Healthy, Wealthy and Nigeria

For those of you expecting Healthy, Wealthy and Wise, I'm sorry. There is no fat bastard flogging Bi-Lo supermarket products. Seek elsewhere if such is your fancy. For those of you with an interest in my latest rant, read on.

Thus far I've chalked up almost two months in my new found employ as an insurer of all things medical and health related.

In this time I have learned 3 things.

Healthy - How important it is to be so.
Wealthy - Why this is even more important.
Nigeria - How much I hate this lying, cheating, fraudulent shithole.

Firstly, the health side of things. Let me just say, that nothing has given more of an incentive to maintain my long term health and get fit, than some of the medical reports I read in this job. As I was saying to my mother on the telephone the other week - she of the gimlet eye when it comes the saturated fat in the meal - it is astonishing how bad so many people have let their health become. She concurred, and in the same breath demanded to know what I'd had for lunch. (A Marks and Spencer sandwich, if you must know.)

I've lost count of the number of applications I've filed which include words such as high blood pressure, diabetes, obese BMI and suchlike. Unhealthiness seems to be a given amongst people these days. I mean, I even had a guy submit an application who'd had a heart valve replacement and was still smoking 10 a day. Declined, of course. I mentioned it in passing to Chirpy, he of the medical expertise, who gave, in my estimation, a very sound medical opinion.

"Yeah, he's gonna die."

And that's the thing. A lot of this job is looking at people who are ticking time bombs, people who are going to die in their 50's. The trick to remaining profitable is to pick the ones who are duds, or those which have a long enough timer that you manage to extract sufficient cash out of them before they turn up their toes.

Heartless? Perhaps. We are an insurance company after all. It's to be expected.

This brings me on to wealthy. I don't really have a lot to say about being wealthy except to say that if you're sufficiently wealthy you'll be able to afford hospital treatment without needing insurance. So, it doesn't matter if you have the physique of Marlon Brando in his dotage, the appetite for alcohol of Winston Churchill and the eating habits of Elvis in his final years - provided you have the money of Bill Gates it doesn't matter, because you won't need to deal with tie wearing nob-ends like me who'd like nothing matter to slam a declined stamp on your paperwork because you're a fat bastard.

And finally, the last point to make. I HATE NIGERIANS.

This may seem kind of strong. But, let me explain. Some of you, may have received what is described as a spam email over the years. Perhaps it was one whereby someone offered to send you money, via bank transfer, because you had miraculously come into some vast fortune which some solicitor in Nigeria was offering to you.

See, this is the thing. In Nigeria, they buy old computers. Hard drives included. Even if the Hard drive has been formatted, they can still recover credit card information off these hard drives. Which they then use - and I am still at a loss to understand why - to buy health insurance. From us.

Therefore, I get a series of charming emails, all in caps lock, which follow the usual pattern.

- HELLO I LIKE TO BUY HEALTH COVER PLEASE TO RESPOND I THANK YOU FOR SPEAK TO ME I AM 26 AND LIVE IN NIGERIA

Now, I'm not going to type every example out in full. But the gist is as follows:

- Introduction from Nigerian.
- Response from us, saying we require the following information.
- Nigerian advises of all information, except for one critical point.
- Request from us for critical point.
- Critical point provided and bullshit about needing application asap and can we skip normal procedure
- Cold, humourless reply from us, advising of application process.
- Application form submitted by Nigerian, normally missing information.
- Reply from us, stating that credit card details supplied with form are under a different name.
- Nigerian advises us to call number he provides, saying card belongs to (Insert relative here.)
- We call number and get someone who doesn't speak English living in some shithole in downtown Lagos.
- Advise Nigerian we won't accept credit card payment.
- Nigerian provides new card, this time in "his name".
- We take payment.
- We receive letter one month later from Barclays Bank, advising transaction is fraudulent.
- We refund money to bank and deny all claims.
- We shred all documents and send rude emails to Nigerian advising of cancellation.

