Harmless sexual harassment anyone?

 

 

 

I have a great idea for a funny TV advert.  Picture the scene.  Three old men are having lunch on a deserted Mediterranean beach.  They notice a gorgeous young woman come out the sea after a swim.  She wraps her towel around her and starts to wriggle her swimming costume off underneath it.  We see a close up of her costume arriving at her ankles. She is now naked under the towel.

The old men, who are huddled together at their table, despatch their little dog over to wrestle the woman’s towel away from her.  The dog does as it’s told and her towel is pulled from her, revealing her beautiful naked body; she is forced to cover herself with her hands.  One of the old men then takes a photo and they all laugh. The End. What do you think? Hilarious eh?

Somehow I don’t think so.  And yet Bertolli has this exact advert currently running on our TV screens to prime-time TV audiences.  There is of course one tiny (excuse the pun) difference.  The three old people are women and the embarrassed youngster is a man. So that makes it alright then doesn’t it? It’s just harmless fun.     

Is it somehow more acceptable for old women to ogle a young man than the other way round?  Do women see this as harmless fun and in which case are they guilty of double standards?  If the tables were turned in this advert, there would I’m sure be a fizz of complaints. Perhaps sexual equality is just not possible in society.

I’d love to hear what you ladies think about this...Do any of you secretly like it when you get whistled at by builders? Perhaps Shakespeare was right on the money when he said ‘the lady doth protest too much’.

Twitter biogs; what the...?

If you’re signed up to twitter, you might remember what it was like when you first joined.  Once you’ve registered your name, which of course isn’t your actual name but a bastardised version because someone else has already registered your name.  It’s then straight down to business...write something....hhhmmm.    

‘Twitter’ kindly offers the advice of... start following people.  Terrific; who? Unless you already know someone on twitter the first port of call is your favourite celebrities. This gives you confidence; you actually get to read what people, whom you admire, are talking about.  You feel part of their inner circle.  So you dip your toe and write a few tweets; really whacky, crazy stuff like... ‘I need coffee’...or ‘is it wine o’clock yet’. Hilarious.  Then it dawns on you, they don’t actually read your tweets because they’re not following you back – why would they? 

If you want people to follow you, you have to trawl through ‘the no-bodies’. You obviously don’t want to follow a psychopathic killer, which you suspect some of them are, so you need to ‘find out’ about them first. That means reading their biogs.

When you write your biog, twitter gives you only 140 characters to sum up your entire existence.  Who you are; what you do and somewhere in there you have to get in a pitch for people to follow you as well. This is tight. Your biog is your big chance to hook as many new followers as possible.  It’s fair to say that these 140 characters are pretty important so why do people write such banal, crap for their biogs? 

From those I’ve read; there seems to be several recurring themes; one of them is the ‘I’m totally mad’ theme.  “Yeah I’m mad me, huh huh, I’m so crazy and interesting you must follow me, it’ll be great fun!  What that actually says is ‘I’m so dull I have to pretend to be ‘mad and crazy’. Surely those people that are genuinely ‘out there’ never say so. ‘Mad, bad and dangerous to know, was not something Lord Byron said of himself

Another common theme is to mention how much wine you drink.  Remember when you were about 16, the big thing was to tell your friends how much alcohol you could drink.  It was boring then and it’s a story that doesn’t improve with age.  Again how many interesting eccentric drunks tell people how much they drink...they don’t need to, they’re too busy being eccentric and interesting.  ‘I’m mad me and I drink too much wine’ are the two things that say exactly the opposite of ‘what it says on the tin’. 

The one that really puzzles me though and seems to pop up all over the place is this; ‘cat lover’. Am I missing something with the whole cat lover thing?  Is it some secret underground club more powerful than the Freemasons?  You’ve only got 140 characters to do the job of selling yourself, if your choice of pet is that high on your priority list...you need to get out more.

And don’t write some philosophical quote from someone who was interesting but is now dead – that doesn’t get you off the hook and it doesn’t make you as interesting as they were, it says I have no original thoughts of my own.

