I haven’t played a proper game of cricket for over two years, which for someone who professes to quite like the sport is rather a long time. Happily though, that scar on my sporting life came to an end on Tuesday when I donned the whites, picked up the bat and trotted out to play for a friend’s team against a local council.
And amazingly, despite our lack of practice, or indeed ability, we won! I still don’t know how, but I suspect the fading light which camouflaged the ball as I attempted to slog us to victory may have had quite a lot to do with it. That and the fact that everyone contributed in some way, and we were bizarrely more up for it than the other team, who play most weeks and have done for years.
That’s the beauty of cricket – it’s a proper team game where everyone can give something to the cause, be it runs, wickets or some valiant fielding. It’s also a brilliant feeling when you win and are able to share that success with ten other people. I’ve often wondered though, which glory would be greater on the professional stage – a team or individual sporting triumph?
The benefits of the individual win are obvious. The victory is yours and yours alone, all the work to get there was yours, and you truly know that you’re the best at that particular moment. But I can’t escape the feeling that the shine wears off more quickly than that of a team victory, largely because there’s no-one else who can relate exactly to that victory with you. A team win on the other hand is something that can always be discussed, remembered and enhanced because of the sharing of that story.
Maybe (probably) people who excel at individual sports will argue differently. But all I know is, when those winning runs came off the bat in the twilight on Tuesday, the first thing I wanted to do was drop the bat, run to my teammates and celebrate the win with all of them.
Thursday, 30 July 2009
Monday, 20 July 2009
Nuptials
‘One in three marriages in the UK fail’, ‘marriage as an institution is outdated’, ‘long-term marriages are simply not a workable proposition anymore’. And so the list goes on.
And I don’t buy any of it.
To me, marriage remains a brilliant idea. The ultimate commitment two people can make and the ultimate statement of just how much you love someone. Yes, more marriages are failing than ever before, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing – it may just be that we as a society are more tolerant than fifty or a hundred years previous with regards the prospect of failure. We’re more tolerant and accepting of making a mistake, and we’re also more socially and economically able to cope with that mistake than previously.
The key for me as to why marriage is still such an integral part of life is the numbers who are still doing it. Only when that figure starts to fall alarmingly will I accept that the idea is no longer suitable. For now though, it is, and two people close to me announced their intention to tie the knot on Saturday following a week away on holiday together.
To be honest, I already knew it was going to happen but that still didn't hide the feeling of joy I felt when I found out. It's a brilliant, fantastic, wonderful announcement and I can't wait to see them in person to say congratulations properly.
And the reason I knew was because I'd spent a slightly awkward, yet admittedly interesting (and frankly a potentially life-enhancing) sixty minutes helping to shop for the ring. Without a doubt, the biggest eye-opener during that hour of shuffled feet, hesitant conversation with shop assistants and awkward stares towards nothing in particular, was that there's a hell of a lot to learn about the science of diamonds and the art of buying one.
Apparently it's all about the four C's - cut, carat, clarity and colour. And the keywords are clean, big and clear for these words. Really though, it's a small degree subject all in itself - and you usually have only a handful of days or even hours to learn it all.
Happily though, the shop assistant's were of great help to the man in question (and his two awkward, shuffling friends) and it was generally agreed that after an hour of ring-shopping we'd done all that could be done to prepare him for the final buying session. So then we did the only thing sensible - we sought refuge back in the home of man.
One pub, three pints, and a chat about all things sporting.
And I don’t buy any of it.
To me, marriage remains a brilliant idea. The ultimate commitment two people can make and the ultimate statement of just how much you love someone. Yes, more marriages are failing than ever before, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing – it may just be that we as a society are more tolerant than fifty or a hundred years previous with regards the prospect of failure. We’re more tolerant and accepting of making a mistake, and we’re also more socially and economically able to cope with that mistake than previously.
The key for me as to why marriage is still such an integral part of life is the numbers who are still doing it. Only when that figure starts to fall alarmingly will I accept that the idea is no longer suitable. For now though, it is, and two people close to me announced their intention to tie the knot on Saturday following a week away on holiday together.
