'Ere Dave, what shall we do about 'Broken Britain'?

I have just read something appalling.

Now, I must admit that I did read this I the Daily Mirror, but I’m at work, and I work in a local boozer, so we have to have the red tops. Further fact checking aside, today’s paper contains an article about the terrible wages paid to the cleaners, pantry-dining room staff and the like at Eaton College, despite the head master being on a £180k a year salary. And as appalling this definitely is, the most worrying piece of information in the article was the assertion that David Cameron (who, in case you missed it, is currently roaming the country doing his usual PR speeches suggesting ways to fix ‘Broken Britain’ while gesticulating with his usual patronising flair) is the 19th British Prime Minister to be educated there. Now, pardon me if I’m wrong, but how the hell is someone who has spent their entire life happily hidden away dressed in a bow tie and tails, ignoring the poorly paid bastards that keep their immaculate little group of friends clean and fed supposed to have any clue what the hell is going on with the majority of the country? Do they even realise that some people earn a fraction of what they pay to attend this bastion of upper class Englishness per year? And these people still manage to raise children, work, and do their own cooking and cleaning all by themselves.

It seems quite possible that Cameron and his kind only noticed that people were a bit ‘miffed’ when they started lobbing Molotov cocktails through shop windows and nicking stuff. Not that I am defending looting and violence in any way. It just seems that it may have been avoided if the country was run by someone who had at least a vague idea about the majority of people who live in it. And I don’t just mean the poorly paid under-classes, but the working classes, hell, even the middle classes who had so little faith in the running of their country that they decided to clean up the riot mess themselves, and took to the streets, brooms in hand. After all,if you want something doing properly, you'd better do it yourself. Since he was eleven and started having his mess cleaned up by the poorly paid cleaners at Eaton, I doubt Cameron has lifted any domestic object other than the silver spoon he was given into his overfed mouth. And worse than that, he feigned horror and buddied up to those many Britons who condemned the thieves at the riots – prescribing tough measures for our ‘sick society’.

In his speech outside number 10, he spoke about the ‘complete lack of respect shown by these groups of thugs,’ about the ‘mindless selfishness and lack of responsibility’, and about how ‘their rights outweigh their responsibility’. We’ll, as appalling as their behaviour admittedly is, I wonder where they learned that set of values Mr Prime Minister? Maybe it would be a good idea to get off your moral high horse and level some of those judgments at the powerful structures in the UK, like politicians and the press. Although, at least all this ruckus has taken the heat off you and your pals for a while eh? Even your well-paid publicity officers couldn’t have orchestrated a distraction this epic. But just so you know, robbing expenses is just as much theft as nicking trainers from footlocker. You want to strip these ‘gangs’ of their uniform, ban their hoodies and scarves, well maybe we should do the same to you, and ban the dickie bow and the elocution lessons from the Eaton crew. Then we’ll all look the same, and sound the same, and maybe then there won’t be, as you put it, such a ‘culture of fear on our streets’. Although God forbid, you might get mistaken for a normal member of society, and have to pick up a broom and clean up some of the mess on the street yourself, rather than just spouting some well planned PR bullshit about it.

The North/South Divide!

Part One: Getting into Brizzle Life!

Part Two: Settled?

Horror and Classical music fans check this out... a very entertaining evening!

Review of Bernard Herrmann's Psycho Suite at Colston Hall

Riot! A Play about Ikea... Definitely a different kind of production.

I really enjoyed this peculiar offering from the Wardrobe Ensemble at Bristol Old Vic. Check out my review at

A Musical about Ikea!

Would you like some manners with that pint, sir?

Before I say anything else, I would like to make one thing clear. I am not a mad feminist. I am generally concerned about the usual things women have cause to moan about – gender pay gaps, the fact that us ladies are often written off as old and past it much younger than men (I mean look at poor Moira Stewart. They would never have done that to Trevor McDonald), the unfair advantage given to beautiful women (and men for that matter) in most areas of life, that sort of thing. I also like watching Sex and the City, but despite what most men think, I don’t wish to emulate their shallow consumer driven lifestyle. I’m not even particularly interested in shoes. Wearing sky high heels only means I can’t get as drunk as I would like on nights out, so I’ll stick with flats, thank you very much. However, I do wish to voice a concern that has given me much grief this week. And the concern is men. Not in general you understand, but men in the work place - in my work place to be precise.

This is partly my own fault (and I shouldn’t be the least bit surprised) as I have ended up doing a ‘blokes’ job. I am manager of a group of mainly male employees, which for the most part, they don’t seem to like one bit. I am currently managing a pub, which before me was run by a group of middle aged men, who had all known each other for years and who, despite their little fallings out and disagreements, at least all gave each others opinions equal weight because for all intents and purposes, they were cut from the same cloth.

