I wouldn't mind but ....

.... I've seen the future of advertising.  I was on my way to Pret-a-Manger to get my lunch when a light bulb flashed metaphorically in front of me.  Holding my nerve, I pressed on to secure my soup and lemon cheesecake, before returning to my Eureka moment (minus the bath).

Let me explain.  Pedestrians everywhere are walking along staring down at their mobile phones.  Whilst I'm scanning for hazards, every other lunchtime worker is transfixed by Facebook updates. What message could be so fascinating that you neglect oncoming obstacles? What text makes you reckless in the face of lampposts, stationary tourist groups looking for Liesesster Square, queues at cashpoints (queue alongside the bank not across the middle of the pavement, you morons!), alfresco dining outside cafes (it's England, it rains, get over it and get inside) and the gentleman with his ferret on a lead that I have often had the pleasure to tip hats to en route to work. 

For research purposes I encroached the shoulder of a chap in Pret-a-Manger who was trying to decide which of the 100 counter staff at the five tills all shouting 'Can I help you?' he should submit his crayfish and rocket to.  As he finally leant over the Lovebars and said 'yes, I would like a bag', I seized my opportunity and glanced down at the message on his phone:  "Buy milk".  Was he a stockbroker and was Milk about to crash?  Had I stumbled on a scoop.  I followed him out of the shop and into the newsagents next door.  He grabbed a pint of semi-skimmed milk and went on his way.  I'd been duped.

But had I?  What if advertisers used the pavement space to advertise? If everyone's looking towards the ground, that's where we need to place those important messages.  Pavements sponsored by Cadbury's - chocolate pavements?  I realise there's a major flaw in this proposal i.e. how do we stop bumping into each other?  But, if you think again, why is that such a problem?  Everyone enjoys the Dodgems, so why not ditch the car and get physical? 'Guess who I bumped into today' could keep the conversation going for hours. 

And there you have it.  It's an idea that any contestant on 'The Apprentice' would give their right arm for and all it took was a close encounter over the lovebars at Pret-a-Manger.

I wouldn't mind, but ....

.... I think I saw the beginning of the end in Marks & Spencer today. There I was in their Paddington station branch gathering my pomegranate seeds and blueberries, when I happened upon the decline of civilisation.  I was stopped in my tracks, my wire basket buckled and my pomegranate juiced.  There, on the top shelf, were glasses of wine (red and white).  Plastic glasses of wine with a pull-off lid.  At first I thought they were jellies, but I shook one and it moved.  Is this the new lunchtime must-have?  If so, I'm destined for a life of billy-no-mates at lunchtime as I sit in the corner with my cup of builders' tea, while all the cool workers are peeling back their lids and knocking back the lambrusco. 

Still in shock, I headed for home to mind-map my strategy to save mankind.  En route, I opened my copy of 'The Times'.  And there, in print, was news of the Candwich - a sandwich in a can.  A sandwich in a can!  They have a shelf-life of 12 months and come in flavours such as 'pepperoni pizza'.  At first I thought the end was here sooner than I expected, but then I got to thinking.  If the wine-in-a-glass takes off, then I can hide in Epping Forest with a supply of Candwiches.  I won't need any electricity and I can resurface smelling of pepperoni pizza when nearly everyone's died of alcoholic poisoning.  If anyone's still alive, I could be the new Eve (or call me Domino).  Granted, I'm a bit on the old side, but if the survivors are drunk, they won't notice. Everyone's happy.  So back off, the Candwiches are mine!

I wouldn't mind, but ....

.... I've been struggling with my weight recently (roughly the past 30 years). I once tried hypnotherapy to stop myself eating crisps.  This involved paying a hefty sum of money to lie down for one hour with my eyes closed, while a lady with an irritating voice took me 'mentally' into a forest collecting stones wrapped in crisps.  When I reached the end of the forest I was urged to drop these stones into a well to rid myself of cheese & onion forever.  In reality, it was one of the longest hours of my life and, while in the imaginary forest, I spotted an imaginary tray of Krispy Creme doughnuts and the rest is history (or visible on my hips). 

I've also deployed the technique of tapping points whenever I see a tube of Pringles - a signal to my brain warning it of approaching danger and urging me to retreat to a 'pop and go' exclusion zone.  In reality, though, the tapping points just reminds me of the time a Krispy Creme doughnut with chocolate icing and custard filling got harpooned on my finger. You get the general drift, I'm sure. 

