Stealth

I attended a health & safety briefing which was all about Fees For Intervention (FFI). This is a measure put in place by the Health & Safety Executive to charge companies for their inspectors' time (and other things, such as any expert reports, etc.) which are required after discovery of a material breach of health & safety legislation. As with many of the areas of modern life, this is part of the current agenda of everything having a price, while nothing has any value. Of course, there's the usual ill-thought out justification for gradually stripping away those areas of the state which are actually of any use, but precious little thought of how this might affect those who a) work at the HSE and will undoubtedly lose their jobs and b) ordinary workers in other businesses who are sure to see a decline in safety standards as a result of this privatisation.

We must all remember the bleating about red tape Britain, supposedly strangling those brave entrepreneurs who are pushing back the frontiers of trading and so on and so forth. My fear is that stealthily cutting away at the hugely important - and extremely hard-won - legislation erodes protection for the individual worker. We may hear about the probation service being contracted out; we are all too painfully aware of the commoditisation of the health service, but there are so many other things going on beneath the news radar which are steadily hacking at this country while it is already on its knees pleading for mercy.

However, lest anyone think: 'Hey, this is not a football blog!' I will update on the City situation. Bad news that Kun's injury comes at a time when Yaya is in Africa, and that it is more serious than first thought, as well as (I suppose) Nasri not being available. Bad news that these events coincide with a visit to the Library, but we must keep positive. I think the word is #believe, but I do struggle with some of that stuff. I fear at best a draw against the Gooners, and we could well end up losing it. Still, there's the FA Cup to look forward to, and if Palace can see off those pesky Potters, there might be a chance to go and see City again towards the end of the month. Only time will tell.

Once Upon A Time

It was inevitable, wasn't it? After such a disappointing start, and the current seeming inability to bulge the onion bag, we were always going out. Just a shame that there wasn't even a goal to celebrate against the youth of Dortmund, but truth be told we were probably lucky to get the penalty against the Toffees on Saturday, and the ignominy of the worst ever European campaign by an English side is ours to carry like a cross to Calvary. It is now with trepidation that we look to the big one on Sunday. Let's just hope that the Rags' largesse in front of goal continues so that we can at least bang one or two in, and have a happy Hanukkah. Enough of that. Time for a festive story to warm the hearts of my many readers.

Once upon a time, there was a wicked queen who lived in an ice castle in SW1. All in her land bowed down at her feet and did her bidding, in great fear of the spells she was capable of casting, when her eyes bulged and bore through the thick lenses of her glasses into the very souls of those over whom she ruled. An army of workers toiled for her throughout the year, from humble drones to cunning viziers, each one dropping everything to carry out her slightest whim, trembling at the prospect of the dreaded One to One Meeting.

Her trusted lieutenants whipped her dwarf slaves to hard labour in the dusty mines of the Ice Queen's caves which were spread thoughout the land, even unto the far reaches of SE10. The poor dwarves' fingers were nipped with frost and their backs were bent with the heavy weight of the sacks they carried hither and thither. In a clear sign of the wicked queen's cruelty, the dwarves were forced to listen to Heart FM (only the merry jester at the cave in SE1 dared to play a classic rock station, and somehow he escaped the Queen's wrath, using his Tottenham Hotspur laughing stick to distract her from her spells) all day as they laboured for the paltry rewards she threw down to them, as rancid scraps to whipped curs from the heaving feast table.

The only thing which gave the little men and women heart was the prospect of the one day of freedom in their long and wearying struggle which Christmas gave them. A day when they could cast off their cares, rest their aching bones and feel warmth and love in the bosom of their local pub. Now the queen hated Christmas, and wished in her cold and black heart that it did not exist. Yet even her great power was not equal to this sorcery, which only the mighty lords Tesco and Sainsbury were able to perform, so she seethed with anger and jealousy in her frosty tower and devised her plans. At last it came to her! Christmas would remain - for now - but Christmas Eve, which had by tradition been a short day, would become just another working day, with the dwarves held to their labour till darkness fell.

So it came that this year she summoned her lieutenant in charge of the dwarves to the feared One to One Meeting, and sat with her faithful raven, Stanton, perched upon her shoulder. Magnifying her eyes into the trembling lieutenant's lowered countenance, she spoke:

"What treachery are those loathsome dwarf swine plotting against me now, imbecile?" she snapped. Stanton blinked his black eyelid over his black eye and plucked the entrails from a small rodent, held down with one of his black claws. Stuttering, the poor lieutenant tried to answer:

"Ah yes, your majesty - ha ha... They are but lazy, conniving..."

"Enough!" shouted the queen in anger, causing Stanton to flutter up from her shoulder, trailing the mouse entrails across the breast of the queen's gown and leaving a red smear as he did so. Lightning flashed through the tower's arrow slits and thunder rumbled in the Mountains of Victoria in the distance. The lieutenant cowered and clasped his hands across his chest, waiting for the pronouncement.

"You will tell those... pathetic beasts... that Christmas Eve is cancelled!"

The queen smiled, Stanton squawked and swallowed his bloody entrails, and the lieutenant gasped in amazement.

"But... Your majesty... This is... Too much...!"

"Too much?" screamed the queen. "Too MUCH??!! When half the world is grateful for any work, when children are begging for food, when the dying are forced from their beds to seek labour, and when the great Lord Osborne takes away more of my feeble hoard for his steaming money forges each year? Do not tell me 'Too Much'! Go and set those feckless fools to work!" Suddenly she became still, stroking Stanton's midnight feathers and smiling as she rose to her feet. "Unless you wish to join... Them!" The sleeve of her gown billowed as she pointed through the arrow slits to the shambling, shuffling souls outside. Huddled against the cold, their scrawny arms outstretched, they waited for the leavings of the fortunate ones, their eyes hollow with hunger and the death of hope. The queen turned away, and the lieutenant dropped his head into his hands and wept.

And they all lived happily ever after. The End.

Out of my way!