The other unhelpful factor in my transition is that before becoming manager I worked in the same pub as a barmaid. And everyone loves a young barmaid. Because we sell you beer, look pretty and pretend to flirt with you a bit. However, if we then end up in charge, in a position to throw you out or make business decisions, apparently barmaids just aren’t fun anymore. Barmaids aren’t supposed to understand anything about business, and as soon as they hint that they do, they aren’t to be trusted. And I have managed to get this attitude from all sides. Customers, workmates, and generally any man who thinks he could do the job better. Which is just about everyone. Because they’ve all been in a pub before. And seemingly that qualifies you to run one.

Didn’t Britain used to be full of landladies? You know, those great British treasures in the vein of Peggy Mitchell. Bit of a battleaxe, but good fun and took no nonsense, except off those ape-like sons of hers, but at least they could help her lug barrels about. I used to quite like Peggy Mitchell. But along with numerous other British type traditions, this one seems to have died. And I suppose I am quite young to be taking on such a job, but give me a bloody break! I have so far been patronised, openly bitched about and argued with, ‘advised’ that I am going about things the wrong way, or simply ignored completely. I arranged a meeting with an employment lawyer a few days ago, which the bookkeeper (a man in his forties) decided to sit in on. And they were a well-known reputable firm. Did this arsehole look at me once? Did he bollocks. After his initial poorly disguised shock that I was the manager in the first place, he proceeded to give me a fleeting glance every few minutes, and direct all the answers to my questions to the bookkeeper. I felt like a kid at a grown ups dinner table, to be seen and not heard. I eventually forced him to direct his attention to me by pointing out that I had called him in, and I was potentially going to hire him. I had to be downright pushy, which really annoyed me. I did not hire him, by the way.

It’s the same with the assistant manager. Despite reps, delivery men, contractors, accounts people or anyone else knowing I am the manager, and that I am usually the one that arranged the bloody meeting, they will still refer all questions and answers to the assistant, simply because he’s male. And I think I’m picking up some manly aggression due to it. I now spend practically all my time with men. I work with them, due to most of my friends being connected with work, as most peoples are, I end up spending my free time with them. For Gods sake, I live with two blokes also. I’m starting to crave a Sex and the City marathon and a night out in high heels. And despite my horror at the prospect, it seems you can be as ballsy as you like, but it’s true, the quickest way to get men to do anything is the age old skill of flattering their ego, and making them think it was their idea first, whilst batting your eyelashes a bit. So take note of this fellas. Women are only manipulative because you don’t fucking listen. And, Mr Lawyer, if a woman is potentially paying your wages, look her in the face for Christ sake. We aren’t stupid, and we are perfectly capable of doing our jobs. And the bits we don’t want to do, we’ll make you do, and we’ll make you think it was your own brilliant idea in the first place. And you’ll have no one to blame but yourselves.

In My Life

When I was about seven, I remember sitting in the kitchen watching my Dad cooking dinner. I was perched on the kitchen unit, and he was attempting to make curry, following the strict instructions left by my Caribbean ma, who was currently working a night shift at the hospital. He was listening to the Beatles and I was concentrating intently to the lyrics to all the songs. The song I particularly remember was ‘In My Life’. He said it was one of his favourite songs, and he was singing it with an odd look on his face.
It was the first verse that fascinated me.

There are places I remember,
All my life, though some have changed,
Some forever not for better,
Some have gone, and some remain,
All these places have their moments,
With lovers and friends, I still can recall,
Some are dead and some are living,
In my life, I’ve loved them all.

I think that to me, having no sense of any relationship with friends or places that had any longevity (being seven and all) the lyrics seemed incredibly sad. But my dad was singing along looking strangely happy. So I asked him about it. I remember saying that I didn’t understand why he liked the song, or why it made him happy. The man was singing about his friends being dead, and that should make you sad, not happy. I proclaimed that I didn’t like the song, and I thought it was depressing and we shouldn’t listen to it anymore. My Dad looked very amused, which annoyed me even more, and told me that it was a lovely song, and that he thought I would like it very much when I was a bit older and understood what the words meant properly. He then asked me to taste the curry, and tell him if I thought my mum would like it. He said he couldn’t really cook before my mum had taught him, and that he had learned a lot of things from her. Then he put yellow submarine on for me, and I liked that a lot better.

The reason I was thinking about this is because I went to a funeral on Tuesday of a man in his fifties with whom I have worked for the past four years. When I started he was in charge of the entertainment, and had been for some years. He, the manager, his wife, and the owner had all started the business together a good number of years ago. He had been in lots of bands, and knew many musicians. Obviously I had only known him in middle age in light of a working relationship, but we had got on well and I was very sad about his death. The funeral was packed. There were hundreds of people, mainly musicians who he had met in England or America, at festivals, parties, bars and anywhere else you meet wandering creative souls. It was obvious they all loved him dearly. The fascinating thing was to see the innumerable ties, connections and memories that all these people had with one man, and the overarching and beautiful relationship he had had with one woman throughout the entire time. They all knew a different part of the same person, and she had known him throughout it all.

