Big Brother Blues

Firstly, can I state CATEGORICALLY, that I do not watch Big Brother!!!

Whilst having my hair cut (thanks Angel - nice job luv), she started spouting about how tonight was eviction night and how she was hurrying home to watch it.

I mentioned I didn't watch it and how it was just a poor social experiment in place to test the breaking point of every misplaced, misguided, borderline head case in the house. She agreed......kind of...

This led to her talking about some contestant named Shaz.....(something), who was a 'bit of a nutta', who at one stage was on suicide watch.

I, (wittily I think), replied ".....what, the viewers watch to see how and when he's going to neck himself...."

She replied, "No, they watch to stop him from doing it".

I dont think she got my joke.

My First Management Decision

Talking to a fellow senior manager (oh lah-de-dah) the other day, she asked me if I'd made any 'power' decisions yet (she, like me, has no trouble taking the mick).

I replied yes (rather earnestly).

With raised eyebrows (and a certain amount of discomfort as I answered without humour), she asked me what.

I replied......"I will write a new policy on, and enforce the new company rule, that NO SOUTH AFRICANS SHOULD BE IN CHARGE OF ANSWERING PHONES!"

After laughing, she asked me why.

I replied, "...because they make hello sound like fuck off...."

C'mon....get off your politically correct high horse people. South Africans, whether trying or not, lack diplomacy. It must be a combination of things like intonation in speech coupled with accent, but they really annoy me, (well...on the phone anyway).

And as for answering the company phone? Well, if I were ringing a housing organisation, needing help on a housing or benefits issue, would I want to speak to someone who, by misfortune, sounds like someone who wouldn't piss on me if I were on fire??????

When In Rome

Was meeting up with a friend last night and as usual, I was on time and they weren't, so I ducked into a bar to pass the time (seems they were running 30 min late!!!!!!!).

I was in Fulham. The bar I ducked into was called Belushi's (I think). It doesn't matter as I'm never going there again.

So I sashay up to the bar, order a drink, sit down and scan the joint. To my horror, I realised it was an Aussie bar. Oh, not a blatant 'Walkabout' pub, but a bar which lulls one into a false sense of security (from the outside), only to wallop you with the overt markings of patriotism inside.

You know. The telltale signs such as the Aussie flag hanging up over a window, a stuffed kangaroo on a shelf behind the bar (whaaaaaaaaattttttt!!!!!!!!!!!), and a room filled with Aussie's.

This is what I really really don't get. Why would you move to the other side of the world just to hang out with your fellow countrymen. Surely to experience and fully learn about a culture, means that the friends you make, and the people you live with, all mould and guide your understanding of that culture.

So when I first moved to London in 1999, I bought The Loot, and trawled the shared accommodation pages, looking for a shared flat, with an English person. Ok, I admit I was open to sharing with anyone really, but I did not want to share with a couple of Aussie's, or Kiwi's. I found Lynda, who lived in Clapham Common. An English lass who hailed from Newmarket (near Cambridge).As it turned out, after I harassed her solidly for about 5 days, she agreed to let me move in (true story that. After meeting me she was concerned I may be too loud - which of course, I am).

So, it's 7 years later, and I consider Lynda to be one of my best mates. Someone I meet up with regularly for dinner, drinks and gossip. Someone I go on holidays with. Someone I trust and love. She has shown me parts of London and England that I never would have known about if hanging out with antipodeans.

Oh, and that antipodean thing is a labeling nightmare as well. Australians, New Zealanders, and South Africans, all thrown in together. It's as if the only difference between us is our accents (which most people cant differentiate between anyway). Frankly, I don't care what the differences are. The fact is we are different. I don't possess the supposed resentment for Kiwis. I don't hate those who come from Melbourne (another assumption of domestic rivalry).

