captain fishcake

Whoops!

2006-06-20T19:46:00.000+01:00

Hello. Yes, a rather unexpected entry but just to let you know of a glitch we've had.

Trying to be at the forefront of it all, you may have recently noticed an extra link on the right hand side which would have enabled you to subscribe to email alerts when this blog is updated. If only it had worked. Instead of notifying of updates to this blog, it alerted you to a completely different blog!

So, we've taken it down and replaced it with one that works! If you have subscribed using the old method, please can we suggest you click the unsubscribe link when you get an alert, and sign up using the new system!

Thanks, and sorry.

The Captain

Lost or not lost?

2006-06-18T16:39:00.000+01:00

This week from the Captain- directions, Deal or No Deal, the World Cup

At last I have solved one of society's great unanswered questions! Why don't men ask for directions? Now, as a man I have to be careful what I say here, but I admit that I don't like asking for directions, and to that end have a SatNav in the car. And, should I ever run out of fuel or break down in an area with no mobile phone reception, that will be me you drive past wearing the yellow jacket holding my SatNav as I walk along, having added my breakdown position as a favourite, for easy return navigation.

Recently I was in Tesco's having popped in during my lunch-hour to pick up a few essentials- you know, one of those shopping trips where you don't even pick up a basket as you're only getting three items. Now, I don't wear a uniform and was wearing shirt and trousers, but my shirt was white and Tesco employees tend to wear blue shirts. Also, I was wearing my ID badge, which was quite obviously not from Tesco and anyway, when did you last see a Tesco employee wear an ID badge with their photo on it? So, to most people I quite blatantly did not work at the shop. But twice I was stopped to ask for help. Now I'm often stopped by little old ladies who can't reach the bag of flour from the top shelf, and I don't mind that, but to be asked where certain items are is something different. The first gentleman was an old boy and accosted me in the light-bulb aisle. "Excuse me, could you tell me where the turnips are?". At first I thought Jeremy Beadle had come out of retirement and spent some money on a decent wardrobe and make-up department and was about to play along for the cameras when it dawned on me. Turnips? In the light-bulb aisle? I did want to reply with "Well obviously not down here, try the vegetable section" but responded with the usual "No sorry, I don't work here".

"...At first I thought Jeremy Beadle had come out of retirement and spent some money on a decent wardrobe and make-up department and was about to play along for the cameras when it dawned on me. Turnips? In the light-bulb aisle?..."

The second gentleman stopped me as I was heading towards the checkout. I always find that when heading to pay, by default your brain makes you go down an aisle you haven't been down, and not having pets, this is always the pet-food aisle. It's always the quiet one as well. Half-way down, a middle-aged man and his son were looking lost, darting glances around the shelves of dog food, cat food and hamster stuff. "Excuse me, my son really likes Pot Noodles and I know you usually keep them round here, could you tell me where you've put them?" he asked. If it were down to me, I would have put them all in a huge furnace along with the team at Golden Wonder who thought their adverts were funny but I'm not sure that would have helped, so again the standard reply.

And that's why men don't ask for directions. Because if they reach the point where they need to, it means they're hopelessly lost and to ask for directions would now be embarassing. Imagine driving in London and stopping to ask a policeman how to get to the Angel of the North- you'd be the topic of conversation for years to come. Similarly, you're so lost in the supermarket you're looking for turnips next to the 60W bulbs and Pot Noodles next to the worming tablets; if you ask for directions people are going to think you've lost the plot.

"...Imagine driving in London and stopping to ask a policeman how to get to the Angel of the North- you'd be the topic of conversation for years to come..."

It's the sort of programme you would have thought we'd invented. It has the typically stupid but catchy phrases, it has the jazzy upbeat music, it has people standing up looking strangely happy, and the set looks like it was made for a GCSE coursework project. And then, we would export it to the rest of the world and make squillions. But Deal or No Deal or DOND as I believe it is called in the trendy circles is not ours. It is owned by Endemol the Dutch company, who have brought us such shows as Big Brother, and has proved to be popular around the world. For those of you that haven't seen it, Noel Edmonds hosts the show where 22 people stand around a set that looks like a theme park runaway train is coming by any minute. Each person has a box which has been given to them at random, and each box has a number (1 to 22) on it. Each box has a cash value from 1p to £250,000. One person is selected at random who stands with Noel at "the pound table". Then they chose other boxes which are opened to reveal a cash value. That value is then taken out of play. Every so often, an old fashioned phone rings and Noel then chuckles to himself as he "talks" to "the banker". The person is then offered a sum of money to sell his box. Eventually, the person either deals and accepts the banker's offer, or keeps the value in their box having excluded all the other boxes from play. Think Bruce's Play Your Cards Right crossed with one of those auction tv channels.

The problem is it's very addictive. And yet I can't see why, because when you look at it like that, there's nothing to it. No questions to answer, no mathematical challenge to work out. Compared to this, the Krypton Factor looked like a 50 mile run with a 50kg pack on your back. And you got less if you won the Krypon Factor. Now, Noel would say that it is him that makes it brilliant and watchable. Erm, no. Noel still looks like he did all those years ago and seems to have kept the same garish shirts. The producers would say that it's the chance of winning £250,000 but given that nobody has yet won that amount, I doubt it's that. I think it's the music actually that makes it so addictive, because from the few episodes I've seen, it can't be anything else.

"...Compared to this, the Krypton Factor looked like a 50 mile run with a 50kg pack on your back. And you got less if you won the Krypon Factor..."

And so it continues, the World Cup. Apparently it's only been on a week and a bit but it seems much longer. Perhaps that's all the people who drive about sounding their horns and holding cans of Stella in the air. So I was happy to read Charlie Booker this week in The Guardian when he summed up my feelings on the wretched subject (here):

"And sometimes people look genuinely upset, and implore you to stop having a go at the World Cup on humanitarian grounds. "Leave it alone, it's just a bit of fun ... it's done nothing to you," they whine through their disgusting football-loving faces, as though the World Cup were a defenceless nine-year-old girl you're attacking with a hammer, instead of an overhyped moneyspinning festival of tedium in which the world's thickest millionaires kick a rubbish ball round a poxy field to the wonderment of an audience of foghorning cretins."

