More Money Pit.....

Caravan – Mobile Home - Holiday Home – The Money Pit at last…..

And so we arrived in the car park of the camp site holiday parc at around 10 in the morning. This was some 2 hours in front of the time we had told Mrs Nice but Dim, the girl who sold us The Money Pit. Mrs Nice but Dim is exactly that, she’s very nice, very pleasant, very friendly but incredibly dim. If there is a light in there then it’s a very low energy one and wouldn’t provide enough illumination to wake a very tired moth. In fact it’s enough to say that as nice and pleasant as she is such is the massive lack of thinking capability and short and long term memory that she might be better titled as Mrs Goldfish. Put it this way, I wouldn’t trust her to run a bath let alone a sales operation in France.

So we contacted her and she was miraculously in the camp site mobile home park holiday parc adjoining sales office. There is no doubt she was pleased to see us, no doubt weighed down by the commission earned in concluding the deal with us and merrily she asked us to jump on the back of the custom built salesmobile stretch golf buggy so she could take us to The Money Pit. Now bear in mind we’ve seen the place only once before and hence the level of expectation and trepidation rose steeply as we were about to see where circa £36000 of my hard earned money had gone. Well we needn’t have worried unduly because The Money Pit was in situ in all its glory, brand spanking new and almost shining with newness. Even when we went in it smelt of newness, not unlike a brand new car. The decking was so new you could smell the aroma of freshly sawn wood everywhere (almost as if they’d only finished it 10 minutes earlier) and when the heater was turned on (it was only 10 degrees at this time of the morning) it gave off the pungent aroma of new heated metal and plastic. So far so good. The inventory was in the kitchen packed into a huge box as yet unopened. Busily we went through it, unwrapping each item as if it was Christmas Day and very soon it became obvious that much was missing. Simple but irritating things like a bin, a teapot, a sugar bowl, a broom, a mop (that’s getting a bit generation game now…). It sounds unimportant but these items are part of the agreement of what is supplied for sub-letting the damn thing.

Mrs Goldfish then went through the checklist and it soon became obvious that there were a number of snagging issues. A hole in the wall by the main door, a huge blind in the front window that only allowed one side or the other to move up or down in a seemingly illogical order related to Heisenbergs Uncertainty Principle, a shutter in the kitchen window that refused to either open or close, a water leak in the second bathroom, a light in the drinks cabinet with no power feeding to it, bedroom doors that refused to close and a sofa bed so firmly jammed into place that the only way I could see of removing it was to cut away a large chunk of mobile home and coils of spare co-axial cable in the main bedroom and, bizarrely, in the main bathroom.

It was built in Spain. Need I say more?

Over the week I spent a proportion of each day pestering Mrs Goldfish and Damien, the “owners” contact for the missing inventory items and we managed to get all but 3 snags repaired, the rest requiring an engineer from the manufacturer, along with getting the air conditioning installed, the storage shed and getting a decent Chiminea style barbecue. But here’s the rub………it is my theory that London Transport, specifically the Underground managed to re-define the length of a minute some years ago from the standard 60 seconds to somewhere around 90 seconds. If you’ve ever waited for a train and the board has said “next train 1 Minute” you’ll know exactly what I’m saying. Well, the French have improved on that. Not satisfied with defining the metre and discarding the yard, they seem to have redefined the length of 1 minute into something that’s at least 5 minutes but sometimes longer. Thus, when Cedric the air con guy says he has to go for 10 minutes he actually disappears for an hour or so. When Patrique the gardener says 15 minutes he comes back some 3 hours or so later! So, a lot of the week is spent waiting around the caravan holiday home for various French workmen to turn up and do what I’ve paid for! And Mrs Goldfish who is English was exactly the same, as is her husband (the site handyman) who also seems to have adopted French standards regarding the passage of time.

Mrs Goldfish actually said to me that she’d be back in 15 minutes on one visit to see how things were going, with the rest of the inventory. That was about Midday and we never saw her again that day. The next day she promised again to be there by 18:00 and turned up at 19:45, but with no inventory. Mr Goldfish promised one day to be with me at 14:00 but again never appeared. It must be the French way, but when you live in a society such as ours which thrives on a “customer is king” ethos this French version of Manana is hard to adapt to.

Anyway, have a good weekend everyone. I will be trying to hide on a golf course to avoid the torture of watching my beloved Chelsea play Liverpool in the FA Cup semi final on TV. Play golf, check phone at full time, cheer or sigh, painless.

