BETWEEN YOU AND ME.
The public sector strike.
I was a NHS employee for thirty two years. Member of two unions: NALGO and a smaller bunch representing Family Practitioner Committee employees. Neither of them ever did me much good, but I recognised that without them things would probably have been worse. They’re all UNISON now, so I suppose they finally twigged that their jealous little divisions made them an employer’s pushover.
I tolerated lousy pay, often antagonistic and unreasonable members of the professions, irate members of the public who believed that public servant was a shorthand term for public convenience and assorted ministers of state who felt it beheld them to keep moving the goalposts to their advantage. Seems none of that has changed.
I put up with it because I hoped that when I retired, the 6 % I paid into the pension fund from my gross salary every month, plus the 8% contributed by the employers would, when added to the scanty old age pension provided by the state, enable my wife and I to manage without state handouts throughout our declining years. It has done - just about - so the buggers at the Inland Revenue have continued to tax me, just in case I become too comfortable.
I never went on strike; back then the country was less crowded and the salaries of top officers in the social services were less bloated than those of today. My sympathy is with the lower paid. More years to work for a smaller reward? On their money? Christ!
The elusive muse.
Back in the days when everything I wrote was knocked out on an old Remington, each new venture would open with a waste paper basket full of false starts. A blank sheet of paper would glare at me from the typewriter and dare me to discover the muse. A tentative first muse would turn out to be counterfeit; a muse not fit to be mused. A second and third would be found wanting because they were too far from, or too close to, the editor’s notion of suitable copy. Eventually an approximation of the muse I sought would present itself and, with constant breaks to correct typing errors, I would set myself to producing a minor masterpiece. Well, you have to hope.
Nowadays two or three typewriters are stashed around the house and staying very quiet lest they go the way of many another surplus-to-requirements old reliable. In their place, the computer screen glares blankly at me, daring me to discover the muse. The wastepaper basket is empty and my editor is me. Never mind the muse, I should be able to cruise it.
But I have a sneaking feeling that a former editor of my acquaintance, who shall remain nameless (Ian Dillow), a man who spent fruitless years trying to persuade me to submit copy that even faintly suited the tenor of his award winning NHS magazine, would register mild disapproval if I became predictable now.
So sod the muse, what’s next? Ah yes…
Amusing interlude.
We were enjoying a leisurely breakfast. Sunday; no kids. Tele on as usual. Fern Britton interviewing singer Kathleen Jenkins. Serious business.
Fern exuding empathy: “And did you feel your voice was a gift from God?”
My Leader snorted. “Well she didn’t get it from bloody Tesco.”
Nearly fifty years of marriage and a laugh every day. Gawdblessyer, darlin.’
TELEVISION.
Gareth Malone.
Despite my frequently expressed dislike of reality television, this young bloke (born in 1975, for those who give a tinker’s cuss about such things) has rewritten the script on people programmes to the point where I have at last found a liking for televised amateur talent. He is an incorrigible creator of choirs. Indeed, when it comes to singing, he can transform people who are tone deaf and paralysed with stage fright into outgoing models of pitch perfect melody. A truly inspirational choirmaster, his successes so far have included persuading the shy, the reluctant, an entire town and two garrisons of army wives to embark on the quest for choral perfection. Right now there is a good chance that Paul Mealor’s song Wherever You Are, recorded by the army wives, will top the charts this Christmas.
In 2010 Gareth Malone was given the Freedom of the City of London.
I’d give him a knighthood.
Jeremy Clarkson.
Well ol’ Clarkson was asked what he thought about the one day strike action held by the public services, wasn’t he? It was on The One Show and he said the strike was great because you could drive around London with ease and it left plenty of room in restaurants. He then, because he was on a BBC show and should therefore ‘present a balanced view,’ said he would take out all the strikers and shoot them - in front of their families. This would surely have been accepted as an instance of his customary schoolboy humour had he not also remarked that he avoided travelling by rail because of all the hold-ups caused by people jumping off railway bridges to commit suicide.
Oh dear oh dear. Whether he was put up to saying it or not, what a twat!
