Britain 2008 Bring Your Shopping Home Two Tins at a Time!

My friend Simcock is an environmentalist and my friend Spicer, for his carbon footprint, is classed as a medium sized country under the Kyoto agreement. This leads to lively discussions after Friday afternoon tennis especially when Simcock has downed his third locally brewed organic bitter and Spicer is on his fourth ridiculously expensive larger that is distilled and fermented in Scandinavia, bottled in Bratislava and shipped via twelve different distribution points to our pub in the Yorkshire Dales for his edification.

The regular topic of ‘green taxes' was again the subject recently. In my humble opinion these taxes aid the environment not one jot but are there for the sole purpose of boosting the coffers of the Treasury and making Brown look Green instead of Puce. Now taxes don't bother Spicer because if it costs a hundred quid more to fly to Dubai for a long weekend, so be it, he can afford it, or if you get 15% less fuel for your tenner, at the petrol station, than you did a month ago, a trifle annoying but the second bottle of Chablis usually puts it into perspective.

Perversely Simcock also believes that the cost of fuel should be a lot higher so that less people would use cars, he owns three by the way, and thus the planet would be saved from pollution. I constantly point out that the only people to suffer from this approach are the less well off. Spicer would still continue to drive and fly regardless of cost, as would all the people with money, but those trying to survive on low incomes, many of whom live in the country and can only get a bus to the nearest town on a Tuesday at 3.27.p.m. and return on a Thursday at 6.55.a.m, would suffer greatly.

As is presently being proven the increase in fuel costs brings with it the increase in all goods. Electric, gas, food, clothing in fact all of life’s necessities are going up in price at alarming rates. But fear not because the Government are on the case or will be as soon as they have finalised the Casino review, forced upon the population Identity Cards, fought off all opposition to jailing people without charge, conscripted our undereducated and undervalued youth into swearing allegiance to the flag and banned all licensed premises, that they incidently coerced into twenty four hour opening, from selling alcohol, at other than extortionate prices, as a delusionary ideal for eradicating ‘binge drinking’.

The latter is apparently to prevent the violence caused by young drinkers but personally I do not see how this can work as your average white track suited; Burberry capped youth will now have to mug and beat up four people, to acquire enough money for his habit, unlike the mere one unfortunate that suffers at his hands at present. You see politicians and economists have no grasp of reality.

They think that we the public are so naïve that if they rage war against plastic bags, in a spin doctored crusade, to save our planet that we will forgive or not notice the fact that they are doing nothing about old people freezing to death because of a 20% hike in gas and electric bills and are ignoring the plight of the record numbers of families being evicted from their homes because the mortgage companies and banks fear that their current millions in profits may dip a percent on the Dow Jones.

Spicer is of course ambivalent to these arguments and Simcock sanctimoniously defends the ‘plastic bag policy’ as something that must be done for the planets wellbeing. I do not deny this per say and have long argued against excessive packaging in general, but I do take exception to being treated, in my local Tesco, to the type of scorn from the check out staff, that in the past was meted out on child molesters, swindlers of old ladies and supporters of Bradford City Football Club, when I ask for a carrier bag because I have left my 'Bag for Life' at home. The fact that the said retailer has kindly flown me an artichoke three quarters of the way around the world seems immaterial.

In contrast on my recent trip to the Algarve a charming Portuguese lady at the mini-mart around the corner from our rented apartment neatly packed a loaf of bread into one plastic bag for me and a bottle of local wine priced at one Euro thirty into another. I felt quite decadent cheap alcohol and two plastic bags.

I didn't bring it up in discussion though as Simcock would have been disgusted at me for using two bags and Spicer would have been disgusted at me for drinking wine at a pound a bottle and I decided against further confrontation because as you will observe I am not an argumentative character.

'Businessmen Behaving Badly'

I recently received my invitation to The Summer Regional Businessman's Lunch, an event heralded upon the embossed card, requesting the pleasure of my company, as an opportunity to sample fine cuisine, select wines, celebrated speakers and the prospect of networking with the captains of industry.

I am in the main obliged to take issue with this little piece of stationery as my past experience of these events recalls tepid grey food, thin but very expensive wine, boring speeches and captains of industry who in the main would have done us all a favour by remaining corporals.

