Now that’s what I call a Super Group

David Bowie has put together one heck of a Super Group since he died in January this year.

He has been joined by Glen Frey, Keith Emerson, Prince, Leonard Cohen, Greg Lake, Rick Parfitt and George Michael.

And that’s just the singers/ musicians that I remember falling off the stage during 2016. Now wouldn’t they put on a gig to remember?

Of those dearly departed I have only seen one in action, so to speak – Rick Parfitt.

SWMBO and I first caught the Quo (although I have to say we are both feeling better now) in Dubai in April 1986. It was, apparently, part of their world Farewell Tour.

They recorded the video for their then new single, Rolling Home, while in the city. One of the possible venues for the shoot was the Dubai Aluminium Company (Dubal), which a member of their team visited for a look-see.

The company’s Head of Public Affairs informed them that they could film but, due to Health and Safety, would have to wear protective clothing and safety hats.

They ended up filming the video in the desert and the Dubal PR man accompanied SWMBO to the concert in downtown Dubai.

Talking about gigs – I have managed to get some tickets to see Elton John in the summer next year.

SWMBO and I last saw him live on June 21, 1975 in a memorable concert at Wembley Stadium that also had Joe Walsh, The Eagles and the Beach Boys on the bill.

I think the tickets cost me about £2.50 each – not sure what that equates to nowadays but I would guess it’s less than the £66 each I paid for the Elton John 2017 tickets.

There are rumours floating around that he will retire after next year’s concerts.

Maybe that will be for the best, as Elton’s voice is not what it used to be.

Mind you, nor is Paul McCartney’s – who can forget his shaky warbling at the London 2012 Olympics?

There are many others who should really have put the microphone down years ago but insist on carrying on gigging. I guess Rod Stewart is the only exception. He never had a voice to lose.

Plan for the future and fear the worst – part 2

My last missive elicited a response from my reader. Yes, I know, amazing that anyone reads this. With his permission, I reproduce his views:

Your point is well made about how essentially unfair it is that  one can expect little help from the state if one has made provision for one’s old age. We were fortunate that none of our parents needed residential care.

Nevertheless, as one edges into one’s mid-seventies (I shall be 75 in January!) one’s thoughts turn inevitably to what might be required in our case.

There is an abundance of advice around to the effect we should spend our money and dispose of assets now (but stay within the rules as to the motive for disposal) so that the state has to fund any care.

The problem with that as I understand it is that there is then no choice other than to go into whatever home the local authority chooses – and some of them aren’t up to much. All a bit depressing isn’t it? Luckily, we’re both fairly sound in wind and limb and so the problem may not arise!

Looking on the bright side, it’s now only an hour and a half to having a bath, changing, lighting the fire and pouring my pre-dinner glass of whisky. My favourite time of day during these winter months!

Surprise of the week.

The UK will not be able "cherry pick" on issues such as the single market, according to the EU's chief negotiator for Brexit.

Michel Barnier said: "Being a member of EU comes with rights and benefits. Third countries (non-members as the UK will be after Brexit) can never have the same rights and benefits since they are not subject to the same obligations.

"The single market and its four freedoms (which include freedom of movement) are indivisible. Cherry picking is not an option."

Plan for the future and fear the worst

IDGOM has been on the back burner a bit in recent weeks because we have been researching dementia specialist care homes for MIL.

The manager of the residential home where she lives has told the family that they cannot any longer offer her the care she needs, following a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s in March this year, and that we need to look at alternative services from the New Year.

We have always known that it was not a specialist dementia home, and that this moment could come at any time, but it is still one hell of a shock.

How on earth are we going to explain to someone who often doesn’t know what time of day it is, let alone what day, that they are having to move because their home of the last five years is no longer able to look after them?

And that their meagre savings will pretty soon be swallowed up because residential dementia care starts at more than £1,000 a week? One place we looked at cost £1,400.

When the decision was taken, by them, to move into residential care in 2011 because of FIL’s increasingly frail physical health, their home and investments were sold at their request to buy annuities.