The outcry about it has been out of all proportion, of course, but you’d think these media types would glean something from the likes of Ross and Brand and the late Simon Dee, wouldn’t you?
I’d give him a kick up the arse.
Whose idea?
Incidentally, is there a solitary producer, director or unsung programme maker in the whole of television blessed with a single original idea?
Latest carbon copy programme to appear is The Manor Reborn (BBC1), a house restoration documentary already done - very competently and almost to bloody death - by Sarah Beeny and her husband, Graham, in their two series of Beeny’s Restoration Nightmare (Channel 4).
The Manor Reborn features Penelope Keith (To The Manor Born) and Paul Martin (Flog It), two personable and proficient presenters. They’ve done their best to drum up some interest in the project, but, without the brooding malevolence of an East Yorkshire councillor contriving to scupper their plans, they really had no chance. Whose prosaic idea was this?
I’d give him (or her) the same treatment I’d give Clarkson.
Life’s Too Short. (BBC2)
Apparently Warwick Davis inspired this sitcom written by Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant. Looked in briefly but the title says it all.
READING.
Currently I am reading The Independent on Mondays and i for the rest of the week. I’m a bit careful about paying out more than that to skip through a few decent articles and do the concise crossword. Still enjoy Yasmin Alibhai-Brown having a go at just about everything and Tom Sutcliffe’s measured views on the television scene. My book reading is nil since the last post. Perhaps I need the same treatment I’d give Clarkson.
AND TO CONCLUDE…
The cat Shadow has taken to following me around. I don’t know where he gets it from, he was born long after Arthur Helliwell departed. It must be something to do with winter. I’m warmer than his box when the heating goes off so he lands on my lap at every opportunity. Trouble is, if I don’t adjust him he sends my legs to sleep and when I do adjust him he makes plain his displeasure. Sometimes I feel like giving him the same treatment I’d give Clarkson. He’s on the little table alongside my desk now, though. Curled up peacefully and sound asleep. Well at least there’s no poetry.
MEANTIME…
CHRISTMAS!
The greetings cards from lovely, efficient, organised people have started to arrive, I am in my customary state of festive goodwill and don’t-know-where-to-start panic and this could be my last post before the magic day or, for that matter, before the end of the year. So I take this opportunity to wish:
Whoever you are, dear reader, and of whatever persuasion you may be,
A HAPPY CHRISTMAS AND A PEACEFUL AND PROSPEROUS 2012!
The public sector strike.
I was a NHS employee for thirty two years. Member of two unions: NALGO and a smaller bunch representing Family Practitioner Committee employees. Neither of them ever did me much good, but I recognised that without them things would probably have been worse. They’re all UNISON now, so I suppose they finally twigged that their jealous little divisions made them an employer’s pushover.
I tolerated lousy pay, often antagonistic and unreasonable members of the professions, irate members of the public who believed that public servant was a shorthand term for public convenience and assorted ministers of state who felt it beheld them to keep moving the goalposts to their advantage. Seems none of that has changed.
I put up with it because I hoped that when I retired, the 6 % I paid into the pension fund from my gross salary every month, plus the 8% contributed by the employers would, when added to the scanty old age pension provided by the state, enable my wife and I to manage without state handouts throughout our declining years. It has done - just about - so the buggers at the Inland Revenue have continued to tax me, just in case I become too comfortable.
I never went on strike; back then the country was less crowded and the salaries of top officers in the social services were less bloated than those of today. My sympathy is with the lower paid. More years to work for a smaller reward? On their money? Christ!
The elusive muse.
Back in the days when everything I wrote was knocked out on an old Remington, each new venture would open with a waste paper basket full of false starts. A blank sheet of paper would glare at me from the typewriter and dare me to discover the muse. A tentative first muse would turn out to be counterfeit; a muse not fit to be mused. A second and third would be found wanting because they were too far from, or too close to, the editor’s notion of suitable copy. Eventually an approximation of the muse I sought would present itself and, with constant breaks to correct typing errors, I would set myself to producing a minor masterpiece. Well, you have to hope.
