When is it ok to park on the pavement?

After living in poor, 'uncivilized' countries for the past three years, I have to admit I’m thoroughly enjoying being in a rich and developed one again - for the timebeing at least!

It’s great to be close to family and friends again (the blighters refused to put their lives on hold whilst I was away).  I’m loving the cultural opportunities – theatre, cinema, galleries, watching (and playing) football.

Major benefits also include the absence of landmines, border wars, rampant corruption, poor people with no medical care, and peasants with backbreaking, heartbreaking struggles through the mud.

There are little mercies too: snuggling under a duvet beats sweating under a mozzie net. Cycling over a twig is more relaxing knowing it's not a snake.  Drinking water from the tap. Chocolate and cheese.  Electricity and internet.  Freedom from being pointed out and laughed at (well, less often).  Dammit, we even have pavements and public toilets!

Perhaps one of the biggest pleasures is transport.  The UK has (much improved) trains, whereas there are none in Cambodia, or indeed Rwanda where I was before.  Busses and taxis here are modern, frequent and safe.  Occasionally there are even wonderful things called cycle lanes!

In contrast, Cambodia has developed a transport problem.  In the absence of public transport, cars have sadly become a status symbol.  You must be rich to have one; you don’t get rich by being nice; so cars aren’t driven nicely (might is right, and if you own a car you’re a big man and perfectly entitled to drive like one).  When not hogging the roads, they block the way for others.  In a previous post I complained that “only tossers of the highest order park cars on pavements; sadly, Phnom Penh has multitudes of major culprits. Oh for some traffic wardens!”

Of course back in the UK we’re far too civilized for that kind of behavour, right? 

Sadly not.  There are many upsides of being back, but witnessing the inconsiderate behaviour of car owners who park on pavements is not one of them.  And this is not just an occasional selfish thug – in my new ‘hood of East Oxford it is widespread to the point of being normalized. 

The Highway Code is clear: “You MUST NOT park partially or wholly on the pavement in London, and should not do so elsewhere unless signs permit it.  Parking on the pavement can obstruct and seriously inconvenience pedestrians, people in wheelchairs or with visual impairments and people with prams or pushchairs” (section 244).

The problem is that people are not obeying the rules – and the authorities (police and councils) are not enforcing them.

So here’s the deal.  If you choose to drive (here it’s a real choice – plenty of busses, great cycling country, easy to walk for most), then it’s your responsibility to park your car legally and responsibly. 

If there is not enough room on the road directly in front of your house without, say, preventing a fire engine or bin van from getting through, then you need to find somewhere else to park.  What you are not entitled to do is park on the pavement instead.  If you do you are breaking the Highway Code, and you are behaving like a selfish tosser. 

As I say, we are fortunate here to have such civilized amenities as pavements and public toilets.

So answer me this:  if I visit a public convenience, I have just as much right as anyone to do my business in one of the loos - agreed?  But if all the cubicles are already being used, what should I do?  Should I wait, or go elsewhere – or do I put my ease and expediency above the needs and rights of everyone else, and just shit the sink?

The Lady

For the first time, a woman is elected to lead her country.  She is strong and determined, urging reform, even when unpopular or misunderstood. 

Politics remains a man’s world, and she must fight vested interests at every turn.  Yet her opponents underestimate her powerful mix of charm and authority, and she makes a great – as yet unfinished – impact on world affairs. 

Oh, and there’s a feature film just released about her.

Well yes, Margaret Thatcher does fit the bill, and Meryl Streep is lauded for her disconcertingly believable performance in Phyllida Lloyd’s The Iron Lady.  But the above description actually relates to Burma’s Aung San Suu Kyi, celebrated in another biopic, Luc Besson’s similarly entitled The Lady.

And the comparisons don’t end there.  Both are sustained by their deeply-held beliefs as well as supportive families.  They broke the mould of politics in their countries, not just as women, but as leaders with a new and radical approaches.

But whilst one’s Ghandi-like non-violent approach in her own country wins her the Nobel Peace Prize, the other shows dogged (and dirty in the case of the Belgrano) determination to regain tiny territories the other side of the world. 

Suu Kyi is presented as having greatness thrust upon her thanks to her father being a national hero, whereas Thatcher was an ordinary grocer’s daughter who used her guile, determination and naked ambition to make it to the top.

