And Where Exactly Have I Been?

Oh dear. I have been very naughty haven’t I, ignoring you all. Apologies to everyone, the two months have flown by.

And what exactly have I been doing with myself? Working as I’m sure you have all guessed.

Since May 18 I have been flitting from place to place. When I haven’t been working I have been sleeping, or unfortunately, eating.

My days I spend sticking my nose in peoples business who live on my patch. Generally this means Harwich and Manningtree. But as soon as I realised after the first day Harwich is technically Dovercourt and Lawford and Mistley are larger than Manningtree, the UK’s smallest town. I’m sure you have no idea what I am talking about.

Let me make it simpler. I work in the day, attend council meetings and scour the web at night. I have had several front pages, made some excruciating death knocks, been shouted at by police PR people, spoken to druggies who can’t answer beyond yes or no, covered car smashes where a horse’s leg was torn off and a car was driven into the front of a house, upset the Czech government and been screamed at during council meetings. And I love it. No two days have been the same. You meet some fabulous people, both who you work with and who hand you the comments and quotes you desperately need to make a story work. And I have learnt that nearly everything you are told on a course entirely depends on where you end up. The only thing I have learned to be true is that you cap the first word.

I strawberry pick on weekends I stay in Colchester and am constantly bathed in sun and start jazz dancing next week. In short, living in Colchester is entirely different to the north. Not in a good or a bad way. It’s just different.

Apart from that driving seems to dominate my life more than I care to mention and my bank account does not look any safer than it did than I was unemployed. But hey, you don’t get into journalism for the money.

I can’t promise I will update this site as often as I used to. But if you want to check up on what I am up to keep an eye on me on Twitter, Facebook or at

 

www.harwichandmanningtreestandard.co.uk

Pringles Are Apparently a Crisp

Crisp or Cake?

Well, who would have thought it.  Something that sits in the crisp aisle of the supermarket, crunches like a crisp in your mouth and look very similar to crisps has actually been named…as a crisp.

Pringles bosses for one thought they were on to something when they decided that because there is only 42% potato in them, Pringles are not crisps.  A high court judge ruled last year on their side, agreeing that because they are packed in tubes and not packets that the snack was more like a cake.

A cake?  Is he nuts? 

Well another high court judge certainly thought he was when he overturned his decision today and declared the snack as humble as the rest of potato snacks.  The reason behind the palaver was all a matter of VAT.  Not many snacks are required to pay the tax, but crisps are the exception.

But enough of that.  Let’s get back to the matter at hand.

Who here really thought Pringles were anything other than a crisp?  Nobody.  And did anyone other than that mad judge believe they were a cake?  I didn’t think so.  Pringles doesn’t do a chocolate flavour for starters. 

Monster Munch are another anomaly.  They also are not made from potatoes and are technically called a corn-based snack.  Does anyone ever say “I’m nipping down to Tesco for a Delicious corn-based snack,”?  No.  Why?  Because they are a crisp.

Crisps are not just items made from potatoes.  In my mind they have several definitive factors.  Crisps have to be crunchy, have an artificial taste and be bad for you (even those so-called good for you crisps that are baked instead of fried do bad things to your arteries).  I would actually call Ryvita Mini’s salt and vinegar flavour a crisp and even Snack a Jacks, despite the fact that they come in caramel flavour.  So if they are, then Pringles and Monster Munch certainly are. 

And if all else fails when trying to identify a the crunchy snack then look down the supermarket aisle.  If it is next door to the Walkers, it’s a damn crisp.

Nick Clegg; a man too good for politics.

Is Nick Clegg to squeaky clean for the dirty game of politics?

Who exactly is Nick Clegg?

Sure, some people, although not most, will know him as the leader of the Liberal Democrats.  The party that everyone votes for and yet never gets in power because of the first past the post system that favours the big two; Labour and the Tories.

