My brush with Boris

I am not a person who has many claims to fame.  I have never done anything notorious nor have I met many very famous people. To be honest, I'm not that interested in meeting the rich and famous - the ones I have had a minor brush with have turned out to be a bit of a disappointment - they're always so much smaller than they look on screen and the tales that some of my TV and film industry friends tell are enough to make you think that success in those worlds is entirely based on a predisposition to massive fuckwittage.

Consequently, a phone call a couple of years ago from a harassed sounding PA with a heavy Russian accent requesting that I set up a meeting between her boss and mine didn't do much to ruffle my feathers.  Although I'd heard of Boris Berezovsky and I was certainly curious at the prospect of coming face to face with one of Russia's most notorious ex-patriot oligarchs, here in deepest, darkest Surrey we are inured to the rich and famous and have a tendency to view them as a bit of a pain in the arse most of the time.  But I had never witnessed wealth and status on this level.

Boris Berezovsky - note the heavy in the background

Three identical, blacked out limousines swept into the car park.  A black Range Rover stationed itself outside the entrance.  Out of each limousine sprang bodyguards straight out of central casting - close cropped hair, black suits, white shirts, black ties, mobile phones clamped to one ear and a large bulge under one armpit.  They surveyed their surroundings before a series of grunts and nods passed between them and they opened the doors of the cars to let the occupants out. I introduced myself.  Mr B was warm and twinkly and instructed me to call him Boris.  He had that trick that some very successful people have perfected - that of looking intently at you, making sure that they use your name immediately and holding onto your hand for just a couple of seconds too long.  So Boris exerted his not inconsiderable charm, introduced the people who had come with him and headed into his meeting.  I learned later that he and his associates use separate limos to minimise the threat of kidnap.  

It's another world - one which makes me ponder how you get to the level of Boris, Abramovich, Patarkatsishvili et al from their humble beginnings.  I imagine the answer would be by ducking and diving and employing many none too savoury business methods - like arbitrage, for example.  Coincidentally (ahem) this is the latest Richard Gere film and what I had intended to write about until Boris hijacked the headlines.

The Shah and I have seen Arbitrage and I find it pretty much impossible to review, given that I fell asleep in it twice, it was so riveting.  As the Shah reported gleefully afterwards "you were snoring away at one point!" 

Anyway, I have always been somewhat ambivalent about Mr G, never quite got it.  American Gigolo?  Meh. An Officer and a Gentleman? Mayo....NAISE. And don't start me on Pretty Woman - there's nothing I enjoy more than a movie that glorifies prostitution. However, I really didn't expect the level of self aggrandising nonsense that accompanied his recent appearance on the Graham Norton chat show here in the UK. Just watch the first minute or two of this...

Now Graham Norton is hugely successful over here and gets all the big names to appear on his show.  Up until now, the majority of them have managed to give the appearance of being fairly reasonable human beings, if occasionally tired and emotional (I'm talking to YOU, Mark Wahlberg :))  Which begs the question, WTF did Richard Gere think he was doing tramping round the studio glad-handing the (largely torpid) audience?  Probably I'm just too British and up myself but it made me (and those watching with me) cringe.  If you can be arsed to watch the whole show, you will also be able to enjoy his attempts to make Norton look stupid by claiming not to understand straightforward questions and generally act as though he resides somewhere on the twat spectrum.  All of which makes me think that my TV and film industry friends probably have a point...

Argo

Welcome to my very first film review.  Sleep easy Barry Norman.

In the wake of its Oscar win and many rave reviews, the Shah and I took ourselves off to see Argo the other night.  Not for us the local chain cinema flea pit with its revolting pick 'n mix that a thousand snotty fingers have pawed and its vom-inducing nachos adorned with a slick of greasy yellow slime.  Oh no - not for us the multi-screen behemoth with its tacky carpets, chavvy clientèle and the car park that saw a drive-by shooting not that long ago,- oho no m'lud.  We took out a small extra mortgage and sallied forth to our local Everyman Cinema which is nowadays adorned with comfortable sofas and dinky little tables on which to rest your over-priced Chablis, darling.

But to the film.  I have to admit that Ben Affleck with slightly long hair and a full beard is surprisingly gorj which was an added bonus as the rest of the cast were very convincingly attired in proper 70s over-sized spectacles, frizzy perms and what the Shah likes to call "fuck off collars".  These are so named because they are so ludicrous you take one look at them and go ...you fill in the blanks.

I'm not going to re-hash the plot here, (yes I know I said it was a film review but whatever) save to say that the film concerns the fate of six American citizens who managed to slip away from the US Embassy in Tehran when it was stormed by militants and then had to be got out of Iran pdq.  It also details the preposterous plot that was cooked up by Hollywood to effect that rescue.

I wasn't expecting to be enthralled but I was.  I wasn't expecting it to be edge-of-the-seat gripping, but it was.  Modern day footage was very cleverly inter-cut with newsreel of the time in pivotal scenes, such as enraged Iranian militants chanting and protesting outside the embassy building and it brought back many memories of those days and of how, being so young (ahem) I was pretty disinterested in all that stuff going on, on the other side of the world. It seems extraordinary to me now that I couldn't have cared less - but I guess that was then and this is now and I have a good many more years on the clock in 2013.

Most of all, I wasn't expecting the film to be laugh aloud funny but, surprisingly, it was - in many places.  There has, of course, been a lot of online debate about its historical accuracy, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah -  I'm not getting into that - I enjoyed it.  The end.  So, here's a trailer, featuring a good deal of the lovely Ben and to quote one of the running jokes in the film - Argo and see it!

Mo Better Blues

Mo Better Blues is, of course, a film starring Denzel Washington, about a Blues musician.  It has naff all to do with the contents of this post, but you know me dear readers and my love of a punning headline. 

This post is actually about...well, I'm not going to tell you because the topic is so dry, you will navigate away from the page in a heartbeat.

I was inspired to write it because of my experiences and those of a lady whose name I have forgotten.  I heard about her story on the BBC Breakfast News programme this week.  This is what happened.

Florence (for want of a better name) had been a long-time and loyal customer of Nat West Bank (henceforth to be known as Nat Worst Bank).  She had bought her insurance from them every year, happily renewing her policies, innocently assuming that her loyalty was being rewarded by the offer of the best prices.  This year she was charged around £1000 for her house insurance.  She happily paid up.  Then she got talking to one of her neighbours who was astonished and told her that she too was with Nat Worst Bank, lived in a house identical to Flo's and had paid the princely sum of £300 for her insurance.

Aghast, Florence phoned Nat Worst.  And what was the outcome?  Did they say "Hands up!  You've rumbled us - it's a fair cop!"  Did they feck.  They lived up to their well-deserved reputation as grasping, manipulative, avaricious b'stards and told her to naff off.  It wasn't until Flo approached BBC Radio 4's Money Box programme which took up cudgels on her behalf that they grudgingly offered her the same deal as her neighbour.  To her credit, Flo told them what they could do with their offer and, via a price comparison website, sourced the right product for £200.

Hearing this, I decided to shop around for my pet insurance this year (having lazily let Mr Tesco renew without caring last year).  Lo and behold, I found a product half the price of the Tesco offer.  So I rang them to cancel.  I got put through to a call centre and a charming young man called Mo.  This filled me with a warm fuzzy feeling because it always brings to mind Mo Farrah, Olympic Wunderkind.

You paid HOW much?

So I told Mo that I wished to cancel my insurance policy and he affected mortification, distress and borderline hysteria before offering me about 10 million Clubcard (Loyalty) points, a price reduction of approximately a third and various other goodies.  This annoys the life out of me. If you can do it for me now, why not previously? You grasping, manipulative, avaricious b'stards.

Mo was vaguely apologetic but clearly sensed that he had lost the sale, so babbled a bit about calling the bank to cancel the direct debit and hung up.

Which of course, left me with Mo Better Blues.  

The Picky Bones

This post started out with a title of 'Man Flu' (you can guess whose) but I feel that the Shah has been the focus of too many rants of late - however well deserved - to the point that he is almost deliberately generating irritants in order to be written about (well that's my theory and I'm sticking to it).

Half term is my week for 'doing life' by which I mean seeing my mum for a decent day out rather than just the usual Saturday rush round the supermarket, paying bills, having some time to myself, getting my hair done etc.  Ah yes - getting my hair done.  I have had the same hairdresser for over 20 years now.  We were next door neighbours all those years ago and, while we lived close, she would come to our house to do us all.  Now that we have moved further away, I go to where she works in a tiny salon with just two others.  

This lot are old friends who have worked together on an off for around 30 years.  It's the most wonderful, eccentric place and most of the customers seem to go for the entertainment as much as the haircut. Recently, I found myself sitting beside someone who used to work for Sharon Osbourne and who was full of interesting stories.  There is a salon dog, a miniature daschund called Tatiana - or Tattie to her friends.  Yesterday I was her friend and she demanded to sit on my lap where she dozed happily until it was time for me to move.  

Happy Tattie

It's so relaxing - you can chat, have a coffee, read the latest magazines and generally escape for a couple of hours.  You even get time to abuse engage in learned discourse with your absent daughter who is lying abed at a friend's house, recovering from something called 'Monday Night Guildford' (ie an excuse for a large night out).  

Her response told me that I was not being taken entirely seriously:-

Clearly her afflicted father was not being taken too seriously either. 

My hairdresser and I were both suffering from Man Flu - i.e. our respective husbands were causing us to suffer via their "illnesses". Such a relief to know that someone else is losing patience with the overwhelming stench of burning martyr, the drooping shoulders and the wheezy insistence that "no, I'b fide, really" *snort, sniff, cough, sigh* 

It got to the point where I posted the following on Facebook:-

Advice needed. At what stage of man flu is it morally, ethically and/or socially acceptable to do away with your husband? One more groan or sniff or sigh AND I SWEAR I WILL LOSE IT

Strangely, the only male who responded was one of my cousins who claimed (silly boy) that while the odd moan or sniff or sign might inadvertently slip out, we women have no idea of men's suffering because they hide it so well. The rest of the comments came from women who were unanimous in shouting "off with his head" or similar. Nice to know there is still solidarity!

Jaffa the Hub

In the light of a new study from the Harvard School of Public Health that has found that watching too much TV can reduce fertility in young men, I breezily inform the Shah that I am amazed we ever managed to procreate at all.

"Whaddya mean by that?" he snorts, fumbling for the remote that seems somehow to have got itself stuck down his trousers.

"I mean, it's a wonder you're not a Jaffa* given the amount of time you spend glued to that thing" I reply.  

"Nonsense.  But while we're on the subject of the telly..."

Too late, I realise I have played right into his hands as he uses the opportunity to pitch for a new TV in the family room.  Although I sigh and pull faces, I'm quite pleased because the old one is ginormous and takes up half the room.  Viz:-

It was one of the first ever flat screen TVs but, as you can see, they hadn't quite got the hang of slimline technology all those years ago.  It also weighs 14 stone.  Yes, really.  That's 90kg or 196lbs for my non-British chums.

"Sooo," wheedles the Shah, "you know how we have to go to John Lewis on Saturday to pay for the new carpets?  We could have a look for a new TV at the same time!"  And he flops back onto the sofa, exhilarated by this grand idea but also exhausted by the effort of paying me this much attention.

However, there is (naturally) a fly in the ointment and, by Saturday, I had been struck down by the virus from hell and was feeling really, really awful.  However, carpets have to be paid for because John Lewis won't lay then without payment up front, cos they're funny like that. So I wearily trailed along with his nibs who was uncommonly chipper, considering we were going shopping - an activity that normally brings him out in hives.

Unfortunately, the person who served us in the flooring department was new and felt it safest to check every last full stop on the order before he could consider relieving me of my credit card to pay.  By this stage, I could have cheerfully lain down on a nearby pile of tufted samples and wept but I gritted my teeth and soldiered on, shivering. The Shah sat back happily in one of their thoughtfully-provided armchairs and eyed my flushed cheeks and glazed expression.

"Do you know what?" he asked

"Um, no," I mumbled, thinking "he's going to say 'let's not bother with the tv, you look terrible, I'm going to take you straight home and tuck you up with some Night Nurse and a hot water bottle'..."  He smiled slightly and leaned forward.

