As a Scotsman, I have been viewing with great amusement the turmoil surrounding the England football team this week, culminating in the sacking of manager Glenn Hoddle for his remarks about how the disabled are paying for their sins in a previous life. I’ve never had a lot of time for Hoddle since he stopped playing — a genius on the pitch, he never quite seemed to grasp the fact that much of the job is involved with…well, managing, specifically the players.

However, I confess to having had some sympathy for him over the past few days. To start with, it all began when he was asked for his opinions on the topic, and he gave them. It’s not as if he shouted them out during a pre-match press conference. They are not new, either, he’s said similar things in the past without such a furore springing up. It’s also pretty clear to anyone with half a brain [admittedly, this criteria rules out most of the people running the game in this country] that he’s always been, shall we say, a little eccentric — most notably, his reliance on a faith healer, not just for himself, but the members of the squad he picks. So why are his (admittedly bizarre) religious views now an issue?

It’s obvious that the tabloids have had their knives out for Hoddle since the World Cup. The love affair terminated rapidly after that “glorious night in Rome” [a pedestrian 0-0 draw], and though they failed to have him fired after the World Cup, they have long memories. They always get their man — or at least can claim to, since few incumbents of the England managerial position die on the job. The only real surprise in the entire, depressing coverage was the Mirror not spotting the writing on the wall, and bravely/stupidly taking Hoddle’s side. Not a triumph they will boast about in years to come.

So, should he have been fired? ‘Course not. What he said was no different from what billions of people round the world believe; mind you, reincarnation is not standard Christian philosophy, admittedly. In an earlier age, such heresy would have had him swiftly meeting Messrs.Rack, Pincers and Stake, but in these enlightened days, who really cares? Sure, some people probably found it offensive or hurtful, but that’s in the nature of religion — and there’s no evidence Hoddle has ever gone round pointing at cripples and saying “Ha, ha — bet you’re sorry now”. Indeed, he’s done more for the disabled than I, and probably you too, ever have.

Much has also been made of the supposedly divisive effect on the squad. I doubt professional footballers are actually such delicate creatures as to be damaged by their boss’s religious convictions. I’m sure they possess convictions of their own: criminal damage, drink driving and assault seem to be the favourites. Round this office, we have everyone from atheists to born-again Christians, and no-one really cares, because IT’S UNIMPORTANT. If our job involved baptising children, it might be viewed as relevant, but it isn’t, any more than it is to footballers.

There is, of course, the possibility that Hoddle let his bizarre chocolate box of philosophies influence his choices, but this should have been apparent a long time ago. Waiting for him to answer honestly a loaded question asked by a reporter seems somewhat harsh.

Perhaps he’s better out of the limelight — and certainly, he’ll be considerably richer, England managers needn’t worry about employment any more than ex-Chancellors. His replacement, whoever it is, will no doubt suffer a similar fate the next time the tabloids are feeling particularly bored. Who cares? Just as long as England keep losing!

Apologies for the lack of an update last week; I ran out of time over the weekend, and for the past few days, I’ve been on a training course from work, which has left me too stuffed full of information to do anything much in the evening that doesn’t involve alcoholic beverages. A training course in itself is a rare thing; over my ten years with H*BC, I’ve had about three proper ones, and a handful of one-dayers when some new chief executive decided we needed to invest in our people. That only lasted a few months — I can only presume we switched the investment to shares, gilt-edged securities, or (most probably) building our new penal camp, sorry, HQ, down in Docklands.

This course was different, since it was in First Aid, thus both required by law, and relatively cheap — about Ł300 quid for the four days, when many computer training courses will get through that in ONE day. Companies are supposed to maintain a certain ratio of qualified first aiders to employees, and we’d lost one. Yours truly was offered the chance to replace him, and being of a civic-minded bent, chose to accept [and the words “Yippee! Four days out of the office!” never crossed my mind. At all. Ever.] Mind you, the odds on having to deal with anything ickier than a bad paper-cut are, going by past history, pretty slim.

