Do people do it on purpose, or are they just utterly selfish?

We were offered a new pub some weeks ago. A move date was settled at the start of period 10, which was some two or three weeks ago.

We have been delayed, however, due to the complication that this particular business is a lock up site, and therefore has no internal accommodation. The 3 bedroom apartment, which is very contemporary and has magnificent sea views, does not allow pets, so that rules that out.

We were given a budget over a maximum of £1000 pm, and orf we trotted to find an abode. However, finding a 3 bedroom house (unfurnished) with a garden that allows dogs is quite a challenge. In fact, its near damn impossible in Bournemouth, where the majority of buildings are either hotels, B&B or student digs and apartment flats. To add to this, the pub has no parking, and it is extortionate to pay for parking down by the front, so the house needed to be within walking/cycling distance.

So, all in all, it was all adding up to be a bit of a ball ache.

But, as luck would have it, a house that met all our requirements (bar one : distance) would appear on the lettings market. A beautiful new build, detached with a big kitchen and a nice sized garden, and in a very nice upmarket area. And to help, fifty quid under budget. The agency told us that the property could be available straight away, as the landlords had other properties that they can move to.

Excellent. So, whats the next step, methinks? I rang my boss, who gave me a name of a lady who would sort all this out. We should be in a week.

Or so we thought.....

Lets make this easier:

Week 1 - Offered pub. I accept. Take over in 6 weeks.
Week 2 - Start looking for accommodation. Takes bloody ages.
Week 3 - Still looking.
Week 4 - Find House. Agency informs us that other people are interested, so we need to get £200 holding fee on asap. Ring my boss, and he gives me number for a woman ( who will be known for this story as Jane) who deals with this sort of thing. She in turn, gives me an email address to write to. This I duly do, and sit back and wait. Two days later, the letting agency inform me that no-one has been in contact, and if they don't receive the holding fee by the end of play that day, they will go with some one else. So, I ring Jane who gives me the direct number to the company that deal with all the lettings for the pub co I work for.
I ring the woman, only to be told that she is no longer on my account, and that a new woman ( Freda) would help me, and could I explain ever thing to her.

*getting a little impatient now*

Week 5 - Holding fee is paid and paperwork is going through.
Week 6 - Should be moving in this weekend, however, no-one has been in contact.
Week 7 - Ring letting agency. They explain that they can not get hold of Freda. I ring Freda, and am told she is off sick and that she has not left any information about our account.

*getting a little more impatient*

End off week 7 - Freda returns ! Huzzah! Speak to her, and she tells me that she can not get hold of anyone at the letting agency. *sigh* Ring letting agency. They tell me that they can not get hold of Freda. *bigger sigh* (at this point I'm getting dizzy from the big circles I'm going round in)

They finally sort out their Com's probs and all paperwork is complete. We pack almost everything into boxes.

Week 8 (current week) - Letting agency inform me that the move will be a week later (already 2 weeks late now, despite the property being advertised as ready asap) as the landlord can not move out just yet.

End of week 8 - receive email from letting agency. - Dear Ben, the landlady now is stating she can not let the property completely unfurnished. She needs to leave all the wardrobes, Chester drawers and dining room set behind. Is that okay?

So after 8 weeks of being offered a new pub, three weeks of house hunting and two weeks after we are meant to have moved, we are still stuck where we are and still have no move date.

And to add insult to injury, we are living out of boxes.

*sigh - sob - sigh*

Best of British

Iain.

On this day today.....

April the 20th is a day steeped in history.

For example, today in 1945 at the fuehrerbunker, Adolf Hitler made his last trip to the surface to award the old Iron Crosses to boy soldiers of the Hitler youth.

Also, in 1972, Apollo 16 landed on the moon. On this day in 1653, Oliver Cromwell dissolved Rump Parliament, and replaced it with Sirloin.*

In 1871, the Civil Rights act was passed, and in 1968, Enoch Powell made a speech that would ruin his political career.

Allow me to go further ; Adolf Hitler was born today in 1889, as was Andy Serkis (1964) and Carmen Electra (1972)

Sadly, on this day, the world mourned as, amongst others, Bram Stoker (1912), Don Siegel (1991) and Michael Fu Tieshan (a Chinese bishop, apparently) headed off to the big shop in the sky.

