Night of the long knives II

The knives were definitely out last week, or so it seemed to me. No one was safe.

Slightly largish knives...

The voluntary organisation in Weybridge that I joined barely a year ago was having a purge of members. My mate was the first with the news of the cull early last week – he had been given the stark message by a colleague – the committee had made a decision – too many recruits had been taken on. Anyone who was not up to the mark would have to leave!

I had to say I was surprised. This seemed a pretty ruthless act for a voluntary organisation, and as I discussed this latest turn of events in the pub with my mate, the conclusion reached was that there was a high probability that we were in the firing line, as we joined on the tail end of the recruitment drive early in the year, and so would be the natural choice of sacrifice in preference to the more established long standing members.

This sobering thought was given added credence when I received an email from a senior committee member requesting that I phone him as soon as possible in respect to my future at the Weybridge Voluntary Organisation. A text to my mate confirmed that he had received exactly the same email. The writing was definitely on the wall.

There was nothing else to do but to go for it, and with a sense of resignation, I made the call to the committee member. His manner was friendly but business like when he gave me the news…I was staying.

The intensity of the relief I felt surprised me. This place obviously meant more to me than I thought. I had survived…for the moment at least.

Over the Radar

For the past ten months or so I have been part of what can only be described as a covert operation. Whilst this clandestine action has absolutely nothing to do with the National interest\security, it has been kept well and truly under the radar. That is, it was until now…

Blipping the light fantastic?

For years, I and a mate have both been members of a voluntary organisation in Kingston. Feeling in need for a new challenge and a change, we sought out and found a similar voluntary organisation located in that far off land which is the Weybridge area. I joined this shortly after my mate in mid January this year, and since then we have been working for both the Kingston and Weybridge Organisations.

At the interview for the Weybridge one, I was very open about my voluntary work in Kingston, and my intention to carry on working there, which they were absolutely fine about. I wasn’t quite so candid about my work for the Weybridge Organisation with my colleagues in Kingston – I just wasn’t too sure about how they would feel about me doing the same sort of work elsewhere.

So there we were, working deep under cover in Weybridge for almost 10 months, until that fateful day last Sunday when my mate and I joined our Weybridge colleagues for a drink in a local pub. One of the guys was talking about a course he had gone on in the previous week, which involved volunteers from all over the country. By chance he ran into a girl who works with me at Kingston, and my name was brought up.

Looks like the cover has been well and truly blown!

Doner Quixote

Don’t worry – the above is not a literary reference – that renowned tome by Miguel de Cervantes is not a book high on my reading list at the moment – I just like bad puns. It kind of sums up my latest gastronomic experience though, which happened towards the end of last week.

It was just gone midnight, and I was driving the Rover back from Tolworth after dropping a mate home. It had been a good evening – I had given a good account of myself in a squash match, and afterwards, enjoyed a couple of pints with some very high octane pool games, the majority of which I won. So as you can imagine, I was feeling very much the pool Jedi as I approached the junction that would take me onto Tolworth Broadway.

The hunger pangs that suddenly kicked in were telling me one thing…I needed a kebab! For me, kebab O’clock is usually midweek, but due to a curry the day before to celebrate a mates birthday, this hadn’t happened. This was something that definitely needed putting right, so I took the left turn into the Broadway – I was Surbiton bound.

The Kebab shop in question was located in the small parade of shops just in front of the station. My friends and I have frequented it regularly after last orders in the nearby pubs, and for me, the following is the recipe for the perfect post pub snack:

1 Shish Kebab
5 slices of processed cheese
Loads of Onions
Chilli Sauce

Needless to say, this really hits the spot, and I was convinced that this was an unbeatable gastronomic delight, or I was until that fateful night last week. When I placed my order, one of the staff behind the counter seemed curious about the cheese – he said that in all his years of serving Kebabs he had never even thought of serving them with the old fromage. It had to be said I did wax lyrical about the cheese-tastic benefits. I don’t think he was quite convinced, but he was kind enough to add (for free) an ingredient that turned out to improve the flavour even more:

1 Shish Kebab
5 slices of processed cheese
Loads of Onions
Chilli Sauce
Some Doner meat

Yep. He cut it straight from the rubberised looking rotating thing and added it to the mix. The end result tasted fantastic. Gastronomic nirvana had once more been re-defined.

Quixotic fare?