She remained calm and dignified during the whole thing, and I could only wonder in bemused awe at what a connection like that, that lasts so many years would be like. It made me wonder, as funerals do, about my life so far, and the various and varied relationships I have had over the years. About the parts of my own character and life I have shared with different people, who will most likely never meet each other, and who I cherish deeply and always will. There are some who have died, and there are the friends who remember them, and who I rarely see any more, but who are all bound by shared memories. There are newer friends, who don’t know the old, but mean equally as much to me. It is all these people, and the connections to them and the places you met that make up a life.

But the thing that struck me most of all was the desire to have someone who stays with you for the most part. Who can know you better than anyone else, and will love you unconditionally, and who will let you love them back. It made me both happy and sad to know that he was lucky enough to have had that on top of all the other fleeting but beautiful connections that someone makes in a life. And as indescribably sad as his partner must be, she must also feel blessed.

So thanks Dad, I do understand the words properly now, and I do like the song very much.
I’m also glad one of my many fond memories is getting so annoyed with you about it!

And to Chrissie, I’m so very sorry for your loss.

Job Interview? Good Luck...

What happens to logical, otherwise articulate people in job interviews? I assume it isn’t just me that has this problem.

Getting an interview is not the issue. On a CV or covering letter you can sound like a normal, functional person. The same goes for when you actually manage to get the job. Once in, you’re often just as good at it as you said you were in your logical and articulate CV (or pretty damn close). However, no matter how much experience you have, or how capable you know you can be in the role, as soon as you walk through the door and are confronted by a boardroom and a suit, you suddenly transform into some kind of rambling idiot who is more akin to someone who has been let out on day release than a potentially capable member of whatever company it is you’re applying for.

I am still plagued by the ongoing and unsolvable problem that during my day-to-day life, whatever it is I’m doing (be it checking into Hotels or doing the payroll at work) I still feel like a big kid playing at being an adult. However, it’s only when I walk into a job interview that it feels like I’ve truly been rumbled. As soon as I see the suit looking back at me, I get that long forgotten feeling of being hauled into the headmaster’s office. I can already hear the line;

‘We’re very disappointed. Now I’m afraid we’re going to have to call your parents’.

The only upside is now that I’m a proper grown up, I can choose not to inform my mother that I’ve behaved so disappointingly, and can hide the fact that I still have no idea what I want to do with my life, and therefore avoid the lecture about ‘applying yourself and having a little direction’.

This has all sprung freshly into my mind as I recently got an interview for a job a genuinely think I would enjoy, and be very good at, thank you very much. However, the interview was yesterday, and I spent most of yesterday afternoon reliving the horror in those short sharp bursts the re-enter your consciousness like a malicious pixie poking you in the head and laughing, reminding you what a useless berk you are, despite the fact that you’re doing your best to lose yourself in red wine and conversation. The interview was for a part time journalist position with a lovely little company who want to help the community, and when I read the job spec, I was really excited. Not only did it sound like something I could do, but something I would enjoy, whilst simultaneously appeasing my social conscience a bit. The initial panic set in when my interviewer mentioned he was the financial director of a company. There go the alarm bells. I forgot instantly that I am actually a manager, and I can do my own finances responsibly (well, unless I see a really nice dress or something, but hey, I’m female, that’s standard). My first thought was ‘Shit. He’s a proper businessman’. Good start. Second pitfall of the whole debacle was the mention that someone else running for the post was currently working at the BBC.

‘Not the Beeb! I can’t compete with a proper jouro from the Beeb.’

And that was it, thus began the comedy of errors. I proceeded to madly flap my hands about in a show of gesticulation closely resembling semaphore for the alphabetically challenged. The manic nervous laughter kicked in. Closely followed by forgetting my interviewers name shortly after mentioning how good I am at remembering names, which, incidentally was one of the necessities of the role. It is as if your mind has an evil, or at least playful, side with a very bad sense of humour. It’s the side that normally laughs under its breath at other people’s humiliation. I suppose it’s probably karma for laughing at the woman I saw running to catch the bus and who went full pelt into the Perspex bus stop last week. Anyway, I digress.

Basically, the result was that after doing a very convincing impression of someone unable to perform any requirements of the role, a role which I had entered the room thinking I would be perfect for, I left feeling like a small child having who hasn’t worked hard enough, and is letting no one down but themselves. At least I didn’t get a letter home. However, my little sister had informed my mother that I had an interview. She called just I had got to the pub with a consolatory glass of red to see how it went. And the conversation began thus:

‘So it didn’t go very well then?’
‘Well, I’ll wait to hear ma’.
‘You should have done more research’.
‘Yes ma’
‘And where are you? It’s very noisy. Are you in the pub? You’re not drinking at this time of day are you Natalie…’

I might just skip the middleman and say I’m grounded for a week so I don’t have to go outside and deal with anyone. Better luck next time?