My 8 quid table lamp from B&Q gave up the ghost a few weeks back, so I decided to treat myself to a decent one that would maybe last more than 6 months. I went online to a company I've used a lot before. I'm not going to name them because they've always been reliable and what came next is down to some centralised 'customer fulfilment centre' rather than the company or its products. I ordered a dimmer lamp and 3 light bulbs - the bulbs recommended on the page as being suitable for the lamp.
A few days later, a very large box arrived. It contained not one but two lamps - the wrong lamps - and 3 light bulbs - the wrong bulbs.
They have a 'chatline' so I went online and had a chat with Anita who sounded just like Peter Kay doing his Geraldine voice.
I explained to Anita what the problem was. She checked my order. I had indeed ordered one lamp, code number 2020BC. I'd been sent two lamps, code number 2020. The bulbs were for the 2020BC lamp. That's why they didn't fit the lamps I'd received. Bad news: 2020BC is sold out. I said that was okay: the 2020 lamp is near enough what I wanted and it's about the same price. So I would keep one of the lamps and they could have the other one back along with the wrong bulbs, if they would just send me the right bulbs.
Days passed...then a courier arrived from DPD. He took back the extra lamp and the wrong bulbs. And handed me a very large box. He went off and I went to open my parcel. You're ahead of me now, aren't you?
Two lamps instead of one. Wrong lamps. Wrong bulbs.
I got on to the chatline but it wasn't Anita so I had to explain it all from the beginning, which is what I most hate about these 'customer fulfilment centres.' This lady was very nice and very sorry. She has promised me DPD will pick up the wrong lamps tomorrow and bring me right light bulbs.
I'm not hopeful.
Meanwhile, Amazon, Tesco, Mamas & Papas, Debenham's, Early learning, JD Sports and River Island have all delivered a whole collection of Christmas gifts I ordered at the weekend. Nothing was out of stock. Everything arrived on time or even early. My only complaint is that the thieving bandits at JD Sports charge 3.99 to deliver a gift voucher.
So I'm on standby tomorrow. Up at the crack of dawn to await the arrival of the cheery wee courier from DPD. We're getting to know each other quite well. He's not leaving here tomorrow till I know I've got the right light bulbs...
Wednesday 30 November 2016
Monday 28 November 2016
The Library
Some days, volunteering feels like a full time job...
Today A and I were due at Cardonald library to do a book drop to four customers. It's an easy gig: three of these customers don't let us over the door, so I choose their books but mostly stay in the car while A goes to the door. There's a quick exchange of books and we move on.
Fair enough: if I saw us, I probably wouldn't let us over the door either. But today A didn't turn up at the library.
That's unusual. A has been volunteering for about 8 years - maybe more. He never lets the customers down. I rang his home and mobile numbers twice. No answer. So where was he? The library staff got quite agitated, so I went off to knock on his door. And there he was, hale and hearty. He'd just forgotten today's gig. He was reading and none of us had thought to phone and remind him. Us bad.
A did the drop and I took us off to Morrison's so he could have a Wee Scottish breakfast and I could have scrambled egg on toast. Two meals + coffees £7.80 - maybe £7.90. Excellent value. No wonder the greasy spoon cafes are dying out.
Seriously though, the home delivery service in Glasgow Libraries depends on volunteers but it seems there's no back-up. We've recruited Charlie to help us when we're stuck. But what's the future for the
days when we're not available or we get to be too old to volunteer?
Today A and I were due at Cardonald library to do a book drop to four customers. It's an easy gig: three of these customers don't let us over the door, so I choose their books but mostly stay in the car while A goes to the door. There's a quick exchange of books and we move on.
Fair enough: if I saw us, I probably wouldn't let us over the door either. But today A didn't turn up at the library.
That's unusual. A has been volunteering for about 8 years - maybe more. He never lets the customers down. I rang his home and mobile numbers twice. No answer. So where was he? The library staff got quite agitated, so I went off to knock on his door. And there he was, hale and hearty. He'd just forgotten today's gig. He was reading and none of us had thought to phone and remind him. Us bad.
A did the drop and I took us off to Morrison's so he could have a Wee Scottish breakfast and I could have scrambled egg on toast. Two meals + coffees £7.80 - maybe £7.90. Excellent value. No wonder the greasy spoon cafes are dying out.
Seriously though, the home delivery service in Glasgow Libraries depends on volunteers but it seems there's no back-up. We've recruited Charlie to help us when we're stuck. But what's the future for the
days when we're not available or we get to be too old to volunteer?
Saturday 26 November 2016
Football
When I was growing up in working class Glasgow 50 years ago, one of the ways people hoped to do well was through sport. Usually the sport in question was for boys and the route to success was football or boxing. Mainly football.
Most of us knew a young guy who had been 'spotted' by a professional football team. The boy round the corner from us in Pollok was picked up by Glasgow Rangers and did a few years in their youth team. He didn't make the grade as a senior but the club arranged for him to do an apprenticeship as an accountant and he had a successful professional life from then on. The message we all got was: whether you make the grade as a player or not, you'll be looked after by football.
Now it appears that wasn't the case. Sexual abuse was obviously rife in football clubs. Nothing to do with Glasgow Rangers, any of this. But clearly a problem in many clubs.
There was a time that my father and grandfather talked about when professional footballers were treated with contempt. When Scottish team members travelled, they went third class while the 'gentlemen' of the SFA went first class. But by the 60s and 70s, football was in the hands of working class managers, coaches and physios. They are the people who either carried out the abuse or turned a blind eye to what was going on. It's the ultimate betrayal, in my opinion.
I can't bear the thought - and I'm sure there's much more to come out - that the sexual abuse of young boys is football's dirty little secret.
Why do paedophiles do it? Because they can. And because they have - until now - got away with it. By telling the kids they have attacked that they are in some way guilty of something. By threatening the kids and their families. By telling the boys that they controlled their career in football, which was true.