On the back of the bus: "Can I make an appointment for this morning please?... I can't hear you... 9825831... It's for my son, Linford... Why are you asking me that?... No, why are you taking my details if no appointments are available?... There's no point in me giving you my date of birth and everything else if there are no appointments... No, he has to see someone... Thank you."

The woman who made this call is clearly angry all the time. She picked up the phone angry and confirmed her feelings by having the conversation with some hapless receptionist, almost certainly an elderly lady who spends her days dealing with anger and shock and whatever else from the thousands of people who call the particular surgery she works in.

I wondered about Angry Phone Woman as I got off the bus, watching her brow crease as she put the phone back into her handbag. Assumptions I know, but I felt that this was not just a bad day; rather, it was her modus operandi. Doubtless she was on her way to work, and I pondered on what sort of job she might do. I thought perhaps the civil service, or a law firm, either in administration, or - perhaps - ironically as a receptionist or shop manager. I can't be sure, but something about the way she dressed, the way she spoke, made me think that. Too smart for cleaning, not posh enough for senior management, not funky enough for marketing or sales. In any case what, I wondered, were the reasons for such a pugnacious attitude to life? A tough upbringing, with a strict mother and father? An abusive husband or partner, bullying her so that she has to pass the nasty on? A cruel boss, or an impossible job? A sick son? Whatever the reason, there's a hell of a lot of it about.

Maybe I will be Angry Phone Man today, after watching the hapless Villa at the Etihad, but somehow I doubt it. I've predicted 2-0 to City, and feel that we may get more than that. Famous last words, and my failure always to heed my own advice about not crowing may strike again, but my lead of 8 points at the top of our predictions mini league has filled me with a cocky bravado. Merlin is back at last; Carlos is surely due a goal, and Dzeko and Kun are both deadly.

Tower

I like an observation tower as much as the next human, don’t get me wrong, but there are limits. The limit is not only £15, but definitely £10 and maybe even £5, depending on the tower and my temporal position in relation to payday. Fifteen quid (£15!) is the amount one must pay to take a trip up the ArcelorMittal Orbit tower in the Olympic Park, the foot of which being where I was based this week on my latest stint as an unpaid crowd control lackey.

While I’m on the subject, safe in the anonymity of this blog (i.e., no-one reads it) I would like to have a little rant about TfL and the Olympics before returning to my theme. My objection, and I speak as someone on the inside, is that people have been infantilized by the way in which the pedestrian traffic is controlled during the Games, and this is something which the organisation does a lot. There is a feeling that they know best, and that the travelling public are congenital idiots, which is not always true. Punters are told which way to go home, and are not allowed to behave as independent adults. West Ham station is bloody miles from the Park, and, I’m reliably informed, Stratford is so well served that it can easily handle the numbers. Plus, I have not needed to be told to stop because there’s a car coming since I was about seven years old. Thank you. Now, back to the main story…

Of course, like all ‘public art’ in this country (I use inverted commas to highlight the debate over the project during and since its launch) it had a painful birth by committee and stands now to prove itself as art that can turn a profit. Boris has said that the entry fee ‘may’ come down once the Games are over, and the restaurant starts taking in corporate parties, but time will tell on that one.

Like a lot of the gumf surrounding these bloody games, the whole commercial element is perhaps  the most troubling aspect. In the park, the dominance of the main sponsors is there for all to see. Visa, McDonalds and Coke are literally everywhere, in your face, down your throat and up your ass. I was lucky enough to get a backstage pass to eat in the staff mess tent (it had a strong resonance with M*A*S*H for me)  and Coca Cola products are there arrayed for all to see. Take a Sprite Light™

 or a Coke Zero with your lunch; have a Sainsbury’s chocolate brownie for dessert; watch the Paralympic events via the BT feed… And on it goes.

The Olympic Park resembled nothing so much as one of the big theme parks. I’ve been to Disneyland Paris and to Portaventura in the Costa Daurada, and there were strong elements of both over at Stratford. Crowd controlled spaces, concessions all around, music playing to set the mood, corporate groups led by someone holding up a paddle emblazoned with the EDF logo, and thousands of people wondering around sucking it all up and showing off their privilege by spending their £15 on going up in a lift and walking back down a set of stairs. As I stood in the queue for the water fountains, with massive McDonalds restaurants to either side of me, I couldn’t help thinking (like the good Guardian reader I am) about the impending (current in some areas, of course) global water crisis, about the food catastrophe in sub Saharan Africa, and the looming food crisis caused by climate change in the USA, and it all seemed so… sick, really.

Putting aside the very valid debates about the Paralympics and their effect on the image and daily life of disabled people in these trying times, it’s hard to see how an event such as the Olympic Games can have any relevance to these issues. How are they contributing to making the world a better place? At lunch, I spoke to a security officer, employed by G4S. He told me that he had worked 16 consecutive shifts of 16 hours, and how he had not yet been paid for them. Around us were hundreds of others in white shirts or orange or yellow tabards, overalls and hairnets – everyone ‘making the Games’ – and I was almost awe-struck by the sheer numbers of people involved, beetling away to hold it all together.

In a day or two, the whole edifice will start to be taken down, famously recycled through the Commonwealth Games and other events, with the people left behind. To what? A big open space with an unused stadium, a large swimming pool and a piece of ‘public art’ that has to make a profit.

Shuffle

Now that the natural order in Westminster has been restored, the Coalition can really get down to business. I'm hearing figures of between 80 and 94 (!) % of cuts still to come, so there will be some tears before bedtime, is all I can say. The silence of Miliband and crew is testament enough to the fact that the established order has no answer to this mire we're in, and we look set to follow Greece down the road to abject poverty, 6 day weeks and foraging in the woods.

Yet I fail to see how promoting that little turd Jeremy Hunt can be defended by anybody, even (especially) the deranged kleptocrats currently in charge. Finding out that he supports homeopathy was just another reason to despise him. Not to mention his vote on shortening the abortion time to 12 weeks. Chris Grayling, he of the unpaid youth work thanks to buying a drink from an Aussie barman, is another fucking cunt. That's all the incisive political comment I can muster at this point. Only the brief joy of Osborne getting booed at the Paralympics leavened the recent dark mood.

