Dear Orange.....

After three months of absence where I've been utterly bereft of any desire to blog due to the pace and complexity of life, it was going to take a special situation to stir me from my self-imposed writing exile. Thankfully the telecommunications industry came up trumps again.......

Dear Orange Customer Service Manager, 

I am writing to let you know about a complaint which has annoyed me so much that I nearly lost my composure a couple of times and smashed my own face in with a toffee hammer. I’m hoping that won’t be strictly necessary but I can tell you, after the morning I've had -  it’s not looking good.

In November I rather carelessly dropped my iphone into the toilet whilst attempting to multi-task. As you will be well aware, men are not renowned for this ability but I thought it within the realms of possibility to send a text whilst ‘feeding the fish’. (I’ve seen my wife do similar things, she’s amazing she can watch telly, text and glare at me in a disapproving way all at the same time)

But I was wrong, in fact so wrong that within seconds I’d dropped my phone into the bowl and was forced to plunge my hand into my own urine and rescue the said device from its ‘golden grave’. No man should ever have to immerse any part of his body into his own wee, it's primevally abhorrent but I know I only had myself to blame. (It could have been worse if you think about it for long enough......).

Naturally, the device was not keen on working. I’m not sure any device would. I’d had a couple of nights out previously and whilst I’m no chemical expert I think the contents of the bowl could have stripped rust from metal.

I tried all the usual barmy, crackpot internet gleaned remedies including storing the phone in the airing cupboard, inside a bag of dried rice and sacrificing a small animal to the Roman God Mobilius but my mind was always filled with the certainty that I was wasting my time. I did manage to get the phone to make a couple of warbly bleeps at one point but it was the kind of noise that an engineer designed the phone to make, purely to inform the user that it is never going to work properly ever again.

In desperation, I called your customer services department and without necessarily telling them about the pissy bit, I informed them that my phone had sustained water damage and was now deader than the Manchester United Premiership homecoming victory parade last season.

I was informed that for a princely sum of £150 I could have it replaced but I had to ensure that the old phone was returned via the same courier. Sure enough, it arrived the next day, delivered by a man who smelt worse than the phone I handed to him, but I gratefully received the new phone and thought nothing more about it.

Ten days later the old phone was returned to me in a tatty old envelope with my name and address scrawled on the outside in the kind of handwriting that suggests you may have outsourced your administration to a mental asylum. The kind that houses people who write their names on walls with their own shit.


The fact that the postman managed to deliver it to me is a testament to the service of the Royal Mail and I have suggested that this particular postman be immediately despatched to Egypt to examine the latest hieroglyphic artefacts. He is clearly a man of great talent.

I was perplexed at receiving the phone back and wondered if it perhaps had boomerang qualities but on inspection it was just an iphone that smelt vaguely of urine. (....and dried rice, not a brilliant combination in truth).

Two days later I received a very sternly worded letter advising me that I was to return the phone in the envelope provided (this time typed, nice touch...) as a matter of urgency and that failure to do so would result in an additional £300 being charged. I travel a lot with my job and tend to be stupidly busy but obviously I enjoy unnecessary trips to the post office as much as the next man, so off I went.

Again, I thought no more of it. Job done. Phone returned. A bit like last time, only this time with a bit more effort involved on my part.

You can imagine my delight when I opened my post this morning and found another package containing my old piss sodden phone, this time inside a jiffy bag. Tthis one had my name and address on it which appeared to have been written by my doctor. I’ve seen his prescriptions and god knows how anybody deciphers them but it was a lovely personal touch that I certainly appreciated.

I was still a little bemused at having it sent back to me again, especially as it arrived without explanation (or indeed a return envelope this time) and I even wondered if it had been condemned and returned to me due its unfortunate odour. So I called to find out......

Having negotiated the 4,678 options on your telephone system I realised that there was no option for ‘If you are constantly having a piss stained, broken phone sent back to you press number One’ option, I just pressed some random buttons and got through to some chap in the Philippines who couldn’t have sounded less interested even if he’d been practising for the ‘2012 Couldn’t give a shit award’. After a painful conversation he informed that I’d returned a different phone to the one issued to me and had been charged £450 instead of £150. I explained this was impossible and he then went on to tell me that he knew this because of some IMEI number or something... (I confess I was too busy looking for my toffee hammer and getting ready to spontaneously combust so I didn’t hear his explanation properly). I explained, in calm tones that this was impossible. The phone I had returned was the one provided to me 9 months previously. He asked if he could put me on hold and then promptly cut me off.