I do love the fact that I live in a multi-layered, multi-racial city that has less of a racist undercurrent than I'm used to. Australia tends to be quite narrow-minded in terms of immigration. I am constantly hearing the bleatings of others about immigration and how the foreigners are taking all the jobs. Blah, blah, blah. Well, I guess the same can be said about me in London then. I can hear it now. 'Send her back to where she came from'.

Speaking with my friend last night, they mentioned how they now worked in an office full of Kiwi's and Aussies. They mentioned how both never stop whinging. About work, about the weather, about anything I guess. And that's the problem. Get a group full of people together in a room, all from the same country, and some kind of group dynamic happens where they immediately feel superior. They have a sense of security because they're all reading from the same page. I've heard it before. Brit bashing that is. I've said it once and I'll say it again. If you don't like the place. If you don't like the weather. If you feel Australia or New Zealand (or any other country for that matter) is far superior in many ways........... THEN GO BACK THERE.

I admit. I'm guilty of the odd jibe. Am even guilty of a little patriotism. Just a little. But I love Britain. And when asked why on earth do I want to live here rather than sunny Australia, I answer 'The sum of a country is more than that of it's climate'.

Nuff said.

Surrounded By Idiots

I had every intention of blogging on anothetr topic this evening, but I took an e-detour just prior to writing and ended up in Brain Dead Central!!!!!

I HAVE TO BLOG ABOUT THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ok. My sordid TV-watching past has included reality shows. I admit it. I was addicted. I knew it was wrong. Like any addiction, I kept it very well hidden for quite some time.

But I overcame it, and, like an ex-smoker (well, a smug pious ex-smoker), I looked down on the reality watcher. I outspokenly heralded the error of their ways.

So tonight, on the way to Blogspot I stopped off at the Big Brother website. Why you ask? Well, was switching channels when I accidently came across the Big brother Little Brother TV show. I tuned in for about 2 minutes. I then thought....what the heck...I will go to the website and check what the contestants are like.

And I was faced with the most mundane, egocentirc, brain-dead group of people known to man.
I went straight to the profiles to get an idea of what part of the pond, the scum came from.


Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm....as predicted, looks like the bottom.

So what I did. I clicked on a face. I looked at their age, their occupation, their desciption of themselves and then what their favourite books and fims were. Oh bless. The complete moronity of it all actually surprised me.

One girl in particular who describes herself as intelligent but hates jokes because she doesnt get them, listed her favourite book as Victoria Beckham's Learning to Fly.

Really?

No....I mean REALLY??????

NO REALLY....I MEAN REALLY?????????????????????????????????????

Firstly, I had no idea Ms Beckham had a book. Secondly, if you were intelligent would you read a Victora Beckham book? Thirdly, if you were intelligent, wouldn't you get jokes. I mean, humour is a lateral way of thinking. Yes, there are jokes I dont get due to local idiosyncrasies. There are jokes that takes a few seconds for the penny to drop for me...but overall I get them.

Another girl, (a model/dancer which probably translates as a hooker), cited her favourite films as Clueless and Legally Blonde, and her favourite books as The Sport, The Sun, The Star, and The Complete Rule book to Find Mr Right. Hmmmmm...maybe that should read...The Complete Rule Book to find Mr Trite.

For those unfamiliar with these titles, I can only say that I am almost too upset to keep blogging. The first 3 titles are very right wing tabloids that cater to every sub-intelligent, tit-oggling, football hooligan type's dream. Tabloids which exploit women, and marginalise the significance that women contribute. Brain dead front pages which exploit people's fears.

Front pages which promote vigilantism by presenting skewed subjective pseudo-facts. I simply cannot express in words the disdain I feel for the gutter press that is the British tabloid.

But getting back to my original blog.

Other favourite books are 'Not known' (my guess because they've never read one) and 'Jordans Autobiography'...................hold on....what's that? Is it just me or has this contestant not only named that book as her favourite but....low and behold...not even known the title of it?????

Oh....and dont get me started on their favourite movies.

