The Worst Evening of My Life — Attending My Neighbour’s Renovation Party

We arrived at seven and were given a small bottle of beer, which I finished in a minute. After some nibbles, which were no more than wafers topped with fish paste, we were shown to our seats in their living room. Two rows of plastic garden chairs — three on each side. A total of 11 people. One space was free, so clearly someone had escaped. Lucky bastard!

I live in a rural village in Normandy, France. Five doors along, my neighbours, Violette and her German husband, Mikkel, have been renovating their farmhouse. When they finally finished after two years, my wife and I, along with the rest of the village, were invited round to watch a presentation on the project.

Cool! I thought, we’ll have some drinks, wrap up the presentation in about fifteen minutes, drink some more booze, eat some food, and go home.

Half an hour into the presentation, we still hadn’t got to the kitchen. So far, just a meandering monologue from Violette, plus photos (lots of), of the living room and dining room remodeling. Furthermore, I hadn’t been given another beer, and as I noticed that Mikkel was about to take over the slideshow (clearly Violette was exhausted), I saw my chance and headed to the kitchen.

I’m not an alcoholic, but there’s only so much renovation content a man can cope with before he has to drown his misery. So I found the fridge and helped myself to the strongest stuff I could find. A strong Belgian beer called Kwak, which when you order it in a bar here, comes in a glass without a handle and is supported in a wooden holder that looks like something from a chemistry class.

It took two bottles from the fridge, opened them, and crept back into the lounge, avoiding the fierce gaze of Violette, who must have thought I was committing heresy (I was), and let Mikkel get on with his spiel.

This was pretty much the same as Violette’s. Except that, being a guy who gauges his self-importance by going into detail on inane subjects like concrete density, it ended up being twice as long, with four times as many photographs.

Luckily I had my Kwaks to comfort me. So by the time the presentation finally made it outside into the garden, which, THANK GOD!, hadn’t been finished yet, I was feeling a little drunk. This had the effect of masking the intense state of boredom that had crept over me during the one and three-quarter hour session. Nearly two hours watching a slide show of somebody else’s house renovation.

Pinch me!

I was so bored, I would happily have jumped in the old cesspit they had uncovered during the project (40 photos of this), and escaped by an underwater exit route. Like in the Shawshank Redemption.

I don’t know how anybody else felt about the evening (I didn’t ask), but these things aren’t for me. I mean, who cares? It’s just a renovation of an old farmhouse, and I don’t understand why I had to watch over two thousand slides (my wife counted) of drains, rotting timber and old wells.

There was a TV program once on Channel 4 in the UK called Grand Designs. It was about people who bought old lighthouses or World War Two bunkers and made them into liveable houses. It had some celebrity architect who oversaw the projects, and it was half interesting as there was an element of surprise and wonder to it. You wanted to see how it was possible to convert an old submarine on the Scottish coast into a five-star hotel!

This, on the other hand, was just a boring rectangular Normandy farmhouse, that once all the nice bits, like the stone fireplaces and sash windows had been ripped out, was just another housing block stuffed full of white plasterboard. I couldn’t see any artistic vision in the slightest, and yet they wasted two hours of my time pretending it was interesting.

It wasn’t. It was dull. They had taken a perfectly good house and converted it into a hospital waiting room. If I had run the project through an A.I. interior design program, I would have got something very similar. Possibly even better.

And the worst aspect was, they didn’t even live there. They lived in Paris and were only converting it for the holidays and when they retired. Nice if you have the choice!

Even two weeks after the event — it’s taken me that long to recover — I still have flashbacks to that night. Albeit, in a mild, amusing way.

The thing that grated me the most was how people think anyone would be interested in an event like this. It would be like me putting on an exhibition of my artwork and forcing everyone in the village to stare at it for two hours.

I like my artwork. But I would never show it to anyone — not even my wife. So why show me, in intricate detail, your house? What do they want me to do, burgle it? Because if they did, I’d certainly know my way around it.

After the ‘show’, Mikkel and Violette (finally!) brought out more drinks and food, so we could all talk about it. And being a cordial neighbour, and not a total asshole, I congratulated them on the project.

I even asked a few trivial questions about the plumbing, before feigning tiredness and going home, leaving my wife to fend for herself. I work on Saturdays, I pointed out to everyone.

A few days later, someone left a parcel on our doorstep. Strange, I thought, I haven’t ordered anything. And I certainly don’t know many people well enough for them to leave me a present. Was it a bomb?

I opened it to discover a six-pack of Kwak with a note written in English saying:

Thanks for coming. Violette and Mikkel.

Oh well, at least they haven’t lost their sense of humour.

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Originally published on Medium. For more stories, comment and observation, see my Medium page.

MEDIUM

​Displacement

A tale about belonging

I work in France near the town of Sarlat. I’m English but I don’t feel English. I don’t feel French either. I’m just grateful to have a job, as it isn’t easy finding work around here.

