The Olympic Opening Ceremony

So that was it? The athletes ambled around the track, the flame(s) were lit and a load of British acts performed out of tune.

I will declare now that I am emphatically not a fan of the olympics. I think it over-hyped and over-hyped. However I was pressganged into watching some of the opening ceremony (a dog bite necessitating a trip to A+E saved me from all of it).

All I can say is, what a load of crap. Most of what I saw looked like a primary school interpretative dance class with the school orchestra playing the music. The one truly excellent bit was Rowan Atkinson's satire of iphones. My subversive side just couldn't help someone would trip up, especially towards the end. Or someone would ask to light a fag off the torch. Or there would be an announcement saying the torch was delayed due to traffic/tube problems.

As for the lighting of the flame; what a load of nonsense. I saw Sir Steve Redgrave light his torch and thought they had, for once, made a sensible choice. But then passing it round the sprogs? Really? Unless they have a crystal ball, how do the British Olympic chaps know that these proteges won't be crack addicts (or doing usefully, socially-responsible jobs) by the time of the Olympics. Surely it would have been better to leave the tasks to those who had actually achieved.

Over all it was a shambles. It just was. It's a shame it had to be but so be it.

JR

The Olympic Opening Ceremony

So that was it? The athletes ambled around the track, the flame(s) were lit and a load of British acts performed out of tune.

I will declare now that I am emphatically not a fan of the olympics. I think it over-hyped and over-hyped. However I was pressganged into watching some of the opening ceremony (a dog bite necessitating a trip to A+E saved me from all of it).

All I can say is, what a load of crap. Most of what I saw looked like a primary school interpretative dance class with the school orchestra playing the music. The one truly excellent bit was Rowan Atkinson's satire of iphones. My subversive side just couldn't help someone would trip up, especially towards the end. Or someone would ask to light a fag off the torch. Or there would be an announcement saying the torch was delayed due to traffic/tube problems.

As for the lighting of the flame; what a load of nonsense. I saw Sir Steve Redgrave light his torch and thought they had, for once, made a sensible choice. But then passing it round the sprogs? Really? Unless they have a crystal ball, how do the British Olympic chaps know that these proteges won't be crack addicts (or doing usefully, socially-responsible jobs) by the time of the Olympics. Surely it would have been better to leave the tasks to those who had actually achieved.

Over all it was a shambles. It just was. It's a shame it had to be but so be it.

JR

Jobs (again)

Once again I am in a familiar position. Having moved house (and city) I am without a job. The sensible thing would have been to have had something set up before I left London but that would be far too straight forward.

In my defence, I was working full-time until the day before I left and trying to fit packing around that so my time for job searching was somewhat limited. Not an excuse I know, but partial mitigation.

I have now moved, the house is unpacked and I've settled down to that familiar feeling of rising panic and general disillusioned irritability. The recruitment consultants I have been in  touch with have been worse than useless. Yes I know I don't really have much sector experience in any area but surely you can see from the academic stuff that I'm bright enough to pick a lot of stuff up as I go along. I'm not asking you to get me on a graduate programme here, just get me something to pay the rent and buy food. To add insult to injury, I told one of them my previous (extremely modest even for London) salary to have that blown out the water as outlandish. Seriously?!

So I'm left wondering where the hell to start to get a job. Any job. Ideally office hours and ideally with the glimmer of prospect about it but I'm not that fussed at the moment.

The last time I was in this situation, my guardian angel was watching and I got a phone call out of the blue offering the van driving job I talked about. OK, so it wasn't the best paying or most challenging job but it was a source of income when I was growing desperate and I got to work with some incredible people. Overall it was lots of fun but I can't go through life trusting almost exclusively to fate.

Fortunately, unlike last time I was in this situation, a friend of my parent's next door neighbour lives nearby. He is a true gentleman and a genuinely lovely man who, as well as providing much needed, moral support, is arranging introductions to various people of vague influence in areas where I am interested in working. Creating networking opportunities is invaluable and I really appreciate it.

In addition, my girlfriend's father has just become a senior partner in his accountancy firm and has offered to spend some weekends taking me through the basics of accounting. He has also suggested that I enrol with a professional accounting body and think about taking one of their qualifications in the next nine months or so (well and good but it's going to cost the guts of a grand to do). This will give me certifiable accounting qualifications combined with a decent period of experience and a reference in the accounting world should I decide to follow that route or, at any rate, a strong and viable plan B. Even if I don't become an accountant, the basic knowledge will add to my general knowledge of the world and the way it works and will hopefully give me additional depth and perspective in any career path I do follow. As I discussed with someone recently, there are few careers where it wouldn't be an advantage to appreciate the financial and legal implications of actions being taken. Although I might not be a qualified practitioner (and would naturally default to one for in-depth analysis or an official opinion) I would still have and be able to apply that knowledge if only to rule more extreme scenarios out.

