Can London do anything right?

As certain as night follows day, you can guarantee that something won't quite be right in the capital.

It seems that our friends in the big smoke can't do anything right, especially anything that happens to be a major project designed to show the world just how good it is.
In recent years, the city has somehow managed to make seemingly simple tasks into catastrophic financial disasters. First, they struggled to pitch a really big circular tent in Grenwich and even now, six years on, the projects founders are still scracthing their heads asking "What is it for again?" So, the start of the new millenium saw London throw £540m down the swanny but after that, you'd think they'd be more careful.
Well no, next came Wembley.

If you thought the Millenium Dome fiasco would instill some sanity and organisation into the plans, think again.
Firstly, nobody knew where to put the new national stadium. The FA wanted it in London. Anyone who lived outside London wanted it in the Midlands and Bradford Council wanted it in Bradford on the basis that there was nothing else there. Nobody listened to Bradford though. In fact, I imagine that the Birmingham and London campaigners told the representative from West Yorkshire just to sit in the corner and stop disturbing a serious discussion, but you can't fault them for trying.

As with anything worth doing, it had to be in the place where only those all important Londoners wanted it, soWembley it was although you can't help think that if Britain needed an ennema, the cockneys would want that too.

After the old Wembley was retired in a not so graceful manner in October 2000, the bulldozers moved in to start work on the new Wembley. That is, after the FA found some builders dumb enough to build the thing.
Firstly, they couldn't decide if they wanted a running track. Football fans said no, but the lottery funders wanted one. So the designers came up with some half-arsed attempt where the runners could race on some kitchen tables which could be locked away when a football match was on. That should be interesting!
Then, money talks. Initially, the estimated cost for the new stadium stood at around £660m. That's around 3 times more than the new Stade de France just outside Paris, and 5 times that of the Millenium Stadium, just 150 miles away in Cardiff.
But as with all things in London, the cost shot up. The next figure quoted was £750m (somebody obviously forgot to carry the one or something) but nobody seemed to mind, that was normal for a London project.

Anyway, the building contract was eventually awarded to a group of enthusiastic Aussies who quickly got to work and it looked "all systems go" for an FA Cup final in 2006. Well, no actually. Firstly the contractors announced that they had another £75m "descrepancy" and as far as I know, a team of Australia's finest are still looking for it behinf the sofa. Then the electricians went on strike and the work got delayed for the again and again.
Yesterday, they claim that there is only a 70% chance of them meeting the hand-over date.

I was looking forward to heading down to Wembley for the 2006 Rugby League Challenge Cup Final, the first at the new Wembley. Thing is, I now have this nagging feeling that I'll be watching the first ever Cup Final to be played in a building site.

So, that's Wembley marked down as another capital screw-up, surely the London 2012 Olympics isn't going to make a hat-trick? Well, yes, it is.
Just a month after London was awarded the games, it announced that they'd miscalculated how much it would cost to dig a long square hole and fill it with water and that it infact would cost DOUBLE what they estimated.
"Forget the cost, the Olympics will enspire the nations youth to get into sport" cry the games supporters, not least the government. Wrong again. This happens to be the same government that claimed in 2002 that:

“hosting major events is not an effective, value for money method of achieving a sustained increase in mass participation”

Still, you can't blame them for trying.

Stay tuned, because the Olympics could be the biggest cock-up yet.

Here's your £100 discount. That'll be £140 please.

It's that time of year when people like to start booking family summer holidays. The brochures start dropping on the doormat, the ads appear on the TV and your inbox seems fuller than normal.
This is the time when the tour operators circle around like vultures so that for £500 per person, they can kick you out of the country for a fortnight.

Now pleny of firms will offer you an "online discount", so we decided that was the way to go. After we filtered through the crap of flights from Leeds to Mallorca, via Brussels, Paris and Madrid that one e-firm was offering, we settled for a deal with Portland (well, it's actually Thomson but that's not important). It was 11 nights in Sa Coma, Mallorca, with flights to & from the shiny new Doncaster/Sheffield Robin Hood Airport, working out at £2200 for the 4 of us, including £100 online discount.