The course covered quite a lot of ground: artificial respiration, shock, broken bones, wounds, concussion and cardio-pulmonary resuscitation, though regrettably we didn’t get to slam paddles on each others chest and shout “Clear!” in true E.R. style. Incidentally though, one person there had had this done to him after suffering an allergic reaction to a bee sting; it apparently burns off your chest hair. Maybe this should be marketed as an alternative to bikini-waxing?

The aim of this was to get you through an exam at the end of the week, both a theory paper, and a practical test in which you’d be put into a simulated accident situation — albeit regrettably without founts of arterial blood spraying across the ceiling. Well, *I* regretted it, some members of the class looked distinctly shaky at the training footage involving a severed finger [wrap in plastic, then gauze, more plastic, keep on ice. Oh, and tag with the victim’s name, a concept that seemed daft until you realised, what if there’d been a bomb explosion and there were a few limbs to be matched with their owners?]

The major concern was that we had to practice our techniques on the rest of the class. We British are not a tactile race, so having to do this to people to whom we hadn’t been properly introduced was a severe mental trauma. Even if you were checking out the class babe for injuries (which basically involves running your hands over her body), you still felt you should be apologising for doing it. Eveyone managed to avoid an unseemly rush over in her direction when it came to choosing partners, though personally, I was more concerned about avoiding the EXTREMELY fey German chef — even our instructor referred to him as an “old queen”.

Ah, yes, the instructors, Tom and Barbara — very ‘Night of the Living Dead’. Tom was an avuncular uncle type, while Barbara was disturbingly upbeat about the whole thing. She had the sort of voice that had “SOOOOOO-per” as the subliminal message under every syllable, and I’ve never heard anyone say the words “major spinal cord damage” with such delight and enthusiasism. Still, they both undeniably knew their stuff, and shepherded the class through to the final exams.

I guess the situation did kinda mimic the real-thing, in that the adrenalin was flowing, and the nerves jangling. The last practical exam I’d had would have been my driving test back in about 1990, and the last time I’d sat a paper would have been my degree finals. My throat was dry and my hands shaking, as I walked into the room to find my casualty, who’d managed to stab himself with a chisel, fall backwards and snap his ankle. Unlucky bleeder. Though my technique left a lot to be desired [my dressings were too loose], I somehow managed to stumble through, and the roar of applause that greeted the announcement that we’d passed, showed that a lot of people were equally glad it was over. Mind you, 21 out of 24 had got through, so we’re not talking brain surgery — that’s the ADVANCED course…

But actually, it was a good experience, and I think everyone should have to do it, not just one in ten people. 90% of it is just common sense, but knowing what to do certainly makes me more confident. Though every time I walk along the street, I find myself morbidly hoping for an accident, so that I can test out my new found skills. And next time there’s a bruised thumb in the office, they’ll be bandaged, ventilated, resuscitated and into the recovery position before they know it…

Splatman Wakes the Sleeping Beauty
Community Centre, Footscray Rd, New Eltham
Friday 15th January, 1999

Pantomime is one of those peculiarly British inventions which doesn’t bear explanation. The appeal of transvestism, audience participation and really naff songs is something which is only really explicable to an Anglo-Saxon — and, perhaps, fans of the Rocky Horror Show. But I think that there is some kind of race memory which impels attendance at such things on an irregular basis? Why else would I have spent Friday night in New Eltham Methodist Church Hall, out in South London between the middle of nowhere and the back of beyond?

This is slightly disingenuous, admittedly, in that my housemate’s girlfriend used to be part of the group which did the panto. Previous excursions had been quite fun: there is a definite snigger factor in seeing someone you know, whose preferred clothes are shades of black, dressed as a fairy godmother. But what Friday night proved is that there are few things worse than bad pantomime.

This was the “Heaven’s Gate” of pantos: three hours long, and with a cast of almost fifty, including an indeterminate number – they kept moving around, making it hard to count them – of small children. I did realise their purpose: the more of them they could drag on stage, the more doting relations there would be to buy tickets. Cynical, but understandable.

