After a lenghty hiatus I felt it time I showed love to the blog; given that my last post was in May.
I thought about why I hadn't thought about the blog for over six months, and a recent comment by Annemarie came to mind. She simply said to me, "Where did 2010 go?" I have no answer to this, beacause it whizzed by so quickly I didn't get a good look at it.
* Were we particularly busy? No more so than previous years.
* Was somebody ill? No, in fact we probably suffered from less Winter ills this year, than what we normally do.
* Was there a disaster in the family? No (thank goodness) things just pottered along for the year.
* Did we go on a big trip. No, we had a beaut 9 day cruise through the Coral Sea in June/July, but as is usual with these things, it seemed that as soon as we boarded it was time to disembark.
On this groggy Boxing Day Sunday morning I can't think of anything that would have propelled 2010 past us so quickly. However, I have a few days up my sleeve, before returning to the drag and grind, and will attempt to recall the year to anyone who wishes to read this.
May your god(s) be smiling upon you.
Tony
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Keeping Mum
It seems as though, these days, people feel they can say what they want, when they want, without recourse. Those of my generation and those of the generation after me (with the apt moniker of iGeneration) have no problem in telling anyone who will listen, as well as those that won't, exactly what they are thinking.
My mum, and those of her generation have not felt the need to be an instant authority on anything, even subjects which they have a firm grasp of. Generally they keep their own counsel, they keep mum.
I suppose social networking applications such as Facebook, Twitter (and yes, blogs) allow a freedom of speech never available to us before. However the medium now available to us carries a responsibility as well. Just because I feel a sense of misplaced self importance with a Facebook, Twitter, or blog account, this doesn't give me the right to mouth off without thinking of others. Freedom of speech is not excluded from following social norms.
Catherine Deveny found this out last week when she posted two Twitter comments about Logies attendees and was sacked for the content within. Media personalities like Catherine and well known radio personality, Kyle Sandilands assume a given right to undermine, belittle, and demean people. I suppose they feel justified because they and are popular for their regular candid and outspoken stance on just about anything. I wonder if this authority of popularity then encourages the general populace to do the same, and damn what anybody else thinks.
I remember posting a silly, but innocuous reply to a friend's comment on Facebook. In a later reply another of her friends likened me to female genitalia. Why did this person feel the need to use such a foul word in a public place. They don't even know me. Why did they feel so much anger towards me? The truth is, they didn't. It's my guess they felt safe enough behind the keyboard to say whatever they want and get away with it. Why not? Media personalities seem to.
I believe Catherine, Kyle, and all of us have a responsibility to keep our comments and opinions socially acceptable. I don't expect them to hold their tongues, just think about what they are saying before they say it. I don't care how outspoken you are, it is unacceptable to tweet about 11 year olds 'getting laid' or using the tragic death of a young actress for a cheap laugh. You should also think twice before you use any four letter word in public (if for no other reason than it may embarrass your friend).
Of course social networking is just one of the places enjoy we can enjoy our democratic right to thrust our opinions, attitudes, or language on others. Whilst shopping the other day I walked past a member of staff obviously trying to embarrass the young man filling the freezer. She called to a third staff member as I was passing and (almost) yelled across me, “Y'know she reckons he's a f@#%ing hornbag.” In my opinion she could get way with using 'hornbag' although I'm guessing she wasn't being paid to chatter inanely. But, adding copulation to it was vulgar and decidedly inappropriate. Fortunately I do not get upset by this language, but I know an awful lot of people who do. Christine trots out a wonderful saying every now-and-then, that sums it up nicely: “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” That's the key: if you think your mum, or your grandmother would disapprove, why would you use it in public? And yes, Facebook, Twitter, even e-mail is public. Once you have put it out there, you may never get it back (with my Facebook incident the comment had been removed, presumably by my friend, but I already had an e-mail alert with the comment in there).
Those who know me also know that I am, to my discredit, inclined to use the 'F' word, especially when in a bad mood. In fact, when I go 'thermo-nuclear' my vocabulary reduces to 15 words, of which at least 7 start with 'f'. However, there is a time and place for everything and I try very hard not to offend anyone with my colourful phrase. What gives me the right to do so? What gives anybody the right to offend people without redress?
Maybe we should take a leaf from the etiquette book of my mother's generation and just keep mum. That way we can still kiss her with that mouth.
My mum, and those of her generation have not felt the need to be an instant authority on anything, even subjects which they have a firm grasp of. Generally they keep their own counsel, they keep mum.
I suppose social networking applications such as Facebook, Twitter (and yes, blogs) allow a freedom of speech never available to us before. However the medium now available to us carries a responsibility as well. Just because I feel a sense of misplaced self importance with a Facebook, Twitter, or blog account, this doesn't give me the right to mouth off without thinking of others. Freedom of speech is not excluded from following social norms.
Catherine Deveny found this out last week when she posted two Twitter comments about Logies attendees and was sacked for the content within. Media personalities like Catherine and well known radio personality, Kyle Sandilands assume a given right to undermine, belittle, and demean people. I suppose they feel justified because they and are popular for their regular candid and outspoken stance on just about anything. I wonder if this authority of popularity then encourages the general populace to do the same, and damn what anybody else thinks.
I remember posting a silly, but innocuous reply to a friend's comment on Facebook. In a later reply another of her friends likened me to female genitalia. Why did this person feel the need to use such a foul word in a public place. They don't even know me. Why did they feel so much anger towards me? The truth is, they didn't. It's my guess they felt safe enough behind the keyboard to say whatever they want and get away with it. Why not? Media personalities seem to.
I believe Catherine, Kyle, and all of us have a responsibility to keep our comments and opinions socially acceptable. I don't expect them to hold their tongues, just think about what they are saying before they say it. I don't care how outspoken you are, it is unacceptable to tweet about 11 year olds 'getting laid' or using the tragic death of a young actress for a cheap laugh. You should also think twice before you use any four letter word in public (if for no other reason than it may embarrass your friend).