So, of we go, filling in the details until you get to the screen to chose your "extra cost options", things like your in-flight meals, taxi transfers, that sort of thing.

Then you get to the insurance page. Portland offered their insurance at £35 each or £140 for the 4 of us, which is fairly expensive as they sort of rely on the fact that despite the fact it costs more, the customer can't be bothered to look for cheaper insurance, so it's a nice little earner for them. We managed to get it cheaper with the Post Office, so we said no.

And that's where the problems started.

From that point, this intriguing error message came up, for no apparent reason and we were asked to phone up. Determined not to lose our online discount (Yorkshire folk are like that), we tried again and again and again and again the morning after.
At that point, my mind took me back to a story I read in the paper, where the bank Alliance & Leicester wouldn't let you by a loan online unlesss you took out their payment protection plan to boot. Instead, you were asked to phone their call centre in Bangalore where some small Indian boy tried to give you the hard sell.
So we tried with the insurance at a £140 premium. Strangley, the computer didn't seem to have a problem with that and it was more than happy for us a waltz straight through to the payment page.

So we jumped on the phone and tried to blag our £100 discount. Anyhoo, the operator on the phone didn't seem that suprised. Turns out that anyone who doesn't opt for the stupidly high insurance package ala Dixons, isn't allowed to take advantage of their generous offer.
A few "that's not on's" later and it was all sorted.
Come July, I'll be strapped into an aluminum tube in South Yorkshire hurtling down the tarmac at 200mph. Sound's like fun!

You're Late!

Those of you that have bothered to read the panel on the right will have noticed that I happen to have a retail job to pay my way though Uni. Well this weekend I had the misfortune to be working.

It would seem that in the last few days, the boss, who is the original David Brent, has had a bit of a bollocking over poor sales, poor standards, his haircut or something else equally stupid because he was far from a happy bunny.
On a typical day we're supposed to start at 8:30 in the morning, and work all the way through until 6:00. Thing is, we don't usually start at 8:30. We usually put the kettle on at 8:30 and start around 8:35. It's the done thing.

Now, seeing as the boss has taken a bollocking for his own incompetance, it's our fault. Of course it is, I mean, the boss is perfect right? It's never him who's the complete idiot who completely fecks up the rota so that you've no staff on your busiest trading day, oh no siree.

So we then get the sarcastic "So, what time do you start?" sort of ticking off and to be fair, he does kind of have a point (even if he is being a complete arse). We're payed from 8:30 so we should work from 8:30 - fair enough, we accept that and get on with it.

But of course, when it's getting towards 6:00pm, is he as bothered about the clock then? Oh no! five past, ten past, quarter past all tick by, with not a word of apology. But at least he's happy, he's got his free labour.
I'd speak up but the thing is, he hates me. I'm what you might call an "active thinker". I think about what people say and question them if I think it's wrong. He hates that. He'd rather me be completely passive and accept every word he says as gospel. He's the sort of guy where, if he did something without being told, i'd be initiative but if I do something without being told, I'm a smart-arse'd know-all. But hey-ho, I just ignore him now.

So anyway, guess who was late to work this morning?

Is Uri hoarding all the booze?

Looks like those Russians are in a bit of a pickle. Thank's to a new ruling, it looks like the country are about to run dry. It's not water that's the problem, nor is it that they've had to get rid of that gas that they couldn't pedle to the Ukraine. Oh no, it's something far more worrying than that. The Russians are about to run out of the one thing that makes them famous, vodka.

It would seem that a new law which came into force at the turn of 2006 has caught out Eastern Europe's biggest distilleries, who haven't yet embraced the digital age and started using computerised alcohol measures. Not only has it halted production, but it is also costing Putin and his cronies around £95m per day in liquor taxes.