To be honest, I already knew it was going to happen but that still didn't hide the feeling of joy I felt when I found out. It's a brilliant, fantastic, wonderful announcement and I can't wait to see them in person to say congratulations properly.
And the reason I knew was because I'd spent a slightly awkward, yet admittedly interesting (and frankly a potentially life-enhancing) sixty minutes helping to shop for the ring. Without a doubt, the biggest eye-opener during that hour of shuffled feet, hesitant conversation with shop assistants and awkward stares towards nothing in particular, was that there's a hell of a lot to learn about the science of diamonds and the art of buying one.
Apparently it's all about the four C's - cut, carat, clarity and colour. And the keywords are clean, big and clear for these words. Really though, it's a small degree subject all in itself - and you usually have only a handful of days or even hours to learn it all.
Happily though, the shop assistant's were of great help to the man in question (and his two awkward, shuffling friends) and it was generally agreed that after an hour of ring-shopping we'd done all that could be done to prepare him for the final buying session. So then we did the only thing sensible - we sought refuge back in the home of man.
One pub, three pints, and a chat about all things sporting.
Tuesday, 14 July 2009
'A Good Innings'
There are lots of words and phrases used to describe death, many of them unsuprinsingly falling on the negative side of the spectrum - grief, remorse, sadness, longing, sudden, unexpected, expected, overdue even. But the one that always struck me is the one above, as in 'they had a good innings'.
It probably doesn't take much to figure out that I've been dealing with the less than joyful experience of death today - my cat in fact, who pretty much qualifies for that phrase exactly. 15 years old, several narrow escapes, two house moves, a large garden to play in, and bizarrely finding it comfortable to lie on a grumpy teenager's bed for many an hour a few years back.
Happily, she had a great life. Even more happily I haven't really experienced that many deaths close to me in my lifetime yet - just a couple of characterful and dearly loved great aunts and uncles really. But I know that's going to change eventually and I'm pretty sure I'm in the majority when I say I'm not really looking forward to that side of life, especially not the part where you explain to your kids the concept of it, or worse have to use a real life example to back it up.
Back to that phrase though - my family seem to have a bit of a passion for using it in most walks of life. It was how my cat's life was summed up today, it was what my parents used to say when it was time to put away the paddling pool for the day, or when it was the end of the fireworks box for another year. It was even used in its true context when the time came for someone else to have a go with the cricket bat in the back garden (given my less than saintly behaviour as a child I suspect I was secretly defending myself from seeing that bat again all too soon when I refused to hand it over).
The question is I suppose, why do we use that phrase and others like it when talking about death? The logical answer (and I'd guess the most commonly cited) is that we want to remember the life now gone, to put it into perspective with others less fortunate, and to see that beings life as a successful story that has now reached the bit marked 'The End'.
I think it's more than that though. What if it has something to do with our ability and desire to alliterate further on our feelings about the concept of death? Metaphors are one of the greatest inventions of all time because they allow us to quantify, clarify and enunciate on an event or a theory that is of concern to us. Without them, life would be a whole lot whole lot more difficult to navigate I suspect - imagine any emotional event and then try and conjure up what you'd say without using a metaphor or similar tool to clarify what you actually need to say.
So, what's the metaphor I'd like to use to describe my cat's life and what I'm feeling right now? To be honest, I think this is one of those occasions when it might be best to shun the comparisons and just come out with a plain statement of fact. She was bloody marvellous and I'm gutted that she's gone.
But she did have a great innings though.
It probably doesn't take much to figure out that I've been dealing with the less than joyful experience of death today - my cat in fact, who pretty much qualifies for that phrase exactly. 15 years old, several narrow escapes, two house moves, a large garden to play in, and bizarrely finding it comfortable to lie on a grumpy teenager's bed for many an hour a few years back.