MP’s have been all over the media with the expenses system being pulled apart in the last week.  Tories and Labourites have been plastered over the tv, radio and newspapers.  But how often have you seen any of the Lib Dems defending their actions?

The party has always enjoyed relative success in the polls in the last decade, gaining more seats, although no where near as many as they would need to challenge for government.  But over the past six months they have been losing the slim grip on power and the media that they enjoyed.

The reason?  Nick Clegg is a clever man who predicted the economic downturn years before it happened.  Yet how often do we hear of him?

David Cameron and Gordon Brown constantly annoy us, their faces always in front of us.  They are always doing something that holds the media’s, if not our, attention.  Whether this is making mistakes or apologising for them, they make themselves known and therefore the party stays in the limelight.

Charles Kennedy was ousted from his party after allegations of alcohol abuse.  It made huge headlines, and before that he kept his party well-known with his ginger hair and boisterous personality.  Ming Campbell’s age became a problem for the media and his party after it was alleged it wouldn’t help their cause at the next election.  Inadvertently, Ming’s age made Lib Dem headlines.

Nick Clegg is clearly a good politician.  He seems far more squeaky clean than the majority of them and he talks a lot of sense.  But there’s the problem.  Nobody likes a bore, we all enjoy bitching about the people in charge of our lives.  It gives us someone else to blame other than ourselves for our problems.  But Nick Clegg hasn’t done anything wrong, as yet, that makes him newsworthy.  He disappears into the background.

Maybe Nick should’ve invested in a £1000 TV or had a dabble in someone’s moat and charged the tax payer for the cost of a swimming costume when The Telegraph started printing out MP claims.  It would have been the first time the media paid attention to him and his party for months.

It’s the biggest paradox in the political world.  Be good and be ignored. Be bad and be possibly passed over.  Unfortunately it looks like the end of the line for the Lib Dems while Clegg is in charge.  No scandal equals no interest, and in our celebrity obsessed society where we scrutinise every part of a marriage breakdown to see who is most to blame, we need that. 

Sorry Nick, you’re good but not good enough.

What’s Your Salary?

Carrie Gracie admitted her salary on live TV while interviewing an MP.

The Telegraph has probably sold more copies this week than it has in the past decade thanks to its MP expenses source.  The juicy gossip has been splashed all over its front page for the past few days and no one has been exempt.  Labour, Tory, the PM and the man hoping to replace him have all been subjected to their personal expenses being made public.

Moats have been cleaned, chandeliers restored and house cleaners paid out of the tax payers money.  To be honest though, i’m not really that bothered.  I’m as disgruntled to pay taxes and think of them going to the NHS who offer me a naff service as I am thinking about them going towards David Cameron’s DVD collection.  In fact, probably more so.  And all this rubbish the media is kicking up about the average working person being annoyed about where their money is going is not nearly as large a problem as they are making out. 

Everyone hates paying tax.  It doesn’t matter whose back pocket they go into really.  The only time the conversation ever interests me is when they are either going up -again- or coming down.

But the whole story got a lot more interesting this morning thanks to Carrie Gracie, a news presenter on the BBC news channel.  Around 9.30am Ms Gracie joined the discussion by disclosing her salary live on air to an MP who asked her directly how much of the tax licence fee she was wasting by harassing politicians.  It was the best live television I have seen in a while, but Ms Gracie barely even paused before replying £92,000.

I’m not sure if anyone was expecting that.  What was surprising was not the amount she is paid – anyone with half a brain would realise being on TV so much would result in a larger pay check than most- but that she so easily laid it out for all to see.

Salaries are one of the things we like to hide above all others.  It is up there with who we vote for at general elections, what we went to the doctors for and religious opinions.  They are all taboo subjects but none more so than how much you take home each month.