I bet your all feeling as peckish as me now!

TV Retro

Why does anyone do anything? That’s a question that has been perplexing me and those advertising folk for years. Hazarding an educated guess, I would say that the answer is pretty simple – because they can. Forget all that guff about subliminal urges and psychological triggers, people tend to embark on those activities that are the easiest and the most accessible to do.

The above is the only rational explanation for my most recent annoying addiction, Retro TV. This is a fairly recent phenomenon that started on the back of the explosive multiplication of TV Channels that were spawned by the advent of the digital revolution. Some of these channels, like UK Gold, require a subscription, but the bulk of them, for example, ITV4, are free to view after hooking up some digi-box type of device to your telly.

You would think all these new TV channels would lead to an abundance of ground breaking TV programmes, awash with unique and exciting formats. Does it heck! From what I can see, most of their output consists of broadcasting repeats of much loved Television programmes that were originally created on the four original terrestrial channels BBC1, BBC2, ITV1 and Channel 4. According to the TV ratings, it looks as if this Retro TV is pretty much what the viewing public want to see – essentially people just want to watch stuff that they have viewed before time and time again.

On a digital channel near you...

What I find truly bizarre about the above scenario is that the new channels can gain audience share from the four terrestrial broadcasters by just airing repeats of their shows! My contribution to the whole process is to follow the rest of the crowd – I spend quite a bit of time watching a channel called Dave, which churns out repeats of my favourite BBC and Channel 4 comedies such as ‘Mock the week’, ‘Would I Lie to you?’ and ‘Never mind the Buzzcocks’. I usually watch it with a beer when I come in after a night out – the shows on any night run in a roughly two hour loop, so even the repeat shows are repeated at least once in the same evening. It is literally a case of watching it because it is there. What could be easier?

I know other people who have got it worse than me – a mate of mine confessed to watching the repeats of ‘Only Fools and Horses’ on UK Gold, despite having seen every single episode of the entire series more than once. It is not much of a consolation though, as spending hours watching stuff that I have already seen recently just seems like the perfect definition of a waste of time.

Now for more of that Retro TV…

From here to Teddington…

Whilst not quite as far as eternity, travelling to the above destination is not nearly as easy a journey as you would think, especially from my part of the world. My trip down was improved by starting out from Norbiton, but it still meant negotiating the concrete merry-go-round that is the Kingston One way system. Once over Kingston Bridge the traffic cleared up considerably, and after turning into Hampton Wick High Street, I finally found myself Teddington bound.

Eternally Teddington?

As always I was a man on a mission, and this particular one was unfinished business, as it should have been done weeks ago before my trip to Copenhagen. After leaving my car in the very reasonably priced council car park, I made my way onto Teddington High Street. The thing that appeals to me most about Teddington is that it is strongly reminiscent of the New Malden of my childhood – the long parade of small local shops, the narrow but busy roads – all that is missing is a book store called Cannings and a branch of Tudor Williams! As with most small towns though, economic progress has not gone completely unchecked, as there were the usual smatterings of chain stores/coffee shops.

The site of the cheery yellow awning above the shop front meant that my quest was at an end – I was at the Wimpy! This place represented another blast from my past. Back in the halcyon days of my childhood, New Malden also boasted a Wimpy (back then of course, the cheery awning was red), which I kind of feel I grew up with. When I first started going as a small child, my head barely reached the top of the counter, but as I grew, the burgers I ordered got bigger, until I finally graduated from the legendry Wimpy Kingsize to the daddy of them all, the mighty Halfpounder. Naively, I assumed that the New Malden Wimpy would always be there for me, but a few years ago disaster struck – it closed down! For a while it was replaced by a poor imitation, which limped on until the site was finally taken over by a Korean owner, who turned it into a noodle bar.

As I entered the Teddington Wimpy for the obligatory Half Pounder, I did feel a bit of nostalgia. Reassuringly the look of the place was pretty much the same as the New Malden branch of old – the serving area and the table and chairs were styled in a very similar way. The menu boasted pretty much the same fare – the burger meals that I remembered were still there, including other old classics such as ‘The Brown Derby’ and the ‘Knickerbocker  Glory’. These days it would take a brave man to go to the counter and order a ‘Bender’ (before you ask, this is a frankfurter based dish!). There were a few additions – Veggie, Quorn and some vaguely healthy sounding meals had been added, presumably as a sop to the PC brigade. The attractive Eastern European waitresses were a very welcome addition to the mix.

