The Obscurer

Wednesday 2nd November 2005

Bin Round

When people moan about their council tax, the usual complaint goes something like “£1000 a year for emptying my fucking bins”, as if that is the only function the local authorities perform. Expect more of these comments with the annual warning that council tax is expected to rise sharply next year.

But I feel sorry for councils (and incidentally, no, I don’t work for one). They have to take responsibility for doing numerous jobs that need to be done, even though some people would rather they were not done at all (and which they certainly don’t want to pay for). That is a fairly thankless task. Take social services; many resent paying council tax for a service that sticks its nannying nose into other peoples’ business, and which helps people who can’t be bothered to help themselves. Why should the state assist authors of their own destruction such as gym-slip mums and their many squealing offspring when we don’t receive (or need) such help? If social services must exist then let it be a shoestring, skeleton sort of organisation, receiving just the minimum funding from local authority revenue. But then we hear of a horror story, such as the case of Victoria Climbie, and we suddenly expect social services to do anything and everything, to have limitless resources and to spare no effort in saving an innocent and deserving life.

And it seems to be getting worse. Every bright idea that central government comes up with appears to involve the local council doing the actual running of the scheme, and all without any extra funding. While power and decision making get more centralised, the responsibility for enacting these decisions is dumped at the door of local government. And so it goes on. Are the police too busy to respond to calls regarding noise nuisance? Well, rather than increase police resources let’s just move responsibility for envirionmental health onto the council. These new licensing laws could mean a lot of extra work for the magistrates’ courts to deal with; why not shift the duty onto the town hall mandarins? The examples are so numerous that I can’t remember them all now; phrases like “new legislation means that responsibility for enforcement now lies with the local authority” are issued so often that I barely notice.

Our council tax is paying for a lot more than just our bins being emptied, and it is having to pay for still more with each new central government decree; ironic, then, that increasingly the local council itself is being used as the dustbin for the country, taking on all the roles that no one else can be bothered with anymore.

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Wednesday 2nd November 2005

Gone Again

So, before we really got reacquainted, David Blunkett has had to resign again. I can’t say I have been following the to-ings and fro-ings of this one very closely, so I can’t offer an opinion on whether his going is justified; although it is probably common sense. The media had clearly scented blood and just weren’t going to let it lie, and I had the feeling that there would be a drip-drip of further stories being released, either real or imagined, until he finally went. Better to spare us all and just go early.

But why did I assume there would be further revelations in the press? Why didn’t I just think that what has been revealed so far would be the end of it, and that having ridden the storm Blunkett would be allowed to continue in his job?

Perhaps because whenever the media do scent blood it always seems that more and more stories do come out until the situation is resolved in the inevitable way. Has there ever been a case where the press have got themselves into a feeding frenzy over a politician, continually featured him or her on their front pages, detailed further twists and turns in the tale, only for the story itself to blow itself out without a sacking or resignation?

I can’t think of one. There always seems an endless stream of scandals once a politician’s credit has been used up and the press decide to bring someone down; which makes you wonder what the other politicians are up to, the ones the media choose not to write about…until perhaps they feel it is worth their while.

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Monday 31st October 2005

F Off

Now, I don’t like Gordon Ramsey at the best of times; not particularly. If he thinks that the best way to motivate his staff is to bully, intimidate and verbally abuse them then that is a matter for him; but I don’t personally find it entertaining, amusing or admirable. The thing is, on the occasions when I have watched Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares I have seen moments where he has shown a genuine skill for inspiring respect and building confidence in others; but I suppose such scenes don’t feature in the trailers for the show because they don’t make good telly. Certainly, that positive aspect of his personality doesn’t seem to get a mention when I hear his fans discuss him; it is the effing and jeffing side of Ramsey that people seem to like, which Ramsey himself seems proud of, and which I just don’t understand. I suppose Ramsey would say that his job is a very stressful one; but so is mine, and at my work we simply couldn’t get the job done if my colleagues and I showed such disrespect towards each other. Anyone can lose their temper in the heat of the moment, including me, but afterwards I would hope to apologise, rather than revel in my rudeness. I suppose it comes down to the paradox where some people reckon that you need to bollock people occasionally to get things done…but no one says they appreciate a good bollocking to get themselves going.

Anyway, there is another side to Ramsey that I am not keen on and that is his amazing hypocrisy. It centres on his disdain for “celebrity chefs” such as Anthony Worrall Thompson. Fair enough, you may think, but this is pretty rich coming from someone who has appeared in Ramsey’s Boiling Point, Kitchen Nightmares and Hell’s Kitchen, and has enjoyed numerous appearances on Jonathan Ross, The Friday Night Project, various “Top 100 whatever” programmes and who even had his own calendar out last year. His appearances on other people’s shows are especially weird, as away from the kitchen he shows himself to be a real dullard. On his first appearance on Jonathan Ross he revealed he had nothing remotely interesting to say; when he was a guest the following series he tried to be more engaging by playing to type and swearing a lot for no good reason, and to little effect.