As a film, The Lady unfolds chronologically, with tension created as we travel between the exoticism and lush paddies of South East Asia and the grand, rainy suburbs of Oxford (a journey familiar to me!), moving to an unfinished ending.  In contrast The Iron Lady has a more interesting cinematic structure, being told largely in flashback from the viewpoint of a rapidly declining Thatcher.

The two differ greatly not only as women, but also as mothers and wives.  Suu Kyi stays in her beloved Burma to lead its fledgling democracy, knowing that to leave will see her exiled.  But she is distraught by her separation from her two boys and loving husband, who is smoking himself to an early grave.  Thatcher too relies on her Denis, but pushes him aside and neglects her children as her ambition takes hold, later demeaning her caring daughter Carol whilst idolizing Mark, her absent, no-good son.

The portrayal of Suu Kyi is uncomplicated, maybe even uncritical.  But after all, what’s not to admire?  Meanwhile, Thatcher’s legacy is bitterly disputed.  Occasional footage of the miners, poll tax riots or the Falklands attempt to offer some balance, but it’s told in a way in which you can’t help but side with the heroine.  

In fairness, she had a difficult inheritance:  the country was a basket-case, gripped by unbridled unionism and welfare dependency.  But Thatcher’s medicine was to mercilessly destroy the country’s industrial heartlands, and promote individualism to the point of uncaring greed.

As one who grew up in 1980’s Britain – unwillingly one of ‘Thatcher’s children’ - I feel her legacy was less one of the principled, steadfast leader portrayed on screen, and more of a 'headstrong, obstinate and dangerously self-opinionated woman' who plunged the nation to unknown depths of selfishness.  (Not my description, but rather that of an ICI interviewer on rejecting a 23 year old Miss Roberts!).

One of her most damaging legacies was that Britain became the ‘dirty man of Europe’, with a truly shocking environmental record.  Thatcher’s selfish approach is summarized by her policy on green transport:  "A man who, beyond the age of 26, finds himself on a bus can count himself as a failure."  Whether or not she actually said it, she clearly actioned it, and the country is only just recovering from her misguided promotion of cars and disastrous destruction of public transport.

Lloyd’s film is bravely-structured and superbly acted, but gives an unduly rosy picture of the tumultuous Britain of the 1980s.  Besson’s work may be cinematically cautious and ideologically less challenging, but the story and scenery left me feeling it gives the truer representation of a great lady.

The Iron Lady will get the Oscars.  But the true plaudits should go to The Steel Orchid.

First week at work: the critical importance of milk

My first week in a new job!

It's an intense experience - a new commute to navigate, complicated buildings to explore, different people (and systems, and politics) to understand.  And of course an exciting fresh role to get my teeth into.

Meeting new colleagues is interesting and stimulating, but also exhausting - desperately failing to remember names and fit them into my blurry mental map, whilst all the time giving a decent first impression.  Five days in and I'm truly shattered.

I distinctly remember my first day at school:  I had firmly decided to stage a raging tantrum on arrival, only for a towering six-year-old, none other than the angelic Beverley Davies, to gaze into my teary eyes, hand me a warm bottle of milk and simmer "You know me, don't you?"...

First day in Cambodia was rather different - at first a deserted hospital, then an interminable meeting where I risked dying of hunger, boredom or piles from the hard wooden bench.  Later came the undeniable temptations of a bare-headed moto ride, a platter of pigs trotters and my first afternoon getting drunk with the boss.

Compared to these, my first week here seems straightforward...  On retiring to the kitchen to gather my thoughts I realised that, based on several workplaces, I have perfected a quick and highly accurate assessment of how well an organisation functions.  Forget key performance indicators or satisfaction surveys, the crucial test is... the milk!

You see, my worst workplace was a dire hospital in southern Glasgow - not only physically collapsing (bits falling off the roof, walls crumbling), but also an organisation in meltdown.  Staff were uniformly dispirited, suspicious, paranoid.  Nobody shared anything, from important information to the time of day.  And all this was reflected by a mouldy fridge, packed with dozens of individually, defensively-labelled milk cartons - it really was each for themselves!

