End of an Aura.

Back in the late 80s I attended my brother's wedding down in Plymouth. On the way back we came up the A303 which took us past Stonehenge so we decided to stop for a while and have a look. We pulled off the road and drove up a short track to a makeshift car park. I don't remember having to pay to park but it's possible we did. We walked up to the wire perimeter fence surrounding the site which was hung with signs asking us to not to cross and looked at the stones a short distance across the field. Then we got back in the car and left feeling culturally enriched. We had occasion to go down that particular road again last week so we thought we would pop in again. My! How things change.

The same wire perimeter fence is there but now someone put up another wire fence some distance out and is charging people £14.90 per adult to walk round some old stones. They have laid on bright, shiny buses with Stonehenge emblazoned on the side to ferry people in from god knows where, they have a fancy car park and one of those 'environmentally efficient' visitors centre's which turn every visit into a 'school trip' and to sell pointless junk. An excellent start I feel but they have missed a couple of tricks. Surely they could increase revenue by sponsorship on the stones. They could hang flags off them or even paint them. They could make the site more impressive by adding a few extra polystyrene stones to give more value for money. There are many ways of turning a 3,500 year old religious monument into a cash cow.

I have no doubt that if you were to ask whichever outfit is profiting from this particular circus they would tell you that it's necessary for the preservation and maintenance of the site regardless of the fact that they have ruined the atmosphere, magic and ambiance that made it special in the first place. The site has managed to remain standing for 3,500 years without our help and I would respectfully suggest that if they ripped up their car park and packed up their visitors centre and buggered off it'll stand for 3,000 more. Someone just needs to pop back once in a while to check the wire fence.  

I have no doubt this is old news as there was an encampment of hippy types just outside the main fence who were probably there on some kind of vigil or protest so I am sure arguments on both sides have been aired and others reading this would have more knowledge than I. Needless to say we didn't pay to get in and left, sickened and dismayed by the modern age we live in. I know I shouldn't get upset about it, after all, what did I expect but if rampant commercialism were a cake, for me, this would be the icing. 

En Vogue.

Ever since I was a kid dreaming of being James Bond I've wanted to drive along the South Coast of France through those glamorous towns of St Tropez and Nice in a convertible with the wind in my hair and a beautiful girl at my side; well I've come close. It was actually Northern France in our middle aged Astra but the principle is the same. We got by easily enough with my basic French and it transpires that Dearly Beloved has a knack for gesticulating in French which came in handy a couple of times. France is a vast and complex country and we only travelled a tiny part of it but one thing in particular struck me. The French do like to dress up.

I don't know if there is such a thing as a national pastime but if there is it would be dressing up for the French. All the time we were there I didn't see a single hoody or tracksuit. We came across an organised running event and every participant young or old, man or woman wore garishly coloured Lycra. None of that shorts and T shirt malarky you would get in this country. It was the same with the many cyclists we saw. There must be a law that states you can't ride a bike on the road unless you are garbed in luminous Lycra with colour co-ordinated hat and accessories. I suspect the garb costs more than the bike. The joggers followed suit, no-one stumbling along with baggy shorts, dirty trainers and an old Led Zep T-shirt. Even on the country lanes near nightfall where no one would see them. They certainly looked the part even if the actual running didn't.

Mon Dieu, these woollen pants are chafing.

We went to Boulogne-Sur-Mer on the Sunday and they have a lovely tree lined green just near the Sealife Aquarium. A group of local headcases calling themselves the Medieval Society had set up some tents and were busy demonstrating medieval crafts and techniques, roasting a pig and standing proudly round a small trebuchet that they were no doubt intending to fire later. There were quite a few of them and they were all exceptionally well dressed in well made and authentic looking outfits. Some of the women's dresses wouldn't look out of place a museum. It didn't cost anything to get in. no one waved collection tins at us or even asked for a voluntary donation. The stated aim was to keep alive the medieval crafts and traditions although it was clearly an excuse to dress up just for the hell of it. Why not I say?

