Russell Grant Says I Can Have A PlayStation 3

The other night I was listening to a woman who had managed to convince two other women that she was a medium. After doing so, she then took it upon herself to dispense advice that was clearly inappropriate.

One of the unfortunate girls received advice on changing her hair and dumping her boyfriend. The librarian look – hair pinned in a bun, thick-rimmed square glasses – might appear quite dowdy to some, but to others there is something that oozes a quite quality of erotica to it. It’s always the quiet ones, as they say. She certainly had a pretty face, and you could imagine her, in soft focus, removing her glasses and pulling the pin on her hair to let it cascade seductively over her shoulders.

The image would only have been improved if she was eating a Cadbury’s Flake.

The poor girl’s boyfriend might not have been too impressed either. She didn’t seem to have said anything negative about him, so I suspect she gets on quite well with him, and therefore he might not have been too chuffed at having some stranger tell his girlfriend that now was the time to leave her glasses on and go back to the library.

Once she’d finished with these two girls she then turned to me and proclaimed that she knew all about me because I was typical of my star sign. This would have been quite scary, except she didn’t have a clue what sign of the Zodiac I actually am. I wasn’t being deliberately mulish, but if she had psychic powers surely she would have been able to guess that I’m an Aries – except she couldn’t. You’d think that, with simple blind guessing and a one in twelve chance of hitting on the right star sign, she’d eventually say the right one – but she didn’t.

In fact, she even went so far as to tell me that she knew I was a Capricorn because she was in touch with my dead father and he was telling her. This worried me a little bit and I had to ring home to check my Dad was still very much on this astral plane with us.

Now it won’t come as much of a surprise to learn that I don’t believe in the mumbo-jumbo of the supernatural. I like a good sci-fi yarn and a fantasy movie or two, but my feet are firmly grounded in reality and I’ve oft heard it said by people in the know that a good medium learns what he can about his subject before he starts trying to prove his point. This means that he tends to ask questions such as your date of birth – from which he can extrapolate your star sign – and which town you were born in. As these initial questions go on he’ll pick up on a multitude of pointers that will then allow him to give you “astral advice” and suddenly you’ll be receiving messages from your long dead Aunt Ethel who now lives on the third moon of Jupiter.

It’s not hard for somebody who believes they are a medium to find out much about me, either. I have a website and this blog and that all gives away quite a lot of information about me. Or you could sit quietly in my pub of an evening and listen as I wax lyrical about my children, the lunacy of trying to save the planet or my wife’s propensity to fall asleep at the most inopportune moment.

I don’t follow the horoscopes, either. That’s mainly because you can pick up a copy of The Sun and it’ll tell you that the sun is going to shine out of your backside this week and that you’ll be rich by Thursday, or you can look at Jonathan Cainer’s website and he’ll tell you that something you hold precious is under threat.

You can easily let yourself be guided by the stars or you can make your own fate, and I usually do the latter, but I have to say that I am tempted to take the advice of Russell Grant this weekend. My stars, in yesterday’s Cambridge Evening News, state that I should use my cash to buy something for my home. “It’s been a while since you indulged yourself,” Russell writes. “Working this hard without any reward will burn you out.”

And that’s all the excuse I need to defy Ali and buy myself a Sony PlayStation 3.

Faturday Frustrations

As if we didn’t have enough to worry about with the nation under siege from binge drinkers, rising fuel costs, obese overdrafts and the fact that Jennifer Aniston might be getting all serious for a new fella, I’ve just read a report in the newspapers that British people are now binge-eating!

Admittedly, the newspaper in question is more famous for kick-starting the topless careers of such people as Samantha Fox and Linda Lusardi, but apparently dietician Sian Porter is warning that many people are choosing to try and eat healthily during the week and then treating themselves to a fry-up at the weekend.

Porter has even given the condition a name: Faturday.

But, and excuse me if I seem a little ignorant here, what is really wrong with enjoying the odd fry-up now and then? We’re working our butts off every hour of the day for wages that aren’t going up, whilst the cost of living is escalating out of control all around us. With the economy in freefall and England being used as the dumping ground for all of the EU’s health and safety directives, surely we deserve to treat ourselves at the end of a busy week?