I immediately called back and through another sequence of random button presses I was put through to a lady who explained that she could do nothing as the ‘engineer’ was adamant that I had returned the wrong phone although he wouldn’t talk to me as he didn’t speak to customers and in any case he was busy writing names and addresses on the outside of shoddy envelopes.

Several phone calls later, I am still £300 down though I have spent the majority of the day talking to exceptionally polite and nice people in the Phillipines who are utterly devoid of any ability to help customers. So, you know, not all bad in all. All of this work stuff will have to wait.

I’d really appreciate a conversation with someone who is able to discuss my situation with me and resolve it to the point where I no longer want to spend the rest of my life wholly dedicated to persuading customers not to sign up with you. There are other things I’d still like to achieve in life but if that is my only course of action I’m fully prepared to commit.

It’s not about the money, it’s the principle. You have treated me like I’m dishonest. Which boils my piss. (though I won’t be dropping my new phone in it – You’d only send it back to me). 

Regards

Alan

Sick swans

The annihilation of Manchester United by 6 (six) goals to 1(one) will live long in my memory. Not so much because of the scoreline (we've beaten them by big margins before) but because of the ruthless and clinical manner of the performance and the shell shocked reaction of every United fan I know. Naturally of course, they have tried to respond with accusations that we are buying our way to success (a strategy they know only too well) and that the sending off materially changed the outcome (who knows). There is however a look in their eyes that suggests they realise this is the first of many hidings coming their way and that the pendulum of football has well and truly swung.

I'd like to think that my reaction to this monumental result was respectful, measured and appropriate. I'd like to think that except it is of course not true. I've been pretty much whooping it up ever since, lauding about the place like I scored the six goals myself and getting completely carried away with the whole thing. 

My friends Paul, Neil and I travelled to Valencia for a three day trip to see City take on Villareal in the Champions league. It was my first euro away trip but it definitely wont be the last. We had an absolute blast from the minute we arrived and even an endless succession of work calls during the day couldn't dampen my fun.

Valencia is an incredible City, modern and vibrant with a lovely mix of the old and new. Some of the architecture is stunning and I made a mental note to revisit for a long weekend at some point in the near future.

It's also a City on the beach and within minutes of checking into the hotel we were in a cab heading towards the old port and tucking into several lovely courses of tapas accompanied by more than a few ice cold cervezas. The combination of the heat, the octopus and the beer was lethal and I was soon quite squiffy.

From there a taxi to the old town where the night was spent enjoying a carnival atmosphere outside an Irish bar (yes, yes I know.....) where approximately 50% of the songs were about the derby victory. It was like old times supporting City in my early twenties only this time on the back of success and I confess I enjoyed myself a little too much for my own good.

The next morning I was fragile and the prospect of another day on the pop was almost too much to contemplate. Almost. By 2pm we were on the coach for the hours journey to Villareal and by 3pm we were in the bars next to the ground despite the game not kicking off for another five hours. I spent a few hours on the phone sorting out some work issues which probably kept me sober enough to see the rest of the afternoon off in relative sobriety but in the hour leading up to kick-off I fatally decided to try and catch up with my friends Paul and Neil's drinking tally.

I say fatally because Villareal's away end is named the 'birdcage' and is unbelievably steep. At the bottom of the stand is a huge perspex screen covering the whole of the front of the stand. It's main purpose is to stop missiles being thrown onto the pitch but it also does a really good job of blocking the view of the game. I stumbled to my seat and missed my footing sending me tumbling down rows of seats saved only by some kindly City fans who managed to catch me despite collapsing with laughter.

Thankfully the alcohol I had consumed prevented the pain from affecting me too much and I was able to witness another thoroughly professional victory. The celebrations went on long into the night though in truth I was a spent force. After the coach journey back we had one beer and then retired for the night.

A fantastic euro trip all round capped off by a terrific win. I'm optimistic that we will make it through the group stages so I can make another trip next year to some other destination maybe even Barcelona. I'm not confident we'd get a result there but it would be a brilliant experience. 