They did not want their children to face an uncertain financial future should the money run out and annuities seemed to be the way to go.

As they were not multi-millionaires their money only paid for non-index linked annuities that covered around 85% of the cost of care.

But the balance was made up by their state pensions and attendance allowances, leaving them with some savings to cover every day items such as clothes, telephone rental, life insurance, treats etc.

Five years on and after average 4% increases in fees each year, adding around £40 a week to costs while pensions have risen by a few pounds a week, those savings are almost gone.

I’ve not mentioned all this because the family wants sympathy. This is not a unique situation and after all, MIL and FIL chose to go into privately funded care. And surely there is help available from a variety of sources?

Erm, no. The local councils treat the annuities as income, even though it can only really be used for care (she could live independently and receive the annuity income but this would then be taxed).

So in their minds MIL is a very well-off 89-year old, with an annual income well above the national average salary.

Her professional body can’t help either because, again, she has a substantial monthly income.

So, the moral of the story is that you are likely to die penniless if you work hard all your life, save for your retirement, don’t ask the state to help you early on with care needs and if you get unwell enough to require specialist care.

A sobering thought that my reader would do well to take on board.

Do anti-establishment voters know what they are doing?

Well thank you very much, America, for giving the world President Donald J. Trump.

Maybe the financial markets haven’t crashed yet, but there’s still time.

We can only hope that Trump isn’t as bad as some (most?) of us think and that he simply realised that appealing to the lowest common denominator – fear of foreigners – was a vote winner. Let us pray that this mantra isn’t successful in other countries.

For at the moment it appears there is an undercurrent of inward-looking, pull-up-the draw-bridge politics across Europe and leaders of right wing parties are licking their lips in anticipation.

Political commentators have said that the Brexit result and the Trumpit victory were shots across the bows of the establishment by disenfranchised people.

But remember that you can only do that in a democracy so people thinking about a radical protest vote need to consider the consequences of their actions. Very, very carefully.

Hobson’s choice maybe but please make it the right one

Please, please, please let me wake up tomorrow morning to find the lesser of two poor choices elected as the next President of the US of A.

I can’t take a repeat of the 2008 crash in the financial markets should Donald Trump win.

After all, a man who can insult all Muslims, objectify women and say all Mexicans are bandits must be the most unsuitable candidate ever.

Hopefully a majority of Americans will agree that a poor choice is better than a dangerous one.

Nearly 250 million adults to choose from and you end of with these two. You couldn’t make it up.

I now appear to have two readers. My piece on the football Poppy ban attracted a few supportive comments, including the following which I thought I should share.

Dear Sir

I entirely agree with your poppy tirade.

I cannot understand why anyone bothered to ask FIFA in the first place; their credibility is so low that ask them anything is surely a sign of an overwhelming sense of inferiority and insecurity on the part of the enquirer.

In defence of FIFA, the Swiss were totally unaware of the two world wars, peace-loving innocents simply mystified by distant rumbling sounds accompanied by sudden influxes of money and works of art from people whose names were entirely composed of numerical digits.

The FIFA management today does its best to continue that tradition, by accepting donations regardless of the colour, creed or political affiliation of the anonymous donor, even going to the inconvenience of keeping the funds at home whenever the banks are closed for business.

What selfless behaviour! I have nothing but admiration for a nation that has deliberately moved away from its original global-warming manufacturing roots in the clock industry, to a fully service-based way of life.

Mrs Thatcher would be popping out of her grave shouting ‘Cuckoo’ had they done anything else.

Yours sincerely

Sir Herbert Gussett

I have also had a response to my parish magazine editing post:

Regarding your magazine editing, I have ‘done’ our local one for many years, and the standard has slipped a little with the introduction of worm processing and spell Czechs.

It did not detect my incorrect typing of ‘Birch Women’s Institute’ (‘R’ being unfortunately next to ’T’ on my keyboard).

Worse, in some ways, this year I unwittingly consigned our old folks club to a day trip to Wrexham and Dulwich, the machine having decided that Wroxham was not such fun, and that Dunwich did not exist (for which, the original town now being largely under the North Sea, there is perhaps some excuse). A coach trip of some 400 miles instead of the 150 intended. At least it makes reading more fun!