I beg you twitter users, make your twitter biog; funny, interesting, or original.  The human eye reads fast and 140 characters is not long enough; the reader will have imbibed some of the banal, crap before they wince and move on.  By this time it will have soiled their minds and a constant drip feed of crap biogs can’t be good for anyone. Do you follow?

Penis envy

I was listening to Gardener’s Question Time the other day and it reminded me of the time when I went to one of their recordings and asked a question with a difference.

Have you ever been to a BBC radio broadcast?  It’s quite exciting but completely without glamour. The outside broadcasts are usually held in a village hall, where the local gardening society or Women’s Institute fills the room with plastic chairs, silver hair and diseased plants.  At one end of the hall there’s a table with a green ‘snooker style’ cloth over it.  This is where the experts sit. 

When the crew arrives with the recording gear the sight of the equipment causes a buzz of excitement in the hall. Then something extraordinary happens; it makes the people in the audience regress to 1950’s England. Everyone in the audience is obsequiously polite.  They all suddenly speak with clipped ‘BBC’ accents and they roar with laughter at the weakest of jokes from the panel. 

The members of the audience that get to ask a question go even further, just as the microphone approaches them you can see them nervously twitching and then on cue they revert to a language not heard since the days of black and white TV...“I recently purchased a flowering cherry tree...!” Purchased; there’s a word I haven’t used since, well the 1950’s.

Most of the audience are posh women, keen to show off their gardening knowledge by using as many Latin plant names as possible.  However they like to pronounce them slightly differently to everyone else.  At the recording I went to a very proper lady asked a question about her Scots Pine tree.  She of course used its Latin name of Pinus sylvestris. However she pronounced it as Penis sylvestris.  It went something like this... “I have a magnificent Penis sylvestris but it’s leaning to the left....” She didn’t even flinch.  Nor did the rest of the audience; I damn near wet myself.

This pronunciation tolerance got me thinking and immediately a plan hatched in my mind.  I had brought with me, two diseased plants and was hoping the panel could tell me what was wrong with them.  I knew what they were called but they didn’t know that. 

When the next question opportunity came along I shot my hand up and managed to get the attention of the man with the microphone and he came straight over.  “I’ve been given these two plants as presents but I’m not sure of their correct Latin names” I said loud and clear through the microphone.  “The friend that gave them to me says they’re called Biggus dickus and Sillius soddus, is this correct?” You should have seen their faces.

Living next door to Kate Winslet

I have a confession to make.  I have village envy.  When I first moved to Surrey I was 20 years younger and so wanted to be as close to the lights of London as I could afford.  Kingston-upon-Thames was about right.  It had cool bars, nightclubs, the river and crucially a late train home.  As I got older however and started taking trips into ‘the country’ at weekends I discovered what I was missing.  The hills, the views, the country pubs; I took one look and thought...this is what I want. 

I was ready to give up the busy north of Surrey and settle down in the gorgeous village of Shere.  I could keep pigs, wear wellies, have a shed, smoke cigars, write best-selling novels and who knows maybe bump into Kate Winslet filming ‘The Holiday 2’.  Apparently in Shere, it always snows on Christmas day and in the summer it only rains when everyone is asleep.  Just one small problem, I wasn’t the first to notice all this which made it a bit pricey.  Ok...I’ll just phone my elderly millionaire uncle.  Oh I forgot...I don’t have one.

Since then I’m afraid living in Shere has remained a dream and all the while the hands of time seem to turn faster and faster. As the great bard Rod Stewart once wrote, time is a thief when you’re undecided. 

I even toyed with the idea of moving away to the Cotswolds, where you get more for your money; so I really could keep pigs, wear wellies and, from what I understand, there is a much greater chance of actually bumping into Kate Winslet.  I drove up there one weekend with my family to see if it’s all it’s cracked up to be. And yes it’s beautiful.  But it was only when I started entertaining the idea of moving away that I realised just what I would miss right here on my doorstep. 

At the moment we can walk to the school that my son loves and which both Ofsted and I; think is outstanding.  I’ve got the nation’s most visited attraction, Hampton Court Palace just around the corner.  I’ve got the beautiful Richmond Park and Bushy Park a short car ride away, I’ve got The Rose theatre in Kingston, I’ve got the river and the boats and in the future my children will have the bright lights of London right on their door-step.  Not sure if they’d thank me for moving too far away from that in years to come.

