The Big Yin and Boozy Afternoons

This time next week, I will have had my birthday and I will be another year nearer to my half-century.  It’s odd, as when I was a teenager, 50 seemed so old, but now that I am (rapidly) approaching it, it doesn’t seem that old.

However, although my birthday is this week, my birthday present, which I mentioned in my last entry, was last week.  Emma and I were both off on Friday, so at lunchtime we made our way up to London and to the hotel that we had booked into.  The St Paul’s Hotel is on Hammersmith Road and despite its location so close to a busy road, once you are inside, you could be miles from the city.

The building itself is Grade II listed and is quite historic having been a school, attended by, among others, Field Marshall Bernard Montgomery.  Needless to say it was both very nice and very comfortable.

We had decided to have an easy dinner, so we made or way further down the Hammersmith Road to Olympia and to the Pizza Express.  Then we jumped in a taxi and made our way to the Hammersmith Apollo, arriving about thirty minutes prior to Billy getting on stage.

I had last seen Billy Connolly when he performed his Jock’s Rap Tour.  I thought that this was in about 1986, but having googled it, it appears that it would have been 1982 or 1983!  He was hilarious and I ached for several days afterwards, I’d laughed so much.  He was also a very energetic performer, although nowhere near as energetic as Lee Evans, leaping all over the stage.

So on Friday it was quite sad to see Billy walk onto the stage at dead on 8pm.  It was very obvious that he has Parkinson’s disease, or as he said ‘I have Parkinson’s disease, although I wish the fucker had kept it to himself’, as he had the classic Parkinsonian gait.  However, that said, although his body is not in the best shape, his mind clearly is.  When he left the stage two hours later, I for one had laughed so hard on occasions that, like when playing Cards Against Humanity, I thought that my eyeballs would pop out.  Emma and I then strolled slowly back to the hotel, which took about 15 minutes.

The following morning, we were awake bright and early and after a very enjoyable Continental breakfast, we headed back to Hammersmith and jumped on a tube to Bond Street.  The reason for this trip was that I had bought Emma a bracelet from Tiffany’s for Christmas, but had got the measurement wrong and it was too small, so needed exchanging for one the correct size.

After the exchange had been done, we then headed up into Oxford Street and to the Pandora store that is there, where Emma was able to get another charm for the charm bracelet that’s she’s had for some time.

And then it all went downhill.  We jumped back on the tube at Marble Arch and made our way to Ravenscourt Park where we met up with an old school friend of mine, Tony, and his better half, Christine.  I’d last seen them both when Tony had organised tickets to go and see AC/DC at Wembley in July of last year.  The idea was that we would meet up for lunch and a couple of drinks prior to Emma and I making our way home.

Tony and Christine took us to their local, the Cross Keys where we had a very pleasant lunch followed by more pints and prosecco than we had intended, with Emma and I having a very enjoyable afternoon/evening and not leaving until nearly 7pm.

Sunday was just chilled, although we did take Alf (Emma’s dog) out for a good walk, but it prepared us for the return to the routine of work today.  Although, as my birthday is Friday, both Emma and I have taken annual leave and so we’re only working a four day week this week, with another three-day weekend at the end.  Hurrah!

Happy New Year!

So that's it all over for another year. Christmas has been and gone, and 2015 has also gone. And not only was I not 'Bah! Humbug!' but it was actually a really good Christmas, in fact, I think possibly one of the best that I've ever had.

Christmas day did start early, not because of an excited Emma, but because I very stupidly forgot to turn off my alarm and it went off at 0630.  This year it was the biggest number for Christmas that I've ever had as in addition to myself, Emma and her son, there was also both my sons, Kinga, who is No. 2 son's girlfriend, Emma's sister and brother-in-law and her two nieces, making ten in total, although the last four didn't arrive until late morning as they normally live in Wales and stayed in a local hotel.

After getting up and having coffee and breakfast, it was present opening.  I was very spoilt, getting a nice watch, some books, some new aftershave and various smellies.  Then the serious business of getting lunch ready began, with all hands on deck.

What was also nice was that Maggie visited with her boyfriend, which is the first time that I've had all three of my children in one place since the Army v Navy rugby last May.  She didn't stay long enough for me as she was having lunch at her boyfriend's mother's house and they left after about 45 minutes.

Lunch was great, with the traditional turkey and all the trimmings, as well as beef and gammon, all washed down with some nice wine, followed by Christmas pudding, which I'd covered in brandy and set fire to, and cream.

As I'd said, it was all hands on deck, with Drew and Kinga acting as Emma's sous chefs, as I don't think that it would have been fair or possible for Emma to produce such a fabulous meal for so many on her own.

Following lunch, unlike last year when Emma and I fell asleep on the sofa, it was silly games time.  Whilst Emma and I cleared up and got the dishwasher working overtime, everyone played a board game.  And then things got really out of hand when we started playing a game of Cards Against Humanity.

