Manchester wins 'super casino' - whingers out in force

So contrary to all expectations, Manchester has won the bid to build the UK's first super casino. Most people believed either that London would get it or, if enough of the decision makers wanted to throw a bone to the non-London majority of the country, they would throw it Blackpool's way.

How predictable that yesterday when the news broke, the bulletins were full of whining hypocritical toadies wringing their hands and banging on about how "the vulnerable" would be affected. About how, virtually overnight, hordes of Mancunians would be turned into slavering gambling addicts, and the city would become a haven for organised crime, drug dealing and money laundering. This morning the BBC news had managed to find a reformed gambling addict who was trotted out to reinforce the point that gambling is...well...addictive and tell us how he was an intelligent bloke who never thought it could happen to him and he stole money from his friends to fund his gambling and his girlfriend threw him out yadda yadda yadda.

Don't get me wrong, I felt sorry for the guy, and I'm well aware that there are hundreds of people like him, and hundreds more addicted to drugs, alcohol, etc, etc. But there are many more people, indeed the majority, who can enjoy the occasional flutter, or put a couple of quid in a slot machine, without becoming addicted.

We know there are alcoholics in the world, but we don't prevent supermarkets stacking up their 24-packs of Stella and their racks upon racks of wines of the world and selling them 24x7. The government recently relaxed the licensing laws to allow longer opening times. No-one suggests that the availability of alcohol should be curtailed to protect "the vulnerable."

We know there are poor unfortunates who self-harm. They cut themselves daily to relieve their inner demons. No-one suggests we should restrict the sale of kitchen knives to protect "the vulnerable."

We know there are sad workaholics who spend 18+ hours a day working, to the detriment of their health and their family life. But (Working Time Directive notwithstanding) no-one suggests putting guards at office and factory gates to ensure these few misguided souls don't work too hard and the vulnerable are protected.

The new "super casino" in Manchester will create 3,000 jobs in one of the most deprived areas of the city. It will be much more than a casino - the complex will include a huge new hotel, spa, sports facilities, shopping arcade - and will bring even more investment into the city as well as additional visitors from all over the world, including (and even especially) from Toronto ;o) It will be I believe, on balance, a good thing. This is the second largest city in the UK for goodness sake - we already have organised crime, drug dealing and money laundering here! The new casino won't change that overmuch. When will government and the media get wise to the idea that they are not there to babysit the population? We don't, by and large, need protecting from ourselves.

Please support The Hunger Site

I don't know if you've discovered this or not, but I've been clicking on it every day for over 5 years:

The Hunger Site

Every click funds a cup or so of food for starving people in the world, funded by the advertisers. Clicking is free, but you can also buy loads of cool 'ethnic' stuff from there, and anything you buy contributes more food.

There's a few other support sites 'tabbed' on the same page. I also regularly (ie, daily) support

The Rainforest Site

I dunno if it makes much difference but hey, it's free, it's easy and it can't hurt, right? Set yourself a daily reminder now!

The price of procrastination

Finally got around to fixing my tyre this weekend. The one that keeps (kept) going down. Oh, right, I didn't tell you about that. Rewind. I had this tyre that kept going down. So I kept pumping it up, and thinking "I must get that tyre checked out." And not getting it checked out.

It was kinda weird because sometimes it would go for, like, four weeks and not go down. And then it would BE down and I'd have to rush to an airline and pump it up. And then, just a couple of days later it would be down again. I'd think "I really must get that tyre checked out." But I'd be busy and I wouldn't get around to it for a few days, and it would stay up and I'd think "can't be that urgent" and so it would go on.

The main problem was that it could get down to something like 12lbs of pressure (normal is around 28lbs) without any visible sign of trouble but then it only had to lose another 6lbs to be almost flat. And yes, I had pumped it up a couple of times when it was as low as 6lbs. I can't remember exactly how long this has been going on, but it was happening months before we moved house (13 Oct 2006) so I guess for at least six months and probably a lot longer.

So anyway, last week - Monday I think it was - I "just caught it" again. Luckily I'd stopped for a paper at a petrol station and when I came out of the shop I noticed it was really flat. There was an airline right there, so I filled it up. Two days later it was down again and I'd finally had enough. I made time Saturday to call round to National Tyre. They were really quick, had the wheel off the car in no time and there was the nail - only a small one - stuck right in the middle of the tread. Pretty soon the guy had the tyre off the rim and was peering at the insides.

"Have you been running this flat?" he asked, marking several chalk circles on the inner surface of the tyre and beckoning me over.
"Umm...yeah."
"Thought so. The sidewall is pretty chewed up. I would have been able to plug it - it's only a small hole - but once the sidewall's gone, well..."

Cost of a plug, that could have been fitted six months ago and saved me all the pumping up and stress? About £10. Cost of the new tyre I now needed because I hadn't got off my arse quick enough and got it sorted? £58.50.