It is the 111th day of the year (normally 11o, but its a leap year) and 255 days left until 2009.

But all this aside, today will be remembered and marked in History for all time for one reason.

One reason and one reason only. A reason to be shouted from the roof tops, preached in the churches and depicted in films and maybe a musical, as long as isn't written by Lord Webber.

For today, on this Sunday, is the day that after months of searching, days of turmoil, and hours of sweat and tears, I finally found the sky remote.

It was under the sofa.

Best of British

Iain.

*Authors note: This is not true. It is just a really shite joke. I apologise for the level that this blog seems to be lowering to.

Kitchen Nightmares

Today I have spent most of the morning cooking and baking.

Its a little thing in life that I enjoy doing, and am often found behind a stove conjuring up something or another.

Some things work - others do not, and the latter is where I found myself today.

Painstakingly bent over a recipe book by a well known, former 3 star Michelin chef, following each instruction and ingredient to the hilt resulted in a chocolate tart that looked superb.

Unfortunately, it didn't taste superb - it tasted pretty awful to be honest.

So, after 4 hours, I enjoyed the process, but was rather disappointed with the result.

And now I've got to do all the washing up but with no tart to help me on the way.

No change there then.

Best of British.

Iain.

Who would want to be me?

Well, someone does apparently. Normally, one would be quite chuffed about this, but in this case its a bit of and arse. Well, a large one actually.

I have been the victim of a crime commonly known as "identity fraud".

As I was trying to pay various bills today, my card was declined time and time again, which was odd seeing as I knew the money was in the account, seeing as I had only been paid the day before.

I rang my bank and spoke to a nice young lady who asked me various security questions.

Then the biggy : Can you tell me if you have been abroad in the last month?

Me: Er, No.

Bank: Ah. Please hold.

I did indeed "hold" (for 20 minutes in fact) and was eventually put through to Lisbon!

Anyway, long story short, some guy in Malaysia has gotten hold of my card number and has been helping himself to withdrawals.

Bugger.

Luckily, the sum that has been taken before we could stop it is only been 200 quid, so it could have been worse. But its still a ball ache, cause now I have to find alternative means to pay bills.

Still, worse things happen at sea. Apparently.

Best of British

Iain.

Thats a lot of bikes.

Apparently, there nine million bicycles in Beijing. That's a fact, according to Miss Melua.

As I listen to that song, I wonder how many other things are in Beijing.

18 million sets of bike pedals for a start.

Nine million bikes is a lot by any means, and I believe is only surpassed by Cambridge, which has a billion bicycles (if you have ever been to Cambridge you will know what I mean)

Where exactly Katie gets her figures from, I am not sure. Is there a Bicycle Registry Scheme in Beijing? Or maybe she counted them.

Either way, its still a nice song, floating along quite happily. But what I wanted to mention, is that during the song the lyric is as follows:

We are 12 billion light-years from the edge,

That's a guess — no-one can ever say it's true,

But I know that I will always be with you

A chap named Simon Singh has (albeit humorously) pointed out that these lyrics are in fact incorrect. Singh said that with the song Melua "demonstrates a deep ignorance of cosmology and no understanding of the scientific method", and objected to its second verse, where the song's protagonist "[contrasts] such guesswork with her own confidence in her blossoming long-term love"*

So, he came up with his own to put in place, which are quite amusing.

We are 13.7 billion light-years from the edge of the observable universe,

that's a good estimate with well-defined error bars,

Scientists say it's true, but acknowledge that it may be refined,

and with the available information, I predict that I will always be with you

Unfortunately, its a little hard to fit in the refrain.

Best of British

Iain.



*Singh, Simon. "Katie Melua's bad science". The Guardian. September 30, 2005. Retrieved April 9, 2006.

Carlsburg dont do complaints. But if we did.......

Customer: Excuse me, but there is something wrong with my gammon.

Me: Oh, what seems to be the problem, my love?

Customer: Well, it may sound silly, but my gammon tastes a little piggy.

*baffled silence*

Me: You know where gammon comes from, I assume?

Customer: Oh yes.

Me: Well, I am not sure what you wish me to do for you?

Customer: Oh nothing really. I don't like to complain, but I thought I had better let you know.