I don't know if you've ever played this game, I hadn't until this time, but it is definitely not suitable for children!  This was a little awkward, as Emma's nieces are fourteen and sixteen, but they definitely entered into the spirit of the VERY black humour that was needed for the game!  I confess that there was one point where I laughed so hard I did think that my eyeballs were going to pop out!

Boxing Day was again very laid back and relaxed.  I had to take Drew and Kinga home as they had to get back for the cats, but we decided to try an experiment.  Alf, Emma's dog, hadn't seen the cats since they'd been very small kittens, so we decided that he could come with us to see how he got on with them, the plan being that if it went well, then Emma would be able to come over to mine more and bring Alf.

When we got there, the cats were definitely not impressed and let it be known with much hissing and making themselves big.  However, they soon let Alf know who was boss and gave him a couple of bats to the snout when he got too close.

Once I got back, Emma and I took Alf for a walk in the woods near where she lives, getting back just before Emma's sister, brother-in-law and nieces arrived.

After a nice lunch, Alec headed off to his girlfriend's in Hertfordshire and the rest of us watched Ted 2, before having a very competitive (as far as Emma and her sister were concerned) game of Monopoly.

On the Sunday, Sadly Emma's son had to work, but her family again came over for lunch, bringing their Rottweiler with them, which Emma, me and one of her nieces took out for a walk in the woods with Alf.  Then, after lunch, Emma's family headed off for the long journey back to Wales and Emma and I watched Minions before her son got home.

It was then almost back to normal routine, at least for Emma, as she was working on both the Bank Holiday Monday, but also the Tuesday, so I took the opportunity to head home and sort out my personal admin on the Monday, before returning to Emma's on the Tuesday.

We were both off on the Wednesday, but with good reason as we were attending the wedding of a friend in Tunbridge Wells.  The wedding took place in one of the local hotels in The Pantiles.  The ceremony was very nice, as was the meal after, but we didn't stay late as Emma was working the following day, which was New Year's Eve.

For me, New Year's Eve was a very quiet day, as both Emma and her son, Ant, were working, so I was left with just Alf for company.  But at least I was able to take Alf for a walk before picking Ant up from work and having the place ready for when Emma got home.

The actual New Year itself was very subdued.  Unfortunately, it was less so for Alf who freaks whenever fireworks are set off, and there were a lot of fireworks!  We saw in the New Year by watching the firework display from London on the TV whilst drinking a glass of Prosecco.  However, as Emma was working a long day today, we were in bed and asleep by 1230.

So that's it first day of 2016 and first post of the New Year.  January is not too busy a month, although Maggie is 18 in less than three weeks and my birthday is two days after hers.  And I'm getting my birthday present a week before my actual birthday when we see Billy Connolly at the Hammersmith Apollo on the 15th.  Can't wait!

Christmas

Christmas is a funny time of the year for me and has been for some time.  In the past, I’ve had some pretty shit Christmases and I guess that these experiences have coloured the way in which I see this time of the year.

I think that first of all it’s the time of the year.  I am not a big fan of winter and would much rather have the long days and warm evenings instead of the cold dark ones.  Maybe it would be better if this country didn’t grind to a halt whenever there is a ¹/₂mm snowfall, but then I only see snow as a cold, wet inconvenience, no matter which country I’m in.

A few years ago, I worked in a Unit that had no outside windows, which meant that during the winter, because we worked twelve-hour shifts, I would arrive in the dark, spend all day under artificial light and travel home in the dark.  We did no more than three long shifts in a row, but this still meant that if I worked a Monday, Tuesday and a Wednesday, I would see daylight on the Sunday and then not until the Thursday.

The other problem that I find with Christmas is that fact that it has definitely become more commercial.  This has meant that rather than all the Christmas adverts on TV and Christmas stuff appearing in the shops in the month before the 25^th December, it starts to appear in October, and quite often a lot earlier.  This means that by the time it arrives, most people have had enough of it weeks ago.

I think that the other thing now is that all of my kids are older, the youngest turning eighteen 18 next month, which means that it no longer holds the magic nor the excitement for them.  It’s just another day with crap on the telly and a big roast.

However, I think that Emma is still a bit of a big kid when it comes to Christmas.  Last year I was awoken at about 5am with the words “It’s Christmas!” shouted Noddy Holder style.  Admittedly, I did not leap out of bed, instead choosing to roll over and go back to sleep for a further two hours, but I could happily have slept for longer.

So this year will be hopefully not too early a start, but it will be a busy day as there will be ten of us (my family and Emma’s) sitting down to Christmas lunch, with visitors during the day as well.  We’re lucky that both Emma and I are off, although she has to go to work on the bank Holiday Monday, but after Christmas Eve, I don’t return to work until the New Year.

I wonder what 2016 holds in store.

Old Boys (Former Pupils)

The school that I went to was unusual in that it was a military boarding school.  At the time that I attended, all of the boys in the school (it was single sex then) were the sons of serving or ex-soldiers, as they had been since its foundation.