Now I know I've made my feelings clear on this subject before, especially those flags, but the man has a point and I couldn't have put it better myself. I hated playing football as a child, and rugby only slightly less. But at least there seemed to be some skill in rugby- in football you kick a ball around some grass for 90 minutes whilst every so often you fall over clutching your shin because somebody else "tackled" you. In fact, footballers are so injured that only the panacea-soaked sponge utilised by the team doctor/coach/scout-leader can cure such hideous injury, and that it does within seconds. Now okay, I know that Wayne Rooney broke his metatarsal, but most rugby players would break both legs and still try and play.

But that aside, why are footballers paid so well. Recently, a large proportion of the country exclaimed that GPs were evil because they all earned £250,000 per year. Well, that's rubbish because if they'd listened properly the report said that about half a dozen out of the however many there are earned that. Most earn much less than that. But the readers of The Daily Mail I'm sure promptly cut the article out of the paper to file next to the one about how licking frogs cures cancer. And the readers of The Sun probably didn't notice because there was a picture of some breasts on the next page. But nobody seems to care that some footballers get paid £100,000 per week. Thats £5 million per year. And what about David Beckham? £17 million approximately? Something like that I'm sure. But that's okay really because they do a really hard job and save people from dying every day whilst they kick a ball around a field. Now some people argue that they still have to pay tax on that and that the large tax bill they pay benefits us all. Okay, so David pays his tax bill of £8.5 million and we pay our tax bill of fractions of that, but at the end of the day it is still the same percentage of our income. Deal or no deal?

Beefburgers and Censuses

2006-06-11T11:50:00.000+01:00

This week from the Captain- traffic censuses, celebrity chefs and Chris Moyles

Over the last couple of weeks I've noticed many yellow-coated people lurking on the pavements or parked in cars helpfully littering the grass. At first you slow down thinking that it is the speed police waiting to catch you doing 31mph in a 30mph zone. But it's not them. No, it's worse. It's the traffic census people.

Okay, so their presence on the side of the road is annoying, sitting there with their clipboards marking down how many drivers have coats on and how many are picking their nose. And with which hand. These are just about acceptable though, especially compared to when they launch a full scale assault. On two days this week the traffic inexplicably slowed to a grinding halt on the roads approaching my work. Perhaps an accident? Perhaps an overturned lorry, like the ones you hear on the radio. Yes, there are the traffic police in their white and black caps. Yes, and the cones everywhere to divert the traffic away from the accident. And the four people standing in the road with their yellow jackets and baseball caps... What? In actual fact the cause of the traffic standstill was a traffic census, the sort where every 4 cars, a convoy of vehicles is ushered into a specially made coned-off section in the middle of the road to speak to the census people. Luckily on both occasions I had to turn off before the onslaught. But it did make me wonder. What do they ask? Do you have to stop? What if you're an ambulance? A colleague of mine told me they were asking if they felt it fair Chris Moyles had been voted out of Celebrity X-Factor. And what if you're running late- the last thing you need is some spotty teenager stopping you and asking where you're going and why you're going there- I'm going to work because that's where I work.

"...A colleague of mine told me they were asking if they felt it fair Chris Moyles had been voted out of Celebrity X-Factor..."

And what about these yellow-coated people? Who are they? Who do they work for? Do they get paid to sit in a car parked in a dangerous position hanging into a lane of traffic so they can count cars for a few hours? And why do they never get parking tickets? I remember once parking in a Pay-and-Display car park and in the few minutes between me turning the engine off, walking to the machine and coming back, a traffic warden was standing by my car feeling the radiator grill to see how long I'd parked there. I think the simple fact I was clutching the ticket in my hand placated him. It seems though all I need have done is printed off the word "Census" on a piece of paper, shoved it in the window of my car and parked in the middle of the roundabout, which is closer to the shops, and I'd get away with indefinite parking! Never mind disabled parking badge fraud, how long before you can buy a photocopied "Census" notice on eBay?

However, I did actually find out what they were asking. Or rather doing. As you drove up, they thrust a piece of paper through your window with questions like where you've come from, where you're going, why you're going there and how many people are in your vehicle. You then post it back to them and it gets filed in the bin. The reasoning behind it all? To create a "new traffic model" of the city. I've got a traffic model they can have for free. Don't put bloody traffic censuses in the road in the middle of rush hour!

"... I've got a traffic model they can have for free. Don't put bloody traffic censuses in the road in the middle of rush hour!..."

I'm not sure if you've seen the advert. It's the one with the annoying Jamie Oliver on it who, in his now-so-tedious watch-me-throw-things-in-the-bowl way, makes some beefburgers and then gives them away to people waiting to catch a train. Is it just me or is he one of the most annoying men in the world? The Naked Chef. Erm, well he's never appeared naked, and I don't think I'd ever want to see him so. Once upon a time, when I was little, there was a spattering of television chefs, who weren't even really celebrities. There was Delia, who appeared on the front of her book stroking an egg; there was Keith Floyd, who appeared on tv pickling his liver; and there was Madhur Jaffrey. Now there's Ainsley Harriot, Gordon Ramsay, Rick Stein, AWT, Gary Rhodes and the beautiful Nigella Lawson to name a few. And Jamie Pukka Oliver. Now, I can tolerate all of the other chefs, some I even like, especially Nigella. But Jamie Oliver is too much. Firstly he goes around on that stupid motorbike-cum-lawnmower. Then he goes around saying Pukka all the time (does he know that it means something else in Sri Lanka???). Jamie, everything you use is not first class or genuine so please stop saying it. And he also has this annoying habit of throwing food around, almost a cross between Ainsley Harriot and a four year old trying to make some cheese-flavoured stick at nursery to take home to Mummy and Daddy. I’m sure he’s a very nice man who worked very hard to tell us how bad our children’s diet is (because we didn’t know that before did we Jamie?) but I can’t stand him.

