To be a jolly foreigner is to be an adventurer, to taste a foreign culture and say I really like some thing called "wurst" or something called "frutti". To learn that things new and know things better.
And yet when the taste buds splutter a little, when a vaguely remembered brand name from Blighty crosses a supermarket shelf, expense is not spared as it fails to make the other side of a shelf.
Jolly Foreigner is not only phoning home, but eating at home Brit style.
The rot has set in....
Online searches are made for English shops, Brit shops, American cousin shops....
There is a desperation that overrides mere trivialities of cross-cultural integration, a need to sup at the tablecloth made of red, white and blue.
Museums, statues, parks, exhibitions, sites of local interest are forsaken to visit a British shop that sells Brit things and to buy Brit things.
A thirst is slated. A hunger is fed.
Its time to go back to the wurst.
Saturday, 20 October 2012
Saturday, 25 August 2012
Yes Man Cometh
Crisis was once the other side of the world, bankruptcy was for banks, austerity was for emerging nations and suddenly, as fast as a man with diarhoea searching for the nearest toilet and a compulsory gravity-assisted weight loss diet plan is a GO, suddenly the Big Bad Wolf is at the office door. We are facing the wrong side of the equation in a red-line world.
Austerity is amongst us like a medieaval plague. A Black death in shades of grey.
And I am in a strange twilight world, an unwell man of losing-a-changing beliefs, a mix of a diabetic seaching for the insulin syringe waiting for a necessary pain and a heretic praying to a God that was long neglected. Beliefs are gone and a lesser life is accepted.
Austerity breeds a survival trigger that the young bucks are ready for.
I may be growing old, I am, its called life. I may be growing jealous, it is not necessarily called life.
Today I am jealous. I am seeing greatness in degrees.
He says "Great" when he means "Really?". We could be team players, a happy consensus decision-making entity; but we are not. We are evolutionary survivors in the maelstrom of corporate inter departmental empire building while Rome burns.
He is the greater evil. I am fighting not for glory but for peer group survival and a pension. He fights to be my boss and my bosses' boss. My bosses listen. They see a Boss, they see themselves. Rotten apples rot.
The Company was the greatest and now the Empire may fall in the real world that cares not for the inter departmental games we play.
I am a sadder person of the person I once was, a man feel unwilling not to become bitter and twisted, as bitter words are twisted to my disadvantage.
He tells it like it should be, not as it is. Telling it as it is, will not please the listeners who prefer things like it should be. Bosses like it. And if bosses like it, he likes it. Rose tinted spectacles are de rigeur. Things will be allright as long as we say its so.
Critical appraisal is left for the peer group review coffee break.
I tell it like it is, from experience and its called lack of ambition and he is ambitious.
He was seen to be the future at the team building appraisal where a skill in building egg-carrying, paper towers turns heads and brings promotion.
The reality check of the Big-bad, Real-world Wolf, that is called "Egg eater", will huff and puff and bring the house of cards down, but that is for next week's reality.
At the team building appraisal contest he is king. The Big Bad Wolf was not there.
I built slowly in brick for I was older and I knew of the metaphorical Wolf knocking at the door.
Perhaps I was thick as a brick. I expected praise for my craftmanship, my aesthetic fitness for purpose of tower magnificence, et voila,.......... it is old school, it is built for yesterday and may serve tomorrow, but paper is the "new black" and was in for today.
The corporate empire falls as Fiddlers roam the coffee areas, that were once Bosses, looking at the paper trail, looking to lay blame, looking over shoulders and wondering why.
Am I lauded for my forethought, am I turned to, to raise the phoenix from the ashes.
I am applauded as a fool. Brick building is the future now, but brick building was not the future back then.
Being from "Back Then" is Bad, because being right from 'back then' proves that the bosses were wrong 'back then' when paper was good. They said paper was good. A guilty finger could point that they were misguided, and if no-one knows then no-one knows. No-one knows the Fiddlers were wrong.
