The Old Hack

I don’t want this blog to turn into an antidote to the Daily Mail, as much as I generally dislike that particular publication.  I feel I must, however, add my voice to the critics of the latest homophobic rant by the Mail’s Jan Moir.  In the unlikely event that you haven’t heard about or read her diatribe, she blames the cult of “hedonistic celebrity” and a “dangerous lifestyle” for the sudden and tragic death of Boyzone’s Stephen Gately.

 Does she back this statement up with any evidence?  No.  She makes play of the fact that Gately and his partner, Andrew Coles, had invited a Bulgarian student back to their hotel and infers, without saying so directly, that the purpose of this invitation was sexual in nature, Cowles and the Bulgarian sharing a bedroom while Gately retired to a sofa in another room.

 Whether there is truth in this allegation or not is irrelevant, for whatever activity may or may not have taken place it would seem that Gately was not a part of it.  As a writer I have a fairly broad knowledge base and a pretty vivid imagination, but try as I may I cannot find any correlation between the death of a man alone on a sofa and the activities (of whatever nature) of two men in another room.

 It seems to me that Jan Moir has exploited the tragic death of a young man to vent her own poisonous prejudices.  It is quite possible that the full detail of Gately’s untimely death were, as Moir says, “sugar coated” – do we really want or need to know the nature of any private activity in the hours leading up to the death?  Unless she can come up with a well-argued and substantial case that some specific activity or other was or could have been directly responsible for the pulmonary oedema which killed Gately, she should keep her nose out of other people’s private lives, and particularly their bedrooms.

 But then again, Moir has antecedents for prevaricating on the sex lives of others.  She ranted against Manchester Council for publishing a guide about sex for the over 50s – or - (Daily Torygraph 2008) on Lord Snowdon’s past sexual activity  claiming, “Lord Snowdon is a thoroughly unpleasant little man.”  She even seemed to criticise Joan Bakewell over her past affair with playwright Harold Pinter in a past interview for the Mail.

 Maybe it’s jealousy.  Maybe Moir doesn’t have a sex life of her own.  I could speculate – but no, that would be cruel!

Thanks to my wife for today's blog inspiration.  Over breakfast, she pointed me to an article in today’s Daily Mail (Femail Section) by one Melanie Jones, entitled “Au Revoir to All That”.

Melanie and her family emigrated from the affluent Virginia Water, Surrey, to Tarn et Garonne in the Midi Pyrenees, South West France  five years ago.  In her article, Melanie bleats endlessly about the language, the culture, the boredom and the bureaucracy she encountered during that time and why she is so happy to be back in England.  As she now claims the family has “hardly a penny to our name”, I doubt she has been able to return to Virginia Water, more likely a sink estate somewhere in Manchester or Glasgow – but I have no doubt the dangerous dogs, crowds of youths on the streets and bins collected once a fortnight are preferable to the incessant noise of grazing sheep and chirruping songbirds and the annoyingly tidy roads of rural France.

Melanie takes exception to the fact that the French seem to insist on doing things the French way.  She can’t find the things she wants to buy in the shops.  Her daughter uses French vernacular which she finds vulgar (close your ears, Melanie when those young men on the street corner start talking!).  Children are allowed to behave like children.  In a nutshell, France is so annoyingly – well – French!

Not content with slating the French, the English who have settled come in for a roasting, too.  They are, apparently, of only three types.  Type one Melanie describes as the BATs (British and Twisted).  Melanie does not elaborate on the meaning of this phrase, but counts herself proudly among their number.  The other groups apparently are the BACs (British and Clueless) and the BBs (Bubble Brits who live in isolation and make no effort to learn French or integrate with French society)

Maybe ‘twisted’ means believing that everything that has gone wrong with your experience is somebody else’s fault.  That description would fit Melanie, whose house needed more work that she thought (having evidently failed to employ a surveyor or anyone with knowledge of building), whose (presumably) rural post office was at fault for not having the 32 postage stamps she wanted to send Christmas Cards to Great Britain (it’s not a French custom to send Christmas cards, far less to send them abroad), whose removal van was too small (Melanie proudly tells us that she speaks French – did she not think to ask?) and to whom it did not apparently occur that living in the Pyrenees mountains may mean cold winters.  As to all her local restaurants serving nothing but duck, I find this very hard to believe in a land where food is so important.  I venture to suggest that among the many French delights on the menu, there was nothing to suit Melanie’s delicate English palate.  Why is it that French restaurants insist on serving French food?

I have to put my hand on my heart now and admit that I have encountered the BAC category of expat more often than I would wish, and that sadly Melanie’s description has something of the ring of truth about it here.  I can’t personally see much difference between the BACs and the BBs because in my view isolating oneself from the community of the country in which one has chosen to live is boorish, arrogant and ultimately destructive.

My experience of life in South West France could not be more different than Melanie’s.  I work with British, French and Dutch co-workers, all of whom get along very well.  I probably spend more time negotiating in French than I do in English and although there are still some French dishes which my English palate does not appreciate I have tried most of them.  I love the richness and expressiveness of the French language and I enjoy the French way of life - but I remain proud of my own nationality, language and birth culture.  I didn’t come to France to escape immigration in Great Britain – the thing I miss most here in rural France is the mix of ethnic cultures I enjoyed so much in North West London.

