Not such a nightmayor

The Mayor and I "go large" at McDonald's!

MY mother reckons she’s got a book in her to write. After umpteen years working as the mayor’s secretary in the London boroughs of Hammersmith and Hillingdon, she has seen quite a few mayors come and go.

The book would no doubt be filled with tales of unbelievable arrogance, pomposity and downright tomfoolery. There have been a few mayors who've actually been quite likeable.

I am sure it would be an absorbing read of how this cast of ordinary men and women became transformed into ghastly creatures once they put on the fine robes and expensive chains of office, allured by the power and status as the borough’s first citizen.

In Swindon, I’ve got to know the mayors quite well. In fact, for the past three years I have been asked to speak at the annual Civic banquet which has been quite an honour.

The town’s current mayor is Rex Barnett; a wonderful charismatic and charming man, who has awesome powers of persuasion which would befit the diplomatic service.

Sometimes, however, he has to be kept in check by his delightful wife, Sandra – the couple celebrated their Golden Wedding anniversary last October.

Ever since coming into office last May, Rex has been a man on a mission. Even in the face of the severest economic climate in a generation, Swindon’s Mayor has so far raised more than £30,000 for three charities, and is looking to double that figure by the time his tenure comes to an end.

I’ve been fortunate to be involved with a couple of fund-raisers, compering a talent show at the town’s Wyvern Theatre earlier this year, and taking on a similar role last week for a Spring Soiree, which featured explorer David Hempleman-Adams as guest speaker.

The dinner was a fantastic event, superbly organised by an energetic lady called Sara Tye, who is one of the few people capable of reining in Rex’s unbridled enthusiasm.

Elected officials are not often held with warmth and affection, but sensing the reaction from people at the Spring Soiree last week, and generally walking around town, Rex has distinguished himself as one of the most popular mayors ever in Swindon.

I had severe doubts about the amount of fund-raising he was embarking on at a time of recession. It’s not the job of Mayor to fund-raise, but to be an ambassador for the town, connecting with communities.

However, Rex has carried out this role in tandem with the fund-raising in a dignified and decorous way. In a sense, the fund-raising has provided a connection and a bonding between the Mayor and the town. It has been done with a smile and a sense of fun.

In fact, this man who once sold women’s underwear for a living (yes, he did!) has brought an elevated sense of respect for the office of Mayor and, at the same time, has enriched the lives of the town.

IT or not IT, now that is the question!

REMEMBER a time when we wrote letters? Hand-crafted, carefully thought-out pieces of poetic prose; whether a note to a friend or relative, or a considered business letter.
Of course technology has changed all that. We live in the age of an internet, where communication is machine gun-like in its frequency and rapid-fire with its content.
What might have taken a couple of weeks to decide through an exchange of letters can be wrapped up within a few hours of ping-pong e-mails.
How our life, at home and at work, depends so much on this technology.
I've been blog-less for well over a week because I've been without the internet at home.
I'm now living in Wiltshire's equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle for new technology. It has been so seriously frustrating not being able to connect my laptop to a neighbouring wi-fi source. I even had an IT tekkie come out to sort the problem using various boosters to latch onto a decent signal, but without success.
I've tried two separate mobile phone suppliers to connect using dongles, which has been fractious and fickle.
Anyway, one way or another, I'm back on-line, and I've not even waxed lyrical about my afternoon with the jam and Jerusalem brigade at the Women's Institute, and an evening with the explorer David Hempleman-Adams!

Beaten by the cross-dressing Abba runner

Fairy-nuff!