Anyway, I've been thinking.  If offensive language and behaviour are a crime, why shouldn't offensive eating be too?  I find it very offensive when someone with a fast metabolism is enjoying the delights of an all-day fried breakfast while I'm sitting nearby eating a caesar salad minus dressing and croutons.  My metabolism is so slow, I'm still digesting last week's Sunday lunch when I'm tucking into this Sunday's roasted parsnips. In fact, I'm packing a tail back of parsnips that would do any motorway hold-up proud.  I'm the M1 of vegetable accompaniments.

Imagine being convicted of eating too many portions of cheesecake.  It would surely save the NHS a fortune as people avoided sugary, fatty foods and stampeded the supermarket for that weird spray oil in the yellow can.  It would sound the death knoll for the ubiquitous kebab and spits would finally turn empty in the shop windows of Walthamstow and farther afield. Think of all the NHS beds vacated by the newly health-conscious population and the refuge they could provide for the homeless.  And there you have it, I'm channelling the spirit of the Big Society and we owe it all to doughnuts.

I wouldn't mind, but ....

.... why is it only performers who receive applause?  Last night I saw 'Total Football' at the Barbican and loved it.  But at the end when everyone was clapping and the actors bowing, it dawned on me how much more motivating it would be for the general workforce if we all received a round of applause at the end of our shifts.  I realise this additional burden on our hands could have health and safety implications and there may be some increased cost for the employer in terms of hand cream, but I think the benefits outweigh the deficits.  How exhilarating would it be for the shop assistant who had spent all day standing in the luggage section of a department store if, on clocking off, his colleagues praised his enthusiasm for a five-piece Carlton luggage set by noisily pressing hand to hand? Or, perhaps the middle manager in an office supply firm, who is lauded at clocking off time for his attention to detail with that day's staple order. You may snigger, but don't imagine that the world of office supply is without that frisson that has us all reaching for the air conditioning controls to cool down. I, myself, am currently enthused by the search for a slimline pedestal, both lockable and sleek.  The Rolls Royce of storage; its mere picture in the catalogue causing me to rev up the cool air dial on the atmospheric control panel. 

Thinking through the logistics of my plan, there is a danger that it may delay the workforce leaving the building after their shift, if we all have to wait in line for our accolade.  So, how about an automated round of applause that we activate ourselves on leaving?  Or an automated message of some sort? Automated announcements litter our lives daily and are virtually part of the family. For many of us, they fill the major part of our conversational day.  Who, after their shift, wouldn't want to shut down their PC, grab their coat and head for the tour to be greeted by the trusty announcement "unexpected item in bagging area"?  I know I would.  Perhaps we could have a series of options on the control panel.  After a good day, we could select "Notes are dispensed below the counter" to give us a little encouragement.  If the employee is a little overweight, they could leave to the sound of "Your mailbox is over its limit".  Subliminal messages for a healthier workforce.  The applications are endless. Thank you for reading this blog.  Applause please!

I wouldn't mind, but ....

.... I left the cinema today after watching the film 'Jig' with a realisation that I had let down the Irish nation. This documentary about the Irish dancing world took me right back to the one and only lesson I myself had attended.  I was 10 years old and I guess my Irish parents decided it was time.  Off we went to the local church hall and opened the door on a moment that many years later would torture me whenever Riverdance was on TV. 

I suspect my mum had high hopes of polishing trophies and bulk buying sequins, while I clippety clopped round the world bringing back the brass.  I stood in one corner of the long rectangular church hall, conscious of a nation's expectations bearing down on me as I was instructed to 'GO'.  This was my cue to 'Irish dance' diagonally across the length of the room.  Irish mothers looked on, clutching their little Siobhans, Marys and Eileens as they watched this little Junebug cross the room like a pony thumbing a lift to the slaughterhouse.  St Patrick was surely turning in his grave, but we couldn't hear him over the cries of 'Bejesus' echoing round the hall. I was never going to bring Michael Flatley home for tea.  He and I would never cross ankles together. My dancing career died that night. 

We never spoke of the class again and the following week, mum took me to the local Brownies instead. We went from a world of green to a world of brown.  I won't go into details, but I only every attended one Brownie class.  And there you have it, a pattern emerged that continued into adult life.  I started many an endeavour, but never ventured beyond one attempt. 

I've decided to lay the Irish dancing ghost to rest and redeem myself in the eyes of the Irish nation.  I'm currently googling the words to 'Danny Boy', ordering a six-pack of Guinness and checking out recipes for potatoes.  Bejesus!

