I'll have 50 quid each way on the egg and spoon

Happy 25th December everyone! With all this talk about Jesus and love and good will, it is all too easy to forget the true meaning of 25/12 (12/25 for our American friends) which is greed, aggressive game playing, and bitter family recriminations.

It's the games I'd like to focus on. Under normal conditions my family are a nice enough bunch. They are kind to strangers and animals, and, with the exception of my Grandmother, generally limit themselves to white collar crime. But if they so much as hear the tinkle of die-cast Monopoly pieces brushing against each other they turn into rabid, Gordon-Gecko-esque, win-at-all-costs, bastards.

I don't know where this ubercompetitiveness comes from but it is consistent and predictable. Personally, I just don't get this need to win. I don't have a competitive bone in my body. To trace the origins of that I'd like to go back to school sports day.

Like most schools of the 1980's, our sports day was dominated by the gambling of parents and teachers. Large sums of money could change hands based solely on the toss of a beanbag. For many years I thought the twitching eyes and nose pulls of my form tutor were induced by hay fever, but I later learned that he was signalling the odds to the far end of the track. One year the schools book budget was wiped out after the chaplain won an accumulator on the boys 50m, 100m, 200m and 400m and emigrated to Morocco having backed the 'prettiest' boy in each class.

One year, amid rumours of ringers being introduced, the school sports champion, Gary Miles, was disqualified from all the events after it was discovered that he was adopted. There were even stories about pushy parents employing private tutors to force disinformation into their children in an attempt to get them held back a year.

Against this background, I found myself representing my house in the 80m sack race. My family did not enjoy the privileged background of many of my contemporaries and we had not been able to buy me my own sack for practicing, but I had put in the hours with my shoelaces tied together. The going was good-to-firm and the wind conditions were favourable to my slight frame. Whilst being mindful of the over confidence that has blighted the careers of so many of the great sackers of my generation, I knew I was the favourite and if I paced myself correctly the race could be mine.

As I limbered up on the start line and exchanged nervous glances with the other competitors I was approached by Mrs Underhill, the school librarian. She crouched down beside me and, in a whisper, asked if I wanted to know a secret about Father Christmas. In my naivety I replied yes, I did want to know very much. The horrible truth that she then uttered into my ear sent me balling from the field of battle.

It wasn't until many years later that I learnt that Mrs Underhill had been recruited by, and was acting under the orders of, an Arabic betting consortium but by then the damage had been done. I never entered another sack race and my competitive spirit died.

Happy Christmas.

J.


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Location:Ampthill, Bedfordshire

Are easyJet too cocky?

I'm currently flying back to sunny Luton courtesy of easyJet (their capitalisation). It always struck me that their chosen name expresses an over confidence unbefitting an entity in the field of aviation. Every time I fly with them I have visions of first officer and captain exchanging dares to express the ease with which they fly.

'Hey Dave, I bet I can make the Gatwick landing one handed'.
'Way too easy. Try steering with your knees'.

This cockiness makes me think of the drunk guy we all know from the pub who's an expert on everything. The easier our Cliff Claven's try to tell us lifting a train is, or how easy it is to turn a live rhino inside out the more spectacular we expect their failure to be; a slightly sickening thought as we cross the Med.

On another note, the flight gives me an opportunity to address a question raised by the lovely Claire (not her real name); why blog? A good question. I guess one of the answers is that I'm fed up with coming up with ideas that sit around in my head without going anywhere. Perhaps by vomiting them into the blogosphere I can give them a little longevity and encourage both of my readers to nag me into action.

My first idea involves light-painting. There's quite a bit to it, so I'll leave it to another post to explain in detail.

My second idea involves finishing off the flux capacitor I've been working on. I'm meeting some Libyans in the pub car park tonight to pick up some Plutonium, which should give me the density I need. Check out some of my earlier blog entries to find out if I ever get it working.

The fasten seatbelt sign has just come on. I suspect the first officer is about to try something...

J

Location:30,000 feet over Alexandria

Don't go back in the water.

As many of you will know, I'm a natural sportsman so adding windsurfing to my list of abilities wasn't in the least bit daunting. My instructor was a rugged, well-tanned Frenchman called Uno. Imagine a pretentious version of Eric Cantona and then remove any element of self doubt. Uno's pedagogical style seemed to involve windsurfing at speed past me backwards whilst facing outwards and laughing at my limited skills.

After Uno's demonstration I was invited to 'do what he had just done but facing the other way' and left to my own devices. 20 minutes of wrestling with the board and sail and falling into the shark infested Red Sea was long enough to drift surprisingly far out. I remembered Uno's muttered advice about tacking against the wind to get back in. My favoured method for calculating wind direction was to sit huddled and terrified whilst sobbing and screaming 'for the love of Jesus, I'm too young to die'. The total lack of response from the rapidly diminishing shore-reclined Uno indicted that I was downwind. I then remembered him saying that the key to windsurfing was arm position. I had to agree after 10 minutes of waving my arms above my head attracted the aid of a passing speedboat which kindly dragged me to shore. Once we had repeated this ritual 3 times my hour long lesson was sadly over. I staggered back to the hotel room for a good cry.

Perhaps I'll try kite surfing next...

J.


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Location:Dahab

Christmas in W1

This is by far my favourite time of year in the West End. The weather adds a crispness to the air which shrouds all of the streetlights with glittering stars and flaring haze. The coldness outside makes the contrast inside our homes and pubs that much more inviting and comforting, and the people become infected with a good humour and mirth that seems out of place in our beloved metropolis. The slightest hint of snow seems to silence the usual din of the city and as a committed NoHo-per, I can enjoy all of this without relying on a public transport system which normally fails at the first sign of stress.

You may ask then, dear reader, with so much to love about W1 at the moment, why the hell am I in Egypt? More specifically, Why am I lounging by the crystal clear waters of the Red Sea in the tropical beach resort of Dahab? An excellent question and unfortunately one I cannot answer. For enlightenment you must turn to my girlfriend, Claire (not her real name), who has somehow taken me on holiday against my will. For more information check out her new blog at OldDogNewTricks.com.

Our Egyptian hosts have been most welcoming and, much like their range of white wines, I have found them to be sweet and warm. We are staying in the Hilton in an attempt to support the antics of the beleaguered pink clad hotel heiress rather than prop up the ailing British economy.  It feels like the chain is suffering.  I left a bath running earlier and returned to find it dark brown.  If anything the addition of my dehydrated micturant only served to lighten its tone.  At dinner I ordered a glass of rosé.  It's colour, temperature, taste and muscle relaxing abilities exactly matched my bath water.  I'm trying my hand at windsurfing tomorrow in an attempt to get in some clean water.

Claire (not her real name) asked me earlier if I had thought about what it would be like if she died.  Possibly mistakenly, I answered honestly and said that I had.  Definitely mistakenly, I showed her some of the sketches I had made of the actual event.  She doesn't seem very happy.  I suspect she might try chumming the water around my first windsurfing attempt.

Wish me luck...

James

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Location:Sharm Al Sheikh - Newabaa,,Egypt