All OVER the place

Those of you who are annoyed by the changing type faces in "Standing Up for Blighty" should view the article (like me) using Netscape. Ta-Da! Everything looks the same and there's no more problem...
Sorry about that. I'll leave it for now, but I'll be a bit more cautious with the text editor from now on.

Feeling the Squeeze

I'm not sleeping very well. What I could do with is a nice job offer! I'm still trying to be optimistic about the Longley Farm job, but mostly now life just seems to be a matter of trying not to panic. I look back to life just a few months ago and shake my head in wonder. Was I really buying CDs? I can't even drive at the moment as there's not enough money to cover the insurance... And with the first of the month coming up there's a whole bunch of standing orders that are going to remain unpaid, which means that the bank charges will probably outstrip my Job-seeker's Allowance. Thank goodness Karen can at least provide me with board, lodging and encouragement while I'm bringing nothing in.
On Wednesday I get the joy of having someone from the DHSS go through all my bank details and make me feel small. Unless, of course, I get a job between now and then. Small dreams, eh?
But guess what? A friend of a friend of a friend has a horse that needs riding, and I'm off to see her tomorrow. (Before you panic about animal cruelty, let me point out that this is a very big horse!)
What I want to do tonight is sleep soundly, and not dream about having no money and no job. I hate to sound pathetic but the persistent nightmares are just getting silly.

Standing Up for Blighty

"Of course he's not going to win!" I shouted at the telly. "He's British!" Sure enough, moments later, the British athlete finished his event well below the first place that the commentator assured us was well within his grasp.
Sound familiar? Anyone watching as much Olympics as I have while I've been unemployed will know just how frustrating the first week was for team GB, and all those like me, watching and hoping, that (just for once) we could buck the trend and actually win something.
I watched as a fresh crop of swimmers lined up on their marks. "As long as he beats the French man." I said. The starter's pistol fired, and they were off. "Come on... Beat the Frenchie.. Beat the Frenchie. Beat the Frenchie, beat the.... Awww...."
So I thought I'd write something about Brits not winning anything...
And then I thought about it.
And the more I thought about it, the more I decided it didn't matter.
It's easy to paint Britain as a nation of losers. We can wheel out Sir Clive Sinclair, and laugh at his silly car. We can wheel out Beagle 2, and sadly shake our heads as Prof Colin Pillinger tells us that "Next time we should try to make landing our first priority." And if we want to strike below the belt we can always bring on the hard hitters. Remember Eddie the Eagle? Our love affair with losers has made national icons of Donald Campbell, Captain Robert Scott, and Sir Ernest Shackleton, not to mention Del-Boy Trotter and Frank Spencer.
We love losers. We love to see fallibility, even in our heroes. Winners piss us off. As Gary Newman discovered' "Being famous wasn't about realising that everybody loved me. It was about discovering that ninety percent of the population hated me." Our winners, if we must put up with them, should at least have the good grace to be humble about it. Good old honest shock at winning often helps, or, failing that, you could always do a Matthew and sob your way through the award ceremony.
But I was saying - although this is the popular view of Not so Great Britain, we're not actually that bad. Just look at Sir Clive Sinclair's Track record. He marketted the world's first pocket calculator(1972), the world's first digital watch(1976), and the world's first pocket television(1977). How many of our cool and trendy mobile phones would look the same were it not for him? It's often said that he had no head for business, but in 1983, the ZX Spectrum sold at 12,000 units a week. Sir Clive was the chairman for MENSA from 1980 to 1997, during which time its membership soared from 1,700 to 38,000. All that and still all we ever hear about is the silly looking Sinclair C5 car. (Mainly thanks to Japser Carrott, of course. At least Sir Clive wrote all his own jokes.)