Said Paralympics on C4 is almost unwatchable, sad to say. Frigging adverts every two or three minutes mean that it's just so stuttering, and you lose the thread of the events. There have been (and are) some good presenters and pundits - Clare Balding is excellent as ever, and I like Ade Adepitan - so it's a shame I think that it's ended up like that, but they (like everyone else in this bright future of ours) have to make money, dont they? Also disappointing is that C4 don't have that cool moving yellow world record bar in the swimming, which marks it down from the superb BBC coverage. I'll be at the Olympic Park myself tomorrow, so perhaps first hand experience will help to change my perception.

Football is football, and City are more like the City we know and love. Defensively, we've been terrible, and clearly needed quite a few of those deadline day signings to bolster us up. I won't comment on any of them till I've seen them play, but will say a few words about the performances I have seen. Tevez has been great - full of energy and desire - and if Kun hadn't been injured, I believe more end product would have been forthcoming. We should have put 5 past QPR in the first 20 minutes, but almost paid dearly for switching off and letting them come at us. Dzeko had loads of the ball on Saturday and worked hard, but his touch and finishing let him down too many times. Silva was tired and ordinary looking at first, but showed a good deal more after half time. Lescott has regressed to the player he was before last season, and the rest of the back line (even including Vinny to a point) appear nervous, slow and out of touch with each other. Hart (with the exception of a good save from Andy Johnson) hasn't been excellent...

I could go on, but I won't. Seven points in the bag and some potentially exciting new players, as well as Agüero hopefully back soon (don't let him play for Argentina please!) and we've got to be optimistic. In any case, we've had some cracking games, and you can't ask for more than that.

I need somebody

Suitably refreshed (or completely knackered, whichever you prefer) after my trip to Oswestry, thoughts turn with dread to work once again. My last post was all about my first shift as a TA, and I will pick up the thread from there.

Firstly, there's been some discussion about the legacy the Games will leave behind. For me, it feels as if that - once the whole thing is over - reality will come crashing down on all our heads. It's bizarre that the BBC has wall to wall coverage, from 6am to 1am every day, and every single front page is about Team GB. Don't get me wrong, I have a great deal of respect for the sports people who have done so amazingly well for us, and I enjoy almost all of the sports I watch (I find the colour of the hockey pitch a bit dazzling, and I'm not huge on sailing or equestrianism, but the rest are all good) but it does create a rather surreal atmosphere, as though the events in the rest of the world are not actually happening. When it does come  to an end in a week's time, I think there will be a sense of flatness, and it will be necessary once again to confront the impossible conundrum of the European (and world) economic situation. People have also been continuing to die in Syria, and it doesn't seem as if the UN or anyone else has much of a solution  to that either.

Anyway, returning to my theme, the whole question of Olympic legacy was summed up for me when I went for my lunch break last Saturday. Wanting to take myself away a little from the madding crowds, I walked towards a chip shop I could see at the next junction. The man in there told me he was very disappointed because he had been told that the Olympics would make his area very busy, and he was clearly expecting a boost for his business. But it was not to be. Even though he could look out of his window and see the crowds streaming out of the tube station to get to the London Live site, the route there did not take them past his shop. After the Games are over, even those shops lucky enough to have been on an Olympic route will see things returning to their normal dismal routine. Oswestry - never perhaps the most vibrant area in the world - now seems to be in terminal decline, with most of the town centre comprised of empty shops, although the market was more lively than I have seen it for some years. Fundamentally, there just isn't the engine in the economy for things to turn around, and I believe we are set for some truly historic events in the coming months as we watch the disintegration of the Euro project. Sorry to be so depressing.

On my second shift, I have never known time to pass so slowly. The station I was at was designated as a possible Olympic route to the Lea Valley white water centre, but only one intrepid fan seemed to have chosen it on the day that I was there. There were two of us, along with three others from the Revenue Protection team, and we did bugger all the entire day. My colleague, keen to try out his new customer skills and bored out of his mind, asked an old man if he could help. The old man replied:

"Only if you've got a cure for cancer."

Need any help?

That was my strapline over the weekend. I found myself quite willing to speak to total strangers and ask them if I could help them. Quite often I consulted my iPad and found it to be an extremely useful tool once I had decided to not keep taking it out of my bag any more, instead clutching it to my chest. I counted 7 customers in the first 30 minutes, but had lost count by the end of the first hour.

I am not a particularly corporate person, and tend to do just enough, rather than ra-ra-ing like some, however I did feel good as a result of the way people were responding to me. One person even congratulated me on the Opening Ceremony, and I of course lapped it up, even though my only contribution was watching it on telly while gleefully reading the tweets about Danny Boyle's left-leaning extravaganza. Someone else said: 'You guys are so helpful! I think it's great what you're doing!' and that is a nice thing to hear, no matter how cyncical you might feel. I even tried out a bit of my poor and rusty French on one of the Games contingent, and he was - I could tell - very happy that I had at least had a go. Later, he came back to me specifically for further information. I learned that to actually ring the BBC (and not just one of the shows) costs £1.53, and this amused and enraged the (I assume) Russian (I also assume) journalist in equal measure.

The Counter Olympics Network also staged a march right past the station I was at, and a large number of queries were from protesters wanting to know where the march was assembling. I remained neutral, found the information, and guided them to where they needed to be, just the same as I directed groups of Americans to the Olympic Park. Some of the crusties did piss me off a little with their attitude, coming across as condescending, and assuming they knew what my political stance was just because I was wearing a shirt with a roundel on it. They were wrong, but despite their efforts to bait me, I did not tell them so. The boys in blue on the other hand were almost to a man idiots. There were a couple from Wales (one question I was asked was: 'What language is that?!') and some from Tayside, and they were largely clueless - not knowing where the march was going to end until I told them.

Station staff were variable. All very friendly and with a good sense of humour, but some were a little institutionalised in their attitude to customers. One of them (a superior of the station staff) was a bit of a tosser, thinking he was some kind of squaddie or something while smoking fags in his cupped hand.