This is all very well, good and exciting but in the mean time, what the hell do I do to pay the rent?

Argh!!!

JR

Back to School

I was in the supermarket yesterday and couldn't help noticing the huge displays proclaiming, "Back to School" and the accompanying crate-loads of stationery and school shoes. How dreadful. The school holidays have barely started and already shops are reminding kids everywhere that their holidays are a finite quantity.

I remember the feeling of desolation when the back to school displays went up in my local supermarket. The feeling of the holidays stretching ahead of me came to a rather abrupt end and the intricately crafted sense of denial about going back to school was shattered. I was lucky. I grew up in Scotland where the school holidays start several weeks before the English ones. For some reason, shops never quite worked this out and as a result, I had an amnesty from the lurid stationery and the clumpy shoes for a few weeks.

Don't get me wrong; I had quite a good time at school. I don't buy into the "best time of your life" crap but on the whole, it wasn't too bad. However, like almost every other kid out there, I would have far preferred to be doing anything else. Double maths just isn't going to be as exciting as watching paint dry!

Why then do shops persist in ruining children's school holidays by putting up the "back to school" displays at the earliest possible opportunity. Everyone knows that kids go back to school and I'm sure most will stock up on the essentials in plenty time for term starting. We don't need two months of prior notice. Shops; stop this cruelty now!

Similarly annoying is the products shops try and flog under the back to school banner. Notebooks are a good example. I can only think of one occasion where I might have needed a notebook in my everyday school activity. Even then, there were jotters or loose paper available. So why the hell do shops flog a variety of hideously coloured and even more hideously expensive notebooks? Equally, most children I have encountered aren't allowed to use ink until they reach secondary school. Why therefore do shops stock pens covered in images of primary school level cartoon characters etc? The answer is profit of course. We all know kids are suckers for anything shiny, brightly coloured and/or bearing the image of their favourite TV character. Even so the cynicism annoys me. Not half as much as ruining school holidays does though.

To continue the rant at a slight tangent (I've built up a slight head of steam so bear with me); you have probably guessed I'm quite protective of the idea of free time, especially for kids. Therefore, up there with the premature 'back to school' displays has to be Kumon maths. A correspondence maths course that aims to improve numeracy in kids (and which has rather gratifyingly been discredited fairly recently). Although I have never been subjected to this particular torture (thanks Mum and Dad), I have been aware of it since some school friends were sentenced to it. How soul-destroying. You finish your (ample) school homework, piano practice, etc and then rather than kicking back and doing something fun you get a new set of homework to wade through. And just to add insult to injury, it's maths!

Interestingly, I've spoken to a couple of maths teachers who really don't rate it. But what do they know? They're only teachers. The testimonials on the website are far more reliable.

My most recent encounter with Kumon was when I was a student. During my summer holidays I worked as an English teacher for foreign kids. They came over to Britain and lived in boarding schools or university halls of residence with a load of students who taught them English (a bit) and generally introduced them to Britain and it's culture. This was done both in lessons and through day trips to historical and interesting cities (where predictably the kids were frog-marched round a couple of "educational" attractions being cajoled into making admiring comments while playing their gameboys before making a bee line for the kind of chain stores that are found on any high street in any country on any continent on any planet). Down time in the centres was usually spent doing sports or crafts in the afternoon then some form of activity in the evening, usually designed to make the leaders look silly (macarena sober anyone?).

We encouraged (forced) all the kids to get involved in these activities and put their dormitories out of bounds for the duration to aid this. This was to ensure nothing went missing/got broken (or if it did, the kids couldn't be blamed), stop anyone getting pregnant (unlikely but best play safe) and most importantly of ll, try to tire the little darlings out a bit so they went to sleep at night. One day, after the afternoon activities had started, I was doing a check of all the rooms to ensure nobody had slipped away in the chaos that was getting things started. When checking one room, I struck gold. One of the lads was in his room quietly occupied. Except it wasn't with a gameboy or an ipersonalitysubstitute (that's another rant!). On closer inspection it was a Kumon maths book. The poor kid had been packed off on holiday with homework.