And yet, maybe they shouldn’t be.  After all, what is the point in hiding how much you are on?  Sure, it should keep the thieves away if you keep it to yourself and people won’t assume you can spend more money just because you are on a few pence more a month.  But maybe if everyone announced to the world their salary then it would be less of a problem asking for the raise you think you deserve and explaining to your friends exactly why you can’t go out for lunch or nip on a luxurious jet with them more often.

Of course, Ms Gracie, it can be argued, has more reason to disclose the figures than the rest of us.  After all our TV licences pay for it much the same way our taxes pay for MP’s.  But instead of scoffing at Ms Gracie’s gesture and raising eyebrows, maybe we should follow her example.

Chelsea; children in big boys clothes.

Didier Drogba was right to be upset, but were his actions justified?

Premiership Football teams are some of the best in the world.  They can draw in number one players, make record-breaking transfers and win world competitions.  The fact that three English teams were in the semi-finals of the Champions league this year just goes to show how good they are.

But though their achievements are those of adults, and very talented ones at that, then their behaviour can only be compared to that of children.  And we are not taking about ten year olds.

Chelsea showed their salt this week after they were unlucky enough to concede an away goal in the last minute of their home tie with Barcelona.  Drogba widened his eyes and threw himself at the referee much like a desperate woman does at the end of a night out in a club when the lights are turned on and she spots a guy.  And the result was the same.  Okay so Drogba was not taken home and then dumped quickly in the morning.  But all he achieved was a yellow card after the final whistle.  Hardly the result I’m sure he wanted.

Ballack is another who managed to make the match unforgettable.  When I was watching it live I actually thought he was going to assault the ref, or at least dive on him and shake him around a bit.  Looking at the replay he never actually touches him, but running after him like a child does to it’s parent who has confiscated it’s pic n’ mix before tea time did not paint him in the best light.  And it certainly did not get him the penalty he was trying to convince the ref he deserved.

I actually don’t see the point why players get so worked up about referee decisions on the pitch.  How often do you see a referee holding his hands up and succumbing to player pressure because they have shouted in his face long enough?  If the referee is running in the opposite direction, ie. away from you, then you can bet he is not going to change his mind just because you are going to abuse him to his face for a few seconds.  Your best bet is to shut your mouth and accept the decision before seeing if you can change it after the match.

Take Darren Fletcher’s attitude and reaction to the red card he was given on Tuesday night in the other Championship semi-final.  Did he kick and scream and roll around on the floor?  No.  He looked annoyed, upset and then he walked off the pitch without even trying to talk to the ref. 

Don’t get me wrong, I understand it is frustrating for players to accept judgments that they know are wrong.  I understand why they shake their head and try to talk to the ref about it.  But animated discussion is totally different to waving your arms around in front of the ref like a giant ape in a mating ritual.  Problems on the pitch should be dealt by captains and the player involved.  Referees need to be able to make their decisions, whether right or wrong, without being subjected to players acting like a herd of elephants.

Were Chelsea’s actions understandable?  Yes.  Were they justified in making them?  No.

Sorry guys, but that’s what it comes down to.

I Don’t Want You to Eat Your Hat Thank You

Good things always happen to me in London, I should visit more often.

I’m afraid to say I have been hiding something from everyone.  Well, from most people.  For the past two weeks I have had a sordid little secret that only around three people have known.

Well, I am taking the plunge and finally – believe me it must be some kind of record for me, I have never kept my gob shut for so long – screaming it out.  I am moving to Colchester in two weeks.

The oldest town in England is about to get me as a resident as I have accepted a job offer to work on a small Essex paper.  You won’t have heard of it, because even a week after I had accepted the position I still hadn’t.  I was told originally I would be working somewhere else, although ironically in the same town as I will be working in anyway – Clacton on Sea, aptly described to me as ‘It pretends to be Blackpool but really it’s Morecambe.’  Something I can only think of as a good thing.