The school was founded in 1803 as the Royal Military Asylum with the purpose of educating the orphans, both male and female, of soldiers killed during the Napoleonic Wars.  The Royal Military Asylum was the second of the eventual three military schools in the UK.

The first of the schools was the Royal Hibernian Military School, which was founded in Dublin in 1770 and which was organised along similar lines to the Royal Military Asylum from the early nineteenth century.  When Ireland became an independent country in 1922, the school was moved to Shorncliffe, near Folkestone, before being amalgamated with the Duke of York’s Royal Military School in 1924.

The last of the military schools, Queen Victoria School, was founded in 1908 in Dunblane in memory of those who had died during the South African wars of the late-nineteenth century.  It is the only one of the three schools that is still exclusively for the children of service personnel and funded by the Ministry of Defence.

The Royal Military Asylum was initially located in Chelsea, London before it was moved to Dover in 1909, having become the Duke of York’s Royal Military School in 1892, at the same time that it became single sex.  The original school buildings and grounds remained in control of the Ministry of Defence, as the Duke of York’s Headquarters until 2003, when it became part of the Saatchi Gallery.

Once the school arrived in Dover, this is where it has remained, on top of the cliffs and a focus for just about every cold wind in the south-east of England, apart from two short evacuations during the First World War to Hutton in Essex and during the Second World War to Braunton in Devon.

Being the sort of school that it was, there was much emphasis on the military aspect of life.  In fact, when I first started at the school, we were issued with No.1 Dress uniforms and berets and we had ‘Military Training’ lessons timetabled at least three times a week.  In addition, we were expected to master the intricacies of drill, marching-up to meals and participating in ‘Church Parades’ every Sunday.

The two most important parades each year were Remembrance Sunday and Grand Day, the latter being when the school ‘Troop the Colour’ in a similar ceremony to that seen in London.  However, it’s the first of these two parades that I am going to talk about.

Every year on the Remembrance Sunday parade, as well as all of the pupils on parade, there was also an ‘Old Boys’ Contingent’, made up of the guys who had left the school, and in fact the entire weekend was known as Old Boys’ weekend.

I clearly remember my first of these parades as when the order “Fall-in the Old Boys” was given, there was a large number of Old Boys who made their way onto the parade square.  But it was also the manner in which they were dressed.  There were the older Old Boys, in their pin-stripe suits, British Warms and Bowler Hats, their numerous medals pinned to the chests, some First World War (it was 1978, just 60 years since that war had ended), some Second World War, some with both.  Then there were the next generation of Old Boys, again smartly dressed in suits or in their uniforms, some with one or two medals pinned to their chests.  Lastly, there were the ones that had just left the school and were at university, or in some cases polytechnic.  As I have said, it was 1978, so many of these Old Boys shuffled onto the parade square with long hair that would never have been allowed when they were at the school and dressed in ragged jeans, sheepskin jackets and beaten up old plimsolls.

However, when the order to “Quick march” was given, all of these Old Boys, suited, uniformed or ‘jeaned’ stepped off and marched immaculately down to the school war memorial.  But this was the last year that the it was possible to see this, as the School’s Regimental Sergeant Major in my first year retired at the end of that year and was replaced by one who was Grenadier Guards and would only allow Old Boys on parade if they were ‘appropriately dressed’ in a suit and tie or uniform.

After I left the school, I returned a few times for Old Boys’.  As one of the younger ones, it was a case of making our way to Dover on the Saturday, book into a guest house that we would see little of and then make our way to the pub, where we would drink to excess, fall into bed and then get to the school, suited and booted, in time to parade the following morning.

The older Old Boys’ would attend a black-tie dinner in Dover Town Hall before joining us in the pub after the event, usually in time for last orders, before they, too, fell into bed and attended the school the following morning.  I only ever attended one of these in the late-80s with my ex-wife and felt very out of place as I was about twenty years younger than the next in age to me.

However, due to living so far away and then my Reserve commitments, during the 1990s and 2000s I was only able to attend two Old Boys’ weekends, in 2000 when I went to the pub and in 2008, again at the pub (see Remembering).

Since I have been with Emma, and because I no longer have Squadron commitments in Maidstone, we have been to Old Boys’ for the last three years, staying in the hotel that is conveniently located right next to the school and attending the black tie dinner that takes place in the school dining hall.

This year I travelled down with No.1 son, so that I could show him the place that had shaped me during my teenage years, so we headed off to Dover, booked into the hotel and then headed across to Dover Rugby Club where there is a rugby match between (normally) an Old Boys’ under-30 and a select Dover RFC side and an Old Boys’ over-30 side and Dover RFC Veterans.  However, this year, there was only one match as the World Cup had interfered with the fixture list and Dover was unable to produce two sides.

The matches are normally for the Christian Redman Memorial Trophy.  Christian was an Old Boy of the school; in fact he had been there at the same time as me although he was several years younger.  His father was also a teacher at the school.  He had been on a rugby tour with the Singapore Cricket Club’s rugby team.  In October 2002 had been on tour and was in Paddy’s Bar in Bali when a terrorist bomb detonated.  He, along with 201 other people of 23 nationalities were killed. 

