Slaying the Dragons

This week saw the return of one of my favourite shows in the history of television. Sadly, it may not have done so well ratings-wise, because it was on at the same time as England v Spain. Actually, come to think of it, it may have done rather well after all.

I refer, of course, to Dragon's Den. Sixty minutes of genius. It sounds simple enough; a panel of entrepreneurs is faced with a series of inventors, small businesses, idiots, and so on, hoping that they will invest in their venture in exchange for a stake in the business. Mostly, of course, they are laughed at and sent packing like the witless fools they are. Occasionally, they decide to have a punt. When you describe all this, it sounds more boring even than Des Lynam on Countdown, but trust me - it's deeply compelling.

The show's been running for a few years now, and most weeks the panel will decide to invest in one or two people. And we're talking a lot of money here - normally hundreds of thousands of pounds.

So, here's the thing. I have never (repeat never) seen any of the businesses supported by these businessmen in the real world. You'd think with the support of such successful people, the products would be in the shops, if not every home, or at least be available online. I do a lot of online shopping. Never seen any of them. Ever.

The one that sticks in my mind the most from a couple of years ago, was the highly acclaimed venture of putting umbrella vending machines in train stations. Imagine! The advantages are obvious. A wonderful idea, cried the panel, before throwing money and advice at the chap. Have I seen any in the stations I frequent? Nope. Would I like to? Well, certainly if it's raining.

So, anyway - good TV, but I suspect that's about it. And if you've seen an umbrella vending machine, let me know where. Maybe I can change my route.

Snow Breaks Everything!

You will not have failed to notice, if you are resident in the UK, that today it has snowed. A lot.

Opinions vary enormously as to whether or not this is a good thing. There are some people I could name who are loving the snow. These people are, of course, largely made up of children whose school has been closed. There are many people who detest the fact that the white stuff has descended. These are largely the parents of the aforementioned children.

It also causes chaos if you have to travel any distance. My wife didn't get into work today, but I must congratulate London Underground (yes, you read that correctly) for getting me into work in a time not too far removed from what it would normally take.

I was sitting at my desk, revelling in the fact that I'd made it in so easily, when a colleague of mine (who shall remain nameless) walked in. Actually, he more like stomped in, mumbling grumpily under his breath about the snow.

He hadn't been so fortunate in being unaffected by the weather. His train was delayed, but it wasn't the delays that bothered him - that was relatively understandable. What really riled him was the fact that the station indicator board (which was entirely undercover) had entirely died leaving him completely devoid of information. How on earth did the snow do that? I also believe that the BBC weather website went down for short period today due, I'm sure, to millions of people wanting to know if it was worth stepping outside their front door.

Another colleague had no buses on the way in, a power failure at the station when he eventually arrived. All after having had root canal treatment yesterday.

And so the snow has broken, at the very least, many train lines, indicator board, and the BBC. Although it is perhaps unfair to blame it for the root canal treatment.

I stubbed my toe this morning. I bet that was the snow as well.

A Surreal Morning

We were just on the news.

Well, I say we. I was nowhere near it. A couple of colleagues were just shown on BBC News 24 standing on the street, outside our building. Why? There was a suspect package at the building next door to work. What with three letterbombs going off in three days, it was minutes before our neighbours were evacuated, police vans were everywhere and TV crews were camped on the street outside. The cafe over the road did a roaring trade.

Anyway, it turned out to be nothing, and everyone left as quickly as they arrived.

The bombs so far this week have included the people who do the congestion charging, a company that deal with parking fines, and, this morning, the DVLA in Swansea. Someone's got it in for everyone and everything connected with cars.

So the business next door, is what? What high-profile company feared they might be next? CIMA. The Chartered Institute of Management Accountants.

I don't know what the package in question turned out to be. Perhaps a badly wrapped stapler.

Is It Only Me?

At the risk of turning this into a blog largely about supermarket shopping, I can no longer keep quiet about one of the most stressful experiences of my week. I have already mentioned how I normally do the shopping each week (normally on a Monday - my day off), so yesterday I found myself cruising the aisles as usual. This bit of the supermarket shopping is fine. Quite enjoyable, even, My quibble is not with filling the shopping trolley. It's at the till.

Now, I'm quite organised and efficient at this, I like to think. When loaded the conveyor belt, I put all the frozen things together, all the cold things together, all the dry things together. This, in my head, means that at the other end, I will be able to embark on a packing system that means that all the similar things are in the same bags. This, in turn, means that at home, unpacking it all will be a lot easier.