The kid in question was genuinely upset. On one hand, he wanted to be out in the sun playing with his mates. On the other, he was afraid of the wrath of his mother if he didn't do his daily quota of sums.

My solution? I confiscated the books and told him that he could have them back at the end of the course. When he protested, saying he would get into trouble, I told him that if he did, he could pass the phone to me and I would take full responsibility. Much relieved, he legged it outside to join his mates chatting up the French girls. Sorry. I mean swimming!

Sure enough the next day his mother did call. Fortunately, rather than giving the lad an ear-bashing she called the office. I had pre-warned my manager that this might happen so when the call came through, he gave me a shout to have a chat to her. She was very reasonable in the end. After the obligatory burst of hostility, I pointed out that she had shelled out not an insignificant amount of money for her son to come on this holiday the stated purpose of which was to improve his English, introduce him to British culture first hand and let him make new friends. I reminded her that her son was getting three hours a day of fairly structured English teaching . In addition to that, the activities we provided were designed to mix up the nationalities so that communicating in English was often the only option and did far more for their conversational abilities than reciting platitudes in the class room (this kid's new best mate was from a different country so they were both improving their speaking by leaps and bounds by getting to know each other). Finally, I told her that her son was miserable as he was trapped inside while all his mates were outside having fun.  All that sounded fairly confrontational. I promise I was much more diplomatic when I was speaking to the parent. Either way, the net result was that the mother came round and agreed that the Kumon could wait for another day.

Right, that's my spleen well and truly vented for now. I'm sure something else will make me grumpy soon and another rant will follow. Until then, I'm off to enjoy the sun.

JR

Jack Sheffield

Good afternoon world. Recently I have been rather silent on the blog. This was followed by a, comparative, glut of posting. There was one reason for this and one reason only; I became an addict. What started out as a means to pass the time when I had little else to do became a compelling habit.

What is the source of my addiction; alcohol, heroin, exercise? No, it's the novels of Jack Sheffield. I slipped into it so easily. The first novel had been recommended by my girlfriend months before however it went to the bottom of the 'to read' list for no other reason than it didn't seem that exciting. Fast forward to a few weeks ago: my kindle battery was dead, my paper books were all at my flat and I had a long tube journey ahead of me. I picked up a dusty copy of the aforementioned book that had been languishing on my bedside table with the intention of reading it on the outward journey then picking up another book for my return. Like most plans in life, it didn't survive contact with reality. I couldn't put it down. Forty-eight hours later it was finished (it would have been quicker had I not had plans).

Then the craziness started. Normally I can't read books by the same author back to back. I get bored, I get irritated by their little writing ticks and I end up not enjoying perfectly good books. Not so this time. Within two weeks I had read every book ever written by Jack Sheffield (five in total) and put his next one on pre-order. My record was charging through one in twenty four hours. More than once, I was sitting up at 3 a.m. on a work night reading the first few pages of the next novel unable to bear a cliff-hanger until the next morning.

Why was this? What made the books so compelling?

In all honesty; I'm not completely sure.

Let me give you a bit of background: Jack Sheffield is a retired primary school head teacher and primary teaching lecturer who writes about a character called (surprisingly) Jack Sheffield who is also a primary school head-teacher in a rural Yorkshire primary school. Each book is set over one academic year and take the form of Sheffield's personal diary, detailing both school and community events and events in his own life. So far so good. I once described it as like the Archers but with fewer animals and more kids. My mind's ipod always played the first few bars of barwick green at the start and end of each chapter! (and if you followed the link the tune will now be stuck in your head. Sorry!)

The pages describe life in a rural village. The kind of place where everybody knows everyone else and has done for several generations. Where the cricket team is also the football team which is also the rugby team. It's the sort of place where the barman in the local has your pint waiting for you in anticipation of you coming in and you can have it on tick if you've forgotten your wallet. In short, a place of real community spirit. Fortunately the books aren't written in such romantic and nostalgic terms otherwise I'm sure they would be unbearable. Instead, the dramas of the village are played out through some well written and utterly charming characters (and some deeply irritating ones too). The books are also filled with stories of teaching that could only come from a seasoned teacher: they are far too surreal to have been invented. These add a pleasing light-hearted edge to the whole thing.

Where I think Sheffield really wins is his writing style. I started reading the books and was at once absorbed in a new place. It stopped feeling like I was reading the books and more like I was there; watching the vital cricket match, overhearing conversations in the pub or passing through the staff room at break time. This all sounds a bit dramatic I know but I can't think of a better way to put it.

