COLUMN: February 1, 2018

The Millennium Falcon

DO you remember the Millennium Bug? Younger readers might assume it was something to do with Star Wars. Slightly older readers will assume it’s the disease baby boomers have passed on to their children and grandchildren which means they can’t afford to buy houses or have final salary pensions.

It was not. Essentially, it was a widespread computer software error caused by programmers assuming there was absolutely no way the code they were writing for equipment in 1976 would still be used 23 years later.

Without going into the sort of detail that has me regularly shunned at parties, it meant that at midnight on Millennium Eve, many computers would think it was the year 1900, causing their software to experience anything from mild colliwobbles to a full-on nervous breakdown.

And while this might have been amusing for some applications, say, in the software controlling a Big Trak toy truck, it would have been less so in, say, a Soviet-era nuclear power plant or air traffic control system.

Luckily for the human race, the Millennium Bug was one of those problems that could be solved by taking it seriously and throwing money at it, like homelessness or the NHS. Disaster was averted, and the worst thing that happened on December 31, 1999, was the Queen not knowing how to hold hands for Auld Lang Syne.

In fact, it was so successfully averted that people now suggest that it was a hoax. “Look,” they say, “They warned us for years that the Millennium Bug was a disaster, but we’re all still here.”

These are the sort of people who might only be convinced if planes dropped out of the sky, and even then they would probably say, “Those planes were too high anyway. That was a necessary corrective.”

These are the same sort of people who think that they don’t need to vaccinate their children against measles, because nobody has measles these days.

These are the same sort of people who made scientists change the term “global warming” to “climate change” because “Ha! They say that the world’s heating up, but it’s been the coldest winter since records began,” as if “the coldest winter since records began” shouldn’t ring alarm bells.

And these are the same sort of people who are ignoring all the evidence about Brexit, because what sort of loser pays attention to inconvenient facts when the important thing is what your instinct tells you?

These are people like the Conservative MP Jacob Rees-Mogg, who rails against “the metropolitan elite”. Now it is unfair to play the man rather than the argument, but he does not make it easy for me to resist temptation.

That’s Jacob Rees-Mogg, the wealthy Eton and Oxford-educated investment banker son of the late Lord (William) Rees-Mogg, chairman of the Arts Council (1982-1989) and editor of The Times (1967-1981).

That’s Jacob Rees-Mogg, a Parliamentary representative so in touch with ordinary people that he admits he has never been to IKEA. (I do not blame him, if I had never had to buy my own furniture I would also avoid the Doomed Maze of Arguments.)

That’s Jacob Rees-Mogg, a man who could legitimately wear a top hat even if he were neither a magician, nor at a wedding in 1993.

Following the leak of a report by the Department for Exiting The European Union saying a hard Brexit could hit economic growth by 8%, Mr Rees-Mogg said the report was “highly speculative”, and he added that predictions of job losses if there was a vote to leave had been “comprehensively wrong.”

And previously he has said the consequences of leaving the EU without a deal are being exaggerated “much like the Millennium Bug”.

It’s hard to imagine that if the report had predicted an increase in growth that he would be so blasé about predictions.

The thing is, predictions can be wrong. We still laugh at Michael Fish’s assurance that the hurricane that took down most of Sevenoaks’ seven oaks was not on its way, forgetting that most of the time the weather forecasters have it spot on.

The weight of economic evidence points to Brexit being a disaster. If Rees-Mogg and his not-remotely-elite chums said this was the price we pay for regaining our sovereignty, that would be an honourable position to take.

But this handwavy, “oh, something will turn up” approach to Brexit is the one thing that will make economic disaster more likely.

And it will make the Millennium Bug look like a hoax.


COLUMN: January 25, 2018

The best non-copyright picture of a man having his hair washed that I could find

I WAS watching the television, because sometimes even highly-paid glamorous media superstars need to keep it real. We cannot live like Rihanna or the late Sir David Frost all the time.

