March 2005 Archives

How to Smell

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(more pics of Grasse)

Vicki and I took the Eurostar and TGV down to the South of France for a week's holiday. We rented a small but perfectly formed apartment in the city of Grasse. The main industry of the town is perfume making and, as dutiful tourists, we went on a tour of the Fragonard perfume factory where I learned some important perfume smelling tips.

We were given a tour by a very stylish and rather stern woman in a tight grey suit. "I don't want to catch any of you doing this," she said, sniffing one of the perfume dispensers. I felt sure that she intended this comment specifically for me as that is exactly what I had been doing just before the start of the tour.

They have been making perfume in Grasse since the 14th century. Back then apparently only "dirty" people needed to wash. Since the more noble you were, the less "dirty" you could possibly be, the less you washed. If you were a King this meant you never had a bath. And thus, the perfume industry was born.

Their oldest scent was developed for a Hungarian woman in the 13th or 14th century. "This woman had a problem," explained our tour guide. "She was very ugly. But she wanted to get married." A kindly monk took pity upon her and created this scent which is now called Eau d'Hongrie. This scent was so beguiling that almost instantly the Hungarian woman snagged herself a husband - the King of Poland, no less.

I was so impressed by this tale that I bought some of this scent for myself. It's now marketed as a scent for men, which goes some way to support the thesis that Miss Hungary 1329 was not the most feminine of women.

I didn't buy it just based on its pedigree, though. As instructed, I tried it out first, and this is when I got yelled at for the second time by our sexy tour guide. I sprayed some on my wrist as demonstrated, but then foolishly rubbed my wrists together. "Don't rub it!" admonished Frau Scentmeister. "Never rub!"

I think she did this just so I would blush, making my skin heat up and accentuating the effect of the eau d'Hongrie. Whatever her intention, it seemed to make my wife frisky, so I bought a flagon of the stuff.


Hyujnm

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(more pics of the flat in Grasse)

Hyujnm. Right now, that is the worst word in the world for me. I've burnt my right index finger you see. And typing "hyujnm" uses that particular finger for every single one of its letters.

Now "Ow!" is a fine word to type. I could type "Ow!" all day long. It doesn't use my right index finger at all. It feels great when I type "Ow!" Not "hyujnm" though.

"Political Freesias" is fine. As is "Wackadelic Dopers" or "Exacerbated Excesses".

"My Hymn-book Is Munjy" is a bad one. And I should definitely avoid "Hymen! Hymen! Hymen! Who has my Hymen?"

In retrospect, the key was probably not to light my finger on fire in the first place. It's easy enough to do though. All one needs is a loving attentive spouse and the temporary sabbatical of one's own brain cells.

My spouse and I are on holiday at the moment. We've rented a beautiful one bedroom flat in the French city of Grasse, eight miles Northwest of Cannes. We found it at http://www.homelidays.com/ which I'm putting in a plug for because I'm so pleased with the flat. It's lovely, well-equipped, in the centre of the old city of Grasse, and 300 Euros for the week including linen and heat. You can see the flat itself at http://grasse.2pieces.monsite.wanadoo.fr/index.jhtml.

And because we're on holiday, I stayed in bed this morning while my loving attentive spouse got up to make us some coffee. In fact, as soon as she got up, I rolled over to go back to sleep.

Except that I could hear her trying to light the stove. "Click!" -- that's the noise she made every time she pushed the stove lighting button. "Click!" I don't mind typing that; it doesn't use any of those right index finger letters. "Click! Click! Click!"

It was driving me mad. So I got up to help her. The previous night I'd spotted a lighter in the cutlery drawer and I assumed the stove starter button just didn't work.

"Let me try," I said as I entered the kitchen.

"No, I think I've got it," said my wife, pointing towards a burner at the back of the stove. "It's just that…"

"Which burner are you trying to light?" I asked.

"Well, I was trying to light the one at the front, here," she said, indicating a burner at the front of the stove.

"Okay. Let me try," I said. I held the lighter against the ring of the front burner as she turned the knob. It instantly roared alight, burning my finger. "Ow!" I said.

Actually, I said quite a few other words but they all have the letter "h" or "u" in them so I won't repeat them here.

"Are you all right?" asked my spouse as I thrust my finger under the cold water tap.

"Ow!" I repeated -- (or words to that effect).

"Sorry," she said. I tried to tell you. "I think the gas was off. I just turned it on." She gestured towards the back of the stove again. This time I spotted there was a gas valve there.

"Ah, right, that would be it," I said. "Glad I could help."

Fortunately, the flat has a lovely little kitchen with a lovely little window above the kitchen sink with a lovely view of Grasse. I spent quite a while looking at that view, leaning over the kitchen sink in my y-fronts with cold water running over my finger.

My wife, meanwhile, finished making the coffee and went back to bed.


Life at the BBC

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"Hmmm... How do I write about 3780 people losing their jobs and inject some humour in the tale?"

