Tuesday 30 November 2010

This blog may break down due to snow.


There’s a true menace at work; something that is bringing our once proud nation to its knees.
Planes grounded, cars left stranded strewn across motorways, people staggering across roads shouting deliriously ‘BUS, BUS.’

Before you leave your home after reading this, best sneak a look out of the curtains. Don’t linger too long. It could blind you. Just one look and you’ll know. Know if you're safe from the dreaded ... SNOW.


If you dare step outside, beware. There beasties lie. Cars skid down ungritted roads, crashing into everything they come even remotely close to; other cars, garden walls, pensioners. Buildings explode in the distance and wolves appear and start to howl.

Despite all the snow teenagers can only find ice and rubble to make ball shapes from. Icy brick balls that break teeth, windows, skulls.

When snow scatters over the UK it’s like a haze of LSD over the country. Mania ensues. People talk about the weather as if Armageddon is on the way.
“Have you heard? Snow is coming tonight?”
“SNOW, SNOW? We’d best get to Tesco, fill up with petrol, get food in.”

Radio broadcasts are interrupted every half an hour, special snow TV shows are made and websites are plastered with flash banners warning us of the impending danger of the slightly frozen water falling from the sky.

Yet we’re hardly a snowy nation. We only have 9 natural ski fields. France, Germany, Norway, Sweden, South Korea, Canada and New Zealand are just some of the nations that have far more annual snowfall than we do. All of them have snowfall every year, just like we do. Yet we seem to be the only nation that have trouble predicting that after over 200 years of records and snow in near enough every year, that it might happen again next year.

In 200 years time global warming will shift the Gulf Stream and mean Britain will have similar weather to other countries on the same latitude; Canada, Denmark and Russia. That means 4 month winters that start cold, get colder, drop lots of snow, freeze the snow, drop more on top of it and then snow just a little more.

Schools will have winters off, people will start to hibernate and cars will have to be fitted with padded bumpers.

Snow hung around on roads for days last year because we, an island nation surrounded by salty sea water, ran out of salt. Next year we there’ll be a mass culling of sheep because we run out of grass. Plans for solar power will be scrapped because we run out of sunlight.

Having said all that. I get to go home early from work, so can't complain.

Next week’s blog may be cancelled due to the weather.

Monday 22 November 2010

I'll Put You Through To The Right Blog; Please Stay On The Line

Building the Great Wall of China, Putting Man on the Moon, Eating 59 Hot Dogs in 12 minutes; all incredible achievements, but all outshone by my efforts this week to close my bank account.

Banks are phenomenally efficient when it comes to taking money from customers. I missed a payment on my credit card once. Within a week I’d been emailed, called, received a letter, a carrier pigeon, a visit from a knife wielding ninja who threatened that my ‘time would come’ if I didn’t clear my monthly minimum repayment of £2.41; anything to get the cash.

It seems strange then that when I tried to contact my bank because I was owed cash and wished to dispense with their services, they were nowhere to be found. Every link on the website just lead to ways to pay them cash. The FAQs were listed like so:

How do I pay you cash?

Where do I click to pay you money?

I owe you a fortune due to your ludicrous and unethical interest rates, where do I go to pay an amount that will be dwarfed by the monthly fee you'll put on top?

And so on. I scrolled down but with no luck. There were no answers relating to anything other than paying in money, borrowing more money or setting up new accounts. At the end it read:

“If your question has not been answered please ring this number:” All in big font, all easy enough to follow. What I didn’t see was the font that read “your calls will be charged at our premium rate, unless you call from a mobile, in which case we’ll just roll a handful of dice and that’s how many pounds you’ll owe us.”
I’ve been kind enough to enlarge it for you: “your calls will be charged at our premium rate, unless you call from a mobile, in which case we’ll just roll a handful of dice and that’s how many pounds you’ll owe us.”

Had I known that it would cost more than the funds in my account to withdraw, then perhaps I wouldn’t have bothered, but I picked up my mobile, dialled the numbers and entered a numerical labyrinth of Minotaurian proportions. The phone rang twice before switching to an automated response. I’m not entirely sure why they leave in the two rings. Are we supposed to believe the responder is a real person?

The toneless robot on the other end barked orders at me far too quickly for me to remember what I should do. FOR ISSUES WITH CARDS PRESS ONE NOW BUT FOR BALANCE INQUIRIES IT’S TWO AND NUMBER INFORMATION PRESS FOUR BUT NOT IF YOU WANT TO SPEAK TO ANOTHER MACHINE THEN PRESS FIFTY THREE GO GO GO.

I panicked and just pressed numbers at random. It must have done something because there was a long beeeeeeep and then it rang twice before being answered by another robot.
“You’re in a queue, but your custom and money is very important to us, so please do stay on the line.”
Greensleeves played. “You’re in a queue, but your custom and money is very important to us, so please do stay on the line.”
Greensleeves played some more. This ordeal was repeated for 10 minutes before I was finally put through to Jim.

“Hi, I’m Jim, you’re through to accounts.”
“I’d like to close my account please.”
“Ah, you’re in the wrong department, you need payments. I’ll put you through.”

I went through greensleeves again, but this time Miriam greeted me.

“Hi, I’m Miriam, you’re through to payments.”
“I’d like to close my account please.”
“Ah, you’re in the wrong department, you need ‘give us cash’. I’ll put you through.”

This went on for hours, weeks even, until my phone switched off because there wouldn’t be enough money in the world to pay my bill.

