Second class mobiles

I bought a new mobile phone on Saturday. A simple transaction I would have thought, especially as I knew which phone I wanted and as it was a 'pay as you go' phone, there wasn't even a lengthy contract to wade through.

However, I was surprised. If you're not buying a phone on contract, you're viewed by the big mobile phone companies as a second class punter. Here's why:

Carphone Warehouse- Once I'd said 'pay as you go' (PAYG) their interest in me evaporated. When I asked a sales assistant to assist me, he did so without speaking. Whilst I was examaining the phone he just stared at me. When I made a comment about the phone - he just stared at me. I thought he might have actually died.
I left the shop.
Company slogan "Get treated like a star at the Carphone Warehouse" Clearly not.

The Link- When I asked for a demonstration of the phone they said "we don't do demo's for PAYG phones". What?
I left the shop.
Company slogan "At the Link it's easy.." Unless you're PAYG.

Phones4U- When I pointed out that the phone I wanted, in their shop, was more expensive than in other shops, the sales assistant said "we don't price-match on PAYG phones" Je ne comprend.
I left the shop
Company slogan "Phones For You" But not YOU, dear PAYG punter.

I finally got my phone from my network's own shop. Orange were helpful, friendly and easy to chat to. They went through the new phone with me, switched all my contact and stuff on to my new phone and were just great. I didn't feel like a second class citizen. Other phone suppliers are available.

So why do some companies seem to value PAYG customers so little? Well the lack of a very healthy and contracted commitment would be the obvious reason. But there are millions of PAYG and to be honest, with service like I received on Saturday, I'm very glad that I don't have a contract with any of them.

Now I've got to go - my phone's ringing.

Replicating applications

Teeedious! I know application forms are important and a snapshot of someone's life and career, but boy are they an effort to wade through. I've been through ninety in the last two days and my brain feels like a pool of partially congealed gravy.

Please, don't get me wrong - I'm not saying anything about the people who are applying for the position we're advertising - it's just that wading through nearly a hundred forms of information is kind of brain-numbing, even for the most alert minded of people.

I need to just relax my brain ... by recalling the 'excitement' of seeing the Prime Minister yesterday. A few of us caught a glimpse of him as he swiftly made his way from the building he'd emerged from into his waiting Range Rover. True to form, I shouted "Alright Tone?" at him but, sadly, he must have not heard me properly because he disappeared into the car as fast as a rat out of an aquaduct.

I bet he's got an interesting CV though.

Rozzers and 'hot dogs'

Well, the place is crawling with police. We all had to provide I.D to get into work today. There are roadblocks, police dogs, rozzers with guns, satellite trucks and more. I can also tell you that the old P.M himself ('Tone' to his friends) has just arrived (10.55 am) for his speech at the building next door.

It's all dead exciting and still extremely warm although it's still the morning. I had to assist a rozzer with his dogs as they searched some of our vehicles. Good job I removed that cap gun from my shorts. More to follow...

Evenin' all.

It's 'Prime' time

Oooh! Excitement abounds. We have a top secret that's happening a tomorrow in the building next to where I work. We had the rozzers (police) round here yesterday, carrying out security checks and they informed us that a certain Tony Blair (oh yes - the British Prime Minister) was going to be speaking on Wednesday and thus the need for the security sweep.

How bloody exciting. However, as this is still a secret, I could be arrested, interrogated, strip-searched and sent to Guantanamo Bay. Crikey. Mind you, there are some factors in my favour. 1) Almost no-one reads my blog. 2)Those that do read it but don't know me, do not know where I work. 3)Those that do know me are (hopefully) unlikely to dob me in to MI5 or the local rozzers.

So, the Big Cheese is in town. I wonder if I'll be interviewed by somoeone off the telly, as a 'member of the public'? Maybe they'll want my opinion on the government's foreigh policy, the state of the NHS or the problems with the education reforms.

Or maybe they'll just want my balding slaphead to move as it's bothering the cameraman.

Heatwave!

Living in England we are used to crap weather. Summers are invariably disappointing and winters seem to go on for ever. We have to make the most of good weather. There's a TV advert on here at the momement which epitomises the 'British summer'. It portrays everyone in the country waiting for the sun to appear from behind a huge cloud which indicates that summer has begun. People rush outside, slap on suntan lotion in a mad frenzy and generally go bonkers in an attempt to grab some precious rays. Then, just minutes later, the sun disappears and summer is over.