It won’t be long before fried produce joins the growing list of items that should be banned because they’re bad for us, but won’t be because they’re an easy target for further taxation.

According to the report in The Sun newspaper, and repeated in one or two others, found that a typical Saturday fry-up with buttered toast and a cappuccino in the 11’000 households studied consisted of 33.7grams of saturated fats.

That’s above the 30g daily recommended amount for men and 20g for women and, apparently, potentially sees our weekend saturated fat intake rocket to 61g a day for men and 33g for women.

Clearly this is bad, and we may well all die from congealed fat in our arteries and swollen prostates, but I find that something else about this report is really getting my goat.

It’s not that the women have clearly not declared their chocolate intake and neither is it the fact that yet again the Nanny State is having a pop at its denizens and trying to control our daily lives. Whilst it might have made George Orwell proud, it doesn’t really come as a surprise to any of us these days.

No, what’s really bugging me is this: who the hell drinks a cappuccino, at home, on a Saturday morning?

With their fry-up!?

Danica Patrick To Formula One!

Since the 1980s, Formula One has been in a downhill spiral, failing to drum up anything remotely resembling automobile racing once turbos and qualifying-spec engines were banned. As downforce increased, so overtaking decreased and then we got in to the Michael Schumacher era.

Seriously, the most entertaining thing to happen in Formula One in the past two decades was Michael Schumacher’s attempt to beat up David Coulthard at the Spa Francorchamps circuit in 1998, after Schuey rammed in to the back of DC’s McLaren in heavy rain. The German proceeded to drive his Ferrari home on three wheels, then stormed down the pitlane in search of the Scot, determined to give him a smack for having the audacity to be on the track in front of him in wet weather.

After ’98, Ferrari and Schumacher dominated the sport. Had their German driver not broken his leg at Silverstone in 1999 he would surely have gone on to win the driver’s title that year, too, but instead he saved that honour for 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003 and 2004. Those titles are, of course, added to the two he won in 1994 and ’95 with Benetton (although let’s not get in to the semantics of whether the ’94 title was won by cheating or not, or the fact that Ayrton Senna had been killed earlier that year).

At one point, F1’s commercial rights holder Bernie Ecclestone actually tried to make the sport exciting by getting people to bet on whether Schumacher and Ferrari could win every race in one season; their domination of the sport was having a seriously detrimental effect on Bernie’s viewing figures worldwide.

Then we had grooved tyres, the will-we-won’t-we debate over traction control, and Jenson Button’s inability to figure out which team he wanted to race with – and which one might actually give him a car he could win in.

We all thought that the light at the end of the tunnel was finally shining last year with the arrival of Lewis Hamilton, heralded by some as the son of God, only the real son of God – Fernando Alonso – got a little upset about the whole thing and threw his toys out of the pram, resulting in McLaren’s exclusion from the constructor’s championship (and a scrotum-squeezing $100m fine too) and ended with Lewis’s title bid faltering to a halt in a gravel trap in China.

Everybody was hoping for a better year this year, but then somebody decided to film FIA President Max Mosley, son of famous Nazi supporter Oswald Mosley, getting a little sweaty with five prostitutes in a London hotel room. Despite the evidence poured forth by the News of the World and some – presumably – money-hungry hookers, Mosley managed to retain his position as president of worldwide motorsport and the news even emerged this week that Bernie had warned his mate that somebody was plotting to discredit him. Apparently, then, the invitation to spend an afternoon naked in the company of five ladies dressed in Gestapo outfits didn’t seem too suspicious to boring old Max.

Formula One has had plenty to keep it in the public eye and tabloid editors have been awash with sordid headlines, but few of the stories have actually been about the racing itself. With this in mind, we’re all looking forward to 2009 – and the ’08 season isn’t even halfway through yet.

Next year, we’re promised the return of slick tyres and a reduction in wing size which, combined with the banning of traction control this year, should bring us plenty of visual delights. Overtaking should be made easier and the introduction of a Kinetic Energy Recovery System – Formula One’s attempt to reduce their rather hedonistic carbon footprint – may well be used to give the drivers a much needed overtaking boost button.

With new rules and a level playing field, Jenson Button might finally be able to prove he isn’t the Tim Henman of motor-racing, but I’ve got something that I think will really bring the viewers back to Formula One.