Seven hours on my feet, and I certainly felt it at the end of the day, though my working week was far from over as I was due at my next location for 7 o'clock the next morning. More anon.

Schtum

Monday, in the pissing rain and freezing cold, to a training session. Its subject is something about which I am sworn to secrecy. Tweets will only be allowed via an authorised account, as will Facebook updates. As a result, I missed the first 15 minutes of the England match, which was not ideal. On that, as I also missed much of the second half – catching only the last 10 minutes or so through a pub window whilst sheltering under an umbrella – I don’t really know what to say. The press seemed quite upbeat on the following day, even though others have since said that we spent much of the latter part of the match on the back foot. Without Rooney (though it pains me to say it) I can’t see that much special about the team, and we look no more than adequate. Still, Greece perhaps excepted, it’s all wide open so you never know. I have a horrible feeling however that everything will depend on the final group game, and will maybe even be out of England’s hands by then. Neither Greece nor Ukraine are going to be easy to beat.

But, back to some general observations for you on my top secret mission in West Kensington. There were two presenters – one male and one female – from Learning & Development standing on the stage when we trooped in. The man looked like Alastair McGowan and sounded like Rob Brydon, or could have been McGowan doing a Brydon impression. Who knows? They spoke for getting on for two hours, and then guest presenters came on from the Security teams, from Occupational Health and from the senior management sponsor. After that it was on to 30 minute breakout sessions – six in all – covering the different areas in which we might end up working. At the end of each of these 30 minute sessions, a ship’s bell sounded, meaning we had to move from the one we were in to the next one along. Much of the information was repeated in each of the breakouts, making the day fairly hard going, although there was some light relief when we got to play with the iPads and iPhones with which we will be equipped for our duties. I was told that over 2500 iPads and over 800 iPhones have been purchased for the project, and this certainly does make me think about money. And priorities. And redundancies. And much else.

Along with the nearly 3000 of us taking part in the forthcoming event, I discovered that there will also be 8000 other volunteers from another part of our organisation, and this is even more mind-boggling because I’m guessing that this means almost the entire workforce will not be doing their day jobs for a few weeks. Other key staff are also being stood down from their normal activities for the duration, though I cannot go into this either due to the confidentiality issues I mention above. Suffice to say that the absence of that particular group will be a boon to those who prefer to travel without the benefit of a ticket. Nudge nudge.

More is to come. I will soon be meeting my team leader, will be collecting my technology at the beginning of July, and my uniform in the middle of July. My shifts have been allocated, and I will be familiarising myself with the locales before I turn up for my shift. I am expecting some anger and confusion (recently, in the street near my office, an American lady asked me where the nearest toilets were, and though I was not wearing any kind of tabard or badge, she looked away in disgust when I told her truthfully where they were. I sarcastically said: ‘You’re welcome!’ before going on my way. It wasn't my fucking fault that she was 15 minutes walk away from McDonald's, was it?) from dim witted members of the public, and am trying to remember the many pearls of wisdom which were scattered before me on Monday.

Little Dramas

This morning on the bus - that delicious ache when you could just stay where you are, reading your book; when a long, slow journey would be just the thing you needed, but you know it has to end. Rain pelting down and dirty brown puddles gathered around the feet. Each time the bus came towards a stop, a great rushing wash as the deep pools of water displaced and the doors opened.

I glanced ahead and to my right as my time on the machine was ending, saw a large man reading the Metro and snorting at one of the stories. Opposite him, two or three seats away from me, a woman's ID card (she was young and wearing glasses) had been abandoned on the seat. I contemplated picking it up and handing it to the driver, but it was just a little too close to the legs of the man, so I decided against it as doing so would have meant a) invading his private space and b) possibly entering into conversation. So I stood up and carefully moved towards the exit doors.

"Hello," came a voice behind me, "Hello!" I turned and saw the man pointing at the card. "Did you leave this?" Of course I did, you stupid cunt! Can't you see that the picture looks exactly like me? Why would I be carrying an ID card which belongs to a young woman with glasses on? Or maybe you think I dress in drag, whilst also undergoing extensive plastic surgery? Did you also notice that I was sitting 3 seats away from where the card was left?

It reminded me of a similar scene I witnessed on the same route, in almost the same location, some months ago, when someone picked up a phone which had been left on the seat. The owner had just got off, but was already out of sight, and so the person who found it was unsure about what she should do. A man standing near her said that he knew where the woman was going, and that he would be more than happy to run after her with the phone. As an observer, I was sceptical about this course of action, and the finder didn't seem too convinced either.

"Give it to the driver," I said, but nobody seemed to hear me, and the guy became a little indignant, thinking that he was being considered untrustworthy.

"I'm not going to nick it," he said, "I can get it back to her in a couple of minutes..."
"I don't know..." said the finder "I really shouldn't..."

I disembarked and left it all behind me.

Let's not fall out

I write preparing to hold a meeting about someone's attendance at work. Without going into too much detail, the guy is trying to claim that he suffered an industrial injury because he was bitten by insects while in the office. He signed himself off sick for 5 days as a result of the bites after sending a lengthy email, complete with pictures of his bites and a pasted section from Wikipedia about mites. Needless to say, his TU rep has also become involved. His immediate line manager, two steps below me in the hierarchy, and incidentally a Union rep himself to boot, allowed the guy's claim of industrial injury to be entered on his return to work form. This of course caused some consternation higher up the tree (I was out of the office when all of this happened) and now I have been asked to sort it out. The guy is, shall we say, somewhat eccentric, so I really don't know what will happen at the meeting. I heard that he hopes we won't fall out over the issue. I've said before that I'm generally supportive of trades unions, but I've also said before that some people take the piss. I'll leave it to you to decide which side of the fence this particular issue sits on.