Now, after two weeks with no liquor, the off-licenses are panicking and headlines of "The vodka is running out!" are starting to appear. Analyists are even predicting full-scale riots as drinkers turn to violence as they look for their favourite tipple.
Now, they say us Brits love our booze, but I think even in Leeds City Centre on a friday night you'd be unlikely to see riots because Yate's has gone through it's last barrell of Stella Artois. In fact the riots are usually caused by the fact that it is there in the first place.
Maybe that's a culture thing. The Brits go loopy with booze, the Russians go loopy without it.

Anyway, I don't see what all the fuss is about. That bloke "Uri" off the TV seems to have loads of the stuff stashed away at home. Have you not seen him on those Smirnoff adverts showing off his gigantic fridge and the like? Why not just go and ask him nicely for a quick drink? Unless of course, the Smirnoff corp are telling porky's and Uri is in fact, not Russian at all? No, surely not.

Jim'll fix it for Big Brother

In yet another half-ass'd attempt to boost flagging ratings, the makers of Big Brother have come up with their "master plan".
Leeds legend Sir Jimmy Saville will make a cameo apperance over the weekend and in a slight twist, Sir Jimmy will only be allowed to leave once he has "fixed it" for one of the contestants.
Now, those of you that remember Jimmy Saville's show will know what I mean by the term "fixed it", but for those of you that don't, let me explain.
Jimmy Saville used to present a show in the late 80's - early 90's called "Jim 'll fix it", where thousands of kids in the UK wrote in every year so they can get to see Jimmy's horrifying tracksuits. In return for scaring them for life with his disgusting wardrobe, Jim would grant a wish to the child in question. Usually this was stuff like "fly in a hot-air balloon", "read the weather" or "lift the FA Cup". If you asked Jim to sort you out with page 3 model or a winning Lottery ticket, then you'd probably be disapointed.
If you were subjected to Saville's blinding colour clashes, at least you got to wear a disgusting medal that would even make the jewellry manager at Argos vomit:

Anyhoo, Sir Jimmy will be allowed to run riot in the Big Brother house, with his nasty tracksuits, cuban cigars and chunky gold necklaces and will be allowed to "fix it" for one lucky contestant.
But wait a minute, I thought Jim wasn't "fixin' it" anymore, and if he is, surely he's got a huge backlog of letters from youngsters who he hasn't got round to yet? What makes these "celebrities" think they can jump to the front of the queue?
So back off Marsh! Get lost Rodman! Sling yer hook Galloway! Jimmy still owes me a private theme park and a lifetime's supply of Cadbury's creme eggs!

Who Do You Think You Are? The frikkin' Mayor?

Over the last year or so, Leeds City Council has taken a tough stance on some fairly contencious issues. First there was litter, which earns you a £50 fine. Then, it was outdoor drinking which would see you in bother.
Most recently, the Council took over the cities parking enforcement. Once the responsibility of the local police, it was now the council's job to annoy the white van man who was blocking the city's bus lanes with his hazard lights on by putting yellow stickers on his windscreen.
To be fair, they certainly told us. Ad campaigns in the local paper, bus shelters, radio stations, the whole caboodle. Eventually, Leeds City Council sent out their army of traffic wardens, armed with bright orange jackets and a military supply of pens and notepads. No double-yellow line parker was safe.
Now before you start to think this will turn into a Jeremy Clarkson style rant about the victimisation of motorists, I'll point out that I actually supported the Council in this "take no shit from nobody" attitude. The thing is, I could see it somehow coming back to bite them in the backside.

So to my suprise in todays Yorkshire Evening Post (which happens to be a local evening paper that is available to buy at about 11:00am), I read that the city's most famous car has been landed with a £60 fine. The owner? Only the Lord Mayor of Leeds, Coun Bill Hyde himself!
Turns out that some "over-zealous new recruit" as he put it, had put it issued the fine, despite the car being parked in the same place outside the Civic Hall many times before.
Now, it's not like the traffic warden didn't know. It's one of the rarest cars in the world, with the numberplate "U 1", so he could hardly confuse it with my Citroen Saxo.