Books that have this effect on me are rare. The only others I can remember being quite so spellbinding are the Dark Materials trilogy by Philip Pullman (again a genre I wouldn't usually choose to read). I thoroughly enjoyed the process, not least because there were various other bits of stress happening in the real world so it was nice to have a bit of a mental bolt-hole.

I would strongly recommend anyone and everyone should read them. Even if you aren't as captivated as me, they are still undoubtedly fun and easy-going books (as evidenced by my girlfriend reading an entire one on a train journey up to Edinburgh). If you do pick one up, I hope you enjoy it.

JR

Is Andy Murray Scottish Again?

Today was the men's Wimbledon final where Andy Murray played Roger Federer. For once with a sports fixture, I watched it. It was a good game. Both players played well and should be proud of their performance. Ultimately, Federer won but not without a fight.

It has been said for years amongst Scots and more recently joked about further afield that, in the press, Scottish sportsmen are British when they win and Scottish when they lose. Today however, Murray may well remain British.

Despite being clearly upset, at one point struggling to speak, Murray was gracious in his praise of Federer and showed humility and gratitude to the crowds who rallied round him. This marked him out as a true gentleman and is worthy if as much, if not more, respect as his performance on the court.

Well done Andy.

JR

Henley Royal Regatta

Last Saturday I spent a wonderful day at Henley Royal Regatta. For those that haven't heard of it, the easiest way of describing it is the rowing version of Ascot or Wimbledon. By that I mean rhat people get dressed up in nice clothes (and impressive hats) then drink copious amounts of pimms while paying passing attention to a sporting event. The whole thing has an air of P. G. Woodhouse about it and I love it for that.

Traditionally, the grandest area has been the Steward's Enclosure. There gentlemen may not remove their blazers or ties unless the heat gets exceptional (i.e. there have been at least two fatalities due to it!) and ladies must wear skirts below the knee and a hat. I have seen people turned away because of a regulation breech.

Outside the Steward's (and one or two other club specific areas) dress codes don't really apply however, rather pleasingly in my opinion, around 90% of men still opt for blazer and tie and most women will usually opt for rather pretty dresses. It is an occasion that well justifies me holding on to my blazer.

On the subject of blazers; there are some spectacular ones. Wild and outrageous colours (and shapes) abound, my favourite being the army ones. They wear blazers of desert camouflage material.

As you can probably guess from my tone, I have "done" Henley for years. As I grew up around rowing, I've always been able to follow what's been going on unlike most other sports. Slightly disappointingly, even at the peak of my rowing career, I was never quite good enough to compete there but at least it gave me some knowledge of the people involved.

My father on the other hand, has rowed Henley several times. It was he that instituted the tradition of going every couple of years when I was growing up. It always amused me that as an ageing leftie radical, he was always adamant that the event was solely about the rowing and the elegant splendour of it all was nothing more than an inconvenience. Naturally this was said as he was trying not to look proud of one of his various old-club or rowing award ties (worn just to avoid standing out you understand). However, after years of dedicated piss-taking from my mother and I, he has finally admitted the spectacle is impressive.

This year was my girlfriend's first experience of Henley. Dutifully we got up at the crack of dawn to catch the train down suitably laden with pimms and picnic supplies. The plan was to get there early and set up a rug on the bank to get a decent vantage point for the racing... And the people. I usually go for the picnic option as it allows the day to be enjoyed fully (in a food and drink sense) while remaining solvent! Also, for some reason, I seem to bump into more people I know on the banks than I do in the enclosures.

This year however was a bit different. It was the first time I was there without my dad. Up until now, I usually met with him at some stage. This year, we were strolling up the tow path and bumping into various people from my past. I was feeling distinctly strange that dad wasn't there (and more than a titch guilty). Suddenly there was a tap on my shoulder followed by, "Hello JR". I turned round and to my utter shock he was standing there. Saying that I was delighted to see him was an understatement.

As a bit of background, dad has been seriously ill for a long time. There have been a couple of extremely close calls with the grim reaper and far too many late-night phone calls from mum saying that he's in hospital. Hence, for some time, every time I have seen him there has been the remote but distinct possibility that it could be for the last time. Since Henley has always been special to him and I have formed so many happy memories because of it, it was wonderful for both of us that he could be there.

Overall it was a fantastic day. Barring one (heavy) shower, the weather was rather nice, we ate lots, drank more and bored my girlfriend with facts and anecdotes about rowing. Bring on next year.