Of course social networking is just one of the places enjoy we can enjoy our democratic right to thrust our opinions, attitudes, or language on others. Whilst shopping the other day I walked past a member of staff obviously trying to embarrass the young man filling the freezer. She called to a third staff member as I was passing and (almost) yelled across me, “Y'know she reckons he's a f@#%ing hornbag.” In my opinion she could get way with using 'hornbag' although I'm guessing she wasn't being paid to chatter inanely. But, adding copulation to it was vulgar and decidedly inappropriate. Fortunately I do not get upset by this language, but I know an awful lot of people who do. Christine trots out a wonderful saying every now-and-then, that sums it up nicely: “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” That's the key: if you think your mum, or your grandmother would disapprove, why would you use it in public? And yes, Facebook, Twitter, even e-mail is public. Once you have put it out there, you may never get it back (with my Facebook incident the comment had been removed, presumably by my friend, but I already had an e-mail alert with the comment in there).
Those who know me also know that I am, to my discredit, inclined to use the 'F' word, especially when in a bad mood. In fact, when I go 'thermo-nuclear' my vocabulary reduces to 15 words, of which at least 7 start with 'f'. However, there is a time and place for everything and I try very hard not to offend anyone with my colourful phrase. What gives me the right to do so? What gives anybody the right to offend people without redress?
Maybe we should take a leaf from the etiquette book of my mother's generation and just keep mum. That way we can still kiss her with that mouth.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Of Friends and Family
Last week saw the Tullochs back in the car and heading to the old home town of Adelaide. Those from Adelaide get a little antsy when you call the place a town, but it is a welcome relief coming from a city four times the size. So, Adelaide dwellers, please realise that, I call it a town with fondness, not derision.
A 43 degree heat in Melbourne, 45 on the Wimmera and 44 in Adelaide, made for a long, warm trip for the Commodore. Built for practicality in Oz, rather than the fancy trimmings of some other brands, it is no wonder the Commode (as we like to call it) is an Aussie's best friend on the road. We sat in the airconditioning, oblivious almost the entire trip, except for pee and petrol breaks.
Adelaide has that warm (actually very warm, as the heat lasted for another three days) feeling as you drive down through the Heysen Tunnels. Then along Portrush Road, narrowly skirting foothills (by a suburb or two) and enjoying the early 20th Century architecture that the beautiful people of Adelaide roll into huge mortgages. Adelaide feels like an old friend to me. Even though I ignore her most of the year, Adelaide welcomes me anyway, with her familiar streets and quieter lifestyle. Nowhere is this more evident than in the North Eastern foothills, where I grew up. We stay at The Blue Gums Hotel in Fairwiew Park and the staff tend us with easygoing friendliness and an attitude that makes us feel nothing is too much trouble.
Brian, an old school buddy of mine, and I used to work out at the gym next to the pub and would occasionally treat ourselves to a quiet ale afterwards. It feels like home and is only 10 minutes away from both my two old homes, and the unit my Mum lives in now. In fact Brian is about the same distance away, and I know he and his family would welcome us if we called, but where do you find the time?
Believe it or not, a week is a very short space of time, even when you have small families like ours, and many friends are not seen for years. I feel for the Italian and Greek Australians when they return to their Mediterranean homes; their feet must never touch the ground. Our parents are our top priority and sometimes even family misses out. Four of my family will have to wait for another time.
Every year I try to catch up with some old friends somehow, and my oldest friend Craig (chronologically, not age-wise) often makes the effort to keep in touch with many of us from school. He is generally first on the list if we have the time to spare.
If you regularly read my blog you know my brother and I have a 'boys day out' whenever we can. With a tight schedule I squeezed the two into one and we visited my friend Craig at his home/shop for a bit of boys' time. At this point I should let you know that Craig has an Aladdin's cave (if Aladdin was an aircraft nut) of aviation and military books, models, and paraphernalias. Craig was kind enough to open his shop, Aerowerks, for us, even though he is on his Christmas break. There is a kind of selfish magic about being the only ones allowed somewhere, and my brother and I trawled up and down the aisles filled with countless boxes of kits and books (I'm glad I don't have to do the stocktake at Aerowerks).
The Tullochs managed to catch up with another friend of the same era, Michael (and his gorgeous wife and wonderful mum) but that was it, others were left out of the loop. Like Craig, Michael and I became firm friends in our first year of high school. Unlike Craig, Michael and I fell out of contact soon after we left school. This was my fault rather than Michael's and it was only by chance that, about five years ago that I came into contact with Brian, Craig and Michael; all in a month.
Craig, being much more nostalgic, and far better organised than myself, called me about a school reunion. I hate these things with a vengeance, but I was to be in Adelaide for a wedding and could hardly pass up the opportunity of catching up with some of the old crowd. I rang Michael, via his father and managed to catch him packing for London. The reunion was out for him, but we kept in touch elecronically, and now both our families keep in contact (I correspond more with Michael's Mum on Facebook than I do with him).
At school we had a reasonably loose friend core of some nine boys (although Michael moved in the first year). Some of these people I hadn't seen for over 20 years, even though most of them still lived in Adelaide.
The reunion loomed as the wedding passed and I was on my way to my parent's house to change. It was then I realised I was running late and decided to go straight to the reunion, complete with a claret coloured vest and matching dickie bow tie. It had been cold that day and I remembered I had donned a white T-Shirt underneath. Thinking it a bit off to show this through an open-necked shirt I left the tie on. When I got to the reunion I found Craig wearing a pink casual shirt. Let me say, we looked well suited for each other.
In the midst of a 30-40 something crowd I looked hard for a familiar face (actually a friendly one would have sufficed). Even with the addition of nametags I only saw one other person I could recognise. I really mean that. With the exception of this one bloke from our year level, the others may as well have been ancient Hebrews or Mayans. I did not recollect any other face in the building. Obviously Craig and I stuck together pretty well, yelling into each other's ears over the music.
