Chav of the Month

Stunning – words fail me. For the full effect, click on the picture, or go to Chav of the Month for a whole selection of horrors.

Ch-ch-changes

Hmmm, this is all most unnatural. Not just content with the new things going on chez Lyle, it appears that Jon is also going through a similar set of changes and viewpoint revisions. All the best with it!

I think I’m going to need an injection of cynicism, if I’m not careful here.

And then, as if by magic, a nice pair of stories about people being unaware they’ve got HIV and the continued rise in STI cases. Ah, welcome back, despair and cynicism.

Damp Squib

Due to being away, I missed the news/hilarity that the Princess Diana Memorial Fountain has been closed, as it’s currently a hazard to people, who seem to insist on walking through the waters, closely followed by a Slap!Bang!Eek! as they land flat on their arses. Be still, my sympathetic heart.

Rolling, Rolling, Rolling

Some poor people have been in receipt of this rant already, so instead it’s going to be a bit of a two-fer. Yes, you guessed it, bastard trains. I SO need to sort out driving lessons, but until I get my provisional licence back (it having been within the Filofax I left at a friends seven weeks ago) then I can’t even get started on that score. So for the meantime, well, you’ll just have to put up with posts about trains. Once I’m driving I’ll probably vent about Motorways, Service Stations, Drivers, and anything else I can think of, but for now, it’s the joy of Virgin travel.

Let’s get the conclusion out the way first. Both Maggie Thatcher and Richard Branson should die. Train privatisation was one of the worst ideas around – and was basically (pardon the pun) railroaded through so that the government wouldn’t have to invest billions to repair a network that even back in the 80s was getting shonky, and in the last twenty years has only become shonkier. Privatisation was a grand idea, except that the Government forgot that private companies have awkward little buggers called shareholders, who expect to see a return on their investment. Because of that, putting the rail network into the hands of private business was always going to be a right twadge-up. Rather than spending the necessary money on rail infrastructure, they saved it and paid it to the shareholders. Great, everyone’s happy. Well, they are until various accidents because of shonky repairs and toss-all investment. And then it’s a complete “oh shit” moment.

So now we’re in a place where the rail infrastructure is pretty much back under government control (which it should never have left in the first place) and the taxpayers are left with a repair bill that’s about ten times the size of what it was twenty years ago.

Today, because of engineering works, we’re not stopping at about six of the standard stops. In theory this should make for a faster journey. Except it’s actually half an hour longer than usual. The reservations system is fucked not working, so the coachload of tourists who got on at Oxford expecting to all be in coach F have discovered that the train consists of coaches A to E. Luckily it’s a weekday morning outside commuting hours, so there’s space for them in other carriages. But it’s still a balls-up.

Inevitably, there’s a cock-knocking ringpiece with the IQ of a spastic sloth, and he’s got the “shower scene” theme from Psycho as a ringtone. On loud. In a strange way, that theme may be somewhat prophetic…

Across the table from me there’s a French mother-and-daughter, who got on at Oxford and appear to be using the train as a picnic table. A Sainsbury’s quiche, and what appear to be Roquefort and Donkey-shit sandwiches, from the smell. Congenitally unable to use the new “sports-cap” technology on the water bottles, they’ve pulled off the complete cap, as a result of which there are two sodden paper-towels in the nearest waste-bin, and I’m waiting for the laptop to fritz out because of water contact.

Opposite is an archetypal American family, kids wanging about complaining that they all want a window seat, and the parent’s mouths so full of sandwich that they can’t get a word out edgeways.

Eeeee. Eeeee. Eeeee. Yes, another call. Twat-arsed monkey-rimmer. I wonder if it’s possible to do someone lasting damage with a Gilette Mach 3? Maybe it’d be easier to stick the power-cable from the laptop up his arse and switch it on? I think it’s time to experiment, or revise using “Practcial SS Torture Lessons for Dummies”

The Americans are now commenting about how quaint it is to have a train line that cuts through fields. I think I’m just going to blast eardrums with something loud and grouchy. Where’s the Tom Waits MP3s?

St George and Dragon, Wargrave, Berks

Sometimes things just go wrong. Recommended by others, we furkled off to the St. George and Dragon in Wargrave. Beautiful location, right by the river, all meadows and fields on the other side – not far short of idyllic. However, the place itself has been taken over, and recently refurbished. Oh dear, oh dear. The marketing guff menus are all very stylish, glossy black, black and white photography, bronzed text. Very chic. Full of shite.

Ah well, see what it’s like. First problem – the barman doesn’t know how to change beer barrels. OK, benefit of the doubt, maybe it’s his first day. But all the same, can you say “training”? Probably not. But the barrel gets changed by a colleague, and we’re back on track.

Looking around, every table has a menu on it, and there’s nothing implying a seperate dining area. In fact, the marketing guff blathers on at length about how the George and Dragon is relaxed, informal, and comfortable. So we sit down, decide what to eat, and then – not to put too fine a point on it – get ignored by the staff. Not even a modicum of interest. Eventually, following the “oh, fuck this” plan of action, a waitress is hailed (and I really need to practice that piercing fingers-in-the-mouth whistle, a la Blues Brothers) and we try to order.

