If you're happy, and you know it...

Did I mention that I'm on a cruise at the time of writing?  It may have cropped up, I'm sure.  Sitting in the buffet restaurant today, I was struck by the difference in attitude of the various nationalities.

This is an American-owned ship, and I have always held the view that our transatlantic cousins really know a thing or two about the concept of customer service.  All of the staff, of whatever nationality (and they are many and varied) are unfailingly polite, cheerful and helpful.  I know various U.S. companies have tried to transfer this mindset to their U.K. outlets, with predictably mixed results.  As far as the British are concerned, customer service means finding new and imaginative ways of saying 'sorry' for not delivering the expected service, without actually doing anything about it.

In this restaurant, hordes of Brits (and it is mostly Brits on this trip) were, I noticed, marching morosely around the various buffet bars.  Here they were, surrounded by a mind-boggling variety of high quality foods, with no restriction on how much or how many they could have, and yet, from their expressions, you would have thought they were queuing for ECT without the aid of anaesthesia.

All of this led me to consider whether happiness really suits the British people.  It seems to me that we do everything we can to avoid it.  We certainly won't admit to it.  Even that meaningless but now ubiquitous phrase 'have a nice weekend' is likely to evince a host of reasons, including jobs, duties or dutiful visits, that the recipient has lined up to ensure that he/she does nothing of the sort.  If we own up to going on holiday, we tend to say "We're only going for a week" as if to admit to anything more would be the equivalent of being addicted to selfish pleasures.  Ask people about any, supposedly, pleasurable experience and they will first tell you about everything that went wrong.

"Our holiday?  Well, yes, pretty good really.  Of course you heard about us losing half the luggage from the roof rack on the M6?  Closed two carriageways and had traffic backed up to Wilmslow at one point, apparently.  Good job it wasn't raining then, well certainly not as hard as it did for our first week.  Not that we bother about a bit of rain, well you've got to expect it in our country haven't you?  We always take a few games to play.  It was a pity that little Saffron hurt her eye in that freak dominoes accident and we had to spend 12 hours in the local A&E, not that I'll hear a word said against the NHS, even if we did have a hard time to make ourselves understood to the on-duty doctor…"

Take unsolicited sales phone calls, for instance.  It's standard practice to moan about these, and with good reason.  They always strike at the most inconvenient time (although I'm not sure there ever would be a convenient time to talk about double glazing or cavity wall insulation).  For some years now there has been the option of barring these calls by registering with the Telephone Preference Service.  It's a very effective method of stopping this particular nuisance at source and has left us free to eat our tea in peace.  However, mention this to anyone in mid-complaint and I guarantee that the reaction you won't get is "Oh really?  No, I didn't know that.  I'll get on to that tomorrow".  They are far more likely to come up with a string of reasons why they shouldn't do it.  "Well, they'll get round it some way, won't they?" (No), "It doesn't stop them from calling from overseas, does it?" (No, but these are so few in number, it really doesn't matter)  If pressed, they might admit to "not wanting to block something that might be useful"   However, the fact is that they don't want a solution, they want to be keep moaning about the problem.

Our transatlantic cousins actually have 'the pursuit of happiness' enshrined in their Constitution.  Not the achievement of it, you note, just the pursuit.  Still, I can't see that working in the U.K., we don't so much pursue happiness as pretend we're out when it calls.

Look at our newspaper headlines.  Every report of some positive development will be quickly followed by some example of why it will bring misery and suffering to countless others.  We don't celebrate with lottery winners, we wait for the inevitable tales of family strife, marital breakdown and bankruptcy that we have come to expect will follow this good news.

If you really don't believe that we enjoy misery, then just take a look at our popular soap operas.  Even the previously innocuous ones like Emmerdale, and even The Archers for goodness sake, have storylines containing adultery, murder, rape and every sin that flesh is heir to.  This, remember, is supposed to be early evening family entertainment.