After my Wimpy visitation, I found some trainers I needed for squash in a sports store on the other side of the road, so it turned out to be a productive afternoon.

Got to get out of this place?

It might just be a time of year thing. One things for sure, a lot of this is driven by my current frame of mind, which right now can be summed up by exactly one word – boredom. I have been feeling this way pretty much since I returned from my mini-break in Copenhagen. I enjoyed my three nights there, and I guess going back to the old routine bought this all into stark relief. One possible solution to this dilemma is to literally get the hell out of here – to go abroad to some promised land and forge a new life – in other words, to emigrate.

Resident of the promised land?

Now I’ll be the first to admit that this idea does sound a bit abstract, but I have had a few destinations in mind. Scandinavia would be my first port of call. I have seen a bit of that fair land – so far I have made it to Sweden and Denmark, and I have definitely liked what I experienced – they have a mellow laid back kind of atmosphere which I could get used to, and the people seem friendly and civil. Germany is somewhere else I would consider going to – Frankfurt very much agreed with me when I went a few years back. One country a bit further a field is Canada – though never having made it out there, I have heard a lot of good things about the place.

Obviously there is a lot more to it than just packing a suitcase and catching the next plane out – most of the above would have emigration controls, but the countries with EU membership should theoretically be easier to move to. Also there is the thorny problem of finding a job and a place to live in my destination of choice.

Another slight fly in the ointment is the reason for the above countries of choice – I basically just fancy a lot of the women from there. I don’t think any emigration official worth their salt would seriously take that as a valid reason for letting me stay in their country! Perhaps this needs a bit more thought…

Small world

I always find it unsettling when it occurs. Lord knows why – in the scheme of life’s great tapestry it is very small beer. In fact, if this was an earthquake, it wouldn’t even get near an entry on the Richter scale. All that happened was that two parts of my life threatened to overlap, and it had to be said, it made me feel a bit uneasy.

Tiny!

The other evening I had just finished a grueling one and half hours of squash. I was definitely in the mood for a couple of pints and a few frames of pool. With this intention firmly in mind, I met up with my mate, and we made our way to the usual pub we go to, which is on the Portsmouth Road, going towards Surbiton.

My mate and I have been regulars at this place for almost a couple of years, and even though we are not exactly part of the furniture, we are part of the scene – it is the old ‘Cheers’ (an ancient 1980’s American TV sitcom set in a bar in Boston) syndrome, a place where everyone knows your name. The people there are nice, though I don’t really know them that well.

Anyway, we entered the pub, and seeing that the pool table was free, my mate began the process of setting it up for a game, whilst I headed off to the bar to get the first round of drinks in. As usual, I greeted the regulars that I knew, and one of them said that we shared a mutual friend – it turned out that he was good friends with one of the guys that I do some voluntary work with at a place on the outer extremis of the M25, Chertsey. The following conversation covered stuff that I had never mentioned to anyone from the pub before. It was his access to knowledge about another part of my life that I found slightly disturbing.

Still, this feeling did not last too long, especially after the beer and a 4-2 win at pool. Life suddenly didn’t seem too bad!

Protest no vote?

How much do you care? I guess that’s what it all boils down to in the end. You tend to see the worst aspects of this on the telly – news coverage usually only happens when scenes of violence and affray are involved. Whilst I don’t particularly admire those who take part in political protest, I do believe that anybody who is willing to take to the streets to defend a strongly held belief does deserve a measure of respect.

Personally speaking, I can’t really claim to be much of a radical – it is a case of cynicism and political apathy ‘not a revolutionary make’. However once, a long time ago, I did raise a symbolic finger to the political establishment in defiance of the status quo. Admittedly though, it was in a very low key way.

Power to the people?

My minor act of insurrection took place back in the New Malden of the early 1990’s, against a back drop of a General Election that was being held during the height of recession. Having just returned from university with a massive overdraft, the grim economic conditions meant that I was broke, unemployed, bitter and completely without hope. I was heading down New Malden High Street on my way to the library, when I spotted a small group of people milling around a short distance in front of me. As I drew nearer, I saw what was drawing the crowds – it was the local Member of Parliament (MP)!

