Countdown #1

Satire in the UK died on Brexit referendum day.
It’s corpse lies in the Tory front bench

BBC Pay Bias

News reports today illustrate the ongoing debate on gender bias in pay within the BBC. Sandi Toksvig reveals she gets less than half the pay Stephen Fry received for QI. Toksvig said she is paid the same as panelist Alan Davies. Some of the online furore generated by these reports seek to justify the differential on the basis of Fry’s service length or state he has more ‘draw’. Whilst such factors almost certainly play a part, I don’t think it really justifies the entire differential. 

The BBC has been shown to have a systemic legacy issue with gender bias in pay. Even if you take the view that Fry may have been overpaid (also a legacy bias) in relation to general market trends, a 50% differential for doing a job with identical role profiles seems excessive.

Part of the issue, I suspect, is an absence of a structured, graded pay scale that is fit for purpose. I worked for British Gas pre floatation and for British Telecoms post floatation. Both were originally part of the Civil Service so are comparable in processes to the BBC. They had effective pay scales that included annual pay surveys and consequential levelling exercises. These helped prevent anomalies at either end of the pay bands. In addition, the unions would survey members after each pay review in order to keep an eye out for gender, age, ethnicity or sexual orientation bias in pay. Dummy job adverts would be posted periodically in order to establish/verify salaries. In short, there are ways of ameliorating the effect of ‘market force’, ‘experience’, or ‘draw’ on pay in order to treat all employees fairly.

As for ‘she/her agent read/signed’ the contract... Well, let me just ask when you last asked colleagues doing the same job as you what they were earning? Most of us in Britain are more closed mouthed about this than we are about our sex lives. Until that changes, certain employers will continue taking the proverbial urine.

Taking the Piss

In an entirely rash moment, I went looking for a minimal slimline consol table to fit around a radiator. I found a close match on Habitat’s website. Please explain how four bits of two inch square dowelling and a plank can cost around £300? And before you say “Well, it *is* Habitat”. This sort of price is not unusual for similar tables. Nice little earner for the carpenters out there

Chatty Cats

Sam had to spend some time at the vet when he was about a year old. He had to be readmitted. After the second time home he talked solidly for three days. He got very animated when I picked up the crate after the second time. I told him I knew he didn’t need to go back to the vet again and that I was just putting it away. He abruptly sat down and said “Oh!”

He stank like a perfumers. I think he’d been cuddled by the entire practise. He’d also been very interested in a rescue kitten in the cage above him. I reckon I got the entire thing told to me.

The vet had commented that he was quite chatty and that she supposed it was the breed. In hindsight, she must have thought I was bonkers: “He chats a little but only when he really has something to say”.

Heat Wavin’

Cold bath, cold bath, so sorry to leave
Your chillin’ vibe, but my toes
A’wrinkling. Chilly bliss, a lover’s touch
Upon my heated skin. Sweating city
Here I come, clothing shrink wrapping.
Rain cloud, I miss ya moist bitchin’

Funeral Follies

My mother's side of the family are not noted for their organisational skills. This has resulted  in one or two really dodgy funerals.

My Nana Kate's (my mother's mother) cremation was so brief that if you'd been thirty seconds late, you'd have missed it. One poem by her second husband, my step grandfather Ron. No flowers. A cardboard coffin that had been so badly varnished that 'streaky' doesn't even begin to cover it. I left the crematorium issuing instructions to my executor cousin, Sarah, that whilst I was fine with a cardboard box, it was to be an honest one with "Tesco" or "Sainsbury" printed on the side!

Roll forward several years and Ron has left instructions that he wanted the same kind of funeral. Well, my uncle Derek was happy with that; "Ron was a tight old git all his life, I'm not spending a penny more than necessary". Fair enough.

Just one teeny, weeny problem. Ron was quite a big bloke. Not particularly fat, but hefty. Take one hefty bloke, a cardboard coffin (thankfully minus the dodgy varnish), and a day when it absolutely pissed it down...... The pall bearers had a short walk, in the teeming rain, with a moisture absorbing cardboard box. A box which started to twist as they carried it. A box getting wetter by the second.

My cousins and I couldn't look at one another for fearing of corpsing with laughter.... we were mentally taking bets on whether they'd get Ron inside the chapel before the box gave out and he landed arse first on the tarmac. Thankfully, they got him in intact but it was close. Once inside, my cousins and I spread out as we couldn't look at one another. All of us were staring at out feet to avoid catching one another's eye.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Nearly fifteen before Uncle Derek stood up and said "I thought there'd be someone here. Doesn't the crematorium send someone?". 'Er no, Derek, you're supposed to sort that out. My ribs were aching from trying not to laugh by this stage. Fortunately my cousin Sharon's hubby has the Welsh gift of the gab and threw together a hasty, off the cuff eulogy.

So, when it came to my mother's funeral today, I wasn't expected anything other than a complete debacle. Her partner, Terry, more or less railroaded my brother and me out of any involvement with arrangements despite us being the next of kin, not him.

I walked out at the end. Terry didn't get the celebrant to talk to me beforehand so whilst beautifully framed and delivered, the eulogy was littered with errors.

The first half of Terry's speech was lovely about how he felt about Mum but, as usual, he had to over-egg the pudding and turn it into the King Terry show. As for the two bloody Charles Asnomore songs and using the poem the Queen used at her mother's ceremony, words fail me! As for making us stand as a curtain went around the coffin at the end... My mother would have decried such pretentious nonsense. The grotty brown velour curtain looked like it needed a good launder. I half expected Debbie McGhee to pop out wearing her magician's assistant spangly number.

It was lovely catching up with my cousins and my Auntie Josephine though. My mum's lovely young neighbour came too so it was pleasing to be able to thank him for keeping an eye out for my mum.

Thora Beryl Evans, My Mother

Thora Beryl Evans
30/06/1934 - 05/03/2018

My Mum is always with me.

As flour falls from my sieve, it's her hands on the handle.

I spread Marmite on toast, she's caring when I'm ill

Turning a hem, she slip stitches for me
Blood welling from my finger, her voice swearing

I mutter, "Effing cat!", it's her voice I hear

My fingers in warm compost, we share the smell
Pruning roses, she's telling me how

Sat in a sunbeam, she's next to me, mug in hand.
She's in every garden, and in every chore

I miss her, yet don't, as she never left.

Jazz Club

Genial, Gimlet'd Gallants,

All Cosmopolitan Confidence,

Wishing Daiquiri Dalliances

And Moonlit Manhattens

Call Sidecars for

Socialite Scandal

Boycott Burns Night

Oh dear, that's not a Haggis! It's the highly secretive Haggis Hound. It's a bit of a misnomer as it's actually part of the rodent family and not a hound at all though. They spend their days roaming the heather uplands of Scotland, looking for food and wisps of wool with which to line their dens. 

This species exhibit an unusual adaptation to their environment. The limbs on one side of their body are longer than on the other. This makes ascending and, indeed, descending the rocky crags in a spiral path easier. It is also thought to be implicated in their declining numbers as mating is only successful if the pair comprises one clockwise hound and one anticlockwise one. It is for this reason, the Highlanders have instigated a breeding program. It's location is a highly guarded secret as some in the Whisky trade consider the Haggis Hound to be a pest due to their competing for the more exotic botanicals used to flavour the best single malts. 

Most Scots would be deeply saddened to see the loss of these wee beasties however, and enjoy the sound of its voice echoing around the glens. It's territorial calls are said to sound like the hissing of the peat fires in traditional stone crofting cottages.