This year the weather was miserable and it rained for most of the match.  Although the Old Boys’ got off to a good start, sadly the youth of the Dover side got the better of them and they were soundly beaten.

After a couple of beers in the bar with various friends (the advantage of having No. 1 son drive!) we headed back to the hotel to join Emma who’d driven down after us.

It was then a case of getting ready for the dinner, including my having to help Alec with his bow tie (I wouldn’t allow him to wear a pre-tied one and insisted that he have a self-tie) before jumping in the minibus to the school.

The dinner was pleasant and the company was excellent, the only complaint being that those of us who had decided to have the double-cooked belly of pork each received a piece of pork smaller than a post-it note.  However, the wine flowed, as did the conversation, with the after dinner entertainment being provided by a band consisting of Old Boys’ and named the Hong Kong Streakers Club (in honour of another of Chris Redman’s exploits).

After it was all over, we walked back to the hotel where I slept like a log, even though Emma (vey vey drunk!) woke me up to ask me something that I just couldn’t understand.

After a hearty breakfast, it was back to the school and the parade.  There was a good turn-out of both Old Boys and Old Girls, hence the contingent now being referred to as ‘Former Pupils’.  The weather stayed nice, with no rain, although it was chilly.  However, having elected not to wear uniform this year, I had the opportunity to try out the new overcoat that I had bought the previous week. 

After the parade, rather than attending the chapel service, I showed Emma and Alec around the school a bit before we said our goodbyes to everyone and headed home with plans to do it all again ‘same time next year’.

Lest We Forget

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

In Memory Of

Private Joseph Watt
S/4206, 1st Bn., Seaforth Highlanders who died on 10 April 1916
Aged 21
Remembered with honour on Panel 37 and 64
Basra Memorial, Iraq
and
Serjeant Thomas McIvor
S/8909, 9th Bn., Black Watch (Royal Highlanders) who died on 29 April 1916
Aged 30
Remembered with honour on Panel 78 to 83
Loos Memorial, Pas de Calais, France

Good Riddance to Bad Rubbish (at long last!)

Warning!  The following post could, and probably will, turn into a bit of a rant, because finally, at long last, I have finished all dealings with the retarded oxygen-thief wastes of human skin that are the Child Support Agency (CSA) (I warned you!).

My first dealings with these examples of anencephaly occurred in 2005, when my then wife (we were separated but living in the same house) contacted the CSA in an effort to extort more money from me.  However, because we were living in the same house, she was entitled to nothing.

It wasn’t until the following year that I discovered just how brain-dead a person could be and still be employed by the Department for Work and Pensions, as in March 2006 my now ex-wife (decree absolute arrived on 28^th February) absconded to Cambridge with her violent and unstable boyfriend and two of my three children, refusing to state where she was and denying me any contact with them.

Once she had left, she contacted the CSA who, in turn, contacted me and told me that as I had no contact with my children in Cambridge that I would have to pay the maximum amount.  The fact that the lack of contact was due to my ex-wife denying me access was beside the point.  There was no contact order, and until I had obtained one, I would be liable to pay.

However, only two of my three children were living with her, so I put in a counter-claim for the third one, a claim that was granted, before commencing the payments that had been calculated by these cretins.

After a couple of months, I noticed that although I was making regular payments, my ex-wife was paying nothing.  I therefore had several very frustrating conversations with these retards where I objected to the fact that I was paying but my ex-wife wasn’t and they didn’t seem to be doing anything about it.  The final straw for me was when I was told that “We’re here to get money from the man, not from the woman”.

I argued that this was discrimination and, after another couple of months of paying but my ex-wife not doing so, I stopped my payments.  I received various threatening letters and finally one threatening court action, which I told them that I would welcome, as it would give me the opportunity to publicise both their discrimination and utter incompetence in open court and ensure that they received the much deserved adverse publicity.

The outcome was that we didn’t go to court, but they did and this resulted in my payments being deducted direct from my wages by Court Order.  Eventually, my ex-wife also had a Deduction from Earnings order granted against her as well and she even began paying, for one month, until she made herself unemployed, meaning that she only had to pay £5.00 per week as she was on benefits.  Even then I struggled to get these brain-dead individuals to obtain even this small amount.

By this stage I had been transferred to have dealings with the office in Belfast.  This office was clearly staffed by the people too stupid to be allowed to work anywhere else.  In fact I suspect that most of them would require an iPod in-situ repeating “breathe in, breathe out” just to keep them alive.  At one point in one of my many letters to the various Secretaries of State for Work and Pensions, all of whom were as equally useless as each other, I suggested that the staff at the CSA in this city should all be sacked and that there be a recruitment drive in the Monkey House at Belfast Zoo, as I firmly believed that the efficiency of the Agency would be greatly improved.  This was not well received by those at risk of primate replacement, but I suspect that this was because all concerned knew that it was actually true. 