Many of you will already realise the reason behind it being hushed up for so long.  Essex seems to be my Pandora’s Box.  I have had job offers there twice before that then were snatched out from under me like a fluffy rug parents like to pose naked children on.  So I decided to wait for the paperwork to come through – although I actually signed a contract at a previous Essex newspaper for them again to back out.  So then I thought I should wait until I started on my first day.  But then it means not being able to see people before you go and worrying about the redundancy axe falling on you.  Before you know it I would tell myself that I keep it a secret until I had six months tightly wrapped under my belt.

But I got a wake-up call yesterday afternoon when I was called by one of the people offering me the job and fully expected him to tell me that the position, unfortunately, was no longer available.  So you can imagine my surprise when he said he had my contract in front of him and wanted to go over some details.  I, unbelievingly, asked him if the job was going ahead.  “I’ll eat my hat if it doesn’t,” he said.

But I suddenly realised I have been scared of my own shadow, trying to protect myself from making a mistake that wasn’t my fault in the first place.  I haven’t allowed myself to get excited about something I have been wanting for years because of previous failings (I was offered the job in front of the Houses of Parliament for God’s sake – that’s excitement in itself).  And I realised that to be able to do that I have to let go of the negativity, the what ifs and open myself up to the possibility that this may not go through but I will have done my best.

Everything happens for a reason.

I still haven’t got my contract.  But me telling you now won’t change the fact that it should be here by next week.  And if it isn’t?  You won’t hear from me for a while, I’ll be blubbering into my cappuccino.

Ooomph With Ease

The Queen Bee; Nigella Lawson doesn't just do it for the food.

I know I have an unhealthy obsession with cooking programs.  I will watch anything from Saturday Kitchen to Britain’s Best Celebrity Dish (which, let’s be honest, was a pile of tosh).  My favourite is Come Dine With Me, but isn’t it everyones?  The combination of arrogant snootyness with bad dishes, the “I am an executive PR and I think I can cook asparagus,” gets me every time.  Plus you get to nosy around their house too.  It’s Masterchef with a dash of Through the Keyhole.

I actually don’t like celebrity chefs though.  But there are two people who win me over every time.  Gordon Ramsey is the first.  You have to admire a man who let’s slip the word “fuck” more times a year than he probably does it. And secondly, Nigella Lawson.

I actually used to hate Nigella.  Her over-the-top pouting and fingers constantly in mouth pose made me think her cooking was more about her than teaching you to cook.  She also manages to get away with ‘cheat’ dishes constantly, whereas poor Delia was battering rammed into a corner for merely mentioning the words ‘pre-packaged grated cheese’.

But I actually seem to be coming round to her, mainly because I have accepted that her programmes, I can’t speak for her publications, are more about her and her catch phrases than what she can cook.  When she purred out last night ’It’s oomph with ease darling’  I was rolling around on the couch for the next half an hour.  I also love the idea that she is consistently throwing dinner parties for people you get the impression she has never even met, let alone friends with.  I love turning on BBC2 and seeing her on the phone before guilt-tripping her guests to the camera about how she now has to make room for more people at her table.  More than that, it has actually given me an insight into what the house-bound woman with ample money and children actually does all day.

But Nigella is also a good role model.  The recession (dirty word, apologies) has left us with little money to spend on luxuries, so instead we fill out our waistlines the way we used to line of purses, with yummy food.  Curves are definitely back, and Nigella promotes this.  You never hear the words ‘half fat’ or ‘calories’ on her shows.  She clearly doesn’t give a hoot how much saturated fat is in her sandwich and tell her to reign in on the chocolate sauce and you would probably find it all over your head.

And yet she still looks good.  Now don’t get me wrong; Nigella is in no way fat.  But put her next to one of the catwalk models we all idolize and she would look like a beached whale in comparison.  We don’t want to see skinny size zero girls anymore, we want to see full-chested and thighed ladies who actually look like they eat daily and can get away with pouting on the red carpet in a galaxy dress with a homemade chocolate bar in hand.