I move bags from hotel to hotel, hotel to hotel, hotel to hotel, every day except Sundays and Thursdays. People on high-end gastronomic walking holidays. Outdoor enthusiasts who want to get from A to B without the inconvenience of carrying anything. Sometimes they give me a tip at the end of their holiday. More often than not, they just say goodbye.

The work is pretty boring, but I don’t have a boss poking his nose in every day to see what I’m up to. It’s just me and a van and as long as I deliver the bags to the correct people in the correct hotel in the correct order, no one bothers me.

Today is Monday and I’m on the last part of my day, carrying fourteen bags up to the village of Tamnies. I’m running late as I was waiting for some incredibly slow Australian to repack his bag. That’s what he said anyway. I think he was just trying to piss me off. As a result, I’m pulling the van around the tight corners like I’m in a rally, bags flying everywhere.

Then I notice it. A small red bag has made its way to the top like it’s come up for air. A 15-litre backpack with a couple of notebook-sized pockets stitched onto the outside, big enough to pack in a picnic and a bottle of wine.

‘Strange,’ I mutter to myself, looking into the mirror again, and narrowly missing an ancient Renault the size of an egg box chugging along in the opposite direction. ‘I don’t remember packing that bag. Where did it come from?’

When I get to the final hotel in Sarlat, I ask the receptionist if she knows who the red bag belongs to. She tells me she doesn’t, and advises me to put it in the left luggage room with all the other junk customers leave behind at the end of their holiday.

So what’s in the bag?

This is all I can think about as I sit in my usual restaurant eating a bland plate of spaghetti bolognaise a few hours later. My friend Adam once found a camera in an old shoebox in the attic of the expensive flat he’d rented after moving down from Nottingham to London for a banking job. Three years later, he’s an award-winning travel photographer who lives wherever there’s a photograph worth taking.

After I finish my dinner, I drive back to the hotel in Sarlat, thinking of a story to tell the receptionist.

‘That red bag,’ I tell her. ‘It belongs to the Hunt/Thornton party in Tamnies, they’ve just phoned me. It’s got their medication in it, so I’m going to run it up now. Have you got the key to the storeroom?’

Ten minutes later, I’m in the van driving home again, the red bag sitting beside me like a small child. I’ve even strapped it in using the seatbelt in case it slides out onto the floor with my erratic driving.

I get home and place the bag on the table in the kitchen. I’d be happy with a camera. Or a great book by an author I’ve never read before. Or even a stash of money. I hold my breath, unfasten the two straps and open the top. It’s empty. Except for a receipt.

Walmart, Sainte-Foy, Quebec City, $34.99.

The weight of the bag was deceptive, I realise. Its heaviness was due to the thickness of the material. I check the pockets, but there’s nothing in them except dust. It’s clearly been used, and my guess is that it belongs to the Fournier/Defosse party from Canada, who left four days ago after a week of walking in torrential rain.

I’m not sure what to think. I’d been expecting something more. Something more tangible to grab hold of. I ponder the situation for a few minutes and then I get it.

Of course! This is exactly what I’ve been waiting for and I almost missed it. I give myself a great big smile in the mirror above my fireplace and start packing.

Passport, bank cards, a couple of books, laptop, two changes of clothes, notebook and a pen. Everything fits into the red bag perfectly. I put on my shoes, walk out of my flat and drive to Paris.

Two days later, I’m in Quebec.

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‘And that’s about it,’ I say to the bartender as he wipes the bar clean for the hundredth time. He’s bored out of his mind I can tell.

‘So, is it true?’ he finally asks, pretending to wring the cloth out in the sink even though it’s practically dry. ‘The red bag?’

‘Of course, it’s true,’ I say, picking up the now-faded backpack from the stool beside me. ‘Look. Been all over the world with this.’

‘Cool,’ he mutters. ‘What are you going to do now? Hit the road again?’

‘I’m not sure.’

He stares at me intensely as he drinks his beer. ‘Think you’ll stay?’

‘Here, you mean?’ I ask, looking at some old faded pictures of the Town Hall screwed onto the pub wall.

‘I could offer you a job,’ the bartender says. ‘Start tomorrow if you want.’

I finish my beer and put the glass firmly on the bar as though I’m putting down a mark. ‘I’ll think about it. Thanks.’

‘It’s not that bad here you know.’

‘I know,’ I reply. ‘Anyway, I’d better go, haven’t seen my parents yet, they’re waiting for me.’ I stand up and sling the red bag over my shoulder. ‘It’s good to see you again, Mike. It’s been a while.’

I knock on the door and my mother answers. Tears well up in her eyes when she sees me. My father is standing behind her. Older. Frailer. My mother hugs me.

‘Sorry, I’m late,’ I say, as I press my face into the thick woollen cardigan she’s worn forever.

She lets me pass into the narrow hallway, where I embrace my father, who’s struggling for words because I know he’s missed me more than my mother. I follow them into the kitchen, where I can smell pork chops and sour tea.

‘We thought you weren’t coming,’ says my father, drying his eyes, pretending it’s just a spot of hay fever.