So in fact I have more than I realise and ok I’d like a bigger garden or an extra bedroom but maybe there’s a valuable lesson to be learned here.  Too much of life can be missed while you’re chasing the next thing. And wasn’t it precisely that constant chasing that got us all into the financial predicament we currently find ourselves in? 

So maybe I’ll just enjoy what I have for the time being and...Miss Winslet if you’re reading this I’m afraid we aren’t going to be neighbours after all...sorry about that. 

Inspired by David Attenborough

Here we go again.  January, the monday morning of the year. I have only one word to say about January....Bleurgh!   I know we’re all supposed to be positive and eager to greet the challenges of a new year but if I’m honest I hate January. My New Year’s resolution doesn’t help much either, it’s the same every year and I’ve never managed to keep it.  Maybe ‘buy a flat in the south of France’ is a bit unrealistic.    

It’s not just the weather and the dark nights of January I struggle with. Finding things to occupy young children at this time of year can be especially difficult.  And then I had an epiphany.  I discovered the delight that is The Educational Museum in Haslemere. In the depths of winter this place is nothing short of a miracle.

My children of course, love visits to the Natural History Museum in London but sometimes the thought of getting them all packed up and organised for a train ride and then a tube ride is more than I can face, especially when everyone is coughing and sneezing.  So to discover a mini version of their favourite museum, only 20 minutes car ride away was a joy.        

It was only seven years after the natural history museum itself was opened that this ‘little brother version’ in Haslemere was set up.  In fact next year (2013) sees its 125 year anniversary, where they’ll have all sorts of exhibits and ways of celebrating.  For details about events and opening times look at the website www.haslemeremuseum.co.uk. 

For a small museum this place punches well above its weight.  It is full of fascinating things to engage inquisitive minds. There are 4 billion year old meteorites that date back to the beginning of the earth and loads of stuff about the solar system. 

My children love the animated film Madagascar so to see zebras, giraffes and lions displayed in there, really captures their imaginations; for them these exhibits come to life. Like all children they also love big stuff so the full size Siberian bear was an instant hit. And I’m convinced the giant Japanese spider crab is bigger than my first car. 

There’s a great little interactive dinosaur feature, where you put your hand into a hole in a wall and all of a sudden a dinosaur starts roaring and stomping it’s feet.  Even though my children have done this plenty of times, they never tire of it. And that’s the point.  Little museums like this are enormously important to young minds.  Only a few months ago I went to a similar museum in Leicestershire where the great Sir David Attenborough was giving a talk.  He first visited this museum over 75 years ago when he was a little boy and he still remembers that first visit to this day.  This was the place that inspired him to follow his chosen career path. So take your children to the Educational Museum in Haslemere, who knows it could be the making of them. 

Remembrance Sunday

The biggest day in November has to be the 11^th.  At 11am the nation stays silent for two minutes.  These two minutes are particularly poignant for me; I know what it’s like to worry about a family member in the armed services.  I remember very well the first time my young brother left for active duty in Afghanistan.  Waving to him as his car drove away, not knowing if that would be the last time I saw him, was tough.  A tour of duty is usually six months; it feels like six years.  Every time you hear a radio report or see something on TV about casualties, you tense up. 

His involvement with the army has meant I have more empathy with soldiers and their families and it’s that empathy that made my recent experience so moving.

A few weeks ago I visited somewhere I’d been meaning to visit for ages, the lovely National Trust house and garden, Polesden Lacey.  What a treat it is.  The views alone are enough to make it worth a visit.  I sat on one of the benches right up against the house with my wife, while the children were running around on the lawns. Through the window we could hear someone playing Debussy on the piano, it was perfect.

The lawns by the house are terraced with quite steep grass banks, which of course the children were enjoying to the full.  As I stared at the view, in a way that only parents of young children know how, I could see a small group of men and women doing some sort of exercise on the grass banks.  I was curious; what were they were up to? The banks are steep but they aren’t that challenging.