I watch the television to relax or to get angry at gammon-faced men who say “Why aren’t we out of the EU yet? We voted Brexit” on Question Time, as if extracting ourselves from 45 years’ membership of a political and economic union while negotiating new non-punitive trade deals with the rest of the world were easier than cancelling a phone contract – which, to be fair, it probably is.

The point is I do not watch the television to have my life changed and all my preconceptions questioned. And yet…

I do not want to say what I was watching – that is none of your business – but it was one of the commercial channels. The channel had given me a semi-unit of entertainment, and now it was time for me to take part in the quid pro quo of watching a commercial channel – to sit there passively and be sold things.

An advertisement came on for Head & Shoulders, the shampoo I use. It featured one of those attractive footballers they have these days – from the David Beckham end of the spectrum rather than the Phil Neville.

He nodded the ball into the net, with his floppy haired head, while the voiceover man explained that men have special hair that takes a bit of a beating. He did not actually say that women, on the other hand, sit in the drawing room doing embroidery and pressing flowers lest they faint from the effort, but he didn’t need to.

And then there was the reveal. Head & Shoulders now makes shampoo suitable for men, called Head & Shoulders Men Ultra, a name so shot through with testosterone that it made me need to have a shave.

Now I am no stranger to the gender-specific product. All my shirts have buttons on the man side rather than the lady side. My toothbrushes are blue or green. I wear trousers rather than skirts. I drink Coke Zero instead of Diet Coke, even though it is basically the same thing.

But I have been using Head & Shoulders for years. I don’t want to get into the state of my scalp beforehand, but it was shocking. Every time I moved my head my suit jacket looked as if somebody had emptied the contents of a hole punch over me. I was tired of constantly being asked if I had just come from a wedding.

So I had good reason to be grateful to Head & Shoulders. That blessed elixir had made me able to face the world without looking as if I had had an accident in a correction fluid factory. But now I know the manufacturers have been lying to me for decades.

For years they have made out that Head & Shoulders was equally effective for both men and women, a true unisex product protecting all people from the curse of dandruff.

But now I know they were hiding the truth from me. They were not taking into account the special nature of my manly hair. I needed a shampoo that protects hair that heads footballs, gets covered in engine oil, and is frequently sprinkled with the residue from massive manly guns, even though I mostly work in an office and my greatest physical risks are carpal tunnel syndrome and piles.

And now I am wondering which other items I use regularly are not taking into account my overwhelming masculinity. Is the toothpaste I use really suitable for my manly teeth, which have to bite through raw steak and barbed wire?

Are my tea bags up to the task of withstanding use on a building site, where men are men and have four sugars in tea strong enough to clean loose change?

Is my vacuum cleaner handle ergonomically designed for the male hand, accustomed to picking up spiders, putting up some shelves, and bare-knuckle street fighting?

And even if there were specifically male versions, would that be enough? Is it enough to use Colgate Men, or would I need Colgate Men Ultra? I would not want people to think I were only technically a man, say for purposes of filling out a form or using the correct toilet.

I want them to be in no doubt of my masculinity. For I am MAN! Clear my dandruff.

COLUMN: January 18, 2018

Guy Fieri eating something. I shudder to imagine what

I HAVE never been to America. But I know everything I need to know about America because I have read DC and Marvel comics and watched a lot of television.

Certainly I have learned a lot about American food because I am a regular viewer of the Food Network, which shows hours and hours of American food programmes when it is not showing the same four episodes of Jamie Oliver’s 15 Minute Meals.

And the most American of these programmes is Diners, Drive-ins & Dives.

Diners, Drive-ins & Dives – or Triple D, as the programme is known, because they went overboard with the title and didn’t consider how often American TV presenters would have to mention the name of the programme – is presented by Guy Fieri.

Fieri is what a hairdresser would look like in a Nintendo Mario game. He has bleached blond hair, a red convertible, and a permanent outdoors voice. By rights, I should hate him. But I do not. Perhaps it is because he is engaging and appears genuinely enthusiastic about food, or perhaps it is Stockholm syndrome.