They say that people's clothes say a lot about them. I think ours, combined with our close proximity yelled "GAY, GAY. STAY AWAY!" It was, as I had feared, a slow death of snubbing and boredom. By 9:00PM we had decided to ring Brian and have our own reunion, ten minutes away at his place. I met his boys for the first time and caught up with his lovely wife after many years (about 12 years face-to-face). You will find it hard to believe that, Brian was one of my groomsmen (the other I haven't seen for probably 20 years) and I his best man.
I suppose inevitably, we all go our separate ways and even those that still live within an hour's drive of each other rarely catch up. Out of the original crowd we have (I think) a builder, a trainer, an engineer, a linesman, a technician, a sole trader, a writer, a marine archeologist, and the ninth I have no idea. Our past is getting further away and our families are those most important to us (or at least it is that way for me). We have Facebook I suppose and I keep in loose contact with about 4 of the original friends this way. But the next trip to Adelaide sees us with a family 18th, 21st and 80th, possibly all crammed into one weekend. Friends will need to wait, yet again.
Maybe we'll have a friends' reunion in 2011 and I'll wear my claret coloured vest and dickie bow tie.
A 43 degree heat in Melbourne, 45 on the Wimmera and 44 in Adelaide, made for a long, warm trip for the Commodore. Built for practicality in Oz, rather than the fancy trimmings of some other brands, it is no wonder the Commode (as we like to call it) is an Aussie's best friend on the road. We sat in the airconditioning, oblivious almost the entire trip, except for pee and petrol breaks.
Adelaide has that warm (actually very warm, as the heat lasted for another three days) feeling as you drive down through the Heysen Tunnels. Then along Portrush Road, narrowly skirting foothills (by a suburb or two) and enjoying the early 20th Century architecture that the beautiful people of Adelaide roll into huge mortgages. Adelaide feels like an old friend to me. Even though I ignore her most of the year, Adelaide welcomes me anyway, with her familiar streets and quieter lifestyle. Nowhere is this more evident than in the North Eastern foothills, where I grew up. We stay at The Blue Gums Hotel in Fairwiew Park and the staff tend us with easygoing friendliness and an attitude that makes us feel nothing is too much trouble.
Brian, an old school buddy of mine, and I used to work out at the gym next to the pub and would occasionally treat ourselves to a quiet ale afterwards. It feels like home and is only 10 minutes away from both my two old homes, and the unit my Mum lives in now. In fact Brian is about the same distance away, and I know he and his family would welcome us if we called, but where do you find the time?
Believe it or not, a week is a very short space of time, even when you have small families like ours, and many friends are not seen for years. I feel for the Italian and Greek Australians when they return to their Mediterranean homes; their feet must never touch the ground. Our parents are our top priority and sometimes even family misses out. Four of my family will have to wait for another time.
Every year I try to catch up with some old friends somehow, and my oldest friend Craig (chronologically, not age-wise) often makes the effort to keep in touch with many of us from school. He is generally first on the list if we have the time to spare.
If you regularly read my blog you know my brother and I have a 'boys day out' whenever we can. With a tight schedule I squeezed the two into one and we visited my friend Craig at his home/shop for a bit of boys' time. At this point I should let you know that Craig has an Aladdin's cave (if Aladdin was an aircraft nut) of aviation and military books, models, and paraphernalias. Craig was kind enough to open his shop, Aerowerks, for us, even though he is on his Christmas break. There is a kind of selfish magic about being the only ones allowed somewhere, and my brother and I trawled up and down the aisles filled with countless boxes of kits and books (I'm glad I don't have to do the stocktake at Aerowerks).
The Tullochs managed to catch up with another friend of the same era, Michael (and his gorgeous wife and wonderful mum) but that was it, others were left out of the loop. Like Craig, Michael and I became firm friends in our first year of high school. Unlike Craig, Michael and I fell out of contact soon after we left school. This was my fault rather than Michael's and it was only by chance that, about five years ago that I came into contact with Brian, Craig and Michael; all in a month.
Craig, being much more nostalgic, and far better organised than myself, called me about a school reunion. I hate these things with a vengeance, but I was to be in Adelaide for a wedding and could hardly pass up the opportunity of catching up with some of the old crowd. I rang Michael, via his father and managed to catch him packing for London. The reunion was out for him, but we kept in touch elecronically, and now both our families keep in contact (I correspond more with Michael's Mum on Facebook than I do with him).
At school we had a reasonably loose friend core of some nine boys (although Michael moved in the first year). Some of these people I hadn't seen for over 20 years, even though most of them still lived in Adelaide.
The reunion loomed as the wedding passed and I was on my way to my parent's house to change. It was then I realised I was running late and decided to go straight to the reunion, complete with a claret coloured vest and matching dickie bow tie. It had been cold that day and I remembered I had donned a white T-Shirt underneath. Thinking it a bit off to show this through an open-necked shirt I left the tie on. When I got to the reunion I found Craig wearing a pink casual shirt. Let me say, we looked well suited for each other.
In the midst of a 30-40 something crowd I looked hard for a familiar face (actually a friendly one would have sufficed). Even with the addition of nametags I only saw one other person I could recognise. I really mean that. With the exception of this one bloke from our year level, the others may as well have been ancient Hebrews or Mayans. I did not recollect any other face in the building. Obviously Craig and I stuck together pretty well, yelling into each other's ears over the music.
They say that people's clothes say a lot about them. I think ours, combined with our close proximity yelled "GAY, GAY. STAY AWAY!" It was, as I had feared, a slow death of snubbing and boredom. By 9:00PM we had decided to ring Brian and have our own reunion, ten minutes away at his place. I met his boys for the first time and caught up with his lovely wife after many years (about 12 years face-to-face). You will find it hard to believe that, Brian was one of my groomsmen (the other I haven't seen for probably 20 years) and I his best man.