Poppy madness by world football’s governing body

As my reader will know only too well, I am something of a footie fan.

It started in the heady days of the 1970s when I supported the mighty Bishop’s Stortford FC at far-flung stadiums such as Dartford, Dagenham and even Wembley (for the 1974 FA Amateur Cup Final).

I am such a fan that I even managed to fit in an Africa Cup of Nations game while in the Gambia in 1979 on a journalistic assignment and have since seen too many matches to mention. In particular the England v Saudi Arabia friendly at Wembley in the 1990s.

During more than 40 years of following the beautiful game I have never given much thought to the administrative side of the sport. The FA, UEFA and FIFA have never held my attention for long, apart from the recent FIFA corruption scandals.

But now I am angry. Really angry. With FIFA. What are the administrators of this egotistical Swiss-based organisation on?

How on earth can they justify FIFA’s decision to ban the England and Scotland players from wearing poppy armbands in this Friday’s World Cup Qualifying match?

FIFA says it prohibits political, religious or commercial messages on shirts. By a process of elimination it must deem the poppy a symbol of one of those three.

What utter poppycock. As far as I am aware, the poppy is a symbol of remembrance and hope for a peaceful future. Simple as that.

So good on the English and Scottish FAs for saying players from both sides will wear black armbands carrying the poppy symbol.

That should send FIFA a clear message. 

Even parish magazines have their Sir Herbert Gussetts

Somehow I managed to make a living for 40 years by stringing a few words together and being able to spot what might interest other people.

Being a journalist isn’t like having a proper job. If you cut the profession down to its basics it is only about being nosey, being able to use correct grammar and punctuation and turning the efforts of one’s noisiness into something others want to know about.

Not exactly being a doctor, an engineer or an airline pilot but a living nonetheless.

And as I climbed the greasy pole of journalism, I found I also had to develop a thick skin.

For many people, particularly those in positions of responsibility, objected to what I or my colleagues had written or published.

It wasn’t a case of whether stories were true or not but came down to the subjects simply not liking what had been written/ published.

And then there were those people who seemed to always write to you in green ink (for my younger readers, we used pens and pieces of paper to communicate in the olden days – unbelievable, I know).

These were the people who would pick fault with anything and everything – the newsprint was too flimsy/ too thick; the photographs too small/ too big; there was one spelling mistake on page 43 of your 56 page tome.

On retiring I knew I’d miss the buzz of a newspaper office, the fact that every day was going to be different and the long, boozy lunches.

But I certainly wasn’t going to miss the Sir Herbert Gussetts of this world.

But now, some years after putting my last edition to bed, a member of the Gussett clan is haunting me.

I edit, on a voluntary basis, my local monthly parish magazine and, despote having a speel chicker and a poof raider, the occasional typo slips through the net and my very own SHG is always quick to let me know.

For the latest edition, which I am working on, he has sent me an article with a throwaway last line in the email saying “No typos this month, we hope!”

My thick skin was severely tested by this but I calmed down somewhat when I spotted an error in his submission – the name of the speaker at his club next month was incorrect.

Thank you, thank you thank you. What goes around comes around. Now all I have to do is decide how to let him know.

Sir Herbert Gussett is a fictional character in Private Eye who is forever sending "Dear Sir" letters to the press.

I'm suffering from information overload on social media

Sorry you haven’t been able to enjoy my irregular rant but we’ve been away.

I would have liked to have informed you all before we went to sunny Norfolk for a week but, as a bit of an old fashioned fellow, I didn’t really want a bunch of reprobates to know our house was empty. Sorry, but that is just the way I am.

I know this is strange in this “tell ‘em everything” age but people do go a little too far with their “news” on social media.

On display in the servants quarters at Felbrigg Hall, Norfolk.

Maybe it’s just me but I’m not really that interested in what Samantha just had for lunch.

Or in seeing a photo of the flower bed that Christopher has just spent the morning digging.