The one thing that really infuriates me about that advert though is the pukka beefburgers he makes. Yes, he proclaims as he throws something into a bowl whilst the camera spins around him, these are genuine pukka beefburgers. Oooh, we all coo, genuine beefburgers, pray tell us more Jamie. A bit more throwing of food, and Jamie tells us the ingredients. Nothing but beef, salt, pepper. And breadcrumbs. Breadcrumbs? What? Beef, salt, pepper, yes I can understand that- they all go in to burgers when I make them at home. But breadcrumbs? Why Jamie? Why?

"...A bit more throwing of food, and Jamie tells us the ingredients. Nothing but beef, salt, pepper. And breadcrumbs. Breadcrumbs? What?..."

One of the things that did come about from me being slightly delayed by the census was a slightly longer than normal listen to the radio. Now, I put my hand up and admit that I listen to on Chris Moyles on Radio 1 in the morning. I know it's aimed at "teenagers" and I am not a teenager, but he is actually quite funny, plays music that won't make my ears bleed and doesn't play stupid adverts that the local independent radio stations play every 3 minutes. And no, I won't listen to Terry Wogan because he's only funny when he commentates for Eurovision.

This week, Chris was pointing out that he was yet again in trouble for his radio show. This time, not for swearing but for being "homophobic" (see this link). It seems that certain people feel that some of his comments may convey a view that he doesn't like homosexual people, and according to the article, similar conclusions were drawn about other radio presenters at the station. And where did this stem from? Apparently he said a ringtone was "gay" on air. Oh. I remember when I was younger the time when "gay" started to be used by teenagers to mean "stupid" or "rubbish". It's hardly as if Chris Moyles had spearheaded a campaign to deport all non-heterosexual people from the country. I can't imagine the happy people of the world started expressing how injust it was when the word "gay" went from meaning "happy" to "homosexual". Anyway, as Chris Moyles has already said that his lawyers are involved, let's leave it at that. But in case the meaning of words might change in future, may I say now that any words I've used in this blog should not be taken to mean anything but the meaning I mean them to mean.

Peas and sand

2006-06-04T17:00:00.000+01:00

This week from the Captain- supermarket checkouts, frozen food adverts, beaches and pre-World Cup problems

This week I was in Sainsburys getting a few tasty morsels for Mrs Fishcake and myself to eat when I saw some lovely garden peas still in their pods. So I filled a plastic bag with them and duely went to pay. As the young lad serving me got to this plastic bag, obviously confused by the lack of barcode, print or hermetic sealing, he turned to me and said, "Oh. Er, beansprouts?" Bless. Apparently in the eight months he had worked there, "no-one has given me these before". Oh, sorry, I'll try harder next time to buy the "normal" food in life, like Pot Noodle's and Coca-Cola.

"...I'll try harder next time to buy the "normal" food in life, like Pot Noodle's and Coca-Cola..."

But I don't really blame the 18 year old youth. Yes, as British Summertime settles in, we can perhaps become a little less reliant on fruit and vegetables that have been flown 9 million miles to get to us, and we may start seeing good old-fashioned British vegetables. Like peas. As I said though I don't blame him for not knowing what peas were because he's probably grown up thinking of peas as those things that come in huge bags that sit in the freezer having been harvested from a pea tree. And for that reason I blame the frozen food companies. Why? Well look at the recent adverts from Birdseye. Yes, they are very clever, especially the billboards with a lump of ice and a fish/vegetable/meal half-in and half-out, the frozen part looking fresh and the other part looking like something a school might have served pre-Jamie-Oliverisation.

I do see what they're trying to say. The frozen food industry has become linked with an idea of fast, convenience and therefore poor-nutrition processed food and, something I'm sure Birdseye wouldn't argue with, a lot of it is still. But not all frozen food is unhealthy and processed and certainly some will have a higher nutritional content than certain "fresh" foods you can buy (a lot of supermarket chilled ready-meals aren't fantastic in the nutritional stakes). But to claim that their frozen vegetables have more vitamins than fresh vegetables, especially those that you either grow yourself or come from a grocer/market is complete fantasy. And that advert with the man (Richard Johnson, Journalist) dressed in a polo neck white wooly jumper and a far-too-small wax jacket terrorising a fishing community. In case you haven't seen it, said wooly jumper and wax jacket man who's several times bigger and taller than everyone else, goes round this small fishing village scaring old women into deciding which is the fresh fish and which isn't. He does this by holding two fish in her face. When she gets it wrong, he almost-manically proclaims her ignorance before terrorising a small child (well not quite, but you could imagine it happening). Then he appears on a fishing boat, to show us plebs where fish come from, and the advert culminates in him telling us how fresh this frozen fish is because it's put in to suspended animation as soon as it's plucked from the sea, waking up when it reaches our plate. Now I could believe this if they were talking about fillets of salmon, cod, sole etc but when the advert ends with an image of a box of one of their many breadcrumbed fish bits, you can't tell me that in the middle of the sea, the fishermen clean, debone and prepare the fish, breadcrumb and box and then fast freeze them. I don't think so. And nor does Scotland nor its parliament. It seems that there are motions to get one of the adverts banned (here and here). Ooops.

"...then he appears on a fishing boat, to show us plebs where fish come from..."

Briefly going back to peas though, if you've never shelled peas I'd thoroughly recommend it. It's therapeutic in its own little way. If you have though, or next time you do, look at the peas after you've shelled them. Some have little bobbles on top where they are attached to the pod. How do the pea-shelling machines operated by the manufacturers get those little bobbles off???