The difference between us and the Americans is that they aspire to happiness, even if they don't actually achieve it, whereas we're just about prepared to tolerate happiness if we must, but would ideally like to stamp it out.  Anyway, any country that is prepared to admit being responsible for Simon Cowell deserves everything it gets.

P.S.  There are times when I wonder if my quest for comic effect sometimes leads me to be a little unfair on my fellow countrymen.  "Whiteland" I scold myself (I tend to address myself like a recalcitrant 1950s public schoolboy)"you are too harsh", and then something like this happens.

 

We were having breakfast (on our cruise, remember?)  It was a buffet arrangement, and I've mentioned before my weakness for buffets.  Two ladies of a certain age came and sat next to us, each with a small bowl of fruit.  One looked as if she sucked lemons for a pastime, the other as if she nursed a secret sorrow.  I feared that the bowl of fruit indicated that a 'healthy breakfast' was to be had, so, imagine my surprise when one said to the other "Well, shall we go and see what is on offer in the cooked breakfast items?"  My heart leapt (despite all of the cholesterol it was undoubtedly having to contend with).  Clearly I had misjudged them, they were trencherwomen after all.  Reason regained its throne, however, when they returned.  The 'secret sorrow' had a plate on which rested three slices of cucumber and two of tomato, accompanied by a small spoonful of scrambled egg.  "Well", she explained to her friend, "we have to make the most of it, this is the last of our big breakfasts" When the other let it be known that she loved water in the morning, but usually took it hot with a slice of lemon, it only confirmed my worst fears.

A version of this post appears in the new compilation of stories "A Kick at the Pantry Door".  If you want to read the rest of the 'nostalgedy' series before then, take a look at Steady Past Your Granny's and Crutches for Ducks

In the doggerel house!

In the days when I used to pretend to be a writer but never actually do anything about it, the only practice that I used to get was writing verse inside the birthday cards to my friends.  I must have pumped hundreds of these out over the  years, but I never kept any copies (which is probably just as well).  However, Peter, a good friend of mine of many years standing (and sometimes falling) has unearthed this example from c 1989.

Some Simple Truths

They say life begins at forty,

That pride goes before a fall,

That it's better to have loved a short girl,

Than never to have loved a tall.

Now these are all true observations,

On the sharp edge of experience, honed,

Say, if life's just a bowl of cherries

Is that why we keep getting stoned?

Apologies to all those who love poetry!

You can see why Ted Hughes didn't have sleepless nights about me, can't you?

A Kick at the Pantry Door - prototype cover

Ok, what do we think?  All comments gratefully received!

This is the next in the series of 'nostalgedy' books that have previously featured Steady Past Your Granny's and Crutches for Ducks

Jambalaya - Introducing Ulolulo Sodme

Meet Ulolulo, the Maid of all Work at the Garden Household.  Ulolulo is a resourceful lady with a mysterious past, a decidedly odd present and an uncertain future.  I know, I know, you're thinking it's an odd name.  The book explains that:  "No-one knew for sure where Ulolulo had come from, or even if that was her real name. One night, all of the lights in the house had gone out and there, at the front door, was Ulolulo, her once blonde hair, blackened and standing straight from her head, sparks flying from the fillings in her teeth. As they prised her finger from the electric bell-push that Judge Garden had installed that very day, they asked her name. 

She had not spoken or moved for a whole month after that. Now, she was a much valued member of the household staff. In fact, she was the only member of the household staff. The servants quarters had proved to be aptly named when they had collapsed on the butler, cook and kitchen maid. Ulolulo had sensibly refused to sleep inside any building erected by the Judge and now lived happily but warily in a hole in the ground."

Drop into Jambalaya and meet her,  you might just take to her!

A Miss is as Good as a Mile

I suppose we should be grateful that the casual clouting and habitual hitting of my school days is a thing of the past.  However, I want to tell you about two occasions when violence nearly took place, but didn't.