Later, Grocerjack

Le retour de l'épicier Jack

Bonsoir Mes Amis...

Yep, I'm back and now I've caught up with work (yawn) et al I thought I'd update you with tales of my sojourn to France in order to visit The Money Pit. A lot happened during my 8 day stay (extended from 7) and it would be an inordinately huge post to cover all the observations I made about what we've bought and where we've bought it. So. I'll do it over a few posts starting today.

The site itself is a place called La Carabasse near a town called Vias virtually bang on The Med. I would think the nearest places people would readily recognize are Beziers and Montpellier. We set off on the Friday about 18:00 to cater for the undoubted huge amounts of traffic that would be clogging the main artery of London travel, the M25. Our train through the tunnel was booked and we were on the 23:45 from Dover and would be in the quaint (sic) little French port of Calais for 23:20 local time. Yes, even now looking back it seemed that 5 hours journey time for a 122 mile trip from home to the tunnel was being a little over cautious. Hence, when we arrived at the tunnel at 21:00 we were slightly perturbed by the idea of a near 3 hour wait. But we needn't have worried. In a fit of brilliant and efficent bureaucracy and design when I put the debit card into the "self check in area" fully in the expectation that ......

a.) my card would fail
b.) the booking details would be lost
c.) The booking had never been registered
d.) I am unknowingly wanted by the Police and they would turn up and nick me
e.) any other number of mishaps, failures or errors might occur

.......everything was fine. The bloody system even asked if we would like to travel earlier for no charge!. It offered us a crossing at 21:30, less than 10 minutes from arrival at the port. Again, more in hope than expectation we opted for the earler journey, after we had a non-stop drive the length of France in front of us through the night, so why not start early? And I have a mouth full of metal preventing me from talking so I'm constantly grumpy. In fact without trying to be un-PC.....I sound at times like someone who is partially deaf such is the difficulty I have pronouncing "S", "C", "ch", "sh" and oddly enough "J", "T" and "G". Wow, even this worked and so we followed the lane signs and within 5 minutes we were on the shuttle. To say I was amazed that any form of group travel could be this efficient was an understatement to say the least. Then, just to cap off the now astounded Jack mind the damn train left bang on time and arrived bang on time, and so we were in France at around 21:00 local time. It was all I could to stop myself surrendering at the French "Douane" and asking for a drug test just in case I was hallucinating under the influence of a mind bending drug I'd covertly had administered. We were on the road by about 21:30 local time.

But of course this blissful journey couldn't last. We drove from Calais to Paris down the French A1, a magnificent 4 lane highway of virtually no cars. I kept a steady 110km/h as it was raining and I didn't fancy getting a french speeding ticket as a souvenir. GMD dozed, the kids slumbered. The journey is around 200 miles, but of course on a map it looks like about an inch and a half (4cm for those living in Metric reality). Naively I decided that because we were in Paris quite late at night I would be able to drive straight through the centre out to the South side. Yeah, right. For the uninitiated, and that no longer includes me, Paris is a nuthouse. Its a lunatic asylum full of people driving how they like, on roads with no signs, with one way systems that would be physically impossible to draw, in cars that mainly have a bit missing somewhere from a previous prang. It is not for the fainthearted and even the most confident and gobby cocksure London cabbie would feel threatended and intimidated by driving Paris. I will NEVER do that again. NEVER. EVER. The only time I will be in a car in Paris is in the back of a cab. I also didn't know it had an interior "peripherique" and an exterior "peripherique". As we turned down road after road hopefully looking for a sign to somewhere we knew of any one of the spoke A roads, driving past hippies, dropouts, gangs, drunks, I could sense the worry developing from GMD and Teenager (Baby was fast asleep by now). Eventually GMD indicated a road to take. What she meant was pull over whilst she worked out which way to go....what i heard was take a left here .....and hence ensued the first holiday row over getting lost. This is a ritual that occurs every time we go to France. GMD thinks she can read a map but somehow or another we always end up at one stage driving round the same bits and getting nowehere. When we do find our way out she usually follows this up with

"I told you I knew where to go!"

Anyway, eventually we're out of Paris, grateful to be in one pice both physically and mentally. Honestly if you want to give people a real mental test then dump them in Paris and tell them to find their way out. You'd never see them agin, ever.