This year is a bit different. Last week we had the hottest July day in Britain since records began. Wisley in Surrey reached 36.5C (97.7F) which beat the record for the month from 1911. But it's not just the record-breaking I'm talking about, but the length of time we've been having this weather.

Pretty much the whole of July has been hot and sunny. My forehead is in danger of looking like a piece of bacon and the cat is heading for an all over shave if things stay as they are. We've had gritters spreading crushed rock to stop roads melting, schools closing because of the heat and restrictions on water usage around the country.

Now many countries around the world deal with these sort things every day but this is the UK and we're just not used to it. In the Spring, the first time the sun pops out and the temperature is above freezing, young men begin zooming around in their crappy Ford Escort convertibles with the roof down. If the temperature becomes warm enough for just a light coat, the barbeques start to appear and people bravely stand in cold, damp back gardens and pretend it's summer (see a previous post on this). So it's not surprising we're all going bonkers about the official (so says the Met Office) heatwave and loving hearing that it's hotter hear than everywhere else on the entire planet. Almost.

Put another Tesco Value burger on the barbie! Vegetarian options available

Good things come to those who wait

We went for a little summer break to Devon last week and had a cracking time. The weather was just amazing and a great time was had by all. However, things nearly went awry and threatened to cast a shadow of woe over the holiday. Especially as food was involved.

We opted to go for a pub meal one evening and found a great pub which not only promised very large portions of cod, but also had a healthy filling of 'locals' and their dogs too. Marvellous. In fact, the place was heaving and when we ordered our four cod 'n' chips, we were told there'd be a 45 minute wait. Well we thought that would be fine - we were in no rush and we had some ale and wine to quaff while we waited.

An hour and a quarter later, I decided enough was enough. I spoke politely (of course) but a tad firmly to the waitress/barmaid/glass collector about the rather gargantuan delay in our food arrival. She was extremely shocked - which was good - and promised that the grub was on it's way.

Moments later, the manageress arrived, apologising profusely. We were very nice to her so she got us all free drinks. Then the monster cods arrived and we were happy. But then the guy who was running the 'Irish bingo' (don't ask) event in the main bar came over to our table. He apologised as well! And then he then gave us five tickets for the 'bingo'. Wonderful. Sadly we lost the bingo but the folks at the Old Barn Inn were just fabulous and proved that good things really do come to those who wait.

Except when waiting for a bus.

Hello sailor

Got to dash but I just wanted to say "hello" to all my chums who, on occasion, read YBATYD. It's nice to know it provides the odd moment of mirth for you and I'm glad you find my life so amusing. I merely jest.

Anyway, as I'm in a hurry, I just wanted to say a special "hello" to those of you who are sailing the seas and oceans of the world, in far-off exotic places and who want to know what's happening back in dear old Blighty (England/UK/Britain etc). And a final "hello" to any of you who are feeling a bit mizzog (miserable) for whatever reason. Just remember my mantra - You're born and then you die, so you might as well enjoy the bit in the middle. It's true you know.

What is a poop deck anyway?

Ooh, floaty light

Oh yes. I finally had my birthday balloon ride on Monday and it was wonderful. However, due to technical reasons, I can't give you an actual photo from the big event just yet so you'll have to make do with this one for now.

Anyway, what a fantastic time I had. This despite the fact that it was in the high 80's (even at 7pm) and that there was nil wind. A breeze of some description is kind of a pre-requisite of ballooning and so the the distinct lack of even the faintest breath of wind was a cause of mild concern.

Eventually, however, we got it up (pause for sniggers) and slowly began to see the green fields sinking below us as we started our flight. The very still air did provide the odd puff of air which ensured we didn't just go straight up, hang there for an hour and then come straight back down. We actually managed to travel about 5 miles over the baking Derbyshire countryside as the sun began to set. It was truly beautiful and extremely peaceful as my seven fellow passengers and pilot entered a quiet reverie for much of the hour-long flight.

The only thing that shattered the peace was the bloody propane burners that kept us aloft. The noise was pretty loud, but the heat was the real culprit. For those of you that know me, the top of my head has a small clearing on it which means that it is rather good at feeling the heat. Well when you have four bloody great flames roaring inches from your balding pate you tend to notice it. Coupled with the fact that even at 6000 feet (1,828m) up it was still 86 degrees, my bonce felt like a par-boiled potato at times.