Now Mr Hyde faces shelling out for a £60 fine. Thing is, he won't be shelling out for it, it'll be the poor sods known as the Leeds City Council taxpayer that'll be expected to bail out this idiot just because he's too lazy to use the multi-story around the corner.
If it were my call, I'd send him an ultimatum: Pay-up, or the next time you see your car, it'll be a baked bean tin.

How do they think it up?

Now, let me go on the record and say that I absolutly detest Big Brother. In fact I can't stand "reality TV" full stop. It's a tired, overused concept to make cheap TV for cash-strapped networks that appeals to your typical "Sun or "Daily Star" reader.
All the while, "celebrities" or even "nobodies" try to salvage themselves a career in TV, radio or some other glamourous industry. Failing that, they'll can always be the special guest at the opening the the Runcorn branch of "Pound-Stretcher".

However, my attention was mildly divereted during a news bulletin, where politician George Galloway seemed to be having a right old pop at Essex girl Jodie Marsh. (You know, that bird who turned up at the FHM awards wearing sod-all).

Now I feared for Jodie here from the start because, lets face it, she doesn't strike you as the most elloquant of debaters.
The jist of it semed to be about eskimos, those little fellers who live in the Artic, with Jodie seemingly going on about their primitive ways.
On jumps Galloway with one of the best put-downs you're likely to hear:
"Given what you openly admit to, who are you to claim that an eskimo is uncivilised?!" (or something like that anyway)
A stunned Marsh looks blankly into space, not knowing what to think before coming out with, what has to be said, isn't the best of responses:
"Well they don't have shops and computers and stuff!"

At that my cornflakes almost flew to the other side of the room! What a brilliant response, even I wouldn't have thought of that one! That's the sort of line that blonde jokes are made of!
Now I know why they keep people locked away from society in the Big Brother house. In many ways, it's a shame it's only 28 days long.

God Bless the Hand Car Wash

Popular in the States for far too long, the commercial minnow that is the 'Hand Car Wash' has seemingly crossed the Atlantic and set up base in Britain.
For years and years, we've had to endure "IMO" and their mechanical monsters enguliving your pride-and-joy with it's huge rollers and snapping your car antenna as it spits you out the other side with a scratched and not-very-clean car.
Then of course there's the jet-wash which, quite frankly, despite being on every petrol station forecourt in the land, should require a license and training before they even let you near the thing.

But now, almost every major commuter route of of Leeds is lined with these Hand Car Wash's. Moving into dis-used petrol stations, and setting up camp, they've transformed the way in which Britains lazyist get our cars clean.
Yes, they may be the epitome of "probably less than minimum wage exploitation", with almost all the staff seemingly just arrived off the last mini-bus from somewhere in Eastern Europe, but look how clean my car is!

Just drive in on your way home, pay the man at the gate your £5.50, and sit back and listen to your Stereophonics CD, whilst the other blokes direct you with milimetre precision to "move forward" and "stop there" with dubious hand guestures. You even get a little airfreshner to hang on your rear-view mirror.

Not only that, but some of them have brilliant names. OK, you've got the wholey unorigional, "Leeds Hand Car Wash" and "Mr Clean", but head up to Morley in South Leeds and you'll come across "Mr Hand Job". Top marks to whoever did that!

Yes, the Hand Car Wash might signify everything that is wrong with the exploitation of foreign workers. Whilst six blokes who, between them know about the same number of words in English, slave other your bird-poo ridden motor at 6:30pm on a cold January evening, "Mr Clean" comes out of his cosy office and into his Porsche Boxter to head home early for the weekend.
But the Handy wash has become part of 21st British culture, it's what makes the rush hour worth while and, above all, it means I don't have to bleeding clean it!