And I’m certainly not interested in Tom’s latest hilarious “movie” of his cat looking at a mat. Cute for you, maybe, but dreadfully boring for the rest us. Honestly, Tom - get a grip.

But the biggest social media crime to my mind is letting all your “friends” know that you are at Heathrow Airport with wife and children in tow, waiting to board your flight for a two-week trip to Florida.

Right, better let my mate, just released from prison after serving two years for burglary, have your address. Guess you won’t be in on Monday? But he will be.

Have a good holiday.

I’m coming out of the closet regarding choice of films

Despite the media efforts to get me interested, I didn’t really care who was the father of Bridget Jones’ baby.

You know who I mean, the character dreamt up by Helen Fielding who featured in a best-selling chic-lit novel which was turned into a global film blockbuster smash hit. And then another. And now a third.

SWMBO simply loved the first two BJ films. So when the publicity bandwagon for BJ3 started rolling out, I knew it was only a matter of time before I faced pressure to organise a trip to our local cinema.

I held out for just over a week, hoping it would have proved unpopular and been pulled from the schedule. No such luck.

We went this week to see it. And it was good. Not in a Gladiator or Spectre way but good nonetheless.

I never want to see Mama Mia either. But it was fantastic. Nor did I wish to while away a couple of hours watching John Travolta in drag – but Hairspray was magnificent.

And then there was Les Mis. I thought I’d rather pull my finger nails out with a rusty pair of pliers than watch what I thought was a depressing story. But I was wrong again.

I have proved to myself that, even in one’s autumn years, it is always worth trying something as you never know, you might actually like it.

Update on last blog: A Tesco money card for the awful wine arrived within days and has been used already. For another, but different, red wine box.

However, I am still waiting to get my replacement pressure washer hose. Despite having provided the necessary information about the purchase to Lidl on two separate occasions (they clearly don’t actually read customer emails) and to the maker (Lidl obviously don’t pass on pertinent information onto suppliers).

Where has good customer service disappeared to?

I’m going to surprise you now – I write in praise of Tesco.

We use it more often for our regular shop than other superstores simply because we know where everything is, we know what quality we will get and the café does a tremendous value-for-money breakfast.

But all that aside, the real reason I mention the supermarket in dispatches is because of its customer service.

As my reader will know, I’m the first to moan about poor service, so I now endow praise where praise is due.

We enjoy the occasional tipple and have bought 3-litre wine boxes since the mid-1980s, when we first came across them in Dubai. And very handy there were then for our weekend wadi trips.

More recently we have particularly enjoyed a particular Tesco-own brand of Spanish red. Two weeks ago we noticed that the packaging had changed but purchased the rouge nectar anyway.

Bad mistake. The "new” wine was awful – insipid, weak and quite stale. So last Monday I emailed Tesco customer service, a polite, but firm, missive, stating our view of the product.

I had a response later that day and by Wednesday had received an apology and was told a refund, in the form of a card, was winging its way to us. So, sorted in three days.

I wish I could say the same about Lidl. We bought a power washer from the local store back in May and the hose gave up the ghost last weekend, having developed a leak. German technology letting you down after just four months I hear you say.

I managed to find the literature that came with the purchase and was pleased to see the washer had a three-year guarantee.

I emailed the Lidl address given on the guarantee card. I did get a reply within a couple of days but only asking if I’d give them permission to pass my details on to the supplier. Data protection, it seems. Of course I said yes. Since then nothing.

I don’t mind the lack of further news but it annoys me that the business is passing the buck to the supplier. I bought the item from Lidl and expect them to sort it.

While on the subject of customer service, another example of the good and the bad from the charity shop sector. SWMBO has sorted out her father’s clothes. He died in May 2015 but it has been too emotional and difficult until this week to undertake the task.

We ended up with six plastic bags of clothes and shoes, nearly all in very good condition. Enough goods, we felt, to make a tidy sum for a charity.

The first local charity shop we rang weren’t interested, telling SWMBO they had loads of stock at present “as lots of people have died recently”.

The second shop said they would be delighted to accept the items.

