The Good Old Days

As I took out my life savings to fill the car with diesel last week, I noted in my brain that I could remember being mortified when petrol hit 40 pence per litre. I stopped myself from saying, even to myself, "ah those were the days" because frankly they weren't.

And woe betide anyone who starts saying that 1995, or 1955, or 1805 were somehow the golden age of life.

There are a breed of humans who see any form of progress as evil, and want to stop it at all costs. They are easy to spot because they carry an identity tag called The Daily Mail. They campaign fervently against any more of anything, be it immigrants, digital television, pronunciation, parking, housing, young people, hospitals, no hospitals, 4x4s, petrol prices, the environment, paying for the environment, Europe...

Now there's nothing wrong with having opinions - if you didn't have opinions you'd be Jamelia. ("I don't really care what's going on in that Iran nor nuffink." - thanks Jamelia.) But the trenchant view that nothing else should change really does get you into some tight spots. Take the hysterical "Save The Pound" campaign championed by Mrs Thatcher mini-me William Hague. There he was with his massive pound coin, thrusting it in the faces of anyone who dared to think that, actually, as coins go, the Euro currency is a lot more attractive, and you can get coins from several different countries which makes it attractive to those who might want to collect them. Not that I've ever done that.

Now here's the thing. Those same people were, in 1983, ranting at the tops of their voices that Britain was about to end because of... the introduction of the pound coin. It's a crying shame, they said, that Britain was abandoning its values, traditions and pound note in favour of this wretched little piece of metal. Too small, they cried. Of course they were the same people who had had a hissy fit when we started counting things in tens, and you could bed down for the night underneath a pound note.

Then there's television. I mean, in the good old days there was only the BBC, which showed that nice Morecambe and Wise and some stories about where the Queen was visiting, and you could only watch in black and white for four hours a day, and if someone boiled a kettle four streets away the picture turned into snow. But to receive a couple of dozen crystal-clear channels, backed by near-internet quality teletext for free, well, that's the beginning of the end of civilisation. So much so, that many millions of pounds that could have been spent on better programmes for the rest of us has had to be spent on Penelope Keith and the like, patiently explaining how a remote control works.

Personally I'd have just left them to work it out for themselves. Because even after they've been forced to go digital, they'll complain about the programmes.

Tube "Drivers"

Yesterday I was busy being a househusband and father-of-two.
In the course of my 12 hour day I was a caterer, entertainer, construction engineer, gardener, judge and jury in the H vs A Castle Custody Battle, cleaner, shopper, etc, etc, etc. My income for this was precisely nothing.

Now the thing is, I don't want paying. I'm very lucky that I can be a father and only work occasionally, and quite a lot from home, and see loads of my kids growing up and indeed be in some way responsible for how they turn out. I'd probably better put in an apology for that now, just in case.

Quite often when I'm working I reflect on how easy it is in comparison to being a parent. You can structure your own time, take breaks pretty much when you want, not have to deal with floods of tears if you say "that'll have to wait a couple of minutes". Criticism is generally constructive, you can swear without fear of the f-word being repeated in front of the vicar the following Sunday. You get five weeks a year off from it, and every day only lasts eight hours.

I have a very nice job, which I've spent years cultivating. I can't begin to imagine what it must be like to drive a tube train. Because at a time when inflation is so low it's like an asthmatic wasp is driving the economy, tube drivers are holding out for 5%, plus a guarantee that they can murder every first born in London without fear of prosecution, plus free curly-wurlies for life.*
What are they doing in the cab that could possibly warrant such a job package?

Is it steering these metal monsters? Er, no. That would be done by the rails.
How about stopping them at the stations? Well yes, they do that. But if they were to fall asleep and not stop, then a computer kicks in and stops the train anyway.
How about the passenger announcements? Occasionally you hear a maverick "live" anno, but generally that's done by computer as well.

So we've pretty much got a load of people who are paid £40K each to push a combination of three buttons for eight hours a day. And as mentioned above, a computer could do it for free.