Despite all the negative press and poor racing that I’ve given just the merest hint of above, I’ve been a fan of Formula One since I was barely able to undo my own nappy. I’ve followed it year-in and year-out, seen great drivers come and go, seen even greater drivers fail miserably, and watched as the politics of business have over-ruled the passion of motorsport.

What Formula One needs is a bit of a zing, a bit of sass, a bit of sex.

It needs something to get the younger viewers watching – and the older viewers’ hearts pounding. And I think I know just how it can be done.

Danica Patrick is a hot young thing, currently racing in America’s IndyCar series but, with rumours rife that Honda’s Rubens Barrichello is looking at going to the U.S. and a suggestion that Danica could be testing for his team later this year, what chance might there be that she could be in Formula One in the very near future?

Now, I know that ladies haven’t done very well in Formula One in the past but, to be fair, this has usually been less to do with talent and more to do with the fact that they’ve not necessarily been in the best car at the best time. If you think that’s a weak excuse, just look at Jenson Button...

Danica Patrick has managed to win a race, is young, capable, extremely good looking and incredibly fit. She is the Angelina Jolie of motor-racing.

Imagine her on the grid, just before a race, in a hot and humid country. She’s talking to Martin Brundle as she prepares for the start and her race suit is opened just a little bit to let some air in...

Every testosterone-fuelled male on the planet would be tuning in. Bernie’s viewing figures would go through the roof and her team’s sponsorship rate card would achieve enough for them to be able to prevent world famine.

Every pubescent school boy on the planet would be staring at the screen. And so would their fathers.

She might even manage to win a race or two, as well.

The International Council Of Manlaw

They've been floating around for a little bit now, but some guys still don't quite get what the rules of Manlaw actually are so here, from the International Council of Manlaw, is a detailed description of the twenty laws all testosterone-fulled men are guided by:

Manlaws

1: Under no circumstances may two men share an umbrella.

2: It is OK for a man to cry ONLY under the following Circumstances:
(a) When a heroic dog dies to save its master.
(b) The moment Angelina Jolie starts unbuttoning her Blouse.
(c) After wrecking your boss’s car.
(d) When she is using her teeth.

3: Any Man who brings a camera to a bachelor party may be legally killed and eaten by his buddies.

4: Unless he murdered someone in your family, you must bail a friend out of jail within 12 hours.

5: If you’ve known a guy for more than 24 hours, his sister is off limits forever unless you actually marry her.

6: Moaning about the brand of free beer in a buddy’s fridge is forbidden.
However complain at will if the temperature is unsuitable.

7: No man shall ever be required to buy a birthday present for another man. In fact, even remembering your buddy’s birthday is strictly optional. At that point, you must celebrate at a strip bar of the birthday boy’s choice.

8: On a road trip, the strongest bladder determines pit stops, not the weakest.

9: It is permissible to drink a fruity alcohol drink only when you’re sunning on a tropical beach … and it’s delivered by a topless model and only when it’s free.

10: Only in situations of moral and/or physical peril are you allowed to kick another guy in the nuts.

11: Unless you’re in prison, never fight naked.

12: Friends don’t let friends wear Speedos. Ever. Issue closed.

13: If a man’s fly is down, that’s his problem, you didn’t see anything.

14: Women who claim they “love to watch sports” must be treated as spies until they demonstrate knowledge of the game and the ability to drink as much as the other sports watchers.

15: Never hesitate to reach for the last beer or the last slice of pizza, but not both, that’s just greedy.

16: If you compliment a guy on his six-pack, you’d better be talking about his choice of beer.

17: Phrases that may NOT be uttered to another man while lifting weights:
(a) Yeah, Baby, Push it!
(b) C’mon, give me one more! Harder!
(c) Another set and we can hit the showers!

18: The girl who replies to the question “What do you want for Christmas?” with “If you loved me, you’d know what I want!” gets a Playstation 3. End of story.

19: There is no reason for guys to watch Ice Skating or Men’s Gymnastics. Ever.

20: We’ve all heard about people having guts or balls, but do you really know the difference between them? In an effort to keep you informed, the definition of each is listed below:
“GUTS” is arriving home late after a night out with the guys, being assaulted by your wife with a broom, and having the guts to say, “are you still cleaning or are you flying somewhere?”
“BALLS” is coming home late after a night out with the guys, smelling of perfume and beer, lipstick on your collar, slapping your wife on the ass and having the balls to say, “Roll over, You’re next!”

