Up with the lark

Sarah Kennedy has squirrels in her thatch. There I’ve said it, as did she yesterday morning. Sssshhh, listen! Can you hear the violins playing in the background? I don’t know about you but my heart bleeds for her.

Since the sainted Terry Wogan left, radio 2’s schedule has been changed. This means that Millicent Fritton (Headmistress from St. Trinians as played by Alistair Sim)now has to work a full two hours! It’s not easy you know. She has to have all the day’s newspapers in front of her in order to read you interesting titbits of news. These are the same newspapers that you will probably be going out to buy anyway. But that concerns Sarah not one jot. She selflessly scours the right wing rags bringing us tasty morsels for our delectation as we start our day with a shower, shampoo and shave. No need for the other activity we start our day off with. Ms Kennedy supplies that by the bucketload. Full of talent is our Sarah. She’s opinionated too and will think nothing of making a “Daily Mail” style tirade against something that she perceives to be “political correctness gone mad”




Our Sarah has been a bastion of radio 2’s schedules for what seems like forever. For what seems like the last 100 years she has entertained (and I use that word loosely) us with tales, and sound effects of mewing cats and diesel locomotives. Unfortunately out of those 100 years I think she’s only actually been present for 6 weeks due to (and this is in her words, just in case you think I’ve lost it) problems with her chesticles. Unfortunately this attendance record has led to some wag at the BBC christening her “Sicknote”. Yes, shocking I know. Luckily for our plucky lass, she’s on a contract and won’t lose money for her absenteeism. Hurrah!

The BBC is a grand institution and one I happily accept funding via my TV licence. Yep, I actually don’t mind paying this particular tax. Being an old fashioned, somewhat unreconstructed leftie, I quite like the notion of public broadcasting. I like the Rethian concept of “educate, inform and entertain” Dagnabbit, I like it that we have a nationalised industry that works well.

I too work within the public sector, within local government as it happens. Alas, there the similarities between Sarah and me end.

If I were to have a sickness record as bad as hers, I would be shipped off for medical screening in the blink of an eye. Even worse, if I’m to take time off for sickness, I lose money. Not just one day’s money either. One day off - a month’s attendance allowance lost. Being within the public sector, if I see something that I disagree with, I have to keep my mouth shut. Accept it or go. Like Radio 2, we also go through re-organisations (every other week usually). Unfortunately, unlike Radio 2, we are given a paltry pay-off. After all, this is public money we’re talking about and we are merely custodians of the public purse. The services are going to be commissioned from the private sector; your job is no longer required. It’s in the public good after all.

So hooray for Sarah! Three cheers for the malingerer! More right wing stories about no good strikers please! Can’t get back from the races because the train drivers are striking for better conditions? Shame on them! Postmen fighting to keep a universal postal system, disgraceful! Why don’t they move to Cuba? Come to think of it, perhaps those squirrels in her thatch are setting up a quasi-autonomous collective? Commie vermin!

It's going to be a long winter

At the side of the Hooghly River in Kolkata, Mrs Chakrobaty the dhobi-wallah, pounds clothes against the stones in an attempt to cleanse the garments of the city’s grime. All her life she has done this to earn a few rupees for her family. Next to her is Mrs. Mukharjee. Like the two arms of a kettle drummer, they pound clothes mercilessly onto the rocks. It’s a thankless task. But Mrs. Chakrobaty has a secret she is dying to share with her neighbour. For years she has only spoken Bengali and the odd word of Hindi but now she has learnt a few words of English. So, in an attempt to amuse and educate her friend she turns and, in faultless English says ….“Scene 24, take 2. Aaaaaaand ACTION!”
Danny Boyle and his excellent “Slumdog Millionaire” has a lot to answer for.