I take my hat off to the footballers who have - so far - made their abuse public. It can't be easy. it doesn't look easy on the TV screen. But they are doing the right thing and saving other young men years of exploitation and degradation. I wish them well, and I hope the other young men now hiding awful secrets of abuse can take courage from these men and denounce their attackers. The only hope is this:
Let in the light.
Most of us knew a young guy who had been 'spotted' by a professional football team. The boy round the corner from us in Pollok was picked up by Glasgow Rangers and did a few years in their youth team. He didn't make the grade as a senior but the club arranged for him to do an apprenticeship as an accountant and he had a successful professional life from then on. The message we all got was: whether you make the grade as a player or not, you'll be looked after by football.
Now it appears that wasn't the case. Sexual abuse was obviously rife in football clubs. Nothing to do with Glasgow Rangers, any of this. But clearly a problem in many clubs.
There was a time that my father and grandfather talked about when professional footballers were treated with contempt. When Scottish team members travelled, they went third class while the 'gentlemen' of the SFA went first class. But by the 60s and 70s, football was in the hands of working class managers, coaches and physios. They are the people who either carried out the abuse or turned a blind eye to what was going on. It's the ultimate betrayal, in my opinion.
I can't bear the thought - and I'm sure there's much more to come out - that the sexual abuse of young boys is football's dirty little secret.
Why do paedophiles do it? Because they can. And because they have - until now - got away with it. By telling the kids they have attacked that they are in some way guilty of something. By threatening the kids and their families. By telling the boys that they controlled their career in football, which was true.
I take my hat off to the footballers who have - so far - made their abuse public. It can't be easy. it doesn't look easy on the TV screen. But they are doing the right thing and saving other young men years of exploitation and degradation. I wish them well, and I hope the other young men now hiding awful secrets of abuse can take courage from these men and denounce their attackers. The only hope is this:
Let in the light.
Thursday 24 November 2016
So who do YOU think you are?
I love TV programmes that help people trace their ancestry. I actually prefer the US version of Who Do You Think You Are? because the backgrounds of the celebrities taking part are much more varied than they are here in the boring old UK. Everyone in the USA wants to be able to trace their ancestry back to the Native Americans. I think it's about belonging. It's not possible, of course. There aren't enough Native Americans to go round. Europe - Ireland, Scotland, Italy, Germany, western Russia, the Czech republic, Poland, etc - all sent enough people to the USA to start a new nation but they're nowhere near as exciting as the poor exploited 'Indians'.
In the UK, it seems 'celebrities' trying to trace their ancestors want to be noble. Never mind that your great-grandad was a poor soul, barely educated, unskilled and riddled with syphilis, who spent a lot of his life in the workhouse. If your 12 times great-grandad was an aristocrat - or, as a friend of mine used to say: slept with an aristocrat - you can hold your head up.
I like the ads for quizzes on Facebook that ask who you were in a previous life, more specifically; Which queen were you in a previous life? It's nonsense, of course - 'clickbait.' Those of us old enough can remember relatives who in 'a previous life' weren't queens or ladies but skivvies who got up at 4am to clean out the fireplaces and light the fires for the real ladies in posh houses. I remember my father telling me he was taken on to deliver butcher meat to posh houses in Pollokshields in the mornings before he went to school. This would be in the 1930s. He got a row on his first day because he made the mistake of going to the front door and was directed by a servant round the back. One of the things that most annoyed me when I volunteered at the Museum of Rural Life in East Kilbride was to find that the saddest room in Kittochside farmhouse, the maid's room - a tiny space with no character - wasn't even mentioned in the tour.
As for Danny Dyer, who was the subject of tonight's programme, is he for real? He's almost a caricature Cockney. He's only about 40 but his rhyming slang seems to hark back to the Victorian era. It's so convoluted I couldn't follow it. Turns out he's a descendant of Thomas Cromwell and Edward III. He certainly had the swagger to go with the ancestry. He also had a large family from the 1860s onwards who spent a lot of time in and out of the workhouse, not to mention an ancestor who was charged with concealing the death of a baby. She gave birth in secret aged 17 and, not knowing what to do, didn't tie off the umbilical cord. My sympathy was with her rather than the aristocrats but I'm sure you knew that already.
In the UK, it seems 'celebrities' trying to trace their ancestors want to be noble. Never mind that your great-grandad was a poor soul, barely educated, unskilled and riddled with syphilis, who spent a lot of his life in the workhouse. If your 12 times great-grandad was an aristocrat - or, as a friend of mine used to say: slept with an aristocrat - you can hold your head up.
I like the ads for quizzes on Facebook that ask who you were in a previous life, more specifically; Which queen were you in a previous life? It's nonsense, of course - 'clickbait.' Those of us old enough can remember relatives who in 'a previous life' weren't queens or ladies but skivvies who got up at 4am to clean out the fireplaces and light the fires for the real ladies in posh houses. I remember my father telling me he was taken on to deliver butcher meat to posh houses in Pollokshields in the mornings before he went to school. This would be in the 1930s. He got a row on his first day because he made the mistake of going to the front door and was directed by a servant round the back. One of the things that most annoyed me when I volunteered at the Museum of Rural Life in East Kilbride was to find that the saddest room in Kittochside farmhouse, the maid's room - a tiny space with no character - wasn't even mentioned in the tour.
As for Danny Dyer, who was the subject of tonight's programme, is he for real? He's almost a caricature Cockney. He's only about 40 but his rhyming slang seems to hark back to the Victorian era. It's so convoluted I couldn't follow it. Turns out he's a descendant of Thomas Cromwell and Edward III. He certainly had the swagger to go with the ancestry. He also had a large family from the 1860s onwards who spent a lot of time in and out of the workhouse, not to mention an ancestor who was charged with concealing the death of a baby. She gave birth in secret aged 17 and, not knowing what to do, didn't tie off the umbilical cord. My sympathy was with her rather than the aristocrats but I'm sure you knew that already.