‘I went to see old Mike down the pub. He offered me a job.’

My mother’s eyes widen like the shutters of a million windows opening at once, her green irises expanding like balloons, a huge smile spreading across her face.

‘Are you going to take it?’ she says a little too quickly. ‘You could have your old room back — if you want to.’

I’ve already made the decision, so there’s no point in fudging it. ‘It’s a short visit, I’m afraid.’

I can see their disappointment. My mother starts stirring the tea in the pot, trying not to cry. I’ve turned down good job offers and business propositions over the last four years. Friendships and relationships have come and gone. But nothing compares to this: declining the unconditional love of your parents when they need you most.

‘How long are you staying?’ my mother asks.

‘A few weeks, if that’s OK?’

My father laughs. ‘Stay as long as you want, might get a few trips in to watch the football.’

‘I’d love to,’ I say, smiling.

‘You hungry?’ my mum asks as she plates up the chops and spuds.

‘Starving,’ I exclaim with a big beefy grin.

We eat, we talk, and after the mandatory ten o’clock news, which is mainly about the ongoing strikes in France, I go to bed.

In the few minutes before sleep overtakes me, the thought of going to the football with my dad makes me want to stay forever.

Those special days when we used to wake up late on a Saturday. Have a big breakfast and talk about the match. Get dressed and walk to meet our friends down the pub. Go to the match. Back to the pub. Then home to talk about the match some more. Reliving every moment in the kitchen while drinking tea and eating iced buns.

As I drift off into sleep, my last thought is that despite everything I’ve ever done in my life, nothing, absolutely nothing, compares to going to the football with my father.

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For more stories, comment and observation, see my Medium page.

MEDIUM

My Love of Hot Dogs

Why hot dogs bring back memories of my mother

I was in Athens with my parents on holiday as a child. My dad had a friend who lived in the city, and rather than fork out money for a hotel on one of the islands, we decided to have a city holiday.

I loved it. I was only six, but I quickly adapted to the hectic European city life. A world away from my humble day-to-day existence in West Yorkshire. The noise, the pollution, the mopeds, the people, the cafés and bars filled me with a sense of delight and joy that I still remember to this day.

In the mornings, my dad and I used to walk out of my father’s friend’s apartment in the leafy suburb of Glyfada, to buy cigarettes and have a coffee. I didn’t smoke or drink coffee then! But my dad did. And I used to watch him sit on the terrace smoking a Camel while drinking a thick black espresso, the likes of which would be impossible to get back in tea-drinking England in 1979.

I thought it was the most amazing thing in the world, and almost certainly the reason I started smoking and drinking strong coffee. Just from those morning excursions in Athens with my father. My mother never came, as she was ill at the time, and spent a lot of the morning in bed.

Luckily though, she was well enough to go out in the afternoons and evenings, and this was when we explored the city, despite the searing heat. We did all the tourist things like the Acropolis, but normally we used to wander to other parts of the city tourists rarely went to.

My dad’s friend had been living in Athens for years, and so knew all the interesting places to go. And it was on one of these excursions to find a restaurant he had recommended, that I stumbled across my first hot dog stand.

We had got lost somewhere, having taken a few wrong turns, and ended up at one of the football grounds. There are four or five clubs in Athens, and this being over forty years ago, I have no idea which one it was.

All I remember was that I was hungry. Really hungry. Luckily, it was match day, and on the concourse, a few guys were setting up hot dog stands. I often look back and think it was strange to see them. Greece, like England, was not renowned for its hot dogs, especially back in 1979.

But there they were. Three or four metal carts with steam billowing from their bowels as a hundred frankfurters boiled away inside. While whiter-than-white buns rested neatly in rows on racks above. A Coca-Cola umbrella shaded the stand, and there was a cool box slung on the front, full of cold drinks.

‘Can we have a hot dog?’ I wailed.

My mother, who had been complaining about the poor quality of the food for the whole two weeks — she was vegetarian — shook her head violently.

‘Absolutely not, Philip! We’ll find a restaurant when we get back.’ She looked scornfully at my father, clearly not impressed we’d ended up at a football stadium.

I knew what my dad was thinking. He was thinking about trying to get a ticket.

My father loved football and enjoyed going to watch matches, regardless of who was playing. Whenever he went on work trips to Europe, his priority was to enquire about how to get a ticket for a match. These were the days before football went corporate, and invariably he would get a ticket for a big European team: Milan, Bayern, Real, Lazio, to name a few.

But that wasn’t going to happen that day. Especially as my mother hated football. Almost as much as she hated hot dogs or any other processed food. But I was hungry, and it seemed unfair to make me traipse back into town when there was a perfectly good hot dog stand right there.

My dad was thinking the same thing.

There were a few cafés and restaurants around the stadium, but they were rapidly filling up with fans (or louts as my mother called them). And I wasn’t sure she wanted to share her salad and chips — the only thing she had eaten for the past two weeks — with a load of drunken football fans. And the hot dogs smelt so good!

‘We’ll get Philip one,’ my father declared, ‘then we’ll head back in and have a meal there.’