There is a parallel between the attendance issues here and the record of one Carlos Tevez, who has made a remarkable return to the City first team in the last couple of weeks. In the absence of Balotelli, Carlos will of course always attract headlines, and you have to say that a hat-trick's a hat-trick. However, yet again, the mighty Kun put on a display at Carrow Road of which any football fan would be proud - limited opposition notwithstanding. He is a truly talented and exciting player, and will be getting my vote for Etihad Player of the Year. Chris Foy, if it needs to be said again, is an absolute word now likely to lead to prosecution on Twitter.

Bobby is getting it right with his avowal that it is impossible for us to win it, expecially with Ashley Young performing Swan Lake at every opportunity, and opposition as limp and listless as the Villans up agin the fucking Rags. Just a shame that pissing Rio Ferdinand looks unlikely to have his words rammed down his smug throat come season's end. Ah well.

Thicker, faster, harder

This week I was priveleged to be given a tour of the Olympic Park at Stratford. It was part of a drive within my organisation to get everyone geared up for the event (as well as to give us the latest 'be prepared for change' corporate indoctrination) because it will have such a big impact on us, more so perhaps than other Londoners. It was an impressive sight on what was a gloriously sunny day. Somewhat amusingly, the double decker red bus we were on broke down as we were exiting through the security gates at the end of the tour, but this didn't detract from a fascinating bit of sightseeing. Facts and figures from the irritating tour guide were coming thick and fast as we trundled around watching - and being watched by (at least in the case of the younger females on the bus) the gangs of workers dotted around the site.

The media centre, to be equipped with its own post office, launderette, shops and catering facilities, could accommodate 5 Jumbo Jets, wing tip to wing tip, across its floor;

the 17,000 flats built for the athletes were not fitted with kitchens, in order to avoid the risk of unnecessary fire alarm activations in the middle of the night; all heating and ventilation for the athletes' village was produced at a central CHP plant - contributing to the aim of making these the greenest Games ever; the cedar roof of the velodrome, designed with input from Sir Chris Hoy, was stained red by rhubarb juice;

the velodrome itself was naturally ventilated, causing spectators at a recent test event to complain of melting - though this again was the result of Sir Chris's involvement, and something to do with maximising speeds on the track; the lights on the main stadium, set to optimise high definition TV, were so expensive that they were only on loan for the duration of the Games;

200,000 condoms were being supplied for the athletes, and this translates to (ahem) roughly 8 shags per athlete. (although there are certain to be at least some of those with holes, and no allowance is made for lesbians or celibates in this number); trees to the number of around 40,000 were in the process of being planted.

I'm with Will Self, and think that the whole thing is despicable in the extreme, but it was hard not to be impressed - by the desperation if nothing else. Arriving at the venue, I opted not to wait 10 minutes for the DLR to Stratford International, but instead walked through the living hell of the Westfield shopping centre from Stratford regional station. Just like the millions who will flock to the Games come July. Here was the glorious end time of our consumer age writ large in neon and bold yet tasteful colour schemes. Here were play areas for the kids, classic rock favourites coming out of the loudspeakers, even outside the centre, and everything in the world you could possibly imagine and hope for. Most of the buildings (though probably not the world's biggest McDonald's)

on the Park are temporary and will be pulled down after the event, but of course the velodrome will remain, and either Spurs or West Ham or neither will call the stadium home. The pool will nestle in its stingray splendour among the 'greening' that is left behind.

The nation holds its breath, realising that the great Olympic dream is just a short term scam, and fuck knows where the economy will go once it's all over. But it's too late now.

Anger

Came into work boiling today, despite being liberally doused with rain. I wanted to toss off this piece in the heat of that anger, but ended up on the phone addressing the issue for half an hour, so now I'm here, retrospectively annoyed, tapping away.

My thoughts were to experiment with anger and writing, to see how it might come out, and although there is a lingering simmer of pissed off-ness, most of the initial seething has subsided, so that experiment will have to wait another day. The subject of my ire: the boss, of coss! Standing in the pissing rain, waiting for a bus, I checked my BlackBerry, to find there a message accusing me (to cut a long story short) of poor customer service, albeit through a member of my team.

'For fuck's sake!' I hissed, as I slopped through a puddle into the mass of steaming commuters on the 24, my mood immediately sent nosediving by this stupid message. Head down after I disembarked, taking the incessant heavy drizzle full in the face on the short walk to the office, I mulled over my response. Temporarily toying with writing something along the lines of:

'Do you think we're all fucking stupid or something? How dare you accuse me of this, when I only found out about it late last night, and have already told you that I would investigate? How fucking DARE you, BITCH?!', I nonetheless didn't bother, and instead penned an anodyne 'I'll look into it' before making a phone call. I'm glad to say that I was vindicated by the call, and have heard nothing in response as yet, although the danger of course is always that some other attack (and let's face it, everyone has at least one vulnerability in their work. If the powers that be really don't like you, it can be difficult to avoid an inevitable crash) will mount. Let's wait and see.

So now that's over with, time for a bit of football talk. Though not a good win, a win for all that on Monday night against an anaemic Wigan side. Dzeko, despite scoring, still looking more of a donkey than a world class striker. Aguero unlucky again, with a fantastic work ethic, great speed and strength. De Jong alarmingly short of his previous form, and really should have been a more comfortable scoreline, even without Yaya. So it's on to face the magnificent Spurs at the weekend, and do I spy (geddit?) a cracking match? My prediction, 2-2, which wouldn't make me too angry, or perhaps 3-2 City, though perhaps old 'Arry will be taxed (geddit???!!) by events at Southwark Crown Court the following day.

A Day in the Life

No doubt he took the tube/bus/train/bike as he always did. I can't say if he had bacon and eggs, or porridge, or just a cup of coffee and a rueful cigarette as part of his normal breakfast routine; can't know whether he might have popped into a Caffé Nero or a Starbucks or a Fitness First before heading into the office. I don't even know if he had a wife, husband, kids or a dog to give a kiss to as he headed out the door, or if he stared at his reflection with a grin or a scowl while brushing his teeth or letting them stay stained - just for today, or most days - because he was sleeping on a friend's sofa.