Tuesday 22 November 2016
A terrible mistake
When I went to Islay in 1977 after working in what I considered then (and still think now) a pretty tough 'scheme' school in Glasgow, I brought with me, as I thought, all the skills I'd picked up from a great principal teacher and good colleagues - and, looking back, a bit of arrogance I could have done without.
I set out to keep the Islay kids in order. I was stern ('cross,' - crosda in Gaelic, as the kids said). I didn't smile for weeks, which was how I'd been taught teachers behaved in Glasgow. Apparently, I scared some of the Islay kids to death. They were silent a lot of the time. Not something I was used to.
Gradually I started to relax a wee bit. And so did my pupils. In Glasgow, I'd taught my pupils French songs: nursery rhymes, pop songs - anything that would engage them. I taught them the words first and then the music. I did the same in Islay. It took me about 30 seconds to realise I was dealing with a completely different group of people. I don't remember what song I started with in my first year class. Let's say it was Frere Jacques. A ronde in three parts. Goes down a treat with most age groups. Only needs a wee bit of practice. I sang the verse to them. They sang it back. I explained that we were going to sing it three times in three groups, each group starting at a different point. And off we went. Well, they didn't need me, did they? These kids came from a long tradition of unaccompanied singing - especially in Gaelic - and they knew what a ronde was.
They also understood harmony, and with every song I taught them the French words for after that, they harmonised automatically.
They also sang a lot better than I did.
It was a good lesson. For me. In a way, it opened my eyes to how diverse a group my pupils were. A lot of kids were involved in music. There were Gaelic choirs everywhere. And it wasn't just singing that the kids took part in. Stewart McNally played the pipes. Angus MacGregor played the tuba (sorry if I've got that wrong, Gus - I know it was brass anyway!). Branwen Sykes played the flute. A lot were involved in Scottish dancing. Pipe Major Hood trained his pipers in the portakabin outside my classroom. When I recorded exam tapes to send to the Exam Board in Edinburgh, I had to explain why you could sometimes pick up pipe music in the background.
All this was normal and a world away from a Glasgow scheme. A lot of Islay and Jura kids came from a farming background and from an early age kept their own animals, which they put in to the Show. They drove tractors - very well - from the age of about 10. The ones who lived in the villages had responsibilities like cutting peat from an early age. The 'up country' kids had a long day, leaving home early to be at the road-end to get the bus to school. They never complained, although sometimes the Jura kids didn't make it to school because of the weather.
I'm delighted to say nothing has changed. Many young people in Islay are still involved in music. And many have held on to their love of music for a long time.
I have a specific reason for this post: Angela Paterson, Port Ellen, has been invited to take part in Celtic Connections in January.
Angela is a self-made artiste, who writes and sings her own music. She has sung and played in many settings over the last few years - including the Hebridean Princess. It has taken years of hard graft to get to where she is and everyone who knows her should be proud.
Here's to her success!
I set out to keep the Islay kids in order. I was stern ('cross,' - crosda in Gaelic, as the kids said). I didn't smile for weeks, which was how I'd been taught teachers behaved in Glasgow. Apparently, I scared some of the Islay kids to death. They were silent a lot of the time. Not something I was used to.
Gradually I started to relax a wee bit. And so did my pupils. In Glasgow, I'd taught my pupils French songs: nursery rhymes, pop songs - anything that would engage them. I taught them the words first and then the music. I did the same in Islay. It took me about 30 seconds to realise I was dealing with a completely different group of people. I don't remember what song I started with in my first year class. Let's say it was Frere Jacques. A ronde in three parts. Goes down a treat with most age groups. Only needs a wee bit of practice. I sang the verse to them. They sang it back. I explained that we were going to sing it three times in three groups, each group starting at a different point. And off we went. Well, they didn't need me, did they? These kids came from a long tradition of unaccompanied singing - especially in Gaelic - and they knew what a ronde was.
They also understood harmony, and with every song I taught them the French words for after that, they harmonised automatically.
They also sang a lot better than I did.
It was a good lesson. For me. In a way, it opened my eyes to how diverse a group my pupils were. A lot of kids were involved in music. There were Gaelic choirs everywhere. And it wasn't just singing that the kids took part in. Stewart McNally played the pipes. Angus MacGregor played the tuba (sorry if I've got that wrong, Gus - I know it was brass anyway!). Branwen Sykes played the flute. A lot were involved in Scottish dancing. Pipe Major Hood trained his pipers in the portakabin outside my classroom. When I recorded exam tapes to send to the Exam Board in Edinburgh, I had to explain why you could sometimes pick up pipe music in the background.
All this was normal and a world away from a Glasgow scheme. A lot of Islay and Jura kids came from a farming background and from an early age kept their own animals, which they put in to the Show. They drove tractors - very well - from the age of about 10. The ones who lived in the villages had responsibilities like cutting peat from an early age. The 'up country' kids had a long day, leaving home early to be at the road-end to get the bus to school. They never complained, although sometimes the Jura kids didn't make it to school because of the weather.
I'm delighted to say nothing has changed. Many young people in Islay are still involved in music. And many have held on to their love of music for a long time.
I have a specific reason for this post: Angela Paterson, Port Ellen, has been invited to take part in Celtic Connections in January.
Angela is a self-made artiste, who writes and sings her own music. She has sung and played in many settings over the last few years - including the Hebridean Princess. It has taken years of hard graft to get to where she is and everyone who knows her should be proud.
Here's to her success!
You're joking, Ambassador
Dear Nigel,
We have received your application via Mr Trump for the post of Her Majesty's Ambassador to the United States and we thank you for your expression of interest.
As you no doubt know, we already have one of those in post. He's been doing okay and tends to have the kind of qualifications HM government is looking for.