Chinese celebrations

So we took Nat & Blythe for dinner at the No.1 Oriental Buffet last night. Same idea as the Nawaab - all you can eat for a tenner - but this time with Chinese food instead of Indian. Fantastic! For us, the best part of any Chinese meal is the crispy aromatic duck, and here they have a corner of the restaurant devoted to assembling your pancakes - a huge plate of shredded duck, a tureen of Hoisin sauce and large dishes full of shredded spring onions and cucumber. The Szechuan chilli beef was to die for too, not to mention the crispy chicken and the excellent ribs.

One of the great things about buffet-style restaurants like this is the chance to try new stuff without incurring any extra cost, which was a relief when I discovered the fish with ginger and spring onions had almost no flavour at all, and one of the noodle dishes tasted like the smell of newly-pasted wallpaper. This made everyone laugh until they actually tried some. Then they laughed even louder when they agreed it was a perfect description of the flavour.

Back home we turned the lights down low and the home cinema volume up high and settled back to watch Forrest Gump followed by Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, accompanied with lots of ginger beer and ... no nibbles. We were all still stuffed!

Wobble

It's bloody cold. You're all gonna start laughing now, all you Canadians and North Americans with your -40­°C's and your wind chills, but lemme tell you when you move from a nice new double-glazed well-insulated relatively small house to a large old drafty Edwardian semi with no carpets and windows that don't shut properly, then even -1°C is cold, especially on a breezy day.

We discovered something though. The lounge stays warm if we close the door. Simple, innit? But again living in a modern house, you forget traditional stuff like closing doors. Or "puttin' t'wood in th'ole" as they say round here. It's amazing the difference it makes. There's a downside though. The room gets so warm we fall asleep. I'm not joking, there's not been a single night this week we haven't both fallen asleep in front of the telly. Must be an age thing. Or maybe I'm trying to hibernate.

My mate Phil sent me a couple of links yesterday. One to the top 40 funniest pictures - I was laughing out loud right from the first one - and one to the top 40 prettiest pictures. All of those are really beautiful. I've seen quite a few of them before. They're the sort of pictures Nikki's Mum often sends, usually wrapped in a transportable Powerpoint file with some inspiring music. Oh, and here's my go at tvor's book meme that came to me via Nikki. I've had to cheat a bit (no - I didn't reach for the most intellectual book - the closest one is Perfume, cos it's right across the desk from me owing to the fact that Nikki already did it, and the next closest is the Radio Times. I didn't even know the Radio Times had 123 pages, but it does and you're right in the middle of the radio listings so I didn't think they'd be very interesting) but I've found something interesting so maybe you'll forgive me. Remember, the idea is...

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next 3 sentences on your blog along with these instructions.
5. Don't you dare dig for that "cool" or "intellectual" book in your closet! I know you were thinking about it! Just pick up whatever is closest.

"In medieval European folklore, the Chichelvache is the wife of Bicorne. Chichelvache takes the form of an undernourished cow who has a miserable expression on her human face. She is supposed to live on a diet of wives who were both obedient and tyrannized by their husbands."

From 'The Element Encyclopedia of Magical Creatures - the ultimate a to z of fantastic beings from myth and magic' which we bought Natalie for her 18th birthday (and gave to her today). No wonder the cow is undernourished! Obedient wives? (*ducks*)

Mind your grammar!

I see in the news this week that this tarnished Labour government's "education guru" - Lord Adonis - has finally admitted he was wrong to abolish grammar schools. Since Tony Blair came to power in 1997 banging his podium to the beat of his mantra "Education, Education, Education" standards have continued to fall despite the spin put on school results by the government's propaganda machine. Young people spill out into the job market unable to read, spell or count properly and universities, as well as being virtually unable to distinguish good candidates from bad since an increasing majority have achieved "A" grades at A-Level, have to spend an ever greater proportion of the intake year bringing students' basic English and Maths up to an acceptable standard.

Luckily (and although some planning went into it, it is more luck than judgement) my two daughters have enjoyed a relatively high standard of education. One of the reasons I originally chose to live where I did back in 1988 was the proximity to the local junior and infants' school which was, and remains, an extremely successful school. The high school in the area is above average, and the A Level college my elder daughter currently attends is one of the best in the country (including private colleges).

I too led an almost charmed existence at school - starting off at Edwalton County Primary - which I'm pleased to see is still in fine fettle 40+ years after I left - and progressing through the local state schools and University with little trouble, apart from that of my own making. So I guess some would think I'm not best placed to comment on poor education: I didn't suffer it, and neither have my kids. But God! Those intervening years have been hard on so many, as one "guru" after another experimented with various teaching fads (Initial Teaching Alphabet to name but one), targets and statistics, curriculum changes and wholesale devastation of exam syllabuses. And who were the losers? Well teachers for one, as they struggled to cope with mounting workloads, crumbling schools, lack of basic tools and poor salaries. But of course the main losers were the kids.