Leaves on the vine of time.....

43 days have passed since my last post, largely due to work pressures and holidays but I also felt I just needed to live life a bit more, free from from the tweets and updates of social media and blogging. I love writing but with everything going on around me it had begun to feel like a chore, so the natural thing to do was to live life offline for a bit.

A lot has happened during that period, in fact so much has occurred that my mind can't quite compute how it is only 43 days since our Alton Towers trip.

I'll start with my first foray the into the world of Urban Exploration or Urbex as it is known.  For those unfamiliar with the term,  Urbex is the exploration and photographic documentation of urban environments that hidden or off limits for most people. Some Urban explorers go up, to the rooftops of the highest buildings. Others go under, to the hidden world of sewers and tunnels. But the area that fascinates me is the exploration of decaying and dilapidated buildings. There are a number of forums that cover the world of Urbex, with some amazing photographs and reports of buildings that have been left to the elements. Old hospitals, cinemas, schools, factories and mills hold a fascination for me. Buildings seem to hold echoes of the life that once flowed through them. 


A friend of mine from Rossendale Chris Lord is a superb photographer and an avid Urban explorer. Most of his explorations are in and around the Rossendale area which is where I grew up. The familiarity of his subjects and the techniques he uses draw the eye and make you want to find out more. We'd discussed me accompanying him on one of his trips for some time, particularly as I wanted to learn how to use the expensive camera I was bought for my 40th birthday last year. 


I drove up to Rossendale early and after picking Chris up we went to an old mill in the area that has been out of use now for over 40 years. A bit of sneaking, ducking, climbing and crawling was required to get in which would have been quite easy for me once upon a time, but in my autumn years......not so much. Chris was far nimbler and more adept than me and he moved around with confidence. Once inside the pitch black was pierced by his powerful torch whilst the one I had brought with me was laughably feeble by comparison. 

We spent probably an hour walking around the different areas of the old mill taking loads of photographs and Chris showed me some camera tricks which are used to achieve dramatic effects, including light painting like below. In this instance, I stood with my back to a camera on a tripod and he stood in front of me and painted round my outline with a torch with the camera set to a long exposure. 

The mill was one of the biggest in the area and up until the 1960's had employed more than 500 people. All the machinery was long gone but some of the equipment was still kicking around and the old engine room retained some of it's former grandeur. 

Part of the Urban exploration code is to take nothing, damage nothing and leave things exactly as you find them, which we were very careful to observe. After a further look around we left as we had come in. I really enjoyed the experience and will undoubtedly return to the topic for future writing projects. I also have a much better understanding of my camera which I will put to good use. 


The following weekend Mel and I flew to Naples to start our two week holiday with a week on the Amalfi coast. We'd both been before and it is one of my favourite places in the world. We'd planned our week months ago which is unusual for us but it didn't become real until we jumped in the hire car and started the frenetic and slightly scary journey to Sorrento. It takes some time to adjust to people driving millimetres from your rear bumper and overtaking you on blind mountain corners but eventually I adjusted and was whizzing along cliff-top roads with Italian abandon before I knew it.

We arrived at La Solara Hotel in the early afternoon, a beautiful hotel that I have stayed at previously. We were shattered from our early start but I wasn't going to let tiredness get in the way of gluttony and within minutes I was tucking into my first pizza whilst taking in the stunning views. 

We spent a week exploring, eating, walking, eating, sunbathing, eating and taking in the beautiful scenery but mainly eating. Some of the food we ate that week will never be surpassed as far I'm concerned. Using the travel bible that is trip advisor we hunted down some of the most extraordinary culinary experiences I have ever had and I have eaten in some lovely places over the years. I was having to swim half a mile per day in the Hotel pool just to stop myself getting Channel 5 documentary fat.


The highlight of our week was undoubtedly our day in Capri. We actually went there by accident. We had planned to visit Positano by boat but missed the ferry by 20 minutes. We'd both been to Capri before and whilst it is lovely neither of us had any desperate desire to return. However, crossings were every 20 minutes so we hopped on a boat and chanced our arm.


