawang, Nameri NP, Kaziranga NP, Majuli Island, Shillong, Aizawl and Champai before retracing my steps to Kolkata.
So you see, from buying a toothbrush on Amazon, I’m all set to discover the remote North East of India. At nearly 50yrs of age the spirit of adventure is still strong within me… or maybe I’ve taken leave of my senses!
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