I suppose inevitably, we all go our separate ways and even those that still live within an hour's drive of each other rarely catch up. Out of the original crowd we have (I think) a builder, a trainer, an engineer, a linesman, a technician, a sole trader, a writer, a marine archeologist, and the ninth I have no idea. Our past is getting further away and our families are those most important to us (or at least it is that way for me). We have Facebook I suppose and I keep in loose contact with about 4 of the original friends this way. But the next trip to Adelaide sees us with a family 18th, 21st and 80th, possibly all crammed into one weekend. Friends will need to wait, yet again.
Maybe we'll have a friends' reunion in 2011 and I'll wear my claret coloured vest and dickie bow tie.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Parallel Importation: Cheaper Books for Aussies, or a Big Con?
A friend and fellow writer asked for Facebook comments on parallel importation of books to Australian shores. I started to comment, only to find I'd written that much I would fill up every friend's Facebook Home page with my answer. Instead I decided to post it here:
I don't want to be a scaremonger here, but I cannot see how Aussie authors or small publishers are going be able to do anything than be caught in the middle of this vice (squeezed even tighter). While the big boys slug it out over the next 100,000 copies of the latest Dan Brown or Stephenie Meyer, our local artists and their support may well need to find other jobs.
I don't want to be a scaremonger here, but I cannot see how Aussie authors or small publishers are going be able to do anything than be caught in the middle of this vice (squeezed even tighter). While the big boys slug it out over the next 100,000 copies of the latest Dan Brown or Stephenie Meyer, our local artists and their support may well need to find other jobs.
Will Aussie book lovers benefit? I doubt it. I think we had better get ready for more pallet loads of titles that cannot be sold (this time from overseas) dropped on our bookshelves (wow, I can't wait!) But that's only presuming we are actually going to get cheaper books, not necessarily cheaper books that we want to read.
I think Dymocks and the Coalition for Cheaper Books have summed it up beautifully with the following excerpt from their e-mail to Katie Eberle and the Productivity Commission*:
“Dymocks and the Coalition for Cheaper Books believe Australian booklovers deserve better. Dymocks believes that lower prices will enable more Australians to read more and as a consequence Australian literacy levels will improve. Dymocks believes that the Australian book industry should be driven by the Australian book buyer and not the local subsidiaries and agents of overseas publishers.”
What a lot of poppycock folks! Do you take us for mugs? Those that cannot afford to read now, for whatever reason (financial or otherwise) will not benefit from your most 'magnanimous' actions. If you cannot afford a $35 book, you cannot afford a $30 book. I can only see parallel importing filling Dymock's and the Coalition for Cheaper Books financial reports with more zeroes. Who are the Coalition for Cheaper Books? The benevolent literary benefactors of Australian booklovers: Woolworths, Target, Big W, K-Mart and Coles. I'm sure you would agree that they must have our reading interests at heart.
So we save 20% on the latest bestsellers, or whatever. I would like to ask you: it is worth damaging (or worse, killing) our local industry for? Easy answer huh?
Don't just listen to me, have a quick look at the submissions from authors and publishers at:
http://www.pc.gov.au/projects/study/books
*Dymocks excerpt taken from:
http://www.pc.gov.au/__data/assets/pdf_file/0005/87656/subdr293.pdf
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Planes, Trains, Automobiles (and Buses and Shanks-naigs)
I have a confession to share: I'm in love with Jane. It's okay, Christine is fine with it. In fact Christine loves her as well. Jane, or Jane TomTom, is the voice in our newly acquired GPS. But more about her later.
This is my last post about out UK travels and I hope you have enjoyed their irreverent and un-geeIsawTowerBridgeanditwasreallycool nature.
To get anywhere in Australia you often drive a long way. To get to the UK it means two to four very long trips, hurtling through thin air very, very fast. We flew with Singapore Airlines and we can thoroughly recommend them, but this does not mean the trips themselves were particularly pleasant. Fourteen hours trapped in a small seat, bolted inside a large aluminium can is a long time. Christine is not known for being a keen traveller, whereas I have always been busting for an overseas adventure. So it is probably a little strange for you to read that Christine handled the travel really well, whilst I handled it rather badly, having to recuperate at a transit hotel in Singapore in both directions. To prove what a travelling stalwart I am, I managed to suffer a vasovagal syncope (women faint, tough Tulloch men have a vasovagal syncope) on the very first leg to Singapore. Christine woke me after a couple of hours sleep and I managed to get my head off the backrest about 20cm before I passed out. A combination of a stressful few weeks beforehand, dehydration, an overly warm/stuffy atmosphere, and rising too quickly, was probably to blame. I felt like lukewarm death for the rest of the trip, despite Christine's wonderful attentions. A note to those who wish to attempt long air travel: dress lightly (they supply blankets if you get cold), take an empty water bottle with you (they serve you water in thimble-sized glasses), try to exercise regularly whilst on board, and don't accept hot towels from well-meaning cabin staff after you've passed out.
Our metropolitan train travels were far more fun. The London Underground, or The Tube to the locals, is an antique Victorian system that has carried over a billion passengers in its life. The demands of a
populous of around 8 million people and the haphazard design of an ancient to modern city morph should spell disaster for this vintage public transport system. I believe that the individual lines have their moments, but in the four days we were in London we used the trains around two dozen times and it went like clockwork. Only once did we wait more than two minutes for a train (and that was a suburban line), within a half a day we'd worked out the system, and the Oyster card system (a version of Melbourne's bloated white elephant ticketing system, Myki) was a dream to use. Connex please take note, it is possible to provide good public transport in a big city.
Different again was the nightmarish bus system the English have delicately designed to be the bane of London commuters. We only travelled on the bus twice and the London trip was once too often. To be fair the trips themselves were fine, although a little stressful (the double-deckers get bumper-rubbingly close to just about anything on, and next to, the road). The system itself is a complexity of alphabetised stops, inconsistent timetables, confusing routes, and coloured maps that seem to, chameleon-like, change colours from stop to stop ("I thought we were on the blue line, now it's green"). I doff my lid to the bus drivers in London. I have no idea how they do it, but please excuse me if I take the train.