"I was thinking about my Pension the other day."

Inwardly, I am now screaming WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? But I have no energy to form the words, so I make some vague noises and try to smile.

The Shah continues unabashed.  "Contributions, blah, Stakeholders, blah, Insurance Premiums, blah, rates of return, blah, ROI, blah blah blah..." he burbles.

Eventually, the transaction is complete and we trail to the Electrical Department.  This is the equivalent of Shah Heaven.   He could (and did) spend hour on fecking hour gazing at all the screens on offer, waxing lyrical about the relative merits of HD over 3D (like I care).  Unfortunately again, the person the Shah chose to serve us this time was about as technologically boring inclined as he, so they went off on a little tangent wittering on to each other about internet connections and wireless keyboards. 

Death would have been sweet release.

E-v-e-n-t-u-a-l-l-y the deed is struck, the Shah has snatched the bargain of the century from under the nose of some other unlucky sod and delivery has been arranged.

We arrive home to find our (17 and 20 year old) children engaged in a game that was a favourite when they were kiddies.  It's called 'Hub bub bub' and involves one person grabbing any excess flesh around the middle of the other and squeezing it to tickle them, all the time shrieking (you'll never guess) "Hub bub bub".  Of course, these days, they are far too big and strong and, sure enough, one was too rough and hurt the other one and the whole thing disintegrated into a cacophony of punching and name-calling.

The Shah eyed the brawl being enacted on the kitchen floor as he stepped over the tangle of arms and legs.

"What was that you were saying about being a Jaffa?" he asked with a certain wistfulness.

*Jaffa - a coarse term to indicate that someone is infertile - i.e. seedless.

A Grand Adventure

Take a straw poll around your office, your family, your circle of friends. Ask them where their ideal holiday destination would be.  I'm betting that the majority of answers would centre around the luxurious - white Caribbean beaches, maybe a stay on an Indian Ocean island; spa resorts - rest and relaxation.

While all of that sounds attractive, for some reason (and I really don't understand this) I have always been strongly attracted to travel a bit further afield - just about as off the beaten track as the average Westerner gets without rowing the length of the Amazon.  If there were no obstacles, the place I would visit in a heartbeat is Tibet.  

Ideally, I'd get there by flying to Moscow and then taking the Trans-Siberian Railway as far as Beijing (an adventure in itself!)  From there, it is possible to take another train south to Lhasa.  Rather than a hotel (and I omitted the word 'luxury' there deliberately does such a thing exist in Tibet?) I would like to stay with a Tibetan Nomad family - sleep in their tents, experience their lifestyle before they are all forced into towns and cities by the effects of global warming.

I totally accept that I probably have a romanticised view of this whole experience.  Quite possibly I've watched one too many David Attenborough documentaries!  Nevertheless, the 'roof of the world' and the incredible sight of all those prayer flags fluttering in the wind against a backdrop of snow-capped mountains and bright sunshine, stirs something in me.  

So how to do this on a budget?  

Money Supermarket is running a competition - neatly entitled A Grand Adventure - www.moneysupermarket.com/a-grand-adventure which asks that you choose your ideal destination and then say how you would survive on £1000 excluding travel.  For me - fairly simple.  The life of a Tibetan Nomad cannot be particularly expensive.  I'm not envisaging much layout on Yaks or any other kind of quadruped.  I'm kind of hoping that the arrival of a blue-eyed redhead in their midst might cause enough interest for the Tibetans  to offer me shelter in one of their Yurts for the duration of my visit and maybe I could trade free English lessons for being allowed to share their lives for a very short time?  How would we communicate?  I've no idea but I imagine we could find something to yak about.  (sorry - that was truly appalling...)

As for the food, well.....  Let's just say that the prospect of tea containing salt and with a good dollop of dri* butter in it doesn't fill me with happy anticipation any more than the prospect of raw or dried Yak meat or Tsamba which is ground Barley flour to which salty butter tea is added.  This is a staple of most Tibetans' diets. All of which put together means hardly any outlay of cash and loads of weight lost.

It's win-win.  Who needs an expensive spa?!

* A dri is a female Yak. Yaks are male and can't give milk.