If you have never seen Triple D, I will walk you through a sample episode…

Fieri fetches up in a dusty American city. There are no pedestrians in sight. He says something along the lines of, “Right now, Triple D is in Bogbrush, Indiana. And you know what that means…” I don’t know what that means. Only people in Bogbrush, Indiana could possibly know what that means.

He goes on, “We’re in the home of the Bogbrush double dip piranha sandwich, and there’s nowhere that does it better than Carlito’s Piranha House. They’ve been doing the double dip for an amazing 23 years.” In America 23 years is roughly equivalent to 387 British years.

They then go into Carlito’s Piranha House to meet some of the regular customers. “I have a double dip piranha every day,” lies an attractive, clear-complexioned woman. If she really had a double dip piranha every day she would be on the news because they had to use a crane to get her out of her bedroom to take her to hospital. “They’re so fresh and tender.”

Tenderness is very important to Americans. They hate chewing things. This is why their teeth are so good – they never have to use them.

Fieri then goes into the kitchen to meet the chef and watch him put together a double dip piranha sandwich. This will involve a ton of sugar and salt, which will go into the “rub” so the piranha has a great “bark”, and a whole “stick” of butter. Americans have butter in sticks because they use it as a weapon.

Fieri will then shove the entire sandwich into his mouth before explaining that it is by far the best Bogbrush double dip piranha sandwich he has ever had, which is probably true, and that the flavours are “off the chart”, which is probably not.

And then off he rushes to another diner or drive-in. He has been to more of these than he has had hot dinners. I don’t know how that can be, but there we are. (He never seems to go to any dives. Or if he does, he does not refer to them as such, for diplomatic reasons.)

He is always in a hurry. It’s a wonder he does not have constant indigestion. This time he is at “the best chilli dog joint in Milwaukee”.

I should explain. Americans, like Guy Fieri, are always in a hurry, so much so that they often have one meal on top of another meal in order to save time. They put bacon on top of pancakes with maple syrup, scones and custard next to their fried chicken, and they have the chilli dog.

For those who do not know, a chilli dog is a hot dog, but instead of topping it with mustard, or perhaps onions, the Americans opt for chilli con carne, a thing that other nationalities eat on its own as a satisfying meal.

This is like going to the chip shop and ordering fish and chips, and when they ask you if you want salt and vinegar you say, “No, actually, could you chuck a couple of scoops of shepherds pie on it?”

After he goes into rhapsodies about a sausage with some mince on top of it, Guy Fieri leaps into his red convertible, cuts off proceedings abruptly, and promises he will be back next time.

And this is why I can never live in America. It’s hard to pull off that sort of exit when you travel everywhere by bus.

COLUMN: January 11, 2018

A carelessly discarded banana skin makes a delightful floor ornament

I HAVE two pairs of shoes. I don’t want you to think I am bragging when I say this. “Oh, here he comes, Billy Four Shoes.” If anything, I am Billy Ten Shoes, as I also have two pairs of boots and a pair of running shoes. I know, I know, my flat is almost indistinguishable from a branch of Clarks.

The point is that, unless I am running, I have a choice of shoes. I can literally fill my boots.

So I suppose that what happened that day was my fault. I did not have to choose the one pair of shoes I own which have a smooth sole.

But, on the other hand – or foot, the manufacturers were at fault for making a shoe with a smooth sole. What were they thinking?

These are people whose job it is to think about how shoes work and are used. Is there nobody in their R&D department who has pointed out that shoes would ideally grip the floor, rather than glide like Torvill and Dean on Teflon across it. Is there nobody saying, “People tend to stand up and walk when wearing our shoes. I don’t see the benefit of a sole that reduces friction on surfaces. Our customers tend not to fry eggs on the soles?”

Anyway, I first realised that this was an issue when I was on my way in to work. I had run out of the specific hair gel that I have to use – and a man with difficult-to-explain hair like mine has to use a specific hair gel – which is only available in the bigger branches of Britain’s Favourite Large-scale Retailer.

Hair gels and suchlike are situated on the first floor of this establishment, and accessed by a travelator on a steep slope, shopping trolleys being tricky to accommodate on conventional escalators, as anybody who has ever gone to town on a Saturday with a pushchair will tell you.