Happily, she had a great life. Even more happily I haven't really experienced that many deaths close to me in my lifetime yet - just a couple of characterful and dearly loved great aunts and uncles really. But I know that's going to change eventually and I'm pretty sure I'm in the majority when I say I'm not really looking forward to that side of life, especially not the part where you explain to your kids the concept of it, or worse have to use a real life example to back it up.
Back to that phrase though - my family seem to have a bit of a passion for using it in most walks of life. It was how my cat's life was summed up today, it was what my parents used to say when it was time to put away the paddling pool for the day, or when it was the end of the fireworks box for another year. It was even used in its true context when the time came for someone else to have a go with the cricket bat in the back garden (given my less than saintly behaviour as a child I suspect I was secretly defending myself from seeing that bat again all too soon when I refused to hand it over).
The question is I suppose, why do we use that phrase and others like it when talking about death? The logical answer (and I'd guess the most commonly cited) is that we want to remember the life now gone, to put it into perspective with others less fortunate, and to see that beings life as a successful story that has now reached the bit marked 'The End'.
I think it's more than that though. What if it has something to do with our ability and desire to alliterate further on our feelings about the concept of death? Metaphors are one of the greatest inventions of all time because they allow us to quantify, clarify and enunciate on an event or a theory that is of concern to us. Without them, life would be a whole lot whole lot more difficult to navigate I suspect - imagine any emotional event and then try and conjure up what you'd say without using a metaphor or similar tool to clarify what you actually need to say.
So, what's the metaphor I'd like to use to describe my cat's life and what I'm feeling right now? To be honest, I think this is one of those occasions when it might be best to shun the comparisons and just come out with a plain statement of fact. She was bloody marvellous and I'm gutted that she's gone.
But she did have a great innings though.
Friday, 10 July 2009
HJNTIY
Six letters.
Six letters which I had never seen before and fully confess I didn't know what they meant, or indeed gave a monkey's about.
But then someone explained them to me today - apparently this little code is the shorthand for a growing belief amongst women as to how they should conduct their lives. And it stands for?
'He's Just Not That Into You' - the title of a popular book and now a film as well.
The central premise (apparently) is that women should stop blaming themselves for mens faults, learn to recognise some golden rules to discern if someone is 'into them' and if not, simply move on. It also apparently states that men are neither complicated, nor do they send mixed messages - in other words, we're simply, primeval creatures who will indicate exactly what we do or don't want and that's that.
Now I'm not one who is particularly fond of diving headfirst into debates about either the male or female psychy - I'm just about aware enough to recognise that my own take on life is as bizarrely different to that of others as theirs is to me. But this one did get to me a bit.
I accept the argument that women should stop waiting on something that just isn't going to make them happy, and to some extent I suppose I get the idea that men retain something of a simpleness about their character in this regard.
But reducing life and love down to one simple equation whereby if a man fails to act first, foremost and always with complete, unswerving devotion to that singular goal I cannot accept. If the world was a simple, uncomplex, A to B place where nothing got in the way, where a hundred different pressures didn't gnaw away at you, and where time was an ally not an enemy. Then perhaps I could agree with the premise and indeed be happy to do so.
But it isn't. And I don't.
And yet weirdly, I believe that this argument is flawed because of one of its own premises - that if women hint the slightest whiff of doubt, then they should haul in their line and set sail for pastures new. Because it's doubt that cripples what once might have been our solid assertion that actually We Are Into You.
Primeval creatures we might be, but even primeval creatures face doubts when it comes to jumping over a gap in the rock or choosing where to rest for the night.
Doubt is the constant, and in my view healthy, companion for the majority of people. And that includes the majority of men. It's what makes a relationship, or even better, the bit before a relationship so exciting. If this whole, often tortuous, often painful, sometimes heart-breaking process was predictable or easy, then we wouldn't do it.
HIIYHJDABYIHAHFJAMEPAYD - He IS Into You, He Just Doesn't Always Believe You're Into Him And He Feels Just As Many External Pressures As You Do.
Not as catchy I admit, but closer to the truth I'd reckon, and in a way the perfect summary of why HJNTIY doesn't work - because if they really mean it and care about it, then men can never manage to say what should take six words in less than sixty.