The first occasion was in my first year at Anglesey Secondary Modern, when we were all very much in awe of the young men, in their final year at school, who towered above us.  We rarely came into contact with these giants because pressure on space, as a consequence of the post-war baby boom, meant that the First and Second Year students were farmed out to the old Techinical High School building at Bond End.  The only time we attended the Clarence Street HQ was for the practical lessons such as Woodwork, Metalwork and Domestic Science. 

Philip in his early years at Anglesey Secondary Modern

    

It must have been on one such occasion when I found myself heading down an empty corridor going toward the playground.  I had probably been detained in class, or perhaps sent on an errand to the smoke-filled Staff Room, but for whatever reason, the rest of the school was out at play and I was on my own.  Suddenly, I spotted something that made my heart miss a beat, and my stomach lurch.  Coming toward me was the one Fourth Year that I really did not want to meet.  He was as wide as he was high (and he was pretty tall.)  He had a reputation for mindless violence, in a school for which mindless violence was the norm.  All in all, he was not someone that a small, skinny kid would want to meet in a deserted corridor.

In these situations, I usually adopted my patented technique of trying to blend into the background.  By and large, this seemed to work, in crowded playgrounds and so on, but was never going to succeed in this scenario.  Nevertheless, I hugged the wall and hoped not to be noticed.  No such luck!  The huge form shuffled in my direction.  I was aware of a large, moon-like face (complete with craters) topped by unkempt ginger hair, about an inch from my nose.  "Ere" the face grunted, "are you divvi?"  By this time I was more or less trying to prise myself into the mortar that held the bricks together in the wall.  I had no idea what the question meant, so I just burbled and stammered.  Fortunately he obviously decided that I was beyond contempt and, with a disparaging "Huh", shuffled off.  I made my escape, feeling that a minor miracle had occurred, purely by being too pathetic to bother with.

The second occasion that violence didn't happen was some years later.  My mum had often told me about the 'musical canings', as she called them, that used to happen at her school.  Apparently, from time to time the whole school would be assembled to witness a miscreant being beaten for some heinous crime or other and the school trooped into the hall to stirring piano music.  I had never experienced this until one afternoon when the whole of Anglesey was ordered into the School Hall.  The atmosphere was very tense and the teachers stationed around the Hall were obviously ill at ease.  As we waited to see what this was all about, the Deputy Headmaster strode in, clutching a young lad by the collar in one hand, and a cane in the other. He was accompanied by a phalanx of senior staff, who didn't look too happy about the situation.  The lad was writhing and shouting all the way to the stage but, on reaching there, he did something I would never have thought of.  He simply broke free from his captor and headed straight to the back of the stage and out of the door to freedom.  Teachers and staff were sent to find him, but he was too quick.  I never did find out what terrible crime he was supposed to have committed, or why it was deemed appropriate for his punishment to be a public flogging, but I'm glad he got away, for everyone's sake.

This is the unedited version of the April column in the Derby Telegraph.  You will find this shortly in the new collection of stories "A Kick at the Pantry Door".  You can find much more like this in Steady Past Your Granny's and Crutches for Ducks

Jambalaya - Introducing Judge Garden

Allow me to introduce Judge Garden, the Head of the Garden household.  Actually, he comprises precisely one-third of the Garden household, along with his daughter Celany and their maidservant, Ulolulo and with two strong women like that about, even he isn't sure who's in charge.  Thankfully now retired from the Bench, Judge Garden had very clear ideas about the notion of justice.  Not for him any of this namby-pamby nonsense about people being innocent until proven guilty.  In his view, everyone is guilty of something, it's just a matter of finding out what.  He takes the concept of 'original sin' very seriously.