I hope this clears up any confusion,

The International Council of Manlaws, Ltd

Count To Four While You Pour...

Last week, Gordon Brown lost some vote on a treaty that probably meant he could hand over all control of England to the European Union, forcing us to adopt all the regulations for each member state whilst simultaneously permitting all nations with a coastline on the Mediterranean to ignore any rule imposed by Slovenia.

But, rules on the size of our bananas aside, there are a lot of things that our European cousins do much better than us that perhaps we should consider adopting. Their diets, for a start, contain far more vinaigrette and vegetables than they do a McDonalds and therefore they all live to the ripe old age of 263, and you can travel for miles on a stretch of road without seeing a single speed camera. They all seem to be able to get a football team to qualify for Euro2008 and, with the possible exception of the party-loving Swedes, they take a reasonably sensible approach to alcohol.

Take Spain, for example, where I’ve just been fortunate enough to spend a week in an apartment loaned to me by a family member.

They have a smoking ban, but nobody seems to take any notice of it and, more importantly, nobody with a beard and a badge that says they’re in charge seems to be enforcing it. Sitting in a restaurant last Wednesday evening with my wife, enjoying a very nice meal, a bottle of wine and untainted views of expensive boats in Puerto Banús harbour, a lady on the table next to us asked the waitress if she was allowed to smoke. The waitress turned to me, asked if we minded and, when we shrugged, gave her permission.

They have the same rules on health and safety yet four builders were up on a roof, re-tiling it, last Thursday with no scaffolding and no safety nets and the ladders they were using to get up and down with all their materials were simply rested against the guttering and protruded in to the road. The road wasn’t closed for their safety, nor narrowed to control the flow of vehicles around the work area with traffic lights. The drivers simply drove around the obstruction carefully, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

And then there are the bars. Children happily sit under the watchful eyes of their parents until late evening, with nobody shouting that they aren’t allowed in after 9pm, sipping their cokes and taking part in the conversations, whilst waitresses serve up a variety of drinks with no Government stamped optic or marked pint glass on display.

Speaking to one bar owner, I asked how they were able to account for their drinks. “It’s easy,” he told me in perfect English. “First, you must remember that I don’t pay as much for my booze as you do.” It’s true – he paid less than a tenner for his 1.5 litre Smirnoff Red, while one of my suppliers charges just shy of £26. Before VAT. “Then you must remember that we don’t pay the same amount of tax as you.” Again, true: IVA, the Spanish equivalent of VAT, is just 7%.

It all added up to a triple Bacardi and 200ml bottle of Coke costing about four quid.

“But,” I stammered, “without measures, how do you calculate how much to pour for a customer or base your prices?”

“That’s easy,” he said with a smile, “we just count to four while we pour.” And he demonstrated: one..two..three..four whilst pouring a measure of Bacardi through a plastic pourer in the neck of the bottle. It was easily 70ml. “If we like you,” he continued, “we count slower, like this: one....two....three....four. But, if we don’t like you, we count quicker: one.two.three.four. By the end of the bottle,” he said with a wry smile, “it all works out the same.”

So, there you have it. An environment that isn’t hung up on health and safety laws, whose truck drivers are striking for a reduction in the price of fuel rather than an increase in their already-£10’000-above-national-average salaries, whose children are taught the value of socialising from an early age and who’ve figured out that the smoking ban should be all about whether the person sitting next to you really minds or not.

Small wonder Britain has one of the highest rates of stress related illnesses.

Even smaller wonder that the Europeans are wandering around with smiles on their faces as if they’ve just figured out the secret of immortality.

Mark Daniels Is On Holiday

I'm off on my travels this evening - a week in Spain to relax and get the old batteries recharged.

I'll write again soon.

Meanwhile, if you're looking for something exciting and entertaining to read, my blog on The Publican website has just been updated with another post. I can hear you groaning with pleasure about it already...

Just Click Here.

Tank Invasion

Occasionally, you get the oddest vehicles pulling in to the car park at our pub...

The driver of this one was found sitting at the bar, complaining about the cost of diesel.