That is the question that rumbled around in my head last Monday night. On that day, the Director General of the BBC, Mark Thompson, announced 2050 job cuts (he'd announced 1730 others a couple of weeks before). I felt I should write something about it, primarily to let people who know me find out whether my job was affected. It isn't, by the way -- not directly. Most of the people on my team are "at risk". Several good friends have been told their positions have vanished. And another team that we work very closely with, and which provides most of our funding, has been dismantled.

But I feel uncomfortable talking about serious subjects in public and this is all pretty serious stuff. Nineteen percent of the BBC are being punted out the door. Whatever the long-term strategy, in the short-term this is going to cause major disruption and heartbreak for many people and many of the BBC's services.

Fortunately, yesterday a vengeful god came to my aid and a very entertaining email about the Director-General arrived in my inbox. It had been forwarded around the BBC for a couple of days before it made it to me, and has already been widely reported in the British Press, so I doubt my reporting it here will cause any great controversy.

Basically, Jeremy Paxman is a respected British news presenter who was about to interview Mark Thompson. He had heard a rumour that Mr. Thompson had once bit a colleague and wrote to ask if it was true. Unfortunately, he didn't get the reply in time for his interview but the following exchange is apparently the original email conversation he had with the victim. I should stress that there is no way for me to know if the exchange was genuine, but the official response from the BBC acknowledges the incident did happen.

Jeremy asked a journalist named Anthony Massey, "I've got to interview Mark Thompson tomorrow. Is it true that he once bit you?"

He wrote back, "Sorry I didn't reply in time, I've been away from the office for the last week, and I missed the News Festival or I could have offered this from the audience!

It is absolutely true. It was late summer or early autumn of 1988, when he was the newly appointed editor of the Nine O'Clock News, and I was a Home News Organiser. It was 9.15 in the morning, in the middle of the old sixth floor newsroom. I went up to his desk to talk about some story after the 9.00 meeting we used to have then. I was standing next to him on his right, and he was sitting reading his horoscope in the Daily Star (I always remember that detail). Before I could say a word he suddenly turned, snarled, and sank his teeth into my left upper arm (leaving marks through the shirt, but not drawing blood). It hurt. I pulled my arm out of his jaws, like a stick out of the jaws of a labrador. The key thing is, we didn't have a row first, or even speak, and I had never had any dispute with him before. He was recently arrived in the newsroom, and I hardly knew him. He just bit me in the arm for no reason without any warning or preamble. I don't think it was personal. Something turned in his brain, and anyone who had been standing there at that moment would have been bitten, Linda from the teabar, the BBC Chairman, Keith Graves, anyone. It just happened to be me.

Thompson didn't apologise or explain, so I went to complain to my then boss, Chris Cramer. All Cramer said was "This whole place is full of fucking headbangers", which was a fair point and indeed is still true, but didn't help somehow. I wanted to bring the whole BBC disciplinary process down on Thompson's head, and get the NUJ involved, but Cramer was desperate for that not to happen. So I got sent abroad on some story for a month or so, and when I came back it had lost momentum, and I never pursued it. Also I was on attachment and applying for a permanent job, so I didn't want to rock the boat. And in those days dinosaurs ruled the earth, and it seemed quite acceptable for senior people to bite junior colleagues. But several times since Mark Damazer, who was one of many witnesses, has said to me "You could have ended Mark Thompson's career with a single word, and you never did." He sounded as though he wished I had, though I thought he was meant to be a friend of Thompson's.

Thompson stayed in the newsroom for several months until he became Editor of Panorama, and we have met a number of times since then. But in a very British way, neither of us has ever mentioned it. But when he became DG several people who were in the newsroom at the time reminded me of this incident (as if I might have forgotten it) and it went all round the building. To my knowledge the only time it's appeared in print was shortly afterwards, when a brief item appeared in the Londoner's Diary in the Evening Standard. This was nothing whatever to do with me, though I was not sorry to see it. My name wasn't mentioned, which was good. But the story did go round the world, and when I was in Kuwait just after the end of the Gulf War in 1991, an NBC producer said "Are you the person Mark Thompson bit?" Fame of a sort.

Now Thompson is DG, the story is probably more valuable. The joke in the newsroom is that if ever they make me redundant, I'll be off to the Daily Mail or the Sun with my arm in a sling. There are several other good Thompson stories. I know two more. He has a bit of a reputation for mindless violence against innocent bystanders (ask the old hands in RCR about the strangling incident). But he's only attacked me once.

I last saw Thompson just after he was made DG, at the BBC News 50th anniversary party in TC1 in May. He saw me across the room and went white. I don't know why. He shouldn't be afraid of me, I don't bite."

Jeremy replied, "Gosh! I wish I'd got this earlier, although it would have been hard to know precisely how to play it, I think. The bloke is quite clearly insane."

"He certainly is," wrote Anthony. "Here's the subbed down version of the strangling story, which I hasten to add I got at second hand and did not witness personally:

The Nine, with Thompson editing, were leading with the death of some famous British actor like Gielgud or Ralph Richardson. At two minutes to nine a picture editor dubbed the obit to get a perfect sound balance. As it was four minutes long and this was the pre-digital age, this wasn't very bright, and the story missed its slot as the lead. After the Nine was over Thompson stormed down to VTs in search of the culprit and tried to throttle him. He had both hands round the man's throat and had to be dragged off. All this might have been forgotten but for the fact that the picture editor, according to the story, had a nervous breakdown, left the BBC and never worked again. They still talk about it in RCR.