There might have been a long wait for the bus in the rain, or a steady walk to the tube station - unseasonably warm as it was; alternatively, he was given a lift, dropped off perhaps with a kiss. Or not. Always a chance that he stood on the train all the way, cramped and pressed against others' sweaty frames, holding his nose or holding in his own foul breath to blot out the smells around him or from him. Maybe there was a raised voice, a small increase in the tension of the commuters from some real or imagined slight that served to changed the tenor of the day. Or else he was blessed with a safe middle seat as soon as he got on, able to read his Metro or his Dostoyevsky - his James Patterson or his Daily Star amid the blissful racket of the clattering wheels against the rails.

Maybe someone who knew him would have detected a difference in his demeanour, something not quite right about him. Perhaps he was sweating, agitated, quick to anger or suddenly sullen. But if no-one on his tube or train carriage or bus had ever seen him before, or had perhaps only glimpsed him on the odd morning - a slightly more familiar face in the relentless faceless crowd, but nothing more - then who could have had a clue that today would be any different to the hundreds of other days which had gone before? Only him, maybe. Unless at home, the significant other fumed or fretted, raged and texted and fruitlessly called, cried and wailed, plotted and schemed, laughed and derided...

When he walked past the security guard on arrival at the office, showing his pass as required, it might have been that a gentle half smile, perhaps a word or two, were exchanged. And it might have been that there was only the almost unnoticeable flash of recognition that the pass had been seen and that he was clear to go through. His co-workers on the 4th floor could have wished him a good morning, chatting about last night's telly amid the clatter of kettles, and milk taken from fridges, waste bin lids opened and closed. Or on an early shift, he might have been alone at his desk, reading emails and answering calls.

As he typed, he may have felt the itch of needle marks in his arms, or the familiar nagging pain of the tumour in his belly, pressing against his ribcage; may have confronted again whatever demon had hold of his mind - debts, disease, religious fervour, loneliness... And the hours would have passed - no doubt - the hands making their relentless circuit around the face until lunchtime arrived.

He took the lift the last two flights up and stepped out to look over the balcony, where he saw the usual hubbub of a Friday passing on the floors below; straddled the balustrade and lifted his leg over the top... Then he pitched himself forward and down the 80ft drop to the hard tiled floor, smashing his body apart in front of the groups who were sitting eating their sandwiches.

Super fast

Surprising thrashing of Wolves in the week, with the fixture (kind of) reversed for Saturday, and a harder fought battle. Tevez fully supported by his union (didn't Gordon Taylor sound like a geek on the radio the other day?) with his punishment reduced by their sterling efforts on his behalf. I'm all for unions (as I may have said before) but the modern footballer - certainly in the higher echelons - is surely one of the least deserving of all workers for union support? Maybe I'm wrong, and we would, by removing the protection from Carlos (why can't he just say sorry?) et al, be opening a can of worms which would spew their noxious guts all over the poor bastards who turn up for Wrexham week in week out? Who knows? Anyway, the sheikh has agreed to pay Mancini's legal bills out of his own pocket, and Bobby himself I believe has signed, or is about to sign, a new four year, £22million contract. Good for him, I suppose.

In the real world, the economy is worse than that bus at the end of The Italian Job, teetering over a precipitous drop while Merkel and Sarkozy do their Michael Caine impressions and tell Lord Snooty to shut up, piss off, die horribly, etc. As we watch the bullion swinging back and forth over the cliff, the pay of FTSE executives has increased by 49 fucking %!

And there really is surprise over the fact that people are putting up tents all over the place? For fuck's sake! There is no sanity. Linked to this crazy bullshit, almost the entire hierarchy of the Church of England has resigned over the tents outside St. Paul's cathedral. Looking towards the Archbishop of Canterbury for leadership has been - unsurprisingly - rather a waste of time, but this whole episode has started what could be an extremely interesting dialectic about the role of the church in political life, and could even forge a strange new alliance between the anarchists and the men of god. Let's see.

Anyway, it seems there's enough dosh in the Abu Dhabi kitty to finance a flight to Spain for the boys, and let's hope we can do something to stay in touch in Europe.

I think it will be a tough call, and fear a draw at best. At least it's on ITV1.

Adequate

I suppose you could say that City's showing the other night was adequate, though I did feel Bobby's joy with him at the end.

A win, as the wise ones on 5Live were pointing out, was what mattered. And a win we got. A last gasp, lovely, final minute win from the man of the moment - Kun. May God bless his boots. So now the Champions League march is (just about) still on, and off we go to the Sty on Sunday. I wouldn't like to call the result of that one at this stage, but I do think it will be a close one. One goal either way or a low scoring draw is my considered view.

I have thought long and hard over the years about the notion of adequacy. Especially in relation to my own stumbling progress through life. Some years ago, I was made redundant from my job at the House of Mouse, after over 10 years in their employ. This wasn't one of those cost saving chops, but was rather a calculated re-structure to form a group from which I was to be forever excluded. I think I know the reasons for it happening, and they were eminently practical and in no way personal. Yet this doesn't change the feelings of inadequacy the episode left me with.

The story goes that I was responsible for managing (among other things) the engineering maintenance for the company's London HQ. I have never been any sort of engineer, but in reality that shouldn't matter too much. My boss, if anything, was less knowledgeable than I was, and certainly knew a damned sight less than I did about (for example) voice telecoms, where my expertise used to be, but no longer remains, valuable and current. His lack of knowledge did not matter because it was his leadership - the formation and development of his team of subject matter experts - which carried the day.

However that may be, I remember a visit from a senior IT manager from Burbank just before the redundancy was announced. There were concerns that the data suite housing the servers was vulnerable to failure. Indeed, the chillers for this room would fail on a regular basis, and the back-up systems in place were far from resilient. Many was the time I received a late night phone call saying that these systems had failed, and that the temperatures were fast approaching critical levels, though at no time (with the exception of a major local power failure) was there any unplanned interruption to the servers. I knew then that money would have solved the problem, but was not allowed to spend what was needed.