True, some schools shine out like beacons in the void - ECP above being one of them - but all too many are struggling and failing to give our kids a fair chance of a good start in life, while all the time this vacuous government tries to convince us that things are getting better.

What does this have to do with the abolition of grammar schools? Well for generations, they were the passport out of poverty for thousands of working-class children. Many in today's upper echelons of industry and government started their climb to fame and fortune in a grammar school, and yet now they're busy denying the same chance to today's children. Deprived of the opportunity to push themselves to excel, surrounded by mediocrity and sullen resignation, they turn their back not only on academia, but on any pursuit of the mind including plain ordinary reading, content instead to while away their time on video games and mindless television pap such as Big Brother and Love Island.

This sorry state of affairs has gone on so long we now even have teachers who can't spell properly. How are they supposed to teach English? Simple - they decide spelling "isn't important" and stop correcting poor examples, with the result that the next generation's spelling is even worse. And don't even get me started on apostrophe usage.

Lord Adonis might well have the courage to admit he was wrong to get rid of grammar schools, but unless he or someone like him takes the next logical step and brings them back, education in this country will continue its downward slide save for a few islands of excellence.

The Signs of Power

It's long been a theory of mine that the more senior you get in an organisation, the less common sense you have. The more powerful you become, the more the simple things in life tend to elude you.

The original clue that led me to form this theory is the kind of sign you see on the inside of the toilet door in the gents lavatory (or quite possibly the ladies, but I wouldn't know about that). In my part of the world, oop t'North (and in an office populated by relatively junior staff) we simply don't have any signs on the toilet doors. You're expected to know what you have to do. Or use your initiative and work it out for yourself (with or without a pencil).

Years ago, when I started travelling down to our offices in the South (which by and large have a higher proportion of more senior staff), I noticed their toilets had twee little signs on the doors saying "Now wash your hands" or, in some cases, "Please leave this toilet in the condition you would wish to find it." This latter instruction is a euphemism aimed at men who...well...need help with their aim, or even worse never learned how to flush a toilet. I learnt that there are, apparently, more of that sort down there than there are up here.

But it wasn't until I visited our headquarters, where the CEO and all his minions hang out, that I saw the sign which caused my theory to gel. Here, the toilet signs read: "Please leave this toilet in the condition you would wish to find it. That means ensuring the toilet rim is dry and anything you have put down the toilet has been flushed away."

You see? It seems that at the seat of power, they don't even know what condition it is preferable to find a toilet in unless it's spelled out for them.

I was reminded of my theory today, as I had occasion once again to visit our HQ. As I was leaving the conference room I noticed the expensive-looking phone was displaying a message on its little screen. Nosy as ever, I bent forwards to see what it said. "Press the 'Phone' button to get a dialling tone." Next time I go, I'm half expecting to see signs beside the door handles: "Depress handle to exit room."

Smashing!

If we ever start to believe that we're living in a little civilised oasis here in our new place, and forget that we're actually part of the second largest urban conurbation in the UK, the recent spate of vandalism is more than enough to act as a wake-up call. After a lull of some months, suddenly everywhere we look there are smashed bus shelters once again, their sad little piles of broken glass littering the morning pavements as we drive to work.

It must be a sad and boring life indeed if the best you can do for entertainment is drive around the streets of Manchester in a beat-up old jalopy with a couple of mates and a baseball bat, and vent your frustrations on a load of defenceless bus shelters. The satisfaction you get from the *pop* as the glass shatters and the *tinkle* as it falls to the ground must be short-lived. Do you feel any remorse? No, I don't suppose you even know what it means. Do you ever think about the people who have to use the smashed bus shelters every day? They're pretty much people like you, except most of them will be on their way to work - another concept that I expect doesn't have much meaning for you.

I guess Manchester City Council have worked out the commercials and figure that it's cheaper to continually replace the smashed panels of glass with more glass, rather than build their bus shelters out of more durable materials. They must do, because smashed shelters have been a feature of our urban landscape for at least five years. Or maybe they think if the yobs take their anger out on the shelters, they'll leave other more sensitive targets, like people, alone.

Life After Death

In the news: an Israeli woman whose 22 year old son was killed by a Palestinian sniper has won a four-year legal battle to be allowed to create her own grandson using sperm she had asked to be extracted from her dead son's body. Over 200 hundred women responded to the woman's advertisement for a surrogate mother to carry her dead son's child to term, and the lucky winner will be inseminated with his sperm, which has been in liquid nitrogen for the past four years.

When you start to think about this incredible conundrum it's easy to understand why the legal argument has taken so long to settle. The man didn't have a partner and had no immediate prospects of having children. Did he even want children? Despite his mother saying her son's voice spoke to her when she was holding his photograph, telling her there was something she could do for him, there's no real evidence one way or the other. In life, parents often urge their children to present them with longed-for grandchildren, and many children resist the pressure because either they are not ready to procreate, or they never want to. In death, they cannot protect either their wishes or their genotype. If someone were to remove your sperm without your permission while you're alive they would be guilty of assault. When you're dead apparently you have no such protection.