So goodbye low-fat cheese, bugger off Kate Moss and salute the goddess of food, her highness of fuller waistlines and the mother of innuendos.  Hats off to Nigella Lawson.

London; why you must go.

Waterloo Barracks, The Tower of London; where the Crown Jewels are kept.

One thing I have learned this week.  Do not listen to what anyone else says about London.  You make it what it is and judging how good your trip is depends mainly on two things 1. How much time you have to spend and 2. How much money you have to splash.

Having plenty of both (the second was not my own) I found there was nothing I had to leave out.  The only thing I could not do was Hampton Court, but because of lack of time rather than money.

Westminster Abbey, Downing Street, Kensington Palace, National Portrait Gallery, Trafalgar Square and St Paul’s Cathedral were all very easy, and well planned, to see.  In fact, many of these places you can do in a matter of minutes if all you want to do is have your face plastered on a picture while you are stood in front of them.  If you want to go inside then obviously you will need more time, especially if you want to fully appreciate them.  Westminster Abbey was a must for me, but this is because I am a history bummer and have stepped inside before, so a good few hours were wasted in the presence of Kings and Queens.  But many places you see on the news today, Downing Street, the Cenotaph etc, you can do in half an hour as they are all on Whitehall.

Most of my time was planned, but when I look back this was not the time where I had the most fun.  A last-minute tour round the Houses of Parliament, where I bumped into Nick Robinson (BBC political editor) having elevenses with David Davis was a completely shocking, and awe-inspiring experience for an aspiring journo such as myself.  As was the very late-in-the-day discovery of Covent Garden at the back of our hotel (The Strand Palace) where I sipped wine and was entertained by two opera singers and a string ensemble that actually pranced around in time to the music (I play the cello, so I have no idea how the two playing managed it).  Equally mad was bumping into Russell Crowe outside the premier of State of Play when I was on my way to watching Les Miserables in the West End which itself was a last-minute idea as we bought the tickets that afternoon.

The Queen's Guards at the Tower of London; clearly not fans of tourists.

Having said that, one of the highlights of the trip was The Tower of London where I spent four hours admiring execution blocks, axes and gravestones. Yes I am rather morbid aren’t I.  But seriously, spending an entire morning and half an afternoon in the ghostly company of several well-known dead folk such as Anne Boleyn, Lady Jane Grey and Katherine Howard, not to mention William, Lord Hastings, was even more fun than even I could have expected.  There were also a few extra surprises such as seeing the crown jewels without any queues (getting there before 9.30am helps), nine Ravens bobbing down the hill, teasing the tourists trying to snap them up, and a member of the Queen’s Guards shouting for you to “Move it,” when you usually do not see them raise so much as an eyebrow.

And there is always something to be said about surprises.  One I didn’t enjoy was finding a member of the roach family in dinner at China Town on the final evening before we dashed off to watch Chicago.  Ironically praise was being heaped on the restaurant before said item was found and we left without, thankfully, paying. 

There is so much to do in London, going there on a day trip is a complete waste of time.  I had heard so many bad opinions of the capital that I wasn’t looking forward to it nearly as much as when I visited Paris and Budapest.  Loud, expensive and smelly were the main reasons behind the whinging.  And while the first too are correct, this added to the experience.  If you could afford to spend four days in London every month you wouldn’t appreciate it when you did go.  And it’s a capital city for God’s sake.  If you expect it to be quiet then you’re an idiot.  Frankly, it could be as noisy as it liked, especially when Covent Garden is thrown in the mix.

Covent Garden; they play and dance, all for free (if you're very mean).

How much you love London depends on what you go to see.  If you’re a history buff like myself  there are endless amounts of sights to see to satisfy.  The theatre also goes beyond anything you have seen before.  The choice and quality is amazing, I found myself joining a standing ovation for the cast of Les Mis, which was truly amazing.  And if you simply like surprises then you will find plenty. 