The Fiddlers can be Bosses still, and he moves on with an egg, paper dreams and a ready Yes.
I sit afraid the Company Pension is my paper dream. I sit with my metaphorical phoenix. I still have the fire to make the ashes part..
Austerity is amongst us like a medieaval plague. A Black death in shades of grey.
And I am in a strange twilight world, an unwell man of losing-a-changing beliefs, a mix of a diabetic seaching for the insulin syringe waiting for a necessary pain and a heretic praying to a God that was long neglected. Beliefs are gone and a lesser life is accepted.
Austerity breeds a survival trigger that the young bucks are ready for.
I may be growing old, I am, its called life. I may be growing jealous, it is not necessarily called life.
Today I am jealous. I am seeing greatness in degrees.
He says "Great" when he means "Really?". We could be team players, a happy consensus decision-making entity; but we are not. We are evolutionary survivors in the maelstrom of corporate inter departmental empire building while Rome burns.
He is the greater evil. I am fighting not for glory but for peer group survival and a pension. He fights to be my boss and my bosses' boss. My bosses listen. They see a Boss, they see themselves. Rotten apples rot.
The Company was the greatest and now the Empire may fall in the real world that cares not for the inter departmental games we play.
I am a sadder person of the person I once was, a man feel unwilling not to become bitter and twisted, as bitter words are twisted to my disadvantage.
He tells it like it should be, not as it is. Telling it as it is, will not please the listeners who prefer things like it should be. Bosses like it. And if bosses like it, he likes it. Rose tinted spectacles are de rigeur. Things will be allright as long as we say its so.
Critical appraisal is left for the peer group review coffee break.
I tell it like it is, from experience and its called lack of ambition and he is ambitious.
He was seen to be the future at the team building appraisal where a skill in building egg-carrying, paper towers turns heads and brings promotion.
The reality check of the Big-bad, Real-world Wolf, that is called "Egg eater", will huff and puff and bring the house of cards down, but that is for next week's reality.
At the team building appraisal contest he is king. The Big Bad Wolf was not there.
I built slowly in brick for I was older and I knew of the metaphorical Wolf knocking at the door.
Perhaps I was thick as a brick. I expected praise for my craftmanship, my aesthetic fitness for purpose of tower magnificence, et voila,.......... it is old school, it is built for yesterday and may serve tomorrow, but paper is the "new black" and was in for today.
The corporate empire falls as Fiddlers roam the coffee areas, that were once Bosses, looking at the paper trail, looking to lay blame, looking over shoulders and wondering why.
Am I lauded for my forethought, am I turned to, to raise the phoenix from the ashes.
I am applauded as a fool. Brick building is the future now, but brick building was not the future back then.
Being from "Back Then" is Bad, because being right from 'back then' proves that the bosses were wrong 'back then' when paper was good. They said paper was good. A guilty finger could point that they were misguided, and if no-one knows then no-one knows. No-one knows the Fiddlers were wrong.
The Fiddlers can be Bosses still, and he moves on with an egg, paper dreams and a ready Yes.
I sit afraid the Company Pension is my paper dream. I sit with my metaphorical phoenix. I still have the fire to make the ashes part..
1% mutually assured destruction
Mr Pareto invented a theorem that most of the time, 80% is good enough, because doing that extra 20% to get to the magic 100% takes twice as long and by that time the horse has left the barn, the boat has left the harbour and the train has left the station or any other saying that means you're walking.
I am probably not quite a Mr Pareto in that my comfort zone is 90% and I hope the pony is still in the barn and is not called Shank.
But sometimes....
I am being re-assured that something is 99% good. "Good" you may say, best foot forward, you may say, not bloody likely, I say. My local colleague is telling me the site, our site for a new mega project is 99% free of mines. Call me a cowardly custard, but a 1% minefield is still a minefield and the paralympics does not need another hero,
Mr Pareto's 80% can go to pot, Mr Pryce's 90% is old hat, I am a 100% man today. I want to walk away.