The script was self-indulgent and badly paced; basically, it was ‘Sleeping Beauty’ crossed with ‘Batman’, all thrown together for no obvious reason in an SF milieu: time travel, robots, etc. I’m reading a book at thr moment called ‘Hollywood and the UFOs’, whose central premise is that certain movies and TV series are created to either educate or misinform the general public about government knowledge of the UFO phenomenon. I must confess to idle contemplation during the dull moments i.e. most of the first half, as to whether the authors of this panto had intelligence connections. For with the central theme of “missing time”, ‘Sleeping Beauty’ is clearly a veiled reference to a UFO abduction…

Also questionable was the casting: the show is a combined effort between the New Eltham Operatic Society and the Community Players, but it seemed as if the singers had to tell the jokes, while the songs were given to the actors. And this is a problem, because piss-poor jokes require delivery with precisely the right degree of self-awareness; there is an ART to being crap in the correct style. Only Bruce Barrett as the King, and Geoff Lander, a wonderfully hang-dog herald, really seemed to deliver their lines with the necessary enthusiasm to make them seem funny. And similarly, the best singing voices belonged to “principal boy” Splatman and her sidekick Dobbin (Rachel King and Elizabeth Penney), the supposed heroes who actually had absolutely nothing to do in the first half.

The horror which that was cannot be described. The moments of dread mounted up as I realised my seat was being dripped on from an open window, that there would be no interval beer (not in a Methodist church hall!) and, perhaps worst of all, the discovery that after ninety minutes we had got through just one of the three acts.
At this point, I toyed briefly with the idea of gnawing off a couple of minor digits to escape, or perhaps more plausibly given the average age of the audience, feigning senile dementia.

Despite the realisation that we weren’t even going to get out before last orders, the second half was fortunately more tolerable, eased by random thoughts of the lesbian subtext inherent in the basic story. Any similarities to a C5 show in which a leather clad and sword-wielding woman rides valiantly to the rescue with a basically useless partner is, I’m sure, coincidental, though ‘Xena Wakes The Sleeping Beauty’ would certainly have appealed. We could also tick off the various traditional elements: community singing, amateur magic tricks and choruses of “Behind you!”, and be comforted by them,

It may seem churlish to complain about what was basically an amateur production, and four quid for three hours of…entertainment…is not bad at all. However, to the observer unbiased by the presence of any friends or relations in the cast, the over-riding feelizng was that there are some things which are best left to the professionals.

No real topic for the first editorial of the last year of the second millenium [yes, I *still* know the third millenium doesn’t really start until 2001]. Instead random thoughts which drifted across my consciousness for one reason or other.

Watching ‘Aliens’ on TV last week [kudos to ITV for leaving the naughty language intact and {gasp!} even just slightly letterboxed], I couldn’t help wondering: at what point was James Cameron replaced by his evil twin? For I can think of no other explanation for how one man can go from directing the some of the most kick-ass, balls to the wall action films ever made, to…Celine Dion. I cling to the hope that in Schloss Cameron, the real JC is chained up somewhere, desperately awaiting rescue by Arnold Schwarzenegger.

As a sequel to last time’s rambling little thoughts on hacking into chocolate machines, the following memo was sent round the office just before Christmas:

WARNING!!!!!

If you get a call from someone identifying themselves as a mobile phone technician performing a test, and this person asks you to press: nine (9) zero (0) hash (#)
and then hang up – REFUSE TO DO SO!!!!!

By pushing 90# you are giving this person access to your telephone line and allowing them to make long distance calls which will be charged to you on your mobile phone bill. This has been checked with Telstar by Clare Davis (C&L) and found to be correct, so please pass it on to all mobile phone to users in your area.

Cool. I pass it on less a warning as an idea, since any yuppie/drug-dealing bastard with a mobile phone deserves everything they get — especially when the bloody things go off in the cinema. It may be a cliche to say it, but I’m sure that 95% of mobile phone calls could quite easily wait until the recipient got home, or at worst, to a call-box.

Speaking of drugs, there was an interesting survey earlier in the week:

AMSTERDAM, Jan 6 (Reuters) – The Netherlands has significantly fewer cannabis users than its reputation as a soft drugs haven might suggest, according to a study released on Wednesday. The study, financed by the health ministry and conducted by Amsterdam University and the Central Bureau of Statistics, is the first to document national drugs use.