I stepped onto the steep travelator, and gripped the moving handrail, and all was fine until about halfway up, when I had to release the handrail to answer a text message about nothing.

The thing about gravity is that it is no respecter of texts about nothing, and I felt its pull immediately. I started to slide down the incline, my shoes giving me no traction, my legs thrashing about as if I were in a Japanese game show called Enormous Comedy Slippery Slope, until I could sheathe my phone without causing it damage and snatch the handrail again while falling to my knees.

This is why I have never been skiing, incidentally. Ice is slippery. I don’t see how making a virtue of that helps anybody.

Luckily only the 12 or so people behind me on the slope saw me, and, presumably, the security man watching on CCTV. And the members of staff he called over.

After picking up the gel, I went on the return journey. It was easier going down, because even if I slipped at least I was going in the right direction.

I walked gingerly to work after that, very much aware of the shortcomings of my sole, and got on with my job.

But I had a lunchtime meeting outside the office. A cold wind was whipping up as I went there, but there was nothing to concern me, because I was wearing Medium Coat.

However, the wind, as it turned out, was the beginnings of Storm Eleanor.
“Goodness me, it’s blowy,” I thought, as I returned to work, and I turned a corner, walking down the middle of the pavement. But Eleanor was now at my back, and the difficulty began.

You see, Medium Coat is a three-quarter length affair, and is flappy in even a light breeze. In these conditions, Medium Coat was effectively a sail.

Had I been wearing any other shoes, I might have got away with it. A gust slid me along the pavement, heading helplessly straight for a busy road.

I was too far from the railings on one side of me, but there were cars parked perpendicularly to the pavement…

I jumped, using Medium Sail to turn me into the path of a car, and grabbed the bonnet, preserving myself until the wind passed, my head down.

And then I looked up into the eyes of the driver, who was sitting behind the wheel, watching a man who had, inexplicably, leapt from the pavement to hug his car.

COLUMN: January 4, 2018

Some Cheshire cheese, but on a French plate for some reason
I AM not the most decisive of people under pressure. No, that is not true, sometimes I can be very decisive. Actually, I’m not sure the word “decisive” is the one I should use. Maybe “resolute”? No, decisive is the one. Definitely.

The point is, the fewer decisions I have to make, the happier I am. I am not saying I would welcome a totalitarian government, but I would probably do all right under one, especially if it banned coriander leaf, melons, and workplace raffles.

But most of life in 2018 appears to be forcing me into decisions that I would prefer not to have to make. I have to decide which company supplies my gas, which of hundreds of TV channels to watch, which of 12 different types of olive oil to buy.

I am exaggerating for comic effect, of course. I do not have hundreds of TV channels, as I only have Council Telly rather than Posh Telly, and consequently have limited access to channels which show exactly the same programme as another channel, but one hour later.

But my fear of making decisions is that of making the wrong choice, because I make the wrong choice far more often than I should. And knowing this fact leads me to make more bad decisions, as I change my mind on the assumption that my first instinct must be wrong.

Essentially, I am constantly engaged in a game of bluff and double-bluff with myself. It is exhausting as I am simultaneously a fiendish opponent and a totally useless one.

So I was the worst person to be faced with an automated check-out over the holiday period, because it offered me the opportunity to buy and weigh my bag at the start of the process, which would allow me to put my items straight into the bag, saving me as many as 30 seconds.

I gave that a lot of thought – should I stick with what I knew, and bag up my groceries afterwards, or should I take a risk on a new and brilliant short cut?

“This is inevitably going to be the wrong choice,” I thought, as I went for the short cut. This is because I have never found a short cut that is more successful than the longer route.

I scanned my bag and then placed it in the bagging area. The computer ummed and ahhed for a moment, then told me to proceed, its fingers steepled.

I tried to scan some cheese, failed, straightened out the bar code, failed again, straightened it out again, succeeded, and put it in the bag.

“Unexpected item in the bagging area”, the computer lied. It had been lulling me into complacency. Instinctively I removed the cheese. Another bad decision.