 So maybe according to Melanie I am in a new category of BAF (British admirer of France)

 I genuinely wish you every success and happiness in your life back in Britain, Melanie – but if things should go a little bit wrong from time to time, I implore you to use your experiences, look inwardly and ask yourself if you could have done anything differently.

The Debenham's group in the UK has today launched a range of underpants for left-handed men. Titter ye not - pointing percy at the porcelain has been a difficult task for southpaws wearing the traditional Y-Fronts since their introduction back in 1935.

The problem has been that the opening allowing gentleman to release their appendage has traditionally been on the right hand side of the garment. Thus a task easily and readily performed by ninety percent of the world's men (who are right handed) has until now been an embarrassing feat of prestidigitation for those ten percent who prefer their left hand.

The situation is succinctly summed up by a Debenham's spokesperson, who explained: "Left handed men have to reach much further into their pants, performing a Z-shaped manoeuvre through two 180 degree angles before achieving the result that right handed men perform with ease."

The new range of underpants, from UK-based Hom, features a horizontal opening rather than the traditional vertical right-hand biased opening, finally giving left-handed men equality with their right-handed brothers.

Phew - what a relief!

Source - Reuters 23/09/2009

When a young life is taken suddenly it is always tragic, always sad, always a terrible waste of “what might have been “.  Does the fact that the young life taken without warning is that of a pet dog make a difference? 

We brought Stuart home from a dog rescue centre last May.  He was a slightly scrawny little chap who had only recently recovered from a broken front leg.  He’d been apparently abandoned by a previous owner, and was rummaging around in bins for food.  An animal charity in Dordogne had taken him in and had his broken leg fixed.  He was given a temporary home, food and shelter and when we visited the shelter we fell for him and decided to give him a more permanent base.

 In a very short time, Stuart put on a little weight, learned how to bark at the “right” things and keep quiet when it was appropriate.  He learned what it was like to be loved and cared for and in return he guarded our house and garden (all half a metre of him!) and cried if we left him for more than about half an hour at a time.

 We’ve been through some tough times recently, and having Stuart around has given us a focus and reminded us that sometimes it is good to be able to provide for a loveable little fellow who had come to rely on us for his daily needs, and was far more vulnerable than either of us in so many ways.

 Stuart certainly had his idiosyncrasies.  He wouldn’t touch tinned dog food and didn’t much care for dog biscuits but would sit around the kitchen stove waiting for freshly cooked chicken, rabbit or whatever.  He loved being in the car, and would stand awkwardly with his front paws resting on the central console in order to be able to supervise my driving (and bark at any cat or dog seen on the pavement).  He liked his own bed, bought especially for him and chosen for size, and gladly and obediently settled down into it each night, never once awakening us but greeting us with tail wagging madly when we arose in the morning.

 Tomorrow morning, for the first time, Stuart will not be there to greet us and there will be an unbearable emptiness in our house.  We won’t know the cause of Stuart’s untimely death until the veterinary surgeon, who tried so valiantly but in vain to save his life has been able to perform a post-mortem.  In many ways it is irrelevant, but somehow we need some kind of answer to such a tragic event.

Our crumb of consolation in all this is that while he was with us, Stuart had the kind of life some dogs can only dream of.  He was well-nourished, well-groomed, given all the affection he needed and was able to exercise and interact with lots of doggy friends.  Today he greeted us in the morning with his usual affection, came for a ride in the car and was cosseted all afternoon.  He had his favourite chicken for tea.  That was to be his last meal.  About a quarter of an hour after his meal we went to take him for a walk.  We found him under our bed, gasping for breath, his tongue blue and his little body shaking.

 The vet, thinking perhaps he had choked, tried performing the Heimlich manoeuvre and when that failed immediately performed an emergency tracheotomy and breathed into his little lungs.

 For a moment he seemed to respond, coughing slightly and taking a couple of shallow breaths on his own, before his little heart could take no more of this trauma, and stopped beating.  Stuart died about 7.10 this-evening, leaving an aching hole in our lives, which will take some time to mend.

 Animal charities all over the world do their best to help abandoned and mistreated dogs and help pay (as in Stuart’s case) to mend broken limbs and give dogs and cats a better deal in life.  If you can afford to do so, please think of them and donate a little something to an animal charity near you.

Stuart Little – Died 2^nd September 2009 - RIP

As I write this, I have just watched the grand final of « Britain’s Got Talent ».  I am convinced that Britain has indeed got talent – from a father and son comedy dance act, through a young man who made his saxophone weep to a young lady with a voice way beyond her tender years.  Oh.  And Susan Boyle.

 I mention Susan Boyle last not because I do not believe she has talent.  Her initial performance brought the whole country to its knees and elicited more comment than probably any other “reality” TV show for some time.  Like everyone else, I am awaiting the results.  For Susan’s sake I hope she wins tonight.  But I can truly say the same of every other act.  They would not be in the final if they did not stand a chance of winning.

 I heard a comment from a psychologist earlier today that if Susan Boyle does not win tonight’s show it will ruin the rest of her life.  I beg to disagree.  The obvious talent she possesses has been spotted by others throughout the world, and win or lose she will go on to make money and to live a changed life.  Susan Boyle, said the psychologist, has been in the headlines for so long now that her name has become synonymous with winning the title.  If she doesn’t win, her name will be forgotten.

 And if she does win?....

 You have thirty seconds to tell me the names of the acts who came first, second and third last year – all together now!

 Do I make my point?