And there goes another one!

What are the chances of that? Just as I was putting the finishing touches to last night's post, the Maritime and Coastguard agency were putting out another press release.

Yet again, three men in an blow-up apology for a boat had been rescued by the RNLI from being swept out to sea. So why is it always three?

There must be some question of critical mass. Two men alone would probably not do anything quite so conspicuously silly as climb into a child's inflatable toy and head out to sea, and four would be too many and too much trouble.

With three, there is also the question of the casting vote - even if one of them thinks it's not such a good idea, there are two left to overrule him.

And so Wynken, Blynken and Nod embark with their carrier bag of booze and their unsuitable clothing and, a few hours later, the lifeboat gets called out yet again.

They went to sea in a sieve, they did...

Funny how these things seem to happen in threes; first there were the three intrepid paddling-pool sailors in the Manchester Ship canal, then the three Darwin Award hopefuls who bobbed about in the English Channel all last Saturday night in a toy dinghy with a single paddle.

'Equipped only with a bottle of wine and wearing shorts and T-shirts, the foolhardy men launched their seven foot inflatable craft from the beach at Littlehampton, West Sussex, at 9pm on Saturday.'

'Craft' is perhaps not the word for the sort of flimsy inflatable boat sold in seaside discount shops, at least in terms of one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world. Luckily for them, it stayed afloat until they were picked up by the long-suffering RNLI at 8am, two miles off the English coast at Worthing.

And last, but by no means least, Tynemouth’s lifeboat was called out today to retrieve three men in a dinghy being swept out into the North Sea.

'Crewmember Jill McCormick said the men, who had gone out to have a drink, found they were unable to row back because of the strength of the tide.'

 So what unites these dopey trinities, apart from a predilection for unsuitable inflatable vessels? The answer, predictably enough, is the hazardous combination of alcohol and a bank holiday weekend.

So what to do? Much ink (so to speak) has been spilled over the cost of this sort of call-out and the fact that recovering it would entail expensive and time-consuming administration. Under the circumstances, it seems very restrained that the Maritime and Coastguard Agency press release simply says:

'We urge the public to exercise caution and remember alcohol impairs your judgment.'

 In fact, they are almost as restrained as the lifeboatmen off Newlyn who went to the aid of a stricken fishing boat, only to find that one of the crew was facing charges for swiping a RNLI collecting tin in a burglary a few months before.

And did they ‘accidentally’ drop him overboard? Or leave the thieving scum to swim? No, despite the overwhelming temptations offered by the occasion, they rescued him just as if he was a civilized human being. Not only do these people risk their lives at the drop of a hat, they somehow manage to stay patient even when rescuing the terminally incompetent on a regular basis.

Members of the RNLI, I salute you!

Omertà - Essex style

A policeman's lot is not a happy one over Bank Holday weekends - even in the isolated Essex resort of Walton-on-the-Naze.

Police were called to a large group of men fighting in Walton on Good Friday. Officers went to Mill Lane at 6pm and found a 23-year-old man with a head injury.

No sign, then, of the 'large group', who had presumably scarpered long before the Old Bill hove in to view - the road to Walton being long, tortuous and incredibly slow. Still, they got there in time to take a statement...

The man, who claimed he tripped and injured himself, was taken to Colchester General Hospital.

Ah, that well known case of the pavement rising up and hitting someone in the face. But surely someone else had something to say about it? What about the person who made the original call?

No complaints of an offence have been reported to the police.

Hmm. Though some way removed, could it, by any chance be related to this story? Or this one? Me, I'm not saying anything.

Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub...

...on the Manchester Ship Canal. Well, actually our intrepid heroes’ conveyance of choice for their pleasure cruise was an inflatable paddling pool. According to someone who claims to know them:

My friends [...] were just chilling, soaking up the sun and having a beer whilst not bothering anyone.

However, a passer-by, observing their antics, concluded that they were in difficulties and public-spiritedly dialled 999, at which point the fun started.

The emergency services were alerted and firefighters were sent from Stretford, the brigade’s in shore boat from Eccles, and the GMP helicopter from Barton.

The helicopter flew along the canal until the men were spotted at Barton Swing Bridge, where they glided gently to the bank and disembarked, to be given a severe reprimand by officers. According to a Police spokesman:

"They were given a flea in their ear and had the error of their ways pointed out to them.They should know better and were advised how much this costs in terms of resources."

