Yesterday, it was the hottest day of the year so far and, as Andy Murray served his way to a decisive straight-sets victory at Wimbledon, the temperature at the sizzling Centre Court cauldron soared to 50 degrees celcius. Despite our national obsession with all things meteorological, extreme weather events are relatively rare in Blighty. So too is domestic air-conditioning. It simply isn’t worth the expense for the few days of the year it’s needed. When the mercury rises, some innovative Brits resort to some quirky ways to avoid melting in the midday sun. I snapped this sweaty soul’s sweaty sole along Muspole Street.
Following the horse meat scandal that swept the continent, supermarkets are spending millions to restore public confidence in their products. They could have saved a lot of bother and expense by not shoving Red Rum in the mincer in the first place. Now we know what happened to Shergar. Budget chain, Aldi, have been running an ad campaign on TV which makes me smile. Why are the ads often more entertaining and inventive than the programmes they interrupt? Money, I suppose. Click on the Aldi Logo to check it out.
I’ve had jolly good fun sparring with Norwich City Council about the farcical recycling service we’ve endured. This is the very same council that was the “winner of the gold award for ‘delivering through efficiency’ in the public sector Improvement and Efficiency Awards 2013,” and was “highly commended in the ‘most improved council’ category of the Local Government Chronicle Awards 2013.” Blimey. How bad were the also rans?
The volley of emails make for an amusing read which I thought I’d share.
Me
I rang your call centre on Friday 3rd to inform you that, once again, my recycling had not been collected. Your agent told me it would be collected today. It wasn’t. This is now the fourth time the blue recycling bin and glass box (that I share with my neighbour) have been missed. The refuse collectors simply walk past them as if they weren’t there. Really, I have better things to do than spend my money ringing the council and my energies wheeling the bin up and down the pathway to and from my flat. Exactly what am I paying my council tax for? What do I have to do to get your contractors to do their job?
Them
Your property is currently not down as a recycling collection, you currently received a weekly black sack collection. To change this we will need to put you on an alternate weekly collection, meaning one week will be general household waste and the next your recycling with a weekly food collection. Do you have room for wheelie bins?
Me
I would be grateful if you actually took the time to read my message. Obviously, I already have a blue recycling wheelie bin and a green glass box which were here when I moved into the property last June. I share them with my neighbour on the ground floor of XX St Georges Street. I have never used a black sack collection service. I faithfully wheel our bin out each fortnight on the designated day. Sometimes it’s emptied. Sometimes it’s not. If by putting the property on some internal council recycling list means that my large bright blue wheelie bin is no longer invisible to the eye of the bin men who pass by then please add this property to that list.
Them
As the crews use pda’s to tick off each property when a bin is collected, your address needs to be on the system for a recycling collection, that way they will know to collect it or we will know if it’s been missed. I will change your property to an alternate weekly collection and send a calendar to yours and your neighbour’s address.
Me
I’m fed up contacting the Council to get my recycling collected. It was missed again last Friday (24th May). I rang (again) and was told by XXX that someone would call me back. Of course they didn’t. This has been going on for nearly a year. When will my recycling bins be emptied?
Them
There are a number of properties on your road changing over this week to alternate weekly collections, this means one week your household waste and the next recycling, I did send a letter to your address last week explaining this and giving you a calendar for collection days. Was this received?
Me
No, I have not received a letter from you. The last letter I received from the council was a couple of months ago advising me that our collection day was moving from Tuesday to Friday (alternate recycling/general waste). The manager of the council call centre rang me yesterday to tell me that I’m now on the ‘list’ for recycling and it would be collected alternate Tuesdays. XXXX rang me today to ask if my complaint had been dealt with. Who knows? Frankly, I’m still none the wiser. Is it Tuesday or Friday for recycling, general refuse or both? Perhaps you could put me out of my misery.
Them
I apologise for all the different points of contact, I will confirm your days in writing and supply you with a calendar tomorrow. I will also hand deliver to make sure you get it.
This was the first apology I’d received. Did I get the promised hand-delivered note? Actually, I did.
Post Script: Alas, despite my best hopes and my faithful compliance with the glossy collection schedule I received, my general waste was left rotting by the wayside. It’s enough to make a vigilante of an honest citizen.