First of all, he's very experienced. He was recruited to the Foreign and Commonwealth straight from university a long time ago and has represented the UK in embassies all over the world since then.
Secondly, he's not a politician. And he's definitely not a banker. He's a diplomat. That means he's subtle, clever and wise. Three things I'm afraid you are not. He's pretty well paid for the responsibility he has, but he doesn't make money on the side. (You might want to mention to Mr Trump next time you see him that we regard using your own hotel as a headquarters when you're president of the USA as a bit infra dig). We also don't expect our ambassadors to fiddle their expenses or to be found hanging on to a pint of lager at the bar and passing out the Silk Cut to all comers.
Thirdly, like all our ambassadors, our man in the USA is not expected to go around rabble-rousing. In fact, we recruit staff - male and female - who are the very opposite of trouble-makers. We expect them to get on well with our allies and do their best to win over our enemies. We might think twice about appointing a woman to the USA job while Mr Trump is in the post of president. Ahem. And we can't see our man in Washington standing in front of Congress telling our allies' most senior politicians they are useless layabouts who've never done a day's work in their lives. That didn't go down well with the doctors, lawyers and university professors of the EU parliament and we don't think it's what we need for the US either.
We understand you still have a job at the EU. We would like to suggest very respectfully that so long as the voters elect you and the EU pay you, you should maybe turn up in Brussels once in a while, attend the odd committee meeting and represent your country's interests there. You never know, you might get to quite like it.
We have received your application via Mr Trump for the post of Her Majesty's Ambassador to the United States and we thank you for your expression of interest.
As you no doubt know, we already have one of those in post. He's been doing okay and tends to have the kind of qualifications HM government is looking for.
First of all, he's very experienced. He was recruited to the Foreign and Commonwealth straight from university a long time ago and has represented the UK in embassies all over the world since then.
Secondly, he's not a politician. And he's definitely not a banker. He's a diplomat. That means he's subtle, clever and wise. Three things I'm afraid you are not. He's pretty well paid for the responsibility he has, but he doesn't make money on the side. (You might want to mention to Mr Trump next time you see him that we regard using your own hotel as a headquarters when you're president of the USA as a bit infra dig). We also don't expect our ambassadors to fiddle their expenses or to be found hanging on to a pint of lager at the bar and passing out the Silk Cut to all comers.
Thirdly, like all our ambassadors, our man in the USA is not expected to go around rabble-rousing. In fact, we recruit staff - male and female - who are the very opposite of trouble-makers. We expect them to get on well with our allies and do their best to win over our enemies. We might think twice about appointing a woman to the USA job while Mr Trump is in the post of president. Ahem. And we can't see our man in Washington standing in front of Congress telling our allies' most senior politicians they are useless layabouts who've never done a day's work in their lives. That didn't go down well with the doctors, lawyers and university professors of the EU parliament and we don't think it's what we need for the US either.
We understand you still have a job at the EU. We would like to suggest very respectfully that so long as the voters elect you and the EU pay you, you should maybe turn up in Brussels once in a while, attend the odd committee meeting and represent your country's interests there. You never know, you might get to quite like it.
Friday 18 November 2016
Tourists
I've started a book by a journalist called Madeleine Bunting. She used to write for the Guardian but has given that up to concentrate on her writing. The book is called Love of Country and it's about the Hebrides.
Ms Bunting is originally from Yorkshire but now lives in London. She's the very opposite of me: southern, middle-class (educated at Cambridge/Harvard or Oxford/Yale. I forget) and brought up British by patriotic parents who used the words 'British' and 'English' interchangeably.
It didn't take me long to work out that Ms Bunting's view of Scotland is coloured by her childhood summer holidays spent in a rented croft near Tain. The holidays lasted two weeks every summer for ten years, and began with the family packing up the van with two weeks of food shopping. She and her 4 brothers and sisters happily ran wild, spending a lot of time hanging out with the only real crofters left in the area. That gave me an idea who I was dealing with here: the stereotype well-off southern tourist who seems to think places like Tain have no shops, and certainly no shops that could do with business from tourists visiting the area. I'm pleased she got this holiday experience but she could have been anywhere for all the effect it had on her. And she and her family put nothing in to the community when they were there.
Then she mentions in her introduction that she plans to rope in family and friends to go with her on her travels round the Hebrides. I wonder what she thought would happen to her if she'd set off on her own. She'd get a very different view of life in the Highlands and Islands for one thing. She might even have met some real locals rather than staying huddled in her comfort group.
So she's a tourist then. An academic, well-educated tourist but not a traveller and certainly not an anthropologist.
What puzzles me most is who this book is written for. It's a bit dense for tourists. It's too weak on detail for historians and anthropologists. And it is highly selective. So places like Arran, Islay, Mull, Gigha and Skye don't get a mention but there is, as usual, a whole chapter devoted to St Kilda.
I've dipped into different chapters of the book and have learned nothing new. I'll return it to the shelf of the library that I got it from. This is not the book that will inform Scottish readers as well as southern tourists about the half of Scotland that isn't in the Central Belt.
Ms Bunting is originally from Yorkshire but now lives in London. She's the very opposite of me: southern, middle-class (educated at Cambridge/Harvard or Oxford/Yale. I forget) and brought up British by patriotic parents who used the words 'British' and 'English' interchangeably.
It didn't take me long to work out that Ms Bunting's view of Scotland is coloured by her childhood summer holidays spent in a rented croft near Tain. The holidays lasted two weeks every summer for ten years, and began with the family packing up the van with two weeks of food shopping. She and her 4 brothers and sisters happily ran wild, spending a lot of time hanging out with the only real crofters left in the area. That gave me an idea who I was dealing with here: the stereotype well-off southern tourist who seems to think places like Tain have no shops, and certainly no shops that could do with business from tourists visiting the area. I'm pleased she got this holiday experience but she could have been anywhere for all the effect it had on her. And she and her family put nothing in to the community when they were there.