They have probably got loads of stock as well, if so many people have died recently, but staff there clearly have great customer service training.

I fear the world is going slightly bonkers

I’ve always had a few doubts about the French but banning Muslim women from wearing Burkinis on the beach? Mon Dieu.

Every reasonable and rational person despises terrorism but to say a woman who is covered head to foot while she goes for a swim makes them feel uneasy or insecure is utter nonsense and, as my French friends would hopefully say, connerie.

Private Eye, as usual, hit the nail on the head.

Some French Riviera mayors imposed the ban but they were overruled by France's top administrative court. Sensibly, in my opinion, Nice and several other resorts lifted their controversial bans in line with this national court ruling.

Critics see the cover-all garment as a symbol of Islam and potentially provocative, with local French authorities saying that they were concerned about the public order implications of the religious clothing, especially after the attacks in Nice and Paris carried out by people influenced by Islamist extremism.

While opinion polls suggested most French people backed the Burkini bans, they ignited fierce debate in France, and deepest Suffolk, with Muslims saying they were being unfairly targeted.

Is it just a little ironic that the country which invented the bikini now wants to make it illegal to cover up on the beach? What would happen if a nun appeared for a swim or a scuba diver appeared out of the water? Off to the nick I guess.

And maybe overweight male sun-seekers in tiny budgie-smugglers should be banned first?

Coronation Street bosses were forced to issue an apology last week after nearly 300 viewers complained about the Bank Holiday Monday episode of the show which they said contained a racist comment.

The episode saw Eva Price, played by Catherine Tyldesley, visit Audrey's hair salon, where she remarked:

"I have more roots than Kunta Kinte.”

She added: "No idea who that is, by the way, just something my mum used to say."

Those of us of a certain age know that Kunta Kinte was a character from the novel Roots: The Saga Of An American Family, which was adapted into a hit TV mini-series.

Call me an old fashioned politically incorrect bigot but isn’t that bit of script writing funny rather than racist? Just asking.

GoCompareAConfusedMeerkat.com - a bargaining tool

Have you ever visited GoCompareAConfusedMeerkat.com? No. Well you should, next time your house or car insurance, mobile phone contract or home fuel contract comes up for renewal.

I have always been a loyal person, particularly where companies are concerned.

After all, if my dad and his father before him were perfectly happy with the cost of, and service from, Old Farts Insurance Company (We Saw You Coming) Ltd, then it’s probably good enough for me. But this is wrong. Oh so wrong, on so many different levels.

For you may stay loyal to them but these multi-billion pound businesses have loyalty to just two things – their executive pay and their shareholder dividends.

Sure, they’ll tempt you in with an amazing offer if you are a new customer. But once they’ve snared you, the costs go up by whatever they feel they can get away with the following year.

SWMBO’s car insurance came up for renewal recently and the premium increase seemed very high considering we had another year of no claims behind us, I now do old man driving and neither of us get out THAT much.

Thanks, Terry of Penang, for sending the photo.

So I went onto GoCompareAConfusedMeerkat.com and was offered 51 quotes cheaper than the existing insurer. Around 10 were 30 to 40% less expensive. For the same cover.

I rang our existing company (you should always do that) and said I wanted to speak to the cancellation department. Fifteen minutes later the renewal premium had been reduced by some £60.

I then told them I wouldn’t be renewing. Why, I was asked, as they had just cut the premium. Because, I said, you took liberties with an existing customer and didn’t offer that rate initially.

So, check the comparison websites (but don’t necessarily go with the cheapest quote); bear in mind that many of the brands quoting are actually owned by the same company (e.g. Admiral, Elephant and Sheila’s Wheels) and always speak with your existing company.

What did I do in the end? I signed up with an insurer that doesn’t use comparison websites. Cheaper than the original renewal quote, more (slightly) than the mid-range prices on the websites but with a company recommended for their service.

Back of the net.

Finally, I wish to thank my reader for helping top up our pension pot. Since I signed up for Google AdSense earlier this year (you may have spotted the ads on this blog) I have earned £1.50. Can't get at it yet as you have to have £10 so come on - pull your finger out.