Had Sainsburys had those self-serve checkouts in place the above beansprout-pea mistake may never have occurred. (I note our Tesco has not got them yet but I believe this is because the store's computer is too busy working out who has stayed more than 5 minutes in the car-park). Now these come in two guises that I know of. The first, shown above, has a scanner and payment bit as well as a conveyor belt. I haven't seen any of these round here. The second, and more common, is the same as the above but instead of the conveyor belt, underneath the payment bit is a bagging area. Now, I like these machines for the simple fact they are usually quite quick and mean you can go at your own pace (which, in a rush, is quick). However they are designed for people with a basket (hence the basket shelf) who aren't going to pay in coppers or with a cheque or hand over fourteen coupons, thirteen of which aren't accepted. Despite their appearances, even the conveyor belt tills are designed for small amounts of shopping, unless you have taken someone with you, otherwise you end up having paid and trying to pack whilst the next person's purchases come down at you. So why do people with trolleys of food try and use them? Or people who don't know how to operate an electric toothbrush? The machines are not the simplest. They don't work on trust that you will honestly scan every item. No they work on weight- you scan an item, put it in a bag/on the conveyor belt, a hidden scale weighs it and works out that the pack of value crisps you scanned cannot possibly weigh the same as the £500 plasma tv you've put on the conveyor belt. So, why do people stand there are try and scan one item then scan another whilst still holding the first item? I'm sure no checkout assistant who has ever served them has done that. Or the people who scan a restricted item, say a bottle of wine, and when the machine squeals that authorisation is needed, they panic, press all the buttons on screen, proclaim "it's crashed" and run away. Come on, please leave the machines alone so busy and grumpy people like me can use them. Even if you're eight year old child pleads with you that it looks like fun, I beg you, they are not fun. Their sole purpose is to allow me to spend as little time in store as possible.

"...you scan an item, put it in a bag/on
the conveyor belt, a hidden scale weighs it and
works out that the pack of value crisps you scanned
cannot possibly weigh the same as the
£500 plasma tv you've put on the conveyor belt..."

Now that the summer has arrived (fingers crossed) I plan to spend more time sitting on the beach, reading and watching the world go by. Something I can never fathom about our beaches though is what makes them so different and un-holiday-like when compared to the beaches abroad. I really don't know. I don't think it's the temperature, because I have to say it's been lovely weather here today. I don't think it's the people, because let's face it there's enough Brits littering the beaches of shores near and far. Let's compare the two, each has sand, sea and sun. Each has overweight, sizzling, pasty people feeding their malignant melanomas more ultraviolet light. Each has funny coloured parasols and windbreaks. Each has screaming children making sand castles. At first I thought it was the lack of palm trees and sea-front high-rise hotels. But today I think I've found the answer. Even though on the foreign beaches you are plagued by people trying to flog you pretzels, aloe vera in gin bottles and coconuts, nowhere I've ever been are you plagued by 20 year old boys playing football. Now, anyone that knows me will start saying that this is just my anti-football argument again, but come on, when you're sitting on the beach enjoying the sun and a good book, why wouldn't a group of unwashed, body-odour-releasing yobs whose vocabulary consists of "finish it", "f*ck yeah", "beautiful" and "ooooooohhhhhhhh" annoy you. They weren't even having a good game because "that bit bounces the ball funny". So why didn't they go somewhere else then? I may not like football, but I can say I am looking forward to the World Cup, and I now honestly hope England make it to the final. Because then for those football-filled weeks, the beach might be empty while the supporters fill the local pubs!

Patriotism, flags and flu

2006-05-28T15:40:00.000+01:00

This week from the Captain- England flags on cars, what it is to be English, Jade Goody, Chris Ryan and pandemic flu

This week, I was emailed one of those spoof BBC News website stories, where they have been edited in a clever way to get a joke across.

click for larger version

Which brings me on to the topic of patriotism, or rather the lack of it. As I'm sure everyone will have noticed, a large number of cars have now been adorned with St George's Crosses, or "Engerland flegs" as I heard one person refer to them as in a shop. And I'm sure it's not just me who finds them unbelievably annoying. And here's why. If you argue that the flags are annoying, you are automatically classed as being un-patriotic. If you have the flag/s on your car, you are automatically patriotic. But that's wrong. If the flag-bearers were so patriotic, why are they only flying them around the time of the World Cup? Why don't they fly them on St George's Day, or all-year round? Now if the argument was they were flying the flags in support of the England football team, I could understand, almost accept, that. I would still think they were annoying, but not as annoying as I currently do.

"... a large number of cars have now been adorned with St George's Crosses, or 'Engerland flegs' as I heard one person refer to them as in a shop..."

Unfortunately, it's a little more complicated than that though. And the problem stems from football and the St George's Cross. Yes, thanks to the ASBO-awarded football yobs, the St George's Cross has now become inextricably linked with the football hooligan and all that goes with it- drinking, rioting, fighting, swearing, vomiting and deportation. How? Well, look at the picture above. Need I say more. Yes, a young gentleman, for want of a better word, without his shirt, wearing a self-made bandana, ready for a fight, and what does he hold in his hand as his army's standard? And this image has now become stuck in today's culture. Think about England in general, when did you last see the St George's Cross in that form advertising something proudly? Erm, never. Instead, and perhaps hiding under the banner of Great British solidarity, everyone uses the Union Jack. Look at Virgin Atlantic and British Airways.

Now don't get me wrong, I don't have a problem with patriotism. If the Governement was to turn around tomorrow and pass a Patriotism Act I wouldn't be unhappy. A bit more English solidarity might be nice. On a very materialistic and selfish level, we'd all get an extra day's holiday on St George's Day. In the grander, greater-good scheme of things, we might all take a little more care of our country and how it's run and represented. It seems a shame that out of the five countries in the British Isles, England is the least patriotic. In Ireland and Northern Ireland, St Patrick's Day is widely celebrated. In Wales, St David's Day again has its populus celebrating. In Scotland, St Andrew's Day, Scotland looks back on its proud heritage and roots. I doubt half of the English population could tell you when St George's Day is, and even less anything about George himself. Even America, from where we get most of our problems, is patriotic, if a little too patriotic. Think of all the good things in England- London with its shopping, museums, attractions and history; the South West with its beautiful beaches, countryside and gorgeous weather; the Midlands with its industrial history, literary background and pretty hills; the North with it's unspoilt ragged coastlines, vast, clean and open green countryside; I could go on. However, for the plan to work, I feel we might need to scrap the old St George's Cross and replace it with a new and improved version, perhaps a ribbon-like swish like when British Airways revamped their image?

"...I doubt half of the English population could tell you when St George's Day is, and even less anything about George himself..."