We decided against the cliff lift and chose to walk up the steps to the top of Capri which is the second time I've made this schoolboy error. By the time we got to the top I was in need of a lung transplant and only a lemon slush drink saved my life. It was at this point that Mel seized an opportunity to partake in her own 'where's Wally?' photo. See if you can spot her.

After an hour or so walking round the shops and trying not to laugh at the price of things we decided on a whim to hire a scooter. I've always hankered after a Vespa but Mel has refused on the basis that she quite likes her husbands alive and breathing but she relented in Capri as the roads were quiet. The rules for hiring one were quite strict as the following conversation will demonstrate.


Man : Do you have a driving licence?
Me : Yeah
Man : Can I see it?
Me : No, I haven't got it with me.
Man : But you do have one, you say?
Me : Yeah
Man : Ok, not to worry. Just sign here in case you die so that nobody will think it's my fault or responsibility.
Me : Ok, thanks......


With that, we were off, tearing up the mountain roads looking like a pair of out of work human cannonballs. Some of the roads seemed to cling impossibly to the sides of cliffs like this one here which genuinely took my breath away. 

Mel went from a scooter sceptic to demanding we buy one for our time in France in about five minutes. It was such a brilliant way to tour the island though I wouldn't dare ride one on the Italian mainland. My body would remain intact for about five minutes.

The rest of the week was superb with minimal interruptions from work. I had timed my holiday really badly and there were several work related issues that were playing out back in the UK that demanded my involvement but thankfully this was limited to a few calls in the evening.


On the Sunday we commenced the second leg of our holiday, rising early to drive back to Naples. From there we flew to Paris and after a bus transfer across the City we got the train down to Limoges which took about four hours. Mel's parents met us at the station as they were working hard as usual completing the holiday home renovation and had been there for two weeks already. Within 40 minutes we had arrived at our house in Chalus ready to start a second week. The premise was that Mel would relax, cycle and run as she always does and I would help Fred with the work on the Gite. Work put a bit of a spanner in the works though as I had to spend a few hours each day helping out with situations back at home as needs dictate but there are far worse places to be working from. The weather was unbelievably warm, far too hot even to sit out on our newly laid patio.


We had some great meals out, caught up with our friends in the evening and had a really relaxing week. The final stages of our project are in flight and the place is looking really good, much better than I had imagined in my wildest dreams. 

Whoever holidays in our place will be assured a brilliant time in very comfortable surroundings in one of the prettiest and greenest parts of France. Our week there flew by and all too soon Sunday morning arrived and we were packing to come home. 


It was at this point that Mel realised that in the midst of making all of the transfer arrangements she had somehow booked us onto a flight for the wrong day. Instead of the Sunday, we were booked onto a flight on Monday. There was no way I could extend our holiday, even by a day so a series of frantic calls to £1 a minute Ryanair hotlines (the robbing, exploitative scumbags) ascertained that the only option was to book two new tickets at a cost of £500. It was an incredibly expensive end to a holiday but not even the impish little shit Michael O'Leary could tarnish one of the best fortnights of my life. Great memories come from great experiences and I'll remember those two amazing weeks long after I forget about the painful body blow of a few hundred quid. 

Oblivion (and back)

Earlier this week Mel and I extended the bank holiday weekend to take my 10 year old son Harry away for a couple of days. I have only recently been reconciled with him after nearly five years (long story not for here) and we are still getting to know each other again. I suggested a trip to Alton Towers a few weeks ago, a suggestion which was incredibly well received and I think we were all counting down the days with excitement. I hadn't been since 1993 and was looking forward to revisiting a place that holds important memories for me.

I've been to Alton Towers five times. First with my parents aged around ten years old. I was forced to spend a day exploring the gardens and admiring the architectural beauty of Augustus Pugin. Actually admiring may be too strong a word, I recall spending most of the day with my hands in pockets, shrugging my shoulders, kicking gravel and repeating the question "Can we go now? this is rubbish...."

In the very early 1980's there were very few rides or attractions that were of any interest to a ten year old. The list of things to see and do included an adventure playground, a shit zoo (not the dog breed), a dolls house, skateboard track, a planetarium and worst of all dinosaur land. This last attraction consisted of huge model dinosaurs presumably designed and constructed by people who had never seen pictures or drawings of dinosaurs. (These fibre glass reptilian abominations were later to be found liberally scattered throughout the theme park, hidden away in tree canopies visible only from rides).