Then she mentions in her introduction that she plans to rope in family and friends to go with her on her travels round the Hebrides. I wonder what she thought would happen to her if she'd set off on her own. She'd get a very different view of life in the Highlands and Islands for one thing. She might even have met some real locals rather than staying huddled in her comfort group.
So she's a tourist then. An academic, well-educated tourist but not a traveller and certainly not an anthropologist.
What puzzles me most is who this book is written for. It's a bit dense for tourists. It's too weak on detail for historians and anthropologists. And it is highly selective. So places like Arran, Islay, Mull, Gigha and Skye don't get a mention but there is, as usual, a whole chapter devoted to St Kilda.
I've dipped into different chapters of the book and have learned nothing new. I'll return it to the shelf of the library that I got it from. This is not the book that will inform Scottish readers as well as southern tourists about the half of Scotland that isn't in the Central Belt.
Sunday 13 November 2016
Merry Christmas, one and all!
Yesterday a Facebook friend warned us all the full-on advertising season for Christmas has started so we can expect crap like this to appear on our FB walls any time:
And sure enough, there it was today! Here are a few thoughts of my own on the matter of Christian festivals.
I would prefer it if the adverts were kept to the 12 days before Christmas but that's not going to happen. It would be great if Christmas wasn't an orgy of buying but it is. It would be just as great if Christmas had more to do with religion.
I recognise 3 distinct types of Christians:
- Real Christians go to church, do good things in the community and live by their faith.
- Kinda Christians go to church for weddings, funerals and christenings and sometimes at Christmas.
- Kid-on Christians tick the box on the form that says Christian but don't ever go to church and get very worked up at the idea of people like Jews and Moslems having their own festivals to celebrate at Christmas time.
For 'Christians' in the list above you can substitute 'Jews' or 'Moslems.' The area I live in has quite a high Jewish population but I reckon about half of my Jewish neighbours are what I would call 'cultural' Jews (a bit like the Kinda Christians I described above) and not religious Jews. That's their choice. I imagine there are also Kinda Moslems out there too.
I'm an atheist. I don't care what you call any of these festivals. I don't celebrate Christmas but I do celebrate the national holiday we all share round about then. And I always have done, despite growing up in a family of socialists and communists.
As a child, I had great Christmases and they all had to do with presents. We really only got presents on 3 occasions in the year back then: birthdays (real presents), the first Sunday in May (mainly summer clothes) and Christmas (winter clothes and a lot of toys and books). Other than that, there was just August when we got kitted out for the return to school. Hard to get excited about that even back then.
By the way, I reckon one of the big steps forward we've made in the last generation or two has been the sale of cheap clothes, especially for kids. Viva Primark, Asda and Matalan! Great clothes and great colours. Easy to wash. Wee boys' joggers - 4 quid. Wee girls' party dresses - 8 quid. And when they wear out, as they do, these cheapo clothes can go in the recycling and we'll buy something new.
Christmas to us looked like this:
This was my first Christmas - I was 9 months old!
So who in the world says 'Happy Holidays' instead of Merry Christmas? Nobody in the UK, that I'm sure of. Is it a US thing or a Canadian thing? Canadians are pretty 'right-on' people so I can't imagine Christians there getting worked up about what to call a national holiday that is shared by all. So I'm guessing it's an American thing, maybe an attempt to include everyone in a seasonal holiday. The only people who could object to that would be a few swivel-eyed Kinda Christians in the US population.
We see these extremists from time to time on TV and in the newspapers in the UK. Convinced there is about to be a take-over of Europe by Moslems. It's nonsense, of course. Scratch a Moslem and you'll find someone who wants a job, a safe place for them and their family to live, and a decent future for their kids. I sometimes come across anti-semites too, convinced that the world is being run by a Jewish conspiracy led by the Rothschild family. That's one of the oldest conspiracy theories of all time.
The truth is less exciting: we're more alike than we are different. And, given the state politics is in right now, maybe it's time to start emphasising what we share.
Thursday 10 November 2016
Clothes
I was sitting outside the changing rooms in Asda Toryglen, waiting for my sister to try on - oh, I don't know - maybe seven tops, out of which she might pick two as being suitable. A young guy came and sat down on the pouffe next to mine. We looked at each other and sighed together. Then his partner came out of the changing rooms and said:
- What about this?
- Aye, that's quite nice, he said.
She flounced back inside. He sighed again and looked at his watch.
- You on a deadline? I asked.
- We're due at a wedding in half an hour, he said.
- Where's that? I asked.
- Larkhall, he said.
- You're not gonny make it, I said. What's the problem?
It turned out his partner had bought a top for this wedding and he hadn't been enthusiastic enough when she showed it off two hours before. Hence the dash to Asda.
- What was up with it? I asked.
- It was yella.
Fair enough. I gave it a bit of thought.
- The next one she comes out with, you have to say 'Wow!'
He thought about this.
- What if it's boggin?
- It's still wow or you'll be here all day.
When I think about clothes shopping I realise my bro in law owes me big time for him being able to sit in his comfy chair on a Saturday afternoon listening to the footie on the radio while I trawl the shops with my sister. Mind you, my shopping skills are now so sharp that at one point in Monsoon a woman who had obviously heard me advising my sister said: Jean, are you there? What do you think of this? I should charge money.
- What about this?
- Aye, that's quite nice, he said.
She flounced back inside. He sighed again and looked at his watch.
- You on a deadline? I asked.
- We're due at a wedding in half an hour, he said.
- Where's that? I asked.
- Larkhall, he said.
- You're not gonny make it, I said. What's the problem?
It turned out his partner had bought a top for this wedding and he hadn't been enthusiastic enough when she showed it off two hours before. Hence the dash to Asda.
- What was up with it? I asked.
- It was yella.
Fair enough. I gave it a bit of thought.
- The next one she comes out with, you have to say 'Wow!'
He thought about this.