I rather fear that when the rest of the World looks at England, aswell as seeing the above football supporter, it also sees someone like Jade Goody, although with perhaps a bit more Lizzy D. I had the misfortune to be subjected to her twice this week. Once on Radio 1 on Jo Whiley's show and then again on Channel 4 on Saturday morning. And both times, Jade Goody was flogging her new fragrance, Simple Jade or something like that. What was interesting, apart from Jade looking like she'd fallen into a large vat of varnish, was her description of her new perfume on both shows. It was exactly the same. And I think I know why. On Jo Whiley's show, Jade was asked to smell and identify some smells that had been made to recreate common odours in life. There was a thunderstorm, Playdough, gin and tonic, and dirt. She started off okay, identifying thunderstorm as grass. Okay, I can understand that. Then it all went wrong. For Playdough, Jade thought it might be food, perhaps cherries (?), because "it made me cough". For gin and tonic, her initial reaction was "that smells of grass actually" before changing her mind to "musk" when told to think of old women. Obviously disturbed, Jade proceeded to tell all the listeners, "no that's not nice, you don't want to be buying gin an' tonik". And it was all summed up when she was smelling the dirt smell. What might she say? Mud? Stale water? No, "air freshner". Air freshener? What? Note to self, never go round to Jade Goody's house. She doesn't use Glade, she just smears her walls with mud and gravel. So I can understand why the company responsible for Jade's fragrance probably sat her down and said "Jade, when they ask you what your fragrance smells like, just say..." because otherwise she probably would have said radiators and toilet paper. So how did she describe her new perfume? "A little bit sweet and endearing, a bit like myself actually!". Jade, if it was anything like you, it would probably smell like a cross between an alcopop and the gent's toilets at your local pub- common and gets right up your nose.

"...I can understand why the company responsible for Jade's fragrance probably sat her down and said 'Jade, when they ask you what your fragrance smells like, just say...' because otherwise she probably would have said radiators and toilet paper..."

In the news this week was the story about a cluster of human bird flu cases in Sumatra, Indonesia (here). Seven people from the same family have all died from the same virus but the thing confusing WHO officials is that there seems to be no avian cases in the same area. This coincided with a Sky Three programme on this week, Chris Ryan's Terror Alert: Killer Flu. In this, Chris Ryan tells us how to survive anything that may happen in a pandemic flu outbreak. Most of it involved driving fast, being "nobody's friend" and shouting. During the show, Chris himself was removed to a quarantine centre by the army and health officials, where he proceeded to sulk like a bear with a sore head. On his eventual release, he kicked the door open, almost thumped a health official and got in to his shiny Land Rover that happened to be in the compound's car-park. He then proceeded to tear around the countryside advising us that if we were in his situation to move to somewhere as isolated as possible, only to be turned back by a vigilante from Emmerdale pointing a shotgun. And so, our Chris turned around and drove to the middle of nowhere and set up camp, until the whole thing finished. According to a doctor friend of the Fishcakes, who has an interest in pandemic flu, it is estimated that a pandemic would last at least 3 to 5 months. Chris, I hope you've got a lot of food in that cave of yours.

"...He then proceeded to tear around the countryside advising us that if we were in his situation to move to somewhere as isolated as possible, only to be turned back by a vigilante from Emmerdale pointing a shotgun..."

Speaking to our doctor friend is interesting though. There's so much information out there, and evidently it seems most of it is wrong. According to the doctor, all flu viruses are actually "bird flu" in that birds are the original hosts of the virus and we, unfortunately, are also prone to getting it. Usually we get over it with little more than a cough, aching joints and a temperature, and feel generally rough. However, if the birds have managed to breed a new virus that we have never experienced before, and this then successfully mutates with a human breed of flu, there's a risk of a virus being formed which has the ability to spread amongst humans but with no human resistance in the population. And this is when pandemics occur. Most of us think these pandemics are relatively new. Not so, according to the doctor. Pandemics have been around for hundreds of years with the first recorded in the 1500s. And although there will most probably be an increased number of deaths, we have to remember that each year people die from flu. The largest pandemic was that of 1918-1919 when at least 21 million people died. However, in the 85 years or so since then, many more than 21 million people have died from "normal" flu. Perhaps the most interesting thing the doctor told us though related to the antiviral drug, Tamiflu. This is the drug that has been stockpiled by governments and health organisations worldwide. This is the drug that sells (illegally) for £100 a packed on the internet (and how can you therefore guarantee that it is really the drug and not some fake product). This is the drug, however, that has been shown to reduce the symptoms of flu by no more than just under a day. This is the drug, that although Roche have never sold it as such, is wrongly believed by many to be a miracle cure- it's not. It can no more cure flu than I can. This is the drug that might decrease the need for antibiotics later on, and also be admitted to hospital, and so it's not to be ignored, but is not the answer. Think of it as a stop-gap until the answer- a vaccine, and that will take a year or so to produce after the initial outbreak. So, what did our doctor friend say to summarise it all. "Unless you're going to be moody and grumpy like Chris Ryan and can survive in a cave on a hill for a few months, don't panic and try and keep as healthy as you can- it's only flu". Sounds sensible.

Europe takes over the World

2006-05-20T23:25:00.000+01:00

Today from the Captain- the Eurovision Song Contest

Oh dear. Eurovision again. I never feel ready for Eurovision. It always seems to creep up on me. And every May I think, "was it really on in May last year?". Somehow I miss the early-warning signs that are played in the run-up, hosted by Terry Wogan as he showcases another collection of acts trying to persuade the public that they are the voice of Britain. And I can only assume that this year, Terry's show must only have had one act, or that every other act sang some sexist or racist song, as I can't really imagine that the song representing us, sung and written by Daz, was the best one. Certainly the European judges didn't think so.