Many people shy away from being sperm donors because they will have no control over the lives and upbringings of what are effectively their children. They may be condemning them to lives of extreme poverty, deprivation, degradation, abuse, indifference. You may make these decisions for yourself while you are alive, but apparently it makes no difference once you're dead.

What kind of relationship will the mother have? Is she just a surrogate? Does she want to bring the child up, or be involved at least? Is she being paid? It will be her child too. What rights will she have? Is she being coerced into signing them away?

What about the child? How will he or she cope with the knowledge that their germ was plucked from their dead father's loins and used to fertilise someone who not only didn't love their father, but had not even ever met him?

Science can do remarkable things, and the boundaries of what we can and cannot do are being pushed back further and further every day. I strongly believe that it is our right and our duty to use the intelligence with which we have been blessed to understand the world better, find out how things work, and change those things that are bad for the better. But this macabre case, perhaps more than any other, has pointed up for me the difference between what we CAN do, and what we SHOULD do. If our moral and ethical sciences don't keep better pace with our biological and chemical ones, then decisions like this one, driven by the raw emotional wants of distraught bereaved parents, will come to haunt us.

A Damp Squid

I love malapropisms. We recently gained a new character - Honey Mitchell - on the soap EastEnders here in the UK who is unintentionally hilarious with her misuse of words. It takes a gifted writer to invent malapropisms that are actually funny, but the real hilarity for me is when it happens in real life. I was listening to a news package on the radio today about how large supermarkets are deliberately making life harder for smaller retail outlets. Nothing new there, you might think, and true enough it's been going on for a while. So much so that the Office of Fair Trading are now looking into it. The case under discussion in the package was a small retailer who had recently opened a new branch. The opening happened several months after the local branch of Tesco's had been refurbished, but Tesco's chose this guy's opening week to leaflet the whole community and draw their brand spanking new premises to everyone's attention. In the words of the small shop owner, this turned his opening ceremony into "a damp squid."

ROFL! Squids are meant to be damp ;o)

Another classic that has now been virtually accepted into the language is "Early Doors." I would hate to be an etymologist in a hundred years time trying to unravel the meaning and provenance of that phrase. Similarly, if "damp squid" gained currency, who would ever guess that it was originally a corruption of a "damp squib?"

Incidentally, my Nikki has been rating her life so I thought I'd have a go. How does yours rate?

This Is My Life, Rated
Life:	8
Mind:	7.1
Body:	5.1
Spirit:	7.6
Friends/Family:	6.9
Love:	9.1
Finance:	7.9
Take the Rate My Life Quiz

Not what I call a weekend

I've had to work this weekend and I'm out of practice, I can tell you. I've been spoiled, for at least the last ten years, being in a position where I was able to restrict my overtime to weekdays and call the weekends my own. But right now I'm working on a big government bid (I could tell you what it's about, but then I'd have to shoot you) and for the second time in as many months, I've been working on it all weekend. And it sucks.

It might have been at least ten years since I did weekend overtime, but what sucks even more is that it's almost twenty years since I was paid to work overtime. Yes, I've reached the dizzy heights of the slippery pole where working additional hours (or even, "as many hours as it takes") to get the job done is not only expected, but if you don't do it your performance assessment suffers. This is an insidious, dehumanising side of business in the UK. Forget "a fair day's work for a fair day's pay." This is more like a long day's work for the privilege of having a job. Some years ago, I worked out how much the company owed me in unpaid overtime, based on my salary since 1988, and standard overtime premiums of 1.5x hours worked on weekdays and 2x weekend hours. The figure came to almost £100,000 then, and it's been at least five years since I did the calculation.

There's a silver lining to every cloud though, innit? And this weekend my silver lining has been the wonderful dinner Nikki cooked for me tonight - a smashing stick-to-your-ribs beef stew served up with a glass of chilled wine, a candlelit table, lashings of hot horseradish and an apricot crumble to follow (which we've yet to enjoy). That, and the snow that started up about half an hour ago, the first of the year. Nikki has a photo on her blog.

Celebrity Shopping

Wandering round my local Morrison's is the last place I expected to spot a "celebrity" but there we were in the middle of our weekly grocery shopping tonight when who should be stood there next to us but Chris Gascoyne, who plays Peter Barlow on Corrie. I had one of those "is he, isn't he?" moments for a while because he was wearing a flat cap and had his head down and also (sorry Chris, I bet you get this all the time) he was considerably shorter than I was expecting, but it was definitely him.

I shouldn't be surprised - Chorlton has long been a favoured haunt of Corrie actors. Craig Charles famously has a place here (very close to the Morrison's actually - I wonder if he and Chris were planning a boys' night in?) and ex-Corrie writer and archivist Daran Little lived locally too - so it's not unusual, but somehow you never expect to see these people in supermarkets do you? Realising that they have to do their own shopping is almost akin to realising that the Queen has to go to the toilet.