Longer-term pansyfans may recall that I started having a bit of bother walking distances while we were in Turkey. The cardiologist at the local private hospital in Bodrum diagnosed Periodic Limb Movement Disorder. Apparently, I was running a marathon every night in my sleep making my little lallies tired during the day. I was prescribed a cocktail of blood thinners guaranteed to bring on early onset impotence and an anti-twitching drug usually used to treat Parkinson’s. My condition didn’t improve and so, now we’re back in Blighty, I had the whole business checked out at the 
Norfolk and Norwich University Hospital. I’m afraid the original diagnosis was a bit off target. A CT angiogram revealed that I have arterial blockages in both my groin and right thigh which won’t get better without surgery. A double stent will unblock my dodgy groin but the problem in my thigh requires an arterial bypass. My consultant looks like Dr Green from ER. It’s a shame I’m not under George Clooney.
Continued in Carry on Nurse.
Today is IDAHO Day. For the uninitiated, this stands for International Day Against Homophobia (not to be confused with a holiday in the 43rd State of the Union). On this day in 1990, the World Health Organisation removed homosexuality from the International Classification of Diseases. No longer were gay people officially categorised as sick and mentally disordered. IDAHO Day was conceived by the French academic and human rights activist, Louis-Georges Tin, with the aim to raise awareness about the plight of sexual minorities across the globe who live in daily fear of casual discrimination, systematic violence and state-sponsored murder. Some of us are fortunate to live in societies where attitudes have changed radically and where we are protected by a comprehensive body of law. Most are not so fortunate. This does not mean that mindless, sometimes violent, homophobia is no longer with us. Far from it. We must always be on our guard against the knee-jerkers and pond life who mean to do us harm. And we still have a long way to go to effectively eradicate transphobia. But, spare a thought for the brave souls in other lands whose very existence is a crime, where silence and denial are the only instruments of survival. Earlier this week, I had the honour to interview Eric Gitari, a human rights lawyer and activist in Kenya, on Future Radio’s Pride Live Show. Eric is helping to co-ordinate IDAHO Day in his own country and campaigns to abolish the draconian laws inherited from the British Raj. Believe me, his work is no walk in the park but Eric refuses to be silent. Today, ordinary people in many corners of the world will mark IDAHO Day publicly. However, some will do so in private and who can blame them? To be lynched from an olive tree or burned to death by a tyre necklace is nobody’s idea of a gay old time.
PS: The Kenyan Police banned the IDAHO march in Nairobi minutes before it was due to set off. No surprises then.
The traditional high street is under seige from a flat-lining economy, increased rents (no, I don’t understand that either during a recession) and the relentless pressure from the big boys with their charmless out-of-town retail parks sucking up all the trade. Norwich seems to have bucked the trend by preserving its novelty. Of course, the narrow maze of city centre streets has its fair share of chains with their identikit offerings but there’s also a treasure trove of independents to graze. Maybe the city’s relative isolation is its saviour (the last section of the dual carriageway from the Smoke is only now being built and the train service is express-less). Perhaps it’s a benign planning environment by farsighted burghers. Who knows? Whatever the reason, long may it continue. Here’s just a small sample to whet the appetite and loosen the purse.
Jarrolds is a Norwich institution. The family-run business has outlets dotted about all over the shop. The Book Hive is the best independent bookshop in town. Both Jarrolds and the Book Hive declined to stock my book. Jarrolds refused (politely). The Book Hive didn’t respond at all. I don’t hold it against them (much).
The Grosvenor Fish Bar on the corner of Pottergate and Lower Goat Lane offers delicious, artery-hardening deep-fried heart attacks. It gets my vote because punters are welcome to finger the fish over a pint in the pub opposite. Personally, I prefer to nibble on a battered sausage (cue Liam). The public house in question, The Birdcage, has been the scene of our undoing many times now.
I doubt Meryl Streep ever visited this corner of the Dark Continent when she was attempting a truly terrible Viking accent in ‘Out of Africa.’ Do they really sell slices of crocodile, ostrich, springbok and zebra? Well, if Tesco’s can flog donkey burgers, why not?