I think one of the only reasons we watch Eurovision must be the commentaries from Terry Wogan and Ken Bruce. They both have a very dry sense of humour and without them I can't imagine how you would ever get through the show without gnawing off your own hand just to try and numb the blinding pain of the show's boredom. But I was close to biting off both hands had I not required them to hide my eyes behind when our Eurovision entry came on. At first I thought our television had switched itself on to a bizarre version of Eastenders as Daz looked a little like Billy Mitchell. But then I wondered why he was in an Ali G style tracksuit top? Surrounded by dancers dressed as schoolgirls. Yes, Little Mo and Honey were nowhere to be seen. Yes, it certainly was a terrible song. It was an interesting take on British society though, and a very accurate one at that. Firstly the sirens that played as a backing-track throughout the song. Sounds like any Friday night in any city in Britain. Secondly, a middle-aged guy looking back on his school years and blaming his teacher's for all that went wrong, all whilst dressed as Ali G. Thirdly, the less-than-angelic chanting of the backing singers which very much reminded me of a football stadium crowd. I was waiting to see if Daz could fit the word ASBO in, but I fear he couldn't easily find anything to rhyme with it. Perhaps more concerningly is the write up from the official Eurovision website (here):

"Another contestant not short of confidence is Daz Sampson of the United Kingdom who describes himself as “the people’s champion”. But there’s no sign of him at the start of the song, which is being sung by five girls in cute school uniform, sitting at desks in a classroom. It’s only after the chorus that Daz appears from behind a blackboard, dressed in a bright yellow jacket and rapping about the gulf between teachers and teenagers. A very catchy tune!"

The people's champion? What? A catchy tune? Sorry? Perhaps after all my television had switched over to Eastenders.

"...I was waiting to see if Daz could fit the word
ASBO in, but I fear he couldn't easily find anything to rhyme with it..."

However, I do agree that Finland's entry, Lordi, was the right one to win. Okay, so hard rock performed by a group of people dressed up to look like some Star Trek extras perhaps may not be the archetypal winner of Eurovision but in the name of competition they were the best and most entertaining. Their entry Hard Rock, Hallelujah was certainly interesting, and despite the boo's and the surrounding publicity it was the best entry. Well it had to be better than that classic We Are the Winners of Eurovision entered by Lithuania. To see a group of men in suits on stage playing to the camera in many different ways whilst singing how they were the winners, all in vaguely stereotyped European accents, reminded me of an episode of Eurotrash. And so finishes another year of European harmony (in both senses of the word) but I'm sure that it won't feel like a year before it's back.

Manners- what do they cost?

2006-05-19T22:54:00.000+01:00

Today from the Captain- supermarket manners, Tesco's car parking

I often think that I am getting old before my time. Perhaps it's the fact I like to talk to myself every so often, or maybe it's because I get annoyed so easily now. Yes, I am a grumpy old man. But not in the "when I was a lad" way. Just a general, easily-annoyed way. The problem is with, all the things that annoy you tend to happen when you're on your own and so you end up muttering your annoyances under your breath. Then, you recount endless tales of annoyances at home or in the pub. And then you really are a grumpy old man. I'm sure that the one thing that most grumpy old men moan about the most though is probably manners. Or lack of. And so if you're sitting comfortably, I shall begin.

A current bete-noir of mine has to be supermarkets. Not in the sense that their ever-continuing growth and spread, almost in a magical Harry Potter type way, has lead to the downfall of the little shops down the high street, but more in the way that everyone seems to be incredibly unhappy and selfish in them. It's almost as if normal, sensible people who would normally say hello, thankyou and happily give way at a junction, get injected with miserable Scrooge serum as soon as they enter the hallowed car-park of the supermarket. People scowl at each other if they happen to leave their shopping trolley in front of the lettuce whilst they cross the aisle to get a cucumber almost as if they had pushed a burning effigy of their mother into the store and proceeded to run naked around it whilst chanting incantations and smearing themselves in their own urine. Meanwhile, others stomp and throw small wobblies at anyone who dare stand for more than 3 seconds whilst chosing which yoghurt to buy. And I wouldn't dare go to the reduced section unless you're in riot gear. The psychology of a yellow sticker with a potential bargain price on it sends eveyone mad. Why? When would anybody in their right mind buy 14 individual sausage rolls, 3 packs of Dairylea and a pot of sandwich filler, or vaguley think that it was a good buy? Probably never, but as soon as they are collated into the chilled reduced section and adorned with "Buy me now I'm cheap" yellow stickers, everyone fights for the bargain selection of food. And I can put my hand up and say I used to be one of those people who would happily buy a ready-made corned-beef, chicken, sweetcorn, potato and gerkin hash just because it was half price. One day I learnt my lesson after some reduced thai chicken promptly reappeared soon after eating. Never again.

"...I used to be one of those people who would happily
buy a ready-made corned-beef, chicken, sweetcorn, potato and gerkin hash just because it was half price..."

Things are the same at the checkouts. After walking the entire length of the store to try and work out which is the shortest queue and which checkout assistant might smile, you join a queue to unload everything you so carefully packed in your trolley so it can be given to you to put back in your trolley. It's an incredibly daft system and I wonder why we haven't embraced the scan-as-you-shop style shopping seen in some supermarkets. It would be a bit like driving on the M25 and getting to the Dartford Tunnel. You approach and try and find the shortest queue at the toll booth, the one that hasn't got a broken down lorry blocking the toll, and then sit and wait. But before you get to the toll booth, everyone gets out the car with all that they can carry, drive through and pay, and then all get back in the other side. Daft. Imagine if supermarket checkouts were like tolls though- you'd arrive at the store and choose a special lidded-trolley, either small, medium, large or American. You can then go around the store and put as much of whatever you like in the trolley so long as you can shut the lid on it. You then get to the checkout where you pay a tarrif according to the size of your trolley. £10 for a small one, £55 for a medium, £100 for a large, £180 for an American. Easy. You could even have checkouts where you get to throw your money at a wall-mounted metal bin, like at the tolls. At least it would be fun. And it would stop the practice of the seflish so-and-so's who won't put the divider down behind their shopping on the conveyor belt. They stand there, watch you come up to the checkout, look smuggly at the nearest plastic divider helpfully blocked from your reach by their 56 multipack of artificially flavoured and coloured crisps, and wait. You end up reaching over their shopping in the stance of a ballerina to reach for it. I sometimes think about going shopping and getting really expensive things, like several bottles of champagne, a pack of toasted yam's cheese on a bed of saffron rice wrapped in gold leaf and a large pack of incontinence pads and purposely putting them at the end of their shopping and then putting the divider behind it. And then walking away.

"...you end up reaching over their shopping in the stance of a ballerina to reach for it..."

