December 2008 Archives

I got Hubs Zavvi vouchers for Christmas, wouldn't you berluddy know it. On Saturday we dashed up town to use them before the company crashed completely, and were told they weren't accepting vouchers.

What?

The place was a thriving mass of people buying DVDs and games and music, but the suckers who'd bought vouchers were left empty-handed.

The bar stewards!

"What did the wife get you for Crimbo?" people ask Hubs.

"Nothing," he replies.

Bugger bugger bugger!

To add (thieving) insult to injury, the city centre was heaving. I've never seen so many people in my life. It was a claustrophobic, oxygen-deprived, survival-of-the-fittest nightmare.

Shuffling down the Pallasades ramp, this huge bloke bashed into me so hard I thought I'd been hit by a truck. "He's just bashed into me!" I hissed at Hubs, rubbing my broken shoulder. The man then cut in front, almost tripping us over. Hubs thrust his not inconsiderable shoulder at him and bashed him back. It was that kind of atmosphere.

New Street was unbelievable. Unbearable. Pushchairs cut a swathe through the masses using move-or-die manoeuvres. Groups of people just stopped suddenly for no apparent reason, causing a stumbling back-up in their wake. We were leaping from left to right to avoid oncoming bodies like we were participating in Riverdance. Old people waved sticks in front of them, young people just relied on their suppleness to avoid death.

It was awful.

To soothe our shattered nerves, we dived into Waterstones. Ah the peaceful serenity of Waterstones. I whined and dribbled whilst Hubs repeatedly asked, "Are we done yet? Are we done yet?"

Next stop, HMV, who were accepting vouchers. Hubs went on a massive picking spree whilst I repeatedly asked, "Are we done yet? Are we done yet?"

The heaving masses started to get to me. I had the urge to scream hysterically. I had the urge to hold out my arms and spin on the spot just to get some Breathing Space.

I had the urge to start hitting people who were banging into me with Annoying Regularity.

We headed back to New Street Station before our sanity and stamina gave out. The local service had been cancelled for an indeterminate period because apparently train drivers hadn't felt like turning up for work. Dozens of people stood around waiting, next to a Christmas tree cordoned off with a barrier that had a 'health hazard' warning stuck to it!

We got off the packed train moments before the oxygen ran out, grateful to have survived.

I'm taking a cattle prod with me next time.

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday
Brummie Blogs: There rest of time

I don't actually like Christmas trees. Yeah, bah humbug and all that. I just think they're a bit messy. Not that I'm a neat freak or anything, look round my house and the words that spring to mind are 'casual attitude to housework'. I just think they're a bit... well pointless really.

I threw out our old tree recently. I say old, but we'd only had it a couple of years. I just got sick of looking at the horrible thing.

Which meant we were bereft of a Christmas tree this year, and Middle Son - who thinks the world will stop revolving if all family traditions are not strictly adhered to - was coming home.

I did consider hacking off a branch from our apple tree, spraying it silver and tossing some baubles at it. But in the end I gave in to social pressure and Hubs and I set off to get A Proper Christmas Tree.

B&Q in Selly Oak had one box of broken lights and some sad balls in a pack. Nothing else. The Christmas department was empty, just tumbleweeds rolling across the empty space where it used to be.

Hubs and I looked at each other. "Think we might have a problem," I said.

"Don't panic," Hubs said, "Let's try Homebase."

Homebase only had real trees on the verge of death for £30. A twig in a pot cost £10, which of course put Hubs in a Yorkshire fury ("A tenner for a twig?" he kept saying).

I wondered whether to pick up some silver spray and glitter while we were there, but Hubs raced me back to the car.

B&Q in Mucklows Hill fortunately had some artificial trees. Unfortunately, they were all beyond naff. A three foot blue one (and yukky blue at that), a four foot brown one (surely a brown tree is a dead tree isn't it?), a pink one (kill me now). Skinny ones, tall ones, upsidedown ones (what genius of the tree world came up with that idea?), they were all pretty depressing.

We finally narrowed the sad offerings down to two - a four foot plum one (yes, plum) or a four foot black one. In the end we went for the black one because it suited my feelings about Christmas trees and seemed a bit gothic and rebellious.

It wasn't until we reached the counter that we discovered that all Christmas trees had been drastically reduced... except the black one. Story of my life!

As we hauled the expensive monstrosity out of the shop, we ran into Santa sitting in an Ikea chair outside the exit doors. "Ho ho ho," he bellowed, kicking at a collection box with his black boot. "Have you been a good girl this year?"

I leaned down close to him, peered into his rheumy eyes and breathed, "Well no, actually."

"Oh," he said, sounding a bit surprised that some woman who was still coming to terms with paying a berluddy fortune for a crap Christmas tree was invading his personal space. "Well maybe I'll bring you a little something anyway."

"Great," I said, tossing money into the collection box, "Make it a bottle of whisky will you?"

The tree doesn't actually look too bad covered in silver baubles. Its fibre-optic too, can't get more gaudy than that! I think I can probably live with it for a few days.