Despite the slight head-heating issue, the whole experience was just amazing. The landing was superb - two small bumps and we were sitting pretty in a large field filled with thistles and cowpats. Perfect. The post-flight champers wasn't bad either, especially as it got everyone a bit jolly for the hilarious return journey to the launch site in the back of a steamy Land Rover.

Same time next week then...

Dry clean dream?

Human nature is great. And it always surprises me how strange people can be whilst at the same time being very nice. If still a bit odd. Case in point - the other day I took my suit to the local dry cleaners (I promise, this really happened). It's an independent business and has just had a bit of a refurb.

Despite the refurb, the place still managed to exude an air of 1970's bed & breakfast mixed with 21st century technology. The place was empty but I found a small note Sellotaped to the counter which read 'Please ring the bell for atension' (yep, that's how it was spelt) next to which was a small hand bell which I was required to ring to alert the member of staff. I duly rang my bell ...

The 'mature'lady who appeared began talking to me as though I'd known her for thirty years. She prattled cheerfully on, telling me that her daughter worked there sometimes and that Asda's new dry cleaning service was £2.50 more for a suit than it was here. She managed to write most of my dry cleaning chit out (including dating it as September) before advsing me that they had just had a brand new dry cleaning machine installed. I politely expressed great interest in this news, which was a mistake. "Come and have a look" she said excitedly as she ushered me into the back of the building.

"Bit bigger than your usual washing machine isn't it me duck" she proudly announced before directing round the rear of the machine to see all it's pipes, valves and electrics. "German" she said as if the word 'German' explained it all. "Twenty five thousand quid that cost and it's the only one in England" she continued with pride. "Very good" I muttered before managing to creep back to the front of the shop where she finally gave me my receipt. "I hope I haven't bored you" she said. "Not at all" I lied as I began to retreat to the safety of the street outside. "I only work Thursday's!" she shouted after me. I smiled weakly and made good my escape.

I shall pick my suit up on Monday. Just in case.

Bus stops and blisters

I went out with some pals from work last night for several beers. When I left at about 10.45pm, I'd missed my bus (yes just like the one in the blurry photo). I tried to get another one (it stops sort of near my house) but my ticket wasn't valid for their company. Then I found my next bus was going to be another hour so I decided to walk towards home to kill time. Smart move. Unfortunately, my super-trendy summer footwear is not designed for long, hot walks and as a result, after walking almost two miles, I had 5 blisters developing on my feet. They were spectacularly painful and had me staggering along like a grandad with piles and rickets - at the same time.

Finally the bus appeared out of the darkness (well, the sky was dark even if the brightly lit city streets were not) and carried me the remaining 4 miles home. This 20 minute journey gave my blisters time to develop nicely so that by the time I got off the bus I was partially crippled and unable to do little more than shuffle for a few agonising seconds before stopping to recover and prepare myself for the next few tortuous steps. I finally got home a little after 1am. What a cracking evening then.

Er, no.

Scissors

I can't find any damn scissors anywhere. Apart from at home bit that's irrelevent because I'm at work. I'm getting extremely annoyed because I'm certain all the scissors in our office have been purloined. How the hell am I supposed to trim bits of facial hair without any bloody scissors?

These are unacceptable working conditions.

I draw, you draw, he Drew

OK, so here's a blatant plug for a chum of mine. I've cleverly hidden his name in the title of this posting. The intellectuals amongst you will have spotted that it's the word with the capital letter at the start of it. Well done.

Drew is an up and coming photographer. That doesn't mean he puts ads in the local paper which promise 'glamour modelling in the comfort of my garage studio'. Oh no. This chap has started doing some proper professional work and even has a wedding or two in the pipeline. That's photographing the weddings - he's not about to become a bigamist. Mind you, it would make for some cracking pictures.

Anyway, as he's a decent fella (with a classy surname to boot), I thought I'd give him a mention and direct you to his site. Just click the title of this posting or see the link on the right. Obviously he will be inundated with visitors being directed from You're Born and Then You Die as I have literally several hits a day.

The power of the Tinterweb eh?

Le Rutting Stag

I don't believe I'm the only person who noticed that Zinedine Zidane's already infamous headbutt on Italy's Marco Materazzi in Sunday's World Cup final, was not entirely dissimilar to the way an agressive stag behaves during the rutting season.

