The World According to Manager Mark, page 8
I then had to sit there for what seemed like an eternity while they not only had a right go at me but wrote me out a parking ticket – and not just any old parking ticket. A fine of £60 was bad enough but, because my back wheel was slightly over the zigzag line, I received three points on my licence as well… all for a tub of bloody clotted cream!
By the time I returned to the hotel, not only had the pot of tea gone cold but the guests had left, saying they couldn’t wait any longer!
Un-bloody-believable!!!
JEHOVAH’S WITNESSES
I don’t get many callers where I live now in the wilds of north London, which is the way I like it. I’m not one for cold callers, whether in person or on the phone. I’m not that fond of warm callers either, for that matter.
Someone once rang me up and asked me about an accident. Very nice of him. I said I couldn’t remember it and he said I must be suffering from amnesia and would I like to claim some money. ‘Of course,’ I said but then I told him I couldn’t remember my name and he rang off.
Of course, sometimes you don’t realise that you’re being door-stepped until you’ve been door-stepped and then it’s too late to do anything about the door-steppers. But, occasionally, they find me; there are now all sorts of people that try it on – there’s a mobile fishmonger from Newcastle who is always trying to sell me smoked haddock or something called ‘hake’. He tells me it’s fresh off the boat but then I notice he also sells tiger prawns with a label on the back that says ‘Product of Thailand’. You can’t tell me he caught that in the North Sea off Boulmer. I reckon he stops off at Tesco on the way, buys a load of fish and then passes it off as ‘local produce’. Must be something to do with EU quotas.
I had a man wanting to build me a loft when I lived in a bungalow, a chap who said he just happened to be in the area and could repave my patio, which was a bit odd because I don’t have a patio, and an attractive young woman trying to sell me her art – at least I think she said it was her art…
But, of course, the most famous interlopers are Jehovah’s Witnesses and they are very determined proselytisers. (Am I allowed to say that?) By the way, do you know why there are no Jehovah’s Witnesses in heaven? Because God and Saint Peter hide behind the gates saying, ‘Sssshhhhhh! Pretend we are not in!’
Anyway, a couple came round once and I thought they were selling me double glazing, so I felt sorry for them and let them in. Of course, once they were sitting in my lounge, they produced a copy of The Watchtower and told me I was doomed. I agreed with them but told them that was more to do with my ex-wives than God.
The bit I found really fascinating was that, apparently, Jehovah’s Witnesses believe that, when the world ends, only 144,000 of them are actually going to be allowed to go to heaven, which must have been a bit of a bugger years ago when they first started out and were trying to recruit number 144,001 to the fold. Apparently, nowadays it’s a bit like pyramid selling and, out of the millions of followers, only the first 144,000 people are actually guaranteed a place. Of course, in order to help increase numbers, periodically, they predict the end of the world; originally, it was set for 1914 and leading up to the date they had quite a few new followers join, although most of them left almost immediately afterwards – apparently, disappointed when the end of the world didn’t happen. The same thing happened again in 1975 when the Armageddon prediction created a big influx of new followers, followed by a large number of disappointed leavers the next morning. Now, to play it safe, they say they aren’t sure when the world will end so it’s best to join ASAP so you don’t miss out when it happens!
In the end, the Witnesses became frustrated by my lack of interest and the man asked me if I had any convictions and I replied, ‘No, but I was once tempted to punch a Jehovah’s Witness.’ That soon got rid of them.
However, I do agree with them about not using profanity. There’s no need for constant swearing, which shows a lack of imagination, although I do think the odd ‘bloody’ is OK in the right context.
Oh no, there’s the doorbell. I’d better go. I just hope it’s not another bloody Jehovah’s Witness at the door.
K
KIDS
If I’m honest, I don’t really like children… then again, if we’re all honest, who bloody does? I think my dislike started when I was at school because the place was full of them! Not that I’m against kids. Well, not all of them anyway. I mean, I can put up with my own children, but I’m not exactly a lover of other people’s children. Let’s face it, who is?
The trouble is that there is now much overprotection and neurosis when it comes to looking after children. Kids these days are wrapped up in cotton wool. Literally. Well, obviously not literally… but you know what I mean.
There’s a phrase ‘helicopter parents’, which describes parents who hover anxiously over their precious kids, paralysed by anxiety and fear of what could befall their little ones. Of course, we have to protect our children from obvious danger but now it’s gone too far the other way.
We have now become far too protective towards children. In my day we used to roam around wartime bombsites amid unexploded bombs – apparently, that is no longer allowed, no doubt for some health-and-safety reason. But, whatever the reason, this is the sort of thing that makes playtime for kids much less interesting.
Apparently, playing conkers has been banned in school playgrounds for fear of grazed knuckles or even worse injuries. Climbing trees can only be considered under the guidance of a trained Sherpa, some kids have to be immunised against toxins before they can use crayons and I heard of one child forced to wear gauntlets and a helmet during a family game of Monopoly. (No doubt someone will insist on protective gear for bingo during my Party Nights.)
