Quintin Jardine's blog

And here’s to you and yours, GD, from all of us at the Word Factory. Yes, thanks, AJ did get where he was bound, eventually, although he says he’ll never fly Air France again after four hours sitting on the ground in the de-icer queue, during which time the cabin staff didn’t think it necessary to go round with the trolley offering as much as a glass of water to their caged passengers, far less something with a little bite. I have been on aircraft in such situations and been told that it’s against regulations to open the bar until after take-off . . . that is of course, unless you’re travelling Business Class or above in which circs you are hardly in your seat before they’re plying you with strong drink.

A businessman was attending a conference in Africa . He had a free day and wanted to play a round of golf and was directed to a golf course in the nearby jungle. After a short journey, he arrived at the course and asked the pro if he could get on. “Sure,” said the Pro, “What’s your handicap?”

Not wanting to admit that he had an 18 handicap, he decided to cut it a bit. “Well, its 16,” said the businessman, “But what’s the relevance since I’ll be playing alone?”

“It’s very important for us to know,” said the pro, who then called a caddy. “Go out with this gentleman,” said the pro, “his handicap is 16.”

The businessman was very surprised at this constant reference to his handicap. The caddy picked up the businessman’s bag and a large rifle; again the businessman was surprised but decided to ask no questions.
They arrived on the 1st hole, a par 4. “It’s wise to avoid those trees on the left,” said the caddy.

Needless to say, the businessman duck-hooked his ball into the trees. He found his ball and was about to punch it out when he heard the loud crack of the rifle and a large snake fell dead from a tree above his head. The caddy stood next to him with the rifle smoking in his hand.

“That’s the Black Mamba, the most poisonous snake in all Africa . You’re lucky I was here with you.” After taking a bogey, they moved to the 2ndhole, a par 5.

“Good to avoid those bushes on the right,” says the caddy
Of course, the businessman’s ball went straight into the bushes. As he went to pick up his ball, he heard the loud crack of the caddy’s rifle once more, and a huge lion fell dead at his feet.
“I’ve saved your life again,” said the caddy.

The 3rd hole was a par 3 with a lake in front of the green. The businessman’s ball came up just short of the green and rolled back to the edge of the water. To take a shot, he had to stand with one foot in the lake. As he was about to swing, a large crocodile emerged from the water and bit off much of his right leg.

As he fell to the ground bleeding and in great pain, he saw the caddy with the rifle propped at his side, looking on unconcernedly “Why didn’t you kill it?” asked the man incredulously.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the caddy. “This is the 17th handicap hole. You don’t get a shot here.”

And that, my golfing friends, is why you should never lie about your handicap!!

Here’s the scene: a father searching for his daughter’s Christmas present heads into a toy shop and asks the sales person, ‘How much for one of those Barbie’s in the display window?’ The salesperson answers, ‘Which one do you mean, Sir? We have: Work Out Barbie for £19.95, Shopping Barbie for £19.95, Beach Barbie for £19.95, Disco Barbie for £19.95, Ballerina Barbie for £19.95, Astronaut Barbie for £19.95, Skater Barbie for £19.95, and Divorced Barbie for £265.95’.

The amazed father asks: ‘It’s what?! Why is the Divorced Barbie £265.95 and the others only £19.95?’

The salesperson rolls her eyes, sighs, and explains: ‘Sir…, Divorced Barbie comes with: Ken’s Car, Ken’s House, Ken’s Boat, Ken’s Furniture, Ken’s Computer, one of Ken’s Friends, and a key chain made with Ken’s nuts.’