I wouldn't mind, but ....

.... for many months now I've found exiting a tube station almost akin to battle.  I've personally never been in battle, but I have watched 'Predator' more than once (willingly) and I think there were enough tips in that to get me from Walthamstow to Warren Street without being killed by an alien.  However, the escalator is something else altogether.  I don't mind entering the tube station, travelling on the train, getting off the train, but when it comes to heading for the escalator, then my commando training (a la Arnold Schwarzenegger) just isn't enough.  It never used to be like this, but in recent years a new breed of commuter has evolved.  A commuter who sees the escalator and whose brain says 'me want escalator, me want escalator NOW'.

I disembark every weekday at Warren Street.  I sit myself in the carriage that stops directly at the 'Way Out' sign.  Doors open and I head straight for the right-hand side of the escalator to signify I'm relaxed and happy to let the moving stairway do the job it was built for.  But, to the 'me want escalator now' brigade, this renders me invisible.  As I go to step on to the escalator, the mob bear down on me and their leader walks right across me without a single acknowledgement that I'm there.  In these moments, all life beyond Warren Street ceases to exist for me and I become Arnold.  Sadly, the Arnold from Kindergarten Cop, which is why I reach the top of the escalator feeling inadequate, unloved and very very dissed.  Inside I'm channelling Kindergarten Cop with Terminator and getting Nanny McPhee, and this manifests itself in a couple of 'tuts' - a coward's cry of disapproval.  What would Arnold do in these circumstances?  He'd travel back in time and make that mother****** regret the morning they ever disembarked at Warren Street.  Sadly, until there's a breakthrough in science, all that's left to me is the hope that their oyster card stalls at the ticket barrier.  When this does, I tut, the commuters behind me tut; a symphony of tuts in fact.  Music to my ears. 

In the winter, I use my long umbrella as a weapon to bar the mob and only an Olympic hurdler would be able to get in front of me (note to self: revise this strategy during London 2012).  But in summer, what am I to do to defend myself?  What can I carry with me that is normal for summer and could do the job just as well?  Perhaps a garden hoe, but I don't want people to think I'm off to the allotment and ask me for some rhubarb.  Or for anyone to say 'have you seen Junebug and her hoe?'.  This isn't the image I want to cultivate.  I think the only thing available to me is to wear a sign around my neck that says:  "Beware, mother******, this commuter is channelling the Terminator".  I'm packing my dark shades, my leather gloves (don't have a jacket) and losing the ability to enunciate ready for tomorrow's battle.

I wouldn't mind, but ....

.... I'd almost given up hope of catching another episode of  'Jean-Claude Van Damme: Behind Closed Doors'.  Imagine my joy when flicking through the TV channels this evening I happened upon it.  There it was on ITV4+1.  Who even knew there was such a thing?  I've immediately put it on my remote control favourites.  Sadly, I missed the first 30 minutes, but I joined as JC's wife, Gladys, was restoring his hair with the Belgian equivalent of Grecian 2000, which I think is chocolate.  Now 70% cocoa, JC flew off to Bangkok to look at rushes of his latest film.  Three years in the making and featuring, I think, an Eagle in the leading role.  Apparently he funded the film himself, which I suspect is why birds were employed instead of actors as they don't have bank accounts, preferring peanuts.  I can see the sense in this, as if you take advantage of 3 for 2 offers on nuts at Aldi (there must be one in Belgium) then you're in profit before you even reach the checkout.  And if you add in the school vouchers, you can fund a pencil for a child at school in the UK.  Another shocking revelation about the film was the fact that it had no script.  This left me speechless, just like the film.

JC's next stop was Hong Kong - a place close to his heart.  I was worried for him at the airport in case there was an allowance on how much chocolate you could bring into the country, as he may have been forced to leave his hair at Customs.  Luckily, there was no such problem and we were subsequently treated to a tour of his flat in Hong Kong, including 'the room where I do my poops'.  Who doesn't enjoy a snoop in someone else's loo? I know I do.

I was a little disappointed by the end,though, as I had been on the edge of my seat for further news of JC's plans to bring about world peace. He'd been reduced to tears in an earlier episode, telling us his greatest wish was to foster world peace.  Sadly, wars have been allowed to flourish pending his further attention.

And before I go, I must just tell you that the chihuahua is safe and fully recovered from it's stint in last week's episode exposed to JC's underpants.