The Sad Demise of Bradford and Bingley!

One of the saddest side-effects of the whole credit crunch thing is the likely loss of the easy-on-the-eye star of the rather poignantly named “Hopes and Dreams”advert for Bradford and Bingley, which will no doubt be lost as a brand as it is swallowed up by the Abbey and Santander.

There is clearly no justice in this world as the Halifax brand is likely to be saved following their takeover by Lloyds TSB. Which means more of those rather irritating adverts featuring Howard.

We can only hope that the Scottish Widows are safe! Fingers crossed.

Bad Parents!

Fat Cat

Maslow and I are just back from the Vet. I am £77 lighter. Which is more than can be said for Maslow. The furball baby has just weighed in at 6kg. He is officially, the size of a small horse. So, he is back on the diet! He is also not talking to me. He noticed the cat basket and went into hiding before we left. I managed to catch him and he went very heavy and struggled, well, like a cat who doesn’t want to get into a cat basket. He was at his most gorgeous at the Vets. He charmed the rather attractive young lady Vet – but still got a needle and a pill. He went back in his basket rather easier than at home. And, now he is crying for food – but I am going to be strong. And, when he goes to sleep I will treat him with his spot on anti-flea stuff. And later we have to give him special toothpaste. Parenthood – not as easy as you might think

A Tale of Two Hotels

C and I enjoyed a glorious weekend at the Goodwood Revival , an historic race meeting which celebrates the classic and classy in the period 1948 to 1964. It was awesome. The weather was fantastic. Foolishly we set out on day one without any sun cream. Consequently by that evening I looked as if my head was boiled (it’s the rosacea!) At least it wasn’t sore, unlike Lesley’s chest – we could have cooked eggs on that. And in some respects I wish we had. It would have been much, much better than the “food” we were served in the so-called hotel.

Indeed, the weekend was as much about the contrast between the two hotels we stayed at. On the Friday night we stayed at the Arrow Mill Hotel which sits in splendour opposite Ragley Hall.

The hotel is owned by two wonderful, friendly, and characterful hosts, Denis (who arrived very late in a shockingly striped blazer after rather too long at the 19th hole), and, the lovely Margaret, who blessed us with her company and good humour and who belies her 70 years. The staff were excellent. The food was excellent (they have a Nepalese chef who put on a curry banquet for us). The rooms were gorgeous – C and I had a four-poster. And, the beer was good. Consequently, our group of nine (including sister-in-law D, her partner Smithy and 5 of their friends) looked a little jaded over our bacon and egg. While C and I had retired around half past midnight, the lads had apparently still been putting the world to right past 3am and making good use of the honesty bar.

Our second hotel, for Saturday night, promised much too. The New Place De Vere near Southampton:

Their website claims “The name might be New Place but this Grade I listed manor house, set in 32 acres of lush parkland, is full of period charm……From the moment you drive through the wrought iron gates and up the driveway you know you’ve chosen the perfect Hampshire meeting venue.” Yeah right. It is a glorified Travel Lodge. I feel a complaint to the advertising standards agency coming on.

Our room, once we eventually found it, was nice enough. But modern – not a smidgen of “period charm” in the place. Mind you, it took some finding as the signage in the place was appalling. Instead of pointing us straight up one flight of stairs it took us all around the Wrekin (a Midland expression for going an unnecessarily long and circuitous route).

Most disturbing was the attitude of the staff. The two year old at reception (he sported several earrings!) was abrupt and unhelpful. He advised us that the restaurant was fully booked and was unapologetic and lacking in alternatives, seemingly content for us all to go without. Indeed, he even omitted to mention that their bar served bar meals! And so to the bar……..

No “period charm” here either. Indeed, the lighting in the bar was as subdued as the light beam at the Luxor Hotel in Las Vegas. Or, I suppose it could have been the glow from my head and Lesley’s chest……. And we found ourselves sat beneath speakers that were banging out some rather irritating hip-hop music, which was hardly conducive to chat and banter. The evening, therefore, consisted of a form of music tennis – we would ask for the music to be turned off, and then, another group in the bar who clearly did not feel the need to engage in conversation, would insist that it be turned back on.

We ordered bar snacks from the one menu they had (between 9). Our “food” arrived at various points during the evening (the concept of us wanting to eat together seemed beyond them). I had cardboard on a bun (which had been advertised as a burger). Our dirty plates seemed destined to outstay our visit, until D asked for them to be removed.

But then, the late previous night and a day in the sun got the better of us all and we retired early – around 11pm – and I spent the next couple of hours listening to the guy in the next door room snoring, and, climbing the wall! Have English hotels never heard of soundproofing? And, incidentally, why don’t they ever give you more than one small bottle of shower gel and shampoo?!?