However, I fear that the shoppers aren't to blame. Nor are the armies of teenagers that now seem to patrol the supermarkets in their uniforms "stacking shelves". No, I blame the supermarkets. Tesco has decided that they would listen to their customers who complained that they couldn't find somewhere to park their cars. "I see," said Mr Tesco. "We should make sure that people can find a space in our car parks," he mused. But rather than build a car park with a better design, or ask the car valet company if they could possibly use slightly less than half the car park for their car cleaning, they decided to fine people using state-of-the-art cameras that read your number plate as you enter and leave the store. If you park there for longer than the alotted time, they will get your details from the DVLA and send you a £70 fine for the trouble. I can't wait for Christmas, when you go in to pick up a pint of milk (because your milkman has been made redundant and your local corner shop is now a mobile phone shop) and it takes you 5 hours to pay.

Saying that, I was in Tesco recently and having dispensed with having a basket so I didn't succumb to filling it up with things I didn't need, I ended up at the checkout with an armful of things. Obviously, there were only about 4 checkouts open, probably because the staff have to run out and drive their cars out of the car park and back in every two hours to avoid a fine, and so I resigned myself to standing in a queue. But, the lady in front very kindly waved me through to put my few items down before her trolley-full. How lovely. And to show my appreciation, I even put the plastic divider down behind my shopping.

Life as a stage

2006-05-18T22:00:00.000+01:00

Today from the Captain- Big Brother 7, Derren Brown

So Big Brother 7 has begun. I think that the prospect of losing thirteen weeks of your life and a gorgeous summer on the beach has swayed us from watching it though. Well, at least that's the plan. As always happens, I wouldn't be surprised if we get sucked in to watching the incessant banal lives of a group of people who have been thrown together for our entertainment and pleasure.

Saying that, we did watch the opening show. It was interesting to watch the brief collection of clips from the auditions of those deemed too ordinary to star in this series. Especially the long-haired guy who looked like he needed a bath whose audition piece was to shout "sausage". Hmmm. I wonder why he didn't get chosen. What can you say though about it all? The house is smaller so we're told. To me it looks like the inside of a strangely-decorated DFS showroom. Especially with that gold leather diary room chair. I was waiting for the unhelpful store assistant to come and ask the oh-so-pregnant (and therefore unable to get off the double water bed without losing her dignity) Davina if she needed any help.

So let's run through the contestants. First in was Bonnie, a 20 year old care worker. Unfortunately that's all I can really tell you because I couldn't really understand a word she was saying. There was something about getting naked though so I'm sure all the 16 year old boys will be sitting, trousers-down around the tv late at night playing... Next was Pete "Awight", the pop singer with Tourette's now infamous thanks to the tabloids. Again I couldn't really understand what he said although he did repeatedly say the word that the aforementioned 16 year olds may be doing whilst watching Bonnie get naked. (Yes, the one that rhymes with "bank".) It did rather seem he may have a little more than Tourette's; perhaps a class A drug problem? Whatever will George, contestant number 3 think? Yes, the posh boy who has an "allowance which my parents have worked for". Why did he look like a cross between Ronan Keating, Eminem and Brad Pitt then? It's a shame his self-confessed fear is of "transvestites and hyper-gay men"- he does know he's going on Big Brother doesn't he? Where he will meet people like the next contestant, Shabaz, who sounded like Lorraine Kelly but dressed like a golfing lumberjack carrying a handbag. His catchphrase, "oh my god, who are you?" was shrieked every time someone entered the house before he stroked a different part of their body.

Then came Leah who's had more plastic surgery than most of Hollywood. She doesn't consider herself "a freak" but more "abnormal". Which is always nice to know. She reminds me of the character on the bizarre BBC3 show Tittybangbang whose catchphrase is "it's only a little bit of seepage" everytime her overly-large breast implants leak. Not like the natural 23 year old Imogen, a bar hostess and "former beauty queen" from Wales who promises to "make all the guys fancy me". Yes, the same above 16 year old boys perhaps. Or even the Vernon Kay lookalike Mikey. He promises to be a huge hit with the ladies with his oh-so-mildly sexist views. However he doesn't like "being around ugly people". Yes, if you ever wondered what Vernon Kay would be like if he'd been infused with essence of Ali G, Mikey's your man.

"...she doesn't consider herself 'a freak' but more 'abnormal'..."

For all of you who thought that brains and brawn were completely immiscible, meet Dawn, 38, who is an Exercise Scientist. I don't really know what that involves but it sounds thrilling. Unfortunately, Dawn's "never been in love" and perhaps the house isn't going to be the place for this, especially not with Mikey. Apparently Bob Geldof and Mother Theresa are "nice people" leaving the rest of us mere mortals to fall into the obvious and vacant category of "bastards". That we may be, but at least we can open doors that have 'Push' marked on them. Funnily, you push them. Not that the next contestant, Glyn had that problem. Glyn's an all-rounder, a lifeguard, the head boy at school, and generally quite weedy. He feels he expresses himself better naked, hence his Hoff-style lifeguard outfit on entering the house. Yes, if the Hoff was a Polish-sounding Welsh boy this would be him.

Next came Richard, a Canadian sexual terrorist and 23 year old waiter with a penchant for activities that I'm sure are illegal. Richard took great pleasure in telling us all "I'd seduce a corpse". So with him dressed as a cowboy and the lumberjack, we're well on the way to recreating The Village People. I noticed that Shabaz almost died when Richard walked in and Pete seemed to join in for fun. What happened next we'll never know as Grace, a 20 dance teacher, self-cofessed "Sloane Ranger" came on screen. Posh perhaps. Rich certainly. Her mummy bought her a £340,000 flat in Notting Hill. However, this may have it's downside for the 16 year old boys as she's avowed that she will not be getting her "tits out" and "would never get caught having sex with anyone". But before all the boys start to cry, there is a promise of doing the splits, both ways. Both ways? Sound painful.