I have always wondered what stupid people think about when they are pondering to themselves. Maybe what they are thinking is.......how can I become a contestant on Big Brother.

Thank you Germany, Thank you Italy

So the World Cup has been with us for almost a month now. I have been watching match after match, getting excited, jumping up and down, and generally surprising those who know me due to them not realising what a football buff I am.

OK. I'm not a fan who wears the colours, flies the flags, and boos national players because they play abroad (what the hell is that all about.....stoopid Brits).

But I am a fan, who loves the game, who does indeed think it's the beautiful game. That is, when players aren't diving, stomping on other player's 'packages', and generally behaving like degenerate thugs.

The semi final last night reintroduced me to 'The Beautiful Game'. A game where players play with respect for each other. A game where red and yellow cards aren't being passed around like a parcel. A game where diving was not the main tactic. Shots on goal a many, and extra time where both teams didn't sit back and play in their own half. A scoreless game that felt like there had been 3 goals scored a piece.

So Italy scored in the last 2 minutes of extra time. A beautiful goal, that deserved to be a winning goal. Not a goal scored from a bogus penalty given in the last 30 seconds (bitter and twisted referral to Australia's ousting from the World Cup).

The British press doesn't help either. Never before has the 'lowest common denominator' been so evident as when the World Cup is on. The lead up to the World Cup reached the sharp end about 2 months ago. Is Rooney going to play? Is his 4th metatarsel ok? Is Becks fit enough? What designer is Posh wearing? Oooohhhh...looky here....Posh seems to have lost more weight. Blah....blah....blah.......

After the Portugal match, one of the leading tabloids front page was a huge picture of Christian Ronaldo on a dartboard.....which was indeed dartboard size. Oh? Ok! Of course. The reason why England lost the match was because of Christian Ronaldo. Not the fact that England played without any passion or vigour. Not the fact that in not one match, did England look comfortable (except the Portugal match).

Ok. If I were laying blame, then I would say that Sven Goran Erikson's choice of team was very questionable. The formation he played with every match, was ludicrous. Playing with one striker up front, when its obvious that those strikers work better in a 4-4-2 formation as opposed to a 4-5-1. Crouch up front is fabulous, when coupled by another striker. Same with Rooney. Playing Beckham was an obvious choice, but I think his fitness let him down. He should have been subbed for Lennon, who has great speed, agility and youth. And don't get me started on Theo Walcott. Please dont get me started. Ok....that's it. Walcott? Never played in the premirership league. Erikson had NEVER seen him play. He was never used. He was one of 4 forwards taken on the squad. Two of the 4 had questionable fitness. I'm completely gobsmacked. This guy is the highest paid coach in the world coming in a 5 million a year (that's Brit £ folks). And for what????? I reckon that somewhere, there is a million £ bet going for England not to make the final. Sven MUST have put money on that.

Then again.....I feel it's about time that Australia won the World Cup (warning: cocky Aussie comment coming right up)......After all, its probably the ONLY main sporting event that we haven't won.

Social Scare
Chapter 2

So Preston goes into work today. Just for the morning as I'm currently at a Preston DEFCON 3 (see previous blog for explanation).

I had to conduct interviews for the position of team Leader for a Mental Health Team. So I'm sitting there, feeling a bit crappy, when the first interviewee enters the room. Before sitting down, she announces that please excuse her if she looks uncomfortable or tense as 'it's the time of the month and she is quite heavy at the moment...'

WHAAATTTTTTTTTT??????????

She's interviewing for a leadership role and she asks that? I almost choked on my bottled water.
Not only is she interviewing for leadership, but the interviewers are her potential Area Manager (moi) and the goddamn Operations Director.

Since working in London in social care, I have had to set the bar at such a low height. Imagine the caliber for support staff if potential team leaders come out with such socially and professionally unacceptable comments.