- What if it's boggin?
- It's still wow or you'll be here all day.
When I think about clothes shopping I realise my bro in law owes me big time for him being able to sit in his comfy chair on a Saturday afternoon listening to the footie on the radio while I trawl the shops with my sister. Mind you, my shopping skills are now so sharp that at one point in Monsoon a woman who had obviously heard me advising my sister said: Jean, are you there? What do you think of this? I should charge money.
I Confess
It turns out it's all my fault. I mean, this sudden swerve to the right the world has taken. The rise of fascism too. I'm to blame. Well, me and a some other folk. According to some commentators (journalists), my insistence on political correctness, doing away with capital punishment, demanding the legalisation of drugs, allowing free access to contraception and abortion and immigration. All down to liberals (small l) like me.
I'll admit I agree with the first one. Having been called specky, fatty and swotty at various times in my life, I quite like the idea of people not putting other people down by calling them names. I like it when people hold back insults against black people, Jews, Moslems, foreigners of all kinds, women, disabled folk, etc. And when people tell us we're invading their freedom of speech, it's good to remind them that their freedom ends when it infringes the rights of someone else. I don't subscribe to the 'it's political correctness gone mad' approach to life: it's politeness and decent behaviour that keep life ticking over. A friend of mine says she most dislikes the people who blurt out an insult, racist, sexist or otherwise, followed by a defensive: 'Well, it has to be said.' No. It doesn't. Just button it.
As for the rest of the list, I doubt if these things are responsible for the people of southern Europe putting up fences to keep out refugees and immigrants, the UK turning its back on children in a camp that the media called 'the Jungle' (tell me who lives in a jungle - animals mostly, right?), Trump threatening to put up a wall between the US and Mexico and wanting to ban Moslems, Dutch politicians cheerily calling for immigrants from the Middle East to be kicked out of the Netherlands, attacks on Polish people in the streets of the UK, and all the other nasty things that are happening.
Maybe we need to look elsewhere.
Let's start with why we have so many refugees. That would have to do with war. Also to do with poverty caused by the lack of jobs almost everywhere in Africa, the Indian sub-continent and the Middle East. Whatever we're doing to support those communities, we're not lifting them out of need.
Added to these people, there's the insecurity felt by large numbers of people all over the developed world.
In the UK, jobs are scarce, so you can find access to work available only through an unpaid internship. You'll be offered short-term contracts or zero hours contracts. You can be invited to be self-employed, in which case you have no employment rights at all. And all the time, there's the spectre of unemployment and a less than generous Social Security system to help you up.
In the US, they have these and other problems. I heard it said on the radio last week that the country is changing from a white, English- speaking community to a Hispanic, Spanish-speaking one. And that leaves millions of white people, not just African-Americans who have traditionally been left behind, looking at at least a lower standard of living and at worst unemployment. I believe the Canadian immigration website collapsed this week under the weight of enquiries from US citizens. That should be interesting.
In France, Spain and Greece, it's young people who are suffering the most, so they too are on the move to other parts of the world.
In the last 20 years, capitalism has been triumphant. So how have we used it? To spread the wealth, create jobs, build houses and decent towns to live in? Of course not. We've allowed capitalism to make small groups of people very, very rich. They went on getting rich during the capitalist recession of 2008. They're still getting rich, even the shareholders of companies that have plundered their employees' pensions.
Is there a cure for the world's ills? I've no idea, but I know from what I hear and read, there's another problem coming our way: last week, I saw a headline in a local newspaper announcing that 'automation' will do away with up to 20% of jobs in the public sector. I'm just guessing but I suppose that will apply to the private sector too.
What then? Is there a plan for dealing with that?
I'll admit I agree with the first one. Having been called specky, fatty and swotty at various times in my life, I quite like the idea of people not putting other people down by calling them names. I like it when people hold back insults against black people, Jews, Moslems, foreigners of all kinds, women, disabled folk, etc. And when people tell us we're invading their freedom of speech, it's good to remind them that their freedom ends when it infringes the rights of someone else. I don't subscribe to the 'it's political correctness gone mad' approach to life: it's politeness and decent behaviour that keep life ticking over. A friend of mine says she most dislikes the people who blurt out an insult, racist, sexist or otherwise, followed by a defensive: 'Well, it has to be said.' No. It doesn't. Just button it.
As for the rest of the list, I doubt if these things are responsible for the people of southern Europe putting up fences to keep out refugees and immigrants, the UK turning its back on children in a camp that the media called 'the Jungle' (tell me who lives in a jungle - animals mostly, right?), Trump threatening to put up a wall between the US and Mexico and wanting to ban Moslems, Dutch politicians cheerily calling for immigrants from the Middle East to be kicked out of the Netherlands, attacks on Polish people in the streets of the UK, and all the other nasty things that are happening.
Maybe we need to look elsewhere.
Let's start with why we have so many refugees. That would have to do with war. Also to do with poverty caused by the lack of jobs almost everywhere in Africa, the Indian sub-continent and the Middle East. Whatever we're doing to support those communities, we're not lifting them out of need.
Added to these people, there's the insecurity felt by large numbers of people all over the developed world.
In the UK, jobs are scarce, so you can find access to work available only through an unpaid internship. You'll be offered short-term contracts or zero hours contracts. You can be invited to be self-employed, in which case you have no employment rights at all. And all the time, there's the spectre of unemployment and a less than generous Social Security system to help you up.
In the US, they have these and other problems. I heard it said on the radio last week that the country is changing from a white, English- speaking community to a Hispanic, Spanish-speaking one. And that leaves millions of white people, not just African-Americans who have traditionally been left behind, looking at at least a lower standard of living and at worst unemployment. I believe the Canadian immigration website collapsed this week under the weight of enquiries from US citizens. That should be interesting.
In France, Spain and Greece, it's young people who are suffering the most, so they too are on the move to other parts of the world.