Given this, it may be time for Transport for London to call time on their militant tube drivers, sack the lot of them, and send them home to do a real job.


*This may not be the exact offer on the table.

Eurosceptics

Next week I shall be putting some x's in some boxes, and as a result some people will represent me and the views of my fellow constituents on a local and a European level. I'm very excited, especially about the European elections, as there are lots and lots of people anxious to be my MEP.

In the interests of balance and fairness, I've read most of the electoral material that's been shoved through my letterbox, and made a discovery. Most of the people asking for my vote don't seem to have the faintest idea what the European Parliament is for, or what their potential job as an MEP entails.

Starting with the "big three" of politics - Labour haven't sent anything, but that may just be because they've read the Lib Dem leaflet with the scary graph showing that LABOUR CAN'T WIN HERE. There's even an arrow pointing at Labour's tiny 8% they achieved last time to highlight how pitiful you would be...

The Lib Dems also have a picture of their MEP showing concern for potholes in Woking, or something equally irrelevant. Unless there's an EU road repair fund that Surrey have managed to tap into.

The Tories have lots of shiny pictures of David "Dave" Cameron, but are basically campaigning on the "it's all that Labour Party's fault" front and hoping that we'll just use every election between now and the general one to kick Gordon Brown's sorry arse. For everything. I still blame him for those floods. It never flooded when Tony was in charge.

So nothing on "Europe" from the main parties. What about the others?

Well, most of the rest are firmly Eurosceptical. And they will gain many votes. But not from me. And here's why.

Europe is undoubtedly there. A quick glance at most atlases, SatNavs, BBC Weather Maps, Google Earth, Dad's Army title sequences, etc will confirm the existence of a large land mass to the south and east of Britain, a peninsula of the same land mass to the north and east, and our chummy little Guinness-quaffing, Eurovision-host-supplying friends to the west. And there's the Shetlands to the north, confirmed by Martin Clunes' recent series on islands to be illegally annexed by Scotland, so technically they're also part of That Europe. Britain is surrounded, central to Europe, in spite of what UKIP and the BNP would have you believe. Anything that David Walliams can get to without the aid of transport can't be that far away.

Most of the Eurosceptic literature involves playing on fears about millions of immigrants "coming over here and taking our jobs". At this point it's important not to differentiate between Poles, French, Australians, Ghanaians or Iraqis. Nor should we take account of the millions of Brits working in Europe, Dubai or doing bar work in Sydney because that's different. They're British, goddammit, so they're not freeloading, or avoiding taxes, or surfing. The main thing is that Britain's quite full enough of foreigners, and we won't be British any more if we keep letting them in, so we should get out of Europe right now. God Save The King!

But where would we go? And what is the Britishness we are clinging to so desperately? The quaffing of large quantities of Danish lager, driving German cars while chatting on Finnish mobiles, eating Italian food and drinking French wine. The whole history of Britain is one where Europeans invade, bring useful things, then moan when the next lot come and invade and threaten to destroy their "Britishness". One of our UKIP candidates has a Dutch name, bless him.

So whatever the shortcomings of the European Union may be, I for one will be celebrating the chance to vote in the European elections next week, will be voting for a party that believes in Europe as a basic concept, and is campaigning on issues that the European Parliament actually has some necessary control over.

And while I'm not in the business of electioneering, if you're contemplating voting for UKIP or the BNP, please go and watch their Election Broadcasts (available on the BBC i-Player and other media outlets). Never mind what they're saying, the production values alone should be enough to scare the pants off you.

UEFA "Champions" League

So tonight in Rome the newly-crowned Champions of England take on the newly-crowned Champions of Spain to find out who will be Champions of Europe in the UEFA Champions League Final.

It's all about Champions, you see.

Except it isn't, because while Manchester United have earned their place in the competition by winning the Premier League, Barcelona only managed 3rd place last season. So they're not Champions. They're there because it wouldn't be fair on all those big-name players with their large salaries if we started letting too many Belgians or Ukranians or Poles play in the Champions League instead, just because they've had the front to win their league and be, er, Champions.