How much is, of course, a debatable question, since the helicopters are presumably on standby all the time, as are the police boat crews; in any case, I'm not entirely sure why the helicopter was needed, given that they had a location fix from the caller. Still, it's nice to know that, should someone unilaterally decide you are at urgent risk, no expense will be spared.

The best part of this story, however, is the collection of comments it has amassed to date, mainly concerned with who is responsible for the thousands of pounds the callout cost the taxpayer.

Opinion is divided; some think the paddling-pool mariners are at fault for being in shipping waters without insurance or a proper craft, some that the passer-by who ‘grassed them up’ should foot the bill.

There’s an interesting diversion into the fact that the canal is owned by a private company - so why don’t they pay for their own security people? – and a bitter little reply to the suggestion that it would have been fine had it been a river -

Ooh, I dont know. Most of the rivers are owned by one Duke or another and they dont take kindly to us Northern commoners using them for our own needs!

Meanwhile, someone else makes a valid point: 'Hilarious, but the sad thing is, if you call the cops whilst your home is under attack from a howling mass of feral youths, you've got no chance of getting the helicopter sent over immediately. In fact, you'll be lucky to get a PCSO on a bike turn up three hours later......!'

And of course, there’s a running undercurrent of sentiment that it’s almost impossible to do anything remotely risky without someone turning up and stopping you for your own good.

Funny how one little story can encapsulate so many issues!

In fairness, it should be pointed out that the Manchester Ship Canal is a major waterway and somewhat removed from the sort of canal frequented by picturesquely-painted narrowboats.

Ryanair on a G-string

Some recent research for a post or two on Ryanair led me to their website and their magazine - and something of a surprise. O'Leary's organ (ryanairmag.com if you really must) lists its contents; Home/Magazine/City Guides/Events/Competitions/Girls/Videos/Blog...hold on a minute - Girls? Girls?

This turns out to be a link to 'Girls of Ryanair', a retrospective of Ryanair calendars featuring bikini-clad (presumably) employees. As a demonstration of the objectifiaction of female staff, this surely takes some beating, though it's entirely in keeping with Michael O'Leary's casual assumption that pilots are male and cabin crew female.

"If the pilot has an emergency, he rings the bell, he calls her [the stewardess] in.”

Bad enough that the company proudly produces a calendar of this sort, but to put all the back numbers in a special magazine section marked 'Girls' suggests that Ryanir is operating in some sort of 70s timewarp and puts a whole new slant on the word 'cheap'.

Meanwhile, though Fascinating Aida did it far better, this has been rattling round in my head:

Now Michael O’Leary’s Ryanair are the cheapest, they declare,
They’ll whisk yez off to foreign parts, eight quid will take you there,
It’s only when you’ve made your choice that things start turning sour;
There’s a load of charges you’ve still to pay once they’ve got you in their power.

There’s check-in charges, booking fees and lots of bills between
For Ryanair won’t rest until they’ve truly picked you clean,
Don’t ever think the price they advertise will get you there;
'Tis one hell of an operation, is O’Leary’s Ryanair.

O’Leary had a big idea, he thought it really grand;
Increase cabin capacity and make the punters stand,
And another money-making scheme where the choice you face is stark;
A euro to use the toilet or hold on till you disembark.

O’Leary he said ‘what do you do if the pilot gets the shakes?
There’s no need for a co-pilot up front, for heaven’s sakes;
I’ve studied every Airport film and seen that, to be sure,
The stewardess can fly the plane if she’s told what the joystick’s for’.

There’s check-in charges, booking fees and lots of bills between
For Ryanair won’t rest until they’ve truly picked you clean,
Don’t ever think the price they advertise will get you there;
'Tis one hell of an operation, is O’Leary’s Ryanair.

O’Leary he got in trouble when the ASA had a strop,
His claims of eight quid tickets to the sun would have to stop;
The poster of girl in a bikini didn’t warn
That the sun would be shining in Norway on a February morn.

O’Leary’s made his fortune but three fellas at least are quits;
Each won a car on a scratchcard and, bedad, was thrilled to bits,
But as O’Leary made the call to authorise the cheque
Anyone standing near enough might have heard him mutter, ‘Oh Feck!’

