IT’S AN MP’S CASE
Regular readers may recall a recent blog when I complained about shaving in the mountains, apropos, the tiles had come off around the washbasin; hence I was able to admire the stunning chunks of brick while um, doing the said shaving. Now I must confess that taking one’s toilette is always a bit of chore, especially when bits of shaving foam and toothpaste get stuck to the aforementioned…it was the hassle of trying to clean the stuff off you know.
I eventually pressed the repair button on my housing association’s website containing a message, the bare essentials of which said: “Listen Reggie, I’m sick of the mountains I want something else, mate.” The kindly caring housing people responded by sending out Reggie who sent me off to the Sahara; in plain lingo, he put soothing plaster over the exposed brickwork and said he’d be back in 24 hours or so. He never came but the plaster really did resemble the Sahara in springtime, with greenish bits everywhere.
I eventually contacted Reggie again using the some old repair button and asked him to come back and finish the job by putting up the tiles in the traditional manner. About a couple of weeks later I received a call from Reggie saying he’d come and put up the tiles on such and such a date and I said “super” and that I’d leave the front door unlocked. After work, I turned on my mobile and Reggie said “Sorry me old fruit cake – or words to that effect – but I had to do another job, can we make another appointment me old cock”.
After the fifth time Reggie said “Can we make another appointment” well actually he didn’t say that, he didn’t really say anything constructive at all although I do recall something about the traffic maybe.
Ah the traffic and immediately I kind of knew that the whole business would be sorted in about five weeks or so, perhaps with a little something for me too. Normally letters to the House of Commons are acted upon by MP’s assistants after about three weeks. You get to hear something within four weeks but I added an additional week for postal delays
The letter to my MP said: “Eventually appointments were made for the 24th August, 7th September, 11th September, 16th September and the 17th September, none of them have been kept and this work has still not been finished.”
Let’s digress for a moment and consider housing associations. Started by that great Anglo-Catholic priest Father Jellico in St. Pancras between the wars, one way or another these days, their funding comes from central Government so naturally they get a bit jumpy if members of parliament, who actually vote the money through, start snooping and asking awkward questions in letters. They are positively leaping, if the said MP in question takes a keen interest in social housing which in fact is the bulk of the properties in my constituency. Having said all that, I just sat back and waited for the inevitable.
I was leaving work and the supermarket bleep, sorry, the phone went bleep indicating that yours truly had an answer phone message that began with: “I want to sincerely apologize…”; they don’t teach the conditional anymore in modern education I thought. I had another 'sincerely apologize message' before a very nice woman rang and fixed up a time for the work to be completed and this very, very, very nice woman offered compensation of £15 for each missed appointment, that’s cool 75 quid. Ah yes I thought, that’s the little something – all for the price of a 2nd class stamp.
There have been tedious phone calls from the Housing Association to find out if the work had been completed on time and to my satisfaction. The last guy said he was checking up because: “It’s an MP’s case you know.” “Everything is spiffing” I said but held back from saying “Where’s my dosh Reggie”.
I recently returned home to find the caretaker; the area manager and some other bigwigs all huddled in a corner in reception and quietly watching me. They’ll be doing a lot more that that if I don’t get that compensation. I’ll give them time of course but I have a feeling that it may come down to me quoting the 1968 Housing Act and the duty of care imposed by that legislation, well not me personally of course, it’ll be the Rt Hon Member for… surely not, they’ll pay, won’t they?
Cheers.
Andrew
A Funeral Right [sic]
The media recently covered a story about a CofE priest who was ranting on about the ghastliness of modern funerals. I did have some sympathy with his reverence, but lets up the ante a bit, my bet noir is the number of humanist ones I’ve been obliged to attend over the years. On the other hand, they can be funny, especially if the deceased is a bit of a cunt. Let me explain some more my dear, lovable, cuddly - not easily shocked by the C word - reader.
Let’s take the glories of the Anglican Communion and Pol Pot. Supposing I was invited to atone, sorry, attend the late Pol Pot’s funeral in Cambodia. The guy murdered millions in the pursuit of a dream hatched in a Parisian bed-sit to establish Treblinka style farming methods circa 1350. Version 1, the Anglican funeral rite and the Book of Common Prayer revised 1662 edition. The sheer poetry of the words in the setting of a wonderful Cambodian Gothic cathedral – sorry that’s silly - full choir naturally, a bit of incense maybe, would quickly take my mind of the guy lying in the coffin. Version 2, a right on humanist shindig at Kensal Rise Cemetery with a lot of “let us celebrate the life today of Pol Pot by contemplating his achievements to bring about a just and more equal society…”, listen Reggie, it aint gonna work?