Nowadays he divides his time between torturing the garden and doing DIY around the house.  The end result of this activity is that most of the house now only exists in theory.  Following the collapse of the, aptly named, servants' quarters, Ulolulo has wisely decided against spending another night in there and now lives happily, but warily, in a hole in the grounds.  In fact, her name is a direct result of an encounter with a brand new electric bell push that the Judge had installed just before her arrival.  If you ask him nicely, he might just show you the ropes...which in his case are a collection of hangman's nooses.  He's rather proud of these and will happily recount the stories behind each one.  Pop in and see him in Jambalaya, he'll be glad to meet you.

It's The Same Old Song...

Firstly, a confession.  I hate and detest karaoke.  My normal reaction, once this 'entertainment' starts is to head for the exit doors.  However, there have been occasions over the past few years, usually when I'm on holiday, when the choice has been either to stay put and suffer or go to bed early with a nice cup of cocoa.  Going to bed early is against everything that I hold dear, so I've endured the karaoke.

The problem with karaoke, as you're no doubt aware, is that it encourages those who should never sing in public, to do exactly that.  It also encourages those who have more front than Blackpool to be dragged 'unwillingly' to the microphone, so that they can then display their considerable skills, that have no doubt been honed by years of practice in their local pub.  The latter group are usually harder to shift from the microphone than anything Domestos can normally tackle.

Karaoke is, therefore, chiefly about the concept of ritual public humiliation, enlivened by occasional glimpses of real talent.  In this respect it strongly resembles such shows as Britain's Got Talent and X Factor, which are really karaoke writ large.

Over the years, I have become aware of a subtle shift in my attitude to karaoke.  Originally I just wanted to get as far away as possible, but lately I've been finding myself thinking "I really should have a go at that".  It's not that I think that I have a great singing voice or a wonderful way of interpreting lyrics, I don't have either.  No, it's more a creeping feeling of shame that all of these other people have the courage to try it, whereas time and again I creep from the bar, having done nothing other than criticise others braver than myself.  This has clearly been ruminating in what passes for my brain because, the other day, I found myself singing a song in the car (on my own, of course, I wouldn't inflict it on anyone else) and thinking "I reckon I could do that at a karaoke event".  It took my quite by surprise.  As you'll guess, this sort of self-deception is only a small step away from the ultimate tragedy of trying to put this into practice.

Last weekend we were in the Isle of Wight, my all-time favourite venue.  As we enjoyed a post -show drink,  it became apparent that karaoke was about to be inflicted upon us, from the setting up of microphones and screens.  The staff were struggling to get anyone to take part, although a couple of brave souls (comprising categories 1 and 2 above) did make the effort.  I found myself squirming in my seat in my usual tension of (as P.G Wodehouse used to say) letting "I dare not wait upon I would like the poor cat in the adage".  A lull in the proceedings caused me to gather my courage up and leap toward the stage, much to the amazement of my long-suffering wife (who had no idea of my inner turmoil).  Finding that the song I had been practising in my car (The Most Beautiful Girl in the World, if you're interested) was not available, I opted for my fall-back option, Ruby, Don't Take Your Love To Town.  The idea was that either of these would suit my rather low register.

To say that I was nervous would be an understatement.  Nevertheless, I launched into the song with gusto.  My optimism was, however, short-lived.  I managed the first couple of lines, more or less in tune.  The next two veered off into some entirely different musical landscape and I could feel the audience losing what little interest they initially had.  At times of great stress, most people's voices climb to a higher register - not mine, apparently.  As the song progressed, my voice became lower and lower, to the point where only moles and certain species of whales could really appreciate my vocal stylings.

When the song finally concluded (by which time I was frantically appealing to the audience for help, which didn't come) I made my way miserably back to my shell-shocked wife.  "Well, how was it?"  I asked with a sinking feeling.  "I don't know" she replied, honestly, "I couldn't hear a thing, your voice was so low"

I don't think my agent will be fielding calls from Simon Cowell just yet ;-)

This story, and a whole host of others,  feature in the latest compilation "A Kick at the Pantry Door", the third book in the very popular 'nostalgedy' series that also features, Steady Past Your Granny's and Crutches for Ducks.