Okay. I've stood up for one Brit. Only another 59,999,999 to go.
The medals table for this year's Olympics placed team GB tenth overall. We were below France and Germany, Japan and South Korea. We only finished one place above Cuba. Does this make us the sick man of the civilised world? Not in my book. Just look at how we've done in the whole of the modern Olympics. This table (which at the time of writing excludes the latest results) shows Great Britain placed third, above France and Australia.
What is particularly interesting, though, is what happens when you look at the amount of medals won per capita. You can see here that we still do quite well, (still better than the French) were as the USA fall way behind the odds.
We're a small nation, so it makes sense that we have less of a pool to pick from. It makes sense that America should sweep most of the medals when they enter enough athletes to invade a small country.
But the demographic for per capita medals did strike me as rather interesting. Have you noticed that the majority of successes come from a small cluster of north-European countries? Check out the map and you'll see that Finland, Sweden, Hungary and Denmark are well ahead. And this is the figure given for the summer Olympics. It's not as if all the skiers are on hand to push up their totals.
The more I looked at the map, the more striking the case seemed that Protestant countries, or at least countries that are predominantly Protestant, seem to be much better off in terms of success. Sociologist and Economist Max Weber (1864 - 1920) first created the concept of "The Protestant Work Ethic" in which he sets out the theory that while Catholics see money and power as immoral, the Protestant key to salvation comes through hard work, meaning that personal wealth and triumph are simply by-products of their well spent time. Could this same ideology relate to success in the Olympic games?
Gregg Easterbrook wrote an article on this which you can read here, in which this topic is entertainingly explored. Although very Pro-American in its language, it's still worth a look: "As the Catholic theologian Michael Novak wrote in "The Joy of Sports," "The spirit of play is Catholic; the spirit of work is Protestant." Touch football in the park, pickup basketball, tennis, or swimming with your friends - at essence, are play. Training for the Olympics - at essence, is work."
So there you go. I think Britain is Great because we win a few Olympic medals, and Ya-boo Sucks to everyone else. But medal tallies are only a small part of the equation. A short while ago I heard about the sheer amount of technical and scientific output that we still contribute to the world. This article by David Dickson has some pretty amazing things to say about Britain's place in the world of science. For example, did you know that: "Overall, researchers in eight countries alone — headed by the United States, the United Kingdom, Germany and Japan — produce almost 85 per cent of the world's leading science; 163 countries, including most of the developing world, accounts for less than 2.5 per cent."
Or my personal favourite: "Perhaps the most revealing is the relative strength that King's analysis reveals of science in the United Kingdom compared to that of other European countries. Overall publication rates alone demonstrate this; during the period 1997-2001, for example, British scientists were responsible for 9.43 per cent of the world's output of scientific papers (as registered by ISI), compared to 8.76 per cent for Germany and 6.39 per cent for France, even though expenditure on science in the latter two countries was significantly higher."

Kelly, Kelly, She's on Telly!

If I had a locker, Kelly Sotherton would be pinned to the inside of it. So here's a bit of shameless fandom just because I can.
I'm sorry, I'll read that again: I meant that I'd pin her picture to my locker.
On second thoughts...

Ooops - was that the wrong button?

I'm half way through writing a long essay about the olympics, but I accidentally wiped tonight's contribution. I can't be bothered to re-write the whole thing tonight, so I'll catch up tomorrow. (sigh)

The cows are calling...

I will not get my hopes up... I will not get my hopes up...

I drove all the way from Dorset to Holmfirth for my big interview with Longley Farm last week, and I couldn't help thinking I'd made an almighty hash of the whole thing. I sat there, sweating in my full suit, (It's a very hot place to be, as I mentioned before) while the man who was doing all the talking seemed pretty fed up with the whole affair. To be fair, it was late on a Friday evening, but all the positive things I had thought to say sounded like hollow platitudes, and I was most disappointed that he didn't really care that I knew all about Reverse Osmosis filtering.
"This isn't a job for one specific vacancy." he said. "We kept the advert for the job as vague as possible just to see what sort of candidate we could get. If we think you're the right sort of person with something to offer, then we'll find something for you to do."
"So if you don't get back to me, then I'll know that I'm the wrong sort of person." I quipped.
Fortunately, he laughed. "We're interviewing in two parts. If we like the look of you we'll have you back in a couple of weeks."
I redied myself for questions on micro biology, but they didn't come. I rehearsed my stock answers on team building, and my cutely prepared monologue about how Longley Farm were the "good guys", surviving in the face of multinational competition, but somehow non of this happened. I asked a few questions, he told a few stories, and that was that. A one-on-one interview with a micro-biologist who'd been with the company for less than nine months. I've had more meaningful conversations at a bus stop.
The meeting ended on a rather negative note. When I was being shown the door, I said something along the lines of "Well, I'll look forward to hearing from you in a couple of weeks."
"Maybe you will" he said doubtfully. "But there's a lot of others. Can you see yourself out?"