Six letters which I had never seen before and fully confess I didn't know what they meant, or indeed gave a monkey's about.
But then someone explained them to me today - apparently this little code is the shorthand for a growing belief amongst women as to how they should conduct their lives. And it stands for?
'He's Just Not That Into You' - the title of a popular book and now a film as well.
The central premise (apparently) is that women should stop blaming themselves for mens faults, learn to recognise some golden rules to discern if someone is 'into them' and if not, simply move on. It also apparently states that men are neither complicated, nor do they send mixed messages - in other words, we're simply, primeval creatures who will indicate exactly what we do or don't want and that's that.
Now I'm not one who is particularly fond of diving headfirst into debates about either the male or female psychy - I'm just about aware enough to recognise that my own take on life is as bizarrely different to that of others as theirs is to me. But this one did get to me a bit.
I accept the argument that women should stop waiting on something that just isn't going to make them happy, and to some extent I suppose I get the idea that men retain something of a simpleness about their character in this regard.
But reducing life and love down to one simple equation whereby if a man fails to act first, foremost and always with complete, unswerving devotion to that singular goal I cannot accept. If the world was a simple, uncomplex, A to B place where nothing got in the way, where a hundred different pressures didn't gnaw away at you, and where time was an ally not an enemy. Then perhaps I could agree with the premise and indeed be happy to do so.
But it isn't. And I don't.
And yet weirdly, I believe that this argument is flawed because of one of its own premises - that if women hint the slightest whiff of doubt, then they should haul in their line and set sail for pastures new. Because it's doubt that cripples what once might have been our solid assertion that actually We Are Into You.
Primeval creatures we might be, but even primeval creatures face doubts when it comes to jumping over a gap in the rock or choosing where to rest for the night.
Doubt is the constant, and in my view healthy, companion for the majority of people. And that includes the majority of men. It's what makes a relationship, or even better, the bit before a relationship so exciting. If this whole, often tortuous, often painful, sometimes heart-breaking process was predictable or easy, then we wouldn't do it.
HIIYHJDABYIHAHFJAMEPAYD - He IS Into You, He Just Doesn't Always Believe You're Into Him And He Feels Just As Many External Pressures As You Do.
Not as catchy I admit, but closer to the truth I'd reckon, and in a way the perfect summary of why HJNTIY doesn't work - because if they really mean it and care about it, then men can never manage to say what should take six words in less than sixty.
Tuesday, 23 September 2008
U-Ess-Ay U-Ess-Ay
Can there be a more simple and yet concurrently annoying chant in the world?
I wanted to wait a couple of days before writing about the Ryder Cup, wanted to let the coverage and the contest dissipate fully, but now I'm ready. The US were the better team, they played the better, more attacking, more daring golf on a course they knew well and with a team that didn't have the spectre of Him riding over it for once.
Why did Europe lose? Apart from the fact they were outplayed, you have to look (as most of the press have done in amongst all the Faldo bashing) at the failure of their big guns. Simply put, Westwood, Harrington, Garcia and Casey (yes Casey - ignore the wildcard, he should have been a big gun given his past couple of seasons) failed to perform for a variety of reasons.
Firstly Westwood. I've got nothing against the bloke, he's a wonderful golfer but he has always struck me as a bit flakey, a bit too hit and miss. I know his Ryder Cup record has been amazing, but what if we just kept catching him on a good un'?
That brings us onto Harrington, whose record is the complete opposite of Westwood's - it's truly abysmal over the past 3 Ryder Cups. And that leads you to the conclusion that maybe he's the European version of Him - supremely talented, major winner, not able to be a team player, despite what he professes. Or maybe he and Westwood really were both just knackered. Both of them, at the same tournament, for 3 days.
As for Casey, I'll cut him some slack, he fought his guts out for two hard earned draws, but you had a right to expect better of a bloke who's spent the past 2 years in the top 10 of the world.
And finally Sergio, dear Sergio. The man with the panic button installed on the inside of his putting grip (and the 'ground open up and eat me' button on his golfing glove). Sergio truly does love the Cup, always has done, and for one very good reason - he can hide.