In contrast, the best places I've worked - and happily there have been several - really valued their staff.  They didn't necessarily pay well, but they genuinely cared, launching a virtuous spiral of happiness and good behaviour to both other colleagues and clients alike.  And you guessed it - without exception, the very best places to work are distinguished by having a clearly arranged milk rota (with extra credit for teabag provision, fridge cleaning arrangements and barrels of biscuits!). 

Given the statistically significant correlation between the micro (refreshment system) and the macro (organisational functionality), how does my new place rate?

Good news:  a clean, well stocked fridge and large, shared milk cartons was a great start (though there were two separate bottles, so there is not yet complete harmony).  The provision of free tea and coffee, a water filter and even a dishwasher were also excellent signs - this is going to be a great workplace.

Having established a positive baseline, I will now specifically assess how well my new colleagues work as a team.  Drawing on years of office experience and my indispensible master's degree in management, I know exactly the way to find out.

I just need to watch and see:  will anyone refill the kettle?

Don’t be afraid of the dark

It was meant to be remembered for other reasons.  My friend Ben hadn’t been to his beloved Anfield for over 20 years, whilst it was my first time in the famous stadium.  Maybe - just maybe - Oldham’s underdogs would cause a famous upset.  Could this be a night of which FA Cup dreams are made? 

Travelling north we talked a bit about politics, the long-overdue Stephen Lawrence convictions, Diane Abbott’s ill-advised comments.  But mainly we luxuriated in footy chat:  could Liverpool survive with Suarez banned for racist abuse? might plucky Oldham spring a surprise?  most pressingly, would they let us bring our own crisps into the ground?

It didn’t disappoint.  Our snacks passed unconfiscated.  And on the half hour the unthinkable:  Oldham fired home a magnificent strike.  I yelled and punched the air – but only in my head, as I was in the middle of the Liverpool end (all visitor tickets sold within hours).  Latics fans were even beating the stunned home supporters on banter, chorusing ‘Where’s your famous atmosphere?’ to usually chirpy scousers.

But it didn’t last.  Liverpool were strong, even without their talisman Suarez.  Led by the impressive Steven Gerrard they were back on level terms in minutes, and went on the score four more (all flukey offside deflections). 

I must say it was a moving experience – the crowd clearly worshipped ‘King’ Kenny Dalglish, chorused ‘you’ll never walk alone’ with every scarf unfurled, and ended with a moving rendition of ‘stand up for the 96’, in memory of those killed in the Hillsborough disaster.

Yet this match will be remembered for all the wrong reasons.  Just ten minutes from the end, Oldham defender Tom Adeyemi raced towards the Kop end, pointing angrily.  The game was stopped for several minutes, and it took players from both sides to eventually calm him.

What had happened?  Maybe someone threw a coin?  Was is something someone said?  In the media buzz afterwards it transpires Adeyemi complained of being racially abused by one or more fans.  Apparently they were wearing Luis Suarez shirts. Police are investigating.  Oh dear.

The taxi driver returning us to the station was angry.  “This is a decent club, a family club.  This is the last thing we need. Suarez was bad enough, but this - what were they thinking?”.

But is this really a surprise, given the terrible example the club set to their own fans? 

Presented with irrefutable proof of Suarez repeated racial abuse of Evra, Liverpool failed to come clean.  Instead they shamefully squirmed, trying to defend the indefensible, refusing to criticise the clear wrong their star player had done. 

Their defence that the word ‘negro’ may sometimes be used affectionately in south America may be strictly-speaking true.  After all, I was referred to as mzugu (white man) when working and travelling in East Africa, and it felt like a (rather obvious) statement of fact, not abuse.  Friends even called my Rwanadan colleague mzungu after he saved enough money to build a house fit for a rich whitey!  Cambodia was the same:  constantly being called barraing (Frenchy) was a little irritating - wasn’t there anything more important by which to define me (the kind volunteer? the potato eater? the crazy cyclist? the super footballer?), but I never felt abused.

But Suarez’s defence was a pathetically disingenuous smokescreen.  The fact that it was used seven times during a heated argument, including the phrase "no hablo con los negros" (I don’t talk to blacks), shows this was simply ugly, racist abuse.

I can’t say I’m surprised – Suarez may be a great talent, but his history of bad behaviour is a matter of record.  I was particularly sickened by his unashamed cheating during the World Cup, and very dubious as to whether he should be forgiven and given a fresh chance to impress in the Premiership.