The day was most memorable for getting stuck mid-air on one of the cable cars that traversed the park. Any mere mortal would start to panic but I remember my dad pouring himself a cup of coffee from his flask and offering round corned beef sandwiches. I explained that there was no way I was eating food whilst dangling precariously 400 feet up from a rusty wire and in any case I only like corned beef sandwiches with branston pickle on.

I remember thinking that my friends were probably having a proper day at a proper destination like Blackpool or something and were probably at that very moment riding roller coasters and eating candy floss. It was only much later that I realised how lucky I was to have parents that took me to interesting places. Most of my friends never went anywhere at all with their parents. 

On my return to school the following week, we were all asked what we had done in the summer holidays, I reeled off a long list of days out and things we had done and seen, other people in my class had very little to report. I remember being asked to write an essay entitled 'The day we got stuck in a cable car'

In the years that followed, I saw and heard about the various rides and attractions that had been built since my premature visit. I felt incredibly short changed as friends regaled me with tales of the Corkscrew and Black hole rides. It wasn't until 1983 that I returned on a school trip and tried these rides out for the first time. My memories of this trip and the return visit the following year are intertwined and mainly consist of queueing for hours, trying to impress girls, smoking fags, getting soaked on the water rides and getting a grade 'A' bollocking for being late for the coach home. Brilliant times. 

My last visit was in 1994, when I went back with my friend Paul and once more queued for hours in order to sample the new rides Nemesis, Thunderlooper and Enterprise, a ride seemingly designed to shake loose and remove all of the small change from your pockets. 

On Tuesday, we met and collected Harry from Nottingham Train station (he lives in Boston, Lincs) and travelled to a Hotel near Stoke where we hatched our plans for the following days rides, studying Youtube video's and detailed maps of the resort to plan our day with military precision. We determined to do the water rides last in order to spend the least amount of time wet and to hit the 'big rides' early to avoid the queues.

We were up early and wolfed our breakfast before setting off to Alton Towers at 9am in order to be there for opening time. After a minor mishap (the hotel had sold us an entry ticket which was dated 2010) we were in and hurrying towards 'the Forbidden Valley' where the rides Nemesis and Air are located. Harry and I queued and rode each in turn, whilst Mel sat and waited contemplating whether she felt up to it or not. Eventually she gathered the courage and we went on each in turn again, Mel's fear conquered.

We then had lunch before discussing whether any of us felt brave enough to ride on 'Oblivion' the worlds first vertical drop roller coaster. Fearless Harry decided he did, whilst sensible Mel declined. We climbed the steps and discovered there was hardly any queue. I now understand why.........

Mel had paid for on-ride photos and you can see here the differing reactions between the two of us. Harry's face is filled with wonder and adventure, the joy of anticipation. On the other hand, my face is etched with concern. If I remember that brief nanosecond correctly, I was wondering how to explain to my son why I smelt so bad and was trying to find a shop that sold trousers. Thankfully, I narrowly avoided that scenario. It was though, a very close call. 

I came off the ride feeling like I'd been set on fire and put out with a cricket bat. For the first time all day even Harry looked off colour and we both needed a sit down. It's important for a man to set an example and I was soon on my feet insisting we press on to the water rides. Externally I was fine, inside I was a husk of my former self. 

The rest of the day and remaining rides are a blur in my memory bank, I was physically and emotionally numb as evidenced by this photograph from the Flume where compared to Mel and Harry my face is not registering anything at all. 

Immediately afterwards we returned to the car park. The journey back to Nottingham train station was very quiet indeed. Harry was shattered, we all were. As we drove back, I contemplated what a fantastic day we'd had and I also considered how extremely grateful I was that Harry would not have to write an essay on his return to school entitled 'The day my Dad shat in his pants at Alton Towers'.

Just not cricket......

One of the more enjoyable aspects of my job is entertaining clients. Usually this would entail dinner in the evenings or perhaps a major sporting event at the weekend. Occasionally I get invited to an event during the week but more often than not there are more pressing priorities and a colleague will usually step in and host on my behalf. However recently one of our suppliers asked if I had customers who might want to go to the England v India test at Edgbaston. I didn't need asking twice and luckily I have two customers who are even bigger cricket buffs than I.