Anyway, cognisant of my recent faux-pas with Wendy Richard I did NOT approach him or shout "Chris! Hi!" or anything of the sort. He looked pretty nervous actually, so I guess he was trying to be a regular guy out doing his weekly shop and wanting to be left alone. Several other shoppers spotted him too, but no-one spoke to him the whole time he was in view, so I hope he got out without having to speak to anyone if that was his aim.

That's the second Corrie star I've seen in supermarkets, thinking about it. I stood behind Anne Kirkbride in a queue for the tills in Cheadle Sainsbury's a couple of years back. I know, I know, you're thinking "how exciting." In a couple of years' time, when I'm a famous author (*koff*) I hope I'll still be able to shop in Morrison's without being mobbed.

Interesting trivia:
When I was searching for a photo of Chris, I misspelled his name "chris gascoigne" and found the website of a famous photographer. The "Images" link on Google contained nothing but his photographs. "Never mind," I thought, "I'll search for Peter Barlow." And I found...the website of a famous photographer. Spooky.

Wind in the Willows

Yes, it was one of my favourite books as a boy, but in this case the title refers to this mad weather we've had today. 90mph winds? What's that all about? My colleague Steve called me up this morning to complain that he was going to be late for his meeting - the train was restricted to 50mph because of the wind. He had even more to worry about later - he and Nic were stuck at Euston after their trains home were cancelled altogether. There were so many fallen trees and branches on the lines they weren't safe. I've been working side-by-side with these guys for months and that could easily have been me.

Our firm issued a bulletin later in the afternoon containing a list of closed roads as long as your arm, but by the time it came out I was already stuck in a queue on the A5103 bringing Nikki back from work. We didn't know at the time, but the queue was caused by a fallen tree completely blocking both sides of the dual carriageway. Someone sent this photo into the BBC News pages:

We sat stationary in the queue for almost fifteen minutes. Luckily we were just south of the M60 interchange so we were able to swing left onto the motorway and come home via Sale and Stretford, but even so it took us over an hour and a half to get home (a journey that usually takes little more than 10 minutes). Every road we tried was blocked with creeping traffic so in the end we decided we may as well stick it out. Found out later that it was a good job I didn't try Palatine Road as an alternative route home - there was a fallen tree there too and we would have had no escape if we'd been trapped on that road.

We're grateful that 90 minutes was not all we lost. The number of people killed is still climbing and not far from us the entire corner of a house has been taken out by another tree, so things could have been a lot worse. 40,000 people are without power tonight and many more have been injured, whereas the worst we had to do was stand the wheelie bins back up.

We're surrounded by sound

Annie popped over this evening to cable up the surround sound system. Wow. We had a quick blast of LOTR Return of the King. The battle scene is awesome. There'll definitely be a weekend viewing of the whole trilogy going down sometime soon, with candlelight, junk food and beer.

But amazingly, that wasn't the best part. Oh no. The best part was setting the XBox to full Dolby Digital 5.1 and hearing some of the games in full glorious surround sound. Amazing.

The only slight downside? We couldn't get DTV recording working. I've been struggling with this for two months now (ever since we left Sky behind - another story in itself) and it seems there's some incompatibility between the Pioneer media centre that came with the plasma TV, and our Sony PVR (which only has an analogue tuner). At least it wasn't anything obvious that I hadn't spotted, so I didn't feel too stupid.

I dunno, you pay thousands for this stuff and it won't talk from one box to the other? Sheesh. We can record a digital channel, but only as long as the TV stays set to that channel AND only if we've programmed the EPG and the PVR to the same time. Not a lot of use. I can see us forking out for a second Freeview box before long.

Avenue Close

While I was driving over to Nottingham at the weekend, I passed a street sign I've seen many times before in Stoney Middleton. It's "Avenue Close" and it always makes me chuckle. I was travelling on my own, so with no distractions my mind wandered to other comic possibilities for street names.

I think those Stoney Middleton planners missed a trick by not putting "Real Close" next to "Avenue Close." Of course, the classic "Letsby Avenue" is well known but by the time I'd gone through Memory Lane, Blind Alley, Bowling Alley, Upping Court, Back Passage, Tennis Court, My Way, Perfect Place and Whist Drive I was giggling fit to burst and almost had to pull over.

I'm easily amused.

A walk in the park

Waking after the party to a beautiful sunny, crisp, breezy January day, Nikki and I had the same thought independently: what a great day for a walk in the park.

When I used to live next door to a pub, it was so close and convenient that it lost its appeal. I sincerely hope the same doesn't happen with the park. It would be a shame not to take advantage of it.

Alexandra Park featured large in my student life. Lying on its sward listening to a transistor radio in the early summer was where I did most of my second year revision. Maybe that's why I didn't do too well in those exams! Today was the first time I had set foot in the part since those days back in 1977. Another couple of months and it would have been thirty years.