In the end, all three of us sat on a bench eating hot dogs. Yes, even my mother! She was vegetarian, but sometimes, if there was nothing else on offer, she would indulge.

‘What else am I going to eat?’ she moaned.

I think she liked them. I know me and my dad did, as we sat there with our cans of Fanta.

That was one of the last memories I have of my parents and me together. A year later, my mother died. It wasn’t the hot dog that killed her, even though she probably thought it was. She had been diagnosed with a brain tumour three years before, and was lucky to have made it to Greece in the first place.

It’s funny, isn’t it. You have all this time with your parents. And yet the one abiding memory is sitting on a bench eating hot dogs outside a rundown football stadium on the outskirts of Athens one late August evening in 1979.

You can go on as many fancy holidays as you like, but sometimes a short fifteen-minute period together is the only memory you need.

After that, I was obsessed by hot dogs. Every time me and my father went anywhere and there was a hot dog on offer, I insisted on one. And he naturally agreed. Then we would sit on a bench, just the two of us, eating our hot dogs, wishing Mum was there as well.

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Originally published in The Memoirist on 10th October 2023

So You’ve Just Bought an E-Bike — Why?

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The push-bike or pedal cycle was conceived in Germany in the early part of the 19th century when Baron Karl von Drais, a civil servant, invented his Laufmaschine (German for “running machine”) in 1817. It was made of metal and wood and was propelled by the feet.

I’m not going to go into the history of the bicycle — you can read it on Wikipedia. All I’ll say is that from this clumsy invention, and 150 years of painfully slow progress, we ended up with the ultimate racing machine, below.

This is a 1967 Peugeot PX10 I picked up for €10 at a flea market in Cahors. What a gorgeous specimen. And the same model of bike used by Eddie Merckx on the 1969 Tour de France. Eddie Merckx being the greatest cyclist ever to sit on a bicycle.

Here’s a picture of him riding one from an old Dutch cycle catalogue.

Bicycles have come a long way since the Laufmaschine of 1817, and they more or less cracked it. With lighter and lighter frames, and better technology, there was really nowhere else to go. It was the perfect, eco-friendly mode of transport that required nothing more than a pair of legs.

Then some idiot put a battery in it.

E-bikes have in fact been around since the late 19th century, when Ogden Bolton Jr patented the first electric bicycle. Throughout the 20th century, designers and inventors messed around with the concept. But they were never commercially viable as they were exceedingly heavy and expensive.

Furthermore, there wasn’t much need for them. People enjoyed cycling to get around and to keep healthy. Plus they enjoyed being free from modern technology, and able to go long distances without worrying about refuelling.

Put simply, the freedom of the road was a big pull.

The Modern Electric Bicycle

The Laufmaschine had its faults, for sure, but at least it had some charm. I don’t know about you, but the E-bike above is the vilest thing I’ve ever seen. Remember the phrase, “Freedom of the road.” Now look again at that bicycle above. I don’t see any freedom there. I see a clunking mess.

They claim to be good for the environment. But just like E-Cars, I’m not convinced. There’s a lot of battery and metal in these bikes. Stuff that has to be manufactured from scratch, when there’s a million old bikes that could be used and recycled. Like my old PX10.

Are they good for you? That’s also debatable.

The health benefits of cycling 10 km on the flat on an e-bike are minimal. You might take a breath when you have to pick it up to turn it around. But apart from that, you’re not going to win any races.

Are you serious?

Yes. I am.

If you’re aged between 10 and 40 and are in reasonable health and aren’t disabled (I’ll come to that), I can’t really understand why you need an E-bike.

Cycling gets you fit. It’s a fact. Riding an e-bike, only gets you half fit. So why bother? If you want to get fit, get out your push-bike. You’ll get fitter in a fraction of the time.

Exceptions

So this is my disclaimer. You might be reading this and think I’m a trumped-up little shit! “How dare you? I’m 70 years old, I’ve just had a hip replacement, and the e-bike has saved my life. Now I’m able to get out on the bike, when before I couldn’t.”

Then I applaud you, sir! The electric bike was clearly made and designed for you. And they are a brilliant invention for people who can’t cycle any more. Or who are disabled, or have some medical problem that makes traditional cycling too hard.

It’s when I see perfectly healthy young people, maybe with families, riding along a flat road on very expensive e-bikes, that I ask why?

Why are you doing this?

You’re NOT saving the planet. You’re NOT getting fit. And you’re certainly NOT fooling anyone apart from yourselves.

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Originally published on Medium. For more articles. Click here.

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My Geography Teacher Jammed With George Harrison—A True Story

STOP PRESS: As of April 2022, any new posts will appear exclusively on Medium. Click here to get to my page.

It’s 1991. The 1st Gulf War is about to begin, and I’m watching the bombs explode over Baghdad on my tiny black & white TV.

A few months later, on the same TV, I watch Yakov Tolstiko win the London Marathon. It’s a significant event because he’s the first Soviet athlete to do this. And the last. By the end of the year, the USSR will cease to exist.