First of all, Harry, sincere thanks for the kind things you say in your website feedback. However, the second half of your comment is ridiculous, and would have been better kept to yourself. I suggest that you go back to the phrase in question and take another look. It’s direct speech, a term used by one of my characters. I won’t back off from it for one second, because out here in the real world that’s how people often speak, and in a spirit of fondness not deprecation. That particular phrase is in common use across the land to describe the local Chinese restaurant, with no offence implied, or, as far as I’m aware, taken. You say that you’re not being politically correct. I disagree; that’s exactly what you’re doing. Okay, that’s point one made. Now to point two. If you are implying that I am in any way racist, you’d better go hide under the stairs, in case I come looking for you, because I really will find that offensive, and I really will take it personally.

There’s one other casualty of the Cable affair, and that’s the Daily Telegraph. Its editor appears to have held back from publishing what was by far the biggest story gleaned by his reporters during their sneaking around constituency offices, and their secret taping of conversations . . . God, but there should be a law against that . . . because his publication is as biased as Vince Cable is against Murdoch and NewsCorp. I lost my faith in the integrity of the Telegraph a while back, but I’m still saddened to see the terminal decline of what was once my favourite UK newspaper.

It doesn’t matter how we vote. It doesn’t matter whether the party we support is at the foot of the hill, at the top of the hill or neither up nor down. In a democracy, whether it’s our party that’s in power or one to which we are diametrically opposed, we, as electors and as taxpayers, are entitled to demand one thing of Her Majesty’s ministers: that they behave with absolute integrity when exercising the offices that they hold. We place our trust in them, all of us, right, left or centre.

And that brings me to Vince Cable.

I’m not going to comment on the fact that Dr (PhD in economics) Cable, has been a member of four different political parties in his career. (One more  than Churchill and two more than me.)  I’m not going to say a word about him having been a Glasgow Labour councillor back in the 70s, back in the hey-day of Lazarus Lally and Genghis McCann. I’m not even going to go back to yesterday morning when he was quoted, accurately, as boasting, inaccurately, I  hope, of his ability to bring down the government just by walking out of the Cabinet. No, I’m going back no further than yesterday afternoon, when the BBC broke the story of his self-professed declaration of war on Rupert Murdoch.

The issue’s simple: Cable, as Business Secretary, had ministerial responsibility for deciding  whether Murdoch’s News Corporation should be allowed to bid for complete control of BskyB, Sky television’s parent company. He had referred the matter to the regulatory body OfCom, but his vain bragging to his so-called constituents about a war that he thought he was going to win, made it clear beyond a shadow of a doubt that his mind was made up.

And that brings me back to trust. In situations which affect us all, where a minister is in a quasi-judicial position in an issue that is not set down in any party manifesto, we are entitled to demand that he is objective and that he will act in the national interest. More than that, those on whom he’s passing judgement are entitled to demand the same of him. Personally, I don’t want Murdoch to take his control of  UK media one inch further. But when the decision goes against him I don’t want him running off to the European Court either, running up a multi-million pound legal bill for British taxpayers.

Today, Vince stands rebuked by the Prime Minister, (a punishment that comes a poor second to a good bollocking by my cat) and his department has been stripped of responsibility for the areas in question. And yet he’s still in the Cabinet. This can’t stand, surely. The man has demonstrated very clearly that he is no longer worthy of public trust, if not in his integrity, then at the very least in his judgement. As one of his colleagues put it last night, he fell for the oldest trick in the book, a pretty face. I doubt if there’s a single person in the Westminster community who doesn’t believe that if this was an administration with an absolute majority, he’d have gone within an hour. You don’t have to look too far back in history for precedents. Peter Mandelson was sacked twice, by one of his best friends, for transgressions which look pretty mild by comparison. Go back to 1983, and Cecil Parkinson, Maggie’s heir apparent at the time and a much bigger figure than Dr Cable ever was or ever will be, found his career in ruins over a matter that had nothing to do with his performance in office.

But, as the BBC’s excellent Laura Kuenssberg pointed out, these are not normal times. The UK has a coalition government and it seems that for those at its head, holding it together is more important than preserving its integrity. This morning the Torygraph trotted out the names of another three ministers who had what they thought were private conversations with constituents bugged without their consent. They provided very clear evidence of something I’ve believed for twenty-five years and  haven’t kept to myself, that the LibDems would do anything to have a ministerial car rolling up to their door every morning.