By the way, SatNav let me down! Badly. I have an in-built system in the car. It is supposedly a super-duper system with real time updates which recalculates your route in the event of traffic problems and should you be foolish enough to ignore its directions. Now C has never been a fan of SatNav. She gets irritated by the voice and constantly disbelieves the advice that is given. So, en route to Goodwood (day one) we used SatNav to navigate our way from the Arrow Mill via the M40, M25 and the A3. But, once we got within spitting distance of the venue, C decided she new better. She chose to ignore the command “take the next junction”. She chose to ignore the helpfull bright-yellow sign declaring “All Goodwood traffic turn left”. And, we spent the next half an hour sitting in roadworks!

Words were exchanged. C declared that she would never, ever navigate again. Ever. Never. And so, that evening I had to entrust myself to SatNav to get us to our piece of “period charm”. Despite setting off a good 45 minutes earlier than the rest of our group we arrived at the same time. SatNav had deemed it better to go through the middle of Chichester rather than use the ring road. SatNav deposited me within a street or two of the hotel (we only had the post code) but it took a good 20 minutes or so of trawling up and down badly lit streets before we found it. C looked pretty smug. C still looks pretty smug. Damn you SatNav. This will come back to haunt me.

But, for the Goodwood experience it was all worth it. Now I am by far a Petrol Head and wouldn’t know an Austin Healy if I fell over one. But, I loved it all. Most people had dressed in appropriate costume (anything for the period 1948 to 1964). A few Johnny Foreigners had got it wrong – there were a number of 1920s slappers and flappers around with Italian accents. I was a James Herriot lookalike – sporting a flat cap, and a vintage tweed jacket that I had bought on the web and which smelled of dead people, and with a vintage pipe and pair of binoculars which I had found in an antique shop. C looked stunning dressed in a vintage 1950s dress, with vintage gloves and bag, and some gorgeous red shoes to boot:

We saw Murray Walker, Sterling Moss, and Jackie Stewart. We drank Pimms. We saw air displays, including a couple by the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight- Smithy’s brother was flying the Spitfire. We drank Pimms. We sat in the sun. We people watched. We had burgers from a van. We drank Pimms. It was Hell! So much so that we have decided that this is to be a regular event in Middle Man’s social calendar.

Thank you all who shared it with us. Here are a few photos.

Classic cars outside the Goodwood Shop

Jackie Stewart

Smithy and Murray Walker

Sterling Moss

Spitfire and Hurricane

Dad

The Glamour Girls

Lancaster Bomber

Race Start

Spitfire

The Belts Are Being Tightened!

Yesterday saw some stark evidence of the further impact of the credit crunch and failing economy on the Middle Man household.

We were out shopping in Wilmslow, heart of the Cheshire stockbroker belt and home to many a Manchester United player and many minor TV celebrities. We surveyed the state of our finances having struggled to find change for the £2.70 ticket for parking the Audi TT at the back of Hoopers. We decided that we could not afford our usual chianti, Peroni, and repast in the local Pizza Express. We decided that we would have to grab a pasty from Greggs instead.

Until this day I was a Greggs’ virgin. Greggs is one of those places which is usually sited between a JCB Sports and a charity shop. There is usually a gaggle of unhealthy-looking, fat, spotty rough kids outside accompanied by a drooling rottweiler and a couiple of moth-eaten pigeons. But today we checked around to make sure that there was no-one that we knew who could see us, and entered. C chose a cheese and onion pasty. I went for the meat and potato and a sausage roll. We ate them a little further down the road, standing outside the rather posh jewellers, so that we would not be mistaken for people eating a Greggs’ pasty. I have eaten better. I felt hungry again within minutes.

But, when times are hard you have to economise. Mind you, this grand gesture did seem a little feeble. We were actually out shopping for items to accompany C’s fancy dress outfit for the Goodwood Revival next weekend. A wrap and pearls from Hoopers and new red shoes from John Lewis. This was on top of the vintage 50s dress purchased on the web. When we do fancy dress, we DO fancy dress.

It was a successful trip despite our culinary disappointments. We made up for those in the evening when C rustled up Gressingham duck a l’orange!

And Then The Knob Fell Off……

I had to fly in and out of Schiphol Amsterdam airport again this week. This was a bit of a shock to the system because my 4am get-up followed a leisurely two week holiday. 4 am doesn’t look good from any angle, but especially when you have to drive yourself to the airport.

The second shock to the system was the new security and departure arrangements at Manchester Airport. You now have to go upstairs, where you will be lost for quite some time in a queuing system akin to that you might find when they open a new ride at Alton Towers. It is slow. Lots of grumpy bleary-eyed red-faced holiday makers and stressed businessmen shuffling behind each other with all the enthusiasm of shackled prisoners walking the Green Mile.  I felt like shouting at some of the parents with kids: “Why aren’t your kids at school!” The schools here have gone back a good week or so at least, so clearly these parents were prioritising a cheap week in Marbella ahead of their progenies’ education. Mind you, the kids themselves did not look overly concerned.