I’m thinking of opening a restaurant in the same manner. You pay on arrival. You’re seated and told your food will be with you shortly. You wait an hour to the sound of greensleeves before going to complain. There you have pay £5 to join a queue to tell a staff member called Mick you’re unhappy. He’ll charge you another fiver to tell you you’re in the wrong queue and you need to speak to Alice in accounts. All the while I’ll sit in my office and eat all the food myself before deciding at the end of business hours I’ve not had quite enough food so I’ll award myself a food ‘bonus.’

Sounds unrealistic yes, but if all the restaurants in England did it, then we might be onto something.

Tuesday 9 November 2010

Lest We Forget


A poppy can lay dormant for years in soil, only for it to flourish when the earth is churned over. That’s why fields upon fields of poppies could be seen in France and Belgium after the World Wars. That’s why it stands for the memories of those who laid down their lives for us; those who churned the soil of fascism so freedom could bloom.

Jon Snow, the channel 4 newsreader has once again refused to wear one on air this year, saying he refuses to bow to ‘poppy fascism.’ A tragicomic image comes to mind of poppies marching on gardens, refusing to allow other flowers to bloom and shooting on sight all bees that work for any other plants.

He says that he doesn’t wear any symbol on air, pointing out that he doesn’t wear charity bands or black ties to mourn even those related to him. He is only interested in his journalistic impartiality. It’s a brave stance. However, it’s a stance he’s only able to take because of those who laid down their lives in such numbers so many years ago.

I wear pink on pink days, black for funerals and I wore a yellow band when my father was fighting cancer. There are more causes to support than colours. Wristbands have gone from plain, to multicoloured to pin badges. There’s even a Livestrong clothing range. Soon you’ll able to drive an animal rights car and live in an apartment that supports the fight against MS.

They’re all valuable causes, and Jon Snow is right when he says supporting one opens the floodgates to all. It conjures up the image of the news being presented by a giant slinky of multi coloured bands with a voice emerging from the top; ‘and the NASDAQ came down 3 points today.’

But a poppy means more. It means that we have the right to support any cause we choose to without reproach. It means I can write this blog, you can read this blog and people can write comments underneath; all without fear of being dragged away in the night.


In fairness to Snow, he has a job that does require impartiality, and he wears a poppy off air. For Abercrombie and Fitch and Bodycare UK there’s no excuse. Both companies banned their employees from wearing poppies simply because it isn’t part of their uniform. Do employees have to wear company approved underpants, socks, hair?

Why is it that some people seem so averse to celebrate their ancestors? Maybe it’s because we don’t make a big deal of it. Korea, USA, Australia and New Zealand all have national holidays to celebrate those who have died defending their nation. We just have bank holidays, and banks steal all our money.

A national holiday would give people the proper time to reflect on the bravery of those who have walked the extra mile for the most constructive or destructive of things, of that which is the hardest to sell; an ideal.

Over the next two days, if you walk past a poppy stall and debate whether to buy one, do you have time? Just remember 70 years ago, people just like you had no debate. 1,700,000 Brits laid down their lives over 9 brutal years. That number is too big to comprehend. Put simply, somebody British died every 3 minutes over both wars. That’s about the time it’ll take for you to buy and put on your poppy.

Tuesday 2 November 2010

Christmas Is Coming, The Goose Is Not Yet Born


It’s November today, unless you’re reading this in the published form Lewis’ greatest blogs in the middle of July. Then it’s not November, but chances are the issue will be the same whatever the time: Christmas.

I should love Christmas. What’s not to like? People buy you stuff, you buy them things you’d like in return, maybe in the hope they won’t like it and just leave it hanging around for you to take home. There’s good TV. You can eat too much, drink too much and any inappropriate comments towards family will blamed on the rum content in the Christmas pudding and forgotten by the time the New Year comes in.

I get carried away by the excitement of it all and end up splurging vast quantities of cash on incredibly wasteful pre Christmas presents for myself. ‘Tis the season; I deserve an ivory carved back stretcher to go with my gold plated truffle chocolates.’ That’s fine when there’s 3 weeks of build up. My bank account can just about survive the onslaught.

When I walked through the local shopping centre last Monday (25th October) my heart sank. Christmas lights already. I couldn’t help it. A manic smile slowly started to form. Jingle bells began to be whistled. My hand reached for my wallet. Only 60 shopping days until Christmas, must ... buy ... crap.

Now I’m open and exposed. Everywhere is decorated; there’s no escape. Even the websites have festive trims. I’m like a heroin addict walking a world full of giant smack filled needles that I can just drop onto any time I like. I kid myself, that by using a card and not money it doesn’t count. But of course it does and I always end up spending the first week after New Year’s sobbing at my overdraft and eating Tesco value baked beans for every meal.

The Americans have thought this through. They have thanksgiving at the end of November. A nationwide family gathering where presents aren’t exchanged and cards aren’t bought. Everybody wins but the turkey. A staggering 46 millions turkeys get eaten in the USA each year at Thanksgiving. It’s a feathered genocide; 2 words I can’t imagine putting next to each other in many other contexts. It’s also the biggest evidence so far against evolution. Surely if the birds could evolve they’d have started migrating in October by now?

This mass consumption of gobblers means that people only start to think of Christmas when December arrives, and so none of the joy is lost.

By the time Christmas arrives here I’m all Christmassed out. Cracking and eating nuts has lost its novelty value, can’t stand the sight of tinsel, I’ll punch you in the face if you offer me another mince pie.

Each year Christmas seems to creep further and further back. Soon I’ll be eating Stollen in June, next year putting the tree up in March, to the point where I’ll be out buying things in December for the Christmas the year after.

Anyway, I must dash, there’s only 75,318 minutes left until the big day.