I drove home full of the things I wish I had said. Convinced that I'd spent the whole interview in a fog. Everything I'd said had seemed clumsy. I'd done nothing to sell my management skills, or my more practical experiences printing maps or running the map stores in Germany. Hopeful as I was, I felt utterly disappointed that I'd driven so far for nothing.

But I didn't give up all hope. A little nagging voice in my head wouldn't let the idea go. The second interview wasn't due until 27th August, which would give them plenty of time to drop me a line. So what if the only thing I'd been able to push were my communications skills? Maybe they wanted somebody to do their communications work for them...

But the days passed, and the 27th drew ever closer. Apart from a couple of snotty bank letters asking me when I might start earning money again, the letter mat was bare.

This morning I gave up.

Fine; Still no letter. Time to forget about stupid dairies and get myself together again. In the dining room are a half dozen application forms to fill out for all manner of interesting jobs. Jobs in Bradford doing PR, jobs in Wakefield doing statistical analysis. I will not get my hopes up, I will not get my hopes up!

I will not get my hopes up!

Just before I sat to write this, I had a phone call. "David? It's Jill Mast from Longley Farm. Could you come to another interview on Friday? Shall we say One o'clock?"

My hopes are up....

What Bridget did next...

Okay, weighing in again...

Weight last month 94.3kg (14 st 13 lb) Weight this month 93.7kg (14 st 10 lb)
Belly Bulge (last month 43") This month 42"
Hips (last month 42") This month 41"
Chest - No change - 44"
Neck - No change - 16"
Thigh (last month 25") This month 24"
Calf - No change - 15.5"

Remember; Every journey begins with one small step. (Although in my experience, it actually begins with a lot of tedious packing)

Apparently me in Iraq. Don't worry - I'm just trying to sort out image posting.

Cross, cross, cross, cross, cross...

Why does life have to be so complicated?

I had my doubts about Darren from Poles Direct, and I was right all along.

Once upon a time, back in the dark and misted depths of time when I used to work with my dad, we had this bloke who worked with us called Peter Caton. Peter was a nice enough bloke, but (to put it politely) he didn't have much upstairs. Jobs would over-run, estimates would be way off, and unhappy customers would never be too far away when ever he was involved. And the man from Poles Direct reminded me of him so much that I couldn't imagine him being any use to anybody.

It was just a prejudice based on similar mannerisms, but the nice thing about prejudice is that occasionally it's exactly right.

I agreed to work for him because he pays a third-party company who deal with the payroll side of his business. He seemed so far up his own rear that I imagined I would be chasing him for cheques every payday, so it made a big difference to know that the responsibility for handing over money had been taken out of his hands.

He also said there would be no shortage of work, although I could see him biting his lip, because he really wanted to take on a youngster at minimum wage rather than pay an extra £2.50 per hour for somebody (like me) who can get four or five times as much done in a day.

We had a meeting a couple of weeks ago and I went out of my way to reassure him that he was in safe hands, that I could do the job blindfolded, and that it would work out far better for him to take on somebody (like me) who knew how to do the job in the first place. We also agreed on 16th August as being the start date.

So it was quite a shock when I called him this morning to be told. "Ah, right... Well, I've still got some other people to see. There's a couple more people I haven't been able to see, yet. Can I get back to you on Wednesday evening?"

I was so dumbstruck that I didn't even have the ability to call him names. I just said that it was fine and said I'd look forward to hearing from him.

Just how unprofessional can one man be? He's got a chance of taking me on for next to nothing, and he's STILL looking for a sixteen-year-old who'll work for fiver an hour, even if it means taking on somebody (not like me) with no understanding of deadlines and commitment.

Idiot.

What really sticks in my throat is that I still need work, and if this pratt ever does get back to me with a start date, I'm going to have to smile and be nice to him just because I need his money.

It's ironic, though. Like I said: I saw this coming, and I can still remember the last thing I said to him when we met. "I pride myself on my reliability and my integrity, but it's a two-way street. My dealings with you will always be entirely professional but I expect the same level of commitment in return."

Silly me. I should have checked his fingers weren't crossed behind his back when he nodded agreement.