So I got off lightly really."

Jeremy: "Bloody hell. If any of this came out, he'd be toast."

I haven't read the direct responses from the BBC, but the following is lifted from an article in This is London.

"The BBC said: 'Mark did bite him but it wasn't intended to hurt him. He thought he was doing something funny.

'When he was later told that Anthony thought he had "gone for him", Mark went up and said sorry and tried to make amends.

Mark does remember the incident because he remembers Anthony took it the wrong way. It was horseplay.'

Officials said no action would be taken against Paxman or Massey over the leaking of the e-mails - and denied Thompson read Daily Star horoscopes.

Privately BBC officials denied Thompson had attempted to strangle a colleague."

My favourite part is "...and denied Thompson read Daily Star horoscopes." I'm glad they straightened that out.

Birthday Poems

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This is the season for birthdays it seems. Yesterday there were two big parties back in Canuck-land. My Grandmother had the first of a brace of parties to celebrate her 100th and my wise old uncle Pat had his 40th. Pat is actually a year younger than I am which pretty much makes my aunt a cradle-robbing trollop.

For his party we had been asked to send along a picture of ourselves along with a poem or story. Unfortunately, I am a crap nephew and forgot all about this until I was about to venture out the door. I had to go on a shopping trip for crucial hair maintenance unguents with my charming spouse. To remedy the situation, I sent a series of pictures from my phone with brief poems as we travelled around London. Unfortunately, I'm not entirely sure any of them actually arrived. I tried to send the photos to flickr but it's been several hours and they haven't shown up yet.

The other adventure we had last night was that we saw the play "Hedda Gabbler" at the Almeida. A crucial bit of the plot revolves around a fellow who has written a manuscript of great genius which he misplaces. This leads to his ruin and much unhappiness for everyone concerned. In an effort to forestall any similar crisis amongst my own circle, I feel I should record my poems immediately for posterity. Sadly, you'll just have to imagine the photos which should have accompanied them.

Greetings from the top
of the 277 bus.
Hope your party's not a flop.
Happy birthday from both of us.

Now we're on the tube.
It goes 'clickety clack'!
And, 'cause they don't use enough lube,
'Screech!' goes the rickety track!

This is a musical.
It's about a flying car.
We haven't seen this spectacle
Or driven in its star.

This is a store called Liberty.
Its wood comes from ships,
Which makes it very pretty,
If not particularly hip.

We're in a Belgian restaurant
With more beers than you could ever want.
The beers are brewed by Trappist monks.
Drink too many, and you'll totally blow some chunks.

Now we're back home,
Lying in our bed.
I'm out of clever poems
So I'll just say this instead.
Happy birthday to you.
You don't stink like poo.
Happy birthday from me.
You don't stink like pee.
Happy birthday from Vicki.
Who thinks you don't smell at all icky.
In fact, as birthday boys go,
You smell like freshly baked dough.
Happy Birthday, Uncle Pat.

Or course, my crapness as a nephew is nothing compared to my crapness as a grandson. I considered briefly trying to come up with a poem for my grand old Baba, but I was far too intimidated. The woman published books of poetry. Real poetry! Not lame-ass comic poems about poo and lube and Trappist monks, but poems about flowers and wheat fields and the prairies where she grew up.

I occasionally pretend I did some hard work in my day, planting trees in the wilds of the Liard and what not. But, my grandmother, Doris Elizabeth Yanda, was born in a sod hut in the middle of the Canadian prairies just after the turn of the century and never knew any work but hard work. She was still harvesting her own beets at the age of ninety-something. And you just know that anyone who grows their own beets is not someone who spent their early years with a silver spoon in their mouth.

She helped found the Ukrainian Woman's Association of Canada and helped broker its affiliation with the National Council of Women. I like to pretend I'm a sensitive new age guy but all I've ever really done for the cause of feminism is to marry a feminist, and that had more to do with the fact my wife is a total babe than she was destined for great things in the field of gender studies.

My Baba was also a champion weaver and made the most amazing Easter eggs. Her old art projects are in the National Museum of Canada. My old art projects were all thrown out by my parents as soon as they thought I'd forgotten about them. The woman raised tens thousands of dollars for various charities throughout her life. She raised four kids into some of the most opinionated and feisty adults I have ever known which can't have been an easy task. To think of that foursome as toddlers makes my blood run cold.

All in all, she's been a force to reckon with and my only consolation is that even if I haven't come close to matching her accomplishments so far, I have another 60 years to catch up.

And to that end, I hereby vow to devote myself more fully to my art. Here, then, is another poem. This one is dedicated to my crazy landlord who also just had a birthday.

Roses have petals.
Violets are gay.
I'll spank you with nettles
For your birthday.

(Please note that I have no intention of spanking the man with nettles. This is just an artistic conceit. I'm sure, knowing him as I do, he would be delighted to be spanked with nettles; the man's a horny old perv. But it just wouldn't be appropriate with my grandmother turning 100 and all.)