In two days I am spending a day shortlisting for support staff positions. Apparently we have 52 applications to sift through. I have every intention of setting the bar high enough to sort out the crap from the cream. This means my criteria for binning potential applicants will be extremely harsh. This includes:

If they don't address the person specification in point form - BIN.
If they use a capital letter every time after a comma - a grammar lesson and then - BIN
Any trace of matriarchal or patriachal tendencies - BIN

I fully expect to only be interviewing a maximum of 6 people. I would be surprised if even that many meet my criteria. Social care is not menial work. Vulnerable people deserve people supporting them who respect them, support them to learn new skills, and can think laterally and creatively.

I fully intend to be the Ghengis Khan of the interview panel.

PRESTON'S DEFCON

Woke up today feeling like I'd been battered around the head and body with a wet mackeral. Seems like Preston's supremo immune system has given the all-clear to a virus that has wiped the usually 'can't touch this' health.

What does this mean, I hear you all ask? What does it look like? Well, I have adapted the US weapons readiness system DEFCON to paint a most vivid picture.

PRESTON'S DEFCON

DEFCON 5 - Normal Preston health (climbing mountains/fighting crocodiles/giving lip)
DEFCON 4 - Normal Preston health without mountains, an increased tendency to whinge, if fighting crocodiles the croc may win
DEFCON 3 - Increase in whinge readiness. Verbally citing how crap I feel.
DEFCON 2 - Further increase in whinge readiness, visibally scary, eyeballs red, complexion pasty
DEFCON 1 - Maximum whinge readiness, fully prepared to walk onlookers through how crapulent I feel , unable to eat, flat out like a lizard drinkin

I am teetering between a 2 and a 1 at the moment, and I must say that Preston is most unimpressed. I hate getting sick, especially when it's hot. Yesterday, I could only stare out the window, and wonder what it would be like to experience the 30 degree temperatures that the rest of London were enjoying. Today, another 30 degree day. What this means, is that I'm confused as to whether my temperature is real or if it's just my body reacting to the 'once in a lifetime' London temperatures.

Typical I say. Even as a child, I used to shrug off the winter challenges and forge ahead like a thoroughbred, sickness free, only to find that on came summer with all its joys, and Preston would catch something or another. For years, I have fended off lurgy's left right and centre, feeling very full of myself indeed. 'Moi? Oh I never get sick. I have a supreme immune system'.

Bugger.

Turn left at the Dead Badger

I bounce between extremes where my bedroom is either quite tidy or complete squalor.

At the moment it's squalor.

Note - title of blog refers to the Black Books (another good site is this one), episode 'Manny Come Home'. Fran returns from holiday to find the bookshop in complete disarray because Bernard has fired Manny. She enters the shop to mounds of rubbish. Bernard calls out directions from the back of the shop. Goes something like this:

"Go past the bin bags........turn left at the mouldy George Elliot......turn right...go straight ahead....turn left at the dead badger...."

Well, at the moment there could be a dead badger somewhere in my room.

My mound of clothes moves from one section of the room to the other, depending on what part I'm using. If I need to go to bed, then I move all of it to the mound in front of the cupboard. When I get up, I make my bed, then pile everything back onto the bed. It's a fabulous system. Sometimes, I become motivated to actually tidy. Such a mundane business tidying. Some people take great pride in doing such menial chores. Very tidy people scare me. Too orderly. Too regimented. On the other hand, the type of person who grows cultures in obscure places (under bed, on old food, in their navel), also scare me.

Finding a happy medium is good. I think I've found it. I'm a quirky cleaner. That means I clean when I want.

Unfortunately this leads to several problems. I lose my keys...in my room...at least twice a day. I misplace work stuff, where it usually resurfaces somewhere under the bed (where I must say...it probably bloodywell belongs).

On the other hand, it has benefits. I have honed my bloodhound-like skills at finding things (especially keys). I am physically fit from constantly doing laps of the combat course which makes up the route from my bed to my door.