Actually, I'm not sure why we even take business from Nigeria. All of it, at least that from native Nigerians has all been bollocks, in my experience. If I ever start an insurance company I will specifically include NO NIGERIANS in the policy wording.

So, there you have it. Healthy, Wealthy and Nigeria.

Hammond's Down! Bring on the Beards

Being a huge fan of the BBC motoring program Top Gear, it was with shock and sadness that I read in the papers that Richard “Hamster” Hammond, the diminutive co-host, had come unstuck and suffered serious injury during a stunt where he was driving a jet propelled car at a speed of close to 300mph.

I was far less shocked however to almost immediately hear the weasel words emanating from various cardigan wearing types with facial hair, barely pausing to grunt a few words of condolence for Hammond before immediately berating him and the show with the biggest stick they could find.

It’s no secret that Top Gear acts a beacon, attracting hatred from lefties like the xenon headlamps on the new Jaguar XK attract insects. Some of the expressions used to describe the show include “loutish” “laddish” “”environmentally damaging” and the most common description I see in relation to Top Gear, “irresponsible.”

It is this last word that is being bandied about with gay abandon in the aftermath of Hammond’s crash, with renewed calls for Top Gear to be slowed down, or replaced altogether. I recall one of the most inane suggestions was from a bunch of bus riding beardies calling themselves Transport 2000, who wanted Top Gear replaced with a more environmentally friendly show called Third Gear, after Jeremy Clarkson killed some moss by driving over it in a Land Rover Discovery. Others have started crying wolf about the prospect of Top Gear’s army of hooded Halford’s heroes imitating further crazy stunts on the program, leading to, presumably, mass outbreaks of anti-social driving on Britain’s highways and by-ways. (Might be a bit late there chaps.)

I earn 10 pounds an hour. I know this seems random, but bear with me. I earn 10 pounds an hour. Some would call that a princely sum, others would scoff at my destitution. Regardless of your personal views, it provides me with the necessary funds to lead a comfortable lifestyle here in London.

However, it’s not really the sort of financial backing one needs in order to own and drive a Porsche 911. I don’t think it would go far towards purchasing a Maserati Quatroportte. In fact I think I’d struggle to even hire a Ferrari 430. I watch Top Gear, for the precise reason that it offers up cars and entertainment that is completely unachievable for me, in this life, or any other. I get to see cars I know full well I will never drive, I get to see stunts I could never do myself, or even attempt to do myself, and I am thoroughly entertained as a result.

The day I turn on my TV and find myself confronted by the spectre of some cardigan wearing twerp with his voice muffled by a beard trying to educate me on the joys of driving an Vauxhall Astra Diesel, or the various ways in which I can coax as many mpg from my Citroen C1 as possible, will be the day that I admit surrender to the PC brigade and summarily purchase a bicycle with solar powered headlamp.

The problem is that they just don’t get it. Top Gear doesn’t encourage lunatic driving. They do that for us, so we don’t have to. It’s as simple as that. So get well Richard, please get well. The show, and the collective health of this country’s driving populace are depending on you.

'Tis the season of our discontent

Shakespeare might very well have been writing of the London Underground.

I am still getting used to the regularity of delays on the tube, because some twit has decided to end it all by lobbing themselves in front of two hundred tons of London Underground rolling stock. While an undeniably effective way of bringing one's life to a swift and messy termination, it also tends to lead to the termination of all tube service on the line in question for a few hours, while they clean up the mess. The latest incident happened at Hyde Park Corner only last week, and there's usually one or two each week. They even have a pre-recorded announcement for it on the loudspeaker system for christ's sake. For example:

"There is no service on the Jubilee Line between Finchley Park and Baker Street due to a person under the train at Swiss Cottage."