Now I don't mean this in a bad way, far from it in fact. By hiding next to his partner in the Foursomes and Fourballs, he can cast off his doubts, his nerves and that panic button and just get on with doing what he does best. Knocking the cover off the ball and chipping in ridiculously good iron shots. But really Mr Faldo, sending out first a man who's singles record sucked even before Sunday's thrashing as the leader of the comeback charge? Out on the course, alone and without his Fours partners, he did the inevitable, as he had done last year on that windswept links, he wilted, grasped the putting handle and waited for the end.
Which brings me back to Harrington. Faldo took some stick for sending him out last, and thereby missing the chance to extend the game, but he actually got this one absolutely spot on. Bringing up the rear gave Harrington one simple, singular goal - Win. No team, no points, no up, no down. Just Win.
If it had gone to end, if Soren Hansen hadn't lost that game on the 17th, and Jimenez holed his putt on the same green, then it could have been the greatest finish in years. It wasn't to be.
But I'd have bet my life on Harrington if it had.
I wanted to wait a couple of days before writing about the Ryder Cup, wanted to let the coverage and the contest dissipate fully, but now I'm ready. The US were the better team, they played the better, more attacking, more daring golf on a course they knew well and with a team that didn't have the spectre of Him riding over it for once.
Why did Europe lose? Apart from the fact they were outplayed, you have to look (as most of the press have done in amongst all the Faldo bashing) at the failure of their big guns. Simply put, Westwood, Harrington, Garcia and Casey (yes Casey - ignore the wildcard, he should have been a big gun given his past couple of seasons) failed to perform for a variety of reasons.
Firstly Westwood. I've got nothing against the bloke, he's a wonderful golfer but he has always struck me as a bit flakey, a bit too hit and miss. I know his Ryder Cup record has been amazing, but what if we just kept catching him on a good un'?
That brings us onto Harrington, whose record is the complete opposite of Westwood's - it's truly abysmal over the past 3 Ryder Cups. And that leads you to the conclusion that maybe he's the European version of Him - supremely talented, major winner, not able to be a team player, despite what he professes. Or maybe he and Westwood really were both just knackered. Both of them, at the same tournament, for 3 days.
As for Casey, I'll cut him some slack, he fought his guts out for two hard earned draws, but you had a right to expect better of a bloke who's spent the past 2 years in the top 10 of the world.
And finally Sergio, dear Sergio. The man with the panic button installed on the inside of his putting grip (and the 'ground open up and eat me' button on his golfing glove). Sergio truly does love the Cup, always has done, and for one very good reason - he can hide.
Now I don't mean this in a bad way, far from it in fact. By hiding next to his partner in the Foursomes and Fourballs, he can cast off his doubts, his nerves and that panic button and just get on with doing what he does best. Knocking the cover off the ball and chipping in ridiculously good iron shots. But really Mr Faldo, sending out first a man who's singles record sucked even before Sunday's thrashing as the leader of the comeback charge? Out on the course, alone and without his Fours partners, he did the inevitable, as he had done last year on that windswept links, he wilted, grasped the putting handle and waited for the end.
Which brings me back to Harrington. Faldo took some stick for sending him out last, and thereby missing the chance to extend the game, but he actually got this one absolutely spot on. Bringing up the rear gave Harrington one simple, singular goal - Win. No team, no points, no up, no down. Just Win.
If it had gone to end, if Soren Hansen hadn't lost that game on the 17th, and Jimenez holed his putt on the same green, then it could have been the greatest finish in years. It wasn't to be.
But I'd have bet my life on Harrington if it had.
Wednesday, 17 September 2008
2nd Chance Tuesday
There are many things that make the human race unique, but the one that shone out yesterday was our amazing ability to offer a reprieve to those who have erred. A cheetah hunting on the African savannah won't stop its chase of an exhausted gazelle to allow it to refuel, and a seal won't hesitate to favour her stronger calf when it becomes apparent that another is weaker. Humanity on the other hand, offers the hand of reprieval on a regular basis, often without a second thought. Our most popular religion is even founded on this very principle, that to err is human, to forgive (and reprieve) divine.