If I ever hook up with a guy who is a neat freak, then I will schedule time out for relationship counseling in readiness for the disagreements we will have. I can see it now. Me walking around like Pigpen out of Peanuts cartoon, surrounded by a cloud of dust.Him following me around the house with a dustpan and brush, picking up my clutter. Alphabetising my CD collection. Organising my food cupboard into rows. Throwing out food from the fridge that is only 1 day past its use by date (a crime!!!!). He could gasp at my 5 second rule to spilt food.

I could be the Oscar to his Felix (The Odd Couple). In fact, it could be a complete role reversal. He could cook and clean for me. I could try my hand at DIY and put the garbage out. What a match!!

Then again, I'm not that bad. When I was in my teens and early twenties, I had (actually have still but I wont mention your name), a friend whose house resembled Noah's Ark (on crack). How could I ever forget the times I would go to use the iron (I practically lived there), but beforehand had to spray insect repellent on my legs to protect against the fleas that would literally jump up at you for fresh blood. You see the ironing board was situated upstairs, on a natural seagrass mat. The fleas lived in the mat and, if the room was quiet, you could hear the little beggars jumping and landing. At the time they had 2 dogs and 2 cats. Even with all the fleas, I loved that household.

Aaaaah.........Good times. Good times.

Wiped Out

No sooner have my two friends (Jon and Scott)left for fairer shores, I have collapsed in a screaming heap.

Lying here in bed I can reminisce about the past 5 days and only dream of a day when I get more than 5hrs sleep and a clear bill of health.

Cut back to 5 days ago. I was in the process of skipping out of work, spring in step, no more a tachycardic mess, for some annual leave days off,when I caught a glimpse of the latest phone lists that were posted out to ALL care projects and offices of Threshold. My deputy, Spencer, mentioned that they had me on the list.....a sharp pang gripped my heart......to myself, I was saying 'They wouldn't would they?.....Surely not...' I gingerly took a closer look only to find that yes...indeed the bastards had....POSTED MY PERSONAL MOBILE NUMBER AS MY CONTACT NUMBER!!!!!!!!!!
And I reiterate - THE BASTARDS!!!!

This means that at least 16 services have me as their fall back guy just as I go on annual leave. Is there no reprieve from this shit of a new job. I am completely frazzled.

So I get a call on Friday regarding some revenue agreements for a recently acquired project in Hampton Wick. Its the deputy manager going on (and on, and on and on and on), about how Kingston PCT are talking about wages not being paid and what is going to happen and how will they be paid and...and...and............ Firstly, can I just say, that I'm new to the role and have no idea of what agreements are in place, what has been promised etc. Secondly, I have no idea about the revenue agreements. Thirdly, I HAVE NO IDEA ABOUT THE REVENUE AGREEMENTS. Fourthly, Im on A/L. (just to point out, I thought this, I didn't say it).

The next call I received was regarding a disciplinary that's going on, which kicked off 2 days after I took on the new role, when both my supervising managers decided to take A/L. Well timed huh!!!!

So Preston is juggling a chain saw of indecision, a flame thrower of ignorance and a machete's worth of WHOOP-ASS.

I have had quite a few days of fun over the last 5 days. I woke up this morning, ready to see off Jon, and get in an afternoon of rest, relaxation, and some preparation time for the oncoming work week. Alas, after only 2 hours of sleep, due to waking up in a complete flu-like sweat coupled with nausea and a brain numbing headache, I feel like crud...What's more - I look like crud. The upcoming week will be full of many firsts - conducting interviews for 2 care manager positions, running a Threshold induction seminar, attending senior manager plus meetings and being handed over the information on 2 of the projects I will be overseeing, I feel like I will be tackling it from a position of complete feverish nausea. Oh joy!!!!

Must say though, the boys being over brought with them a little slice of Oz. A couple of gay boyfriends who definitely call a spade a spade. Guys who don't mince words and tell things to me pretty much straight.

Nice.