Nowadays two or three typewriters are stashed around the house and staying very quiet lest they go the way of many another surplus-to-requirements old reliable. In their place, the computer screen glares blankly at me, daring me to discover the muse. The wastepaper basket is empty and my editor is me. Never mind the muse, I should be able to cruise it.
But I have a sneaking feeling that a former editor of my acquaintance, who shall remain nameless (Ian Dillow), a man who spent fruitless years trying to persuade me to submit copy that even faintly suited the tenor of his award winning NHS magazine, would register mild disapproval if I became predictable now.
So sod the muse, what’s next? Ah yes…
Amusing interlude.
We were enjoying a leisurely breakfast. Sunday; no kids. Tele on as usual. Fern Britton interviewing singer Kathleen Jenkins. Serious business.
Fern exuding empathy: “And did you feel your voice was a gift from God?”
My Leader snorted. “Well she didn’t get it from bloody Tesco.”
Nearly fifty years of marriage and a laugh every day. Gawdblessyer, darlin.’
TELEVISION.
Gareth Malone.
In 2010 Gareth Malone was given the Freedom of the City of London.
I’d give him a knighthood.
Jeremy Clarkson.
Well ol’ Clarkson was asked what he thought about the one day strike action held by the public services, wasn’t he? It was on The One Show and he said the strike was great because you could drive around London with ease and it left plenty of room in restaurants. He then, because he was on a BBC show and should therefore ‘present a balanced view,’ said he would take out all the strikers and shoot them - in front of their families. This would surely have been accepted as an instance of his customary schoolboy humour had he not also remarked that he avoided travelling by rail because of all the hold-ups caused by people jumping off railway bridges to commit suicide.
Oh dear oh dear. Whether he was put up to saying it or not, what a twat!
The outcry about it has been out of all proportion, of course, but you’d think these media types would glean something from the likes of Ross and Brand and the late Simon Dee, wouldn’t you?
I’d give him a kick up the arse.
Whose idea?
Incidentally, is there a solitary producer, director or unsung programme maker in the whole of television blessed with a single original idea?
Latest carbon copy programme to appear is The Manor Reborn (BBC1), a house restoration documentary already done - very competently and almost to bloody death - by Sarah Beeny and her husband, Graham, in their two series of Beeny’s Restoration Nightmare (Channel 4).
The Manor Reborn features Penelope Keith (To The Manor Born) and Paul Martin (Flog It), two personable and proficient presenters. They’ve done their best to drum up some interest in the project, but, without the brooding malevolence of an East Yorkshire councillor contriving to scupper their plans, they really had no chance. Whose prosaic idea was this?
I’d give him (or her) the same treatment I’d give Clarkson.
Life’s Too Short. (BBC2)
Apparently Warwick Davis inspired this sitcom written by Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant. Looked in briefly but the title says it all.
READING.
Currently I am reading The Independent on Mondays and i for the rest of the week. I’m a bit careful about paying out more than that to skip through a few decent articles and do the concise crossword. Still enjoy Yasmin Alibhai-Brown having a go at just about everything and Tom Sutcliffe’s measured views on the television scene. My book reading is nil since the last post. Perhaps I need the same treatment I’d give Clarkson.
AND TO CONCLUDE…
The cat Shadow has taken to following me around. I don’t know where he gets it from, he was born long after Arthur Helliwell departed. It must be something to do with winter. I’m warmer than his box when the heating goes off so he lands on my lap at every opportunity. Trouble is, if I don’t adjust him he sends my legs to sleep and when I do adjust him he makes plain his displeasure. Sometimes I feel like giving him the same treatment I’d give Clarkson. He’s on the little table alongside my desk now, though. Curled up peacefully and sound asleep. Well at least there’s no poetry.
MEANTIME…
CHRISTMAS!
The greetings cards from lovely, efficient, organised people have started to arrive, I am in my customary state of festive goodwill and don’t-know-where-to-start panic and this could be my last post before the magic day or, for that matter, before the end of the year. So I take this opportunity to wish:
Whoever you are, dear reader, and of whatever persuasion you may be,
A HAPPY CHRISTMAS AND A PEACEFUL AND PROSPEROUS 2012!