My view on this is that, try as they might, there is no way for London Underground to stop these selfish bastards for throwing themselves in front of trains, should they so choose. Therefore, what I propose is that there should be a designated suicide station. Somewhere out of the way - on the East London line for example. Have a station which just has a single train, running up and down the platform. Disconnect it from the main line. That way, people can jump in front of it at their leisure, without inconveniencing the rest of life-loving-Londoners. The track could be equipped with drains and a sprinkler system, to make sure the bodies don't pile up too much.

I mean, if it's going to happen anyway, why not embrace the idea? Given that I've been reliably informed that winter is the time when most people choose to top themselves on the tube (something about the cold being depressing) there's no time to waste.

I tell you, I don't know what Ken Livingstone (Mayor of London) would do without me.

In other news this week, I went to St Paul's Cathedral. Well worth the visit - it truly is a phenomenal building. The dome is staggeringly huge, both from the inside and the outside, and the artwork inside the Cathedral proper is also brilliant.

Beneath the Cathedral, down in the Crypt, lie some of the greatest figures in English history. Admirals Jellicoe and Beatty, of Jutland fame; Arthur Wellington, the Iron Duke, victor of Waterloo and conquerer of Napoleon; Sir Christopher Wren, Royal architect and designer of St Paul's - but pride of place is undoubtedly reserved for Lord Admiral Nelson, the Hero of Trafalgar and England's greatest ever naval officer. Prior to his death, he had been offered a plot in Westminster Abbey - for when the time came. Nelson declined, as he believed Westminster Abbey was sinking into the Thames, and would eventually collapse, opting instead for St Paul's cathedral.

While that prediction has not come true, Nelson's stature is not diminished in any way by his decision - his massive coffin lies in perpetual state, surrounded by paintings depicting him in a definite Christ-like manner at his death.

Above the crypt, you also have the option of climbing up to the top of the dome, via a rabbit warren of stairs and passages. I found it quite amusing to hear a Yank complaining and puffing about the lack of lifts in the Cathedral.

Well, despite his undoubted brilliance, I doubt that even Sir Christopher Wren could have predicted that 300 years after it's completion, his masterpiece would be swarmed over by obese McDonalds munching tourists from, as they were known as in 1710, the American colonies. If he did know, you could hear the whirring noise coming from his coffin as he spun at high speed.

Although you can't take photos inside the Cathedral or Crypt itself, I've got some decent shots of the view from the top and of the Cathedral itself.

Enjoy.


This is the Bank of England, which gives name to the Station in the city centre of London. The actual building itself is surrounded by the gigantic wall you see in front of shot, stretching around the entirety of the building.

Evidently security doesn't seem to be a problem.


Quite possibly the most elaborate direction sign I've ever seen. These are unique to Bank underground station. I love it.


The massive dome of St Paul's Cathedral. After walking through the claustrophobic medieval sized inner streets of central London it's quite something to walk suddenly around a corner and have this staring at you.


The front of the Cathedral.


The view from the top. This is of the City financial district - faintly through the distance you can also see the towers of Canary Wharf. The odd shaped building is known formally as the Swiss RE Building, or, more commonly and informally - "The Gherkin."

One thing you notice is that for a city of this size, it doesn't have as many skyscrapers or high rises as you might expect. The main reason for this is the building I was standing on when I took the last photo. Every building in London is only approved provided that it does not affect, interfere with or diminish the view and location of St Paul's Cathedral. It's good to see London is paying such due care and attention to preserve its heritage.

Now if only they'd stop taking such care, attention and above all else, time, when dealing with corpses of tube suicide victims. Just deploy the damn fire hose and get things running again. A 2 hour closure in peak hour to scrape some bastard off the tracks is just criminal.

Anyways, on that rather macabre note I'll leave you to it - until next time.

The Reprieve

Just a quick update folks - previously we had the death sentence, and now we have the last minute reprieve.

I hasten to assure you that I have not renegged on my decision and am now keeping the Corolla - it's still going to be dismantled - but it is going to live on, in a different guise.