And over the past 36 hours, humanity has demonstrated its unique ability to perform this extraordinary feat in 3 different spheres.
Firstly of course, to America's behemoth (and that really is the only word to accurately describe its reach) AIG, which received an inordinate amount of money to stay afloat, and then gratefully fell into the sheltering arms of its repriever. AIG wasn't the first of course. Northern Rock, Fannie, Freddie, Bear Stearns and Merrill Lynch, all felt the power of reprieval from humanity, and as tonights buyout of HBOS shows, these institutions won't be the last either.
Secondly, to John Terry, reprieved and forgiven for his error and thus free to play on the weekend against his biggest rivals. Was it worthy of a red card? Certainly not, but was it worthy of a full reprieve? Absolutely not. England's least favourite Captain benefitted from an institution that offers reprieval a little too easily for most people's liking. A win on Sunday, and his reprieval will be complete, at least in his and his supporter's eyes.
Finally, perhaps the luckiest man to feel the hand of forgiveness, Gordon Brown. Ignoring the economic reality, ignoring the resentment of the electorate, ignoring even the resignation of a junior minister on grounds of failed belief, Brown's cabinet has offered him one last chance to prove that he has learnt his lesson and that he can turnaround the unturnroundable.
And to be fair to him, he's already seized his chance - dipping his fingers into the rescue of HBOS and broking the talks to lead them to safety via their own repriever, Lloyds TSB. A masterstroke from a man many believed had no such strokes left in him.
A pity then that no one explained the concept of human reprieval to the employees of Lehman Brothers. From what I hear, they sought solace in that other great human comfort zone - the humble chocolate bar.
And over the past 36 hours, humanity has demonstrated its unique ability to perform this extraordinary feat in 3 different spheres.
Firstly of course, to America's behemoth (and that really is the only word to accurately describe its reach) AIG, which received an inordinate amount of money to stay afloat, and then gratefully fell into the sheltering arms of its repriever. AIG wasn't the first of course. Northern Rock, Fannie, Freddie, Bear Stearns and Merrill Lynch, all felt the power of reprieval from humanity, and as tonights buyout of HBOS shows, these institutions won't be the last either.
Secondly, to John Terry, reprieved and forgiven for his error and thus free to play on the weekend against his biggest rivals. Was it worthy of a red card? Certainly not, but was it worthy of a full reprieve? Absolutely not. England's least favourite Captain benefitted from an institution that offers reprieval a little too easily for most people's liking. A win on Sunday, and his reprieval will be complete, at least in his and his supporter's eyes.
Finally, perhaps the luckiest man to feel the hand of forgiveness, Gordon Brown. Ignoring the economic reality, ignoring the resentment of the electorate, ignoring even the resignation of a junior minister on grounds of failed belief, Brown's cabinet has offered him one last chance to prove that he has learnt his lesson and that he can turnaround the unturnroundable.
And to be fair to him, he's already seized his chance - dipping his fingers into the rescue of HBOS and broking the talks to lead them to safety via their own repriever, Lloyds TSB. A masterstroke from a man many believed had no such strokes left in him.
A pity then that no one explained the concept of human reprieval to the employees of Lehman Brothers. From what I hear, they sought solace in that other great human comfort zone - the humble chocolate bar.
Monday, 8 September 2008
Vacation, Vacation, Vacation
Funny thing holidays. You can't wait to escape the office, kick back, have those extra beers during the night and revel in turning over and going back to sleep over and over again in the morning. And yet, bizarrely, I feel a bit empty, naked almost, without the bussle of the office.
Now I'm lucky I guess - I love what I do, but it's worth asking, are holidays really a good thing, especially longer ones? I'm increasingly becoming a fan of the long weekender over the long week off to be honest. A week off has so many downsides to match its bonuses - the forest of emails in the inbox, the two days it takes to get back up to speed, and the mear fact that the last couple of days of the holiday feel like a giant countdown clock above your head.