I do this every week. I think this every week. It goes hideously wrong every week.

Here's what actually happens when I get to the other end.

"Would you like any help packing?" says the kindly person on the till. Yes, of course I would. I'd love you to pack it all. Wouldn't anyone? Only people who enjoy packing bags would sanely answer in the negative to this kind offer. So what do I say?

"No, I'll be fine". Every week. Why? I think because to accept help would be to suggest that I'm a useless, helpless male who can't even pack bags in a supermarket. As one of the few men around the supermarket enviroment, I do often feel like I'm flying the flag.

So, she starts to scan the items through, and all begins well enough. I start to pack the bags pretty well. It'll be OK this week, I think to myself. Perhaps I've broken the curse. No. I never have.

What inevitably happens is that after a minute or two, it becomes abundantly clear that she is scanning the items quicker than I can pack them. A pile of increasing size is appearing just past the till. She's struggling to find enough space to put the newly scanned items. I start to panic. I'm losing control. I need to pack quicker. If I don't, she'll be waiting for me to finish packing and give her my card for forty-five minutes. A large queue will develop. People will hate me. They'll throw tomatoes at me. I'll be banned from the shop. I'll have to go twenty miles to do my shopping. By the time I get home, all the frozen stuff will have defrosted. I'll poison my family with it. I'll go to prison for manslaughter. Aarrggghhhhh!

I end up just chucking anything into a bag with anything, just to speed the process up. My carefully planned conveyor belt organisation goes out of the window. Bananas are thrown in with nappies. Chicken breasts with toilet rolls. It's a complete nightmare.

Of course, what happens in the end is that the cashier helps me when she's finished scanning. I pay and leave, and when I get home, it takes me about three minutes longer to unpack than it would should my system have worked.

Is it just me? Is it a man thing? Am I actually incapable of shopping. No-one else on the other tills seems to have this problem.

Shopping. It's bad for your health.

Taking It For Granted

Sleep. A simple thing, isn't it. Not complicated. At night, when tired, you sleep. You wake up, do the day, and go to sleep again at night. Fine.

At least, that's how it used to be. Last night, sleep was but a fleeting wish to me. And, indeed my wife.

I love my daughter. She's fabulous. Her giggle, her smile, her big sloppy kisses. When she waves, when she claps. Even when she's screaming, I love her to bits and pieces.

But last night she didn't get to sleep until about 2. And I got up shortly afterwards to host a radio breakfast show. Bizarrely, it went quite well. Perhaps I should sleep less often. Actually forget that. Don't tell my daughter I said it.

So my message to you, if you are young and without children is simple. You are probably up all hours, going to pubs and clubs and having a great time with friends. I used to stay up late a lot too.

But you've got it wrong. Sleep. Sleep while you still can...

A Difference of Opinion

Those of you who are married (or in any sort of involved relationship with anyone at all) will be well aware that, every so often, within that relationship, disputes occur. You will probably also know that these disagreements are normally about ridiculous things that make very little difference. Toothpaste tubes, toilet seats - you know the drill. I should say that those things rarely cause havoc in my house. Mind you, our toilet seat isn't actually attached to our toilet. Don't ask.

I am fortunate enough to be married to someone who is fairly willing to put up with my, occasionally, bizarre ways. She rarely moans at me. She is, indeed, lovely and patient. But there is one thing I like to do (nightly, if possible) that drives her completely up the wall in a way that is almost impossible to convey in print. It occurs weeknight at 8.30pm. On More4. I am referring to The Daily Show with Jon Stewart.

Aired nightly on the Comedy Central network in the States, it is one of the funniest, most intelligent pieces of satire around. We get it here in the UK a day later.

I love it. Gillian hates it. "He shouts" apparently.

Well, yes, he does - I can't deny it. But it's what he shouts that is so genius.

If you're keen to see what I'm talking about, click here. Unless you're my wife. Or a fan of the American government.

Discover...

One of the things I hope you will note from my excessive, and often entirely pointless ramblings, is that I'm a bit of a music fan. I pride myself on being able to name pretty much any song from the late 80s/early 90s just from hearing the first 3 seconds of it.

Don't try it at home. I've been carefully trained.

My tube journeys to work are not complete without my trusty iPod (Nano, White, 4GB should you care). I almost always have it on shuffle. I like surprises.

One of the more recent additions to my in-transit entertainment has been the James Morrison album, Undiscovered. The man is a genius of music and lyric. Simple, intelligent songs, great melodies, fabulous voice. Go and buy it now. Go on, now. I'll wait for you.

Thanks. Enjoy.