The wonderful day, and having Nikki with me, dispelled any thought of dwelling on those intervening thirty years. I just enjoyed the park: the footballers, the locals walking their dogs and children, the lake with its various waterfowl, the fabulous sweet smell of old autumn leaves and wet mud. Our conversation ambled along at the same pace as we did. After all this time Ally Park can still work its magic on your soul. We returned home feeling buoyed up by our walk and I found I was actually looking forward to the chance to do it again, but this time in the rain!

Read Nikki's thoughts on our walk (with extra pictures!) here.

The party of the first part

I love partying, especially in the company of delightful women. Naturally, I'm always in the company of at least one delightful woman, but tonight we attended a party thrown by Simon (one of our friends from Chorlton Chapters) along with around half a dozen of the Chapters laydeees. What a lovely bunch they are and it was great to have the chance to meet some of their partners too.

Simon does a unique line in parties. Salsa dancing in one room and karaoke in the other. It will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me that I gravitate to the latter, much to Nikki's occasional irritation ("can't we mingle?"..."we are mingling - there's lots of people in the karaoke room!") but it was, as usual, a whole heap of fun, especially later when the girls got going with the singing AND dancing.

And Nikki sang!! Woohoo!! Carpenters Superstar. She'll never again be able to tell me she can't sing.

We left at 2am - personally I could have stayed another hour or so :o) - but what a great night. Thanks, Simon. I only hope our housewarming party this coming May can match your high standard! (Even without the salsa)

A round-about way

I had to drive over to Nottingham unexpectedly today. My Mum's finding it increasingly difficult to get upstairs and had finally decided to have a single bed brought down into the dining room. As a result she has no space for the table/chairs and I was going over to pick them up, and to set up the bed for her.

In the usual circular way of things with Mother, this was a return to the state of play before Christmas when I thought I was going to have to juggle all the pre-Christmas goings on (such as the mulled wine party) with a dining room reconfiguration. At the eleventh hour she called the whole thing off. Someone had mentioned getting a Stannah stairlift fitted and that idea became flavour of the month. I knew very well she had no idea how expensive they are, so I just sent up thanks for not having to move the dining table before Christmas, and bided my time.

Sure enough, Stannah were kicked out of the house (£7,000 AND she would have had to have two radiators moved) and the move was back on, so off I set.

So now, we get to the point of my tale (at last! you're probably thinking) which is mini-roundabouts. Yes, sorry, another driving blog. Only in disguise this time. Non-UK readers, particularly those in North America may be in the dark about what exactly I mean by "roundabout." Well, you could Google it, but basically imagine a four-way stop (or in some cases, more, or less ways) but with a circular road in the middle instead of a square lump of tarmac, and where priority is given to cars coming round the circle (the roundabout) from the right. Only in the case of North America (and the rest of Europe), they would be coming from the left. If there's nothing coming from the right, you can enter the roundabout, and once you're on it you have priority over anyone else trying to enter.

I know from talking to North American friends that the idea sounds mad, but trust me it works very well and - to European eyes at least - makes a lot more sense than a four-way. How you ever work out who was first and last to pull up if it gets busy I wouldn't like to guess.

Anyway, I'm not talking about roundabouts per se, but MINI-roundabouts. These are used at junctions where there isn't enough space to build a real roundabout, but where traffic control is simplified by the roundabout concept. They're often just painted rings on the road like this one. My reason for blogging them is that on my journey to Nottingham there are two of these little guys, and at both of them I saw drivers making a real meal of them. I said they're used where there's not much space, right? So it's amazing how many drivers try to drive around the little painted circle, even when there are no other cars near the junction. Why?

The whole idea of them is that they introduce the concept of the roundabout, without necessarily needing to be treated like one in terms of road positioning. I admit opinion is divided on this one (and indeed there's even a campaign to abolish mini-roundabouts and end the confusion) but to me, all that is necessary is to give way to the right, just as you would on any other roundabout. If there's no-one about there's absolutely no need to attempt to drive around the paint. Indeed in many places it's physically impossible to achieve that anyway.

Woof! Woof!

Hey, we're almost there on the surround-sound front. Annie succeeded in her eBay quest and picked one up for a snip (well, £23 to be precise). Nikki & I elected to avoid the £20 postal charge by driving up to Blackburn this evening to collect it. The nice man even threw in a phono cable with the deal. Result!

Now all we have to do is wire everything up. Rear speaker shelves were taken care of last weekend in a few minutes - another benefit of picture rail!

I met Wendy Richard today...

I was in London today for a business meeting. Nothing unusual about that, nor about the fact that, since the meeting finished early, we decided to repair to the pub around the corner for lunch. Come to think of it that is quite unusual. It would have been only the second time I'd visited that particular establishment, but the second time will have to wait: it was closed for refurbishment.