Not a great year to be a communist. But a great year to be me. It’s the last year of school. A school I’ve spent the last eleven years at — almost my entire life. And in July, it’ll be over. An occasion as monumental for me as it will be for Yakov Tolstiko when he arrives Back in the USSR after winning his medal.

First though, I’ve got to pass my exams. Which is a problem, because I’m more interested in girls and booze than in hanging valleys.

In case you’ve forgotten: Hanging valleys are formed when a large glacier smashes through a valley cutting the ‘legs’ off the older valleys, leaving them ‘hanging’ once the glaciers have melted. Like below.

— OK, Phil. Thanks for the geography lesson. But what’s this to do with George Harrison?

I’m coming to that. But first, let’s talk about John Croft.

— Who the hell is John Croft?

John Croft, or Crofty, was my geography teacher who on Saturday nights at the sixth form bar used to knock out a few George Formby songs on his banjo ukulele. I was more into Nirvana, Guns ‘n’ Roses and Pearl Jam at the time. But as Crofty was one of the more likeable teachers at the school, it was always good to hear him play.

He was also a close friend of George Harrison.

— I’m sorry?

That’s grabbed your attention, hasn’t it?

You see, we all thought Crofty was just another jobbing teacher like the rest of them. Sitting around in smoky staffrooms drinking endless mugs of weak tea. Or in The Oak pub later knocking back pints of mild to make the evenings go quicker.

Little did we know that the guy who taught us hanging valleys on a Tuesday afternoon, also hung out with one of the Beatles.

George Harrison had always had a keen interest in George Formby and the banjo ukulele (above). He owned one growing up, and wanted to reignite his passion for the instrument.

What better person to get advice from than the President of the George Formby Society and well-known banjo ukulele aficionado: John Croft.

Harrison phones Crofty up out of the blue, and tells him he needs some advice on banjo ukuleles, as he wants to start playing them again. They arrange to meet up, and get on well. Their common interest in the popular wartime entertainer and the instrument, extinguishes any doubts John has about meeting such a musical luminary. I mean, after all, this was a living Beatle.

For the next eleven years, until George’s sad death in 2001, they remained close friends. Not only did Crofty help him build up his ukulele collection, but helped him with his playing technique.

Can you imagine that? My old geography teacher giving music lessons to one of the most famous musicians on the planet?

At the time, as well as studying, I also sang. I remember singing April Come She Will by Paul Simon in front of the entire school with Goichi Hirata accompanying me on guitar. It was a pretty nerve-racking experience. In fact, now I think about it, it was the most nerve-racking thing I’ve ever done.

But imagine, if I’d known that down the road was George Harrison. Crofty could have invited him up. I might have really belted out April Come She Will (if that’s possible). Instead of the rather frail and feeble performance I gave that afternoon.

As it was, Crofty kept the whole thing secret for obvious reasons. He didn’t want the press descending on his house. George was a very private man, and John respected that. Which was why no one knew until much later.

Saying that, there had been rumours. Some say they’d seen George Harrison in town. Another, was that Eric Clapton owned a pub nearby where there were wild parties. The most outlandish one was that Harrison was seen driving Crofty in his new F1 McLaren sports car up the Tanet Valley in North Wales.

(Ah, sorry, that’s actually true.)

It’s a good story, isn’t it? And even though I didn’t feature in it, I feel like I was there in spirit. While Crofty played his ukulele with George Harrison down the road from our school, I was singing songs — maybe even the odd Beatles song — with Goichi Hirata. There’s a nice synergy about it. And when I think about it, it feels like a tiny tiny part of me knew George as well.

You can read more about this story on John Croft’s site The Ukulele Man.

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This story originally appeared on Medium on 26 February 2022. You can read more stories on my Medium page. Or you could consider signing up to become a Medium member. It’s $5 a month, giving you unlimited access to my stories and millions of others on Medium. If you sign up via this link, I’ll earn a small commission at no extra cost to you. Great. Thanks!

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(Photo Credits: George Harrison: David Hume Kennerly/Public domain/Wikimedia Commons. Hanging Valley: Pseudopanax/Public domain/Wikimedia Commons. George Formby: Puttnam L A (Lt)/Public domain/Wikimedia Commons.)

For Richer or Poorer—What Is Wealth?

I don’t know many wealthy people. But I know one. An old friend of mine, who after university, didn’t bum about like me, but got a job.

I met up with him a few weeks ago, and we started talking about money and wealth and what it meant — if anything. As a way of quantifying our progress since we left university almost twenty-five years ago, we totted up all the money we had in the entire world.

It was a bit of fun, we were a bit drunk, but the results were very telling, and quite surprising. My friend has a house worth £800k, has investments worth £300k, plus a steady job earning him £150k a year.

‘So you’re a millionaire,’ I commented. ‘Congrats, you’ve made it!’

He stared at me in disbelief. ‘You’ve no idea, Phil, have you? You’re probably richer than me.’