THE 80s was, without doubt, the coolest musical decade of recent times.
The 60s was all about giving peace a chance and flower power, the 70s was a time of glam rock and punk, and the 80s? Well, come on - the New Romantics, Live Aid and who can forget the "Birdie Song", "Agadoo", and "Shaddap You Face"?
It just makes the 90s and so-called noughties the musical equivalent of train-spotting. Dull, dull and extremely dull!
Hold that thought for a second.
Now, among the anal pearls of wisdom of marathon running folklore there is one piece of advice all 26 mile virgins should bear in mind.
When approaching the end of the race, and mindful of the infamous finish line photo which will forever adorn the mantlepiece at home and been paraded at dinner parties for years thereafter, don't, whatever you do, find yourself in a sprint finish with a pantomime horse, fairy, or any other fancy-dressed competitor.
Why? Because that split second photo will reduce your credibility as a serious marathon runner among your friends and colleagues. "Beaten by a bloody fairy wearing a pink tutu and carrying a wand - what a loser!" See, it's easily done. Eight months training down the drain because of a bloody pantomime horse.
So I have always carried that running mantra in my mind at race finishes - let the fancy-dressed fairy go, and make sure as you cross the finish line that you have wiped away any traces of phlegm from your cheeks! It spoils a decent photo!
You with me so far? Good!
So this Saturday, to mark another tedious birthday, I decided to take part in Park Run.
There are Park Runs all over the country, begun a few years ago with a weekly Saturday morning 5km run in Bushy Park near Hampton Court, and now this running phenomenon has spread country wide.
Each week, thousands of runners turn up to run the 5km intent on beating their personal best from the previous week, running with friends. It is extremely well organised. You can register on line in advance to print off your own card with barcode with will help the smooth running of the event.
The Park Run at Lydiard Park in Swindon celebrated its first anniversary on Saturday, so to mark the occasion the organisers adopted an 80s theme.
They get more than 100 runners each Saturday morning at Lydiard, and as required, we had some resplendent 80s costumes, with not a George Michael or Claire Grogan in sight. I opted out of the garb.
It was brass monkey weather for the two-lap race, though the atmosphere was extremely friendly among the 150 or so runners who set off on the paths around Lydiard Park.
I was struggling to keep going early on; my legs ached, my lungs were burning with cold and my heart was asking what on earth was going on when I should have been in bed.
There is a final rise up a sharp hill to the finish outside Lydiard House. I wanted to make a good finish in front of a small crowd gathered by the end, so I opened my legs, had the arms pumping and sprinted for the line having completly forgotten the marathon mantra.
I honestly thought all the fancy dress characters were trailing in the distance, but what I hadn't spotted was this guy wearing a blonde, Abba-type wig tumbling down to his shoulders and various 80s accessories. He hared past me like an antelope as if I was running backwards. He looked quite attractive, actually!
Anyway, I got beaten by the cross-dressed runner in a sprint finish which is not something you want to brag about.
Coincidently, my finish position was exactly half my age - 24th. Seriously, this was a fun run-out and very addictive. Within hours and thanks to the barcoded membership card, I'd received an e-mail with my time and other details.
To find out more about Park Run, log onto: www.parkrun.com/ or for the Swindon event, turn up to Lydiard Park by 8.50am every Saturday morning, though you will need to pre-register the day before ahead of your first run.
And if you do run, beware any fairies or pantomime horses!

Why a bird in the hand .... is a mess afterwards!

Who are you looking at sonny?!!

SO here’s the dilemma….you get home after work, switch on the lights to head upstairs and there you are greeted by a very frightening sight – a low-flying bird shitting all over your bedroom carpet!

More to the point, what do you do to stop Poopbird from pooping all over your freshly-smelling duvet, immaculately clean bath and a framed picture of Pope Benedict XVI hung in the corner next to a scented candle? 

Okay, I lied about the papal picture and the candle (that’ll be two Hail Mary’s and a packet of roasted peanuts at the next confession), but I’m still in a state of distress. Call it post traumatic bird disorder so hopefully I can get some tweetment from the quack! See, I'm so disturbed I've even lost my sense of humour!! 

This said bird, according to a twitching friend, was a baby Jackdaw; a black-plumaged bird with a grey nape and distinctive white irises, which is found in farmland and urban areas, as well as open wooded areas and coastal cliffs – latin names Corvus monedula  or Quitpoopingon myeffingcarpetus.

What a faff it was. I opened all the windows and a small wooden door which leads out of the first floor bedroom into the fields beyond in the hope of encouraging my feathered friend to make a swift exit outdoors. But this little jittery Jackdaw was clearly the birdbrain of the family.

Despite the giant-sized clue of a fresh gale billowing through the door and windows, it kept flying between the rafters of my tall ceiling bedroom. I tried leaving the lights on, I tried turning them off. Like an RAF bomber on a deadly night mission, it would stealthily swoop down with its bomb doors open to splat the ground below.

Jackdaw poop by the way is green and very unpleasant, particularly on a white carpet or when it drips down your sink.

I tried shushing the bloomin' bird, waving at it with blankets. I then lost my rag and threw pillows at the bird, and it pooped on those too!

My next door neighbour came in to have a gander. His cat came in too, looked and walked away disdainfully as if to say, "you two idiots can get on with it".

My neighbour brought with him a ladder plus a Ken Dodd feather duster – essential items in any bird chase, it seems. Not that there is a handy reference book around about dealing with these sort of emergencies.

But for 15 minutes it was like Keystone Cops as we chased this bird around the room, trying to corner him/her – I never did get a close look at its undercarriage – so that Poopforbrains would eventually take its leave.