There’s check-in charges, booking fees and lots of bills between
For Ryanair won’t rest until they’ve truly picked you clean,
Don’t ever think the price they advertise will get you there;
'Tis one hell of an operation, is O’Leary’s Ryanair.

National Headcrab Zombie day

It's the opportunity of the decade for those lucky enough to have secured an invitation - the chance of a loving close-up beamed live to the biggest TV audience in history. Small wonder, then, that the guests in the Abbey are done up to the nines.

And for the majority of female guests, that means paying tribute to Kate's preferred headgear, the fascinator - or headcrab, as it's known in the Tavern for its sprouting tentacles, claws and protuberances. Yes, the headcrab zombies are out in force today*, if the early BBC coverage is anything to go by, and the same phenomenon will doubtless be appearing up and down the land.

One face we won't, alas, be seeing in close-up is that of the thwarted Cherie Blair left at home with no invitation - unless, of course, she turns up at the Abbey in full wedding rig, insisting that there is definitely a spare seat (in which case the Spouse will win a £1 bet).

                             'Headcrab Zombies, take us to your leader...'

*For those not in the loop, 'A headcrab's primary goal is to attach to the head of a suitable host using its mouth [...] incorporating parts of its biological workings with the motor cortex of the host's nervous system. The victim is thus taken over by the headcrab and mutated into a mindless zombie-like being known as a headcrab zombie.' [Wikipedia]

Turning the tables on Ryanair

Typical! You wait ages for a Rynair story and then two come at once.

Picture the scene; a jet-full of Ryanair passengers from Milan are being invited to empty their pockets of cash. O'Leary's finest may not yet have resorted to holding their clientele upside-down and shaking them, but they're doing their level best.

And along with the assortment of snacks and beverages, they bring round the scratchcards at 2 euros a pop - it's all grist to the Ryanair mill. Only this time something unusual happens.

'Mamma mia!' exclaims a passenger, 'I have won a car!' Sure enough, the ticket is a winning one and the prize a car worth £11,500. The other passengers are craning their necks to see the lucky winner when another shout goes up.

'Me too!' shouts a second passenger, brandishing another winning scratchcard, and then, unbelievably, a third joins in. He too has won a car, meaning Ryanair will supply prizes worth £34,500.

I imagine the other passengers immediately demanded scratchcards in their turn. After all, the average win should be one car every month across the whole of Europe until what Ryanair calls a 'printing error' intervened.

Well, it's about time the biter was bitten: around a quarter of the airline’s annual earnings are generated by 'ancillary revenues' - including the notorious check-in fees, booking fees and luggage charges. It's good to see someone getting something out of them for a change.

Fun in the sun - or maybe not

Ryanair now, they're always good for a laugh. This time, the lovable Michael O'Leary - remember him? All-standing cabins and some novel ideas about co-pilots? - is in hot water over a poster.

The Advertising Standards Authority took exception to the implication that the flights were to sunnier climes:

‘We considered that the average consumer would infer from the claim "Book to the sun now" and the image of the woman sunbathing, in a bikini, with a cocktail, that the promotion included fares to destinations warm enough to sunbathe in swimwear during the promotional period.’

In fact, happy £8 travellers, clutching suitcases full of bikinis and sun lotion, would be set down in the chilly February air of Aarhus, Dusseldorf or Oslo - almost certainly a sight worth seeing. You think it unlikely? Consider today's educational standards in the UK and the average level of general knowledge.

Or perhaps I've just spent too much time reading the Daily Mail - or Ambush Predator. Meanwhile, on other matters, it's pretty much business as usual:

Ryanair was also rapped over another advertisement, which offered flights to Dublin for £27.99, over complaints that it was apparently impossible to book at the price quoted because of an additional £6 online check-in fee. The airline was unable to ‘clarify adequately’ how the promotional fare could be achieved, the Advertising Standards Authority said.

Responding to the ASA, a spokesman for Ryanair said: ‘Ryanair has noted the ruling.’

So what? Don't the words 'water' and 'ducks back' apply here? The promotion is over, Ryanair have made their money and who cares? Certainly not O'Leary, who probably watched in amusement as the toothless elderly watchdog bared its gums at him.


Of course, I'm not the only one to find amusement in this kind of thing. They've appeared in other posts elsewhere, but you can never have too much of Fascinating Aida:

It could be you...

I seem to have won some sort of prize.

‘Good morning’, said the voice on the telephone, ‘I’m calling about your recent car accident’.