And what about those ‘Child on Board’ car stickers? Drives me mad! What are you supposed to do? Drive in a completely different way, play ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ at top volume on your stereo and wave a teddy bear or a doll in their general direction? Unbelievable!
There are so many blogs, message boards and tweets about the right way to bring up your child. Could someone explain to me exactly what ‘Mumsnet’ is? I did try and Google it once but found myself on some very dodgy websites and immediately refreshed. There are vast numbers of parenting guides. When I was growing up, American childcare expert Dr Spock’s books were all the rage – ridiculous that parents should take advice from a Star Trek character who wasn’t even a real person. Illogical, I reckon.
There is also so much discussion about what women should or shouldn’t do during pregnancy – despite my pro-smoking views, I certainly wouldn’t recommend a female up the duff to draw on a Capstan. Drinking a glass of wine is considered OK but, apparently, not half a bottle of Captain Morgan. Moderation is the key word these days – quite contrary to how I’ve lived my life, of course.
Formula milk is considered ‘poisonous’ compared to breastfeeding. They say ‘breast is best’. Well, I can’t argue with that. Some of you may be surprised that I don’t have a problem with a mother breastfeeding in public – as long as it is her own child and not some passing infant. Some men actually feel they are missing out that they are not able to breastfeed and wear a peculiar type of sling attached to some kind of breast pump so that they can bond with the baby and pretend they are performing the female role. Unbelievable!
There are, of course, also some frightening statistics about the best ways to nurture babies and the effect it will have later on in life when they’re grown up. I heard somewhere that babies who share a bedroom with their parents are more likely to end up in Borstal aged sixteen, whereas babies who are left to cry themselves to sleep in their own cot often end up being Prime Minister. It’s a complete minefield. I’m just glad I did it years ago and won’t have to go through all that again.
Still, as that great songstress Whitney Houston once sang, ‘I believe the children are our future.’ And, of course, you can’t actually argue with that sort of logic.
KILTS
One thing I’ve never understood is the whole idea of kilts.
Why, if you live in the most northerly part of the United Kingdom, would you want to wear a kilt instead of a decent pair of tweed or corduroy trousers?
I’m not against men in skirts on principle. Both Eddie Izzard and Grayson Perry can, in a certain light, look very fetching in little black numbers. There’s also a long history of warriors and soldiers in skirts. Romans wore some sort of tunic, as did Anglo-Saxons and the Normans hundreds of years later. Zulu tribes in parts of Africa still wear skirts made of straw today, which makes sense when you think of the climate. But Scotland is bloody freezing in the winter.
The Scots could, of course, use that lovely thick tartan wool to knit a nice warm pair of trousers instead of wearing a kilt and letting the high winds blow just where you don’t want them to! There is also the fact that ‘True Scotsmen’ aren’t allowed to wear anything underneath. Apparently, in the forces it was the practice that the Sergeant Major would fix a mirror to a golf club, which he would then place near the feet of the soldiers to allow him to carry out a proper inspection on the parade ground… now, that’s what you call inspecting your privates!
I have worn a kilt once, when I put on my special Scottish Night at the hotel, but that was in the middle of the summer in Sunny Torquay… and, before you ask, I’m not telling you! I did miss not having any pockets, although the sporran was really useful for containing my cigarettes and lighter.
There was a time, way back in 1746, when, to quell the Scottish clans and to stop an uprising, King George II actually banned the Scots from wearing kilts unless they were serving in the army. If you were up there in the Highlands and caught wearing a kilt, you could be punished by being sent to live abroad (in, most likely, a warm country) for seven years.
Blimey! If I’d been tramping through the Scottish glens and mountains wearing a kilt in the middle of winter in the freezing-cold weather, I’d be hoping to get bloody caught!
KINKY
I’ve got absolutely nothing to say on the subject – it’s not that sort of book.
L
LEARNER DRIVERS
While stuck in traffic – which happens more and more these days – and having time to look around and take in the local views, I’ve noticed something interesting. Years ago, a learner driver would simply just display a red L-plate sign. That was that. You knew where you were (usually, directly behind them when they stalled time and time again). Now, once they’ve actually passed their test, new drivers display a green ‘P’ for Passed. I can only assume this is to warn other drivers that, despite having passed their driving tests and being let loose on the highways and byways, they really do not know what they are doing and remain a danger to other motorists.
Over the last few years, restaurants, hotels, greasy spoons – in fact, anywhere that has a kitchen to prepare food – have to display a rating, following an inspection by the Food Standards Agency. The inspector takes in a number of factors, such as how hygienically the food is handled, prepared, cooked and stored, as well as the condition and cleanliness of the buildings.
The business is given one of six ratings. The top rating of 5 means that the business has ‘very good’ hygiene standards, whereas ‘Ungraded’ means the owners shouldn’t even be looking at food, never mind cooking it or serving it to unsuspecting members of the public.
So my idea is that they should introduce something similar for drivers: a yearly examination where they test the competence of the driver, who would then have to display the result clearly and for all to see on their cars. In that way, other drivers would know immediately just how good or bad they are. Really terrible drivers would display an ‘I’ for Incompetent and, regardless of how they actually did on the test, all BMW drivers would just display a ‘W’ for… well, you know!