So bringing up the final entrants was Lisa who is a Polo- both "original" and "mint". An upholsterer by trade she most certainly is "definitely different". I fear my hearing is going because all I could really make out from her high-speed verbal gambit was "s'alright, s'alright but I have a really good crap". Isn't is amazing how a 4 foot 5 inch woman can make so much noise. I suppose she's a bit like a cylinder vacuum cleaner in that respect- small and noisy. Sezer (pronounced Caesar) followed. Think of Syed from The Apprentice but not as clean-shaven or well-dressed. In fact he looked like he could be either a pimp carying a handbag or someone rudely removed from a line-dancing competition. Oh, and he likes to shave his bottom. Which might impress the last contestant, Nikki. Her main ambition is "to marry a premiership footballer". Which is good for her as she feels she's "not designed to be a pauper". Who is? I must check with the patent office to find some blueprints for the pauper design. She admits she han't "had a good shag in about 6 months" and perversely now wants a boyfriend. And she's yet another one who likes to take her clothes off, in this case to show off her bottom which she's been told is "the best bum ever". Using her own words "I guess I'm just special". You said it!

"...I suppose she's a bit like a cylinder vacuum cleaner in that respect- small and noisy..."

It's true what they say, you don't know what you've got until it's gone. Thursday nights used to be our chance to catch up on the latest episode of Derren Brown: Mind Control which for some still unexplained reason we always ended up missing on Sunday. Ever since he first came on to Channel 4 we have been fascinated by his shows. It's not often that you get to see some unsuspecting youth who enjoys feeding money into a box in return for pretending to shoot some zombies actually get his dream come true. Okay, so the poor lad looked like he was going to have a stroke from sheer fear when he awoke in a mocked-up room of the game with actors pretending to be zombies, but then some people might argue don't start what you can't finish. And when he woke up again "normally" he thought it was the best thing he'd ever played. The Heist, in which Derren Brown managed to persuade apparently normal people to carry out an impromptu armed robbery, was again a masterpiece. After the initial wonder at how well it worked (3 out of the 4 final people actually went through with holding up the security guard), you were left feeling sorry and somewhat concerned for them. But actually, again they all said how brilliant and right it felt. How much of a release and a buzz. So perhaps Derren Brown should be thought of as a modern-day Jimmy Saville for adults, save for the Jim'll Fix It badge, cigar and jingle-jangle jewellery.

Mrs Fishcake and I had the pleasure of seeing Derren Brown live at the Mayflower Theatre, Southampton on his recent tour Something Wicked This Way Comes. Not wanting to ruin it for anyone who either sees perhaps a forthcoming re-run or invents a time-machine, and also because he asked so nicely, I shalln't give you a list of everything he did. Suffice to say though, it was brilliant. Having had a couple of slightly disturbing dreams in the weeks preceding the show which mainly involved unwittingly being brainwashed en masse, it all went very well and without too much cult-style mind control. Perhaps he could fix it for me to get rid of that Big Brother house...

"...perhaps he could fix it for me to get rid of that Big Brother house..."

Hello Big Brother, Goodbye The Apprentice

2006-05-17T19:37:00.000+01:00

Hello from the Captain! Today we talk about the approaching Big Brother, the finishing Apprentice and a little bit about exporting to the USA

It was probably inevitable really that one day I would have to join the world of blogging. The problem is, I'm not really sure why. It's not like I was ever particularly very successful at keeping a paper diary, even during those diary-embracing adolescent years. So why I suddenly feel compelled to put virtual pen to virtual paper in an online diary is still a great mystery to me. Perhaps the same problem of not keeping my thoughts and comments up to date will resurface. I'm not really sure.

This week sees the start of that phenomenon again. Yes, Big Brother is back on television. Having been on so many times now, I lose track of what number we're on- it must be at least 28 by now. However, as happens every year, it's not just during the show that we are subject to it. Already we have had the adverts on Channel 4 involving a caravan, a sportscar and an E4-branded helicopter- what these have to do with 13 weeks of watching people in a house on what equates to HD-CCTV I don't know. As if that wasn't enough, you could win a ticket to be in the house- you only have to eat lots of a certain brand of chocolate in the hope of winning a golden ticket, a la Willy Wonka. So much for endorsing the NHS's attack on obesity. That probably doesn't matter though because, following in the footsteps of new "celebrity" Chantelle and her dramatic rise from non-celebrity to celebrity on the last Celebrity Big Brother, the winner will no doubt be the now-overweight, chocolate-guzzling Joe/Joanna Public who can then go on to star on some American-style win-some-plastic-surgery tv show and lose all that chocolate-gained weight. I do admire the timing though for this series. As Davina McCall said in her interview with Chris Moyles the series has been brought forward. Is this to coincide with GCSEs and A-levels? Is this a government ploy to have results actually get worse one year so they can turn around and prove that their exams aren't getting easier? And a 13-week show means by the time it's finished it will almost be back to school time thereby minimising the amount of time the kids will spend on the street clocking up ASBO points whilst tormenting small animals and beating up elderly women because they will be too busy watching 24 hour back-to-back footage of someone urinating or lying on a sunlounger. More proof for the government that their tough policy on anti-social behaviour is working...

"...the winner will no doubt be the now-overweight, chocolate guzzling Joe/Joanna Public who can then go on to star on some American-style win-some-plastic-surgery tv show and lose all that chocolate-gained weight..."

However, the obsession with fly-on-the-wall television continues and in a bizarre way, Big Brother is something to be proud of. Yes, along with Who Wants to be a Millionaire, Big Brother is something we have managed to export to America. The Apprentice, however, is therefore similar to obesity in the sense that we have imported it from America. However, unlike obesity, it's remarkably watchable. The Guardian's Charlie Booker summed the last series up very well (here). Well, I personally am glad that Michelle won as I don't think I could have tolerated watching The Badger self-celebrate her victory because "I am your Apprentice". I was waiting for Ruth to swish her hair in a slow-motion camera shot and whisper "because I'm worth it" but alas that never happened. My only hope is that unlike the original US version, Sir Alan Sugar continues in next year's third series and doesn't hand over the reigns of saying that phrase to someone else, if only so Mrs Fishcake and myself can settle the debate as to whether Sir Alan choses his apprentice on looks or talent and whether the weekly firings are based on reports from his aides or on what's going to make good tv. Why else would Jo and Syed have lasted so long when each week we were all left shouting at the tv in the vain hope that loud shouting at Sir Alan's pixelated face might influence his decision to fire them.

"...I was waiting for Ruth to swish
her hair in a slow-motion camera shot and whisper 'because I'm worth it'..."