‘Yeah, right,’ I said, quaffing my beer. ‘I work on a farm in Normandy, for God’s sake, and earn €19k a year. I don’t own any property, and except for my savings, have no investments whatsoever. Compared to you, I’m a pauper.’

He didn’t see it like that, though, and told me that despite his big salary, come the end of the month, he probably has less money than me. In fact, by the time he’s paid his mortgage, his two cars (BMW & Mercedes), utility bills, food, petrol, clothes, nights out, booze, holidays, trips for the kids, etc., there’s barely enough to feed the dog.

I didn’t believe him. My friend has always been prone to exaggeration, but this was silly. And yet, he insisted it was true. Even his wife backed him up.

‘Even after my wage,’ she declared. ‘We still struggle.’

I was reeling. Struggle is not a word I’ve ever associated with my friend. I have other friends who struggle, but not him. I thought my old university flatmate had got it sorted: rich and wealthy beyond my wildest dreams. Turns out, he can’t even feed his dog.

‘So, what do you do for money at the end of the month?’ I asked. ‘Beg?’

‘Not quite, but close,’ he admitted. ‘We borrow. Take out loans, or get another credit card. Move money around.’

I felt cold. Is this how people live these days? On a financial precipice, playing one credit card company off against another, just to pay some bills. If they do, this monthly digital financial hustle seems exhausting. Harder than actually working. Or perhaps I’ve been living in rural France too long, and have lost touch with the reality of 21st century England.

‘I could lend you some?’ I offered, half joking,

I could tell he was considering it, but laughed it off.

‘Why not?’ I insisted. ‘I have money in the bank.’

‘Really?’ they both answered in unison.

I wondered what had happened to my friend. He was no fool at college and had always got much better grades than me and had worked hard to get where he was. And yet, he seemed to be squandering it on £5k TV sets when he couldn’t even afford to feed the dog. It seemed absurd.

My friend freely admits he sometimes gets up in the middle of the night and starts work, he’s so worried about losing his job. It’s not that he’s on the verge of being sacked, his position is quite safe, it’s just that if it happened, it would be a catastrophe. As a result, he’s always tired, doesn’t eat well, and by his own admission, is overweight.

He’s always been a bit of a spender. At university, he was always the one to get the rounds in down the pub. Always the one to buy everyone shots of tequila at closing time. And always the first to run out of money.

He often accused me of being tight. Arguing that money was there to spend, not hold onto like a teddy bear.

‘I’m not tight,’ I would argue. ‘I just don’t like spending money. There’s a difference.’

This subtle difference has shaped our lives, and will probably shape our futures. I doubt either one of us is going to be rich (I mean mega rich), but if one of us ends up poor, it won’t be me, that’s for sure.

After the stay with my friend, I concluded there were two types of wealth:

— Pure wealth

— Perceived wealth

The first one is money in the bank. This is me, albeit on a very minor level. The second one is my friend: lots of shiny whistles and bells (and cars), but when you look in the vault, there’s nothing there except dust.

There’s nothing wrong with that, in fact, I don’t really care. But next time you think someone is richer or wealthier than you, and before you start to feel bad about yourself, go and have a look to see what their dog has got in its bowl. It might surprise you.

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This article was originally published on Medium on 25/01/22—click here

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(Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash)

So I Bought a Smartphone!

After years of vowing never to own a smartphone, viewing them as needless childish gadgets, I finally caved in and bought one.

The phone I’ve used for the past ten years (I’ve had three) is the Nokia 105 Dual SIM that weighs 74 grams and is the size of a Mars Bar. It has the battery life of 13 days and even has a radio (and two games). My new phone weighs 220 grams, has the battery life of a day, and has the portability of a chopping board.

There was a time in the not so distant past when people would laugh at you for carrying around a ‘brick’ of a phone. So what happened? At what point did these massive, chunky, cumbersome phones become so popular when twenty years ago you could buy one the size of a matchbox. I’m not a technological anthropologist, if they even exist, but I bet it was the day Steve Jobs stood on stage with his iPhone and said something dumb like “This is the future!”

Cheers for that, Steve. Now even I’ve got to buy one.

Of course, I didn’t have to. He didn’t force me from silicon heaven. But I did. But why? Why did I dispense with a phone that was working perfectly, and had served me well for nearly a decade?

I’m not entirely sure. Yes, I’d been thinking about it for a while. There had been a few occasions when I could have done with one. Like getting lost recently in Caen in sheeting rain at one o’clock in the morning after making a wrong turning from the ferry terminal. There were also a few other times when companies sent me verification texts that could only be accessed via a smartphone, you know the kind.

Of course, none of these warranted the purchase, I could have plodded on regardless and got by with my Nokia. But then I went to my brother’s wedding and everything changed.

During his speech, he affectionately alluded to the fact that I lived in deep technological isolation on a farm in France. Which is true, I do. And I enjoy it. But for some reason, as I was munching on the wedding cake, I felt the urge to buy a smartphone, right there, right then, as though my life depended on it.