The key to it all is to sleep as little as possible and get out as much as you can.  After all, you’re not there for the hotel room.

London; deciding on shoes is far harder than it should be.

Tower of London; I will be prostrating myself before the executioners block.

For those of you who I haven’t yet bragged to, I am off to London tomorrow.  Four days of cultural bliss in the capital.  I preened all week, cut out the crap from my diet and did aerobics everyday to try and trim the excess weight from my thighs to limit dodgy photos.  I actually did really well from Monday until 6pm Friday.

But the weekend has been a disaster.  Far too much wine, cheese and chocolate torte was consumed at Friday night’s dinner party and a 21st birthday yesterday means that if a wick is put in my mouth I would burn for a fortnight.  My skin has broken out in dirty, greasy spots, my stomach has ballooned and I feel like death.

So far I have tried to reverse, or limit, the damage through facemasks and sitting out in the sun to dry up any remaining greasy areas.  That seems to have worked.  But unfortunately you cannot lose a few pounds in a day, believe me I have tried many times. 

And that’s not all.  I have still got to pick out which damn shoes I’m taking too.  I don’t even have that many and the choice is hard.  Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise that I seem to spend most of my time unemployed, at least I can’t buy more.  I’m going to have to try them all on at least once with several outfits to see which go best.  I never realised there was so much to do when you go away, even for a few days.

Castles, theatres and executioners’ blocks will all be scourged in the next few days.  I’ll give you a full review of the best places to visit when I get back.  In the meantime, I will keep you updated via twitter (on the right of this page), apparently it does have it’s uses.

Fast and Furious (2009)

Well worth a viewing; Fast and Furious delivers on its promises.

I couldn’t make my mind up about this film before I saw it.  I liked the original and hadn’t bothered to see the ones that had followed because the original cast, with the exception of Paul Walker in number two, hadn’t bothered to come along for the ride.  The fact they were back for number four changed my mind.

Nothing has really changed in this installment as the tag line suggests (New Model. Original Parts).  In fact, looking at the trailer you would be forgiven for thinking that it was an exact remake of the original.  Even the name sounds the same, the producers have only knocked out two “the”’s.  This was either extreme laziness or extremely clever.  It was partly the name that made me go and see it in the first place.  So with the same cast, almost the same name and a similar plot (basically cars, cops and violence) you may be thinking what is the point of paying £7 to sit in a sweaty cinema with lunatic boys invading your personal space for a film you already have at home.

It turns out that one thing has actually changed.  Vin Diesel’s arms are HUGE.  And in a fabulous, ‘I wasn’t expecting that’ kind of way that makes the film far more interesting than I’m sure it was meant to be.  I don’t remember him being that hot in the original.  And he isn’t, I’m watching it as I’m writing this.  Bye bye Paul Walker (who I picked out as the eye candy from the first installment), hello Vin.

Alright, so if you’re not a woman with a thing for huge biceps and you’re not a pre-pubescent boy who likes lesbian action, what actually is there for you in this film? 

The film follows the lives of FBI agent Brian O’Conner (Walker) and ex-con Dominic Toretto (beautiful Vin) as they criss-cross again for the first time in five years.  Although, unlike the first film, O’Conner isn’t after busting Toretto’s ass but a heroin importer who just so happens to be a newly-acquired enemy of Torreto.  The two must overcome their differences, and several nasty discoveries that one is keeping from the other, to out manoeuvre their opposition.

Overall I was pleasantly surprised.  The film does follow the same formula as the first but that is what makes it successful and the makers realised this well.  Instead of making it something it wasn’t they kept to what they know best.  The actors give solid performances, although nothing obviously that would see them Oscar nominated, and the story certainly keeps you interested for the 107 minutes it runs for.

So if you want some high-octane fun that does exactly what it says on the tin, then this is your best bet until Wolverine comes out at the end of the month.  Although Vin Diesel’s arms need better billboard space in those lovely cut-off shirts.

7/10