To explain, young Meakin, the man with his plan to revive the battered '39 Chevy as a hotrod, is in need of components and bits of wiring and whatnot. My car has this in abundance, so, he has spoken to me, and in turn, the car will be brought to Chateau Meakin in Samford where it will be gradually ripped apart for bits and pieces.

It was either this, or sell it to Caloundra wreckers for 10 dollars. I think I made the right choice - for now the Corolla will live on in a faster, hotter and undeniably sexier vehicle than it ever could have aspired to.

The delicious irony in all this is that Meakin's father, he of Lexus and Toyota fame, has always bemoaned Dan's decision to chop in his Toyota Camry Sportivo in exchange for the motorbike and the Falcon. Now, at long last, he is going to make his Dad a happy man by buying a Toyota.

Just wait until he sees what he's bought though. They never mentioned this particular vehicle in the Lexus showroom catalogue, I can tell you now.

Sentenced to Death

I must say, it's an interesting experience to pass the sentence of death.

And no, I'm not referring to the liver transplant claim we rejected the other day at work, although that will undoubtedly have a similar effect sooner or later.

No, this was on something that I loved, and that's provided me with many happy years of entertainment. Despite this, I forced myself to consider the issue in the dispassionate and emotionless manner for which I am somewhat renowned, and reached the correct decision. I stood firm against the raging tsunami of sentimentality that would have swamped a man of lesser emotional resolve, and came to the unavoidable conclusion. Within a few minutes of discussing the issue, I had made my decision, and turned my back on the fate of the condemned, immune to its cries for mercy.

My decision would not be revoked.

The Corolla must die.

Yes, that's right folks. You heard it here first. I am officially deregistering my car, and it is to be scrapped. Well, to be honest, I'd much rather it be dumped at my grandfather's farm, along with the 50 odd other ruined cars that have been owned by my relatives, but the old man - he of Civil War travel fame - is the executioner to my judge and jury on this one, and it is his decision as to how and where the axe shall fall.

Seriously though, it's the right decision. I mean, it had pretty much had it. It was by far the crappiest car amongst the various four wheel machines owned by my friends - I for the life of me, am struggling to think of a shittier, more underpowered and veritable bomb of a car than mine, at least amongst the people I know. So, rather than pay for another six months of rego and third party for a car that might get used once a month, it's being consigned to the junkyard.

I bought it 5 and a half years ago, for the princely sum of $2500, and have chalked up about 90000 kilometres on it, so it's not like I didn't get my money's worth. It survived the perils and pitfalls that come with delivering pizzas for Dominos Strathpine (unlike it's predecessor - fucking drink drivers), it survived Laura cracking the head gasket, it shouldered the burden of my Tuba, Meakin and a carton of beer many times (and frequently all at the same time) and never complained once, although it had a nasty habit of incontinence when it came to power steering fluid.

It even survived me backing it into Dad's Landcruiser, and I managed to convince him the resulting dent on my car (yeah, like the Landcruiser took damage) was a result of someone hitting in a supermarket for over two years before I 'fessed up.

The car's given me a lot of memories. It's been on coast trips, Samford drives, LAN's, band excursions, many a road trip, drive throughs and christ knows what else. I think it's greatest achievement was when it negotiated Mount Glorious up and down on the way back from Lake Wivenhoe. My greatest achievement occurred at the same time, which was that I didn't garrot Alex Maltby on the same trip, who was riding beside me.

And now, it's time has come. Farewell.

*Calls for a minute's silence*

*Fidgets and looks at watch*

Well, close enough. With that said, I shall conclude by giving you a sneak peak of what car I have my eye on when I eventually return from this beleagured isle...


The Honda Integra Type R.

Meakin isn't the only one who can buy an oddball car.

News from home

Well, I thought, just for a change, rather than talking about what's been going on over here, I'd dwell on events from home, since I'd wager that it's been a more eventful week in Queensland than it has been for me in London.