Following closely on the heels of Nic, who knows the local pubs in the same way as he knows everything else - thoroughly - we dashed around the corner into an alternative pub and ordered pints. As I turned to find a seat who should be standing next to me at the bar but Wendy Richard, aka the recently deceased Pauline Fowler from EastEnders.

It was at that point I turned into a gibbering wreck. I don't know what it is about being "around" famous people, but I don't cope with it very well. It's almost as if I'm trying to prove something. Along the lines of "I know you're famous but that doesn't cut any ice with me so I'm just going to treat you like anyone else and act completely normal and definitely not all fawning and star-struck." Only I don't act normal at all. I go completely the other way - wayyyyyyy too pally and sociable. Because even though I'm from the "friendly" North I just do not walk up to complete strangers at a bar and strike up a conversation as if we've known each other for years. But I did with Wendy. Not even a "hello, nice to meet you," or a "my name's John," or anything else that remotely resembled social graces. With no consideration of the fact that she probably just wanted to sit at the bar and have a quiet drink, I just sauntered up and asked "so what's next for you?"

I felt like Baby Houseman from Dirty Dancing where she meets Johnny Castle for the first time and says "I carried a watermelon."

Wendy removed her coat with infinite grace and replied politely "you can't have been watching much television over Christmas dear," referring presumably to the EE special that had been on which I expect covered something about the work she had lined up. No, I hadn't seen it, I admitted. She went on to tell me that she'd been on some breakfast programme and was about to do a spot on Wogan's radio show, but I wasn't really listening. I was already mortified at my presumption and looking to make my escape. One of the others asked me to order another drink and I gratefully turned around to address the barmaid. Wendy went back to her paper.

I couldn't leave it there though, could I? What would she think of me? So as I turned and walked past her with two drinks in my hands I said: "forgive me - us Northerners just strike up conversations without a by-your-leave." Wendy was ready for me again: "I'm from Middlesborough myself dear, so I quite understand." More embarrassment! Clearly if I'd been a real fan, I'd have known she was from oop t'North.

I sat down, reflecting on my total lack of social skill. I remember meeting Bryan Pringle in the Trip to Jerusalem one lunchtime many, many years ago. Bryan, most famous to me in those days for playing the part of 'Cheese and Egg' in a TV comedy called the Dustbinmen, had been appearing in a play at the Nottingham Playhouse and had also sought refuge in the pub. I spotted him when I was just about to leave the bar. "Hello Bryan!" I yelled, as if he was the long-lost best mate from my childhood, and when he smiled and said hello I beat a hasty retreat to the other side of the pub. Clearly I'd learned nothing about how to handle celebrity in the intervening 30+ years.

Next time I see someone famous I'll just nod and smile. Then they'll only suspect I'm simple minded - I won't have proved it.

Beresford & Wallace

What's this? Two consecutive posts about writing? The guy must be serious! :o)

Well almost - this one's about songwriting, for these are exciting times. If you've read my website you might know that last year my good friend Annie Wallace and I recorded an album. If you're a close friend or family member you may even have a copy. Short clips from each track have been available on our websites for a year but following an idea of Annie's and a short discussion we agreed we would make the whole thing available for download from a dedicated website.

Beresford & Wallace.com went live at the end of last week and for the time being you can still only get those original 30-second clips. Soon though, you'll be able to download the complete tracks. We're not expecting to do an Arctic Monkeys with any of our stuff, but you never know.

It's All About The Work

Actually that's a bit of a deliberate misnomer. It's the war-cry of my writing coach (and good friend) Colleen Patrick and it's also, despite the title of my blog, one of the most significant things I haven't written about on here so far! "The work" in question is the writing. The thing that, for writers, should be the most important part of the day. And the thing that, for me, always gets pushed so far to the end of the day that it falls over into tomorrow, only for the same thing to happen over and over again.

It's not that I don't write anything. I do. I write here. I write for TV Scoop (on a daily basis). I write technical documents during the working day at the only job I have that can pay the mortgage. But none of that is the writing I really want to be doing. And if I "really want to be doing it," why is it so hard to sit down and really do it?

I finished my novel in August last year. I like to write that, and have it stand in its own sentence, before going on to tell you that it's only the first draft. OK, fair enough most people don't ever get to even finish one draft, so maybe I should sit back and take some pride in that. But I think sitting back for almost six months is maybe overdoing it a little. I did start the first redraft, and I'm exactly six twentieths of the way through that, but I've been stalled for those six months.

Things have been hectic, of that there's no doubt. Moving house, decorating, entertaining (much of which is on here somewhere if you care to look), Christmas and all, but I know those reasons - or excuses, as you might call them if you were feeling harsh - wouldn't cut any ice with CP. She has a simple philosophy, which is that you should write every day. Even if it's only five minutes a day. Every day. So while I'm not one for New Year's resolutions a thought has been crystallising in my mind this last couple of weeks. That if my writing gets pushed to the end of the day, maybe that's the most sensible time to do it. I know some writers prefer first thing in the morning, but I already get up at stupid o'clock to get ready for work, and my brain is no longer sharp enough at that time of day to invent fiction. No, it's the end of the day for me. I'm always still awake long past when I should have been in bed anyway (unless I've fallen asleep in front of the telly) so what difference will an extra 30 minutes make?