Eventually I gave up on the driving at around 6:00 when I genuinely started to hallucinate through tiredness and GMD, freshly rested took a stint for an hour and a half. We drove through the Tarn Gorges and the area of France that is like the Highlands of Scotland, stunning scenery, Italian Job tunnels in mountains, roads 1500m above sea level. It was truly a beautiful drive, topped off by the magnificant Viaduct De Millau, sitting some 750m above the town of Millau. In the UK the environmentalists would be up in arms about spoiling the natural scenery but belive me, this Bridge enhances that scenery and is a true icon of just how man can build things that rival natures beauty. Magnificent. And a snip at 5 Euro's to cross!

Some 12 hours after leaving the train we arrived at the Holiday Parc, the weather mild but cloudy. And then we saw, for the first time, The Money Pit........

to be continued.........

Later, GrocerJack

True?

After four long months of cold and winter, we are finally coming up to spring and BBQ season. Therefore, it is important to refresh your memory on the etiquette of this outdoor cooking ritual, as it's the only type of cooking a real man will do, probably because there is an element of danger involved.

When a man volunteers to do the BBQ, the following chain of
events are put into motion:

Routine:

1. The woman buys the food.

2. The woman makes the salad, prepares the vegetables, and
makes dessert.

3. The woman prepares the meat for cooking, places it on a
tray along with the necessary cooking utensils and sauces, and takes it to
the man who is lounging beside the grill - beer in hand.

Here comes the important part:

4. THE MAN PLACES THE MEAT ON THE GRILL.

More routine:

5. The woman goes inside to organize the plates and
cutlery.

6. The woman comes out to tell the man that the meat is
burning. He thanks her and asks if she will bring another beer while he
deals with the situation.

Important again:

7. THE MAN TAKES THE MEAT OFF THE GRILL AND HANDS IT TO THE WOMAN.

More routine:

8. The woman prepares the plates, salad, bread, utensils,
napkins, sauces and brings them to the table.

9. After eating, the woman clears the table and does the dishes.

And most important of all:

10. Everyone PRAISES THE MAN and THANKS HIM for his cooking
efforts.

11. The man asks the woman how she enjoyed "her night off"
and, upon seeing her annoyed reaction, concludes that there's just no
pleasing some women!

My thanks to LittleSis for this valuable insight.

Later, Grocerjack

Today's the day.....

......I am finally off to France shortly for what I believe is a well earned break. I have a feeling though that it won't be all play as something's bound to need doing. GMD already has plans for me to erect a steel storage shed at the back for us to store sheets, duvet covers and clothes etc in order to cut down on the luggage load. However, rather there than here I guess. Yesterday was Orthodontic fitting (part deux) and the experience of a cervical smear for the mouth was fully repeated, but was even more uncomfortable as it went on for 90 minutes. Luckily Dr B is a friendly soul and chatted incessantly to me throughout. I now have 3 lots of additional mouth furniture.

1. ) A clear rubbery bite adjuster for the bottom row when eating - very attractive

2.) A removable appliance or brace as we used to call them for the upper teeth also adjusting bite and "getting things moving" in Dr B's words - very uncomfortable and painful

3.) The top front six teeth now have the first wired fixed appliance on them - very unattractive

The brace is uncomfortable and means I now talk very similarly to Freddie "Parrot Face" Davies. The hardest things to pronounce are words containing letters G, D, S , X, C, J, and Z. In fact my 3 year old nephew has better pronunciation than me now! As the fixed wires were tightening up I had visions of torture cells flash in front of me as the teeth groaned under the strain of being pulled together. According to Dr B, this is necessary in order to change the bone structure which eventually will help the final result look "stunning" in her words. Why do I hear echoes of Dr Frankenstein here?

Anyway, the upshot is I look different, rather horrible actually and now I sound like I have a severe speech impediment as well. And yes, it is painful as well, so plenty of Ibuprofen will be required, although I think the French probably have more favourable anaesthetics available.

Testing times in the cause of vanity indeed.

So, enjoy Easter mon amis. I will be back on the 17th with stories aplenty. In the meantime please enjoy the work of art I have left for you. Click to enlarge. Its a Turner and is called The Keelmen Hauling in the coals at the end of the day"

C'est Magnifique.

Au revoir, EpicierJacques

Happy days?