Consequently, they were already boarding my plane when I arrived. This did not help my stress level as, as regular readers will know, I like to board early in order to ensure I have space for my luggage in the overhead lockers, and, so that I can check out the other passengers as they file past…….checking for potential hijackers and terrorists and the like (see here and here for a better explanation). Nevertheless I boarded fine and tried to reconnect with my human side after the trials and tribulations of the early start, the dash to the airport, the queue and the rather disgusting egg and cheese sandwiches that were served as my breakfast.

I was relieved, however, that my trip this week was to be a short one. I was keen to avoid travelling on Thursday, it being the 7th anniversary of 9/11. Al Qaida seems to have a thing for anniversaries and for the number seven. I was also a tad concerned that I would spend my last seconds alive in a foreign land as a result of the Big Bang (Large Hadron Collider) experiment in Switzerland creating a black hole and causing the end of the world or something.

So, it was somewhat with relief that I found myself safe and sound back at Schiphol airport in good time to make my flight home, having survived the two hour drive from Doetinchem to Amsterdam – my boss, who was driving, seems to get a speeding fine every other trip and likes to change lanes as the best mechanism for ensuring he stays awake!

At the airport I bought a newspaper and read all about the collapse of the Liquid Bombers Terror Trial – which was probably not the best material to be reading just ahead of boarding a plane. In good time I made my way to gate D6, knowing that this was a security check and holding area ahead of boarding the shuttle bus which takes you to the plane. Exiting via D6 makes it even more difficult to ensure that you are amongst the first to board as, a) there is no obvious place to stand/queue in order to ensure that you are first on the first bus (it generally requires two busses to ferry all passengers to the plane) so people push in, b) you need to know where to stand on the bus to facilitate a quick exit at the optimum position to be amongst the first up the steps of the plane. This is not as easy as it may sound because there are doors on both sides of the bus and there are three doors on either side. Usually the middle door on the right side is best but you still have to gamble on how close to the plane the driver will park. Also, you cannot always retain your position on the bus due to people pushing and frequent requests to “move further inside please”. Today, my desire to be amongst the first group was even greater due to the fact that I was sitting in row 1, meaning that my overhead luggage compartment options were limited and I would not be allowed to place my bag near my feet. Also, it was a smaller plane which meant that if you couldn’t stow your luggage it would be removed to the hold which would mean a further hour of one’s life being wasted at the luggage carousel at the other end.

Gate D6 was horrible. It was hot and everyone was a little sweaty and agitated. The queue for security was long and chaotic due to a number of drunk Geordies who had left it to the last minute to leave the bar and head to the gate for their flight to Humberside – they pushed to the front. Security was strict, so, the laptop had to come out of my bag, and, my see-through resealable liquid bag was checked (a bit of a worry as a colleague who had flown via Birmingham had had her’s tested and her shampoo had tested positive for traces of explosive – mind you, if you could see the shocking red colour of her hair you could see how this was possible . They also insisted that I removed my shoes and my belt. It is not the most pleasant experience being frisked by a large, sweaty security guard when you are half naked and trying to hold up your trousers!

Fortunately, I positioned myself leaning against the optimal pillar to be first through the ticket check to get on the bus. The wait until boarding was thankfully brief as, as well as being hot, I was becoming irritating by the annoying spiv who was walking up and down in front of me talking loudly into his mobile and by all the elderly people who insist on going to the desk to confirm “is this the flight to Manchester?” – can’t they read the bloody sign?! I was third on the bus, behind a Chinese couple who pushed in the queue just ahead of me. I was able to retain my optimal position on the bus. The driver parked optimally. I was second up the stairs, stowed my bag successfully and sat down to survey the cabin crew and passengers. This was far from ideal, however, as most of the passengers seemed to be carrying large, heavy bags and insisted on bashing them into my shoulder (I was in the aisle seat of course) on the way past. Nevertheless we all boarded in time and they were just about to close the doors for an on-time departure……..when the doorknob on the door to the cockpit fell off!

They tried to fix it unsuccessfully with one of the stewardess’ harclips and a piece of chewing gum. It took them a further ten minutes or so to find a maintenance man with a  screwdriver. He seemed more intent on chatting up the stewardess than fixing the knob. They then decided the knob could not be fixed and that we would all have to offload, get back on the boss, and move to a different plane, which fortunately they had spare and fuelled. I did wonder why it would be quicker and easier to relocate a full plane of passengers with their luggage and to prep a new plane rather than, a) fixing the knob (presumably they could have used the one from the spare plane), or, b) swapping the door.

The joys of business travel eh?