I couldn’t as I was in the middle of North Yorkshire, but when I got back to France (after getting lost in Caen), I decided the time had come. So I ordered a Xiaomi Redmi 9A (for Christmas) and when I got it, instantly messaged my brother:

“Hi, Guess what!!!!???”

I waited for the reply, which I assumed would arrive within minutes, seconds even.

I didn’t get one. So I sent it again. But nothing. Had something gone wrong? Was my message lying in some heavily encrypted Xiaomi outbox without me knowing it?

No. Turns out my brother had switched his phone off for Christmas. The irony wasn’t lost on me, for sure.

I actually felt like sending the phone back, as it had served its purpose – I’d made contact with the outside world. But I didn’t, of course. Who sends their own Christmas present back? Not me, so I plugged slowly on, becoming like everyone else: loading up Apps and photographing inane things and then adding faux artistic filters. Like this wine box with a vanilla b/w sheen:

(good idea though, don’t you think?)

So do I miss my Nokia? Yes. Absolutely. I miss the compactness of its design. Its tactility, its sleekness, it’s smallness. The fact that you can hold it between your index finger and thumb with ease. Twenty years ago, this type of phone was the height of sophistication. A statement of cool. A symbol you were on the move, heading boldly into the 21st century, no holds barred.

Now what have we got? A brick in our pocket that weighs us down like a lead weight. Going out of the house these days feels like training for a strong man contest. Have I got my phone, my wallet, my keys, my bag, my laptop, my life! Were things this complicated when I was 25? I can’t remember but probably not. I didn’t even have a mobile phone until I was 28. And even then it was one of those real chunky Motorola affairs made out of indestructible plastic that you could open bottles of beer with. Or even use as a weapon. Not that I did.

When you think about it, the very definition of a mobile phone has become some sick joke. Which is probably why at some point it was changed from a mobile phone to a smartphone to avoid the obvious confusion. Probably by Steve Jobs.

But anyway, the deed is done now. I’ve got it, and it’s not going back. One, the time period to send it back has elapsed. And two, I do like the star constellation app Star Walk. It tells me what stars and constellations I’m looking at as I look through the camera. So if nothing else, if I get blasted into space or kidnapped by aliens, at least I’ll know where I am.

(Main photo/Julius Drost)

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Further (hypocritical) reading:

Why I Don’t Own a Smartphone (here)

Why I Still Don’t Own a Smartphone (here)

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When a faulty satnav unexpectedly sends British tourists into a deathly quiet French village, it gives its idle mayor, Jean Marc Bulot, a final shot at redemption.

The Advantages of the UK Leaving the EU on 1st January 2021 (Updated)

I posted this piece last year but feel it’s my moral duty to update it now we’ve been out of the EU for a year.

Like many, I was willing to give Brexit a chance. To see if the benefits promised might actually be true. I wasn’t holding out much hope of course – the economics and figures simply didn’t add up – but as a good-natured chap, I gave it a chance. Why not? Even the stupidest people are occasionally right.

I scoured the news and the available facts looking for that golden egg that would make England great again. Surely there must be something. Perhaps people who voted Leave feel better now, and so are working harder. Maybe they are nicer to their friends and family and give more money away to charity. A built-in ‘feel-good’ factor that is impossible to calculate except for the number of Emoji smiley faces in their text messages.

These same people might prefer Aussie beef and think the EU flag is a bourgeois symbol of a failed utopian superstate. It could be that they’ve always hated croissants and can now be proud of it. And think the German wurst to be a cheap imitation of the good old fashioned British banger. I mean, why not? Everyone is entitled to an opinion, even the kids who weren’t allowed to vote in the referendum on their European future.

But are these advantages? Just because you don’t like something, does that make it worth the fight. I don’t think so. Because like happiness, smugness isn’t quantifiable.

What is quantifiable is the Cheshire farmer who lost £270K last year and had to lay off 10 workers. Or the fashion importer who relocated to Holland and employed people there instead of London. Just two examples from thousands. Maybe, millions.

We’re told by this clownish government that this is only half the story and that we need to wait? Wait for how long? Will I still be reposting this piece in ten years? And what are we waiting for? The collapse of the economy. This fabled US-UK trade deal? This extra cash for the NHS. Ah, sorry, that was a lie, wasn’t it?

True, Covid might have tainted the Brexit dream. But not that much. Even if Covid had never happened, there would be very little to write home about. As you can see below:

The Advantages of the UK Leaving the EU on 1st January 2021 (updated 01/01/22)

(paperclip not included…)

Internet Distraction!

A few days ago, I was reading the football results on the BBC. Two hours later, I was scrolling down sites of ancient ruins in Qatar.

If you follow football, you can probably guess how I got from A to B via X, Y and Z. If you can’t, then Google it.

Everybody knows what I’m talking about here. Those lost hours (days, months) scrolling down Wikipedia entries on dead rockstars. Do you know Bob Marley died of acral lentiginous melanoma?