That being said, time is money, and the IT man wanted to know what we were going to do about it. No servers meant no email and no money counting, and this was a serious business. I fear that I may have slightly exposed my lack of technical knowledge at a meeting with him, where I remember being fixated on his very large, very white USA teeth, which actually impeded his ability to speak clearly, and tried to sketch a schematic of the UPS set-up for the server room on a piece of paper. That was where it all began, I think. I was edged out of the door in the nicest possible way and have gone on to other things since.

And yet, there is a persistent sense of failure, a bad smell following it all which has lingered in the air, and there are occasions when I mull over it with a red cheeked shame. I was, after all, not good enough; was weighed in the balance and found wanting. Despite the fact that my manager has since suffered the same fate as I did, this feeling sometimes imbues me with a sense of anger towards him (though it is certain that White Teeth Man played a significant role in the decision) for telling me I was out the door. There is no doubt that my self-confidence - fragile flower that it is - took a severe knock from it. But I'm over it now. Honest.

Oom pah pah

Well, it must be a momentous occasion. I dreamt that my dick had fallen off last night - apparently a sign of anxiety (no kidding!) although in that dream logic state, I was more concerned with a) covering up the lost member as it lay on the bedroom floor because a visitor was due to visit, b) how my jeans would look without the standard man bulge and c) staining the quilt with the wound site - and emasculated may be the theme of the coming days and weeks. I also dreamt (separately) that the sink had been removed from the kitchen and the cooker stripped back to its bare bones by the landlord. Although there isn't an interpretation of 'emasculation' on this crappy US website, the following does relate to 'amputation':

"To dream that your limbs are amputated signifies abandoned talents and serious, permanent losses. It indicates your feelings of frustration, powerlessness and helplessness. Sometimes amputation may also represent a situation that you have been ignoring and has finally reached a crisis point. In particular, to dream that your arms are amputated suggests that you lack motivation. Dreaming that you legs are amputated suggests that you are being limited. Something or someone is hindering your progress and where you want to go in life."

Fairly straightforward.

I'm sure that the anxiety has nothing to do with our trip to Bavaria this evening, though I do fear that a win may well be beyond us. Mancini is talking up our chances. What else can he do? Though looking at the stats on Munich, I think caution will be needed at the very least. They've won 6 out of their 7 matches, scoring 21 goals in the process, and their keeper hasn't conceded in 838 minutes. Jesus. I hope I will be forgiven by the City faithful (and I am very appreciative of the nice little write-up on this blog from The Mancunian Way. Cheers!) as much for not having attended any matches (home or away) for two seasons now as for living in London, and it's a fairly safe bet that I won't be in Germany tonight either, so I'm not really sure how or if I'm going to watch the match. Of course it's not on terrestrial telly, and doubtless the Rags will be favoured in the public house should I venture up there with the gas and leccy money for a couple of pints. So it may be good old 5 Live yet again.

Neither are my worries excessively related to the sodding global economic crisis, Operation Twist and all that bollocks. Every plunge is answered with a rally. It's worse than the Daily Mail health advice, isn't it? On that subject, age of course is another matter. Fresh (if that's the word) from my mother's 70th birthday celebrations in Morda over the weekend, the inevitable musings on death and general health naturally intrude, though I nonetheless feel that it's not too late to turn things around. Really.

No. More pressing to me is that old chestnut: work. Tomorrow, after having a glorious 6 days out of the thick of it, it's back to yet another re-structure announcement. A further redundancy is definitely on the cards - given the short length of service I have managed to squeeze under my bulging belt, and I have to wait and see until perhaps 4 o'clock tomorrow afternoon to find out what will happen to me. CV has been sharpened in preparation and I have been perusing the jobs pages of FM World for a little while, but it's not the same without the incentive of being on the dole to push one on.

Come on City! Come on me!

Arkse

Thanks to City Life for the image.

The woman opposite me has a curious way of pronouncing the word 'ask'. It isn't the traditional 'akse' you sometimes hear, but has a longer vowel sound at the beginning. Her accent in general is hard to pin down - maybe German, maybe Australian, and she is an odd one. Most of her staff are of Portuguese or South or Central American origin and once she was talking to two of them about something or other, when the subject of women came up.

"You guys..." she said "always seem to like Eastern European girls..." The men looked at her and she went on: "You always have your fingers in Polish women." Amid the hubbub, nobody but me seemed to even notice that she'd said it, and I think the lack of fluency in English meant that the two blokes didn't really grasp what had happened. Nor do I believe that this was intentional bawd on her part. She spends ages on the phone talking to various people in loping, slow sentences, and chuntering to herself as she laboriously types up emails while sipping at her mug of tea.

Last Monday, once again off to the BBC Radio Theatre for a recording of Chain Reaction. If you've never been, I would recommend it. Free tickets can be obtained by joining the mailing list on the BBC website, although there is an element of luck involved, and - despite trying every time they come up - I have never managed to bag any for the News Quiz or Just a Minute. Advice if you do go: don't go in too early. There is a bar, but it is eye-wateringly expensive. The audience is forced to wait in a narrow corridor with no more than 6 chairs, and, with around 200 people crammed in, it really isn't a pleasant experience. More advice: don't have too much to drink (if you're that rich), because getting out of your seat is not easy, especially with so many highly sensitive microphones picking up your slightest exhalation. However...

Our show the other night (one episde airs Friday 19th Aug at 6.30, the other at the same time the following week - if you're interested. Peter Hook was doing JCC in the previous one, so well worth catching on iPlayer if you hurry) featured the talents of the actor Kevin Eldon, Mark Steel and the legendary John Cooper Clarke, fortunate as we were to be there for the recording (in the wrong order, which is very broadcast media, I'm sure you'll agree. This at least allowed for some amusing context private gags to tickle our fancy) of two consecutive shows. First, Eldon interviewed Steel and then Cooper Clarke interviewed Eldon. It was all so quintessentially R4, gently disparaging remarks about Kent, self-mocking nerdish obsessions and a heartfelt and hearty dig at Richard Starkey.