I went to my first humanist funeral over 30 years ago in Brighton for someone who’d topped himself because his Misses went off with another fella. This poor guy had actually spent the last years of his life planning to do himself in; we’re talking over 10 years. When we were asked to ‘celebrate’ his life I looked at the coffin and wondered if we had to exclude the final bit. The thing is, his suicidal thoughts were so much part of his life latterly, that I had to go though mental contortions to keep these thoughts, um, out. I had to try to forget his failed suicide attempts with pills and the final manner of his exit, live wires in the bath tub – it’s absolutely horrible; he should have been sectioned years ago. A religious service really would have been more preferable.
Another was for a cool cat mate who’d overdosed on heroine. This poor guy’s service was totally bizarre. We were told to think of a party, I just thought of a party with a corpse! Since this guy was handsome and all the girlies loved him, there was a kind of sexual edge to this ‘party’ with picces placed around the chapel – of him - it was disgusting. I couldn’t face going back to one of his chic’s flats for nibbles and got the first train out of there.
Finally, a relation popped his clogs who wasn’t very nice. This made some of the eulogies a tad awkward but no matter, the situation might have been retrieved but it was the service. Somebody played a recorder but they couldn’t, accompanied by someone on a drum who could. Two perforated ear drums later, lots of silences interrupted by bongs and, and we hadn’t even left the chapel/ house of remembrance before his wife kicked off on a tirade against religion. Being a militant atheist like her deceased hubby is her business, being totally pissed and making her views known to the people outside cueing for the next slot was somewhat tasteless I thought. When she said that death is final and that she’d never see her husband again I thought phew, what a relief. Now, I would never have thought that in Chichester Cathedral, would I?
Cheers.
Hey Fellow-Fablers:
SCI-FI STORY CONTEST
The Universe’s Fabulousest Writing Group Strikes Again!
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There’s half month left to spell check S.F. short stories/ cartoons/ poems for the Special Autumn Sci-Fi PRIZE COMPETITION* Issue of Sauce (sic, as Andrew “Blogger” Jones would write. He’s got an Exhibition of his blogs and the Medway housing Association’s offered him a house for a prize!!! Big up Andy…) …I got mine, a short story, finished last fortnight so I can breathe again.
Now I’ve had a chill summertime celebrating MY BIRTHDAY + Barak Obama’s victory;) and for those who recall Jerzy Polakov from Baddaboom N.J.,U.S.A.(the man for whom the proof of America’s superior democracy was auntie Maria’s pasta and the fed’s arresting the Illinois state guvna for selling Barak’s still warm chair… “You limey bastard’s”, he sez cheerfully.”Woulda let your lords auction the Buckingham place and sweep it under the carpet, that old Limey red carpet yours got… ha! I got you…” he sways dangerously close to Vic’s telly. Vic glowers warningly at the massive New Jerzyan. “We arrest fuckers for dat,” sez Jerzy proudly, and asked Andrew the way to the nearest detox.
Anyway I’m back, looking for a six million pound fee for adjusting the world which President Shrub put askew ;) Sofar Barak has shown perfect character judgement for British would be p/m Cameron (“lightweight”) and the financial realism his Americans can support grudgingly while pulling their horns out of the near eastern shrubbery. So to speak. He seems the first POTUS since Kennedy whose worldview exceeds war and who understands money. After thirty years being sidelined while the Cold War froze relations, Africa and Trade are America’s chief agendas ;)…. How fresh air helps. A million Kmsquared for solar power and another for hydroponics, and Saharan outputs balance global warming (solar panel shading cools sands; electricity without carbon gassing dodges greenhouses; and 250 million acres of clean irrigated sands feeds all the human bellies you’ve got… ;) Yesterday’s dream becomes reality today and after USA frees herself from the shrubbery given her love of deserts and challenge she may out-rival Libya whose great manmade river project plods along a few kilo hectare strips greener per annum using rolls Royce naval jet engines and north sea oil pumps. After all you could use Illinois University’s STAR reactor/fuel cells and get a half/million horsepower STEAM-DRIVEN shaft; and MHD options. And it’s intrinsically non-weaponisable. While gas turbine MT30’s deliver but 50,000shp. It’s good Yankee technology. Share it! Restore the world’s confidence in America!
Okay folks y’all heard it here first… Last year Booker-prize long-listed best-selling thriller writer Tom Rob Smith (Child 44) visited our fabulous group and spoke about writing. Get his novel, it’s a brilliant stark detective story set in Stalin’s USSR. The hero’s a MVD investigator hunting a serial killer who, the Party has decreed, cannot exist in the perfect socialist State… I found the plot’s twist reminding me of Iain M. Banks’s ‘Use of Weapons’. Which you must read, too. `Child 44’ is in paperback and hardcover; ISBN/978/1/84739/373/9 the paperback’s 6.99 in the Pocket Books edition.
Sayonara