Due to the CSA’s overwhelming incompetence, I gave up trying to deal with them directly whenever there was a problem and resorted to writing directly to my local MP and the Secretary of State.  The MP, Greg Clark, has usually been reasonably helpful, but the Secretaries of State have been less so, particularly James Purnell, and Iain Duncan Smith, both of whom could probably get a job in the Belfast office, particularly Purnell.

In moments of clarity, I can understand that the CSA have a difficult job and that there will be mistakes that occur.  However, they need to acknowledge their mistakes.

As mentioned in my post of February 2009 “Same sh1t, different day”, I received a call from one of the imbeciles informing me that the amount that I was paying was less than it should be having been reduced some months earlier.  At the time I had said that as the money was being deducted from my wages, I suspected that either my salaries and wages department (slightly more competent than the CSA) or the CSA themselves had cocked up.  

It turned out to be the latter, as I confirmed in 2009, but rather than admit that it was their mistake, Darren Marner, the imbecile who’d phoned me attempted to make it my fault because I hadn’t informed them that they had made a mistake.  I did tell James Purnell, in my subsequent letter, that if they wanted to pay me to do their job for them, I would be happy to do so, but otherwise I would expect them to do it.  I suppose that in some respects it was my fault as I had expected them to be able to do their jobs competently and without screwing up.

And this level of feeble mindedness has continued for the remainder of the time that I’ve had to deal with them.

In late-2013 I received a telephone call from these simpletons, informing me that they had been trying to get hold of me by post for some time, that I was in arrears, which they had been trying to contact me to recover, and that they wanted me to pay this large sum of arrears immediately.

The first clue that I had that they, again, had cocked-up was when they asked me the security questions.  When it got to my address, I gave the fucktard the one that I had moved into in the April.  There was a confused silence.  He then asked me my previous address, the one that I had moved into in January 2012, which I gave him.  Another confused silence, before he asked me the address before that.  It appeared that these halfwits had the address that I had left almost two years previously.

Of course, despite my informing the dimwit that I had told them of my address changes, he would not have it and suggested that I had deliberately been trying to avoid them and informed me that they had no record of me contacting them in the previous two years and they would be subtracting the arrears from my next wages, which would have left me with no money for the month.  It was only when I went home and copied not only the letters that I had sent to them informing them of my address change, but also letters that I had received from them to each of the two addresses that they claimed that they knew nothing about did they finally concede that there may have been an error on their part.  May?!?  The iceberg that sank the Titanic may have been big.  The likelihood of the CSA making an error is definite!

With the end approaching, I thought that it would be easy, but even that seems to be complicated.  My ex-wife informed these buffoons that my daughter was no longer living with her and they communicated this to me, with the date that she moved out being stated as 18^th July this year.  I also received a letter from them informing me of this.  The letter also stated that they would be looking to see if there was any outstanding money due and that they would inform me by letter of the final payment/payment date.  And then I heard nothing, although they took the usual amount from my wages at the end of July.

In an effort to find out what’s happening, I telephoned in early August.  I got through to the Birkenhead office, who informed me that my case was being dealt with by Belfast and that the records show that the case is closed. She also told me what the outstanding amount was (my usual monthly payment) and she finally told me that she would email Belfast to prevent a payment going out in September and my having to fight to recover it.

But when I called back at the end of August having still heard nothing and after what I thought had been the last payment, this time getting through to Dudley, the person whom I spoke with informed me that my account was closed (knew that), told me what the outstanding amount was (a larger sum than two weeks previously) and told me that the majority of that would go out at the end of September (contrary to what I’d been told) and that I would then be contacted by phone to pay the remaining £20-odd by card.

So even now, nine years after dealing with these fuckwits for the first time, they are still as incapable as ever.

Having still heard nothing, I again telephoned at the beginning of October and was again put through to Dudley.  After I’d explained everything, the person I was speaking to told me that there was a “task” that he couldn’t open, which was probably the money that was taken at the end of September.  However, he did confirm that the outstanding amount was the same as the previous person had told me and told me that the outstanding amount, minus the September payment, meant that there was a matter of £20-odd that would need to be paid.  He then informed me that he was putting me through to another person who would take the card payment for the outstanding amount.

But he was wrong.  The lady that I was put through to (still in Dudley, judging by the accent) informed me that as she could not access the “task”, she could not confirm that it was the payment from the end of September.  Apparently, the task was in someone else’s work queue, probably one of the Belfast Brain-dead, and the she would need her supervisor to unlock it and allocate it to her, the problem being that her supervisor was in a meeting so it was unlikely to happen today. 

It was therefore left that she would call me a couple of days later to take the card payment, and she assured me that she would also stop the Deduction from Earnings order before the next payment at the end of October.

Having heard nothing, I called again the day after I should have been called, getting through to someone in Lancashire.  This person was next to useless and could do nothing, advising me to call back the following morning and get put through to the Belfast office as they were dealing with my case.  She also told me that as far as she could see, I’d made an overpayment of just over £7.

Interestingly, she also informed me that the person with whom I’d spoken on the Monday had not mentioned in her notes of the call that she had said that she would call me back, but had stated that she had put my call through to the Belfast office.  Clearly a case of falsification of records.

So, as advised, I called the following morning, was put through to Birmingham (perhaps it was Dudley) and was told that the Belfast office has been closed for a while as the staff were all being trained.  Tempted to ask if they were being trained to be useful fucking human beings as I was, I didn’t.  However, Alison, who I was speaking to, informed me that all of Belfast’s work had been transferred to Birmingham and the person dealing with my case was in the same building as her and she would get them to call me back.

Much to my surprise, I did actually receive a call from Jyoti Dabhi, who told me that she was calling me to take a card payment and then asked me for more than £300!  When I asked her where she’d got that figure from, it was apparently on her screen. 

She then tried to explain this large sum by telling me that my account had actually been closed on 17^th July and that when it had been closed, there was an outstanding balance of just over £1000.  When I pointed out to her that I had paid more than £1100 since that date, she tried to tell me that I had had a refund.  Where and who this refund had gone to, I have no idea.  And clearly, neither did she!

But then she informed me that she had three screens in front of her, one showing that I owed over £300, one showing that I owed £23 and one showing that I was owed £7.  She informed me that she was slow (no disagreement there) but thorough and that she would need to look into it further before calling me back.

An hour later, I received the call, but not with the good news I had hoped for. Oh no! This was to inform me that it appeared that she had found a fourth sum, although “to avoid confusion” she didn’t reveal what it was.  What she did say was that she needed to refer my case to some specialist (or should that be special needs) colleagues and that it would take about a week to sort out. This meant that nothing would be done before I got back from Malta, but to ensure that the case was moved on, I wrote another letter to Greg Clark and told Jyoti Dabhi that I would not be available to receive calls until the week commencing the 26^th October, after I was back from Malta.

This woman also informed me that she would put a stop to the deductions from earnings order so that I did not pay in October.  When I informed her that this had already been done by her colleague the previous Monday I was told that this hadn’t happened. Not only had the useless incompetent falsified her records, she had also lied to me (Oh! What a complete surprise!)

Despite my telling her not to call, I received one call whilst I was still in Malta (I didn’t answer) and two further calls, one each on 22^nd and 23^rd October (again not answered).  I’m not sure how really brainless these people have to be to be so incapable of following a simple instruction.  However, during my absence, I received a letter from the CSA informing me that I was owed £7 by them and that I would need to contact them with my bank details in order to receive this refund, which I did on my return to the UK.

On my return to work, the first thing that I discovered (I’d like to say that it was a surprise, but having had the dealings that I have with these fuckwits for as long as I have, it wasn’t) was that my usual monthly payment had been taken from my wages. 

During my conversation with the Dabhi woman prior to my holiday, she had told me that she would send the letter to stop the Deduction from Earnings order the following week.  I had explicitly stated to her that she needed to send it that day, as the following week would miss the cut off for my wages department.  Despite this conversation and her subsequently assuring me that she had sent it on the day that we had last spoken when I called up to ask why another payment had been taken, when I called my wages department, they revealed that they now had the letter, but that the date of it revealed that it had been sent the week after my instruction to Dabhi that she send it out immediately.

She could also not account for the fact that she had called me the week prior to the 26^th October, merely stating that she had a reminder in her calendar to call me and so she had.  However, what I found incredible was that, during the conversation, she referred to the fact that ‘someone’ had called me asking for more than £300 card payment.  When I stated ‘Yes. It was you’, she would not admit that it had been her and kept repeating that it had been ‘Someone from our Agency’.  None of these morons are prepared to take responsibility for their actions and seem to be unconcerned that their daily life consists of making one mistake after another.

Later that day, I received a telephone call, again from Jyoti Dabhi, informing me that the payment had all been approved and that it was being passed to the department that would authorise release of the funds. Good, all done and dusted.

But no!  The following morning I received a phone call from this joke of an agency, which I couldn’t take as I was driving.  However, when I called back, I explained that I had been called and that it was probably Jyoti Dabhi.  My heart sank when I was told that it was actually another waste of skin oxygen thief by the name of Heather Ritchie who needed to speak to me about my “alleged” refund.  Unfortunately, the Ritchie woman was unavailable, so the woman I was speaking to was given explicit instructions to get her to call me back the following day.  I also shocked this person by explaining, quite forcefully, that there was nothing alleged about the refund, in exactly the same way that there was nothing alleged about their incompetence that had led to them owing me money in the first place.

Heather Ritchie did indeed call the following day.  The bad news?  She was from that centre of stupidity that is the CSA Belfast office.  She again referred to an alleged refund, and she was told that there was nothing alleged about it.  She then informed me that the agency would have to recover the money from my ex-wife and asked if I was I happy for them to do so.  I explained that of course I was.  It was their incompetence that had led to my ex-wife being paid this sum, so it was down to them to recover it.  I did, however, explain that I would not be waiting for them to recovering the sum from my ex before I received my refund.  I was assured that it would be in my bank account in the next “three to five working days” and I assured her that if it wasn’t that she would be hearing personally from both myself and my MP.  However, much to my surprise, I was actually given some correct information by the CSA and four days later, it was paid and my dealings with the most incompetent organisation in the UK came to an end.

So, now that I finally no longer have to have any dealings with these retards I have a perfect solution as to how they can not only be gainfully employed, but actually be of some use. If the Government really wants a solution to the problem of Islamic State, then they should parachute ALL of the employees of the CSA into IS held territory with a brief that they should take over all the admin tasks.  IS would grind to a halt within days.  And you needn’t worry about these cretins being beheaded as a) It would be no great loss to humanity and b) They don’t need brains to function, or at least they haven’t for the last nine years that I have been unfortunate enough to have to interact with them, so they would be able to continue fucking-up until they died of starvation, like cockroaches.

Malta

It’s now been almost two weeks since Emma and I got back from what was a truly wonderful holiday to Malta, which means that we are both now back at work and the memories of the sunshine and sea are becoming more distant by the day.

Unfortunately, the holiday did not begin in the best way.  Although the flight was uneventful, as was the transfer from Luqa to Sliema, it was when we arrived at our hotel, the Bay View Hotel, that there was a bit of a hiccup.

Having booked into the hotel, we were given directions to our room, which we eventually found down a corridor that had one light that was blinking on and off and another that wasn’t working at all.  The room itself looked like a hostel and the small balcony overlooked, and was overlooked by, several other rooms and our view was an inland one and of a building site.

Emma went straight back to reception, and after about an hour and viewing six other rooms (I was blissfully unaware of her room inspections) she returned to inform me that we would be moving to a different, better, room the following day.  So, without unpacking, we strolled along the harbour front (not that we could see much at 10pm!) and found a small bar for a drink in the very balmy evening.

The following morning, whilst the staff in the hotel transferred all of our bags to the new room, we again walked along the harbour front, able to see much more now, stopping to buy several excursions for our week-long stay.

The new room was much better and provided us with a fabulous view across the bay and to the capital in the near distance. 

We were able to discover after lunch just how close the capital was when we made boarded the small ferry for the five minute trip across the Marsamxett Harbour to Valetta the “new” capital.

We spent a pleasant afternoon wandering the narrow streets of Valetta and buying presents for the kids, before getting the ferry back in time for dinner, which was when Emma had her first experience of rabbit, a local delicacy.

On our second day, we embarked on the first of the excursions that we had paid for, which was an open-top bus tour around the southern half of the island.  However, the advantage of this tour was that it was “hop-on/hop-off”, which meant that we could get off the bus at various places and get a bus 30 minutes later.

Our first intended stop was at the Hypogeum, which unfortunately was fully booked until mid-November, so after a coffee we got the next bus and made our way to the fishing village of Marsaxlokk, where we stopped for lunch.

Our final stop, prior to returning to Sliema, was to the Ħaġar Qim Temples.  We had intended to stop off at the Blue Grotto, but the sea was quite rough and it seemed there were no excursions on the day that we were there.

The temples were fascinating, although mostly ruins.  It is incredible to think that they had been here for more than 5,000 years.  Sadly, we did not have a lot of time to fully appreciate them, as we only had just over an hour before getting the last bus back to Sliema.

Having had a sore throat for most of the second day, I was unlucky enough to wake up on our third day with a full-blown cold, which meant that the excursion that we’d planned for that day was postponed for a couple of days.  Instead, we did the boat tour around Marsamxett Harbour and the Grand Harbour, which took about 90 minutes and explained a lot of the history of the island as well as the buildings.

After this, we took the ferry across to Valetta again and had a pleasant and leisurely stroll around more of the capital, including going round St John’s Co-Cathedral.  The décor of this building was spectacular, but it still amazes me that at the time that much of this marble and gold was being placed inside the cathedral, much of the population of the island would have been incredibly poor and struggling to survive!

On our return to the hotel, we made our way to dinner, something that we both grew to dread as the week went on.  This evening was the first one in which we decided to treat ourselves to some decent food and made our way to one of the local restaurants, Tre Angeli, where we both had a fabulous meal washed down with a very pleasant bottle of wine.

Day four saw us heading out on the bus-trip around the northern half of the island and our first stop was at the Ta’ Qali Crafts Village.

Although this was my first visit to Malta, Emma had been as a teenager with her parents.  On one of these trips they had visited the glass factory, which Emma told me had been in the middle of nowhere when she had last visited, but is now in a very commercial area, with lots of other crafts shops and factories.  On her first trip, Emma had watched a glass mushroom being made, which she had then bought.  However, in the intervening xx years, it had got lost, so when her back was turned I had managed to buy her a replacement.

After Ta’ Qali, when then made our way to the city of Mdina, which had been the capital of Malta during mediaeval times.  There is no traffic in this city, other than cars belonging to the residents and the horse-drawn carriages that ply for trade outside the main gate.

I found the place fascinating, and one thing that really struck me having played the Assassin’s Creed, particularly the first one, was that the city of Mdina had the feel of one of the cities from the game.  

However, I don’t think that Emma was that struck by the place as there was not an awful lot to see, so after a pleasant lunch, we boarded the bus again and made our way to St Paul’s Bay.

The reason for stopping here was that whilst we were having a lunch before our flight out, I’d noticed that an old school friend had posted that he was in Malta, so I had contacted him and we had arranged to meet with him and his wife at the hotel where they were staying.  After a pleasant hour or so with Sean and Andrea, we made our way back to Sliema.

On Sunday morning, we were up bright and early and made our way down to the harbour for the ninety minute cruise to the island of Gozo.  I have to confess to being somewhat anxious about this trip, as I knew that Emma was not at her best on water (see Trips and Birthday Treats) and we would be going into the open sea for this, which was something that we had only done once so far on this trip when we travelled from Marsamxett Harbour to the Grand Harbour, which had taken about ten minutes each way and made Emma decidedly uncomfortable.  However, I needn’t have worried as the Mediterranean was a lot more calm than the English Channel and the trip was very enjoyable.

Once we arrived on Gozo, we commenced what was, for me, the least enjoyable part of the trip.  I had been looking forward to visiting the island and doing the bus tour, but unlike the two bus tours that we’d already undertaken, this was not a “hop-on/hop-off” service, as we had to stick to a tight schedule to be back at the port to meet the boat.  Consequently, we drove at great speed to a place called Dwejra, where we were able to get off the bus for 30 minutes before driving at great speed to the capital, Victoria, where we were given 90 minutes in which to have lunch, prior to making our way back to the port.

Admittedly, as it was Sunday, everywhere on the island was closed, but I would still have liked to have been able to take it a little more leisurely pace and see a bit more of the island.

Once back on the boat, we made the short crossing to the island of Comino where the boat moored in the Blue Lagoon.  However, prior to setting foot on the island and having a swim, Emma and I decided to have a closer look at the famous caves of Comino, famous due to their use in the film Popeye.  To do this, we transferred from the boat that we’d cruised on to one of the company’s powerboats.  Emma was a little nervous at first, but once the boat got going, she loved it.  Not so one of the other passengers who I was sure was about to have a full-blown panic attack.

Once back on land, we changed into swimming costumes and had our first swim in the crystal clear waters of the Med, Emma providing the comedy moment by seeming surprised that there were fish in the sea.  No doubt these small fish will become enormous, with huge fangs and dangerous red eyes by the time the story is told by Emma, but they were actually only this size:

The cruise back was a little rougher and I don’t think Emma enjoyed it as much as the outward journey.  Having had such a nice day, we decided not to spoil it by eating at the hotel and headed off to Tre Angeli again.

Once we had arrived back in Sliema, and as we were making our way back to the hotel, we passed through one of the cafes that had a TV on, which was showing the World Cup quarter final between Scotland and Australia.  As we passed through, there was about five minutes left and Scotland were winning by two points.  Sadly, by the time we got back to the hotel, the match was all over and the Aussies had won by one point.

The next day was our last full day in Malta and we had now done completed all of the excursions that we’d paid for, so after a leisurely breakfast we caught the bus to Valetta in order to get some last minute bits and pieces.

I have to confess at one point that I did abandon Emma when she got collared by a guy who try to convince her to by some honey-based facial scrub for a mere , so after a leisurely breakfast we caught the bus to Valetta in order to get some last minute bits and pieces.

I have to confess at one point that I did abandon Emma when she got collared by a guy who tried to convince her to by some honey-based facial scrub for a mere €200 (£160)!  We also visited the Mdina Glass shop where Emma was looking for glass dish centrepiece for her kitchen table.  Unfortunately, the shop in the main town didn’t have one, but there was another shop down by the waterfront, so we made our way there.

It was during this trek that Emma came across a place that she actually recognised from her visit with her parents, the Upper Barrakka Gardens, as it apparently hadn't changed, unlike almost all of the rest of the island.  The view from the terrace over the Grand Harbour was fabulous, so we took a few pictures before taking the lift down to the waterfront level and along to the Mdina Glass shop where Emma was able to get her centrepiece.

After a pleasant lunch in Valetta, we got the bus back to the hotel for a power nap before dinner and then, as it was our last night we went down to Tre Angeli to sample some of their cocktails.

On our last day, we explored a bit more of Sliema before making our way back to the hotel and chilling in the lounge (we’d had to check out by 11am) until our transfer picked us up and took us back to the airport to get the flight from the 23° temperature in Malta to the 7° temperature in the UK.

I had always been a bit reluctant to visit Malta as my dad had been stationed there when it was still a British Colony and whenever someone mentioned Malta he would always say “Smells, bells and pregnant women!”  However, have now experienced the island first had, I would thoroughly recommend a visit and would love to go back, albeit staying at a different hotel.  It’s just a pity that there are so many other places that I want to visit, so unless I have a huge lottery win, it may be a while before I do get the opportunity to go back.