JCC was on fine form (especially bearing in mind - if Wikipedia is to be believed - the way he has spent the last 10 years or so of his life) with an extended riff on a film he is thinking of making - a sequel to Snakes on a Plane - called Parrot in a Car. He held it together (with some solid support from Eldon) for around 40 minutes before flagging and needing a nudge from the producer, but we in the audience had had a great time by then. Funny that I never managed to watch the guy when he stood up before the Pistols or the Clash, but have now seen him sitting in a chair shooting the breeze with another 50ish bloke.

The official @MCFC Twitter feed was set to beam its updates to my phone, but with no signal in the theatre, they all came in a mad rush - the first half at the interval while I queued for the toilet (0-0 and a tad concerned) and the second half as we were heading up towards Oxford Circus (4-0 and what a debut for Kun - even if it was only the bloody Taffs we were hammering) for the tube ride home and a closed chippy. It's going to be a good season.

Up in the air junior birdman

The title of this post is from a Tom Lehrer pre-amble to his song: 'It Makes A Fellow Proud To Be A Soldier', just so as you know. The post itself has nothing to do with Tom Lehrer or the military; it was merely suggested by my synapses when I considered the words 'up in the air', which is where things are. Yet again. However, it really is an amusing song (on the album 'An Evening Wasted With Tom Lehrer', which I have blogged about before, so if you haven't done so, go listen.

But I was up in the air I believe. Yes, that wonderful work calliope has spun around again, and everyone's doing their damnedest to lick Gideon's boots by slashing and burning first and hardest. My little corner of public funding will not escape, and there will be somewhere in the order of a 20% reduction in posts come the new year. Naturally I'm a little nervous, being a new boy, that I will be one of the unfortunate ones and will once more be out amid the cold world's strife, searching for the gainful. But hey-ho. What can you do?  Whoever said that working in the public sector is an easy life clearly didn't try it, because ever since I've been involved, there's been nothing but change and challenge.

Speaking of evenings - or afternoons - wasted, I happened on the Everton game in Doyle's on Saturday, at least for the second half, when Eileen turned up and managed to get the German sports channel on, but realised pretty quickly that I shouldn't have bothered. As the game degenerated into a manic pinball session, I could see that the Toffees were going to do us again. And so it was to be. There's nothing funny about Balotelli when he gives the ball away so easily, and there was nothing funny about losing that match either.

On to the Tottenham boys tomorrow evening, and it could all go horribly wrong.

Nerves

Apologies for the recent online silence, but I have been in mourning for the (to all intents and purposes) end of Manchester City's season. I thought we were doing OK against Chelsea in the first half, but they fucked us in the end. At least we weren't the ones on which Torres bust his still intact cherry, and for that small mercy we can only be grateful. The Kiev match was a wash-out once Balo had received his marching orders, even if it was something of a relief that we were out of that stupid Europa League competition. I am now reduced to hoping that the Rags get caught by the Gooners in the finishing straight. Fourth spot is by no means a foregone for us, and that will sure as eggs is eggs seal Mancini's fate if it so transpires.

But enough of this maudlin talk. We have failed two big tests and have to move on. Now for another test - this time for me.

I mentioned my NEBOSH training in a recent post.

And now the moment of truth approaches. Yes, it's the exam. A two hour pen and paper assessment with a pass mark of 45%, due to commence at 10am on Thursday 24th March. The pass seems fairly easily achievable, and as a result I feel that I've become a little complacent. My original aim was to try and get a distinction (which I believe to be 70%+) or at least a merit (which I think is 60%+) but I am now fully prepared to settle for the pass. I don't have a particular fear of written exams, though, I have to say. I feel that I have always (at least since I left school. Whilst I was at school, through a mixture of laziness and some very poor teachers, I did rather abysmally) more or less performed well in such pressure situations. I'm just hopeful that I will get some of the more woolly questions about health & safety culture, where I can freeform bullshit, rather than the hard fact regurgitation of some of the other areas - although the PEME, ERICPD and POPIMAR pnemonics have sunk in, so I suppose I shouldn't have that much to worry about.

I never thought, I must confess, when I started here in what felt like a sleepy backwater after the madness of Defra/Interserve, that things would get as hectic as they have, but I'm not complaining. At least I've got a job, and if I do manage to achieve that pass, my CV will appear a damn sight healthier than it did before I arrived.

Education

I'm part way through a training course about health & safety. It's one I really should have taken at least 10 years ago, and - even worse - I sort of passed up the opportunity around that time once, in the distant days when I somehow felt I was in control of even a tiny particle of my own destiny. But I digress.

It's a very good course, I have to say, even taking into account the human propensity to appreciate any (learning) opportunity as we grow older, and it is also extremely demanding. No less than two hours' homework per night is required, answering recycled questions from previous exam papers. This highly challenging schedule naturally coincides with about a million other things going on in my life at the same time, as if my particular boat has floated out of some drowsy bayou into the maelstrom of a fully fledged mid-Atlantic depression, all at once. But no matter; that's the way things go sometimes.

As I said, health & safety is the name of the game. NEBOSH no less (NGC1) and always interesting when learning about legislation to see the disconnect between best practice and the real world. The trainer is firmly of the opinion that the Health & Safety At Work Act (1974) is good legislation, because it is worded in such a way that all possible eventualities relating to safety in industry are captured. Testament I suppose to this view is that the legislation is still active and relevant after 37 years, even though of course the detail of the Regulations and Approved Codes of Practice relating to it have changed as the years have gone by. This is the beauty of the primary legislation, which pins a duty of care on employers without being proscriptive and thus painting itself into a corner. And, an even better argument, witness that the number of workplace accidents has decreased markedly (a figure of 1.4 fatal injuries per 100,000 in 1992/93 was as low as 0.5 per 100,000 in 2008/09) since the Act was introduced. From that angle - and despite tragedies like the Herald of Free Enterprise, Piper Alpha, the Gulf oil spill and others - it's really hard to argue with.



Everyone of course still hasn't got a fucking clue about what the legislation really means, and persists in the pathetic 'elf 'n' safety gorn mad' cant about the smoking ban (actually brought in under the Health Act) and all manner of hackneyed shit, without realising what a great job this law is doing on their behalf.