Now I’m a safe distance from Merseyside, I have to say that I think Kenny Dalglish got this very wrong. Perhaps he can’t be blamed for taking a chance on signing a flawed genius.  But a true leader would have ensured Suarez understood and quickly admitted his wrongdoing, and made a proper apology.  Failing this, he should have sacked Suarez:  he may be his best player, but no player is bigger than the club. 

Sure, Kenny was badly advised – but he was also weak and unprincipled, unusual and disappointing in such a great player and manager.

The ultimate irony was to hear fans from Oldham – place of my birth, and scene of some of Britain’s most recent and shameful race riots – chanting to Liverpool ‘you’re just a club full of racists’.

They’re not – but they need to do a much better job of showing it.

Two new sports...

Last month I was introduced to not one but two new spectator sports.

The first – rowing – is hardly a surprise in this town, but I initially dismissed it as little more than toffs in tubs. 

Yet anyone who braves 6am training in freezing water deserves respect.  And there’s no denying the strength and stamina needed to move a boat at pace – we had to sprint to glimpse our friend Hollie, star of the Lincoln College crew.

The speed is partly thanks to ultra-light boats – but these demand poise as well as power.  This much I know from experience: my only attempt at proper rowing was a few sessions on the Clyde.  And believe me, the Glaswegian water is quite an incentive to keep your balance.

But it’s the co-ordination which really impresses – when individuals work so tightly a team it is an stirring sight, and the synchronized movements of body and oar are undeniably graceful.  As with most of Oxford, there’s a strong incentive to conform – get the stroke a millisecond out or the angle a few degrees short and you risk wood in your face or a paddle in the water.

The second sport – ice hockey – was even more novel.  The nearest I’d come was a (field) hockey-playing friend, famous for his talented goalkeeping and for having the best student summer job of all: testing padding.  Is it entirely ethical to rate protective sports equipment by the wince volume of an impoverished student? 

The pads are also there on ice, along with helmets.  This time we followed Hollie’s Canadian boyfriend Tyler, who comes home battered and bruised each week despite the protection.  But all that padding makes punch-ups look a bit like handbags:  if you want to see fat boys fighting (and why would you?) then Oxford offers an irritatingly high infection of rugger-buggers despoiling parks and pubs alike.

What really made me laugh was that as soon as a player smashed an opponent into the boards they were instantly substituted – an infuriating lack of payback!  And what a lot of subs: 6 a side is tiring, but a lot easier with a squad of over a dozen… 

But there was plenty to admire.  Ice hockey is fast, sometimes furious, and at its best skillful and athletic.  Like 5-a-side football, control, passing and movement are all key, and when a player is sin-binned it is impressive how the attackers press their advantage through a ‘power play’. 

Some things were strange: handballs are allowed, refs dress as magpies, and it’s damn cold.  Others were irksome: the tiny puck is barely visible through the thick nets around the rink, and frequent stoppages are filled with dodgy rock music.  But overall it was great fun, despite an 11pm start:  a party atmosphere with as much action off the ice as on.

Both rowing and ice-hockey took place in bitter cold, at unsociable hours, and are probably more fun to do than to watch.  But these days, where else will you get such flashes of excitement, impressive teamwork and weekend entertainment for free?

Famous Belgians

Can you name 10 famous Belgians?

The best beer and chocolate in the world, what’s not to like?  I’ll always thank my friend Philippe for showing me to the ‘right’ way to drink Hoegaaden, and VSO colleagues Wim and Dom for bravely enduring jokes from friendly Dutch neighbours (I wrote a poem in their defense, but that’s for another day).

It’s not all good – King Leopold’s colonial legacy was worse than the Brits’, as I saw when volunteering in Rwanda.  And I didn’t appreciate my previous (involuntary) visit, when the hapless national carrier dropped me in Kigali not Nairobi (SABENA:  ‘such a bad experience never again’).

So how’s your list coming on? 

If you’re struggling, sports stars include not only multi-Tour de France-winner Eddy Merckx and Wimbledon champ Kim Clijsters, but also Jean-Marc Bosman, even if he’s famous for his ruling not his running.  I draw the line at unknown goalie Jean-Marie Pfaff, though such a silly name deserves fame.

I can’t mention le plat pays without Jacques Brel, and there’s a rich canvas of painters, from Breugel and Rubens through to Magritte.  Even screen goddess Audrey Hepburn counts as Belgian (real name Edda van Heemstra Hepburn-Ruston).

