Category: Chips on Shoulders

Freedom of movement

It looks as if the EU’s Shengen days are numbered.  Queue of lorries at the Ukraine border with Poland

Thank goodness, I hear you say. Sanity returns.

But be careful what you wish for. I remember well the queues of stinking lorries at border crossings, waiting interminably for the cynical attention of the customs crews, who now and then threw a sickie or struck in the name of solidarity with something or other. Train drivers, air-traffic controllers, farmers…..

And if you were unlucky enough to be carrying goods requiring their attention, it was ‘back of the line for you, my lad, car or no car’. I have spent whole half-days between Belgium and France, Holland and Germany. Friday afternoons in summer were always particularly unpleasant among short-tempered drivers eager to get home and short-tempered customs officers reluctant to let them.

Ho hum.

Er…say that again

A driverless car has been stopped for impeding traffic in California, doing 25 in a 35 minimum zone.

Backside wonders how you stop one of them? ‘Scuse me, er, sir, er ma’am, er…’

Does that harridan on the GPS answer back? ‘Type your name and badge number on the screen, press enter. Calculating, calculating. Invalid request. Bugger off.’

Time for segregation

It’s as clear as urinating in snow, as they say in this neck of the woods. The era of playing by the rules ended when contradicting parents, ignoring teachers and disrespecting coppers became the norm.

The world segwayed seamlessly into two distinct societies, the conformers and the rebels; all in the cause of money and power.

But what’s to be done about sports dopers, automotive cheats and common or garden anarchists?

Well, years ago DK sanctioned a district in Copenhagen where the rules don’t apply. It’s Christiania. Of course its freedoms are abused but it satisfies some primeval antisocial urges.

So here’s the thing: sport is easy. Just run two systems, the clean and the ‘open’. Similar to the old gents v. players, amateurs v. pros.

For cars, establish two classes, conforming and others, differentiated by eye-watering tax rates.

All non-conformists would have to choose publicly not to conform but accept the consequences of their choice. Importantly no stigma would attach to it.

It can’t work, you say. No? Well the present set up is a train crash so what’s not to like?

Bags

Brit stores are charging 5p per plastic bag. Big deal.

People are too lazy to change their habits – not just in GB. They’ll try to nick a basket (until it’s tagged).

Over here in DK, the bags are min. 25p! And people still buy them! So what is the solution? Biodegradable bags maybe?

PS we keep a couple of strong cardboard boxes in the car and take them into the store. Easypeasy.

When in Rome

When Arabs live in Britain we are careful to advise them that our rules apply. They are not allowed to do many things they believe to be ok per their ‘home’ rules.

A Brit who has (condescendingly?) ‘dedicated’ his last 25 years to his job in Saudi, has been caught with home-brew wine and seems likely to suffer for it.

Why did he do it? He can’t claim ignorance of the rules. Maybe he’s always flouted them. But one thing is certain, he shouldn’t complain.

 

The Marmite of the retail sector

Love them or hate them, M & S commands respect in the biz community. Like coriander in the kitchen perhaps.

I recall just what a demanding time we had whenever as suppliers we were summoned to Baker Street to field ultra detailed questions about our product’s performance in their stores. Any justifiable consumer grouse had to be reimbursed five-fold.

But hey! I hear Backside retort, that was all nearly 50 years ago; although I doubt anything has changed.  So I’m impressed with Cameron’s choice of Stuart Rose, ex M & S boss of renown, to chair the campaign to stay in the EU. Just as Maggie the Great chose an earlier Baker St. Boss to mastermind her slimming of the overfed Civil Service 30 odd years ago.

So when I pop back home later this month, I’ll do homage to St. Michael and top up with hanks and socks, my kind of Marmite and coriander you might say.

Only when I laugh

It’s the pain, doctor.

Where exactly, Janus?

Just here (pointing to heart).

And when do you get it?

Whenever I watch English teams play.

So it’s home-sickness then, the call from home?

No. That’s a sweeter feeling, like hearing I’m to be a grandpa for the 10th time.

Congratulations then! But back to the pain?

Yes. What’s the cure?

Get rid of the sports channels. Watch Danish tv. You’ll feel no emotion whatever and sleep extremely well. That’s the true meaning of ‘hygge’ (pron. hew- ga)!

Typical

Over in the Fens, at that inferior tech known among the cognoscenti as The Other Place, punting is under threat. ‘Elf and Softy are at work to render the extreme pleasure of messing about in flat boats totally anodyne.

If you have never tried navigating with the aid of a very long wet pole while standing on the rear end of an unruly craft, you can’t appreciate the sheer folly involved. A state of inebriation is the only guarantee of success – together with the presence of a beautiful young passenger of course, gazing admiringly at one’s prowess.

Punters henceforth will be breathalised before embarcation and warned that non-swimmers must wear life-vests. Water allegedly is…..well, wet and speeding (are you kidding?) is dangerous for all river users.

So my advice is decamp toute suite to the Cherwell, where no holds are barred and the age of waterborne chivalry is alive and risky as ever.