The then honourable member for Kingston-upon-Thames had suddenly remembered that New Malden was part of his constituency. I won’t mention any names, but at the time he was in the Cabinet as the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and shortly afterwards there were pictures of him in the tabloid newspapers with a black eye, which they alleged he received for bonking another MP’s wife.

Anyway, there he was in the High Street, strutting around smiling gormlessly, trying to look sincere. He was in full flesh pressing mode, on a mission to meet the masses. My fellow New Maldenites seemed to be lapping it up, eagerly rushing forward to shake his hand. Suddenly he moved towards me, hand proffered, inane smile in place, a greeting on his lips. Filled with anger and resentment, I found I was completely unable to call him the swear word that had leapt into my mind, so I completely blanked him, and strode off purposely towards the Fountain Roundabout. I caught a momentary look of surprise on his face as I passed him, and I remember thinking that his wife was a bit of a fox as I saw her on the outskirts of the crowd.

So there you have it – my rage against the machine. I know it’s not much to boast about, and it probably won’t change the world. Still at least I had a try. Yay me!

Ban the Bard

I know what you’re thinking – you all reckon this is going to be some mindless rant against the works of the esteemed play write William Shakespeare. I know exactly how your minds work! It has to be said though, that in this case, you are absolutely right. 

Quality scribe?

The seeds of this unprovoked attack on the legendry Bill were sown early last week after I had just completed my stint of voluntary work. One of the other volunteers mentioned that he was trying to get tickets to see a production of Shakespeare’s ‘A Midsummer’s Night Dream’, taking place at the Rose Theatre in Kingston, that starred Judi Dench. He seemed really enthusiastic about the whole thing, and for the life of me, I couldn’t really see why.

My memories of that particular play stem from my school days when we were forced to read it during English Lessons. I found it interminably dull going – billed as a comedy, it was a tale about the lives of Fairie folk (and I am talking fairies in the mystical sense of the word here), and its sole joke was having a central character called ‘Bottom’. Admittedly, this was smilingly funny at first, but it soon wore thin over the course of the book. To add insult to injury, they made us sit through a rendition of the play, performed in the school grounds by a troop of travelling thespians. To cut a short storey even shorter, it was far from inspiring.

Another thing about a ‘A Midsummer’s Night Dream’ is that people just won’t admit how rubbish it really is. Literary types will swear blind that they completely wet themselves laughing every time they see it. Even the slightest suggestion that it is not the most hilarious play ever written will leave you open to the charge of being ignorant and ill educated.

A common argument in favour of the Bard is that his plays must be good to retain their prominent position in English literature, but I think that any author whose books have had around four hundred odd years or so of product placement are bound to do well. If Stephen King had the same amount of publicity, his books would be on the National Curriculum as well.

I can’t say that I have read an awful lot more of Shakespeare, but I would hazard a guess that the rest of his work would prove to be as equally dull and tedious. Call me ignorant if you want to – I am not going to apologise for having good taste.

Road to nowhere

That’s where I am currently going. Or at least my latest quest is – the only results so far are a big fat zero. I probably should explain…

Nowhere bound...

I am one of the few squash players who bother to wear eye goggles. They aren’t prescribed lenses in any sense of the word, but they do give the old peepers that extra level of protection. Squash balls are exactly the same size as the average human eye socket, so a direct hit in the eye has the potential for very painful consequences indeed. The only thing about them is they do nothing for the image of the wearer – you end up looking like a cross between John Major and Joe 90, but since they have saved my bacon on more than one occasion, looking like a complete dork is a small price to pay.

A couple of weeks back, just before a squash match, I reached into the compartment of my trusty sports bag for the squash specs, only to find they were gone! A search of the rest of my kit drew a blank, so the only conclusion was that I’d misplaced them. Luckily for me there was an ancient set of goggles that were even blockier than the lost pair, but at least they would see me through for the short term. I vowed to buy a replacement pair as soon as I could.

This has proved to be easier said than done – a well known department store in Kingston (where I used to get them from) said they no longer had them in stock as they were changing supplier. The best estimate of when some would be in store was late September. The only alternative was to pay £40.00 for a squash racket where a pair of goggles came for free. Thinking this option a bit pricey, I checked out the other sports stores in the town, but none sold them.

Since I am a bit averse to buying stuff on the web, it looks as if I will have to stick it out until the autumn – hopefully my remaining pair of Jurassic squash goggles will hold out!