But surely top of everyone’s list must be the incomparable Hergé?

And the good news is that his timeless creation Tintin is now back with us, in a fabulous film, easily the most enjoyable I’ve seen this year. 

3d has transformed since the days of huge screens and bulky glasses, and the animators have a ball with soaring effects and clever set-pieces.  The 'motion-capture' is incredibly lifelike, but still has a likeable comic-book simplicity.

All the favourite characters are there, brought to life just as I imagined them as a boy.  The charmingly bumbling detectives Thompson and Thompson are consistently outsmarted in a tangental plot by a devilishly ingenious pickpocket.  Meanwhile the main action pits Smarmy evil Englishman Sakharine against Haddock, the jovial boozy Scot, aided by the intrepid Tintin and fearless Snowy, the true hero.

It’s everything you could wish for – lovable characters, inventive cinematography, bundles of action and archives of Hitchcock references for the filmbuffs.  Admittedly it has a flimsy plot, unnecessarily violence, and no female characters - this is glossy Spielberg not gritty Dardenne brothers.  But even the blatant engineering for a sequel can be forgiven, just because it's so damned enjoyable.

Get on down to your local fleapit right now – just as soon as you’ve finished your list.  Looking back I think have at least 9 – who did I miss out?

None so blind as those who will not see

Why can’t we just see when to give up, rather than blindly stumbling back for more?

I’ve just returned from Boots, after another humiliating failure to fit contact lenses.  I tried years ago, but was persuaded back given the apparent leap in ocular technology - and the fact that playing footy in bendy specs makes me look less like Beckham and more an accident waiting to happen.

But I’m a terrible pupil, and just can't get them to work.  At some level I think I don’t want them:  my failing sight handicaps my ball skills, but does that justify my eyes being jabbed by fingers, and foreign objects covering my cornea?

Yet I hate being a quitter – and this is the second such failure in a month, following my attempt at another kind of contact – trying to enjoy a massage.  How hard can that be?

A few years ago nobody would have foreseen we would now rely on daily disposables or a weekly spa.  Except me: not only have I shunned contacts, I’ve never enjoyed a relaxing massage either.  

It's hard to even get started.  I’m blind to subtle social signals, so spotting a suitable venue is a challenge, especially when I was in Cambodia.  How do you tell a spa dedicated to ancient oriental body art from the front-end of a brothel where a ‘happy ending’ is just the start? 

After an embarrassing first attempt, I persevered with a foolproof strategy:  I’d visit a posh place, on a main road, during the day, and with backup. 

On entering I locked eyes with the girl and stressed I wanted it “very gentle”.  Khmer style, like Thai, is seriously physical – fingers and toes bent back, arms and legs pummeled, they’ll even climb on your back to get extra leverage on your torso. 

But she turned a blind eye to my request, and the full torture regime was implemented as usual.

Worse still, others’ thought I was actually enjoying the experience:  Katja claims that from her perspective – on the next couch – my pleasure was clearly visible to her and all the masseuses!

Physically and emotionally scarred, it was nearly two years before I tried again.  The cunning plan this time was to be massaged by a blind man - genius!  No fear of misunderstandings, just a guarantee of a guy acutely in tune with his remaining senses. 

Not so!  This wasn’t seeing hands so much as fingers in ears – how else could he have so consistently ignored my screams for mercy?  Never again, I swore – that was it between me and massage. 

Until, that is, arriving back in the UK my great friend Pree announced she had qualified as a massage therapist, and to celebrate was offering ‘free’ sessions with just a contribution to a good cause.  My judgment clouded by the forces of charity and friendship, I headed to south London to give it one last try.

It was the best massage I’ve ever had! 

The atmosphere helped – a flat I know well, relaxing music, aromatic oils and a friend’s reassuring touch.  Pree obviously knows her stuff, worked hard, and was clearly delighted at the number of knots she removed from my lumpy trunk.

But the truth is, it’s still not for me.   Gentle rubbing is fine, tactile good, stroking great - but those aren’t massage.  You see, it’s about doing you good, not you feeling good.

So I’ve come to my senses.  I see my future sporting bendy specs and a knotted back - but mercifully free of the humiliation, manipulation and pain of either contact lenses or massage!