London cabs and a single rickshaw ride finished off our vehicular travels in London, but they were an expensive alternative to public transport.
Of all forms of transportation I think I most enjoyed what the Scots call shanks-naig, the English shank's mare, and us Aussies shank's pony (quite simply: walking). This allowed us to experience the UK like locals. Although we didn't really look the part with Christine snapping photos (around 5,000) of anything that moved (and many things that didn't), and me with a stupid leather bushman's hat and lairy backpack. Somebody asked us what part of Australia we came from and when I wondered later about this, Christine returned with, "well if you continue to say g'day mate to everybody they will probably get a hint about where you come from".
We hired a car for the Wales and Southern England part of our journey. It was a wonderful Volkswagon Passat with so many buttons and gadgets that we managed to work out a full 10% of them by the time we returned it. The one gadget it didn't have was a GPS. It was offered as a £10 per day option that I chose not to take, thinking I would rely on a road atlas and street signs. Which, with 20/20 hindsight would have been fine for the motorways, but a different matter in the cities/towns we visited.
Our friends Michael and Libby joined us on our way to Cardiff and Michael brought Ken with him. The only Australian voice on his TomTom portable GPS is titled Ken, hence the name (I was disappointed that wry English humour hadn't been employed and TomTom used the name Bruce instead). With Michael and Ken's help I managed to navigate through some reasonably tricky roads and roundabouts (some roundabouts have traffic lights, for goodness sake!) We were so impressed with Ken's expertise, and polite nature when I failed to take his directions, that we bought our own TomTom unit before we left Cardiff. We chose the pleasant female English voice TomTom calls Jane and, after several weeks of using her voice in the UK and Australia, it would be unfair to use any other (we even like the cute way she refers to Aussie freeways as motorways). Michael e-mailed me the other day a told me he had downloaded a Dalek voice for his TomTom, but I bet he's taken it off already.
Putting together my stalling of the car on more than one occasion (trying to get used to a ridiculous 6-speed manual gearbox) and the fact that I set off the windscreen wipers every time I tried to indicate (they are on the other side of the column from ours), I managed to keep Michael entertained in the front seat for the whole weekend.
Jane, the new love of my life, didn't once put us wrong, and she saved my sanity in the towns and cities. On the other hand, when I second-guessed her or misunderstood her directions, I wound up in hot water. None warmer, than in Eastbourne when I failed to take her left and took my left (in my defence there were two lefts). I ended up driving up a 'bus only' street, in peak hour, with several double-deckers up my clacker. Jane was madly trying to recalculate a way out of this idiot's choice of route, when I second-guessed her again, only to drive the wrong way down a one way street. Fortunately British motorists are a reasonably patient lot and allowed me to do, what seemed like a forty-point turn, to get the Passat pointing in the right direction.
I think this gamut of transportation gave us a pretty good idea of what civilised travellers might use; and like or dislike the various forms I think we chose them well for the entire journey (especially the aircraft bit, as they tell me it is a long way to swim).
This is my last post about out UK travels and I hope you have enjoyed their irreverent and un-geeIsawTowerBridgeanditwasreallycool nature.
To get anywhere in Australia you often drive a long way. To get to the UK it means two to four very long trips, hurtling through thin air very, very fast. We flew with Singapore Airlines and we can thoroughly recommend them, but this does not mean the trips themselves were particularly pleasant. Fourteen hours trapped in a small seat, bolted inside a large aluminium can is a long time. Christine is not known for being a keen traveller, whereas I have always been busting for an overseas adventure. So it is probably a little strange for you to read that Christine handled the travel really well, whilst I handled it rather badly, having to recuperate at a transit hotel in Singapore in both directions. To prove what a travelling stalwart I am, I managed to suffer a vasovagal syncope (women faint, tough Tulloch men have a vasovagal syncope) on the very first leg to Singapore. Christine woke me after a couple of hours sleep and I managed to get my head off the backrest about 20cm before I passed out. A combination of a stressful few weeks beforehand, dehydration, an overly warm/stuffy atmosphere, and rising too quickly, was probably to blame. I felt like lukewarm death for the rest of the trip, despite Christine's wonderful attentions. A note to those who wish to attempt long air travel: dress lightly (they supply blankets if you get cold), take an empty water bottle with you (they serve you water in thimble-sized glasses), try to exercise regularly whilst on board, and don't accept hot towels from well-meaning cabin staff after you've passed out.
Our metropolitan train travels were far more fun. The London Underground, or The Tube to the locals, is an antique Victorian system that has carried over a billion passengers in its life. The demands of a
populous of around 8 million people and the haphazard design of an ancient to modern city morph should spell disaster for this vintage public transport system. I believe that the individual lines have their moments, but in the four days we were in London we used the trains around two dozen times and it went like clockwork. Only once did we wait more than two minutes for a train (and that was a suburban line), within a half a day we'd worked out the system, and the Oyster card system (a version of Melbourne's bloated white elephant ticketing system, Myki) was a dream to use. Connex please take note, it is possible to provide good public transport in a big city.
Different again was the nightmarish bus system the English have delicately designed to be the bane of London commuters. We only travelled on the bus twice and the London trip was once too often. To be fair the trips themselves were fine, although a little stressful (the double-deckers get bumper-rubbingly close to just about anything on, and next to, the road). The system itself is a complexity of alphabetised stops, inconsistent timetables, confusing routes, and coloured maps that seem to, chameleon-like, change colours from stop to stop ("I thought we were on the blue line, now it's green"). I doff my lid to the bus drivers in London. I have no idea how they do it, but please excuse me if I take the train.
London cabs and a single rickshaw ride finished off our vehicular travels in London, but they were an expensive alternative to public transport.