I am probably not quite a Mr Pareto in that my comfort zone is 90% and I hope the pony is still in the barn and is not called Shank.
But sometimes....
I am being re-assured that something is 99% good. "Good" you may say, best foot forward, you may say, not bloody likely, I say. My local colleague is telling me the site, our site for a new mega project is 99% free of mines. Call me a cowardly custard, but a 1% minefield is still a minefield and the paralympics does not need another hero,
Mr Pareto's 80% can go to pot, Mr Pryce's 90% is old hat, I am a 100% man today. I want to walk away.
Friday, 13 July 2012
Oui to the Yes to the .....Man
Belbin may have talked of plants and stuff. He may be right with his team, but sometimes there are those that think teams are for relegating. There are those of a pretence, who can "Oui", like a Python saying pretentiously, Moi.
There is a favourite word "Yes" in the whispering, there is a favourite phrase "Three bags full" in the ether, and there is a favourite sentence "Jesus wept" in the Bible; and not only because it is short, but that some other fella is crying.
These are the machinations of the man going up, a ladder to the executive toilet, a staircase to Heaven called Hell. The man with a will to please, a man awaiting his inheritance, a man who will represent rather than contribute, a man who will smile rather than laugh, a man who will say yes more often than bride.
He is surviving in a jungle marked by moveable walls and corridors. He knows it is a jungle, he is a man, he is the animal, he knows that survival of the fittest rests on saying yes, he is the survivor where others may cry.
There is a favourite word "Yes" in the whispering, there is a favourite phrase "Three bags full" in the ether, and there is a favourite sentence "Jesus wept" in the Bible; and not only because it is short, but that some other fella is crying.
These are the machinations of the man going up, a ladder to the executive toilet, a staircase to Heaven called Hell. The man with a will to please, a man awaiting his inheritance, a man who will represent rather than contribute, a man who will smile rather than laugh, a man who will say yes more often than bride.
He is surviving in a jungle marked by moveable walls and corridors. He knows it is a jungle, he is a man, he is the animal, he knows that survival of the fittest rests on saying yes, he is the survivor where others may cry.
Friday, 25 May 2012
Selling out the light for the cellulite
At the risk of sounding old, because I am. Although perhaps, if I stood in the shadows, dimmed the light, and squnited I may get away with looking 10 months younger. I will then have dreams of mutton will dress as lamb, if one has handy some sticky back tape, a pair of scissors and the Angel Valerie in attendance. If truth be told, as it often is, its hard to see the facts staring me in my mirrored face. No wrinkles will see my retinas with or without cataracts. Oops I am afraid, wrinkles will have their day in the sun.
I am facing not only jowls the size that says "Feed Me......come on Big Mac", but I am also facing the fact that the good years may be behind me. As careers go, I should get use to my cubicle-space allocation quota. The shape of things to come is not getting bigger. The light at the end of my tunnel may damn well be getting nearer but it is not getting brighter.
I look around the desk that is my empire, a laptop, a phone, cupboards, shelves, and see...... is this my reward for the years when I scorched earth, where I broke through glass ceilings with bloody wounds, where I broke down the walls of heart attack aches with a Beta blocker or two ,where I put my foot in doors whether open or not. I threw metaphorical grenades as friends became ex- friends, faster than Bruno Mars could come to the conclusion catching grenades for ya is not a good idea.
I may still cut it as the wise old jowled head of sanity, but sanity is a burden that I carry in the face of a wave that has King Canute's name on it.
These days I see my dynamism as quaint, running up that hill like a Jack the Lad with a pale look and furrowed brow, my mojo as perhaps a tad to earnest, a tad too unnecessary, when there were other things to do, like being a Dad. My foot perhaps was not so much, in , through , over doors as in my mouth. And by gum these days I could easily accomodate size nines with enough room for a Big Mac to sneak pass.