I’m not even a heavy internet user. I generally use it for the football scores, banking, bureaucracy, writing this blog and listening to music. I don’t even use it for work as I work on a farm. But like everyone, I sometimes get sucked into the void.

True, I occasionally learn things. I learnt about String Theory recently which I included in the post before this. But most of the time, it’s guff.

Take the Guardian newspaper for example. I’m a keen supporter of the paper and its values, but most of the pieces I’ve read before. Different topics, different authors, but the ideas are the same. Features, articles and opinion pieces recycled whenever there’s some special commemoration, anniversary, or event in the offing. Another climate change summit, another slew of ideas and protests that won’t be taken on board by the politicians, because in short, they don’t give a shit.

On the football front, whenever Man Utd or Barcelona have a string of bad results, there’s a mountain of articles on who should be sacked and why and who should replace them. I’ve followed football all my life and we’re having the same arguments now over the sacking of Solskaer as we had in 1990 over the sacking of Alex Ferguson. (If you’ve no idea what I’m talking about – you can read on now.)

In short, history repeats itself. We all know that. And yet we keep on reading about it, again, and again, and again.

Wikipedia is fantastic but it’s also annoying that almost every other word or phrase in a sentence has a link to another Wikipedia page. By the time you’ve finished reading say a piece on rock formations in the Llanberis Valley in North Wales, you’ve got half the internet open citing everything from granite chemistry to the Stereophonics.

Saying this, (and I have been trying to crowbar this song into my blog for some weeks now), I did find out about Alain Bashung recently just by mindlessly browsing the internet.

I was seeing if the word Lego (as in the small plastic brick) is the same in French as it is in English. It is. And it led me to a song called Comme un Lego written by Gérald Manset and sung by Alain Bashung in 2008. I liked it so much that I’ve started to sing and play it (with mixed results). But I’m glad I found it so maybe browsing isn’t always a waste of time.

Sadly, Alain Bashung died in 2009. Lung Cancer.

Book of The Week

I don’t normally promote other people’s books because I don’t know many writers. But on this occasion, I will. One, he’s a friend. And two, I enjoy his work.

His latest book, New Ghost Stories Volume 3, starts with the unnerving introduction:

“Ghosts don’t care if you believe in them or not.”

It’s a chilling line, don’t you think? Poking fun at a casual non-believer like myself. Shoving these ghouls and ghosts in my face and saying, ‘Prove we don’t exist, then!’

It’s a skilful tagline I have to admit, and one you’d expect from an experienced copywriter. But there’s a serious side to these books. Because while they boast the author’s name, he didn’t write them.

‘Duh! Well, who did. A ghost?’

Well yeh, sort of.

David Paul Nixon has spent more than ten years chronicling real ghost stories from people who swear that what they experienced was real. Actual accounts of terrifying, traumatic and harrowing events (let’s call them hauntings) that have shaped their lives. More a case study on the human mind than an account of the paranormal. But all thoroughly investigated and painstakingly transcribed. And all incredibly scary.

But are these ghosts real? And if they are. What are they?

Humans are clever, there’s no denying that. We’ve made discoveries and achieved feats of engineering that would astound our ancestors. I live about an hour and a half away from the Eiffel Tower, and every time I see it, it blows me away. Built as a temporary structure from railway girders 132 years ago, it still stands. Yes, it’s clever.

But not that clever. We might be able to build towers and go to the Moon, but even the most celebrated cosmologists, astronomers and physicists admit most of the stuff out there still baffles them. Take Superstring Theory for instance.

Developed in the seventies, string theory attempted (among others) to unite general relativity (gravity) with quantum mechanics (gravity on an atomic scale). It ultimately failed to find a link, but did spawn the idea of multiple dimensions.

The four dimensions we know (length, height, depth and time), plus another six for good measure. Some brainboxes have even postulated the existence of 23.

Most of us struggle with the 4th dimension when it comes to being on time (me included!), so imagine living in a world of 23 with twisting space-time realities, parallel universes, time loops and worm holes.

‘Hey mate, have you got the time?’

‘Err.’

Point is, even trying to imagine this stuff is impossible. Even the guys who make this up admit the human brain simply can’t process these ideas. Visualising this world is beyond us. But it doesn’t mean it’s not there.

We tend to think of the universe where all this weird shit happens as being out there in the distant darkness of space. How did Star Wars begin?

…In a Galaxy Far Far Away.

But it isn’t. The universe is right here. In your coffee cup, in your cupboard, in your basement, in your attic, in your bedroom, in your house. It’s even in our heads. 23 dimensions in our heads. Imagine that? No wonder we’re so fucked up! No wonder we see stuff!

I’m not trying to rationalise, explain or even downplay the strange events that take place in David’s books. I’m just curious. Curious to come up with some explanation as to why. Nothing weird has ever happened to me. Nothing like in the books. But it might, so I have to be armed so I can deal with it when it happens.

‘Ah, I know what you are? You’re not a ghost, you’re a dimension. Number 23?’

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New Ghost Stories Volume Three is out now.

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Or listen to David read from Volumes one and two below: