Breaking Chairs

Someone left a comment here yesterday suggesting that I review the new installation in the Turbine Hall at Tate Modern. Personally, I think it looks great - and I love that Carsten Holler has the balls to argue that 'scientists' have proved that sliding is good for you. However, I won't actually be going on the slides myself because I am scared that I would get stuck in them and have to be cut out by amused firemen.

The thing is that I am big, too big for most normal things. I'm not like a freak or anything (Well I don't think I am. I've never been asked to join a circus or anything.) I'm just tall and also fat. The kind of guy that small tossers in pubs feel they can say "You okay there big man" to. The sort of person who you might want on your rugby team, but not sitting next to you on the plane. The sort of person you'd ask to help to move a fridge rather than test out a new deck chair. Sometimes when I look at photos of mrs househusbandnot and I, I think I am a different species: like a polar bear standing next to normal bear, or that massive frog that David Attenborough was holding in the rain forest compared to a frog you'd see in a garden pond.

This isn't dismorphia. I have broken chairs, and leaned against tables that have creaked ominously, and been stared at by everyone else in the crowded lift when it won't work. (There is a story about me being asked to leave a children's party when I was five because I had knocked a wall over, but I think - and hope - this is just a myth perpetuated by my sisters.) Take that simulated freefalling I told you about in the summer. I knew that I was going to be too big to do it, and I knew it was going to be humiliating having this proved in front of mrs househusbandnot and the other people doing the simulation that day.

Size does have its advantages. You get served in pubs quicker, and can see at gigs, and you can reach stuff on shelves. But it is also a real chore, having to check to see if chairs will break under you, gingerly parking your arse on a garden seat designed to hold a child or a gnome, pretending that you would rather stand than sit on some antique chair that was designed to hold dainty ladies in waiting. I've been checking out chairs just about all my life. And I've never been able to do stuff like perch on the arms of sofas or armchairs, or nip lightly onto very small boats, or go up ladders without worrying that they might break or buckle under my weight. (Well I have done all these things, and usually with disastrous consequences.) Garden furniture is the worst. It is all made for thin midgets.

Like most big people - and I'm sorry here if the few of you who don't know me are still getting over the fact that househusbandnot isn't some willowy wispy person - I spend half my time worrying about it, about 30% thinking I should do something about it (although even when I was younger and lighter I was still too big) and the other 20% staring at people in the street trying to work out if any of them are my size. (mrs househusbandnot can be seen regularly dragging me away from ogling large men in public. Actually, I have to tell you this: On my second date with mrs househusbandnot, it was all going well, and I hadn't broken any chairs at the restaurant we'd been to, and she seemed to be falling for the he is actually quite normal stuff. And we were walking back to her place when two really drunk Australians stopped dead in front of us. I thought for a second they were going to try and pick a fight, but they just stared at me some more and one said to the other: "Geeze man. Check him out. He's maaaaassive. He's got to be some sort of Russian or something". It was like being in a zoo. It is to mrs househusbandnot's credit that she didn't run for the hills there and then. [Actually, I think she needed a fridge moving that evening.])

So, no slide rides at Tate Modern for me I'm afraid. But keep the suggestions coming, as long as they don't involve walking on ice or sitting on stools. Right, I'm off for a swim...

Animal Theories Edit

I just finished the post for today and tried to publish it, and the whole &*&^ing system went down, failing to save any of my original post. It was quite good too. It had movie reviews of the movies mrs househudbandnot and I watched over the weekend. And stuff about my friend who is moving to Kenya in January. And some good jokes about wildebeest being really bummed out about waking up every morning and realising they are still wildebeest ("Great. Me and these other four million suckers running around trying to avoid crocodiles again. I had a dream I was an ant-eater.") And about male penguins wishing they were gay so that they didn't have to walk 70 kilometers to sit on an egg in the middle of the Antarctic every spring.

I'm reluctant to try and remember all of the original post now, and the penguin gag was the best one, other than some graffiti I saw on a billboard for a really bad romantic comedy which read: 'He's gay. She can't act. Straight to video' - which is where we watched this truly shockingly bad movie over the weekend. (We also saw a new movie with that bloke from Scrubs called Last Kiss, which was nice in a gentle, nothing really happens kind of way.)

But I am getting sad that my friend is going to Kenya. Not in a he is abandoning me way. I'm not like that. Just in a hey he's not going to be here way. But I guess Mrs househusbandnot and I can go and see him and his family once they are settled in, and check on the real - rather than my anthropomorphised - lives of wildebeest. Although I did watch a documentary about them recently. They get killed by everything. Crocodiles, lions, wild dogs, people, mud, each other, everything. They should cut their loses and shave and hang out with goats and stuff so they don't have to do that hellish migration every year. (Shaved wildebeest to crocodile: "The wildebeest? They went that way dude. And all the really weak ones were at the back. You'll catch them in no time. Me? No, I'm a goat. Why am I shivering? It's just a goat flu thing that's been going round the herd..I mean flock...I mean goat community. Dude, don't stare at me like that. You're freaking me out.")

Actually, as you may have guessed, one of the movies we watched over the weekend was March Of The Penguins. It was a really sweet movie, and completely exhausting watching these absurd birds walk for miles and miles and miles - all in little penguin steps - to find places to breed and food for their kids. mrs househusbandnot said it made how some of her friends had described IVF treatment look relaxing.

I'm actually doing some real - rather than this - writing this week for a new website, which is fun. So I'm going to get on with that now, before I share any more of my theories on animals - of which I have many many hundreds.

Brie Fly

I still can't work out how to show comments on househusbandnot without you having to click through on the LINKS TO THIS POST line. But blokeihaventseeninages - aka mr nasty - got back after a few responses to his rather caustic attack on me yesterday. If you want to see what he said go to the Being Normal post from yesterday and click on the LINKS TO THIS POST. I think he is trying to say that his first long comment was ironic or not serious or something. I was mighty pissed off about it at the time - which shows me up for the delicate individual I am I guess. Mind you, I also alerted you to reading his comment, so I guess I am..aah fuck it. It's only a blog.

Nothing witty to say about last night with the in laws. We had a really really nice evening.

Keeping to one of my rules about blogging - not saying anything when there is nothing to say - see ya next week. hhn x

Being Normal

Manicking around a bit today because I've got the in laws coming for supper tonight. They live out of town and have decided to drop in for a quick supper after tea at the Ritz. Actually, it is more like them coming for a late tea here because they are from the North and like to have their last meal of the day around about four in the afternoon.

mrs househusbandnot has me under strict instructions to de-househusbandnot the flat before they turn up. At my stage in life this is not a case of hiding the drugs and the porn, but making sure that there is no Bombay Mix down the side of the sofa and that the lid is on the wormery. mrs househusbandnot's parting shot this morning was "And make sure everything looks normal". Which is kind of the real problem. I love my in laws - I really do - but I have absolutely no idea what they think is normal.

So, although I will clean the flat, and puff up the cushions on the sofa to hide the Bombay Mix bits, I am bound to forget to do some sort of arranging that will shock them. I'd like to say I know what this will be, but I don't, which is why it will happen. It could be the tomato ketchup in the wrong section of the fridge. Or not enough coasters. Or the wrong coasters. Or the lack of - or existence of - an ice bucket. I just don't know. (I am still recovering from the bollocking I got from my mother in law for putting some of her 'ornamental' logs on the fire when we were staying with them at Xmas. Ornamental logs? What differentiates a log from an ornamental log? I don't think I really want to know.)

One of the issues my in laws have is that we are living in the flat that I lived in before I met mrs househusbandnot. They say they "don't see enough of our daughter" in the flat. Again I don't really know what this means. Should I be leaving strands of her hair around the bathroom? Maybe spraying mrs househusbandnot musk in the sitting room? Or leaving copies of the Charlie's Angels soundtrack by the hifi? Or burning all my stuff?* Or should I just commission Marc Quinn to knock up a quick mrs househusbandnot blood sculpture? I dooooooooooon't know.

I do know actually. My in laws want us to get a 'normal' house, where we can have ornamental logs and children and coasters - hundreds of all of them.

In other news, blokeihaventseeninages has been in touch saying that he would have liked a credit for his thoughts on staying in I quoted the other day. Apparently, I referred to him as just a househusbandnot regular reader rather than by his proper name of blokeihaventseeninages. He also pointed out that he checks househusbandnot two or three times in the morning when it is often not yet done, so my (self) congratulation at having had 1,500 visits the other day should be divided by approx four. (Thanks very much blokeihaventseeninagesbuzz(james)blunter.)

BY THE WAY: blokeihaventseeninages has just been in touch with a response to this. If you click on LINKS TO THIS POST below you can read it. I would love to show comments, but it is stupidity - rather than arrogance - which is stopping me from doing it. Anyone who can advise on this please do so.

Wish me luck with the ketchup placement in the fridge this evening/afternoon. Will report back on what I did wrong.

* mrs househusbandnot is up for this btw, but for bad anti-man reasons.

Fruit Bats: The Truth

mrs househusbandnot and I watched a re-run of one of Fanny Craddock's cooking shows last night. Fanny was producing some of the nastiest food on earth - all in black and white tv which didn't help - and coughing her way through the programme like that guy in the shed on The Fast Show. Last night, Fanny was telling us that we should leave our mashed potato to 'settle' for 24 hours before we piped it into our scallop shells. Bleah. And she arranged a fruits de mer - "All lovely English seafood [cough]" - that looked like a science project on how the food chain works on the ocean floor off Dungeness. I remember watching this show when I was small with my mother taking notes so she could impress her less adventurous friends with these exotic and exciting recipes. It all looked like very nasty school food last night (and I mean school food before Jamie Oliver got his delicate hands on it).

Mind you, my English friend who lives in San Francisco was on the email the other night after a recent trip back to England: "BUT where did the pub go? They have all become restaurants. All over. Where is the ploughmans and the fish and chips? It's all pork tenderloins in a fig and port wine reduction. IT'S A PUB FOR CHRIST'S SAKE??? What is happening to England?"

So I guess food-wise we have progressed beyond Fanny and her exposition de mer and her aged mash. But my mate has a point, and this is coming from someone who lives in California where it takes the waiters quarter of an hour to explain how chef thought up today's specials on a Buddhist retreat in the Napa Valley, and where your aged mash - or potato ancien I should say - would be served on a duvet of wilted lettuce with a saki and juniper gravy.

Talking of food (and I know this is a weak link), I had lunch with a friend of mine yesterday who is on the board of the London Zoological Society. I asked her about her thoughts on fruit bats and another friend's recent accusation of me being an unreliable animal witness with my description of them. She assures me that fruit bats are as I described them - vast, snouty, vampire-like, almost wolves with wings. She even suggested that these beasts may well not eat fruit at all, but were given their benign name because the horrific truth about their diet is too frightening to contemplate, and that Small Oxen Bat or Sheep Bat would have villagers out with their rakes and muskets seeking to cull this monster of the skies.

So, English food is...what it is, but I have an (unofficial) endorsement from the Zoological Society as a reliable animal witness. I'll put in on my CV. (And there was me complaining about bloggers' self-validation the other day.)

househusbandnot 2.0

"I'm not sure that Eel Man is right about getting out more. Obviously I speak as someone who can't make it to the corner shop without medication but I do think there's something to be said for festering in one's own squalor - a jaundiced Weltanschauung leads to much more entertaining reading than the clear-eyed, carefully considered opinions of the smug man/woman about town whose pseudo-objective judgments are so often a covert form of dreary self-regard. Fuck 'em. And stay indoors."

An interesting response from one househusbandnot regular reader after yesterday's thoughts on another reader feeling that I should get out more often. To be or not to be in? Or out, actively seeking stories for househusbandnot. I was talking to a photographer friend of mine recently, who said that he only really gets great photos when he goes out looking for them. Kind of kills any spontaneity angle to his art, but I guess you get what you get.

Speaking of people who definitely do need to get out more, I had another email about househusbandnot yesterday - hey people, we 've almost got ourselves a chat room going here at househusbandnot HQ - asking if I had ever noticed how many British murderers are named after biscuits - Carr, Huntley and Palmer, McVitie etc. Er, that would be a no. End of that chat then, unless someone wants to link us through to biscuits@murder.freak.com

And speaking of websites, I am doing some research for a new website. (In typical website start up style, I can't say what it is because it is such a b. rilliant idea it is going make a kertrillion pounds for all of us involved in it.) But it is interesting - well not very interesting at all actually - trawling through the vast amounts of endless selling and pitching and static PR that most websites still appear to be. Where's Web 2.0? I'm still drowning in Web 1.0 with its promises to me of instant cash and refound school friends and warehouses full of cheap viagra and free pictures of first time amateurs and a free ipod and free text messages to my blender. I still don't see much of this promised Web 2.0 conversation and interaction that is supposed to be going on in www. land, just selling and more selling.

But always eager to follow a trend, I have changed my name to househusbandnot 2.0 today, and expect the same from all other bloggers. From now on - repeat after me - we bloggers promise:

1) to get out more
2) to stay in more if it is going to make us more interesting and fine tune our Weltanschauung (I had to look it up too)
3) to hold back on the photos of cats in clothes
4) not to think that just because we felt something that it actually happened, and is therefore worthy of mention in our blogs
5) not to mention how much we still hate Michael Winner
6) never to start a post with "She stiiiillll hasn't called" or "Hey I finally got a digital camera. Check out this photo of me looking into a mirror." or "Here's a photo of Minxy dressed as Dolly Parton. Cute, huh?"
7) to post a maximum of ONE photo of our children a decade
8) not to keep complaining about those two guys at You Tube
9) to be as creative in our writing as we are robust with our self-validation
10) and to stop writing lists

hhn 2.0 x (note the friendly, interactive, conversation-inducing 'x' sign off)

Chez Eel Man

Went to good friend and neighbour Eel Man's for lunch on Saturday. Having said he was really enjoying househusbandnot, Eel Man paused for thought - or to prepare me for his thought - and said: "But I think you need to get out a bit more".

Now this hurt. Partly because Eel Man really knows his blogs (he has been writing and reading blogs since before you and I even knew what they were). But also because I know he is right, and that me just bolloxing on about paint drying and workmen not turning up and what the neighbours are doing is not enough. I do need to get out more, and write about what is going on beyond the confines of the four or so walls of this apartment.

Grown up and open to criticism as ever, I took the thought and went and sulked in the corner of Eel Man's garden, while he turned on mrs househusbandnot and accused her of being an unreliable animal witness with her descriptions of fruit bats. (He thinks fruit bats are just small batty mousy creatures, while mrs househusbandnot and I happen to know that they are more like jack russels or foxes with wings, who swan-like could break a man's arm with a casual swipe from one of those wings.)

And (not that I'm still upset or anything) this from a man who went on to tell us that he and his wife - aka Mrs Eel - had had a long conversation that morning about the political persuasions of different biscuits, based on the initial examples of Garibaldis and Bourbons. According to these two self-appointed reliable biscuit witnesses, Hob-Nobs are the biscuits or the people while their louche cousins the Chocolate Hob-Nobs wander the disaffected ranks of the right wing, supporting hanging if it will get rid of more common people and vaguely socialising with David Cameron because they were at school together. mrs househusbandnot made a half-hearted attempt at introducing Pink Wafers into the discussion, but I could tell she was down, stunned by the unreliable animal witness jibe. (On the way home after lunch, she said: "I trained as a f*cking lawyer. I'll give him unreliable witness".)

But getting out more. Eel Man is right. I'm going to do some more of that, even if it's just to the biscuit section of Tesco's to sharpen up my political commentary. Or to the zoo to steal a fruit bat to leave in Eel Man's gym bag next time we go swimming together. (Actually, I got off pretty lightly on Saturday. As we were leaving, I could hear Eel Man correcting his mother in law's Dutch pronunciation, and asking Mrs Eel if she thought their 10 month old son - McEel? Elver? - was old enough to listen to some early Velvet Underground.) If I'm sounding anti Eel Man, don't think that. I feel deeply happy that I have friends who can be so entertaining about biscuits.

What Dragons?

Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Not got a lot today people. I've run out of energy dissing life coaches. Tempted - but not going to - talk about the strange weather today. I could tell you about failing to record the Sopranos last night. Or the nice dinner party we went to last night - hence the recording/not recording of The Sopranos. Or the shepherds pie I am having for supper tonight because mrs househusbandnot is having supper with a friend whose brother has just married a Thai 'dancer'. Or about my mate who recently had to go up to Damon Albarn and say: "Look I'm not stalking you. I just live next door to you. I like the coffee in the same place as you do, and have a recording studio next to your one." Or the time I met Bono. Or the time that one of the Sex Pistols tried to pick a fight with me. Or about why the then head of the CIA came to my sister's confirmation. Or about the time my dad met Winston Churchill. Or about who mrs househusbandnot's famous uncle is. Or about the time I got chased off Tiananmen Square by Chinese soldiers. Or about my allergy to white Rioja. Or about the time Mary Quant's dog bit me in the groin. Or why I can never go back to Dubai. Or about when mrs househusbandnot hung out with The Dandy Warhols for a week. Or my mother. Or about when a very famous actor tried to teach me how to pick up women. Or about a girl I once went out with, and we were having that what was your previous boyfriend/girlfriend like conversation, and she said "Actually it was Marvin Gaye". (No pressure there then.) Or about the fact that I am actually doing some work for mrs househusbandnot's company at the moment. Or about the time I was in Ethiopia and this priest said to me: "Dragons? What dragons? There are no dragons here?"

I'll try and think of some interesting stuff for next week.

History And Scale

Here in the UK, the National Trust organised the world's biggest blog this week. The idea was to get a feel for what a large number of people in this country are thinking about to keep as some sort of historical record. I find this event as meaningful as making the world's largest hamburger or building a life size sculpture of an elephant out of walnuts. Scale for the sake of scale, rather than scale as meaningful.

According to one report, the majority of people who contributed to this big blog are either a) grownups who are disaffected by having to go to work, or b) school children who are equally disaffected, but presumably by their more relevant agendas of the cost of sweets and how uncool their parents are. Didn't we know this already? (I am a bit biased because along with a fear for snakes and an interest in painting things silver, I also inherited a dislike for the National Trust from my father. He was - amongst other things - an historian, and felt that the National Trust sought to hinder the general public from exploring their interest in UK heritage and history. Watching him wandering around country houses managed by the National Trust, I got the distinct impressions his real resentment was of those roped off areas and rooms that you were not allowed to go into. I've inherited that too, and can often be seen being told off by mrs househusbandnot for trying to force my way through doors marked Private. I call it curiosity. She calls it wrong.)

Anyway, it remains to be seen what the Trust's big blog will tell future generations about us. I suspect not a lot, other than the fact that back in 2006 people were just as bored and tired and broke as they are/will be in the future, and that only those who could afford life coaching ever had time to look up from their desks and embrace life. (Actually back here in real time, I've been told by mrs househusbandnot that I should stop ranting about life coaches - as I have been for the last couple of days - because it is just making her realise quite how urgently I need coaching.) I am assuming that by that time - aka the future - househusbandnot will have been recognised as the Pepys of his generation, and my great grandchildren will be wondering whether or not to leave my original manuscripts to the National Trust.

Speaking of popularity - fantasised or otherwise - here at househusbandnot HQ we celebrated our 1,500th visit to the blog yesterday. Scale for the sake and celebration of it I know. But thought I would mention it just so you know that you are not alone out there.

Pencils

"Yes, those people [life coaches] say things like 'This is what I like to call a pencil', holding a pencil, or 'When would now be a good time to do that?'." This from my friend I have mentioned before., the one who expresses outraged surprise at anything I do.

Actually, I got into a bit of trouble with mrs househusbandnot for the blog yesterday, because apparently it was a bit negative, and I should be being more positive - yes that would be the same mrs househusbandnot who says "give it good energy, love the aerial and it will love you househusnandnot" when I am kicking the tv aerial around the room trying to get a decent reception for X Factor.

mrs househusnandnot also shared my yesterday thoughts on life coaching with a couple of coaches, who - in coachtastic style - said they liked it and said that I should say more about what I think. What does it take to get these guys to be nasty? ( Me: "Your mother sucks *&^%s in hell." Coach: "Well let's talk about that, because you know in many ways she does." Me: "I've burned your holiday house down." Coach: "Serendipity. I've been meaning to declutter my life". Me: "Give me your fuckin' pencil coach freak". Coach: "Here have two. No take this pen. My grandmother gave it to me, but I want it to be yours now." )

Which makes me the devil in the piece I guess, with my urban anger and fear and hooded watchfullness hindering my (eventual?) passage into coach-led peace of mind and warm conviction and open-armed celebration of life and all it spews...sorry...sends my way. But I am sounding a whole lot more angry and ranty than I really feel. In another age I guess they would have been burned at the stake (Coach: "Here. I have matches".) but I guess coaches are just doing their thing, and responding to people's needs. It's not like you can be forced to have coaching if you don't want it. (mrs househusbandnot note to self: "Hmmm. My plan is working".) And, as they say, there is only evey a market for what people want to buy. (You Tube founders: "Yeah, right dude".)

As a sign off today, another friend was in touch about the whole izgoy concept I was talking about where people have jobs they are not qualified for. He reminded me about a time when I was working as head of communications for a women's rights organisation and failed to turn up for a date with a woman I was kind of dating. She sent me a a note which read: 'For someone who works in communications for women, you really don't communicate and you really don't understand women either.' Adding insult to..well insult, the note was written in pencil. I did not deserve ink.

Lick The Egg

Speaking of life coaching, which I was yesterday, there was an article about it in The Guardian yesterday after I'd posted my thoughts. Apparently there are 100,000 life coaches in the UK. I imagine there are six billion in the USA, and approx four in Spain, although I was reading somewhere that they have started anger management courses in China - "Love the Dalai Lama", "Embrace the wide-eyed white devil" - so you never know how prolific this help/self-help culture of ours is getting beyond America and the UK.

Apparently coaching is the discipline du jour, although there are concerns about the regulation of people setting themselves up as coaches without the required skills. These 'required skills' are a moot point because - and this is from mrs househusbandnot who knows about these things - each coach has their own methods and approaches so you can't really say they are wrong, just imply it when their back is turned as they are packing away the parakeet and the snake oil. ( I don't see this lack of regulation as having hindered many other professions - politicians, jazz musicians, Jimmy Carr etc - but maybe I am missing an ethical point. I guess if you want to be 'coached' it should be by someone who has your interests at heart.)

But 100,000 does seem a lot. I've met some of these coaches, and I find the sociological impact of 100,000 people wandering around the UK smiling and saying "Well, what do you think?" a bit daunting.

I know what happens next here, because I've seen it with a journalist friend of mine who was really rude about coaches in an article a few months ago. (Not the guy in The Guardian yesterday. He couldn't make up his mind about what he thought - very Guardian.) All the coaches read the criticism, lean back in their leather arm chairs, play a little with their stress ball, and say "Wow, does that guy need some coaching". Which I think is a bit more alarming - well annoying anyway - than the lack of regulation. The lack of any means of getting back at these people. They are like some scifi baddy who gets stronger the more you hit him. ("You cannot defeat me with your old-fashioned weapons of hate and anger. My coaching power shield is turning your blows into life wheels and measurable 20 year goals and ambitions.") So, I guess with these observations I am just helping to further proliferate this coached life we should all be leading nowadays. I'm still a little old school though, despite mrs househusbandnot's subtle leaving of books with titles like 'Lick The Egg: How To Get What You Want In The Way YOU Want To Get It TODAY' on the bedside table next to my Martin Amis novel.

In other news, blokeihavntseeninages was asking where we got our wormery. We got it from WigglyWigglers.co.uk , and it seems to be doing what it is supposed to do. (Life coach to self: "He has a wormery. He cares about the future. He can be saved from himself. Chewbacca set the stun guns on 'better presentation skills'. We are going in." )

Izgoys: No More No Less

An izgoy is an old Russian term for someone who is rendered an outsider by a flaw which makes them unfit for their social position. I got this from The Guardian on Saturday. They gave examples of an illiterate priest or a bankrupt merchant. What a great concept. Someone who is unfit to be what they are.

This izgoy concept is all rather chaotic and anti-meritocratic compared to the way I am trying to think about work and careers and opportunities at the moment. But it reminded me of a colleague's observation on the office that we were working in at the time: that it would never be functional because the wrong people did the wrong jobs there. And I was on a public speaking course once where the instructor said that the person who wanted to give the speech most was probably the least suitable person to give that speech. And we've all been managed by managers who can't manage. Judges who don't understand the legal system? Yep. Comedians who are not funny? Too many to mention. (0h, okay then. Jimmy Carr.) People who work in sandwich shops who don't want to serve you a sandwich? Yep. Robbie Williams doing a rap album? Vanilla Ice anyone? Short people who think they are tall? Yep. Politicians who...well you get the point.

So are we all waking up every Monday morning with a dread that we will be caught out for the charlatans we really are? Or is the deception and mismatch and chaos sufficiently endemic for no-one to be in a position to question anyone else about their unsuitability for the position they are in? Which I guess you could turn into a positive because it means anyone can do anything, except for maybe a few technical jobs like doctors and airline pilots - although, interestingly, these are two jobs that a lot of people pretend to be trained in right before the nice people from the clinic turn up with the extra restraining straight jacket.

This is all verging on career/life/leadership coaching now, a discipline I am required to have a vigorous cynicism about because 1) I've never had it 2) mrs househusbandnot kind of works in that field 3) mrs househusbandnot is trying to get me to have some coaching, and 4) I absolutely know I would benefit from it but am trying not to let mrs househusbandnot realise she is right about everything all the time. (Hey, it's a couple thing. You know the deal.)

In related - I guess - news, I went to that ethical jobs fair on Friday. It was very cool and groovy with lots of nice people being nice to each other. Very different from what I imagine an IT or financial sector jobs fair would be like. Lots of people drinking fair trade coffee over their free editions of the The Times public sector supplement. I'm sure there were izgoys lurking around, thinking about going to McDonalds, wishing they could work for Alan Sugar, and wondering if date rape drugs are that unethical. But if they were there, they hid it quite well.

On a people doing the right thing conclusion, the bloke in the tower block over the road has been playing the most fantastic music all morning. Everybody wants to be a DJ. No more. No less.

Peace, MC Onday

Herbalist In Penis Shocker

In response to the newspaper headlines I was talking about yesterday, blokewithloadsofjobs sent me the photo below from a recent trip to Ghana. I particularly liked 'Ghana Shocks World', 'Ghana Goes Gay', and the slightly less snappy but equally excellent 'Herbalist Uses His Penis To Push Medicine Into Married Woman's Womb'.



Here in the UK, The Sun - like the Devil - has all the good lines. In response to the England goalkeeper Paul Robinson letting in a sitter against Croatia on Wednesday, they reacted on Thursday morning with 'Here's To You Misses Robinson'. In the summer when Elton John got married to his male partner they ran a front page with 'Elton Takes David Up The Aisle'. Apparently the headline writers get paid twice as much as anyone else at The Sun. It should be triple. (Attentive househusbandnot reader - and proof reader - The Waunch just read this and also offered The Sun on Korea's recent nuclear testing: 'Bad Korea Move' and also a link to more discussion on headlines.{And my mate Rem who used to live in Paris has just been on the email reminding me about one time in Paris - rather than bandcamp - when we picked up a copy of Le Monde with the front page headline of 'Unemployed To Strike Tomorrow'.})

In other news, I went to an achingly trendy private view last night where a mate was showing his stuff as part of a group show. In direct correlation to how pushy the bouncers were on the door and how annoying the woman was with her guest list and procrastination as to whether or not I might be granted the privilege of actually getting into the exhibition, most of the art was entirely talentless, except for my mate's stuff which looked really good. (Since I was as the show on my own, I actually looked at the stuff on show rather than at each other - which was what everyone else was up to.) Typically - and I don't want to sound like too much of an old *&^% here - the exhibition organisers' website is under construction so I can't give you a link to go judge for yourselves. But you can see my mate's stuff in the shop here.

Photos, links... househusbandnot is almost dragging itself into this decade today - graphically anyway. Which reminds me. I have a meeting next week about helping someone out with a new website. So I've been checking out a load of sites this week, and have a few househusbandnot rules about website graphics:

1) Never have a picture of a bald man with his thumbs in the air on your front page.
2) Unless you are a porn site, don't have any moving images on your site. (Actually especially if you are a porn site.)
3) Don't put a picture of a frog on a leaf on your site. You may think it suggests generation and evolution and creative thinking, but it's just a frog on a leaf dude.
4) A picture of you sitting behind a desk is not interesting - unless you are good looking and naked and famous and standing in front of the desk.
5) And don't use more than two fonts. It isn't design. It's called the 6th form newsletter.

Right, I'm done for the week - here anyway. I am off to check out an ethical jobs recruitment fair today. What that is remains to be seen, but will report back next week.

Table Plans And Lake Gods

So the new Martin Amis novel is good, although - as usual - he has stolen some of my ideas. How does he do it? Me sitting here and thinking about writing, and he just keeps bringing novels out? Anyway, he got there first with writing about Lake Baikal in Eastern Siberia. Mind you the lake is massive - 31,500 square kilometres and it holds a fifth of the world's fresh surface water - so I guess there is room for more than one person to write about it.

Mart's take is on an old man revisiting a gulag on the shores of lake where he was imprisoned with his brother after the second world war. I don't know if he has been there, but I went to a place near the lake called Irkutsk just before I got married last year, to give some talks - ie I was working rather than taking the stag night thing to some kind of Sov extreme with a minke whale hunt or something.

The soon to be mrs househusbandnot was v cool about me going on this trip just before the wedding, even though I got so buried in various Russian time zones (Irkutsk is nine hours by plane from Moscow) that we discussed the table plans for the wedding on a faltering telephone line after I had been awake for 36 hours - which would explain some of the ideas I had about who would get on with each other over the wedding dinner. (The other day one of mrs househusbandnot's quite straight friends asked me who the guy who was thinking of calling his child Twig was that she sat next to at the wedding. And last Saturday another of mrs househusbandnot's quite trad friends admitted to me that he was really stumped when he sat down to dinner at our wedding and was welcomed into a conversation about sex education in Africa.)

Anyway, Lake Baikal is the most extraordinary place. I was there in deep Siberian winter and just looking at the lake made you worried for your life. It gives life in the form of massive Russian dog fish that is the local staple diet. But it must take away so much life too. One slip on the deck of a fishing boat and I reckon you'd last about 30 seconds in that water. I went to an open market on the shores of the lake where half of the stalls were selling smoked fish with the stall holders huddled around the smoking vats to keep themselves warm. The other stalls were selling loads of different statues and plaques of spirits to protect you from the lake. The people selling the statues and plaques didn't have anything to protect them from the cold, other than their local voodoo crafts. When we were wandering around the market a girl ran up to me and our male translator and asked if we wanted to come and have "fun and friends and free vodka" on a boat with some young girls. "Younger than me", she promised. She looked about 13 or 14. I guess extremes breed extremes, and choices - or fewer of them. (Bollocks, I'm trying to write like Martin Amis while I am reading him again.)

Anyway enough of my random travels around the world. Although on the writing theme and travels, I got the most honest and damning critique of anything I have ever written from a Khazak woman who said "Your report on your visit to my country is wrong...and boring". (No say what you really think love. Don't hold back.) Which - for some reason - reminds me of a great headline I saw on the front page of a newspaper in Trinidad: 'Mango Thief Caught..At Last'. And another in China which said: 'Police Say Crime Was Probably Committed By Criminals'. Right really enough of my random travels for today.

Front Ways

mrs househusbandnot has been doing a wine tasting course with a friend of hers. Her friend was away this week, so mrs househusbandnot invited me along because they were supposed to be doing Zinfandel last night - a favourite or should I say favorite of mine. (Don't judge mrs househusbandnot for doing the course btw. She's cool. You'd like her. [I had a deep and profound love attack for her last night, watching her listening so intently to the course leader and taking studious notes about soil management in Burgundy etc., and shamelessly stealing my descriptions of the wines as her own.]

Anyway, the deal is/was that you sit with 30 or so other people with 12 half glasses of wine and a plate of cheeses and crackers and nuts in front of you. We were late so we were the class swots in the front row, and the course leader, who was a really nice woman, started off by saying that Zinfadel is not that popular and that we would just be doing Gamay, Pinot Noir and Syrah in this session. This was a blow, but I was otherwise preoccupied trying to hide the fact I was having a sweat attack because I was concentrating so hard on trying to be normal and not shame mrs househusbandnot out in the real world in a room full of strangers.

The course leader was obviously fighting hard to justify her existence in what I assume is a very male profession, and she was excellent talking us through the wines and telling us about soil erosion and answering the dumb and not so dumb questions from us as we ploughed through the various glasses in front of us.

Having recovered from my heat attack, and buoyed up by blind recognising a Morgon*,I took a sneak behind me to check out the rest of the class who were sounding like a gang of squirrels chomping on their crackers and nuts. I was surprised quite how unfuckable all of them were. The men were all about 35-45 and looked like ugly European Clark Kents. The women were aged between 25 and maybe 40, mostly off blondes and uniformly uptight - or they looked that way anyway. I don't know what I was expecting, but I was surprised how unvivacious they all were, a lot more Bacharat than Bacchus. (There was also a gay guy, but he had asked about the scale of a map that was on the introductory presentation so I am assuming he hasn't had sex for a while either.)

Three quarters of the way through our wines I realised that the course leader was getting drunk even though she was assiduously doing that thing with the spitoon. She got way mixed up on a story about her working with a chocolatier on what chocolates go with wines and who had chosen the wine and who had chosen the chocolate, and described one Syrah as tasting like Bethlehem's inky sky. (There was also something in her presentation about Pinot Noir tasting like leather. A little drunk ourselves, we all nodded sagely at this description like regulars at the Slave Meets Master Night at the Leather Anvil Club.)

We concluded with some more blind tasting, which I am happy to report I also got right.** And we were turfed out into the (inky?) London night, warmed up by our wine and our new knowledge about "fun and fruity" Gamay, "opera diva" Pinot Noir, "hedonistic" Syrah, and no show Zinfandel. We went out for supper and I asked the front of house at the restaurant for a bottle for two in the non smoking section. Excellent evening.

Back in the real world, and 20 years after everyone else, I am working on setting up a website. More on that once it is up and running. (It is going to be about the real world btw - not just me bolloxing on about my life as househusbandnot.)

* This really annoyed mrs househusbandnot because she knows I am going to go on about it for approx one year.

** This really really annoyed mrs househusbandnot because she knows I am going to go on about it for approx one further year.

Water Trampling

I did get my hands on that new Martin Amis book, so if I start writing like him...sorry. I tend to when I am reading his stuff. mrs househusbandnot mimmicks people's accents if she talks to them for a while. It can be a bit embarrassing, especially if they are something like Welsh or Australian or Belgian ie chippy about their status in the world. Americans and Nigerians and the English don't care. They just think it is a sign that they are winning.

Speaking of language, I was reading yesterday about a new book called The Meaning Of Tingo which lists words from around the world with very specific meanings. Stuff like 'razblyuto' which in Russian means the feeling for someone once but no longer loved, or 'torschlusspanik' which in German is the fear of diminishing opportunities as one gets older, or 'gagrom' which in Boro means to search for a thing below water by trampling.

I've thought of a few more:

1) 'yesterday' which is the feeling of anger I had when I got a rejection letter from those people I spent all of last week doing an application for
2) 'today' which is me reminding myself all day that I should not get so emotionally involved in these bloody applications and do about 50 of them rather than living and breathing and bleeding through each one, one at a time
3) 'tomorrow' which should be me remembering 'today' in a good way with a little bit of that anger from 'yesterday' to give me some resolve
4) 'life' which is the important realisation that sitting around on your arse reading The Guardian jobs pages and doing job applications for jobs advertised in those jobs pages is fundamentally a complete waste of time and it sucks the soul from your bones

You get the idea I hope. I'm trying not to be too razblyuto about my place in the jobs market, while at the same time forcing myself not to be too torschlusspanik about future prospects, and not resorting to too much gagroming while I figure out what I should do next.

In other news, someone was asking if househusbandnot had any thoughts on the congestion charge in London and whether or not this means of charges for driving into London during the week was helping to reduce traffic etc. I guess so, although mrs househusbandnot and I have been witness to quite a lot of road rage lately with large van-driving men trying to haul smaller hatchback-driving men from their hatchbacks to beat the shit out of them because they have cut them off or something. Like any other war this can only be about there not being enough space for everyone to hang out in harmony, and I guess men liking to beat the shit out of each other. SO I don't know about the congestion charge. Maybe men should not be allowed to drive in built up areas with other men.

My sister has a further London decongestion-related proposal that only people who were born in London should be allowed in London at the weekends. On which note, I'm off for a gagrom...I mean swim.

Dancing And Thinking

That wedding we went to over the weekend was a laugh. Now that I am married, I love going to weddings. There is a voyeurism and a smugness and a relief that it's not you up there getting all the attention coupled with the fact that you have done it yourself which is most enjoyable. The father of the bride did mention IRA dirty protests in his speech, but he seemed blissfully oblivious to quite how inappropriate this was. And a friend of mrs househusbandnot's who is a barrister said way too loudly about a bloke in an RAF uniform "If I wanted people to know what job I have, I'd have bought my wig" - so all good wedding stuff.

And mrs househusbandnot and I did a whole load of wedding dancing. Ever since our wedding, when I resolutely failed to get the dancing going, I have determined to dance my ass off at weddings 1) to make up for my lack of dance action at my own wedding 2) to make sure the dance floor does not look quite so empty as it did at our wedding 3) and because it is fun and entirely pointful/pointless.

We came back to London to the 'news' in the News Of The World that someone I hung out with at university had been out on a date with Scarey Spice (allegedly) even though she has declared her true love for Eddie Murphy, and that one of my best friends is moving to Africa for two years. Both of varying degree of interest, and a reminder that you only ever do what you really make happen, whether it is sniffing around the lower rungs of celebrity or not taking things for granted and taking a risk at a different kind of life for a while.

It all got me thinking about what I am up to here in London, and wondering what risks I should be taking. Certainly not planning on trying to get off with a Spice Girl, although a very pretty girl at that wedding did say to me "I wanted to talk to the most impressive person at the wedding". (mrs househusbandnot says I probably misheard her and she was saying pissed not impressive.)

And I've been spying on one of our new neighbours. Not the Japanese ones I was on about the other day, but a Zidane lookalike (this came out as kidney localise on the spellcheck) who sits down to his PC every morning at nine and stays there all day until five. It got me thinking about the fact you have to put the work in to get it out.

So today's distance learning thought from househusbandnot is about graft and risk taking, neither of which I feel I have done enough of over the last few months. The Kidney localiser may well just be looking at porn or writing a bad musical, but he is certainly putting the hours in. And my friend and his family going to Africa are refusing to settle into what London has to offer but deciding to get out there and get on with something else. I'm impressed, and interested. I've been dithering around waiting for things to happen for the last few months. Time to redress that balance I think, and stop blaming other people - recipients of my CV, headhunters, neighbours, that bloke over there - for not getting on with things. Like I said I like weddings. They get you dancing - and thinking.

Team Efforts

Finally got that job application I have been banging on about off this morning. Nearly killed me - and mrs househusbandnot with my constant does this sound rights and what do think about thats etc. I guess it is all part of the marriage contract but the poor woman did almost as much work as I did on the application. Will try and be supper fly and attentive to her needs over the weekend to compensate for taking advantage of the other half of the househusbandnot mrs househusbandnot team this week.

Actually, we are going to a wedding tomorrow, which will either be fun or dull. Weddings have that capacity to be deeply entertaining or arse-numbingly dull. At the former I end up crying through the speeches, telling everyone how much I love mrs househusbandnot, and stamping on bridesmaids in an effort to catch the bouquet. At the later I just get drunk, talk to the bar staff and try and cadge cigars off the best man. Tomorrow should be fun because the bride and groom are funny and attractive, and I have no official duties other being nice to mrs househusbandnot. Will report back on it next week.

In other news...well I don't really have any. Been too buried in that job application and writing about how to use digital communications to enhance the organisation that I am applying to's profile. If it sounds dull you would be on the right track. If it sounds interesting, then I am the man you need in your office/team.

With nothing else to say - well nothing that I think anyone other than me would find remotely interesting today [what I've just put on my ipod, what we are having for supper tonight, something on the book I have just started reading, my further thoughts on digital communications, I can't find any matching socks, where I am going swimming, I'm going to get my hair cut on the way to the pool etc.] - I'll sign off. The worms say hi.

Feedback And Horses

Had four comments back re househusbandnot in the last 24 hours:

1) You shouldn't go for that job. You should be a jockey.
2) Buy mrs househusbandnot some flowers.
3) That friend's daughter you mentioned is two and a half years old, not 10 months old.
4) Are you okay?

Which neatly captures the themes of work, love, the passing of time, and..er me.

In response:

1) I'd love to be a jockey, except that I am over six feet tall and they would have to get some sort of Henry VIIIth style harness to wedge me on a horse. And I also really hate horses. I was bitten on the back by a horse once, saving my then girlfriend from said horse in a field. And I've been bucked by a horse too. It knew I was scared and just wanted me off its back. And horses are way too big, and have way too many weapons - four hooves, massive teeth etc. - to hang out with. And they also know when you are scared which I am when I am in any sort of horse territory. And I'd look spooky rather than sporty in satin.

2) I did on Saturday. But after I'd put the flowers in a vase, mrs househusbandnot and I got to talking about flower arranging, and I tried to re-arrange the flowers but just ended up cutting them all way too short so that they only just reached out of the vase, and looked a bit sad. And then I decided to blame mrs househusbandnot for this, because..well I had f*cked up and couldn't see anyone else in the room other than me to blame. Totemically, the flowers are peaking up at me every time I look at them now, and making me feel guilty about blaming mrs househusbandnot for my lack of flower arranging skills.

3) Apologies to my website architect friend re the age of his daughter. Mind you we did talk about her for about an hour last night when I was out with him, so I do feel in touch if ill informed about her.

4) Yeah I'm okay. Good session with my web architect mate last night who gave me a load of good ideas to talk about in this job application and how digital media is going to change the world again. Apparently the new trend is for websites to work for us and tailor what we get from them to what we want from them. Short-hand - well my understanding - is that websites with content that you are interested in are coming to find you rather than you having to go and find them nowadays. And we are going to drive web content a lot more than we used to. Conversation versus brochurewear as my mate put it. (Well it made sense last night anyway.)

And my other mate blokewithloadsofjobs was in town from Bath last night, so he came and stayed the night. I can't really remember what we talked about because he only got here at around 11.30, but it was good and manly and honest and funny. The only thing I do remember is a really crap joke he told me: Two tv aerials get married. Crap marriage, great reception though. Actually, we did talk about the whole website stuff and audience segmentation etc. Although blokewithlotsofjobs was wondering why he always ends up in the Japanese death metal section four minutes after he has logged in to itunes.