The school run looked like a photo shoot for Vogue magazine and the people out walking their dogs looked they had been prepped by a PR assistant before they stepped out. Needless to say not everyone has my sartorial elegance and effortless fashion sense so not everyone hit the mark; some people you just can't do anything with but everyone looked like they had tried. Most of the teenagers looked like they had come straight off the pages of a catalogue. People even sat on the beach with their clothes on. It's probably quite shallow but it's nice to see women who are happy to wear skirts and dresses instead of jeans and T shirts and teenagers who don't look there are up to something they shouldn't be. It projects a kind of national confidence and positivity. On the whole I think I approve although you will be pleased to know I won't be buying any Lycra. 

And The Winner Is.....

Blog is a little early this week so
do not open till Sunday.
(It's all in the anticipation)

What has been the greatest invention of all time? Some might say it's the car or the railway or maybe paper or even the wheel. What about TV or the aeroplane? It could be the plough but then again, it could be the World Wide Web. All worthy winners but I would suggest it's something much more humble.  My vote would have to go to the Bic Cristal pen. Not that stupid yellow one which writes like a spider with muddy feet has staggered across your page. I mean the clear plastic one that writes in either blue, black or ominous red. 

Firstly, it's a genius of design being ridiculously simple but effective. It consists of only 5 parts including the cap but only has one moving part in the nib. The clear plastic casing means you can see exactly how much ink you have left and what colour it is. Mr Bic (actually Baron Marcel Bich) even made the casing hexagonal so that it wouldn't roll off your desk but it still feels comfortable in your hand. The perfectly designed nib rolls across the page and never leaks. It even comes with its own built in stress reliever, in moments of contemplation you can chew on the cap to aid concentration. When the spittle ridden cap has been munched to oblivion, you can start on the little blue end cap. When you have swallowed that you can start on the pen itself. You will find the hard outer casing and the softer polythene ink container are both edible. You can't do that with a Montblanc. For moments of light relief the pen also converts into a handy pea shooter so you can annoy anyone within spitting distance, what more could you ask for.

This marvellous device also has magical properties. If you suddenly have need of a pen but don't have one about your person, just have a quick look round and one is likely to turn up. They magically appear in draws, under desks or in handbags. They like to manifest themselves in those containers nobody has touched for years in piles of paper or behind sofas. They can be found under the seat of your car or in the glove box. They can even be found outside in the gutter or under bushes, even on the pavement itself. Unfortunately they also like to disappear in the same manner. 

The effect this humble invention has had on the cultural landscape is immeasurable. How many snotty nosed children have begun their primitive scribblings with this sublime invention only to turn into the great writers, scientists and world leaders of our age? How many exams have been sat and passed using this amazing tool. It's incredibly cheap to produce and therefore affordable to the most deprived of students making education and self- expression available to people from the poorest countries and backgrounds. It is the great leveller, a tool that can be wielded by the privileged grammar school boy in London as well as the child in the South American jungle to equal effect.

Girls have their pencil cases stuffed with multi-coloured highlighters and gel pens but the trusty Bic has always been a staple. Some of the more pretentious males have had their posh pens from time to time but they get lost just as easily and are no-where near as comfortable to write with. These days youngsters do everything on computer so can no longer write or spell; is this the death knell for the trusty ink provider? I don't think so, not yet. There are not many people who use a computer who don't have a pen and paper handy but it's going that way. Pity those poor students who only use a computer, you can't chew on a mouse when your stressed or doodle when you are pretending to pay attention. Therefore my vote goes to the Bic pen, the unsung hero of our age.

Ps. Unfortunately, old man Bic's genius seems to have ended with the pen. Its stable mate the 'Bic razor' is the spawn of the devil and should be avoided at all costs unless you want to slash your face to ribbons and be forever known as Scarface.

The King is Dead.

There is an old saying which suggests 'money makes the world go round;' it doesn't. There is another old saying that proposes 'money talks and bullshit walks;' alas that's not true either. Just like clouds, windmills and weather vanes it's wind that makes the world go round, or more specifically hot air.

It's a well-known fact that those alternative energy scientists are devising a way to install an air collection system into the roof of the parliament building. They suggest they would be able to harness enough hot air to power the borough of Hackney. The best thing about this new source of energy is that it is free. Politicians can break promises and rip up manifesto pledges while delivering only bluster and flannel to their hearts content, safe in the knowledge that the general public will never seriously ask them to pay up. The key function of government is to control the public purse but they freely admit that not only is the purse empty, we are in debt to such an extent that we can never pay it back. So what exactly are they doing?