Well, at last the time has come. After what seems like years of waiting, and cash demand after cash demand the moment of truth has finally arrived. That's right - I'm finally off to see where my lifes savings and most of my bank account has been going for the last few months....The Money Pit! Yes folks on Friday night at 23:55 I will journey through the underbelly of AsylumSeeker Tunnel across to strike-bound militant France to start a 700 mile journey through tractor barricades, stone lobbing rioting students, Parisian dog shit, sleeping gendarmes, ghost towns and Marie-Celeste villages, via the allegedly and seemingly stunning Millau Bridge (which I am really looking forward to driving over) to finally arrive at a Holiday Parc (Camp Site) that I've only seen once, to stay in a Holiday Home (Caravan) that cost me the best part of ££££££££'s that I've only seen as a display unit or on a web site.

The weather forecast is around the 70 mark, so not quite swimming and shorts weather, but (and please don't take this the wrong way) better than what's forecast here. Unless of course Southern Britain really does live up to its apparent reputation as being almost as dry as the surface of Venus.

I'm going for a week and I'm not sure about Internet access on the site so there probably won't be any postings.......and no I've no idea how to blog via a mobile so if anyone knows then email me. I will of course leave a nice piece of art on display as a GrocerJack version of the testcard, and there maybe another post before departing.

Au revoir, GrocerJack

How to feel old.....

I haven't played golf for around 6 weeks due to golf partner illness, general sloth and piss poor weather conditions. So, Sunday I decided to take my chances of getting hideously sunburnt in apparently arid Britain and went out for a knock with some of the Jolly Boys who are heading off with me to Spain for some summer golf/drinking/world cup footie in July. I was almost expecting to drive past hordes of ragged, parched people standing in line with buckets for the stand pipe such has been the hysteria surrounding an alleged water shortage in the south.

Funny how it was never an issue pre-privatisation huh? Of course it wouldn't be anything to do with the old economic maxim that the scarcer a commodity is, or is perceived to be the more money you can charge for it, the bigger the profit you make, the happier the shareholders will be, would it?

Tonic Man, Deadeye, The King and myself met at the course around midday. Well, I appreciate we haven't had the wettest of winters last year but frankly the last couple of weeks have barely seen a day without substantial rain where I live. Yesterday was no exception as we battled elements to play in bright sunshine one secong, howling wind the next and torrential rain after that. In fact the game was hard enough after such a long-ish lay off without Mother Nature being a complete bitch as well. The last 3 holes were played in utter monsoon conditions.

So, cold, wet and slightly miserable we went to the clubhouse for a drink. During that brief 45 minutes or so someone decided to to inject every joint and muscle in my body with a super glue that fixed everything into the seated position. When I got up to leave every single bone, joint and muscle that I can reasonably be said to possess screamed in agony. I walked like an 80 year old incontinent man with arthritic hips and broken feet. I moaned like one as well. Of course this isn't the first time this has happened but normally by bedtime things have improved, and if I play within a few days then there isn't a problem. Last night it just seemed to get worse. Even my knuckles hurt. At one point even my fingernails seemed to hurt. I was close to googling a search for "Zimmer frame suppliers". I didn't sleep much Sunday night as there didn't seem to be any comfortable positions where some part of my anatomy wasn't moaning.

Bloody hell, 44 and stiffening up like someone twice my age. Despite losing weight and generally eating healthier this was a real shock and a typical indictment on the falsehoods of eating healthy. Perhaps I should go back on the Pizza's and chocolate then....

Later, GrocerJack

Don't Panic!!!!

*Published first on Chelseablog*

Don’t Panic!

So I wonder exactly what Chelsea fans across this small globe are thinking this morning. No doubt some will have a skip in their step in anticipation of our inevitable Premiership and FA Cup double whilst others will be rubbing their hands in glee at the thought of Mourinho being forcibly ejected from the club on the basis of failing to beat another team scrapping for survival. Others may also be rejoicing in the return to Bad Old Chelsea and our unswerving ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory because suddenly we’re interesting again. But I would hazard a guess that the majority of us are now in a state of constant turmoil that is a mirror image of the Jennifer Saunders character currently featuring in the unbelievably irritating BarclayCard adverts. For those fortunate enough to live in a region where this dire ad campaign isn’t being shown, in essence it features Our Jen as a rather attractive, mature women (maybe that’s just me?) in her 40’s undergoing something of a schizophrenic/bi-polar syndrome crisis whenever she shops using her BarclayCard. One minute she’s in a blind panic over the potential catastrophes of her card details being stolen, some calamity occurring to the goods she’s purchased or discussing to herself what type of coffee she might indulge in post-shopping spree. The cure for this is her BarclayCard, allegedly under whose terms and conditions she needn’t worry about anything she purchase using it as they will take care of everything in the event of one or more of these shopping related maladies coming to the fore. The rather crap strap line is a play on BarclayCard, but instead it’s BarclayCalm, insinuating that if we all have one then we have no worries in this increasingly precarious society that we inhabit.