Incidentally, the person who suggested that I become a jockey ended her email with "Trust me. I'm a teacher". Great aphorism. Almost as convincing as people with horses saying "No you'll be fine".

Talking Shop

I'm going to be brief this morning because I have a load of stuff to get done today, and I have a meeting with a website architect friend of mine later to discuss all that stuff I was bolloxing on about yesterday. This friend of mine does all the sorts of cool things that you read about in the gadgets sections of the Saturday papers like downloading books onto his ipod, and saving music on his phone, and watching DVDs through his kettle. So I am hoping he will be able to guide me beyond my Isn't It Just About Communications? observations on websites. (He has a 10 month old daughter who is no doubt, as we speak, texting him a note in html about not liking the pear and apple baby food he gave her last night.)

This bloke and I had an idea a while back about setting up some sort of discussion group about new communications, but then we realised it was called being a bit of a geek and going to the pub, so we binned that idea. (I think he also guessed that it was just me trying to get free advice from him and his work contacts.) It was a good idea though. Unlike architects or zoo keepers, communications people never do actually get together and talk shop. They are too busy communicating to stop and communicate.

On which note I am going to stop today, and get back to reading websites about websites, and trying to put together my rather random ideas for this job application. All I've got so far is that websites are as good as their users (not designers), that communications strategies only really work if people want to communicate, and that there should be a separate internet for porn so I can find non-porn stuff quicker in my web research. Hardly rocket science. But I'll figure it out - what I want to communicate about communications that is.

Incidentally, taking the communications/non communications thing one step further, mrs househusbandnot has a really busy week this week, so I thought I should not bother her too much with househusbandnot queries about what setting to wash her pyjamas or what she wanted for supper or anecdotes about our new wormery. This non-communication all translated into her worrying about me being distant and not caring about her this week. Great househusbandnot communications strategy, huh?

www.communications.not

Speaking of jobs, which I was yesterday, I had a really pleasant surprise yesterday. I downloaded a job application which DIDN'T want me to fill out some 20 page form about why I had left previous jobs and how I feel about health and safety in the workplace or why I felt I was the only person this side of the moon who could do the job. All they want is a copy of my CV and 750 words on two questions: one about using digital communications to promote the organization and a second one about how I felt about how hard it is to promote what this organization does. Disarmingly refreshing.

So I spent yesterday boning up on digital communications - an oddly anachronistic sounding phrase, especially considering what it is. Having done quite a lot of website development over the years (well the years since everyone got websites anyway), I assumed that there would have been quite a lot of new thinking since I last did any research into websites etc., which was probably six months ago. But googling away, it looks as though it is pretty much the same as it always was: IT gimps against old school managers and the related mismatch of technology versus - rather than working together with - organizational strategy. And lots of the same old discussions about thinking of your website as a selling tool rather than...well I don't know really. Something you can heat your soup up on? A means of meeting girls?

I'm going to do some more research, but it was oddly satisfying and also disappointing to read that things have not changed that much over the last six months. Maybe - and I think here is the real problem with people's perceptions and expectations and fears of websites etc. - I was being lulled into a false belief that technology has made websites so good now that they are a panacea to crap management and crap communications strategies. I've worked in offices with websites that cost as much as holiday homes, but where office communications would make Mao happy. And I've worked with brilliant communications people who get a bit sweaty when then have to copy an email to more than one person. So I guess we should be using digital communications as a means to an end rather than as a great promise or a threat or an excuse or a get out clause. And we should also really really try not to switch off whenever the ITers start talking about cookies and click throughs and meta tagging or their snowboarding holidays.

Not sure how much of this I will put into that application I was talking about, but we'll see. And I have just failed to send an email to a friend in Suffolk, so maybe I should not be feeling quite so laissez-faire about the digital revolution, which I assume will not only not be televised but not webcast either if we keep on not talking to each other about what we really want from it, or keep on thinking it will tell us what we want from it.

In other, rather more down to earth news, the wormery is thriving. Actually it is terrifying. mrs househusbandnot has decided that she is too scared of it, so I am in charge of feeding, which involves trying to lift off the lid and put the food in the wormery before any of them escape, which they are trying to do like crazy every time I go near them. I am hoping they will consider me a friend when they eventually colonise the whole flat.

Reviews

I got up early this morning, and was writing about Martin Amis's new novel, and had pretty much finished this morning's househusbandnot as a review of this book when I reminded myself that I had not actually read it, making the whole exercise pretty pointless and speculative. Cultural observation at its finest - as in slim rather than elegant.

Mind you newspaper reviews never tell you anything you don't already know or think. All the reviews did for me this weekend was remind me that I should buy the new Martin Amis book which I would have done anyway because I like him, that I will not be going to the Rodin exhibition at The Royal Academy because mrs househusbandnot and I had already magnanimously decided not to go to it because all his stuff looks so great in Paris, reminded me not to buy tickets to go and see Michael Bolton, and I don't do theatre so I didn't even have to read any reviews of plays to remind myself that I don't do theatre because I really really don't do theatre. We are just reading reviews to remind ourselves about what we already know.

They should be called Reminder not Review sections. I fundamentally don't think anyone - other than friends and mrs househusbandnot - could make me want to go and see or hear or taste something I did not already want to see or hear or taste, or stop me from going to see or hear or taste something I already wanted to see or hear or taste. I think restaurant reviews may be an exception to this rule, but I'm distracted from this line of argument because most restaurant critics come across as such smug and fussy free-loading tossers. ("The badger and fennel stew was a little more peppery than I was expecting", "The rhubarb crumble marched rather than danced onto my spoon" etc.)

I've now exhausted myself - and no doubt your patience - trying to work out why I bother reading reviews. Send me a review of househusbandnot. I'll remember to remind myself not to read it.

In other news, one of my sisters - of whom I have quite a few - has invited me to go and stay with her in Denmark to help her husband decorate a new house they are building. I am tempted by this invitation, seeing myself like Harrison Ford in that movie where he goes and hides in an Amish community, fortified by the dignity of honest labour and scratchy work clothes. But I think this would be a distraction from finding some real work here in London, which is - I hope - going to happen sooner rather than later this autumn.