In truth, accident is hardly the right word for someone reversing at a snail’s pace into the parked car where I was sitting. It was all very polite and amicable; he got out and apologised profusely – ‘so sorry...wife’s car...wrong gear’ – and his insurers agreed to have the minor dents repaired.

A routine affair and easily sorted, I thought, but I was obviously missing the point. The voice on the telephone was insistent;

‘You were in a collision’, it said. ‘The other driver has admitted liability. That means you can claim at least £1,500 for injury.’

I put the phone down, but that wasn’t the end of it. A few days later, the Spouse took another call:

‘Did you know that the other driver’s insurer will already have put at least £1,500 aside for compensation? If you have suffered any injury, however slight, or any inconvenience at all as a result of the accident, however slight, all you have to do is make a claim’.

It appears that, from the day you contact your insurers, the genie is out of the bottle. Your details are available on a database for any ambulance-chaser to see and, before the respray is dry, there they are on the phone and by text, day after day, promising you untold riches if you can conjure up some sort of injury.

Had I taken up their offer, the other driver’s insurance company would be £1,500 worse off. Multiply that by the number of minor shunts taking place every day on our overcrowded roads and you have one of the reasons that premiums are sky-rocketing.

They have turned car insurance into a lottery – sure, you pay a bit extra up-front, but if your number comes up, there’s at least £1,500 waiting to be claimed every time. Having someone run into me and freely admit liability was the equivalent of a Premium Bond coming up.

And in today’s Lottery-obsessed culture of entitlement, if the callers' incomprehension is anything to go by, few people ever say no.

Middle Class Event Horizon

Something is happening over at Radio 4. Their heads turned by the forthcoming royal wedding and a year of David Cameron, the BBC has gone into Middle England overdrive and the Archers has become inextricably intertwined with Gardener's Question Time.

The bastard child of this unholy union is a recording of GQT (as its followers like to call it) in the Archers' setting of Ambridge, complete with questions to the real-life panel from various fictional characters about what to plant in beds that exist only in the imagination of the listeners.

This, remember, is only a few weeks after the appearance of the Duchess of Cornwall - and the endorsement of Duchy shortbread that sent the biscuits flying off the shelves in Waitrose. And as if that weren't enough, today's Archers omnibus is followed by Desert Island Discs featuring Cath Kidston, purveyor of chintzy doo-dahs to Boden woman.

Is this, I wonder, the BBC's response to ITV's melding of soap opera and news as a tram crashed into the bitter-drinkers of Coronation Street (an event requiring only an injured whippet to achieve the perfect storm of Northern disaster)?

Or could the fusion of these quintessentially middle-class institutions be the catalyst that brings about some kind of implosion, causing Middle England to self-destruct - or to rise up and conquer the world? A sort of End of Days with the odd viburnum burkwoodii thrown in?

Only time will tell.

A hot weather post...

This is from Poorlydressed, where they have given it one of my favourite captions ever:

'Sometimes it’s just too hot to leave the house in head-to-toe quasi-futuristic Victorian regalia. Even steampunks go to the beach.'


There's more fun in the comments...

Now I just need a marble, a chute, a rickety set of steps, a guy in a bathing costume getting ready to dive into a tub…

Small-scale crime

Ocean's Eleven it ain't! Thieves have struck at a model village in Great Yarmouth, stealing lead from the roof of a miniature hospital. Looks like the Borrowers have gone into the scrap metal business.

According to the owner, they caused £1,500 worth of damage:

'We have an awful lot of security. We have several CCTV cameras and a nine foot brick wall topped with a five foot barbed wire fence running around the perimeter.

‘It was very well planned, they must have come in as visitors to know the lead was here and to work out where the CCTV is because they seem to have found a blank spot in it.'

If he's right, the thieves must have paid £6.50 a head to case the joint, to say nothing of the petrol to get there; meanwhile the lead they stole - all of nine feet by two - could be expected to fetch about £30 on the black market.

Perhaps Norfolk criminals like to start out small; this might be the equivalent of the nursery slopes, a training ground for very small criminals, or maybe they are simply as thick as the waste of oxygen who stole my prescription sunglasses recently and who's probably out there now trying to look cool and wondering why he keeps bumping into things.

Of course, no piece on the theft of roofing lead would be complete without this from the kings of parody: