We all Hate Insurance Firms

We all hate Insurance firms. Not content with parting us from our hard-earned for something we really don't want to pay for, irritating us night and day with television adverts only margnially better than those for debt management and bombarding us with junk mail, they're now wanting more money from us.

Following the recent trend set by gas and electricity firms, Motor Insurance companies are jumping on the price-hike bandwagon.

Norwich Union from next year will increase their prices in 2007 by an average of 16%, with prices for the high-risk groups inflating by around 40%.

I write this as someone who is currently getting quotes ranging from over £850 to more than £3200 to insure a 2002 1.1l Citroen Saxo, despite already having two years of claim-free motoring. This is because I am in the unfortunate position of being a 20-year-old male, which makes me public enemy number one in the eyes of Britain's insurers.

The problem is, this price rises seem a little bit short-sighted. Whilst I'm fully aware that insurance firms, like all businesses, are only interested in lining the pockets of themselves and their shareholders, it just seems stupid to announce this, although they seem to think that they are meerly leading a pack which will soon follow.

Amongst the reasons cited for the rise by Norwich Union, is the increase in claim processing costs, due to the presence of around 1million uninsured drivers on our roads.
The problem is, that these uninsured drivers are likely to be the young drivers, those on low income or those with bad driving records, who are being priced out of insurance in the first place. With increases like of 40% for these groups, surely this figure is going to rise much higher than the current one million? That means that in one/two years time, claim costs are going to rise yet again, and I'll probably writing a similar piece in the not-to distant future.

Is Norwich Union seeing something that I arn't?

$500,000 for Messing Up a Cricket Match? I Wish I Thought of That!

I'm no major cricket fan, I can understand the jist of what goes on, but don't really get into it that much. However, most of you probably know about the recent England vs Pakistan Test match which was postponed, which stemmed from a alleged ball tampering incident and the resultant protests from the Pakistani team.



Now it emerges that Darrell Hair, the umpire at the centre of the contraversy, has offered to clear off, but only on the proviso that he picks up a cheque for half a million US$ first.
Regardless of the fact that this said umpire failed to cite the actual perpetrator in the alleged incident, despite a plethora of TV cameras being present at the Brit Oval, and regardless of the fact that Hair's record of impartiality with regards to Asian sides is questionable at best, it still seems a fantastic idea.

I mean, in the current pensions crisis and with interest rates going up lately, what better way to safeguard your future and start a comfy retirement? Instead of working your fingers to the bone until you are knocking on the door of God's waiting room and putting your hard earned into a not-so-brilliant pension fund, why not become a cricket umpire? Obviously, you couldn't concoct an elaberate ball tampering scenario - that idea has already been taken, but instead think of another way to get a high profile cricket match cancelled and then offer to walk out taking a blow-softening £270k with you! Pure Genius!

Chances are, Hair is looking for his new Bournmouth sea-front home as we speak.

Just a Quick Note

You won't see me this weekend. I'll be heading down to 'that London' for the Rugby League Challenge Cup Final at Twickenham.





I suppose I'll be a Huddersfield fan for the day, on the basis that I'd rather they won it than St Helens.

Anyhoo, I'm off!

Professional Football - What's the Attraction?

Regular readers will know that i'm a pretty avid Rugby League fan. That said, I've also taken in a number of football games in the last week or so.





Last night I headed to Elland Road for the Carling Cup game between Leeds United and Chester City. Normally, I rarely venture to Elland Road. Firstly, because I work weekends and secondly, I refuse to pay upto £30 to watch what effectively amounts to 22 people kicking a pig's scrotum around. But yesterday was different. Firstly, it wasn't a weekend and secondly, it was only £12 to get in, which is a far more reasonable price.
It was hardly a thrilling game though. Chester, who are two leagues below Leeds, set their stall out to defend and frustrate Leeds but United were absolutely dyer. The ball control was none existant, the passing was poor and the foward running was poorly executed and predictable.
Even the goal was scrappy, bouncing off various players, the post (twice) and barely trickling over the line. To be honest, given the chances that Chester had, they will probably be disappointed that they didn't win the game, or at least force extra time.

The week prior, I got dragged out to Valley Parade for Bradford City vs Bristol by a Bradford supporting mate. I thought "I could do with the laugh", so went down to watch that.
That was a better game but in all honesty, it still isn't as entertaining as rugby. There are just too many occaisions when nothing is happening. Bristol scored after a minute and both of Bradford's goals game within 20 seconds of each other. There were a few chances after that but nothing to really write home about. As it happened, that night cost me £15 but if I'd have paid the full £24, I'd have rightly felt ripped off.

For my next football fix, I'll probably be heading just to my local side Farsley. Proper salt of the earth football is that stuff.

Trains are Useless.

I have come to the conclusion that trains are absolutely useless. I always thought it, but now it has been confirmed.





On Friday night Leeds had a game in Wakefield. Recently we've taken to using public transport to get us to the 'local' games and this week was no exception. It means that we can leave the car at home, have a few drinks and do our bit for the environment. Alistar Darling (or whoever does his job now) would be pleased to hear that, although after Friday night's debacle, Mr Transport secretary can stick the Britains entire rolling stock up an orrifice of his choosing.

After the game finished at Belle Vue, we headed to Wakefield Kirkgate Station for the train back to Leeds.
We'd just missed one that went around 10:05pm. OK, can't be helped, we stayed around after the game but even if we left straight away, we'd still be pushing it.
The next one was at 10:52, so we waited, and waited, and waited.
It got to 10:55, no train. It got to 11:15, no train.

Tired and irritated, I decided to give National Rail a ring to ask them where the hell my train was.
The conversation ended up something like this:

Operator: "Hello, thank-you for calling National Rail. How can I help you?"
Me: Hi, can you tell me when the next train from Wakefield Kirkgate to Leeds will arrive please?"
Operator: "It has gone sir, you have missed it"
Me: "No I haven't"
Operator: "I don't understand sir?"
Me: "I've been stood here since 10 past 10 and so have around 10 other people. The train hasn't arrived."
Operator: "Oh, let me see if there is a delay"
.......long pause........
Operator: "There is a signal problem between Leeds and Huddersfield"
Me: "But I'm nowhere near Huddersfield"
Operater: "Oh"
........long pause........
Operator: "Let me talk to a collegue"

Supervisor: "Hi sir, my name is Andy and I'm a senior supervisor at National Rail. I understand that you are trying to get from Wakefield Kirkgate to Leeds"
Me: "Yes, that's right"
Supervisor: "Right sir, what I'll need to do is take your details and contact the train operator to check if the train actually did stop there"

I hand him my details and hang up.

Ten minutes pass, still no train, but Andy to his credit does return my call.

Supervisor: "Hi Mr Hewitt, I have spoken to the National Rail communication centre and they say that the train did stop and leave Wakefield Kirkgate on time, so the best way for you to get to Leeds now is get the 23:40 service from Wakefield Westgate"
Me: "I'm confussed"
Supervisor: "Why is that?"
Me: "Well if the train had stopped, me and 10 other people would be back in Leeds right now and you and I would have never spoken to each other."
Supervisor: "Well sir, I am just relaying the information they gave me. I you wish to complain there is a complaints proceedure (blah blah).........but the only way that you will get to Leeds tonight is on the 22:40 service from Wakefield Westgate"
Me: "How do I get to Westgate?"
Supervisor: "What do you mean sir?"
Me: "I don't know where Westgate is."
Supervisor: "Oh,. it's about 10 minutes by train from Wakefield Kirkgate"
Me: "Is there a train to Westgate?"
Supervisor: "errr, No"

At that point the conversation ended and we followed the road signs for Westgate.
As we were just about to head into the city centre, a rumbling came from the bridge above us. We raced back to the station only to find a train and a perplexed driver asking "Where have you been?"
"Walking to fucking Westgate!"
"Why" is the conductors relpy.
"Because National Rail told us to"
"Oh, they're a bunch of idiots them".

And the reason for the lateness? "There was some manic at Sheffield on the roof with a gun!" exclaims said conductor.

At points like that you can tell the regular rail travellers. While the conductors give you the stories and excuses that Quinten Tarrantino would dismiss as unrealistic, they don't bat an eyelid. Almost as like they've heard it all before.

We finally arrive in Leeds, 3 hours after the game ended in a city that is less then a 20 minute drive from Leeds.

I hearby proclaim that Northern Trains and National Rail are complete wankers and as punishment, they will be added to my Bastards List.
As further punishment to Mr Transport secretary, I shall be using my car as much as humanly possible. Sure, the West Vietnamese Gumbo Tree may die out, but at least I'll get where I want to be.

The Mallorcan Diary: Pt IV.

It's show time! Or at least it was for two nights we were away on the island of Mallorca. I mentioned earlier that we booked to see 'Son Amar' and 'Pirates', well here's how we got on.




Son Amar

Every year we land in Mallorca, one of the first things we do is book onto the Son Amar excursion. This year was our third visit and we'll certainly be making another.
The 'Son Amar' experience is a four course slap up meal and a spectacular show. It costs about £50 per head (from the tour operator anyway) which sounds expensive, but it's worth every single penny and then some.

We settle in to the audatorium in our "Gold" seats (that's the middle tier of seats) and tuck into the starter, which is sort of 'Tex-mex' affair. Then, it's onto the prawn cocktail, but I'm not realyl a prawn cocktail sort of bloke, so I gave that one a miss. Instead, I had this line-up to keep me occupied:
For the uninitiated, that line-up consists of (from left to right), some champagney stuff, some orange juice stuff, some kind of white wine and a glass of water. And the best bit about it? I t was all complimentary (OK, I realise it's built into the price) and it was available on demand.
Then the chicken main course came - and went before the desert and then it was showtime!

There are some truely astounding acts on show. Mike Pidone, a multi-lingual singer and pianist who is an extremley good entertainer.
The variety of the show is unrivalled. Strahlemann & Soehne are two juggling acrobats who manage to juggle batons in between themselves whilst changing into each others suits, Duban Nikol is a trampolining comedian and there's a spectacular show of dancing, with Ballet de Espanol, Carnaval de Venecia, Ballet Moderno and the Flying Dancers. The show ends with one of the best and most lifelike Elvis tributes I've ever seen. One could be forgiven for thinking that Elvis is still alive.

After the show, they even put on a multi-million euro water show. Definatly a top night out.

Pirates

To be perfectly honest, Pirates was a bit of a downer. Not that the show was bad - far from it, it's just that it didn't really live up to the hype for my liking.
The meal, whilst not bad, wasn't as good or large as it was at Son Amar. The seating wasn't as comfortable and I was constantly pestered by the bar staff to part with my hard earned.
When you get there, you can tell why there is so much hype surrounding the show and a look in the programme suggests that the celebrity endorsements may have something to do with the fact that there's a chariety involved.

The show is excellent. Again, it's the comedy, acrobatics and dancing similar to Son Amar. As a show and a night out, its clearly much more of a kids thing.
A decent night out by all accounts, but I had to choose between the two, I'd give Pirates a miss.

Well, it looks like that's it. I can't really think of anything noteworthy to write about from my jollies, so now it looks like I'm back to writing about any old rubbish.

The Mallorcan Diary: Pt III.

There's quite a lot of wildlife you find in the Mediterranean that you don't usually find in the UK. Granted, you arn't going to find (to coin a famous John Cleese phrase) "herds of wilderbeast sweeping majastically across the plain" but on the flipside, you won't find lizards basking on the rocks whilst walking along Blackpool promenade.

So when walking on the beach front linking Sa Coma to S'Illot we came across a funny little bird skipping along and poking it's beak into the soil. It ws a small brown bird with a black and white 'zebra' pattern on it's wings.
My dad, proclaiming to be an expert in such trivial matters, claimed that this bird was known as a 'hoo-poo'. We thought he just made the word up, and just laughed. For the next few days, our immature minds were entertained by word plays on the name 'hoo-poo'.

Anyway, it turns out that the "Hoopoe" is indeed a real bird. And there were blooming loads of them in our hotel, all pecking away and ignoring the 'keep off the grass' notices.

Fair play to my old man - the fountain of insignificant information.

The Mallorcan Diary: Pt II.

So, we start our holiday and the first port of call on the 'package holiday' is usually the welcome meeting with the holiday rep.




Usually at these meetings they do give you some useful information like where the supermarket, beach, bars are as well as telling you to not, under any circumstances, drink the water but mainly, they are to try and flog you the various excursions or "experiences" as Tui call them. The rep was quite a friendly Welsh woman who at first seemed pretty disappointed that only 6 people turned up, four of them being our family. That said, she must have been celebrating a bumber commission once we started filling out the booking form do go on the 'Son Amar' and 'Pirates' trips - more on those in a later diary.

Anyway, after that we headed to the beach front. As we'd just landed only a few hours previous, the gear was still in suitcases so we were on purely a 'fact-finding' tour.

Eventually, we looked for lunch and found this beachside bar. Now unlike your typical ignorant bald-headed, tatoo-laden, England football wearing tourist, we tried to sample a little bit of Spanish culture. Wherever we can, we try and use a bit of Spanish, mainly in bars and resteraunts. It's a simple language to pick up and it's much more polite than pointing to a menu and making a series of inaudable grunts at the waiter.
It's just my dad has trouble with numbers, in particualar "dos" and "doce", Spanish for "2" and "12" respectively.
So the waiter was a little taken aback when a family of four asked for two toasted sandwiches and twelve cheeseburgers. Only my quick-thinking prevented a fairly hefty bill and four bloated stomachs!

More diaries coming soon....

The Mallorcan Diary: Pt I.

I'm back! After two 11 nights sunning it up on the island of Mallorca I've returned back to blightly with a rather nice tan.




I must admit that even though I had a great time, the trip didn't quite kick off to the best start, after the flight from hell out of the shiny new Doncaster Sheffield Robin Hood Airport. Having boarded the plane I soon discovered that I was to spend the next two hours sat behind a complete brat and his "couldn't care less- I'm on my holiday" parents.
If you ignore the the fact that he was intent on kicking my seat, bouncing around the aircraft and screaming at the top of his voice, it wasn't so bad. However, the way his parents were constantly buying sweets from the snack trolley irritated me somewhat. I'm no expert on parenting but even my limited knowledge knows that if you have a hyperactive little shit at 35,000ft, shovelling him with various e-numbers isn't the wisest decision.

We landed and that was the last I saw of him. All we had to do now was negotiate the labrinth of corridors in Palma de Mallorca Airport and head to the baggage claim and coach stand.

In the early hours, we checked in to the Safari Park aparthotel in Sa Coma and I was finally on my holiday - time to put my feet up.

In tomorrow's diary - The welcome meeting and the 12 hamburgers........