In the last 20 years, capitalism has been triumphant. So how have we used it? To spread the wealth, create jobs, build houses and decent towns to live in? Of course not. We've allowed capitalism to make small groups of people very, very rich. They went on getting rich during the capitalist recession of 2008. They're still getting rich, even the shareholders of companies that have plundered their employees' pensions.
Is there a cure for the world's ills? I've no idea, but I know from what I hear and read, there's another problem coming our way: last week, I saw a headline in a local newspaper announcing that 'automation' will do away with up to 20% of jobs in the public sector. I'm just guessing but I suppose that will apply to the private sector too.
What then? Is there a plan for dealing with that?
Saturday 5 November 2016
Newspapers
Maybe my nephew is right and printed newspapers are on their last legs. And that's why they are now printing the most absolute, embarrassing nonsense on their front pages.
You've seen the front page of the Daily Mail this week, which accused three high court judges - three middle-aged whiter than white men - of being the enemy of the people. Three guys - women don't
figure here - probably all middle class, from the right kind of public school and having attended one of the ancient universities. (And I don't mean St Andrews or Glasgow). One of the guys is accused of being in favour of Europe and one is outed as an openly gay ex-fencing champion. I'd have said all of this makes the guys PLT (people like them), a wee play on Margaret Thatcher's phrase PLU. (Mrs T always thought she was one of them, but it didn't take them long to dump her when she no longer pleased them).
The 'openly gay' insult came off the front page pretty fast when someone realised being gay was no longer a crime and, in fact, was pretty well okay with most of us these days.
Newspapers never used to be quite as bad as this in the UK. In the 60s, my father read the Mirror and sometimes the Manchester Guardian. On Sundays in our house, there was a torrent of newspapers: the Sunday Post. the News of the World and Sunday Mail, the Observer and sometimes the Sunday Times. But the daily paper changed when my father got promoted.
He was a shipyard worker all his days. When he heard that Alexander Stephen was going to merge with Yarrows and that they would be taking on naval contracts, he had a rush of enthusiasm. He was known for this. At various times, he got excited about shoe-making, joinery and gardening, to name but a few of his hobbies.
I have to say that's a characteristic of my family even today. I've been there myself, with rug-making and cross-stitch, so when a member of my family gets excited about music, for example, I think: Let's just wait. It may well come to nothing.
So my father went off to the 'Tech', now known as Strathclyde University. The local branch of the Engineering Union sponsored him and he completed several courses in maths, design and naval architecture. (He was a bright guy - should have gone to one of Glasgow's fee-paying schools in the early 30s but his granny couldn't afford the uniform or the bus fares). On the strength of that, he got a promotion. Moving up from 'the tools' to 'the staff' was, I think, quite unusual in the 60s. He wasn't in work clothes any more but in a suit. And he changed his newspaper. He started buying the Daily Express.
I asked why. There were quite a few people (men) in his office, he said. They took their lunch break together in the canteen. They each bought a different paper, read it and then swapped it. They discussed what they read.
I asked if he agreed with the Daily Express's opinions. He and my grandfather had often expressed opinions about Beaverbrook and his like. Let's just say they were not fans. He doubted if any of his colleagues sympathised with Beaverbrook Newspapers. But, he said, you have to know what the enemy is saying.
That's a policy I'm happy to follow. I watch Sky News Review several times a week. Not that I believe much of what I hear but I want to know what the opposition are saying. I have long ago tagged some people are outright liars: Christina Patterson, Andrew Pierce, Carole Malone and Toby Young are just a few.
And I acknowledge that my early training as a newspaper reader by my family has stood me in good stead.
You've seen the front page of the Daily Mail this week, which accused three high court judges - three middle-aged whiter than white men - of being the enemy of the people. Three guys - women don't
figure here - probably all middle class, from the right kind of public school and having attended one of the ancient universities. (And I don't mean St Andrews or Glasgow). One of the guys is accused of being in favour of Europe and one is outed as an openly gay ex-fencing champion. I'd have said all of this makes the guys PLT (people like them), a wee play on Margaret Thatcher's phrase PLU. (Mrs T always thought she was one of them, but it didn't take them long to dump her when she no longer pleased them).
The 'openly gay' insult came off the front page pretty fast when someone realised being gay was no longer a crime and, in fact, was pretty well okay with most of us these days.
Newspapers never used to be quite as bad as this in the UK. In the 60s, my father read the Mirror and sometimes the Manchester Guardian. On Sundays in our house, there was a torrent of newspapers: the Sunday Post. the News of the World and Sunday Mail, the Observer and sometimes the Sunday Times. But the daily paper changed when my father got promoted.
He was a shipyard worker all his days. When he heard that Alexander Stephen was going to merge with Yarrows and that they would be taking on naval contracts, he had a rush of enthusiasm. He was known for this. At various times, he got excited about shoe-making, joinery and gardening, to name but a few of his hobbies.
I have to say that's a characteristic of my family even today. I've been there myself, with rug-making and cross-stitch, so when a member of my family gets excited about music, for example, I think: Let's just wait. It may well come to nothing.
So my father went off to the 'Tech', now known as Strathclyde University. The local branch of the Engineering Union sponsored him and he completed several courses in maths, design and naval architecture. (He was a bright guy - should have gone to one of Glasgow's fee-paying schools in the early 30s but his granny couldn't afford the uniform or the bus fares). On the strength of that, he got a promotion. Moving up from 'the tools' to 'the staff' was, I think, quite unusual in the 60s. He wasn't in work clothes any more but in a suit. And he changed his newspaper. He started buying the Daily Express.
I asked why. There were quite a few people (men) in his office, he said. They took their lunch break together in the canteen. They each bought a different paper, read it and then swapped it. They discussed what they read.
I asked if he agreed with the Daily Express's opinions. He and my grandfather had often expressed opinions about Beaverbrook and his like. Let's just say they were not fans. He doubted if any of his colleagues sympathised with Beaverbrook Newspapers. But, he said, you have to know what the enemy is saying.