Liam spends endless hours thumbing through the sheet music in this old-school music shop as he contemplates a profitable sideline teaching piano. He’s quite talented with his fingers, my Liam. This little gem is right along the street from our weaver’s cottage.
Finally, my personal favourite – not because I’m a cock in a frock at weekends and call myself Jacky but because Pepperberry’s sell ‘clothes designed with your boobs in mind.’ It’s just as well, as I have noticed that quite a few Norfolk broads do look like they’ve eaten all the pies.
Generally, I enjoy this blogging malarkey. I’m little troubled by the cyber-trolls and infobahn ne’er do wells. But, one tedious aspect of blogging is the endless stream of spam attacks – over 34,000 so far. If only I got that amount of genuine interest. Most get picked up by WordPress’ spam filter but a few still sneak through. I receive an eclectic range of spam – the collective weaknesses, desires, vices and foibles of humanity are laid bare in Latin, Cyrillic, Arabic and Chinese (and probably in Runic if I bothered to decipher) mixed in with the endless machine-generated auto-babble. I could develop RSI just from the repetitive deletes. Since our return to Blighty, I’ve noticed an alarming increase in the number of dodgy comments from pay day loan companies (parasites, actually). These micro loans are designed to lure the financially embarrassed as they struggle from one wage to the next. Shooting ducks spring to mind. There’s a recession on. Some people are short of the readies and easily seduced. I looked up one of the more well-known lenders who advertise on the box. Their ‘representative APR’ is 2414%. Yes, you read right – two thousand, four hundred and fourteen per cent. I hear the ConDems intend to cap the rates these lenders charge – this year, next year, sometime never. These smiley cyber-sharks in sharp suits don’t need to send in the heavies to bully the desperate. They can afford to drop a few pounds and a couple of percent and still be quids in.
With the weather finally on the up and blossom dripping from the trees, the citizens of Norwich were out in their droves doing what the Brits do best – shop and sup. Purses and plastic were loosened in a brave attempt to drag the economy out of the abyss. Technically, the economy is as flat as a witch’s tit, rather than triple dipping and the patient needs all the TLC it can get. Market stalls toppled out onto the pavement, till queues weaved round Primark, the M&S food hall heaved with Norfolk broads and we couldn’t find a table in Pret a Manger when we bagged a baguette.
[]
We escaped the madding crowd by browsing the floor show in the Forum. Modern art isn’t everyone’s cup of char but Liam loved it. I left him to peruse the exhibits and ordered a couple of drinks at the bar. Cheers!
Today is St George’s Day. As most people in Britain know, St George is the Patron Saint of England and his flag is also the national flag of England. But George isn’t the exclusive preserve of the English. As a patron saint, he’s rather popular all over Christendom – Georgia (the name’s just a coincidence), Portugal, Malta, Ethiopia and plenty of cities and regions. His status as a soldier saint (rather a contradiction in terms, I would have thought) may explain his popularity. Everyone loves a dashing hero, especially one that goes around slaying dragons and rescuing maidens. Of course, George wasn’t English either. He was born in Roman Judea and his father came from Cappadocia in present day Turkey.
George rose in the ranks to become a member of the Emperor Diocletian’s personal bodyguard but came a cropper when he refused to renounce his faith. George was rather handy with his fists and the Emperor virtually begged him to drop the whole Christian thing (or at least keep quiet about it) but mouthy George wasn’t having it. He was martyred in AD 303, enduring a slow and horrible death.
I’m not much into the trappings of nationalism, though I am quietly patriotic. I have written before that it’s fine to be proud of where you are from, it’s not fine to think you’re a cut above the rest. The English Defence League (EDL) and other right-right nutters have rather hijacked and debased the symbols of English nationhood. Consequently, people like me wouldn’t dream of waving the Flag of St George in the same way that the Irish, Scots and Welsh proudly display their own national emblems.
I’m hoping the EDL thugs will eventually slide back to the bottom of the pond. Their travelling circus of clowns is looking increasingly thin and desperate. I really can’t take seriously those who think that The Royal Pavilion in Brighton, the pleasure palace built in oriental style for George IV, is a huge mosque. Oh, the irony. The best way to counter the idiotic is with ridicule because the EDL is ridiculous.
Perking the Pansies 