No, 3 day weekends are definitely the way forward. As such, I've developed a theory - it's the 9 day working fortnight, where every second Friday is part of the weekend. How fantastic would that be?
The main perk, as far as I can see, is that you'd avoid the weekly, depressing recurrence of what I call the 'Friday Night Syndrome'. This phenomenon is responsible for the failure of many (self included) to truly maximise their weekend. It entails having an absolutely scorching, ridiculously good Friday night, only to then blow the whole of Saturday getting over it. Suddenly it's Sunday, there's food to buy, washing to be done, and Bang, the weekend's gone; and you're left facing the witching hour that is 9:15, Sunday evening when reality dawns.
Introduce the 3 dayer on a rotational basis and the problem is cured - you can afford to have 'Hangin like a dog' on the Friday, and then enjoy the Saturday, before chilling on the Sunday. The idea is Genius.
Downsides? I suppose there'd no longer be happy hours in bars on Thursdays, and we might see the introduction of a new excuse into the fakers dictionary of reasons for pulling a sicky - 'Sorry Sir, I thought this was the 4 day week'. But apart from that, genuinely, wouldn't it work like a treat?
Apparently, you can email the Prime Minister from the No.10 website these days - I suspect this isn't strictly true; not unless Mr Brown has a similar system of lookalikes to the late Saddam Hussein. But nevertheless, I'm sure it might merit attention, if only as a gimmick to get the electorate back on his side.
In fact, I might combine this letter with the other one I've been meaning to send to Gordy's (soon to be ex) best mate, Alastair, asking why, in these inflation riddled times, he finds it acceptable not to bat an eyelid at Mr Lampard's recent 20% pay rise as a reward for jogging round a field for 90 minutes twice a week.
Even the fattest kids in school just about manage that onerous task.
Now I'm lucky I guess - I love what I do, but it's worth asking, are holidays really a good thing, especially longer ones? I'm increasingly becoming a fan of the long weekender over the long week off to be honest. A week off has so many downsides to match its bonuses - the forest of emails in the inbox, the two days it takes to get back up to speed, and the mear fact that the last couple of days of the holiday feel like a giant countdown clock above your head.
No, 3 day weekends are definitely the way forward. As such, I've developed a theory - it's the 9 day working fortnight, where every second Friday is part of the weekend. How fantastic would that be?
The main perk, as far as I can see, is that you'd avoid the weekly, depressing recurrence of what I call the 'Friday Night Syndrome'. This phenomenon is responsible for the failure of many (self included) to truly maximise their weekend. It entails having an absolutely scorching, ridiculously good Friday night, only to then blow the whole of Saturday getting over it. Suddenly it's Sunday, there's food to buy, washing to be done, and Bang, the weekend's gone; and you're left facing the witching hour that is 9:15, Sunday evening when reality dawns.
Introduce the 3 dayer on a rotational basis and the problem is cured - you can afford to have 'Hangin like a dog' on the Friday, and then enjoy the Saturday, before chilling on the Sunday. The idea is Genius.
Downsides? I suppose there'd no longer be happy hours in bars on Thursdays, and we might see the introduction of a new excuse into the fakers dictionary of reasons for pulling a sicky - 'Sorry Sir, I thought this was the 4 day week'. But apart from that, genuinely, wouldn't it work like a treat?
Apparently, you can email the Prime Minister from the No.10 website these days - I suspect this isn't strictly true; not unless Mr Brown has a similar system of lookalikes to the late Saddam Hussein. But nevertheless, I'm sure it might merit attention, if only as a gimmick to get the electorate back on his side.
In fact, I might combine this letter with the other one I've been meaning to send to Gordy's (soon to be ex) best mate, Alastair, asking why, in these inflation riddled times, he finds it acceptable not to bat an eyelid at Mr Lampard's recent 20% pay rise as a reward for jogging round a field for 90 minutes twice a week.
Even the fattest kids in school just about manage that onerous task.
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