So what’s this got to do with my beloved Chelsea and our push for a second domestic title? Well, for me, and as I stated many others, it is quite likely that quite a few of us are veering wildly between similar states of reassured, and reassuring calm one moment and outright hysterical panic the next. The thought of feeling the hot, stale breath of Manure on our necks during this run in is more than enough to have me wondering whether or not to invest in some Adult-size Pampers. Even before the game on Saturday the old feelings of despair were starting to surface within me as even Airline started turning in quality displays, home and abroad capable of scaring the living daylights from even the most anti-Airline football fans, and watching Manure relentlessly and ruthlessly knock over each team they meet. One things for sure, the Holy Grail of Self Belief is no longer the exclusive preserve of our beloved Chelsea. It has spilled its contents back to Airline, Manure and WhiningScouse FC. To cap it all we then get an FA cup semi final against WhiningScouse FC, almost as if the Gods of football were going out of there way to make life as tough as possible to repay us for having the nerve to win one Premiership title after 50 years. To coin a phrase, this is “squeaky bottom time”. It’s a time when our players and fans have to tough it out and keep the faith in our ability to retain the Title and win the FA Cup to show that we have improved from last season. I stood in the pub on Friday evening, calmly telling some friends that we were coasting to the title and playing within ourselves, whilst simultaneously warning them that we could still blow it if we didn’t start knocking lesser teams over. No mean feat I can tell you. Try it yourself….go from being calm and confident to panic stricken and calm again, and then contemplate doing this with a constant stream of Guinness ploughing through your system exaggerating each pole of emotion. That’s right, by the end of the evening I resembled a complete basket case of hypocrisy and blind faith.

I watched the Birmingham game in a post-Guinness hangover fog of disbelief, dismay and incredulity at our transformation from ineptitude and apathy to total domination but complete inability to apply a killer instinct in front of goal. The first half was as dire a performance as I’ve seen all season. It easily matched the torpor of West Brom and Fulham. It even peaked at times to plumb the depths of our game at Middlesbrough. The only performances of note were the, as usual, excellent John Terry and Petr Cech (who really had nothing much to do due to Birmingham’s profligacy in their finishing). Asier Del Horno, a much criticised player from me even put in an honourable and hard working display. Eidur is rapidly turning out to be another Tore Andre Flo, a player who can change things coming from the bench, but rarely makes the full 90 minute contribution worthwhile. On Saturday he was impotent in every sense of the word. Damien Duff a lone shining star against Fulham ran down blind alley after blind alley, and Arjen Robben played as if he had brand new boots on and didn’t want them to get dirty. Frank Lampard increasingly looks a shadow of the player who threatened the Terry Henry/Ruud Van Nistelrooy duopoly at the top of the scoring charts. Drogba has his purposes but breaking down a dogged defence, or running into space behind them doesn’t appear to be one. Crespo comes and no-one passes to him for 10 minutes. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Crespo playing from the start would have wrapped up at least one chance because he would have been in the game rather than trying to get up to speed by being allowed to join in late on. Makalele was bullied off the ball and harassed into making silly errors which cost possession. Joe Cole at least started to make things happen when he came on, but his relegation to bench again seemed to underline the occasionally mystifying Ranieri like tendencies shown by Mourinho recently

As first half performances go, it was frankly rubbish. Anyone who even dares to disagree with that succinct but wholly accurate synopsis of the game is probably a master of Stevie Wonder impersonations. The second half saw some improvement as we managed to hold the ball and pass it to each other. Chances were still thin on the ground though, and in such a target-poor environment it becomes even more important to take the opportunities you create. The last 10 minutes saw several absolute gift-wrapped chances spurned by Crespo, Carvalho and Drogba amongst others. This simply isn’t good enough and Mourinho should be berating the players for loss of concentration at the very least.

At the back of this schizophrenic persona that I have these days there is the thought that maybe the players are just intending to do enough to get past the post, to just scrape through. But that isn’t good enough. The long suffering fans deserve to see our team go out and do what WhiningScouse FC, manure and Arsenal have all done recently and that’s put some of these teams to the sword. As Nick from Chelseablog stated previously it has been said that Mourinho adopts the mantra of “why win 5-0 when 2-0 will do?”, Well here’s why….We are the champions. We are the best team in the Premiership. Teams should be quaking in their boots at the thought of playing us. What’s more JM, the fans deserve to be treated to a few of these compelling victories. But, now they might see a perceived weakness, a blinking of the eye or the small betraying bead of sweat running down the face of Chelsea that exposes the doubts running through the collective minds of Chelsea players, management and fans.