I had visions that this was going to last all night or even the Jackdaw would never leave. Crikey, I would be left with a squatting shitting bird.

Maybe this bird would be flying in my room at night as I slept, bombing me from on high, and even swooping down to peck at my eyes like an Alfred Hitchcock film.

Remarkably, just as my friend and I were suffering from the first doses of exhaustion, looking decidedly red-faced and unsteady – and I was thinking about sleeping downstairs for the night – the jumped-up Jackdaw spotted an open window and flew out in the night ahead.

I hated birds before, I now hate them even more, and I hated cleaning up all the poop afterwards. Chocks away!

Does it really matter which way you bat?

All hail to the Goddess Pamela - it was a choice between a picture of Pammie and Steven Davies playing cricket, and in this image contest there was only one winner!

SO, the England wicketkeeper Steven Davies has come out to declare he is gay.

If you’ve never heard of Steven Davies then I guess this makes the statement even more absurd.

Davies is the 24-year-old talented cricketer who, to quote one national newspaper, “revealed his anguish at telling his team-mates about his sexuality before the recent tour to Australia”.

Or in the words of the Gay campaigning group Stonewall: “Good news all around. First ever professional cricketer to out himself”.

Predictably, there has been the sage nodding of wise and sympathetic heads. “I’m sure it’s a relief for him now he is not hiding,” offered former England cricket captain, Michael Vaughan.

“No one should be afraid to be themselves, admire your honesty,” suggested ex-Yorkshire cricketer and Strictly Come Dancing King, Darren Gough, while current England spinner, Graeme Swann, sledged: “For those opposed, maybe find a new rock to live under?”

Crikey, pass the seaweed, where’s my rock?!

Come on fellas, what is the big deal with someone wanting to out themselves?

What difference is it really going to make to others to know what our friend Mr Davies gets up to in his private life? Surely all it is going to do is to set Davies up as a target for those less tolerant. Has it really lifted a weight off his shoulders?

Homosexuality is legal, it is now part and parcel of modern day life.

Figures released last October by the Office For National Statistics (ONS) suggests that one in 100 people in Britain is either gay or lesbian, which equates to around 480,000, with a further 245,000 saying they are bisexual, according to the ONS. 

A Stonewall spokesman said on TV the other night that homosexuality is “accepted by the majority of society”. So, on that basis, let's move on.

I happen to like blondes with big breasts and I am particularly partial to Pamela Anderson, but I have never released a press statement or given a heart-rendering interview to the media about this fetish – instead, I have just chosen to spectacularly ‘out’ myself in this blog and I have an appointment with my therapist Felix later this evening!

Who really cares what is anyone’s predilection for rumpy pumpy so long as it is legal and doesn’t wake the neighbours at 2am? Why is there this abnormal need by some to want to brazenly wear the badge of homosexuality or any standpoint for that matter? Is it a sign of insecurity?

This blog is not about gay bashing - absolutely, absolutely not. I’m not against gays. This blog is asking why is therethis urge for disclosure about something which should be very private?

I have friends, both men and women, who enjoy happy homosexual relationships. But none have ever been demonstrable about their sexuality. None have ever shouted with glee at a dinner party: “Look at us, look at us, we’re different and we’re special, now accept us - oh, and pass the condiments, please!”

I’ve accepted them as friends because of who they are, what they stand for as people and what we have shared as friends. That matters most. Their sexuality has changed nothing. In fact, it’s not something I ever think or talk about…. “so Gervaise, how are you and Fred getting on with the springs on your new bed?”!

My view is not politically correct or necessarily mainstream. And there will be bigots who will argue how this is another example of homophobia.

Oh not it isn’t. Read again. I have got nothing against gays. However, what I don’t understand is the snared logic where some are so keen for society’s acceptance and integration of the homosexual community, that like a spoiled child they clamour for attention, screaming and shouting their cause, so all they achieve is to stand out and alienate some who find their brazen behaviour unacceptable. Not a smart move.

Integration and social acceptance isn’t achieved by picking up a megaphone to forcefully ram the point home. That’s the first step towards alienating others. Far better to subliminally gain acceptance, if acceptance is what you are seeking. 

I’m not sure what Steven Davies’s motivation was to be so public about his sexuality.

In fact, to my mind there is no need to make any statement at all because it doesn’t matter to me whether Steven Davies bats right-handed, left-handed, or with no hands at all.

Maybe I should organise an annual Pammie Passion Parade with blonde, busty lookalikes in skintight red Baywatch bikinis parading through central Swindon in order that I can officially come out to declare my undying love for the beach blonde goddess!

Hey, now that could catch on!