I am facing not only jowls the size that says "Feed Me......come on Big Mac", but I am also facing the fact that the good years may be behind me. As careers go, I should get use to my cubicle-space allocation quota. The shape of things to come is not getting bigger. The light at the end of my tunnel may damn well be getting nearer but it is not getting brighter.
I look around the desk that is my empire, a laptop, a phone, cupboards, shelves, and see...... is this my reward for the years when I scorched earth, where I broke through glass ceilings with bloody wounds, where I broke down the walls of heart attack aches with a Beta blocker or two ,where I put my foot in doors whether open or not. I threw metaphorical grenades as friends became ex- friends, faster than Bruno Mars could come to the conclusion catching grenades for ya is not a good idea.
I may still cut it as the wise old jowled head of sanity, but sanity is a burden that I carry in the face of a wave that has King Canute's name on it.
These days I see my dynamism as quaint, running up that hill like a Jack the Lad with a pale look and furrowed brow, my mojo as perhaps a tad to earnest, a tad too unnecessary, when there were other things to do, like being a Dad. My foot perhaps was not so much, in , through , over doors as in my mouth. And by gum these days I could easily accomodate size nines with enough room for a Big Mac to sneak pass.
Sunday, 6 May 2012
You know you're growing old....
So its come to pass and it is not passing well.
I face disaster of Biblical proportion. Is it raining frogs that cats and dogs appear to be kittens and puppies; are rivers parting at a drop of a sturdy rod; is there a plagues of locusts playing merry hell with the cauliflowers; are first born males seeking to get in touch with their feminine side that surgery is a viable option. So what has brought this religious old testament fervour.
I will tell you.
This catastrophe that will bring a tear to an eye and a wobble to a knee, more than my aging middle-aged body is happy to accept as normal for a man of my age.
I have been passed over.
I have a new boss. I have a boss half my age. I am looking up to a whipper snapper knee high to a grass hopper. A boss so wet behind the ears that a plastic surgeon would probably recommend shifting a tear duct.
He is dynamic, animated, motivated, excelling to the point where arrogance and confidence become a fine line he is not afraid to cross. He instructs me on things. I counsel caution, he sees cowardice.
Brave decisions will be made this night, and there by the grace of some decades there went I.
I made brave decisions once and learnt bravery should be tempered. I learnt too late for a few lost oldies who foundered on the back of my survival as I succesfully avoided my come uppance. Small mercies for those who left that I got better, I learnt. I drew a firmer line between arrogance and confidence.
Times pass but sometimes it remains the same. The wheel turns and we can end up at the same space, if not the same place. I have a feeling this may somehow be fitting justice for me.
I hope the Company survives. Let us pray.
I face disaster of Biblical proportion. Is it raining frogs that cats and dogs appear to be kittens and puppies; are rivers parting at a drop of a sturdy rod; is there a plagues of locusts playing merry hell with the cauliflowers; are first born males seeking to get in touch with their feminine side that surgery is a viable option. So what has brought this religious old testament fervour.
I will tell you.
This catastrophe that will bring a tear to an eye and a wobble to a knee, more than my aging middle-aged body is happy to accept as normal for a man of my age.
I have been passed over.
I have a new boss. I have a boss half my age. I am looking up to a whipper snapper knee high to a grass hopper. A boss so wet behind the ears that a plastic surgeon would probably recommend shifting a tear duct.
He is dynamic, animated, motivated, excelling to the point where arrogance and confidence become a fine line he is not afraid to cross. He instructs me on things. I counsel caution, he sees cowardice.
Brave decisions will be made this night, and there by the grace of some decades there went I.
I made brave decisions once and learnt bravery should be tempered. I learnt too late for a few lost oldies who foundered on the back of my survival as I succesfully avoided my come uppance. Small mercies for those who left that I got better, I learnt. I drew a firmer line between arrogance and confidence.