That's a policy I'm happy to follow. I watch Sky News Review several times a week. Not that I believe much of what I hear but I want to know what the opposition are saying. I have long ago tagged some people are outright liars: Christina Patterson, Andrew Pierce, Carole Malone and Toby Young are just a few.
And I acknowledge that my early training as a newspaper reader by my family has stood me in good stead.
Thursday 3 November 2016
Grandparents
A Facebook post I liked tonight was a meme that has apparently gone viral: a photo of an old lady's hand, liver-spotted, bedecked in rings and sporting a beautiful manicure. A friend commented that her granny who's in a care home gets her hair and nails done every few weeks and she loves it. Another friend wrote cheerily that she has a 'client' who's a granny and loves painting her nails purple.
The first granny is 95 and the second is 71. My first thought was: you young people are going to have to change your ideas about old age.
Grannies are not what they were. The difference between 95 and 71 is a whole generation. Some of the grannies at the 71 end of the spectrum are still working and are likely to be working in the future as the age when women can access their state pension gets pushed further and further back. The youngest granny I've met was 34 and she could easily be a great-granny now, since she's still only about 52. She is very glamorous and vibrant - or, as I see it, a woman in her prime making the most of her looks and opportunities.
And yet the newspaper cartoonists go on producing pictures of grannies in slippers and aprons looking for all the world like Maw Broon.
The first granny is 95 and the second is 71. My first thought was: you young people are going to have to change your ideas about old age.
Grannies are not what they were. The difference between 95 and 71 is a whole generation. Some of the grannies at the 71 end of the spectrum are still working and are likely to be working in the future as the age when women can access their state pension gets pushed further and further back. The youngest granny I've met was 34 and she could easily be a great-granny now, since she's still only about 52. She is very glamorous and vibrant - or, as I see it, a woman in her prime making the most of her looks and opportunities.
And yet the newspaper cartoonists go on producing pictures of grannies in slippers and aprons looking for all the world like Maw Broon.
I don't think Maw Broon has ever got to be a granny. Too busy cooking for all these weans, not to mention Paw Broon and Faither. Not for her the joy of getting up at 7am to take in the grandkids as their parents head off to work, or pushing the buggy from one end of the town to the other in the hope of getting the grandchild to go for a sleep or trying to stop the grandchild from sleeping as the clock heads past 6pm.
I doubt if there's a granny - or grandad - in the world who would complain. This is how it is: the adults have to work, the cost of childcare is prohibitive and the grandparents have to step up to help out. It's always been like that.
It's pretty annoying if you're a volunteer to be constantly thanked for your efforts, when you know you wouldn't do it if you didn't like it and can stop at the cost of a phone call. Being a grandparent is not the same. Yes, you're a volunteer but volunteers in the community know that nothing much will happen if they stop helping out: someone else will step up or the service (usually for the poor and needy or the elderly or the disabled) will disappear and its passing will never be noticed. If grandparents don't or can't step up, the family - and the family income - fall apart.
But it's worth remembering that most grannies - and grandads - have done a life's work before they take on their new duties are carers: brought up their own kids, held down a job. In other words, they're knackered.
The least we can do is not patronise them.
And we might consider giving them their pension ahead of time.
Wednesday 2 November 2016
Poppies
Once, just once, I'd like us all to get through poppy season without people taking offence, falling out and arguing over nothing. Myself, I don't care if Scotland and England footballers wear a poppy on the field or not. The day after Armistice Day (and I wonder how many of the younger generation know what that stands for) it will all be forgotten till it rolls round next year and somebody posts on Facebook or Twitter:
Proud to wear a poppy and don't care who is offended by it.
Who's offended by it? Nobody I've ever met. Muslims are not offended by the poppy because many Muslims fought in the armed forces in the UK and have seen the devastation caused by war - for over a century now.
I begin to wonder if this excitement over the poppy every year is a giant confidence trick. The government - whatever shade it may be - never supports ex service people. It leaves it to charities like the Haig Fund, the British Legion and Help for Heroes - among others - to do that.
It was ever thus. I remember my grandfather telling us how he was offered a choice in 1919. He was a career soldier and a battalion middleweight boxer who had survived the trenches of northern France and the Dardanelles, and his choice was: honourable discharge into civvy street with a good reference (although there were no jobs) or a 2 year posting to Ireland as a Black and Tan. He went to Ireland but only until my granny could get the money together to buy him out. He came back to a land said to be 'fit for heroes.' But better not go into that here.
In my view, wear a poppy or don't wear a poppy. It doesn't matter. As long as you support the armed forces, particularly the veterans who are routinely discharged and left high and dry by the government that recruited them to fight in hellholes like Iraq and Afghanistan. I'd prefer it if footballers - who have the money - went without a poppy on an armband but donated vast amounts of money to the charities that look after ex-service people.
Call me a cock-eyed optimist.
Proud to wear a poppy and don't care who is offended by it.
Who's offended by it? Nobody I've ever met. Muslims are not offended by the poppy because many Muslims fought in the armed forces in the UK and have seen the devastation caused by war - for over a century now.
I begin to wonder if this excitement over the poppy every year is a giant confidence trick. The government - whatever shade it may be - never supports ex service people. It leaves it to charities like the Haig Fund, the British Legion and Help for Heroes - among others - to do that.
It was ever thus. I remember my grandfather telling us how he was offered a choice in 1919. He was a career soldier and a battalion middleweight boxer who had survived the trenches of northern France and the Dardanelles, and his choice was: honourable discharge into civvy street with a good reference (although there were no jobs) or a 2 year posting to Ireland as a Black and Tan. He went to Ireland but only until my granny could get the money together to buy him out. He came back to a land said to be 'fit for heroes.' But better not go into that here.
Call me a cock-eyed optimist.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)