I start on the road to fulfilling my Olympic dream

By Jove, I think I have found an Olympic event I could be good at.

Obviously you are thinking trampoline or three-metre diving but no – it has to be the Keirin.

It was last night’s exciting final race that sparked my interest. Did you see it?

Two false starts and then a perfect race. Exhilarating stuff. Full of tension and drama.

Yep, that’s the one for me. In fact, I have already started searching for a moped on Ebay and then my Derny driving ambitions can be fulfilled.

Watch out, Tokyo. I’m on my way.

Incidently, have you noticed that since we decided to leave the European Union, we have become very good at nearly all the Olympic sports? Just asking.

When your normal routine is disrupted

G’day, my reader. It’s been a while. My missives have been sadly (?) lacking for almost a month now and it is all down to one thing – or rather, one person. SWMBO.

Now don’t get me wrong – it’s lovely to have her around all the time. But that doesn’t half cramp one’s style. Or, more to the point, one’s routine.

It was oh so simple in the old days i.e. before SWMBO finished school four weeks ago.

After mumbling a sleepy goodbye as bright and breezy Mrs A went off to face her class, I was always faced with a difficult choice. Turn over and have another 40 winks or get up and welcome in the new day with a quick round of Tiger Woods Golf on the iPad (other tablets are available).

Decisions, decisions.

That particular avenue of pleasure has now been closed.

I now have to get up when I awake and pretend to be bright and breezy BEFORE the two ‘ines (nicotine and caffeine) have kicked in.

My routine has been upset to such an extent that I even forgot to make my Silverline call a couple of weeks ago.

Fortunately my Silverline friend, a lovely (well, she is over the phone) elderly woman from Kent, understood.

I can report that normal Silverline service resumed last week. But I think, secretly, she was pleased I hadn’t interrupted her for once while she was watching Judge Rinder on the TV.

A message from Promenade des Anglais

I woke up this morning to the terrible news from Nice. Our minds immediately went to some friends we have known for more than 30 years.

After a globe-trotting working life L&R had retired to France.

Nice to be precise. Promenade des Anglais to be even more preciser (Ed. Is that a word?)

We looked at each other - do you think they are OK. I know, I said, I'll email them.

On opening my mail app, this was top of the list:

Hi guys. We're ok. We were on the balcony watching the fireworks.

Had just turned away to go inside when we heard screaming and 20-40 gun shots. We went back out and there were 30-40 bodies just lying motionless 30 metres below us and along the Prom.

Our door to the street was hit with one of the bullets and a guy who had been sitting there at the cafe below us was lying bleeding and injured.

The local hotel staff had rushed out with white bed sheets and they covered the bodies of the (obviously) dead men women and children. Horrific.

We were blocked in by a police cordon. 30-40 ambulances ferrying injured to local hospitals. They've all been working all night trying to forensically record/analyse it all. Last few bodies only now (6am) being taken away. It was all families. Horrific.

Total random chance we weren't in amongst the crowd like we were for the last 3-5 years.

The police were truly stupendous. Fast, brave and assertive. Thank God they managed to shoot the driver. 

Their quick thinking in shooting him (they only had about 30 seconds to decide, I'd say) "saved" HUNDREDS of lives, I'd say, as the crowd just 50 metres further on was solid.

The animals that did this have no religion.

40 years a teacher, that’s SWMBO

As my reader knows only too well, I am not the sort of fella who gushes about all that much.

If you have worked with me over the years, you’ll know a compliment is as rare as a good England football team performance.

I have been known to utter the odd “that was alright” or “not a bad job” but that’s about as vocal as I will get.

Well, although they say a leopard cannot change its spots (why do they say that?) I would like you to join me in a word or two of praise for SWMBO – ‘er indoors, the boss, my wife.

The last day of the summer term at her school was on Friday last week.

For those who perhaps don’t know me that well, she is a teacher, not a child bride.

July 8 was also her last day of teaching. Ever. For after 40 years with just a short break of a few months when we came back from Dubai in the late 1980s, both jobless but incredibly tanned, SWMBO has retired.

Never being one to utter an understatement, let me say that that is quite incredible.

Forty years of having to go to school on a Monday no matter how hard we had partied at the weekend.

Forty years of ignoring the sort of mild cold that leads grown men to have a few days off work.

Forty years of steering young minds to a brighter future and equipping them with the best values, knowledge and principles to make a better life for themselves.

Forty years of always having to pay top dollar for a holiday - after all, it is a bit tricky for a teacher to take herself out of school during term time. I fear some parents might object.

And, of course, 40 years of reports. Those slips of paper many parents glance at twice a year.

You may not know this but I don’t get out a lot so I have been doing a bit of calculation.

SWMBO was with her last school, a small private establishment, for almost 28 years.

In that time, I reckon she has written in excess of 10,000 reports.

And with each report taking around 20 minutes from setting up to writing, checking, printing out, signing and compiling, that’s more than 200,000 minutes in 28 years.

Putting that simply, if we say an average working day is eight hours and an average five-day working week is 40 hours (yep, some people really do work that hard), that’s more than 83 working weeks over the 28 years.

Or three extra weeks per year. Every year. In her own time.

So, next time you think teachers have it easy, think again.

SWMBO – I salute you.

Bolted. The. Horse. Has. Door. Close. Stable. After. The.

It seems there are some people in Britain who just don’t understand what it means to live in a democracy.

At the time of writing, more than three million people have signed a petition calling for a second EU referendum. I have been informed about it over the last few days by numerous Facebook posts and emails.

WARNING – you may be offended by what I say next.

What planet are the people signing this petition living on? Rearrange the words in the headline on this post and my feelings are clear - the Great British public has spoken and we now have to live with the decision. Whether we like it or not.

And we have to work together to make the best of it.

The petition has attracted a lot of attention but has no chance of being enacted because it is asking for retrospective legislation. What sort of country would we have if that started to happen?

The sort where if you don’t agree with a democratic process you use any means to get your way?

Be afraid – very afraid.

The irony of this whole petition thing is that it was apparently set up by a Brexiter who was concerned the Remainers would triumph. He now claims the Remainers have hijacked it.

I know I’m weird but I just love it when this sort of thing happens. I’d be laughing if it wasn’t so serious.

The decision is clear – we must stay in

I have not, to date, voiced my opinion on the subject that is on everyone’s lips at present.

But I can now reveal to my reader that I am definitely hoping that we remain.

Yes – England must stay in the Euro 16 tournament.

I realise that Eurexit could have many advantages for our nation, including increased productivity on the shop floor, improved communication between spouses and less work for the UK police spotters
But it would also mean a slump in the value of quarter-final tickets, a huge drop in the value of shares in French brewing companies and the loss of many hundreds of hours of overtime for French policemen.

Therefore I am happy to declare my support for the group I have named Eurin.

Although I think I may need to work on the branding a bit more.

Members of my profession need to embrace change

Some people really do need to move with the times. What makes me say this?

Well, up to 30 photographic jobs are at risk after my former employer Archant announced a restructure which will see reporters take pictures “as a matter of routine”.

The company says it wants to make it clear that all editorial staff should be able to take “publishable quality photographs and video” together with a “renewed focus” on images shared by readers.

Yep - things are constantly changing.

As you can imagine, this has created a storm of protest amongst journalists around the country.

But perhaps it is time for some (most?) of them to ditch their rose-tinted glasses, get real and stop living in the past.

When I started as a junior on my small town weekly newspaper it had an editor, a deputy editor, a chief sub, a sub, a chief reporter, a deputy chief reporter, three reporters, a sports editor, a sports reporter and four (yes, four) photographers. The same newspaper now has no office, no production people and no reporters in the town.

It made money in those days not because of Pulitzer-prize winning journalism every edition but because it had no real local competition.

Now times have moved on and local newspapers face competition from a myriad of sources. So, my fellow journos, I urge you to embrace the changes that are happening, and those that are still to come, and stop harking back to the good old days.