Channel 4 has decided to have an “Indian Winter” season and to that end there has been wall to wall coverage of India on the station. It all started innocently enough with a showing of Danny Boyle’s wonderful film. A heart warming, uplifting tale to make any grumpy old git smile. And I should know as I’m the grumpy old git with a smile on my face. They followed that with Kevin McCloud travelling to Dharavi in Mumbai. Dharavi is the enormous slum that spawned the child actors in “Slumdog Millionaire”. Despite the appalling conditions, a community has evolved from the slum and McCloud argues that all they really need is a few sanitation pipes. He even pleads with a developer not to demolish the slum and make the same mistake that Britain made with the high rises of the 1960’s. Fat chance of that Kevin, this is capitalism in it’s sharpest manifestation and there’s money to be made. I don’t know about you but Channel 4’s Indian Winter is already starting to grate.

It gets worse and clutching straws in hand they trundle mercilessly on with “Slumdog Secret Millionaire”. I don’t know if you’ve seen the format of this programme but it really is enough to make a person me wretch. The millionaire in question goes to a deprived part of the country. Lives as a local resident for a while, whilst deciding who is deserving of a financial handout. Recipients get cash, millionaire gets kudos and a halo from him/her upstairs. Well this time they’ve gone to… oh no, not again? Yep, Dharavi. You’d think the locals would have clocked on by now. Especially as our Anglicised Asian millionaire troops around the slum in her designer sun glasses, followed by a film crew. She meets up with a lady whose desperate circumstances means she has to collect waste plastic from the local tip. For this the recycling man pays her a princely sum of 30 rupees a bag. Our millionaire is heartbroken by her circumstances and deems her in need of a financial boost. Now this bit I’ll never understand… or perhaps I will. All the way through the programme, our millionaire has spoken to this poor wretch in Hindi. Now it comes time to doling out a few bob, English is her preferred language. Not only that, she tells her how much she is giving her (£250) in English currency, as if that means jack whatsit to her! Call me cynical but I think it was more for the benefit of the cameras than for actually improving the lot of the poor unfortunate.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love India. I’ve been there a couple of times now and I’m off there again in four weeks. But for goodness sake, the place must be crawling with camera crews! Ha, not where I’m going! I’m off to the remote North East of India. No bugger goes there; it’s too remote, not touristy and not enough landmarks for any bugger in the west to be interested in. It’ll be perfect for me. I don’t want to see another white face for the duration of my trip. I want to immerse myself as much as possible in the sights, the culture and, perhaps more importantly, the rice beer.

No matter onwards and up…well, onwards anyway. Next up we have “Gordon’s Great Escape”. Foul mouthed philanderer (allegedly) Gordon Ramsay is in India to discover what a real curry is like. I should be grateful for small mercies, at least this time it’s not coming from Dharavi. I really hope that the residents formed themselves into a committee and told the TV researchers that they weren’t having him! “We were rather hoping for Simon Cowell and his X Factor, not some sweary, hand slapping cook”. Actually this is quite a joy to watch. No-one in India seems to know who he is and when he starts his foul mouthed tirades, they all wobble their heads not knowing what they hell this pasty faced jock is on about. So it’s with great excitement I tune in to Episode 2. Oh bugger, no it can’t be… it bloody is! This time our eponymous chef has gone to the North East. Noooooo! Ramsay travels to Majuli Island to sample a rather fiery looking fish curry, he even manages to get into Nagaland (somewhere I wanted to go but couldn’t get into) where he goes hunting with a tribe. Yay, there is a god after all! For, whilst hacking his way through the jungle, he manages to stab himself with his own machete. Armed with the secrets of North Eastern cuisine, he ends up back on the streets of Kolkata cooking North Eastern food to a group of bemused Bengalis. He employs three locals to help, “These lads aren’t skipping school are they?” he inquires of his English speaking helper. “No, no sir! Not him anyway. I’m not sure about the other one!” Anyroad up, the food sells out and everyone is happy. Most of all the English translator who pockets the days takings of 2,000 rupees.. Ah well, something good has come out of it.

I think we’re mid-way into the “Indian Winter” season now and in all honesty I should be fed up with the tripe they are offering up. But, probably because of my upcoming trip, I’m determined to watch every last minute. I dare say when I get there I’ll be falling over TV crews and their poncey pony tailed researchers. Well, if you can’t beat them… Come on Mrs Mukharjee, after three… “Jai Ho!”

Hw hrd cn it B?

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!

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” ?

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!

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

Where I'm going

Just found a video showing where I'm off to