Cable, and now Moore, Webb and Davey, have all made it very clear they feel they’re sleeping with the enemy. They’re doing it for reward, and that makes them . . . Stop, QJ! You almost wrote ‘prostitutes’ there, and you have much more respect for sex workers than for these guys.

Six months ago, the coalition was seen to be necessary. It even offered a new sort of politics to those less cynical than me. But can you have an administration that’s built at best on grudging compromise, one that has conflict at its core, one in which a lone buffoon believes himself to be so big that he is holding the whole thing up and that it would collapse without him?

I don’t believe so. I would rather be governed wholly by Holyrood than partly by Westminster, but as long as I have to live with the status quo I expect both institutions to be run to the highest standards, and that’s not happening in London, at we can see very clearly. It’s time, in my view, for Nick Clegg, and his fifty-six colleagues to go back to their natural habitat, the opposition benches, and for David Cameron to form a minority government, until it is the will of  parliament, or until he decides, that there should be another general election.

The next Primavera is little over a year away, Vic. She and Tom will be back in action in January 2012, (maybe slightly later in Canadian bookstores) in a tale called As Easy As Murder, in which a familiar face will return.

This is something to think about when negative people are doing their best to rain on your parade. So remember this story the next time someone who knows nothing and cares less tries to make your
life miserable.

A woman was at her hairdresser’s getting her hair styled for a trip to Rome with her husband. She mentioned the trip to the hairdresser, who responded: “Rome ? Why would anyone want to go there? It’s crowded and dirty.. You’re crazy to go to Rome . So, how are you getting there?”

“We’re taking Continental,” was the reply. “We got a great rate!”

“Continental?” exclaimed the hairdresser. ” That’s a terrible airline. Their planes are old, their flight attendants are ugly, and they’re always late. So, where are you staying in Rome ?”

“We’ll be at this exclusive little place over on Rome’s Tiber River called Teste.”

“Don’t go any further.. I know that place.Everybody thinks its gonna be something  special and exclusive, but it’s really a dump.”

“We’re going to go to see the Vatican and maybe get to see the Pope.”

“That’s rich,” laughed the hairdresser. You and a million other people trying to see him. He’ll look the size of an ant. Boy, good luck on this lousy trip of yours. You’re going to need it.”

A month later, the woman again came in for a hairdo. The hairdresser asked her about her trip to Rome.

“It was wonderful,” explained the woman, “not only were we on time in one of Continental’s brand new planes, but it was overbooked, and they bumped us up to first class. The food and wine were wonderful, and I had a handsome 28-year-old steward who waited on me hand and foot. And the hotel was great! They’d just finished a $5 million remodelling job, and now it’s a jewel, the finest hotel in the city. They, too, were overbooked, so they apologised and gave us their owner’s suite at no extra charge!”

“Well,” muttered the hairdresser, “that’s all well and good, but I  know you didn’t get to see the  Pope.”

“Actually, we were quite lucky, because as we toured the Vatican, a Swiss Guard tapped me on the shoulder, and explained that the Pope likes to meet some of the visitors, and if I’d be so kind as to step into his private room and wait, the Pope would personally greet me.Sure enough, five minutes later, the Pope walked through the door and shook my hand! I knelt down and he spoke a few words to me.”

“Oh, really! What’d he say ?”

He said: “Who the **** did your hair?”

When the BBC announced that David  Beckham was to be given a lifetime achievement award, my first reaction, shared by many, I’m sure was, ‘He’s only 35.’ Then I had a look at his detailed biography and I changed my mind. It’s not just what he’s done, it’s the way that he’s done it. Like all great footballers, he added about 20% to his natural talent by sheer hard work. Then he added something else. Some would call it charisma, and that’s fine. I’d call it character. Yes, he has traded on his football fame and on his wife’s Spice background to build a brand that’s made them multi-millionaires. But he’s done much more than that. He’s been an ambassador for his country whenever it has asked him to step forward. He stands out from the recent World Cup debacle as one of the few figures of integrity in global football. He’s a UNICEF ambassador and he’s a lead ing figure in an anti-malaria charity. He lives his life as a target for every paparazzo out to make a buck, and remains mostly spotless.