However there was one exception. Some years ago I attended this very event as a guest of a very good friend of mine who sits high in the UK Rich List. No one knows, including both him and me, why he deems to be my friend but it is just one of life's mysteries.

Our table consisted of seven millionaires, one almost millionaire, me and a golf caddy. I was beginning to feel a little better when the golf caddy informed me that he too had made his millions in business before becoming bored and dropping out to tour the world on the bag of a famous European golfer.

My tennis playing compatriot Spicer was the almost millionaire and Offenbach the eye specialist one of the magnificent seven. Now the latter is a tad elitist, in the nicest possible way. He genuinely believes that everyone spends a thousand pounds on a room at Gleneagles when the urge for a round of golf takes them and that all people change their cars when the initial pile wears off the carpets. So these functions of food produced en mass and wine served not of a certain vintage are not really his scene.

A great deal of alcohol was consumed in the bar of the five star hotel before the guests were ushered into the ball room where lunch was served. Much wine was drunk as various speakers affirmed why it is that I don't attend more of these occasions. The starter came and went along with more wine and the atmosphere in the room became decidedly rowdy. A blue comedian took to the stage during courses but after a short time stormed off because the audience was too rude.

Party hats were on each table and the golf caddy chose a natty looking fez. Nigel a Gentleman Farmer friend of Wren my host thought it a good idea to set light to the tassel and there was a distinct smell of singed hair before the latter put him out with a rather expensive bottle of Montrachet.

As the main course was served an altercation took place in the middle of the room. It seems that one table had thought it amusing to throw ice cubes at another table but took exception when the other table threw an ice bucket back at them. The fight that followed was like a bar room brawl in a western B movie. The Master of Ceremonies was all for calling the police until it was pointed out that one of the tables involved in the scuffle was the police.

Punches flew and bodies and furniture hit the floor and everyone not actually involved in the fracas strained for a good view by standing on the chairs and tables. I found this a bit childish of course, but was obliged none the less to push Nigel off our table as he was blocking my sight of the action. As I did this I felt a tug on my leg and looked down to see Offenbach prodding his food around his plate. "Clarky" he said "Do you think that these vegetables are a bit soggy?"

Alas I fear that the excitement of the above occasion was a one off and subsequent "Lunches" proved to be boring and sober episodes so this year I felt able to decline the invitation and informed the Businessman's Committee that unfortunately on the afternoon of their event I had a pressing engagement to de-flea the cat...

'Money Making Scheme For The Deranged'

I am, as usual, bemoaning the problems that I am having finding a convenient way of making money. My ultimate aim of writing a blockbusting best seller is being obstructed by the reluctance of a suitable subject matter to offer itself up to me.

This is being exasperated by the current worldwide financial crisis not helping the day job, as companies draw in their horns or in my case their marketing budgets. Thus my wife is constantly pointing out to me that in life’s ‘penalty shoot out’ our outgoings, having taken the form of Germany, are beating our incomings, masquerading as England, with arrogant ease.

My precarious financial standing however is not a new phenomenon, it is something that I have managed, with great skill, to nurture most of my adult life. In fact reflecting upon it, most of my childhood was also spent in economic penury, but to be fair I cannot take full credit for that period.

I am not saying that I have never had money, in fact there have been times when I have been quite well off, but I cleverly have always managed to squander it without the encumbrance of wise investments. My wife does despair.

As I drove to work recently I thought deeply about how I could extract myself from my latest encounter with poverty. That day I was doing some promotional work at Doncaster Racecourse so the 3.15. Five Furlong Handicap seemed a perfect solution. Unfortunately as often happens in my experience my horse had a fractionally shorter neck than one of its rivals and it was back to the drawing board.

On the journey home however I remembered a scheme that I had thought up a few seasons ago when my local football team Leeds United were in serious financial difficulties and threatened with administration and decided to discuss it that evening over a few beers with my friend Biddercome. I do all my best work alcohol related.

I was due to meet Biddercome to review the latest stages of the book that he is writing ‘The Full English Breakfast'. It was envy of this venture that rekindled my desire for my own literary endeavour, or un-endeavour as the case unfortunately still is. I was officially there to discuss the fundamental requirements of fried bread. I don't actually like fried bread and much prefer toast however the latter will no doubt be for another day's meeting and further beers and analysis. Having chewed over the fried bread in a manner of speaking we progressed to discussing my potential money earning scheme.