The light flashed and a supermarket operative appeared. “I took the cheese by accident,” I explained. He stabbed a code into the machine to cancel the cheese and scooted off.

I immediately put the cheese back in the bag instead of scanning it.

“Unexpected item in the bagging area”, the computer said, reasonably this time. The supermarket operative returned. “I accidentally put the cheese back,” I explained. He repeated the cheese cancellation. I now hated cheese, and put it back in the basket.

I tried another item, some washing-up liquid this time. I scanned it correctly, the price came up, I placed it in the bag.

“Unexpected item in the bagging area.”

The supermarket operative appeared. I think he hated me, and I could not blame him. He probably dreams about me now. “I don’t understand why it’s not expecting the things it has told me I’ve got. Oh, it’s the bag, isn’t it?” I said.

“Yeah,” he said.

“I don’t get it. How can it not be expecting a bag in the bagging area? If anything, that is the one thing that a bagging area should be expecting.”

He cancelled the bag without a word and stalked off in search of less problematic customers, like a half-starved Rottweiler on heat, or a sarcastic teenager covered in flaming spikes.

And so I went back to my usual practices of filling up a bagging area while not quite having enough space, and ruing my poor decisions. The cheese worked this time, the check-out having become reconciled to the idea that I might want to buy some. It even accepted the bag. Eventually.

Come to think of it, “decisive” probably isn’t the word.


COLUMN: December 28, 2017

An oven front panel

I SPENT Christmas on my own, partly for complicated reasons, but mostly in an attempt not to bring calamity to other people’s Christmases. Nobody needs a repeat of The Stuffing Incident.

It seemed wantonly extravagant to buy a turkey for myself, and Christmas is hardly the time for wanton extravagance. Besides, I was not sure if the shelves in my oven went down far enough to accommodate one and my chopping board is fairly small.

So I decided to go for a chicken. You’d have been happier with a chicken too. At least chicken tastes of something. Turkey just tastes like a photocopy of a photocopy of chicken.

But I pushed the rubber dinghy out and bought the best organic chicken I could find. It was corn-fed, and consequently, apparently, was bright yellow.

I do not understand this. Why does chicken’s skin turn yellow on a corn diet? What is it about corn that tints skin so? I mean, I live on a diet of strong tea, but I am as pale as Michelangelo’s David, which is where the resemblance ends.

Perhaps some enterprising farmer could try different feed, like beetroot or asparagus, and we could have multi-coloured chickens, like heritage carrots or tomatoes. The chiller cabinet in Tesco could look like a packet of Refreshers.

Anyway, I took my yellow chicken, rubbed it with olive oil, salt, and pepper, and chucked some sprigs of thyme in the cavity, all the while using expressions like “bosh” and “luvvly jubbly”, as Jamie Oliver might have done. And then I fell at my usual hurdle, which meant I had to switch on my laptop.

You see, I live in a rented flat, and a previous occupant had been so fastidious when it came to cleaning the oven that he or she had scrubbed off most of the labels on its front panel, rendering it useless.

So when I moved in, I did a trawl of the internet in an attempt to master my oven, and I found that somebody was selling as a spare part a front panel of my oven on eBay. And so I made a copy of the photograph.

Similarly, I found a PDF of the instruction manual online, not, of course, on the website of the oven manufacturer, but in an internet forum I discovered halfway down page 6 of a Google search, which is, by the way, the best place to hide anything.

So, whenever I have to use my oven, I have to switch on my computer, find the manual and picture of the front panel, and zoom in on it so I know which settings to use.

I know I am not alone. Yes, the specifics are different, but we all have quirky things and workarounds in our homes. There’s the broken flush that you have to press in just the right way. There’s the funny window latch that you have to wobble before you open it. There’s the bathroom door you have to keep your foot against because the lock froze and it would probably work if you got some WD40, but you’ve forgotten to get some WD40 for about 18 months.

These are all things that, if you were buying a property, would probably put you off, the inconveniences that are just enough to annoy you at the time, but not inconvenient enough to stick in your mind and make you do something about it. If they were a television programme, they would be The One Show or a Michael McIntyre variety show.