Cricket has been a constant throughout my life. It's never quite scaled the peaks of my passion in the way that football, fishing or music have but equally I can track the timeline of my life through the various test series and winter tours that I have watched down the years. Unlike football I never played to any real standard but I have at various times in my school and work years been an enthusiastic if hapless participant on the field. I have however, come to realise that I make a much better spectator than player and barring the odd ill advised foray onto a cricket pitch, I have limited my involvement to attending the occasional high profile game. 

Whenever you mention that you like cricket, you typically get one of two reactions, wild eyed enthusiasm and instant affinity or rolling eyes accompanied by the word 'boring....'. To a point I do find the latter reaction understandable. For people with short attention spans or a constant hankering for instant gratification five day test cricket is the proverbial sporting paint drying. But for someone like me who thinks nothing of watching a motionless fishing float for eight hours or for people who demand subtlety and tactical nuance in their sport it is the most absorbing of all spectacles.

Test match cricket was always on in our house growing up, my mum was as keen as I am now and towards the end of her long terminal illness, her enforced immobility meant she became as big an expert as I have ever known able to instantly recall statistics which would have made David 'bumble' Lloyd feel threatened in his job. Fifteen years after her death I miss many things about my mum and discussing the trials and tribulations of the England cricket team is one of them. She would be very proud of the current team.

As a child my holidays were usually in a caravan somewhere in England and consequently as least two or three days were spent indoors sheltering from biblical rain and howling winds. When stuck in a caravan, laid out in front of a gas fire eating chocolate biscuits and trying to talk above the sound of water drumming on the roof, a day can last a month. On those days, I have indelible memories of watching Ian Botham on a tiny portable TV smashing the West Indies bowlers to all corners of the ground. Or Geoffrey Boycott seemingly batting for months on end for just thirty runs. I came to understand the fineries of five day cricket and it became my sport of choice for the summer months.

The third test at Edgbaston was a chance for England to clinch the series and claim the honour of being the number one team in the world.  In the last decade, the England cricket team have been in the ascendancy but for most of my life were about as successful as my football team Manchester City. Seemingly all my sporting affiliations are entering purple periods though and I was more than a bit excited as I awaited my lift on Friday morning. I had somehow coerced a colleague into driving me to Birmingham. As any fan will tell you, watching cricket is a thirsty business and our supplier had thoughtfully laid on a free bar to resolve this problem. 

We left at 8am and were in the vicinity of Edgbaston by 10am. With an hour still to go before play commenced the crowds were gravitating towards the ground many in outrageous fancy dress outfits which has become a staple facet of watching England play. Even as someone who is pathologically allergic to fancy dress of any description I am still able to admire the effort and the foolishness of these committed souls.

We followed the directions of a man holding a hand written sign saying 'Car Pork £10' and found ourselves in a residential area where we were directed to somebody's drive which we were assured belonged to 'me Dad'. His father was clearly a very rich man who owned several properties as the cars behind us were directed onto the drives of several neighbouring houses. Mind you at £10 per car per day, it's no wonder he can afford so many properties.

After a brief walk to the ground, we arrived at the main entrance. Our tickets were for 'the experience club' which was a huge lounge with a bar at one end and a never ending and constantly replenished buffet at the other. Never were the words 'winning combination' more applicable to a sentence than the previous one.

Our seats were on a balcony just outside of the bar and consequently I was able to slay my thirst without taking my eyes off the cricket. My customers, two hefty lads from Yorkshire were also extremely thirsty, probably due to the saltiness of the buffet and I managed to continue my fitness regime by making regular trips to the bar and back for them.

The cricket was in truth a trifle dull. Having established a handsome lead, England chose to press home their advantage and bat through the day to establish an unassailable runs total. This was undoubtedly the right thing to do but without the thrill of big hitters at the crease it wasn't the greatest spectacle I've ever seen. A seemingly endless stream of single runs were punctuated only by a  couple of heavy showers that sent us scurrying inside for cover which necessitated further trips to the bar via the buffet.