Whatever tree you find yourself staring at over the festive season, may it fill you with good cheer and joy - before you lob it back in the loft on New Year's Eve.

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday
Brummie Blogs: There rest of time

Like the doubters who said CDs would never replace vinyl records (and they're still saying this even today), I am sceptical about the new book reader from Sony. I've looked at it and I want it, but will it really be the same as reading an actual book? And if it is the same as reading an actual book, then you might as well read an actual book and save yourself a couple of hundred quid.

Yes, that's right, £200 for something that lets you read a book. That could buy you oodles of real books with proper covers and everything. Okay, there's lots of books in there (holds about 160), but you can only read one at a time can't you.

If this takes over the world as CDs did, what will happen to my vast swathes of precious bookcases? There will be gaps along walls where my life, my love and my soul used to be. Dust will simply fall to the floor and collect in piles (and I'll have to vacuum it up, horrors!)

And what will happen in the bath, where I do most of my reading, if I drop it in the scalding water? Will it be able to cope with impenetrable steam and tsunamis of bubblebath?

What if it's a crap book and I sling it across the room in frustration, will it survive?

But mostly, will it feel like a proper book that I can stroke and hug and brush against my cheek, or will it feel like a hard, cold machine that's pretending to be a book but isn't?

For all these reasons - and because ebooks aren't any cheaper, despite there being no paper production involved - I might give this a miss until the price drops to less than a Stephen King tome.

I think I'll also avoid it because its waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too easy to spot a book online, lust for it, and have it winging its way towards you within seconds of entering your credit card number. Dangerous for a bibliophile.

But if I had to give one sole reason why I won't be getting the ereader, it's because I can't and won't give up those wonderful hours spent in the delicious sanctity that is Waterstones. Ahhh, Waterstones (sigh). PDFs just aren't the same as handling the real thing in a real place.

Besides which, along with the iphone, the movie channel and food, I simply can't afford it.

[However, if Sony want a Chronic Bibliophile to test-drive one in the name of technological advancement (and are willing to give me one for free), do get in touch.]

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday
Brummie Blogs:Hiding out there rest of time.

As the party season comes charging towards like a herd of decorated elephants, I've been reminiscing about corporate festivities from days gone by. Whilst most company events start off like the Boots advert, they usually end like a scene from The Great Escape, with employees furtively slipping out the back door and making a run for it.

In between, a lot of strange things can happen.

At one major company I worked for a young (and v.ambitious) secretary had had a brief fling with a married boss at the Crimbo party the previous year. Thinking the same would happen again this year, she sat next to him all evening like a love-sick puppy, but he pointedly ignored her. She sobbed hysterically in the toilet when she (literally) couldn't pin him down, and finally ran off into the night like Cinderella, her dreams of stratospheric social status destroyed. I have to admit, we were all just a bit pleased.

And there's always one Secretary By Day, Insatiable Slut By Night, flinging herself in wild abandonment at anything above the level of associate and ending the night hugging an empty bottle in the corner of the room with makeup smudged over her face like a Picasso painting.

I worked at one company where the receptionist was like Hitler in drag, it was like dealing with a stick of dynamite. But at the Christmas party we saw her pissed and over-emotional being tended to by one of the top-level bosses (also pissed). They sat at the dinner table, arms around each other, glaring at everyone else like they were plotting mass homicide. Very strange.

That was the party where one secretary, finding she'd left her mobile phone in the office, encouraged a couple of us to break into the building to retrieve it. Somewhat inebriated, we also raided the stationery cupboard which the receptionist guarded like a rabid Rottweiler, virtually emptying it. The atmosphere the next day was hysterically horrendous as she tried to hunt down every stolen pen and stapler with all the subtlety of Attila the Hun.

Then there was the large formal event where one of the bosses with a particularly well-honed sadistic streak decided that a game of Charades in front of the whole company would be fun for everybody. Bar steward. Our names were called out at random, and employees shuffled up to the stage like condemned prisoners to entertain upper management.

My name was called. I shook my head at the CEO wielding the microphone. "Come on," he yelled jollily. I shook my head again, firmer this time. "Get on up here," he ordered in boss-like manner." I pursed my lips (to stop me mouthing F-Off), squinted my eyes and held up my hand - hell would freeze over before I humiliated myself for their amusement.

Even worse than company parties are the department parties which, because I'm specialised in my particular sector, usually consisted of a couple of bosses, and me. One year my two bosses took me to an ultra-chic restaurant where meals were just coloured dots on large white plates - I didn't know whether to lick it or frame it. They talked shop, which was as riveting as waiting for a saucepan of potatoes to come to the boil, only for hours. I texted a work colleague: "I'm dying." She replied: "Just drink to kill the pain." It didn't help, although I certainly gave it a good go - they poured me into a taxi afterwards with me wailing about how much I loved them. Facing them the next day was pretty dire, I can tell you.

Then there's the boss's 'home parties'. I only went to one of these and, like Scarlet O'Hara, swore I'd rather have my limbs cut off with a blunt blade before attending another. It was so stuffy they only served wine (horrors) and us mere workers could barely understand the guffawing of the other guests, so it's a good job they didn't deign to speak to us. Except one.