(Summary - Worked 5 days, watched wallabies lose, spent most of today resting and reading. House is fine. Everyone nice. The end.)

However, I've managed to keep track of what's been happening back home, and to be honest, I am somewhat annoyed. Not at the untimely demise of Steve Irwin or Peter Brock - no, what really gets my goat is the election.

I should advise, the rest of this post is going to be about politics, so if you care not for the goings-on in George Street, feel free to switch off.

Anyway.

I never thought that the Coalition would win the election. They didn't deserve to, and they shouldn't have won it. They're patently not ready for government, they lack experienced members and are yet to sort out the persistent infighting that has dogged them every step of the way. But imagine my astonishment when I check the election results online, and find that Beattie still retained 60 seats.

I'm not blaming Queensland voters. As I said, I wouldn't want to see the Coalition running the place just yet. But we're talking about a Labor party government that has been rocked by scandal after scandal. We had Dr Death in Bundaberg, the Palm Island riots, Liddy Clark bringing booze into restricted areas and the whole state is running out of water. The scene was set for the mother of all protest votes. And yet it didn't happen. Because the people of Queensland had no option but to vote Labor.

I mean, look at the Coalition. Specifically, the Liberal Party. Just prior to the election, they concoct a shabby party-room deal that would have made the Federal Liberal party of the 1980's proud. They dump Bob Quinn, and bring in Bruce Flegg, a man much more suited to giving diagnoses of patients, rather than a diagnosis of Queensland's electoral issues. The man has all the appeal and poise of an illiterate Lebanese garbage worker. I read some articles and watched some video footage online - it was almost painful to see this bespectacled little tool striding about the place, putting his foot in it with every step he took. He was completely at the mercy of Labor's experienced campaign team, and they made no errors in chewing him up and spitting him out.

It would be remiss not to mention Lawrence Springborg, a man who was born, is, and will die, a boring old turd. You could see from early on in the campaign he'd pretty much packed it in. I mean, what's the point in the National party leader campaigning in bush seats dominated by farmers? The Nationals would piss it in anyway - no matter who their candidate was. But, the only decent political performer the Nationals have was out in bush seats, leaving Flegg and his lackeys to be eaten alive in Brisbane.

What should have happened, and what would have been ideal for the Coalition, was that they pick up about 10-12 seats, specifically, seats in Brisbane and the South-East corner. Not enough to tip Beattie's government out, but enough to give them a strong presence in Parliament, and blood some new MP's, giving them valuable experience. It would also mean they'd have a decent chance of getting in in three year's time.

But from the looks of it they've made scarcely any improvements. At least they managed to evict that clueless strumpet Liddy Clark from Clayfield. But Parliament remains essentially unchanged - Labor still dominates, and will almost certainly win again next time. The Nationals and the Liberals still have the same bunch of old political hacks and farmers that have been wasting time there since the 90's, and are going nowhere fast. The worst news, in my opinion, was that Michael Caltabiano, the one shining light for the Liberals, looks set to lose his seat to Chris fucking Bombolas, the goddamn sports reporter. Without him still around to have a tilt at the leadership, we're going to be faced with yet more Bruce Flegg on our TV screens, walking around like the clueless git he is.

I swear, if Kim Beazley gets in next year, I am not coming back.

Walmart for Pakis

Last night, I had a shopping experience so surreal it was indeed blogworthy.

Well, firstly, I should add that I was able to shop. This is because I have been both paid, and have received my debit card from Barclays. (Finally.) So, with money burning a hole in my pocket, and my legs freezing at night because I hadn’t been able to buy any bedding, I ventured down to a store known as Matalan.

I think perhaps the best way to summarise this store is to say that it’s Walmart for Pakis. Pretty much the whole store was full of women in purdah showing nothing but their eyes, kids trashing the place and Paki husbands all sitting around while their wives roamed around loading up the trolleys with wholesale clothes, bedding and various other items. The service is non-existent – it took about 20 minutes of standing in line before I was served. Part of the problem is that the Paki people there (and everywhere) are notoriously stingy – one bloke was even haggling over the cost of a bedding package.