The Dutch study, published on Tuesday and which spanned 1997 and early 1998, determined 2.5 percent of those aged 12 and over had used cannabis within the last month. In contrast, U.S. National Household Survey data for 1997 compiled by the Washington-based Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA) determined 5.1 percent of Americans were recent cannabis users. “The figures show that a repressive drugs policy, as implemented in the U.S., does not necessarily reduce drugs use,” the Dutch study said. “(Ease of) availibility is not a determining factor for the use of drugs in a country.”

So much for the War on Drugs, eh? Looks like Drugs are clearly winning that one. The reasons for this have already been given here, but the above is certainly a nice statistic to tuck away for the next time you bump into Jack Straw.

Finally, watched ‘Starship Troopers’ again last night. I continue to be amazed by the special effects — the most impressive of which had to be Denise Richards’ nose. Quite, quite incredible; no matter what angle they shot her from, you could always see straight up it. Between that, her teen-lesbo coupling with Neve Campbell in ‘Wild Things’ and her rumoured upcoming Bondness, I sense a new entry into TC’s top ten babes…

Hello, and welcome to a special, festive edition of the TC editorial…except that there is actually nothing festive, or indeed special about this. I’ve little doubt you will soon be, if you aren’t already, heartily sick of everything to do with the season, and it’s going to be tough enough trying to get through it without me adding to your misery. The last traces of any seasonal goodwill were trashed by the computer crash which means I am typing this in for the second time, when there are a million and one things I would rather be doing [full list available on application]. Suffice it to say that decking the halls with boughs of holly is not high up there…

So, therefore, this week you get exactly the same random drivel you’ve had the other 51 weeks of the year (or slightly less, allowing for technical problems, holidays and general inactivity) — in this case, chocolate machines on the London Underground. These have been a source of frustration, profit and (very occasionally) chocolate for as long as I’ve been down in London.

Back in the early days, these were primitive creatures of the drop-down type, like a cigarette machine in a pub, whose main feature was their absolute unpredictability. You put money in, about the only thing guaranteed was that you would not get out what you expected: you might receive no chocolate, two bars of chocolate, or occasionally even more money back than you put in. This delightful variability made waiting for tube trains an entertaining and sometimes rather profitable experience. On the other hand, I very nearly got arrested for criminal damage after an encounter with one particularly recalcitrant vending machine, but that’s all part of life’s rich tapestry, isn’t it?

These were then replaced with something altogether more hi-tech, electronic, digital and tamper-proof. Just far less fun. Your only chance of scoring some free chocolate here is to look out for a particularly STUPID tourist, who has a problem grasping the concept of “put your money in, choose your confectionery, take your item”. They do exist, and occasionally will abandon a loaded-up machine when their train pulls in, allowing you to sweep majestically across and grab the winnings, albeit usually at the cost of missing a train.

It has been mooted, however, that there is a secret code to these machines, a backdoor combination which, when punched in, would allow for the vending mechanism to be “tested” [roughly translated, freebie chocolate for all]. But, despite much drunken pushing of buttons, no such combination has been found, and it was on the verge of being written off as an urban legend. But, while doing my Chr*stm*s sh*pp*ng earlier in the week [brief pause to gloat: I’ve got mine out of the way!], I overheard two kids, one of whom demonstrated what was at least A secret code, if not the Holy Grail for which we seek.

The number is [conspiratorial whisper] 110. Punch that in, and you seem to get some kind of status message, usually “Ok!”, but sometimes referring to “Con Switch 14” and the like. Needless to say, research into this topic is now continuing with increased fervour, and readers are encouraged to try random button pushing of their own next time they’re travelling through London. All further information on the topic would be very welcome…

And with that, I’m off to indulge in the previously mentioned million and one other things. The next time I pick up a mouse, we’ll be in the last year of the Millenium [yes, I know it’s not really; send all pedantic quibbles to Peter Mandelson]. Have a…bearable one, and I’ll see you in 1999.