Aliens in Dorset

Yes - They'd recommend it to anybody!



This rather freaky pair were spotted at the Great Dorset Maize Maze. A grand day out, especially if getting lost is your thing.

Be Extra Special Careful ...

Be extra special careful,
While swimming in the sink.
The currents round the plughole,
Are stronger than you think.

Be extra special careful,
While playing in the park.
Cause somewhere near the bowling green,
There hides the dry-land shark.
(Mike Harding)


Those who've been patient enough to plough through Marris and Wade, or even put up with me after I've had a beer too many and can't shut up about how brilliant it is, will know that I'd quite like to get it published. Okay, that's a lie. Getting Marris and Wade published is probably more important to me than finding a decent job. It's so important to me that I can't even begin to find things on my list to compare it to. Which is why I started contacting those grumpy people known as literary agents (Sound effect - the crackle of a light sabre and mechanical breathing merged with ominous music).

For the most part they're only slightly rude and unwelcoming when you call them. At least their rejection slips are sugar coated. The usual reward is a note along the lines of "Dear Mister Steele, You're book is absolutely wonderful, but we're just not worthy. We're only a small agency and we just don't think we're up to the job of dealing with multi-million dollar figures at the moment. Perhaps you should try somewhere else."

So when those awfully nice people at ST Literary Agency (inc) showed an interest in me, I thought all my Christmases had come at once. For the last four weeks I've been filling out their forms, and reading how I've been "moving through the process", how I'd made it through their selection sifting and how I had the "potential to make a lot of money". I couldn't believe my luck. How often do writers find a friendly agency within the first two or three attempts? The last I heard from them was an email telling me that they liked my work a lot and that I would soon be sent a contract to sign. Today, that contract arrived.

The top of the letter was marked "congratulations", which made me think it was a prize draw from Reader's Digest, but I read on. The letter informed me that I'd made it through to the select "family" of writers that the agency chose to work with, and that I had only success waiting for me. They also went on to say that my work was as good, if not better than most, "and we think we can sell it".

It was a wonderfully exciting contract, full of big promises and encouraging claims. ST were telling me that they would insist on being sole agents for the work, but that they were able to make contacts all over the world. One word from them, and publishers were going to sit up and take notice. Yet again they spelled out their promise - no reader's fee, a flat rate of 10% commission, and no dodgy practice.

And then they told me how I could pay my start-up fee.

Ah, yes... That...

Just a small matter of forwarding a hundred and twenty nine dollars to their office to cover their start-up costs. As part of their service, ST produce an "Online Pitch", a sort of back-cover-blurb on a web page. This HTML is obviously so expensive that the agency has to charge a hundred quid for all 200 words of it.

And then of course, there's the printing fees for the manuscripts they would send out for me. A measly fee of $10 - $14 every time they even wrote to a publishing house on my behalf.

Rather daunted by this sudden pay-now-get-nothing-later approach, my friend Val and I tried a spot of web searching. It didn't take long before we found what we were looking for. Literary Agents dot Info confirmed my worst fears in an instant. If only I'd checked with them first.

Frauds
A lot of writers worry about getting ripped off, but usually for the wrong reasons. Most worry that agents are going to steal their work. After all, you've just written the next Harry Potter, right? Well, maybe - just remember that when JK Rowling first went to a publisher they didn't try and steal her book, they told her they weren't interested. The fact is that any books is a risk and any literary agent who wanted to steal people's work would have a lot of work on their hands. If agents wanted to exploit writers there are much easier and more effective ways of doing it.

Take ST Literary Agency. These guys advertise on Google, which is a warning from the start - literary agents are swamped with submissions and try and keep a low profile. If somebody is paying to advertise for submissions tread carefully. This agency says they don't charge a reading fee. After they accept your manuscript they send you a contract to sign. At the end of the contract - after the point where you are supposed to sign - there comes the first mention of the $129 fee you have to pay. This will apparently be refunded when they sell your book. Don't hold your breath. Any agency raking in $129 from each author it takes on isn't going to have much incentive to put in the hard work of making a sale.

Ladies and Gentlemen, would you all like to join me in a rousing chorus of "bugger bugger bugger?" As the Dalai Lama said, there's one re-born every minute. Did Charles Dickens have these problems, I wonder?