And so we must move on with strong hearts and minds. We must suppress the panicky side of our nature and display the cool and calm visage that our manager shows. If we believe, or show we believe and hide the doubts then the players can feed off this and take us onto more glory this season. There’s a great quote from Henry Ford which I often use before each shot I play at golf, and it sums up just how important the power of the mind is when faced with challenging situations…..

“Whether you think you can, or whether you think you can’t, you’re probably right”

In The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy by the late, great Douglas Adams, the actual best selling galactic book was immensely popular because it had the words “DON’T PANIC” emblazoned across its front in big friendly letters. I think we could do the same across the front of Stamford Bridge, across the CFC web page, across the matchday programmes and ChelseaTV. It would certainly work for me.

Later, ChelseaJack

Dullsville , UK II

I could hardly believe my misfortune today. After the debacle of yesterday I had forgotten that today I was booked on a Line Managers workshop headed up by The Beachbabe. Another day of Corporate Gobbledygook Bollocks talk, faux thanks, Corporate Arslikhan and blow jobs, faux praise and stirring "rouse the troops" type speeches. How bad is the planning behind that? And me, working in a planning team as well. Anyway, it was the usual bollocks, with the usual "inter-active fun" element and the obligatory brainstorming session (or thought-shower as the facilitator called it....wanker). The difference however was that The Beachbabe is obviously well versed and expert in presenting to an audience. She was funny, slick, and dare I say it almost believable and almost inspiring. Perhaps if I wasn't permanently saddled with a Mask of Cynicism as part of my psyche, I would have fallen for it in the same way many of the David Brent wannabees did (whooping? What the fuck is that about? They're not American, or in sales, so why do it?...even The Beachbabe looked faintly embarrassed by it). I say David Brent and I mean it. These guys and in some cases women actually must have

a.) missed The Office

or......

b.) thought it was a training film

Anyway, despite being full of the usual shit I can't honestly say it was boring. The Beachbabe ran each session, invited open and honest comment. You barely noticed her touch the keyboard to flip each new slide over. Even the slides were succinct and to the point! Of course me being a Gobby Gobshite I was of course volunteered to present the key points from our table from a "brainstorming interactive fun bonding networking....lets do lunch sometime" session. And so, being "dressed down" (due to it being dress down Friday at the office...but we weren't in the office today, ergo I was the only one in jeans, biker boots and Chelsea T-shirt!) I stood in front of the 100 or so crowd, a mouth full of razor wire (see posts passim) and ...well...pretty much knocked them dead. I became Ben Elton like in my delivery, fast, furious and bloody funny. It was a moment where everything came out right and everything right came out. I berated myself for my dress code, I caveated that by saying that anyone who disliked it could meet me in the car park but needed to be aware that it was a shirt that signified being a member of The Chelsea Headhunters, about revenge from a former boss who is a Spurs fan plus lots of other bits including a "little bit of politics ladies and gentlemen", interspersed with hypocritical Corporate Gobbledygook Bollocks messages of my own. It was a moment I actually ENJOYED. It made me SMILE. And to cap it all The Beachbabe sought me out personally and took me to one side and said "Well done Jack (by name!), that was bloody brilliant". I smiled, went red, and stuttered some sort of crap reply, but really I was quite chuffed.

I showed some of the "presenters" from yesterday, including The Shepherd and The Schoolteacher, how to grab a crowd without any script, any prompting, just using sheer bloody belligerence and a "what the fuck" attitude that meant if I fucked up then so be it. I took a risk and it won't pay off job wise, but it will self confidence wise. What was the worst that could happen? Does this sound arrogant? Or is it just a surge in my own self belief that proves to me, if no-one else, that I'm not yet washed up.

If it is arrogance then my riposte will follow that of one of the finest TV characters ever created, Mister Anton Meyer, Surgical Consultant from Holby City, who in one episode said "There's nothing wrong with being arrogant....if you're right!" And so tonight its off for some Guinness raised in slight tribute to The Beachbabe, a fellow spirit in the field of keeping people interested whilst delivering Corporate Gobbledygook Bollocks. An unlikely and unsought kindred spirit removed by several levels of career hierarchy.

Later, PuffedUpJack