I reminded Biddercome of the conversation that we had had when Leeds United owed in the region of 80 to 100 million pounds some years ago and were threatened with administration and relegation from the ‘top flight of English football' and how they bravely fought their way through all the trials and tribulations.

He not being a footballing fan rather cruelly pointed out that in fact the following year they did go into administration and now languish in the ‘third flight of English football'.

I think it is because he has got short legs why he is so spiteful.

Undeterred I pushed on, did he remember how I had suggested that if every single man, woman and child in the city and surrounding area gave a financial contribution to their plight that they could have been saved. He said that he did vaguely remember and that his response as he remembered it was, that each persons contribution would probably have had to have been in the region of ten pounds and considering that the vast majority of people in the area couldn't give a toss about the team that figure was a bit steep. As he belongs to this silent couldn't give a ‘toss' majority he also considered me a trifle sad for even thinking up ideas of how to save the club. I then said that on the back of that idea comes one to ease my own present day financial burdens.
His interest heightened.

I explained that the operation would be similar to the LU idea except “I wasn’t even expecting a seven-figure sum”.

I worked out that in the area where I live there are several hundred houses within a twenty-minute walk. Now if every household, not even every person, I’m not greedy, contributed a pound a week to the ‘Save Clarkson' fund I would accumulate a tidy living income.

Having considered my comments and consumed another pint of bitter Biddercome enquired “What would the said householders get for their pound?”
Well they would get a personal visit from me every week, to pick up the money and say “thank you”

I would adopt a flexible approach on best day for ‘collection' and be adaptable in collecting 2 contributions during holiday periods so they didn't worry about ‘missing me'.
Biddercome ruminated for quite some time before stating that he considered that I had the nucleus of a good idea but he still felt that my ‘clients' would be happier if their hard earned income was going toward useful charity work like the ‘Gay OAP fund' or ‘Caribbean Holidays for Habitual Offenders'.

He may have had a point but who knows with a bit of tweaking the scheme could still have legs.
However I have decided, for now, it may be better to re-concentrate upon the thorny issue of a subject matter for my literary masterpiece and with that in mind have added “Money Making Schemes for the Deranged” to my list of potential titles.

The First Day in a New Job Does it Dictate Your Future Career?

Canute rang me the other day to give me an update from Antigua on a cricket match he happened to be watching and an analysis on rum punch, as I had just returned from a day working at Sedgefield Racecourse in County Durham and the only respite from the driving rain was when it eased off to allow the snow to fall, then I was not so happy to hear from him. Canute is loosely speaking my business partner, though he spends great swathes of the year swaning around regions of tropical beauty whilst I put on a fourth sweater because I cannot afford to turn the radiator up another notch.

I have mentioned in a previous article that he tells everyone that I taught him all he knows, this is because I showed him the ropes at a company that we both joined shortly after leaving our respective universities. I had this privilege because I had approximately three months more experience than he did, and this started me thinking about the impact that a first day in the job can have on a person.


When I joined the company in question I was put in the care of a gnarled, middle aged and slightly bitter sales veteran whom I had to meet on my first morning at 6.30 a.m. in Scunthorpe, which luckily for most of you reading this, is a place that you will not have experienced, it's a bit like downtown Mogadishu, without the charm but with a Woolworths.

I cannot remember how I got there at that un-godly hour, with no transport, but do remember a day slogging around the high spots of Northern Lincolnshire and South Yorkshire until at 8.15. p.m. being deposited in front of a rather shabby terraced house in Mansfield, a place that made me long to be back in Scunthorpe, and told that this was where I was to stay for the one week duration of my 'representative training'. My tutor thus drove off, still gnarled, a little more middle aged and even more bitter than on first acquaintance.

I went up a short path covered in a frosty moss that would have aided the preparations of the British figure skating team and saw the sign in a fairly grimy front window announcing "Mrs Persona's Guest House No Vacancies". Surely this was a good sign, after all a guest house in Mansfield, not a noted tourist destination, that was full in mid February, must be doing something right.

I imagined the aforementioned landlady as a cheerful Italian momma dispensing huge portions of pasta to happy guests, this would be followed by a few glasses of Chianti, a Grappa chaser and off to bed in a cosy little room that radiated the warmth of the owner's native Sorrento.