Becks has been a public figure for half of the life that was honoured last night, but I don’t believe that anyone truly appreciated what he is until his name was called out last night, and the entire massive audience stood and applauded him, quite spontaneously, until their throats and their palms were sore. It was cathartic; the opportunity to express true feelings and they all took it. There wasn’t  dry eye in the house, or in ours. When, finally, they allowed him to speak, he wasn’t massively articulate, but what he said was balanced, humble, caring, good and from the heart.

Come the next honours list in ten days time, people will be knighted and ennobled. History tells us that many will have helped, in the main, only themselves. If Becks goes into 2011 as Sir David, it’ll be an honour bestowed for what he’s done for others, not for himself, and for what he means.

If there had been a category in last night’s awards for most twittering in world sport, Ian Poulter would have won. The result had barely been announced before he was out there protesting  that either Graeme McDowell or Lee Westwood should have been lifting the trophy. Poulter is known for speaking his mind (This may be why the  twitter format suits him. Work that one out.) and he has to be respected for supporting his mates, even when the winner is, like him, a notorious Arsenal supporter. However he’d have complained with more authority if he’d turned up for the event himself. Only three of the twelve members of the winning Ryder Cup team were present at what Ian P calls the Spoty awards, and two of them were candidates for the main awards. That meant that when the victorious side won (predictably) team of the year, only Lee Westwood, GMac and Ross Fisher were up on stage with Monty to receive it. But should they have been candidates, given that it’s a European, not British team and that six of its twelve members don’t hold UK passports? What the hell, better them than Chelsea, who are mostly foreign hired hands with a foreign coach.

Last night I did something that I can’t recall ever doing before. I voted in the BBC Sports Personality of the Year award. Better than that, I voted for the winner, and punched the air when the result was announced. Then I held on to the phone so that Eileen couldn’t negate it by voting for Jessica Ennis, worthy as she is. I needn’t have worried though, since it seems that A P McCoy ran away with it. Forty-one per cent of the poll in a ten-runner field indicates a pretty decisive victory. Why did I vote for him, when I’m not a great racing follower? Two reasons. First, in a field of excellent candidates, only he and Phil Taylor, a worthy runner-up, were so dominant in their sports. There is no world champion in National Hunt racing, but if there was, then Tony McCoy would have held the title for fifteen years. Second, there’s the nature of what he does. David Haye and Amir  Khan (who should, IMO, have been the boxing candidate rather than the Hayemaker) put their well-being on  the line in their sports, but they are looking to break their opponents’ bones. A P and his fellow jockeys compete against the certain knowledge that they’re the ones who’ll be suffering the fractures; he has had almost seven hundred falls in his career and he’s broken just about everything. He has also broken just about every record that’s open to him. At 36, he has a few more years left to raise those bars even higher.

I was beginning to doubt the weather forecast, but it’s back. At some point during the night a fresh fall of snow, a couple of inches, landed on Gullane. Cheers.

The manager of Blackpool Football Club is a man with a reputation for telling it like it is.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/football/teams/b/blackpool/9300866.stm

This link (copy and paste if you have to) might not work outside the UK, but hopefully it will, because it says all that needs to be said about the nutters, lackeys and toads who run world football.