Of all forms of transportation I think I most enjoyed what the Scots call shanks-naig, the English shank's mare, and us Aussies shank's pony (quite simply: walking). This allowed us to experience the UK like locals. Although we didn't really look the part with Christine snapping photos (around 5,000) of anything that moved (and many things that didn't), and me with a stupid leather bushman's hat and lairy backpack. Somebody asked us what part of Australia we came from and when I wondered later about this, Christine returned with, "well if you continue to say g'day mate to everybody they will probably get a hint about where you come from".
We hired a car for the Wales and Southern England part of our journey. It was a wonderful Volkswagon Passat with so many buttons and gadgets that we managed to work out a full 10% of them by the time we returned it. The one gadget it didn't have was a GPS. It was offered as a £10 per day option that I chose not to take, thinking I would rely on a road atlas and street signs. Which, with 20/20 hindsight would have been fine for the motorways, but a different matter in the cities/towns we visited.
Our friends Michael and Libby joined us on our way to Cardiff and Michael brought Ken with him. The only Australian voice on his TomTom portable GPS is titled Ken, hence the name (I was disappointed that wry English humour hadn't been employed and TomTom used the name Bruce instead). With Michael and Ken's help I managed to navigate through some reasonably tricky roads and roundabouts (some roundabouts have traffic lights, for goodness sake!) We were so impressed with Ken's expertise, and polite nature when I failed to take his directions, that we bought our own TomTom unit before we left Cardiff. We chose the pleasant female English voice TomTom calls Jane and, after several weeks of using her voice in the UK and Australia, it would be unfair to use any other (we even like the cute way she refers to Aussie freeways as motorways). Michael e-mailed me the other day a told me he had downloaded a Dalek voice for his TomTom, but I bet he's taken it off already.
Putting together my stalling of the car on more than one occasion (trying to get used to a ridiculous 6-speed manual gearbox) and the fact that I set off the windscreen wipers every time I tried to indicate (they are on the other side of the column from ours), I managed to keep Michael entertained in the front seat for the whole weekend.
Jane, the new love of my life, didn't once put us wrong, and she saved my sanity in the towns and cities. On the other hand, when I second-guessed her or misunderstood her directions, I wound up in hot water. None warmer, than in Eastbourne when I failed to take her left and took my left (in my defence there were two lefts). I ended up driving up a 'bus only' street, in peak hour, with several double-deckers up my clacker. Jane was madly trying to recalculate a way out of this idiot's choice of route, when I second-guessed her again, only to drive the wrong way down a one way street. Fortunately British motorists are a reasonably patient lot and allowed me to do, what seemed like a forty-point turn, to get the Passat pointing in the right direction.
I think this gamut of transportation gave us a pretty good idea of what civilised travellers might use; and like or dislike the various forms I think we chose them well for the entire journey (especially the aircraft bit, as they tell me it is a long way to swim).
Lost in Translation (from English to English)
"An Englishman's way of speaking absolutely classifies him.
The moment he talks he makes some other Englishman despise him.
One common language I'm afraid we'll never get,
Oh, why can't the English learn to
set a good example to people whose
English is painful to your ears?
The Scots and the Irish leave you close to tears.
There even are places where English completely disappears.
In America, they haven't used it for years!"
Isn't it funny how we all speak English, but our geography (or generation) makes communication a little difficult. Whilst living in Tennant Creek I once commented to a sickly American tourist that it was unfortunate that he was 'crook'. He took offence thinking I was accusing him of some felonious act. As with Professor Higgins above I put it down to the Atlantic (in our case the Pacific) gap in civilisation.
But on our trip to the UK I found similar issues. The English language is murdered even in its originating country. Not that I have the authority to pick (I have an infuriating habit of using 'me' instead of 'my' when using the possessive pronoun) but Christine and I did find it a little hard to communicate on the odd occasion. I had to ask people to repeat themselves, with me feigning a hearing problem, just so I could have another go at translating.
Of course accents don't help. It seems as though you can be born twenty miles away from your neighbour and speak differently. We loved the Welsh, but many of them may as well have been speaking Latin (actually I might have understood a bit of Latin).
Also, technical terms take on new connotations. As I was picking up the hire car I felt I needed to query why I needed to pay a deposit when I had already pre-paid . The incredulous reply was "You always pay a deposit when you hire a car" (thanks for the clarification lady). After a little to-ing and fro-ing I found our this was the money held as insurance in the case of a late drop off. Maybe we call it that in Australia too, but I'd never heard the term used that way before.
The local vernacular is a little hard to come to grips with as well. How the heck do you get "hello and how are you" from "ay oop"? Although some colloquialisms like 'sweeties' are not too far from our 'sweets' and cabmen obviously drive taxis (cabs). Christine picked up the lingo quickly which saved her from some of the embarrassment her husband faced with his Aussie ways.
My best English faux pas (I know it's French, work with me here) was in Cardiff. All holiday Christine and I had been sampling the best of British packet chips (Pipers' West Country Cheddar and Onion win). In the UK they are referred to as crisps, leaving the term chips for the hot fried variety. Here I am, standing at a dimly lit Cardiff bar with my mate Michael, two pints of Brains Bitter in my hands, and I spy a long line of crisps behind the barmaid. As I intently study the different labels, debating whether we should spoil our dinner with a couple of packets, the barmaid enquires if I need anything else. Deciding we don't need pre-dinner munchies, I reply: "No," I'm just checking out your chips." With that, Michael leads me away quickly from the bar. He was nearly bursting with laughter. Not 10 degrees away from my line of vision was the barmaid's ample cleavage (what some Englishmen would call a great set of Bristols). Michael told me later that her face went from shock to comprehension, which possibly saved me from getting thrown out of the pub. Those in my family will understand what I mean, when I say that it was definitely a 'Roger moment'.
So in Professor Higgins' words "Why can't the English, learn to speak?" (like me).
The moment he talks he makes some other Englishman despise him.
One common language I'm afraid we'll never get,
Oh, why can't the English learn to
set a good example to people whose
English is painful to your ears?