The action picked up in the afternoon though my ability to focus on the game diminished with each pint. Wickets began to fall whilst Alistair Cook continued his own personal ascent to the top of his profession though at times it felt like he was taking the long way round. But as the day wore on the crowd became rowdier as it became apparent that the coronation of the England team as number one in the world was a mere formality. It was also obvious that coronation would not occur until the Saturday afternoon.

By the close of play at 7pm I was quite full and ready for home. Claire, my colleague and reluctant driver appeared enthralled as she drove us home whilst I regaled her with observations, theories and general buffoonery about our day. I say she appeared enthralled,  I think she may have been in a hurry to get back home, I've never seen anyone drive quite so fast.

All told it was a fantastic day though I have now discovered that in a remarkable twist of irony, free bars are always paid for the following day, yesterday was a write off. I was fit for nothing except lying on the sofa...............and watching England being crowned the kings of cricket.

Raving not drowning.....

Sometimes my blogs come easily and almost seem to write themselves. My tendency to attract bizarre incident, or my enjoyment of weird observation means I can literally hear words and sentences as events unfurl in front of me. At other times, I feel stuck in the mundane and have nothing to say of any consequence.

Due to the pressures of work and struggling with some kind of virus for a couple of weeks I've not felt much like writing. I've been suffering from a prolonged lurgy for nearly six weeks and despite two courses of antibiotics I was beginning to think I might never shake it. However, yesterday the clouds of illness began to clear and arriving back from London at around 3pm I decided I deserved to finish early for the week and would take an opportunity to go for a swim.

Mel and I joined David Lloyd in Cheadle a few weeks ago, which is probably half a mile from our apartment. It is expensive for a gym but we figured that would be more likely to make us go and so far that theory is holding up pretty well. My exercise of choice is swimming and the pool there really is great. I try to get up early and swim half a mile or occasionally go late at night when things quieten down a bit. On this occasion, I had no idea whether it would be busy or quiet.

The car park had loads of spaces which is rarely the case. As I walked through reception it did seem quieter than normal though the outdoor pool was full of kids enjoying a bit of rare sunshine with their parents. I say enjoying they were screaming their heads off but I think thats the same thing.

After a quick change I walked through to the pool to find it completely empty. I've never seen this before and made a mental note that stealing an hour in the afternoon would be a great time to take a swim.

Due to the aforementioned lurgy my swimming opportunities have been a little limited over the last few weeks but I was soon back in my stride and had completed twenty lengths in no time at all. I noticed the pool attendant placing a CD Player on a small table at the side of the pool and a couple of old people getting into the pool. I carried on about my business but on my return length I noticed a few more senior citizens loitering around the pool. By the time I had finished another length there was a massive gathering of grey hair, milling around, spilling into the pool and speaking in hushed tones . I stopped to investigate and was struck by the feverish, wide eyed expressions on their faces. They started to pile into the pool whipping the water into a white foam as they strode through the pool like a herd of antelope crossing an alligator infested river.

The crowd was predominantly female but with a few old men scattered throughout looking slightly awkward but equally enthusiastic. They started to take positions and one or two were limbering up and I could feel anticipation building. A slick of floral perfume and deep heat was now skating across the surface of the water and I could taste it strongly with each stroke to the point where I had to give up my swim and simply watch.

The excitement built further and their eyes became focused on the entrance to the pool, the limbering up became more frenetic. A few innocent swimmers came into the pool , took one look at the gaggle of OAP's, turned on their heels and left again.

Suddenly their moment arrived, the door opened and the minciest man I have ever seen came catapulting through the door in a green leotard charging down one side of the pool. The golden throng were ecstatic, clapping and cheering as he flounced his way around the pool and toward the CD Player. He acknowledged his parish and theatrically bent down to press play on the CD Player. Three seconds of silence only served to rebuild tension until suddenly the music burst into life as KC and the Sunshine Band advised everyone to celebrate good times. The instructors adoring public didn't need asking twice, they were on their toes and off before you could say 'oh for gods sake' and I realised that this aqua aerobics class was a regular fixture. These people knew the drill, for the next hour this was their pool and there was no song too cheesy for them.

The instructor was also in his pomp. Strutting like a deranged cat he prowled up and down the side of the pool making eye contact with each of his subjects and throwing me a look that made it clear that this was now his manor and I was on it.