True, Materazzi's 'stag' didn't exactly enter into the 'rut' but Zidane's superb full-body charge was magnificent. Had he been in the rolling woodlands east of Berlin, rather than at it's football stadium, Zidane could well have held claim to the title King of the Stags.

Alas for Mr Zidane, his rather base actions were witnessed by about 9.7 trillion people. I quite expected him to say that he's slipped on some raisins or that he was trying to cure Mr Materazzi's windy-pops. So far though, the proud Frenchie has kept his lips tightly sealed but the word is that the Italian chap said something nasty to Mr Z.

Whatever was said, it was it prompted a display of world class rutting the like of which we've not seen since David Attenborough's marvellous wildlife programme 'The Rutting Stags of The Alpine Slopes'. Mind you, it's a good job Zidane didn't actually have antlers, otherwise he's have shoved Materazzi's nipples into his shoulder blades. Sacre bleu.

Oh yeah, Italy won the match by the way.

Podcast baby!

Oh yeah. My horrendously intermittent podcast is back - well for July anyway and you can hear it now. The slight downside is that it's really just a ten minute advert for the You're Born and Then You Die blog - which you're already reading.

Never mind eh? Just subscribe using the little Subscribe in iTunes button on the right of this page and you're sorted. If you don't have iTunes (you're a simpleton) you can catch all the shows at Podcast.net. Just click on the title of this posting.

Enjoy the podcast and just wait until the next one which will be even better. Mainly because it won't just be me reading out some posts from this blog!

You lucky people.

Some things I forgot to mention

Blimey. Sometimes I'm such a numpty. A blog is supposed to be a regular update of ones life and the events therein. Now, those of you who've trawled through my various ramblings since last December, will be aware that I often go for weeks on end without submitting a post. Now although I have been a little more regular (not in the toilet department) recently, I've still omitted a couple of things from my posts. So here's a summary of them now:

1. My wife got a brilliant promotion at her work. I'm extremely proud of her and reckon she's just great.
2. England got knocked out of the World Cup by Portugal. I shall say no more for fear of legal action due to slander and/or defamatory remarks I may make.
3. Our cat slaughtered three birds in two days, leaving our back garden looking like the aftermath of a professional pillow fight. It was feathery hell.
4. It's been very hot in England for the last few weeks. I have even got used to the sensation of rivulets of sweat trickling into every crevice of my interestingly-shaped body. Picture that if you will.
5. Some of my chums have stopped emailing me. This could be because I've stopped emailing them. It's OK though. We'll just resume communication at some point in the future and there'll be no hard feelings whatsoever(unlike girls who get all upset and feel betrayed when this sort of thing happens). Chaps just carry on where they left off. It's a bloke thing.

That's the update then. Hope you found it as thrilling as I did. Mind you, I think I could do with posting items with a bit more edge to them. Perhaps a tad controversial or even bigoted? Hmmmm. I might just try it on my next one. Something dangerous, daring and socially unacceptable.

Like wearing a thong back to front.

Profeshinul Drinker

There's a bloke I work with who's a professional drinker. Now you've probably just conjured up an image of a haggard, leather-faced, bleary-eyed old alky. But you'd be sorely mistaken. The really amusing thing is (and he won't mind me saying this) is that he actually only looks about 15. I kid you not.

To prove the point about his youthful looks, he was recently on jury service. During a break in proceedings, he popped into to town to buy some food. As he was exiting a shop he was approached by a police officer who asked him why he wasn't in school. He replied, stating that the reason he was not in school was because he was twenty six years old.

So, back to his professional drinking. Although he has a home and a wife, he also has a second home. The pub. But he doesn't just have a drink or two in there, oh no. He pretty much stays as long as he wants and he has even slept over when the thought of a long and arduous ten-minute taxi ride home was too much. Better still, he sometimes serves in there as well. I remember him serving me several times one evening and then resuming his drinking once he'd poured my pint. Brilliant!

Now don't get me wrong. He's no alky. Well only as much as you or me ... maybe a teeny bit more but the thing is, he does it all with such laid-back style. You have to admire him. And the best bit? Yes, he has a bar tab. I've never in all my life managed to get a tab (you know, an account) at a pub. For that alone, he gets a gold medal for professional drinking.

Cheers to that.