But wait, John, surely you'd rather see Barcelona v Man United, or Milan v Real Madrid, or PSV v PSG on your telly of a Wednesday evening? Why, yes I would. But we don't get that in the Champions League any more. Because, just as only three teams have the capacity to win the Premier League (sorry, Arsenal, you're not up to it any more), now only the qualifiers from England, Spain and Italy can realistically expect to challenge for the Champions League. And increasingly you can count out the Italians, and Real Madrid. Which leaves you with the English teams plus Barcelona. Which leaves you with a European Champions Cup competition which is basically just another chance to see our favourite Premier League stars play each other again.

Back in the day, when Champions played in the European Cup and Graeme Souness was managing Rangers, he was in favour of a European League. The best clubs from around the continent and Rangers could play each other every week, instead of worrying about getting a squad together to knock over Kilmarnock, or Wigan, or Bate Borisov.
The Champions League came along soon after, leading to massive amounts of money for the big boys, no more visits to the arse-end of Norway in November to play a second-round qualifier on an iceberg, the destruction of the FA Cup as a meaningful spectacle, and the need for massive squads and mid-season breaks to prevent burn-out in our superheroes.

So what's to be done? The answer is to create that European Super League properly. A 20 team European League, populated by the best 20 teams in Europe, who resign from their own domestic league to play.
Only the top four are guaranteed a place for the following season. Fifth downwards have a play-off against 16 of the champions of Europe, determined by some end-of-season eliminator. The losers go back to their domestic league.

What does this do?
It cuts down on the number of games played every season.
It gets rid of Liverpool v Chelsea "for the eighth time this week, Live On Sky."
It gives Aston Villa, Everton and their European counterparts the chance to win their domestic leagues again, play with the big boys, and conversely, means that Arsenal and Chelsea might not have guaranteed European football every year, so they'd have to manage their budgets accordingly.
It gives you a brilliantly exciting end-of-season series of life-or-death play-off games.

Of course, Manchester United could still win it every year, just as they might tonight. But then, they, unlike so many around them, are genuine Champions.

Secret Santa

I'm not one of those people who hates Secret Santa and spends all of December grumbling like a Scroogy Sulkface whenever anyone mentions presents or tinsel or cards. I don't even mind the crappy presents you inevitably get every year because, frankly, what can you get for a fiver these days? The wrapping paper and Sellotape only leaves you with seventy pence to spend on the present, doesn't it?

No, what gets me is the awful moment straight after the opening of the gifts where people try and guess who bought what. Please, for me, this year can everyone pay attention to the SECRET bit and just go, "Aw, a lovely gift from Santa. How nice." And if you end up with my name, I'll have a bottle of wine, please. Ta.

Prerecorded Apologies

"I regret to announce that the 0839 service to London Waterloo has been delayed by approximately 10 minutes. I'm very sorry for the inconvenience this will cause you."

See, the thing is, you're not. Because you're a voiceover artist who spent a couple of days recording all the announcements months ago, and you're now sunning yourself on a beach while I sit here waiting for a delayed train in the rain. How hard would it be for someone at the station to say why it's delayed, and when you can expect it. I don't really need an apology. It's a busy, complicated thing, running train services, and occasionally things won't run smoothly. But knowing that someone has pushed the "apology" button and gone back to their Sudoku puzzle doesn't make me think that they care.

Or that they're sorry.

Emin

Emin is a storyteller whose subject matter comes from Emin's own rich life. Through the poetry of her honest retelling of unique and intimate life-events Emin establishes a generous dialogue between the viewer and the artist.

Or... Emin is the Eliza Doolittle of the art world. Some rich Saatchis found a street urchin with no discernible talent, grooming or social skills and one said to the other "I bet I could have all the Sunday Supplement brigade fawning over her artwork within a year." "I have a guinea that says you couldn't my good man." "Very well, I take your bet. Now let's go to the Ivy." "Capital plan, my good sir. The goose is excellent at this time of year..."

Well look at what you've done. I hope you're happy.