His dancing and instruction was simply unbelievable, simultaneously feeding instruction and demonstrating the action with a face so serious that I suddenly burst out laughing. It was made clear to me by his congregation that it was not a laughing matter. They reciprocated his seriousness and mirrored his showy dance movements hampered only by the resistance of water and the flexibility of their ageing joints.

I was literally transfixed, I've never seen anything like it. The music went from terrible to unforgivable in no time at all and I quickly realised there would be no more swimming for me. The instructor was in full flight now though and was stood right next to the pool exit. I decided to make my way over there and time my exit to make minimum fuss. However, just as I completed that thought the instructor decided to mark the end of Van Halens 'Jump' with a leap on the spot. Which would have been perfectly fine were he not at the side of a pool and wearing trainers, he landed and skidded in one action, attempted to catch himself from falling on a hand rail and ended up on his arse. However being the true professional that he is he rolled over and back onto his feet just in time to seamlessly start dancing to Joan Jett and the Blackhearts 'I love rock n roll'.

His adoring public barely seemed to notice though I did see a few people turn round the other way presumably to stifle their laughter. I did no such thing and let out an almighty belly laugh as I exited the pool. I scampered for the exit and resolved never to chance a daytime swim again during the week.

Fallen Idols

The second week of our holiday in France passed without major incident or accident. We had a few days out at local tourist haunts, meals at lovely restaurants and thankfully the weather remained fantastic throughout. Mels friends seemed to enjoy themselves and left looking more bronzed (burnt) than when they arrived. The time passed too quickly as usual and we were soon closing the shutters and saying goodbye to Gouhaut (the name of our house) for a few more months.

We dropped Mels friends Vicky and Sue at Limoges Airport last Saturday and then drove up to Calais for one night in the worlds worst hotel, the truly hideous Metropole. Our normal hotel near Calais is cheap and cheerful but on this occasion was fully booked. This alternative hotel was recommended on Trip advisor presumably by people who through some terrifically sad illness have been deprived of all of their senses. It managed to be tired, grotty, soulless, smelly and also happened to be in an area of Calais that made Beirut look cheery by comparison. We spent the night confined to the room surviving on a box of red wine and some crisps. Hard times.


On Sunday we rose early, were delighted to find our car still on the car park where we left it and were soon boarding Eurotunnel, arriving at Folkestone at 8am before completing our journey home without any delay. The fact that we managed 1600 miles in two journeys without any major holdups is a first and I suspect a last.

As can be expected on holiday my girth increased a tad as a result of my consumption of fine French food but cycling and swimming ensured the buttons on my trousers remained intact though compromised. I've worked hard this week to put that right through discipline and abstinence. Actually that's not true, I have exercised but my body still thinks its on holiday and is still demanding 3,000 calories a day. I'll have to have a word with myself.

On Tuesday night I was lucky enough to be invited to the Umbro launch of the new Manchester City home kit. I met a few people I speak with regularly on Twitter beforehand in a bar and we then moved onto the venue. All the usual Manchester City supporting celebs were in attendance as well as former players and various dignitaries. There was an early photo opportunity with Mike Summerbee, Tommy Booth and the FA Cup which I was delighted about....

Then a three course dinner followed by a presentation of the new shirt. In the bar beforehand I met one of my long time idols Mark E Smith lead singer and only constant of The Fall. He is notoriously a caustic, uncompromising individual and not the kind of person who readily poses for photographs with fans but I must have caught him in a good mood as he spent ages discussing City and generally holding court and being hilarious.

His vocal onslauught continued during the presentation when he continually heckled and blew raspberrys at the kit designer from Umbro who valiantly continued to try and describe the design aesthetics whilst coming under a barrage of one-man abuse. The presenter held it together pretty well in fairness and took it in good spirits. Mark sloped off, his work here was done. The video of Liam Gallaghers band Beady Eye performing Blue Moon seemed to act as his exit cue.

After dinner was a chance to mingle with other writers, tweeters, forum owners and celebrity City fans. I also took the opportunity to talk at Gary Cook the CEO of Manchester City who I'm sure enjoyed the experience immensely. I noticed 40 people waiting to share their opinions and advice with him, he's a lucky man.

It really was a great night and the perfect cure for post-holiday blues.