Me: Let me know what?

Customer: That there could be something wrong with your gammons.

Me: Er.....Thank you madam, I will speak to our suppliers and pass on your comments.


The service industry can be a little trying sometimes.......



Best of British

Iain.

Oscar Wilde (not)

Starting a blog is hard. Well, for me it is anyway.

Where to start. As Lewis Carrol explains (via a Caterpillar to Alice) its often best to start where it begins and finish where it ends.

But, where is the start? To be honest, I'm not sure, but we'll try the following:

Writing has been a passion of mine for, well, ever since I can remember. Unfortunately, I haven't done much of it recently, due to work and generally being lazy.

I am reminded of some of my first literary attempts. These generally tended to be scripts. I recall my first play to be based on the adventures of a Vampire, simply known as "The Count" and his faithful sidekick, "Batty" who was, yes you guessed it, a bat. This terrifying tale of horror and suspense was written when I was around 9 or 10, and I even had my own company of players to act out each painful scene one after the other (the players being my own school chums, who didn't really appreciate the play for the ground breaking twists and turns of a modern day horror thriller, but mealy saw it as a way to entertain themselves for the 45 minute lunch break).

The next foray into writing came with a tongue-in-cheek send up of the (then) current top television drama, Soldier, Soldier. Entitled (imaginatively) "Soldier, Soldier, Soldier" it was a rip-roaring and hilarious poke at life in the Queens on Fusiliers. The only problem came from the fact that it was neither rip-roaring nor hilarious to anyone else but myself and my co-writer and general conspirator Jon, who would work with me on one more future project. However, that was enough for us, and many a fun evening would be willed away whilst we played out all of the roles ourselves, with an occasional guest appearance from Bob, our other erstwhile friend.

But all was not well. With now two unsuccessful plays behind me, and believing that my writing career was at an end, the world would not know what wanted to pour from this young mind. I left writing for a while and had no real intention of embarrassing myself any further. That is, until my last year at secondary school.

Every year, the school would enter something called "Kiss Week" Now, I expect you are thinking; "Kiss Week. Fantastic. Who came up with that splendid idea. Kissing. All week." However, you would be mistaken as to the intention of said week. For Kiss was a charity (I have no idea what Kiss stood for, although I'm sure I will be told) and the school would go into overdrive to raise money, and all in all, did a superb job. People would do sponsored this and sponsored that, wear daft clothes to work and other "zany" tasks.

For the first 4 years of attending school, I had done nothing myself to raise any form of cash for the Charity, save sponsoring some stupid oik for speaking with a German accent for a week (a sponsor I refused to pay up for after discovering that the person in question was actually a German exchange student and spoke with the accent anyway) So, with a heavy heart I decided I should, in my fifth and final year, surrender myself to this worthy charity. But, what? What could I do that would be different to every thing else that people were doing?

And then, it came to me. I should write a play! And not just any play, a Pantomime! Oh, the excitement and enthusiasm coursed through me like motor bike through Heather Mills' leg. I began work immediately on my new masterpiece, Cinderella.

After 2 nights of constant writing, the first draft was complete. Most was fairly easy to write, but the parts of the Fairy Godmother and the Ugly sisters was rather taxing, as everything had to be in verse. Not easy by any means. I enlisted the help of my previous collaborator, Jon, and we skimmed through the script, making changes here and there, and were left with a final, 2 hour long, script. I was very proud of my baby, as was Jon.

We began casting during lunch breaks and soon had an entire cast assembled with scripts handed out to all and sundry ready, with only 2 or 3 weeks until the performance, to begin the arduous task of rehearsal.

This is where every thing sort of went a bit tits up. Chaos descended, and soon, after a few days, the play had fallen through and Stevenage (or St. Evenage as we liked to say) never got to see my Cinderella. Which, in hindsight, may be a good thing. Or it may not be. I don't know, and to be honest, I'm not sure I want to know.

I haven't written anything since, and that is 10 years now, so this will be my new Cinderella. It sometimes may not be as funny or camp as panto tends to be, although I will try and squeeze as many sexual innuendos in as possible, but I am hopeful that maybe more people will see this work than my previous attempts.


At least this time round, I wont have to find a rhyme for Silver. (Go on try.....)



Best Of British.

Iain.