JR

An Insider's Guide to Scotland

A new book has just been released in Japan. It's title, as you may have guessed, is 'An Insider's Guide to Scotland' and it aims to give tourists helpful advice and information to allow them to enjoy their visit to Scotland.

Advice offered ranges from discouraging people from talking to people in Rangers or Celtic strips to encouraging them to try whisky and irn bru (though hopefully not together) via warnings about square sausage, calling natives English and referring to kilts as skirts. It also has information about the etiquette of round buying and no doubt helpful tips on understanding the dialect.

If I were of a more Guardian disposition, I would no-doubt be outraged at the casual racism of this book and it's slavish adherence to national stereotypes. As it happens I think it's rather good. Yes we Scots have a reputation for being hard-drinking, thuggish chauvinists and this is not entirely unjust. However, there is more to our character than that. We are also usually charming, hospitable, witty and extremely keen to show off what our country has to offer.

In keeping with the last sentiment, I am going to append some of my own advice to supplement the guide. Follow at your peril!

The football strip advice seems a little alarmist but equally, rangers fans will not be in a good mood at the moment so probably best to give them a wide berth. Sadly, football is still used as a pretext for division and aggression by some so giving fans (especially groups) a wide berth is probably no bad idea.

Do try whisky. Do try lots. Don't try too much... The hangovers the next morning are unforgiving! The best idea would be to find a whisky pub with knowledgeable staff who are prepared to talk you through each individual whisky and what to expect of it. If you have the time and the ability, go on a distillery tour and try it at source. Don't listen to those that harrumph that you shouldn't put anything in your whisky. That's how they like it; it might not be how you do. I would say that ice generally dulls the flavour where water usually enhances it. Also, be wary of adding other flavours/textures. Bluntly, if you're going to put coke in it, go for a cheap blend not a malt. It will taste the same and you will save a fortune. Mixing fine malts is like making buck's fizz with vintage champagne. On the subject of alcohol, give our local ale a try too. You will struggle to find better.

There is nowhere better to enjoy either beverages than the local pub. If you're in a city, make an effort to go off the beaten track. You will be guaranteed a friendlier and warmer reception and are likely to emerge a few hours later with a host of new friends. Don't take the mandatory grumpy old bugger seriously. There's one in every pub and they're harmless enough. They can usually be found either behind the bar, hunched up at the bar or in the corner. If you go to some of the remote areas, the local really is the centre of the community. I know several settlements that have a pub but no church. Go in for a drink but be aware that you are going in to an area that most people treat as an extension of their home.

Now to food. Do try square sausage. Especially the morning after you ignore my advice about not over-doing the whisky. It's delicious. Also try haggis. Don't be put off by what's in it (and if you don't know, don't ask). Like many things, the outcome is greater than the sum of the parts. If you're into food then there is a growing restaurant scene which showcases our excellent local produce; well worth a try. If not, try and find a pub that does home cooking. Be prepared for big portions! Finally, do give deep-fried mars bars a try. They do exist. You won't finish it but what the hell, it's fun!

Do venture out of Edinburgh and Glasgow. The train services all over the country and are reasonably priced. It's a good way to expand what you see. The highlands have to be seen to be believed. Warm clothes and waterproofs are the order of the day but that doesn't detract from the beauty. On that note, don't complain about the weather. You must have seen where you were going on the map and realised that it was fairly far north. Don't expect it to become a tropical paradise just for you. Get over it and get a jumper, everyone else has.

I will reiterate a point from the book; don't call kilts skirts. It's not funny, it's rude and ignorant. Believe me, you're not the first person to make the joke and it got old slightly before the big bang. Equally, don't stick your hand (or anything else) up our kilts to find out if we're true Scotsmen... Unless you're pretty and prepared for us to return the favour. In which case; my place is just round the corner ;-) That said, we appreciate it does have a certain novelty value (one of the reasons why we wear it) so if you play your cards right, you might snare us for a photo.

Equally don't call us English. We might all be citizens of the UK but that doesn't homogenise us. Again, it's not funny it's just rude.

Try not to look like a tourist. Taking photos of everything your eye sees makes you look like a knob and will mean you block up the streets. It will also limit the amount you actually see. Similarly, standing in the middle of the pavement looking perplexidly at a map will not win you many friends. Essentially, be aware that there are people living wherever you are and they probably have things to do. It will also mark you out as a target for pickpockets and muggers. There aren't many but they do exist.

Finally, enjoy yourself. You're visiting an incredible country with a lot to offer. Hopefully you will have such a good time that you never want to leave.

JR