A big rotund man wandered over to me. "And who are you?" he bellowed. "I work with Mr X," I said. "Oh, are you a partner?" "No, I'm his secretary." There was a shocked pause, then without another word he turned on his heels and walked away, clearly unwilling to waste another breath on a mere pleb. Tsk.

The best parties, of course, were the girlie ones. Off us secretaries would go at lunchtime, determined to have ourselves a good time. And we did.

Boy, did we ever.

The drinking would start around 10am, with bottles surreptitiously pulled out of bosses filing cabinets, passed underneath desks and tipped with gusto into coffee mugs. We'd start off by sneaking to the loos to tart ourselves up but, once the alcohol took hold, we noisily disappeared en masse, leaving the office empty. One boss described the noise coming out of the Ladies as a 'hollering tribe of high-pitched viragos' - we had to look up the word 'virago' and weren't sure whether to feel insulted or not (but we were too drunk to care).

Barely dressed and covered in tinsel, we strutted unsteadily down city streets whooping and jeering at any male we passed and flirting outrageously with waiters and customers at whichever restaurant had been unfortunate enough to accept us. Then the drinking would begin in earnest.

One time a very quiet secretary merely sniffed at a glass of wine and was immediately rendered legless. Slurring and cackling wildly, she rang her boss in the office and said, "You're a dick." We tried to wrestle the phone off her, but she kept stealing other phones to ring his office and hiss abuse. Oh the grovelling she had to do the day after! (She wasn't sacked... you can get away with a lot at Christmas.)

One gorgeous secretary had a massive crush on her boss, who looked exactly like Alan Carr, complete with buck teeth. We simply couldn't understand it. After a couple of drinks she wailed and howled about her unrequited love, while we all glanced at each other thinking WTF. They eventually married (and we all thought WTF).

Sometimes bosses would ring us mid-party and demand our return. Yeah, okay, whatever. Sometimes we did, pouring into the office hiccoughing and giggling and lobbing Christmas decorations at each other. Most times we didn't return until the next day, hauling our hungover carcasses to our desks and falling across them to sleep it off.

Ah those were the days. I quite miss that. Christmas festivities for me this year will consist of one mince pie on a plate next to a large tumbler of whisky, with me singing It'll Be Lonely This Christmas with the keyboard people and the talking cacti.

It's gonna be wild!

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday
Brummie Blogs: There rest of time

The time of year has come where every rodent within a 15 mile area comes to take up residence beneath my garden shed. Persistent little buggers they are, fighting through bricks and chicken wire and strategically placed planks of wood to get at the sought-after abode. Once there, they run amok amongst the bicycles and tools, cheerfully gobbling up all the 'industrial strength' rat poison and having themselves a jolly old time.

When the annual migration happened this year, Hubs said he had the perfect solution. He dragged me to The Most Boring Shop on the Planet called 'Big Boys Toys' (yawn). As the name suggests, it was full of men's stuff; remote controlled objects, four wheel buggy things, hunting clobber... and guns. Yep, lots of guns.

When Hubs said 'gun' I just assumed he meant a replacement for the broken air pistol, but he glanced fleetingly at the small stuff and homed in on the rifles.

Yeah, rifles!

A man who looked like ex-SAS came over and started talking to Hubs, quickly grasping that Hubs was familiar with killing machines, so the conversation got all technical. I stood there, more bored than I've ever been in my life, while a crowd of men gathered to listen to the Men Talking Guns. One actually pushed me out of the way to get closer, the brute.

We eventually left the shop armed (literally) with a berluddy big rifle. That night all I heard was PHUPT PHUPT as Hubs hung out of an upstairs window taking aim at the patio. Hours later, the death toll was one - not a rat but a snail that was eating the bait. Next door's cat narrowly escaped with its life (oh god).

Then, last week, it finally happened. I was at the kitchen sink, barefoot, when I glanced out the window and saw this rat coming out from beneath the shed. I told Hubs, and he shot upstairs like an Exocet missile.

There was a phut noise, and suddenly the rat keeled over, then hauled itself behind the plant pots dragging its leg behind him like some villain in a western film.

Hubs raced downstairs, dog in hot pursuit (men, tsk). He moved the pots, and the dog finished the rodent off quite promptly.

They were both hugely excited, smell of blood and all that. "I killed one!" said Hubs.

"One down," I said, smiling, "1,434 to go."

Spurred on by his kill, Hubs challenged me to a shooting competition. I'm quite good with guns, I don't know why, I just am. We stood aiming at a target at the bottom of the garden and phutted away.

Despite never handling the new, highly-polished and much-prized rifle before, I won. Hubs then insisted on a competition with the repaired hand pistol. I won that too, and suddenly Hubs whisked all the killing machines away.

Just call me Brummie Broad Palin.

Hubs may recover in time.

[No neighbours were injured in the making of this post.]

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday
Brummie Blogs: There rest of time.