I’m going to have to break ‘The Journey’. I’ve been reading Tony Blair’s autobiography for quite a while now, and I’m still less than halfway through. The rise and faltering of New Labour was an interesting period of recent British history, and the testament of the man who was at its heart will no doubt be a source document for future students of the era. It should be fascinating for anyone who’s as interested in politics as I am: it should be but it isn’t. Our former prime minister may be a man of many skills, but  story-telling isn’t one of them. It wouldn’t be so bad if it had been well edited, but it hasn’t been. Next time I see my bro-in-law, I’m going to have to apologise for giving it to him for his birthday. To put it in perspective, I’m currently listening to The Essential Leonard Cohen fora bit of light relief.

A good friend of mine describes Scotland as a poisonous mix of self-interest and naked tribal politics. She’s from Paisley, so she should know. But are we really that bad? Doesn’t that description fit most western societies?

I have a confession to make. My family and friends might disagree, but I am not the most patient man in the world. Remarkable in some ways, since I spend a lot of my life in a nation famed for being laid back.

At the beginning of last week, I decided that most of my Christmas shopping would be done on line. Mistake. I’m looking out of my window at a snow-free environment; temperatures have been above freezing for close on a week now, and everything is back to normal. For all that both DHL and ParcelForce have effectively declared Scotland a no-go area. Fine, they must have major backlogs to clear. However they have also declared themselves no-go areas when it comes to customer information. You can get through to a depot, but it’s bloody difficult, and when you do, it isn’t worth it, as they don’t even know where your consignment is within their warehouse, far less can they tell you when you might receive it . . . or even whether.

But it’s not the carriers alone. My phone rang a few days ago; I picked it up and an automated voice told me that  ‘Due to the adverse weather, your TESCO wine order has been delayed.’ Then the line went dead, and I’ve heard nothing since. Sorry Mr T, but to me customer service involves real people, not computers. The people at DHL etc, might not be able to help, but at least they are invariably sympathetic.

There’s worse. Last night I had an email from Marks and f*cking Spencer about another order; it said that home delivery would not longer be possible, but that I could log on to my account and specify store collection. I tried; the system wouldn’t let me. I decided on their second option, cancellation: that wasn’t possible either. In fact their system wouldn’t let me alter the order in any way.

This morning they sent me another email, contradicting the first. It told me that I will receive my purchases after all, in two parts, by December 24 (estimate). So now I’m one of thousands of M&S customers who don’t know where they stand, and I’m not happy. Twiggy herself could turn up on my doorstep to apologise and I wouldn’t let her in, far less offer her coffee and biscuits. They could send Jamie Redknapp, another front of house star, (Isn’t that guy lucky that he has his mother’s looks, not his dad’s?) and I’d tell him to piss off back to Thomas Cook, or Sky TV, or wherever. Peter Kay? I’d nut him.

This is supposed to be the season to be f*cking jolly. Not around here it ain’t.

You couldn’t make Sepp Blatter up. Not content with the organisation over which he presides having sold . . . sorry, mistake, delete that . . . having awarded the 2022 World Cup to Qatar, a country with absolutely no domestic history in the game,  with summer temperatures that will require all the games to be played indoors, and with immigration laws that deny entry purely on the basis of nationality, he has now made a joke of another of the potential host country’s quirks, its ban on homosexuality. Sepp’s solution: (shrug) (smirk) gay fans can refrain from sexual activity while they are there. (Okay, I’ve inserted the shrug and the smirk, but you can picture those, can’t you.)

I’m not alone in being offended. This by John Ameichi, a respected gay sportsman.

http://amaechiperformance.blogspot.com/2010/12/sepp-blatter-fifa-and-proof-of.html

There’s another line in the story that caught my attention, another quote from Herr President. “I think there is too much concern for a competition that will be done only in 12 years.” That reveals a lot about his mind-set. He’s 74; by the time of the Qatari World Cup he’ll be 87, so there’s a fair chance he’ll be looking up at it by that time. (Although maybe not, on the basis that only the good die young.) So, although he knows that millions of people around the world are offended by his organisation and by its conduct, he doesn’t actually give a shit.

Clearly, Blatter should be removed from office, but it’s not going to happen.