I rang the bell, the door opened and I was immediately bitterly disappointed. The lady was Italian, but not cheerful and welcoming. She informed me that I was too late for a meal, which if it had tasted anything like it's lingering after smell did not disturb me too much. She then grunted something which I took to mean follow her and we ascended four flights of stairs to a room in the attic. As I peered into this dark broom cupboard I could not help but notice that it contained three camp-beds. The one nearest the door and the one furthest from the door had clothes strewn over them and there were muddy boots on the threadbare carpet along with rucksacks and bags.Two construction workers hard hats perched on the only chair in view.

Now I do not profess to being the brightest person in the world but something did not seem quite right to me. I therefore quizzed my host upon the nature of all these possessions and wondered if in fact she was just showing me some sort of store room and my cosy little bedroom with an air of the Mediterranean was in fact tucked away somewhere else within the residence.

She seemed quite affronted and snapped that this was my room and that I had the privilege of sharing it with two gentlemen from County Cork who were helping build the nearby bypass and she had never had any complaints before from guests brought to her by my, "gnarled, middle aged, bitter guide to all things sales representative", obviously she didn't quite use this terminology but I guessed that she would have wanted me to paraphrase for her.

By 8.45.p.m. I had rung my mentor from the only phone box in town not vandalised, obviously not withstanding the broken windows and the smell of urine, and told him that, though I am actually in the main quite fond of natives from the Emerald Isle, I would not be residing in his charming town that evening and discovered from him where his first call was the following day stating that I would see him there. Then by foot, bus and train I made my way back to North Yorkshire got my father up in the middle of the night and blagged his car from him and almost immediately set back off to Nottingham to restart my career.

Awaiting me was my tutor and the Area Manager who had been rung in somewhat of a panic by the former. Nothing like this had ever happened within the company before. To be fair the Area Manager was a little shocked by my tale and even apologetic he was unaware that for year's trainee's had been subjected to accommodation that was like that Orwell had experienced in "The Road to Wigan Pier", and my trainer was consequently sanctioned for it.

Thus I went down in the annals of that company as a bit of a rebel. To show that they had no hard feelings after just three months they removed the training of staff from the gnarled one and gave it to me!

Canute was my first recruit. I met him off the train from his native Barnsley at Leeds station at 9.30.a.m. we had a leisurely coffee, and then mooched around some city centre bookshops, that was our business, book sales, and then we had a pub lunch. At three we nipped into William Hill to see what had won the Novice Hurdle at Uttoxeter and by 4.30. p.m. I had him back on the train, complementary copy of "Confessions of a Window Cleaner" in hand, so he would be back in Barnsley in time for a quick John Smiths Bitter' at his local pub before his mum had the Cottage Pie on the table at seven o clock.

He went on to be a senior manager with that company before becoming managing director of a subsidiary of one of the countries largest distribution companies; he then sold this to an international conglomerate becoming a multi millionaire. He then out of boredom came into business with me. I on the other hand remained the rebel and made and lost money until arriving at my present position of poverty fuelled manic depression. Obviously the experience of the first day of someone's career must have a profound life long effect.

Friday Evening With the Famous.

Much as I enjoy my Friday evening, after tennis, sessions at the pub with my usual partners I thought recently that it would be a change to enliven the occasion and decided to invite some interesting famous people along.

I booked the back room of my local, got Biddercome to organise some food, set out a few tables, stocked the bar and off we went. Spicer, Biddercome, Simcock and myself arrived early and eagerly awaited our guests, keen to see who, from the many invited, would actually show up.

The first to arrive was a chubby little Welshman who staggered a bit as he entered the room. He glanced quickly around spied the bar and made a beeline for it. “Who’s that?” whispered Simcock. Being a teacher he is by far the least intelligent of my friends. “That’s Dylan Thomas, the famous poet.” I answered “You’ve been to Wales go and talk to him”. He dutifully crossed the floor to do so, as two of the prettiest men I have ever seen flowed into the room, wearing smocks and silk scarves. Lord Byron and Percy Shelly had arrived. Behind them a nervous little figure with a rather large nose and huge spectacles peered in. “Isn’t that Woody Allen?” said Spicer, the film officiado of our quartet. “Yes go and make him welcome” I said.

Biddercome looked a bit sheepish. “What’s wrong?” I enquired. “I’ve laid on pork sausages and bacon” he muttered. I should have known better than leave the food arrangements to the author of “The Full English Breakfast”.