So instead of fixing them for good we bumble along, with a low-level buzz of irritation in our lives.

No longer. Let us make a New Year’s Resolution together. Let 2018 be the year we finally adopt a zero-tolerance approach to slightly annoying things.

Let 2018 be the year you finally get the gas company to spell your name right. Let 2018 be the year you unsubscribe to those emails. Let 2018 be the year you buy a new ironing board cover instead of just Sellotaping it back down because the elastic perished.

Better than that, let 2018 be the year you find out why corn turns chickens yellow.

Fix the small things as they crop up, and we can turn our ire in 2018 on the important things, like the spread of food bank use, the rise in homelessness, the increase in post-Brexit-vote hate crimes.

And maybe we can see our way to having a Happy New Year.

COLUMN: December 21, 2017

Not really my thing

I HAD to pop down to London for a function, which is my favourite word to describe an event in which people stand around with drinks in their hands while eating small pieces of toast.

This is because the word “function” makes it sound as if a party were grimly necessary, like plumbing or paying your council tax, instead of being a jolly business involving a free bar for the first two hours.

I always enjoy going to London, because it allows me to witness one of the best things about living in the UK in the early 21st century – people using public transport looking genuinely angry about having to wait half a minute for the next train.

It is all I can do to prevent myself from telling them about the two trains an hour that run from my local station, and how there are people in rural parts of the country who will be reading this and thinking, “Look at that fancy pants remoaner Bainbridge with his two trains an hour. We have one train a week, every Thursday, and that gives us 38 seconds to get all our shopping at the market in town or we’ll miss the only train coming back.

“This is why we voted for Brexit. Not to make our lives better, but to make his life worse.”

I travelled down to London by train, and unfortunately there was an incident down the line which caused my journey to be cut short at Rugby. A light-hearted column is not the place to dwell on what the incident was, but my sincere sympathy goes to the family, especially at this time of year.

As a result, my entire train was decanted onto another entire train, on which space was already at a premium. This meant that people who had paid for seats were forced to stand. Nobody, of course, could complain, and nor should they have done. Soberingly, we had all been reminded that things could definitely be worse.

And this meant that we could focus our full attention on the very specific problem of remaining upright on a fast moving and tilting train while being unable to move one’s feet because of luggage on the floor.

I have rarely been accused of being well-balanced. I have to stop before descending stairs because of vertigo. My record distance travelled on a skateboard is 1.5 metres, and that was mostly by accident. My PE teacher used to call colleagues to watch whenever I attempted to walk from one end of a gym bench to another. I suspect there was a book run on it.

So standing in a very small space while battling the twin forces of momentum and gravity is especially taxing for a man like me. All of this is to explain that what happened was not my fault.

Five passengers including me were crammed in a small space between the toilet and the on-board shop. One of our number decided that this was the ideal opportunity to learn everything he could about four new friends, while four of us were more sceptical, focused as we were on being mostly vertical while everything else was diagonal.

The others were holding safety bars. But I did not have one to hand, and had to grip a slightly dimpled part of the wall, like one of those rope-free climbers you see dangling from overhanging rocks. And it was heating up, and my fingertips were becoming increasingly slick with perspiration.

“And why did you leave your last job? Have you had any sexual problems? What’s your favourite colour?” our garrulous friend asked. I was distracted, and, before I could say “green”, the train jolted violently, my grip was lost, and I was flung forward, my face ending an inch away from that of a recently retired elderly gentleman.

“Sorry!” I said, and flung myself back, my elbow hitting the sliding door between our tiny compartment and the on-board shop. It hurt my elbow, but that was the least of my issues.

For I had hit the button which activates the sliding door, and the elderly retired gentleman’s similarly elderly retired wife was leaning against the door at the time.

And the door slid open, sending the woman spiralling backwards into the on-board shop, just shy of the display of Snickers bars.

I apologised to her, as she staggered back into our shared area, but somehow it did not quite seem enough. Or functional.