LETTUCE
It might surprise you to see that I have included lettuce here, especially as I don’t eat anything green. But there is something about lettuce that’s been bugging me. You see, many years ago I was actually a chef (well, not a proper chef, obviously, as my eating habits would have prevented me being some kind of Michel Roux Jr, Fanny Craddock or Gordon Ramsay – especially Gordon Ramsay as not only do I not cook like him, but I can’t even swear like him).
Back then I was what they called a ‘grill chef’ in a fast-food type of restaurant called The Golden Egg, which was difficult as I hardly eat anything and so had no idea what I was serving up actually tasted like! Luckily, the menu was fairly simple and each item was cooked separately and then put on the plate: sausage, egg, chips and beans… that sort of thing. A combination of the lot was known as a ‘GEM’ in the trade, or a Golden Egg Mix to the customer.
And, let’s face it, you’d hardly be expected to be able to test the taste and make sure it was cooked properly by dipping a bread and butter soldier in the egg before it went out to the table. You could easily tell if the beans were hot enough just by dipping your finger in them. I don’t suppose you’re allowed to do that now – what with the excesses of health and safety – but no one should have worried; I never burned my fingers.
There were a few other dishes on the menu, including omelettes. In fact, thinking about it, most of the dishes had an egg in there somewhere – I guess the clue was in the name of the restaurant! Of course, you won’t be surprised to learn that eggs are another type of food that I don’t eat. I mean, when did we start eating eggs anyway? How did it all begin? I can only assume that, one day, a long, long time ago, someone got fed up waiting for a chicken to hatch.
Although, of all our modern eating habits to have evolved, the strangest one, to me, has to be milk, although I have to admit that milk makes up my staple diet because I live on milky coffees or, to use the modern French phrase, lattes. But I want to know, how did it begin? Who was the first person to walk past a cow in a field, witness a baby calf suckling on its mother’s udder and think to himself, ‘I wouldn’t mind some of that!’ (Actually, I don’t think we need to bother ourselves with answering that question.)
While breastfeeding babies is considered the most natural thing in the world, the thought of us adults drinking another human’s milk horrifies us and yet, for some reason, we think it’s fine to drink a similar substance produced by a different species – COWS!!!
Anyway, this section isn’t about dairy produce, such as eggs or milk. In case you’ve forgotten, it’s about LETTUCE – honestly! For those health-conscious customers who didn’t fancy a fry-up, The Golden Egg did salads and, as the chef, I was responsible for ordering in all the ingredients to prepare these wonderful culinary delights. However, back then there were only two types of lettuce available – either crispy or floppy. I preferred the crispy one as it always looked less green than the floppy one… but, then again, I wasn’t eating either of them!
Anyway, the whole point to this story is that just a few years ago I was asked to pick up a lettuce for someone from my local supermarket and expected to be met with a choice between crispy or floppy. But I soon discovered there was a whole aisle – in fact, as far as the eye could see – of hundreds of different types of lettuce with some strange names, such as the Blushed Butterhead (I thought that was a type of inflatable), the Curly Endive (named after a 1960s psychedelic group?) and the Iceberg.
I thought that to name a lettuce an Iceberg was a bit insensitive to the survivors of the Titanic; not that there are any survivors left anymore – they’re all dead now – but I’m sure you can see what I’m driving at.
The question is: where did all these lettuces come from? And, more importantly, where were they all hiding before?!?
LIBERTY, EQUALITY, PARKING
About fifteen years ago I visited France, for the first and last time, I might add. I’m not exactly a Francophile or lover of anything French for that matter – apart from Juliette Binoche, of course. Although, I have to say, if she smelt of garlic, it would put me right off and that would be the end of any possible romance. You see, mes braves, it’s the eating habits of the French that horrify me.
I mean, why would any civilised country in the western world be proud of the fact that they eat FROGS LEGS and SNAILS? I know they invented the baguette, which actually doesn’t taste bad with some nice ham in it, but that’s before you learn that they only invented it – and, more importantly, made it that particular shape – so that the men could carry it around easily… by stuffing it down the inside of their trousers!
I only went to France because it was a special occasion – my then wife’s fortieth birthday – so, as a romantic gesture, I decided to take her to Paris for the weekend. I had thought of taking her to Worthing but I spent a fortnight there one weekend and I didn’t want to repeat that experience! Do you know that the seagulls fly upside down over Worthing because there’s nothing worth messing on?
Anyway, Paris it was, and on the first day we were out walking and having a nose around, not far from the hotel that we were staying in. I didn’t fancy driving in Paris, which is a bloody nightmare, being full of French drivers hooting, shouting and carrying on as if they owned the city. Apart from that, in France and other countries all around the world, the cars have the steering wheel and pedals on the passenger side, which means the passenger often ends up having to do all the driving!
To make matters worse, they also drive on the wrong side of the road and, if that wasn’t bad enough, the roundabouts go round in the wrong direction. But the real killer, especially when you’re driving in a different country and have no idea where you’re going, is that all the signs are written in a foreign bloody language!