The Scots and the Irish leave you close to tears.
There even are places where English completely disappears.
In America, they haven't used it for years!"
Henry Higgins, My Fair Lady
Isn't it funny how we all speak English, but our geography (or generation) makes communication a little difficult. Whilst living in Tennant Creek I once commented to a sickly American tourist that it was unfortunate that he was 'crook'. He took offence thinking I was accusing him of some felonious act. As with Professor Higgins above I put it down to the Atlantic (in our case the Pacific) gap in civilisation.
But on our trip to the UK I found similar issues. The English language is murdered even in its originating country. Not that I have the authority to pick (I have an infuriating habit of using 'me' instead of 'my' when using the possessive pronoun) but Christine and I did find it a little hard to communicate on the odd occasion. I had to ask people to repeat themselves, with me feigning a hearing problem, just so I could have another go at translating.
Of course accents don't help. It seems as though you can be born twenty miles away from your neighbour and speak differently. We loved the Welsh, but many of them may as well have been speaking Latin (actually I might have understood a bit of Latin).
Also, technical terms take on new connotations. As I was picking up the hire car I felt I needed to query why I needed to pay a deposit when I had already pre-paid . The incredulous reply was "You always pay a deposit when you hire a car" (thanks for the clarification lady). After a little to-ing and fro-ing I found our this was the money held as insurance in the case of a late drop off. Maybe we call it that in Australia too, but I'd never heard the term used that way before.
The local vernacular is a little hard to come to grips with as well. How the heck do you get "hello and how are you" from "ay oop"? Although some colloquialisms like 'sweeties' are not too far from our 'sweets' and cabmen obviously drive taxis (cabs). Christine picked up the lingo quickly which saved her from some of the embarrassment her husband faced with his Aussie ways.
My best English faux pas (I know it's French, work with me here) was in Cardiff. All holiday Christine and I had been sampling the best of British packet chips (Pipers' West Country Cheddar and Onion win). In the UK they are referred to as crisps, leaving the term chips for the hot fried variety. Here I am, standing at a dimly lit Cardiff bar with my mate Michael, two pints of Brains Bitter in my hands, and I spy a long line of crisps behind the barmaid. As I intently study the different labels, debating whether we should spoil our dinner with a couple of packets, the barmaid enquires if I need anything else. Deciding we don't need pre-dinner munchies, I reply: "No," I'm just checking out your chips." With that, Michael leads me away quickly from the bar. He was nearly bursting with laughter. Not 10 degrees away from my line of vision was the barmaid's ample cleavage (what some Englishmen would call a great set of Bristols). Michael told me later that her face went from shock to comprehension, which possibly saved me from getting thrown out of the pub. Those in my family will understand what I mean, when I say that it was definitely a 'Roger moment'.So in Professor Higgins' words "Why can't the English, learn to speak?" (like me).
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Do the Brit's Suck at Service? (Not Likely Guv'na)
Before we left on our big adventure, we were told by several people that we should not expect any level of service whilst travelling in the United Kingdom. This immediately brought forth visions of Ronnie Barker as Albert Arkwright or Dylan Moran as Bernard Black (or dare I mention the hotelier in Torquay?) Although an entertaining thought, this was not our experience and we enjoyed a reasonable to excellent level of service almost entirely across the holiday.
Now I must admit that during our time there we did not have one person fawn over us (maybe the sycophants were on Summer holidays) or become, in any way, gushy. But, with only one exception (which I will explain later) we found the Brits and the huge amount of foreigners working there very friendly and pleasant.
Now this may have been due to the fact that Christine and I were friendly and not demanding or impatient. We always greeted people with smiles (we were on holidays, why wouldn't we be smiling?) and used the manners that our parents taught us (thanks Mum and Dad).
In Portobello Road we met one of the funniest men on our trip. Guiseppe (try to pick the nationality) ran a gift shop in the road and was one of the warmest crazy people I have ever met. I swear t
hat if we had stayed in his shop five minutes more we would have been invited to his niece's christening. We left with some lovely souvenirs, a discount, a gift for "The beautiful lady", and very nice shopping experience. Hey, we were probably ripped off, but is was Portobello Road. We finished off our Portobello Road trip with possibly the biggest waffle I have ever seen, and (up until then) the most drinkable cup of coffee I'd had in the UK. The Spanish lady behind the counter even did a little curtsey when we complimented her on her fare.
The mad pseudo-Cockney* driver on our nightime open-topped bus trip found out that Christine and I completed a passenger list full of Melburnians (travel halfway round the world and share a tour with people from Coburg and Mt Waverley). He spent the entire trip taking the good natured mickey out of his wife ("Five foot six of green-eyed Irish monster") and Melbourne. As he had spent some time in Melbourne and he was so much fun we let him get away with it.
(*Dave, the driver, admitted to being born in Fulham. To be a true Cockney you need to be born within earshot of the bells of St Mary-le-Bow church in Cheapside.)
Actually, it was on a bus tour a couple of days later where we had our only showing of shoddy service. We spent an hour and a half on two buses to travel the distance that we could have directly walked in 15 minutes. After another hour of being herded on to, and squeezed into, a third bus we got off and took The Tube. I understand that a mixture of lost Arab, Asian, and North American tourists, speaking limited English (yes, I know what I wrote) must be extremely frustrating. However, I think that maybe you shouldn't work for a tour operator in London if these things bother you.
A lunch in Covent Garden market provided us with some personal entertainment regarding 'true English service'. Christine, like myself, grew up in Adelaide on a steady diet of British culture. Given many people working in hospitality and retail in London are Eastern European or Asian, she was somewhat disappointed not to see Caucasian characters out of Coronation Street, or The Bill, dropping rhyming slang and talking about "Our 'arold's 'ernia". Christine lamented this fact at lunch and ten minutes later we walked past a fruit cart. Not wanting to miss out on nectarines months before I can eat them in Australia, I bought some from the lad at the cart. He was just the ticket: about 19, thin, Caucasian with freckles and blond hair, and short striped apron. He spun the nectarines in the brown paper bag to seal them and said, "There you go guv'na". I turned around to see the look of delight on Christine's face only to find she was (yet again) off taking photos somewhere and had missed the whole episode. I'm sure she believes I was making the story up.