By now the room was filling up, a moustachioed American confidently strode across to us and introduced himself as Mark Twain, he then quickly fell into conversation with James Joyce and G.K.Chesterton.

Simcock appeared at my shoulder “I’m struggling with Dylan Thomas” he said “I asked him about Wales and he said “Wales is the land of my fathers, and my fathers can have it” then he got stuck into the booze” Then Simcock got excited “Great I see you’ve invited Lawrence Llewelyn Bowen”. I tutted “That’s Oscar Wilde”.

I was really pleased to see Winston Churchill arrive but a bit perturbed when George Bernard Shaw came in accompanied by his friend Lady Astor knowing that the latter had a definite “history” with our greatest ever Prime Minister.

Spicer was now between Woody Allen and the pair of pre Raphaelite poets, he was relating his Thursday afternoon golf round to them, hole by hole, a ritual that we have to put up with every Friday. Byron looked at him rather disdainfully and intoned “Prolonged endurance tames the bold!” then stomped off. Catching the tail end of this conversation G.K.Chesterton stroked his curly locks and stated that in his opinion “Golf is an expensive way of playing marbles!” Mark Twain standing nearby seemed to agree stating that “Golf is a good walk spoiled!” I could see that Spicer was about to get combative so sent Simcock to smooth things over. “I’m a chess man myself” said my Cornish friend. “I failed to make the chess team because of my height!” sighed Woody Allen dolefully. I decided that it was a good time to get the food out.

As Biddercome emerged from the kitchens with plates of, well, “breakfasts” I noted that the bar area was pretty occupied and the drinks supply was taking quite a hammering. “I’ve just had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that’s a record!” I heard a slurred Swansea accent inform the room. Lady Astor a renowned prohibitionist muttered something about alcoholics. “An alcoholic is someone you don’t like who drinks as much as you do!” mumbled Dylan Thomas and set about his nineteenth straight whisky.

Shelly and Byron appeared very conspiratorial in the corner glancing, at regular intervals toward the flamboyantly dressed Oscar Wilde. “I think they are gossiping about you” said Spicer to the playwright at which the Irishman replied aloofly “There is only one thing in life worse than being talked about and that is not being talked about!” and he strode toward the food table. There he found Biddercome’s sausages not quite to his liking. “I like my food dead. Not Sick. Not dying. Dead!” he shouted dramatically and stomped off to the bar.

Biddercome was beside himself but calmed down when Winston whispered to him in his gravely tones “I like pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equal!” and with that he helped himself to a huge plate of bacon and a portion of sausages that Biddercome himself would have been proud to consume.

Woody Allen and Mrs Astor were next to serve themselves. The American comedian was not so impressed though stating “The food here is terrible” and adding “The portions are too small!”

On seeing Mrs Astor tuck into her sausages Byron snootily said to his friend Shelly that “A woman should never be seen eating or drinking unless it be lobster salad and champagne the only true feminine and becoming viands!” No wonder Biddercome has never come across him at The Little Chef just outside Kirby Lonsdale.

I felt that the evening was not going too well when I heard a bored sounding George Bernard Shaw utter “Alcohol is the anaesthesia by which we endure the operation of life!” and Mark Twain downing his third Rye seemed to agree, muttering “Sometimes too much to drink is barely enough!” I signalled to Simcock to get the cheese out quick.

Personally I thought it was quite a good and acceptable selection but James Joyce was less than complementary growling “A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what’s cheese? Corpse of milk!” Spicer whispered that he must be a Vegan. Byron and Shelly strode over and prodded at the Camembert, poked the Double Gloucester and sniffed at the Stilton then without a word left all unselected. “The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese!” G.K.Chesterton imparted through a mouthful of Mature Cheddar.

By now Dylan Thomas had fallen off his bar stool, Woody Allen was taking his own temperature and Oscar Wilde was thumbing through a Yellow Book and then it really kicked off when Lady Astor suggested that Churchill had imbibed too much whisky to which he replied “I may be drunk Madam but in the morning I will be sober and you will still be ugly!”

I signalled to the boys that it was a good time to leave and we quietly sneaked out. We went to the downstairs bar and I said “I don’t think that we’ll do this again for a while”. Unsurprisingly they all agreed and we then stared contentedly at the new barmaid’s bosom.