Ignorance is no defence

Sorry to post two traffic-related rants consecutively, but it seems that standards of road use around the Manchester area are reaching previously unheard of lows just recently. It's not just discourtesy, road rage or stupidity but out-and-out law breaking, purely because the perpetrators know they can get away with it. In the last week I've witnessed:

• A guy turning the wrong way up a one-way street, in the centre of Chorlton, in full view of the massed shoppers on a Saturday afternoon
• A white van driving more than a mile down a bus lane just so that he can be first to turn left at the next set of lights
• A cyclist without lights riding on the pavement in the dark

and of course there's the usual crop of red light runners, cyclists included. At the junction near our place where I have to wait to turn right every morning, the number of people coming in the opposite direction and jumping the red light has reached epic proportions. To the extent where I can't complete my right-turn manoeuvre until the traffic starting out from their green lights to right and left is almost upon me. This is an insidious problem. It started out, and not so very long ago, with people pushing their luck accelerating through amber lights. They left it later and later, until they were crossing the junction as amber turned to red. A few years ago, people started tailgating the last car through the red light. What their defence would have been I have no idea but it didn't matter - very few if any were prosecuted. Confidence grew, and now three are four cars regularly tailgate over a red light at each change.

Do we really have to get to the stage where every set of traffic lights has to be fitted with cameras before these arrogant, ignorant people will obey the law? One thing's certain - there's no sanction worrying them at present. It's simple: no enforcement + no penalty = no obedience. And more and more people are working that out, led on by the example of the few.

Trouble is, it's the thin end of the wedge. Once you start down the path of picking and choosing which laws you obey and which are just "inconvenient," the next stop is anarchy.

Red lights at red lights

Although I've been known to rant on a bit in this blog I don't consider myself a person that gets easily riled, but being back on the roads today on this, the first working day of the year, reminded me of something that regularly pisses me off: the complete lack of empathy shown by drivers who sit at red lights with their foot jammed on the brakes, forcing me to stare at their high-intensity brake lights for minutes on end.

It's not comfortable, it's not pleasant, and in the majority of cases it's totally not necessary. Manchester is a reasonably flat city - a huge proportion of its traffic lights and junctions are on roads with no slope at all. When you're stopped, you stay stopped. No need for any brakes. Give your right foot a rest!

If you're one of the (no more than) 10% of UK drivers with an automatic gearbox, you might think you have an excuse. Nope. Pop the shift into neutral and give your right foot a rest!

What about when you're on a slope - surely then you have a reason? Nope. Ever heard of the handbrake? Yank it up and give your right foot a rest! When I learnt to drive, we were taught to use this clever little device for hill starts and to control the vehicle on slight slopes. Now, it's somehow become a point of macho pride to slip the clutch at hilly junctions, or use the footbrake and "prove" you can pull away quickly before you start to roll back.

But mostly it's just pure laziness. You come to a stop with your foot on the brake and you leave it there. It's not a foot rest! Take it off! Give my eyes a break!

Happy New Year

Yesterday was a hive of activity, as we wanted to have time to slob around and do nothing this evening and tomorrow, to savour what remains of the holiday. We set to with a vengeance to generally tidy up as well as taking down the Christmas decorations.

The hall looks very bare without the tree (why, when a tree decoration breaks, is it always one of your favourites? We'll be looking for another glass angel next Christmas) but the rest of the house looks just...normal. We never go in for vast quantities of danglies or tinsel anywhere, although now we're in a bigger place we really should invest in a few more bits and pieces. The overall effect of our deccies this year was quite muted. Having to take boxes of tinsel up to the attic room prompted us to have a look around for other things that could be moved up there out of the way and in the course of doing this we uncovered the kitchen curtains we'd brought with us from the old place.

Nikki realised they would match the new décor in spare room perfectly. Down came the original green ones, to be replaced with these rather fine terracotta alternatives, which have a literary theme (they're printed with various latin phrases).

We also cleaned behind cooker - Nikki being embarrassed by the large collection of food droppings, grease, dust, insects and old bottle tops in the gap between the cooker and the wall, and very conscious that the "cooker man" should be arriving one day this week to fix the problem with the oven.

With these and several other small jobs taken care of we were all set to settle down for a quiet evening in when an email arrived from Jamie and Lise urging us to come to their NYE party. We ummed and ahhed for a while but in the end decided to go and are we glad we did - they laid on a fabulous spread AND a quiz in the pub-stylee and we had a totally top night. Happy New Year to them, to all our friends and family and to anyone else who happens to be reading this!