Times pass but sometimes it remains the same. The wheel turns and we can end up at the same space, if not the same place. I have a feeling this may somehow be fitting justice for me.
I hope the Company survives. Let us pray.
Friday, 4 May 2012
The seriousness of the Middle-aged middling Exec
I am there the old fella with a face that could waken the dead and unwaken them. I could star in a twilight years' movie. This is a serious face, a face that adds more to the IRR, more to the Company turnover, more to the profit margin a than a quizical look of a young eyebrow, more than a furrowing of the young brow. This face can portray by a consternation of a jowl that negotiation has not finished. This face can cause a sharp intake of breath that may need medical staff in attendance readying breathing apparatus. This is business. This is negotiation. This face is getting the bottom line a little higher. This is why they pay me sums of money.
I am a professional , having professional conversations, and the price I pay is small talk never rises to social talk most times. So we face the post Business dinner partying. This is not a party by any definition of my father, we are misleading the witness m'lud. This is small talk gone big-time. Conversations settle into safe places, "how's the..." the kids doing at college unless they are not, the wife doing unless there is a divorce, the rugby is doing reasonably well unless the wooden spoon is being carved.
But out of the 9 to 5, in my time, I want to party, to tell the world a joke or two that may involve self deprecation, that may not be as politically correct as one ought to be. I want to go tabloid in the broadsheet world. I must stay strong in the face of an intake of wine that may release a general sharp intake of breath all round. I must not dribble the secret sauce. I must know how to use the silver spoon after it has been placed right-most on the dish. I must not suggest if you were my wife I would drink the poison and fail to give credit to Mr Churchill. I must remember that on Monday I must still be the strong jawed IRR-focused old fella.
Once at a younger age, I was a young fella and with other young fellas and we could party under the eagle eye of the old fellas in a corporate party, to get slightly drunk and hope to be forgiven, to laugh and then laugh louder on an equation inexorably linked to alcohol.We could party-ish. An old fella may have joined us and regretted their faux pais on Monday, his respect left at a door called Emergency Toilet Exit remembered from the night before ~ one of the boys. Now I am an older fella and emergency toilet visits are to be avoided. Sacrifices to age, I must maintain my depressing work gravity that keeps my feet firmly on the ground.
I am destined to be bipolar and to hide it in the safety of my family home.
I am a professional , having professional conversations, and the price I pay is small talk never rises to social talk most times. So we face the post Business dinner partying. This is not a party by any definition of my father, we are misleading the witness m'lud. This is small talk gone big-time. Conversations settle into safe places, "how's the..." the kids doing at college unless they are not, the wife doing unless there is a divorce, the rugby is doing reasonably well unless the wooden spoon is being carved.
But out of the 9 to 5, in my time, I want to party, to tell the world a joke or two that may involve self deprecation, that may not be as politically correct as one ought to be. I want to go tabloid in the broadsheet world. I must stay strong in the face of an intake of wine that may release a general sharp intake of breath all round. I must not dribble the secret sauce. I must know how to use the silver spoon after it has been placed right-most on the dish. I must not suggest if you were my wife I would drink the poison and fail to give credit to Mr Churchill. I must remember that on Monday I must still be the strong jawed IRR-focused old fella.
Once at a younger age, I was a young fella and with other young fellas and we could party under the eagle eye of the old fellas in a corporate party, to get slightly drunk and hope to be forgiven, to laugh and then laugh louder on an equation inexorably linked to alcohol.We could party-ish. An old fella may have joined us and regretted their faux pais on Monday, his respect left at a door called Emergency Toilet Exit remembered from the night before ~ one of the boys. Now I am an older fella and emergency toilet visits are to be avoided. Sacrifices to age, I must maintain my depressing work gravity that keeps my feet firmly on the ground.
I am destined to be bipolar and to hide it in the safety of my family home.
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