The financial institutions replaced money with hot air years ago. They are happy to take it off you as long as you don't ask for it back because they haven't got it. They have already invested it. For those of my readers not familiar with the concept of investments, it means gambling. The fact that all they actually hold is a handful of IOUs doesn't stop these giant bags of wind from throwing their weight about and threatening their poor debtors with increasing interest rates. That's why they were so concerned about the collapse of the euro; their bag would have been well and truly burst.

When I was in sales years ago, my manager explained that nothing is worth anything without someone to sell it. To this end the ad-men over the years have constructed an entire alternative universe of fakery made up of smiling people, happy families and glamour. It's a sad fact of life that if you are an obnoxious twat and you buy a new car you are not suddenly going to become effortlessly cool, you're still going to be an obnoxious twat. That new toothpaste is not going to change your life, it probably won't even whiten your teeth as promised, but who can be bothered to go back for a refund. People don't buy objects, they buy into a lifestyle, aspiration or a self-image and that's the part where the profit is made. Fortunately for the plucky ad-men the consumers seem perfectly happy with this arrangement and never complain when the glitz and the glamour don't arrive with the product.

Money? There is no money. The king has been deposed and replaced by those twin upstarts blarney and flannel. The power behind the throne has been whittled away until only an empty illusion is left. There have always been shysters, con-artists and flim-flam men running the show and no one is really surprised but now it's their empty promises and hollow rhetoric that keep the world turning. In fact, should you possess a significant amount of actual cash, the police would be very interested in talking to you to find out where you got it from.

Going Dutch.

It seems our partner for the last 300 years is no longer content within our relationship. The tribes beyond the wall are acting up again and shouting about independence. That old jibe ' remember Bannockburn' has been taken up by a new generation. It's true to say that those blue faced terrors north of the boarder have been causing trouble since roman times, that's why they built the wall in the first place. I say enough is enough and we should resolve the problem once and for all. I say we should sell Scotland off.

The idea is not as daft as it sounds. Our Monarch and the Prince of Wales own vast tracts of land in Scotland and it's a safe bet that the other peers of the realm, the financial institutions and the Vatican also own large chunks of it. The rest can be bought by compulsory purchase. Let's face it, most of it is heather and sheep. In times gone by countries would often sell or gift land to other countries so there is a historical and legal precedence for it. But who would want to buy a large, mountainous and sparsely populated country? The Dutch, that's who.

The generally accepted wisdom is that sea levels are rising. This means that it won't be long before those famous Dutch dikes are breached and the whole country will be underwater. Those wonderful Dutch folk will have no choice but to go and live in Germany or France. They will become a dispossessed people spread across the landscape of Europe. Surely the better option for them would be to buy a new home; one that isn't flat and is big enough to accommodate the entire population. They could start a resettlement program almost immediately and by the time they need to leave their homeland, Scotland would be a home from home. The lowlands would make excellent tulip fields and all that wind Scotland is prone to would probably double Windmill productivity. They might need to get rid of their bikes and all that rain would play havoc with their wooden clogs but they would still have a coastline bordering their beloved North Sea.

The current natives would soon get used to persons of questionable gender parading in their windows wearing scanty underwear. I've heard it's very tasteful so it's classier than their current arrangements. I'm also sure those legal drug cafes will attract custom from the indigenous population. There will, of course, be an issue with the language but being as the locals are unintelligible anyway when speaking English there won't be much difference.

From the English point of view this all makes sound economic and cultural sense. The money raised from the sale would make a huge dent in our national debt meaning the end of Cameron's 'austerity measures'; it'll be spend, spend, spend. We will be able to go on holiday to a foreign country without have to cross the sea. Folks living in the north of England will be able to hop across the border to sample the more relaxed approach to sex and drugs. Margaret Thatcher has already stolen most of the North Sea oil so there is no economic loss to the transaction. The best benefit of all is that we won't have to put up with their perpetual whinging any longer. What's in it for Alex Salmond and the Scots?... who cares? Mind you, they might finally manage to produce a decent football player.