Before I had a chance to investigate further, my 4 year old son gave me the answer.  He was playing near the group and shouted at the top of his voice “Daddy why has that man got robot legs?” Oh the joys of parenting.  As usual he was saying it like it is; the man did indeed have robot legs.  How do you answer that?

I simply looked at the man, smiled and said to him “I feel a glittering career in the diplomatic corps awaits him” pointing to my son.  I think he could sense my anguish and luckily he laughed. 

I went over to the group and started chatting to them. Two of them had lost both legs and another had lost his legs and an arm, and yet here they were walking around trying to master what we take for granted. Simply walking up a steep slope; it was truly inspiring and humbling.

One sees servicemen with missing limbs on TV but to see them up close makes it more real. I'll certainly be attending the local ceremony at the war memorial in Thames Ditton this year, and if those guys I met at Polesden Lacey are reading this; I’ll be thinking of you.

London Symphony Orchestra; tested to the limit

If I were a concert pianist I’d definitely have floppy hair. It's crucial for adding drama. During the energetic parts, when you're really putting your back into it, the hair flies all over the place; which looks great. The brilliant young pianist Daniil Trifonov is clearly in agreement with me; his is perfect. I saw Trifonov recently playing Tchaikovsky with the London Symphony Orchestra at a brand new venue in Guildford. 

The hair, I could do; it’s the genius piano playing I might struggle with.  What I could do, however is the cymbals. Now there’s an instrument I could master to the standard required of the London Symphony Orchestra. 

 As I sat listening and watching this magnificent orchestra I couldn’t help noticing that the whole team were working hard, except one.  The conductor was flapping furiously, the violins were working up a sweat, the pianist nearly falling off his stool with activity and then there was the guy at the back with the cymbals.  Every now and again he’d drag himself off his stool, take the cymbals off their stand and bash them together on cue. Then he’d sit down again for another 10 minutes. I reckon I could do that.  

You could imagine him at dinner parities couldn’t you... “Oh you’re a musician with the London Symphony Orchestra, how marvellous” and then they’d ask the killer question “what instrument do you play?”.... Ah.

Despite my obsession with the cymbals guy the music was quite incredible, the pianist looked completely at one with his instrument almost not aware of his surroundings with his eyes rolled, just showing the whites.  Which was just as well because right at the part of a particularly dramatic crescendo all the lights in the concert hall went out plunging us all into total darkness. The musicians couldn’t see their music or the conductor and yet they didn’t miss a single note.

Was this supposed to happen? No.  I had to fight hard to resist the urge to shout out... “never mind a doctor, is there an electrician in the house?”  There was at least 5 agonising minutes of music in the dark before the first light appeared on stage. One of the lady violinists somehow produced a small clip on light to illuminate the music in front of her.  Quite where she was keeping it in that dress is a mystery. Then there was the unmistakeable scuffling sound of stage hands squeezing past musicians carrying whatever lights they could muster from backstage.

I don’t know how they managed it but they continued to play out the first movement until the interval.  At which point the audience roared with admiration for the sheer professionalism of the musicians.

Trifonov however then decided to do a ‘Cliff Richard’ and started up an impromptu recital to entertain the audience who were all still sitting in the dark.  If it had been me, I’d have chosen something easy, but no.  So again without music or light he played a brilliant rendition of Listz’s minute waltz.  Not a single soul left the auditorium to rush to the bar; they were all transfixed by this brilliant 20 year old pianist playing in the dark.

The gremlins however were not ready to give up just yet.  When finally we all shuffled into the bar for a drink, the lights went out in the whole building amid screams of panic.  Why do people scream when lights go out? Luckily, this being middle class Guildford there was no looting.

Up to this point the ‘management’ had been very quiet, so no-one knew what was going on.  Were we under attack from extremists? or had they simply not paid their electricity bill?

Eventually there was a quick explanation but the second half of the concert was carried out with the house lights on rather than the stage lights, which wasn’t quite as atmospheric.  At this point I was rather glad my tickets had been free press tickets.  Had I paid the £41 ticket cost I might have been a bit irked.

At the end of the concert the management however, pulled out their trump card to smooth any ruffled feathers and announced there was a complimentary drink in the bar for everyone after the performance. Nothing like a free drink hey, everyone has their price.