“Oh, I can take your order, but then you’ll need to sit in our dining area”
“Can’t we just sit here? It’s a table with a menu on, after all”
“Oh no, you’ll need to eat in the dining area”
“Where is that?”
“This table just behind you.”

Yes, this “informal, relaxed” (let’s not forget that one, kids) venue has a dining area, and you can’t sit even one table outside that area. Not even a sign to say “dining area”, it just seems to be a perfectly arbitrary section. No signage, no instructions – I wonder how many potential diners simply walk out, sick of getting ignored by waiting staff. Come to that, I wonder how many simply walk out, never to return.

In fairness, the food was pretty good. Imperfect for a business lunch, as the pasta sauce was basically liquid – I’m amazed my shirt didn’t manage to get some as well. My face and chin certainly did. If I’d been doing it, the sauces and so on would have been a lot firmer, simply in order to keep it all together, and not splatter suits mid-day.

I’d say actually that that’s the problem with the George and Dragon. By all accounts it used to be a good pub that did excellent food, without disappearing up its own arse. Since the refurb, the sphincter is coming ever closer to experiencing self-insertion. In my experience, as soon as you start assuming that customers (and particularly business ones) have the intelligence/patience to figure out the ordering system for themselves, then you’re pretty much fucking doomed. If the “informal” attitude is to be nurtured (and it should be) then having a fixed dining area is shite. It’s being marketed as a food pub, an eating destination – so that’s what it should be, and it means that all the tables should be able to order food. If they want to split it, have two menus, a bar menu and a restaurant menu – not the same thing, but only orderable in one area. And if that’s the concept they’re going to stick to, then reprint the menus to explain that – otherwise custom will just be lost left, right, and centre.

Did the food negate the picky prissy attitude towards ordering? No, not really. Was it worth the money paid for the food? Probably. Will that make the venture a success? Who knows. But I wouldn’t be surprised to see some fairly major changes by the end of the year. For now it’s a slightly schizoid concept, with some pretty major flaws.

Back

Well, six days away, and I feel far better for it. I’ve been told by Dragon that d4d™ can’t become a loved-up mush-fest, and it’s not going to – but there’s going to be a fair number of changes on the way during the next few months.

Of course, d4d has its own place with me anyway, and so some things also aren’t going to change. In fact, if I’m honest, fuck only knows what’s going to happen. I’m going to go with the flow, and see how it all works out.

As for the next short time period, well, the redesign of d4d™ is continuing, once I suss out the WordPress template properly. The stylesheet is sorted(ish) with a couple of tweaks needed now I’ve also looked at it in bloody IE. Then it’s “just” a matter of exporting all the posts from Blogger to WordPress. I don’t think there’ll be anything I can do about the comments from Haloscan (although if anyone knows better, please let me know) which is a ballache, but a necessary evil, I think.

And lifewise? Well, there’s a lot to think about – but plenty of time to do so. I’m still contracted with Oldham ’til the start of October (and that’s going to extend again, I’m sure) but they’ve already been told there’s no frigging way I’m working there at all in 2005. And at that point? Well, it’s all still “seeing how things go” for now, but there’s a distinct possibility of uprooting and transplanting. We’ll see.

Windsor

Yes, Windsor. Holiday home of Queen Liz and her army of henchman. Well, one of the holiday homes, anyway. But also rather pleasant for a day out. Well, that’s what we decided yesterday.

One of the joys of being around Berkshire is that it really can be very, very posh. And very, very touristy. In Windsor, you can experience both at once. (And yes, I managed a day there without one single shot of the fucking castle – aren’t you impressed?) About the only thing you don’t really experience are posh tourists. They’re all off doing something else. God knows what, I’ve never been fortunate enough to find out.

Anyway, having gone past Ascot racecourse (which was having the “De Beers Diamond Day“) and an utter shedload of stretch limos, we got to Windsor, and it’s fucking crap beautifully designed one-way system, in addition to some deeply dubious signage regarding car-parking. Obviously most people visit Windsor in chuffing big air-conditioned coaches, and – on the evidence of yesterday – most coach tours now seem to also insist on a uniform for all passengers. Green tracksuits seemed to be one order of the day. Nasty in SO many ways.

Still, wandering down the riverside was a pleasant way to spend some of the day, and the way that the Windsor rail station has done itself up (I was last there some ten years ago) is truly impressive. It gives a really good “European” style area for food, drink, and shopping, and personally, I think it’s a bloody good concept. While we were there, it was certainly very lively and with a good turnover of people.

Of course, there’s tourist buses galore, and some of the biggest camera lenses this side of sporting events and paparazzi. One wonders how some of them fly over with anything in the suitcase except camera and lenses – anything else would surely push it over the weight limit.

But yes, for a summer’s day, it was all very pleasant. Much enjoyed.