But at the end of the day I got out of there, having spent 40 quid and carrying over 100 quid’s worth of bedding.

Sweet dreams.

Living it up in Golder's Green

And by living it up, I mean I am living upstairs.

It's been a fairly hectic weekend. I finally moved out of the Barmy Badger, and am now living at a place in Cotswold Gardens, in the suburb of Golders Green, which, for all intents and purposes is sort of inner North London. I'm sharing the house with 3 other people - a South African guy, a Korean lady and a Ukrainian lady. Everyone seems reasonably quiet and tidy, the house is nice enough, public transport is close by, it's not that far from work - all in all I think I've fallen on my feet here. Mind you, it helped to be a bit choosy. Given that the Badger was a nice enough place, it meant I could stay there as long as I needed to before moving out.

Still, there is something very very satisfying about being able to shut the door and know that this is your room, and you're not going to have someone else barging in to get at their stuff, or what have you.

So, this is my new home. It's open to dossers as well, so, if anyone from back home gets that itch beneath their feet and finds themselves standing in Heathrow airport wondering where the hell they're going to stay, worry no longer, for you can crash here for a week or so till you find your feet.

Work has been proceeding apace - we're finally catching up on all the renewals and plowing our way through the immense backlog of stuff that has piled up over the understaffed months that existed before I arrived. Very enjoyable.

Apart from the move to Golder's Green, the only other episode of note was the massive party that went down at the Badger on Friday night. Parties there had been in short supply for some time from all accounts, due to the presence of a miserable old bag next door who complained at the drop of a hat. However, she has been "dealt with" - therefore the stage was set for a big outdoor piss-up in the backyard.

It was good to catch up with people that I'd seen, but hadn't really talked too much to. I also became very good at singing the old song, for example, if we're singing to Steve:

Here's to brother Steve, brother Steve, brother Steve
Here's to brother Steve, who's with us today.
He's happy, he's jolly, he'll drink piss by golly
So here's to brother Steve who's with us today!
So drink motherfucker, drink motherfucker etc etc

It's amazing how entertaining it is after everyone is well smashed.

Anyways, for the photos. Firstly, the house!


This is my room - the bed is pretty comfortable, and surprisingly, long enough as well. It's small, but it's at a good price, and I've no doubt I'll be sufficiently comfortable and whatnot while I'm here.


The front of the house. My room is above the front door, with the open window. The house is a standard terrace job - we have the right hand side and the owner lives in the left hand side. Seems a nice enough old geezer though, so I don't anticipate any issues.


We have Clinton on the left, who despite wearing a Hawthorn beanie is a bona fide South African. In the middle we have Steve the Kiwi, and finally we have Ian, who also hails from South Africa.


On the left we have Kieran, and on the right a guy from Tasmania whose name escapes me. In true Aussie style, Kieran finished the night by getting arrested for indecent exposure. The cops found him, blind drunk, taking a slash against the tyres of a Porsche Boxster, and when they asked him to put it away he waved it at them. Not the best response in history, it must be said.


Here we have Nick and Melissa - I can't remember who the guy behind them was. Nick's a champ though, and always good value. I shared a 4 bed room with Melissa early in the piece until I was moved down the hall. She's also good value, but had a bad night of it, since she got intoxicated to the point of throwing up in the hall and passing out on the stairs. Still, such is life.


Random badger dwellers.


And finally, the Sleeman's pint glass I swiped from the King's Head hotel. I figure it will come in handy at future LAN's or drinkathons - you could fit enough Coke/Beer in it to keep you going for half an hour.

Well, I think that about does it for this, my first blog entry from the new house. Pretty much the only downside is that I have to be up half an hour earlier to get to work, but that's a minor issue compared to how much better it is to have my own room again.