Well the hypocrisy has really been cranked up with his new series The F Word (F for food), which I saw a repeat of yesterday on More4 (incidentally the best new TV channel we have seen for some time, and probably the best we will see for a while; I’m not placing much faith in Sky3 or ITV4). His new programme begins with credits showing him looking mean and moody, the theme tune bashing out a pounding and dramatic beat, the screen is filled with a close up of his scar ridden face; then we see him stripping off his “civvy clothes” as he strides purposefully down a corridor. A long shot reveals his topless frame before the camera is focussed close in again on his fixed, firm expression (did you forget how serious and mean he is?) and then we watch as he changes into his chef’s gear before storming through the doors at the end of the corridor. Cut to a swish restaurant full of eager diners, a long spiral staircase with Ramsey at the summit; the crowd goes wild, cheering and applauding the arrival of their hero. Ramsey skips down the stairs, basking in glory, milking the applause. And this is a man who hates celebrity chefs?

To be honest, that was enough for me and I had to switch over; and I’m glad I did. Over on BBC2 Bill Oddie’s Autumnwatch was in full swing and it featured the most amazing sight of starlings flocking in huge numbers; it really had to be seen to be believed. If it’s ever on again then watch it; a sky almost black with birds that swirl in unison, looking like a school of sardines that go squeezing and twirling into all manner of bizarre shapes in the sky before tumbling down like the steady flow of a waterfall onto a reed bed. Amazing.

But when that finished I flicked through the channels and there didn’t appear much else on so I gave The F Word another go, and it wasn’t too bad actually. Giles Coren’s look at how donner kebabs were made in a factory was quite interesting, and while it proved what a fatty and unhealthy product it is, at least the meat used looked to be of a decent quality, free of lips, lugs and spinal cord. It was also amusing when Ramsey challenged comedian Al Murray to see who could make the best bread and butter pudding. Ramsey was tedious, referring to Murray’s dish as a stale egg sandwich; not once but about 18 times as he clearly didn’t have the imagination to think of another insult. But then, when it came to a blind taste test, the judges’ unanimous verdict was that Murray’s pud was better than Ramsey’s soggy effort. Ha ha.

I don’t think I will bother watching The F Word again. Like Ramsey I don’t have an interest in celebrity, which is why I was puzzled when he was seen schmoozing with guests Martine McCutcheon and Sun columnist Jane Moore (Martine wasn’t too keen on the bread and butter pudding, she said, because she doesn’t like raisons; although when she later revealed that she doesn’t eat dairy or bread it became clear the dish was probably her idea of hell). His campaign to get women cooking again seemed a weak attempt to hang onto Jamie Oliver’s coat tails by being a cook with a cause, and there was a ludicrous part of the show where he picked the people for the blind tasting panel. Each guest was blindfolded and had to taste a variety of foods; those who correctly judged which food was which were considered the people with the finest palettes and joined the panel. The problem lay with the foods the guests were tested on; if you have never eaten salmon caviar before, or mozzarella with basil, then you are unlikely to be able to tell what they taste like; it doesn’t mean you can’t have an opinion or cannot tell good food from bad. This is another thing that gets on my tits about Ramsey, that he likes to portray himself as a no nonsense, down to earth man of the people; yet all the while he can be as snobbish and pretentious about food as anybody and charges prices at his restaurants that only a small sector of the population can routinely afford.

In all, though, for me The F Word suffers by comparison with Full On Food, of which it seems a poor imitation. Full On Food was a cracking programme which, like The F Word, was a cookery magazine show with a studio audience; it had some fascinating and informative items from the resident presenters (I particularly remember a moving film from a vegetarian food critic trying meat for the first time in ten years) and even featured a minor celebrity cooking a dish in the studio each week. If you haven’t heard of Full On Food then it may be because unlike The F Word it didn’t also feature a minor celebrity audience, minor celebrity presenter and minor celebrity chef; something you would think that Gordon Ramsey himself would approve of.

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Thursday 27th October 2005

Equity

I used to work for a large private sector company who you will have heard of, and my wife still works there. In the main I left for the usual selfish reasons (lack of promotion, for more money) but also because I was sick of the way the firm was going. The company is a service provider – its product is the service itself paid for by annual subscription – and yet the quality of that service was worsening with every bright idea and reorganisation. The service department where I worked was valued less than those areas of the firm that directly generated income; how you can focus on getting people to buy a service, without paying attention to the quality of that service for those who have already parted with their money, is beyond me. During my time with the company quality of service very much played second fiddle to sales (whereas now I work in the public sector, and quality of service plays second fiddle to hitting government targets).

But give my ex-employers their due. Back “in my day” telephone calls from customers who needed assistance there and then had to be answered within 10 seconds; failure to do so would affect the call handling service level, which was not to fall below 90%. In other words, we aimed to answer at least 90% of all service calls within ten seconds. If the service level threatened to go below 90% then staff in other parts of the firm taking information, customer relations or sales calls were instead instructed to assist us in answering service calls. The priority was to deal with those existing customers who had already paid us their money and who needed our help immediately, before answering the phone to people who were not yet our customers, and who may or may not become customers. Sometimes, of course, particularly in extreme conditions, nothing could be done and the service level would drop well below 90%, but it was considered a bad day when it did so.

But times change and such outmoded practices must be swept away in the name of progress. Nowadays my wife tells me that rather than trying to answer service calls within ten seconds, the aim is to answer these calls within six minutes. One day last week, the service level for such calls was just 24%, a figure that in a more innocent age would have driven senior management to despair; but no longer. No; that day (when only 24% of calls from distraught customers were answered within six minutes) was actually considered a good day, because the service level in the sales department was maintained at 52%. I am being purposefully vague about what my wife’s firm actually does, but if you ever need their assistance, when you are likely to be in a distressing and possibly dangerous situation, you will no doubt be encouraged by this thought. As they already have your money, you are more likely to be left hanging on the phone than someone who isn’t yet a customer, who is sat at home, relaxed and comfortable, making a few calls to get some quotes, because their call is prioritised. One member of staff questioned the wisdom of treating their customers so abysmally, and so it was explained that sales calls were more important than service calls, as without new customers there wouldn’t be anyone to provide a service to, would there?

The short sightedness of this attitude is obvious, to you and to me, to even the dimmest three year old child, perhaps to some animals (certainly dogs), and even to certain inanimate objects, such as kettles; of course it is important to answer calls from people who may provide you with income in the future, but that it is also important to answer calls from people who already do provide your income, and who, if treated well, will continue to do so. Fortunately, a private equity firm currently owns the company, and it seems short sightedness is all that is required when you are in their employ. Overall sales no doubt will improve in the short term, although what will happen to long term customer retention levels is anyone’s guess; but in any event, long term customer retention levels are irrelevant to the current owners of the company, who will sell the firm in around a years time, pocket a handsome profit, and look for another company where they can work their magic. Onwards and upwards.

These days I often come home from my current job frustrated at the way thing are going, dismayed at how the stereotypical image of the public sector as being inefficient and bureaucratic has just been confirmed and played out in front of my eyes. Then I speak to my wife, and she tells me about the latest developments at her work; we swap anecdotes about the way our employers seem to be copying the worst practices from each other, and in a strange way it makes us feel better. If our experiences are typical then I’m not sure that the public and private sectors have all that much to teach each other. It doesn’t seem to matter where you work; everything’s fucked.

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Friday 21st October 2005

Laud Nelson

This is my first post for over a fortnight, and I don’t really have any excuses for my absence. I have been a bit busy, but not that busy. Inspiration has been lacking, and when I have come up with a few ideas in relation to news stories and posts on other blogs, by the time I’ve got around to trying to write them they had become far from topical, so I haven’t bothered and they have bitten the dust. Also, I have thought of some brilliant posts to write whilst drunk, only to discover in the morning when sober that they are utter shit. So you have probably had a few lucky escapes there.

The erratic nature of my postings is likely to continue for a while as I have got a few short breaks planned over the next few weeks. It’s York at the start of November, taking advantage of Travelodge’s absurd deal of £26 a night for a family room; but for tomorrow the boy will be deposited at his Grandparents’, and my wife and I are off for a two night stay in Chipping Norton, “gateway to the Cotswolds”, apparently (although considering the size of the Cotswolds, I suspect it can be considered just one of a number of gateways). It will be our first nights away from our son for a good few months, and yet from previous experience our love for him will dominate the conversation during our stay. The reason for our trip? We have vouchers for a free room (subject to conditions) in a number of hotels throughout the UK, including The Crown And Cushion, handily placed halfway between the touristy meccas of Oxford and Stratford-upon-Avon; and it is also the fifth anniversary of our engagement (well, any excuse really).

Yes, I fancy a quiet break away from things, but the other day in the pub I saw a poster that suggested my anticipated tranquillity may be breached; for it appears that today, tomorrow and Sunday constitute “Trafalgar Weekend”, and we are all invited to celebrate the Battle of Trafalgar by attending our local public house to partake in a pissy pint of lager or two, along with a pack of those weird Nobby’s Smokey Bacon coated nuts; or the food and drink of your choice I suppose.

Let’s celebrate the day of the battle itself if we must, but a whole weekend in the pub? That seems a bit odd, although no odder than those official celebrations in June this year which were presumably to mark the 199¾ anniversary of the event. The last thing I want is gangs of rural louts roaming around Chipping Norton High Street, singing sea shanties and punching French and Spanish passers-by; it could quite put one of one’s Tournedos Rossini in the hotel restaurant (Oh yes; Tournedos Rossini! I’m going to push the boat out a bit this weekend (no joke intended)).

I guess we will be alright though; I don’t think many people will be commemorating the battle in quite the way the pub chain’s marketeers would like (although you can’t fault them for trying). I suspect most people will think that celebrating Nelson’s ultimate battle by going to the pub on Sunday afternoon, 200 years and 2 days after that historic moment, is a faintly ridiculous idea; although perhaps no more ridiculous that celebrating your engagement anniversary when you are in your fourth year of marriage.

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