People in the hospitality and retail industries in Wales and Southern England were the same and we really did enjoy conversing with them. The bloke in the Premier Inn at Cardiff left his post to help me with bags I was handling quite easily. We had a great conversation on the way to the car that, unfortunately, due to his incomprehensible Welsh accent I cannot share with you. This is because I have no idea what he actually said, except for something about rugby. While a woman in Eastbourne, who had sold us tickets to the Bandstand the day before, tracked us down across the foreshore to ask if we had enjoyed ourselves (which we had immensely).
The poorest service we had on the entire trip was on the shuttle bus at Sydney airport. The driver openly berated me for not putting our cases, back to back, in the storage shelves, remarking "Obviously some people can't listen to simple instructions". In my defence I a) can swear that he did not offer this gem of storage advice; b) did actually store them back to back, but in a way that would make them fall over with the movement of the bus; and c) had just lost all of Friday shoved in a high-speed tin can and had left my brain somewhere over Pakistan. I was too tired to even respond and let it ride. Now that I am fully cognisant: Mr Sydney airport shuttle bus driver: I wish you corns on the toes of your accelerator foot (there, I feel vindicated now). His attitude is one I am finding more and more here in Australia.
Maybe we should rebel against the level of service we experience at home before we worry too much about what the Brits are doing.
Now I must admit that during our time there we did not have one person fawn over us (maybe the sycophants were on Summer holidays) or become, in any way, gushy. But, with only one exception (which I will explain later) we found the Brits and the huge amount of foreigners working there very friendly and pleasant.
Now this may have been due to the fact that Christine and I were friendly and not demanding or impatient. We always greeted people with smiles (we were on holidays, why wouldn't we be smiling?) and used the manners that our parents taught us (thanks Mum and Dad).
In Portobello Road we met one of the funniest men on our trip. Guiseppe (try to pick the nationality) ran a gift shop in the road and was one of the warmest crazy people I have ever met. I swear t
hat if we had stayed in his shop five minutes more we would have been invited to his niece's christening. We left with some lovely souvenirs, a discount, a gift for "The beautiful lady", and very nice shopping experience. Hey, we were probably ripped off, but is was Portobello Road. We finished off our Portobello Road trip with possibly the biggest waffle I have ever seen, and (up until then) the most drinkable cup of coffee I'd had in the UK. The Spanish lady behind the counter even did a little curtsey when we complimented her on her fare.The mad pseudo-Cockney* driver on our nightime open-topped bus trip found out that Christine and I completed a passenger list full of Melburnians (travel halfway round the world and share a tour with people from Coburg and Mt Waverley). He spent the entire trip taking the good natured mickey out of his wife ("Five foot six of green-eyed Irish monster") and Melbourne. As he had spent some time in Melbourne and he was so much fun we let him get away with it.
(*Dave, the driver, admitted to being born in Fulham. To be a true Cockney you need to be born within earshot of the bells of St Mary-le-Bow church in Cheapside.)
Actually, it was on a bus tour a couple of days later where we had our only showing of shoddy service. We spent an hour and a half on two buses to travel the distance that we could have directly walked in 15 minutes. After another hour of being herded on to, and squeezed into, a third bus we got off and took The Tube. I understand that a mixture of lost Arab, Asian, and North American tourists, speaking limited English (yes, I know what I wrote) must be extremely frustrating. However, I think that maybe you shouldn't work for a tour operator in London if these things bother you.
A lunch in Covent Garden market provided us with some personal entertainment regarding 'true English service'. Christine, like myself, grew up in Adelaide on a steady diet of British culture. Given many people working in hospitality and retail in London are Eastern European or Asian, she was somewhat disappointed not to see Caucasian characters out of Coronation Street, or The Bill, dropping rhyming slang and talking about "Our 'arold's 'ernia". Christine lamented this fact at lunch and ten minutes later we walked past a fruit cart. Not wanting to miss out on nectarines months before I can eat them in Australia, I bought some from the lad at the cart. He was just the ticket: about 19, thin, Caucasian with freckles and blond hair, and short striped apron. He spun the nectarines in the brown paper bag to seal them and said, "There you go guv'na". I turned around to see the look of delight on Christine's face only to find she was (yet again) off taking photos somewhere and had missed the whole episode. I'm sure she believes I was making the story up.
People in the hospitality and retail industries in Wales and Southern England were the same and we really did enjoy conversing with them. The bloke in the Premier Inn at Cardiff left his post to help me with bags I was handling quite easily. We had a great conversation on the way to the car that, unfortunately, due to his incomprehensible Welsh accent I cannot share with you. This is because I have no idea what he actually said, except for something about rugby. While a woman in Eastbourne, who had sold us tickets to the Bandstand the day before, tracked us down across the foreshore to ask if we had enjoyed ourselves (which we had immensely).
The poorest service we had on the entire trip was on the shuttle bus at Sydney airport. The driver openly berated me for not putting our cases, back to back, in the storage shelves, remarking "Obviously some people can't listen to simple instructions". In my defence I a) can swear that he did not offer this gem of storage advice; b) did actually store them back to back, but in a way that would make them fall over with the movement of the bus; and c) had just lost all of Friday shoved in a high-speed tin can and had left my brain somewhere over Pakistan. I was too tired to even respond and let it ride. Now that I am fully cognisant: Mr Sydney airport shuttle bus driver: I wish you corns on the toes of your accelerator foot (there, I feel vindicated now). His attitude is one I am finding more and more here in Australia.
Maybe we should rebel against the level of service we experience at home before we worry too much about what the Brits are doing.
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