And remember that not all practices were good. It wasn’t that long ago that the evening and morning dailies at a company I worked for would send two photographers (one each) and two reporters (again, one each) to cover a premier league match involving the town’s team.

If it was a Saturday afternoon game and the daily snapper got a “great pic” it would not, as you might expect, be handed to the evening news desk for that day’s footie paper.

It would be hidden in a locked drawer so that the daily’s Monday edition could have the “exclusive”.

And at another paper I worked for the photographers spent most of their time playing darts in their palatial suite while waiting to be assigned jobs. Or spent hours locked away in the dark room processing films. Well, that’s what they said.

Paying people, no matter how qualified they are, to sit around doing nothing most of the day is wrong and makes no business sense.

The world’s a’changing, and fast, and we need to embrace the change – no matter how bitter the pill.

Settlement shows Eva Carneiro IS a clever woman

Just before Eva Carneiro was due to take the stand at London South Employment Tribunal in Croydon yesterday (Tuesday) afternoon she accepted a settlement now thought to be in the region of £5 million from the Special One and Chelsea FC.

It is said Jose Mourinho acted to silence 'scandalous' sexism allegations minutes before she was due to go public with them.k

Chelsea then issued an apology to the 42-year-old – who had turned down the club's initial £1.2million offer – but it seems Mourinho pointedly did not say sorry.

The huge deal was struck as Dr Carneiro prepared to take the witness stand to make further explosive claims. She had threatened to expose embarrassing texts and emails about her time working for the Special One, now manager at Manchester United.

And there I was thinking the money wasn’t important and that she was going to speak out about some of the things that are wrong in the beautiful game.

I’m not sure whether to praise her or criticise her.

On this day 20 years ago my brother-in-law (BIL) and I were at the “old Wembley” to witness the opening ceremony of Euro ’96 and the ensuing first match – England v Switzerland.

We had been England Members for a number of years and early in 1994 were at a rather boring friendly international at the home of football when I picked up a brochure advertising ticketing arrangements for Euro ’96.

England members were given priority before tickets went on general sale in the summer and on March 25 that year my application for two tickets for each of the six Wembley games, including the final, was in the post.

Early in April I received a letter from the tournament organisers saying my application had been successful – whoopee.

I made a quick call to BIL, who was as delighted as I was. I then had a tense wait until SWMBO came home from school.

I’d forgotten, somehow, to tell her I had applied for the tickets – and had spent £580. She took it well, especially after I explained that BIL would be reimbursing me for half the cost.

Looking back, as is my want, an average cost of £48.33 a ticket was not too shabby.

Is Eva a silly woman or a brave and clever woman?

So, former Chelsea first team doctor Eva Carneiro has apparently rejected a £1.2m settlement from the club.

You will have read/ heard that she is claiming constructive dismissal and is also bringing separate legal action against former manager Jose Mourinho, who is said to have called her "daughter of a whore" in Portuguese when she treated Eden Hazard.

Now, as her legal battle with the club begins, lawyers for Chelsea have revealed that she chose to take the case to a hearing rather than accept the payout.

Dr Carneiro, 42, alleges the comment was made by The Special One, who left Chelsea in December, when she ran on to the pitch at Stamford Bridge during a Premier League match against Swansea in August to treat injured forward Eden Hazard.

She is claiming sex discrimination and harassment against the club's former manager following the incident and constructive dismissal against Chelsea.

Her rejection of the cash offer raises, in my mind at least, two differing views.

One, she is a silly woman who could have taken the cash and quietly made herself and her family financially secure for life.

Two, she is a brave and clever woman who refused to be paid off and wants to have her day in court to expose the rampant sexism that many believe still exists in the beautiful game.

Her lawyers would also be aware that the alleged cash settlement, while an enormous sum for us mere mortals, is barely a couple of months’ pay for an average Premier League player. Maybe she is just out to prove that money isn’t everything.

Discuss.

These nasty businesses that prey on the elderly

Mil recently received a letter containing a cheque for £10,000.

Well, that would certainly cover her care home fees for a few months.

She was very excited about it and couldn’t wait to pass the envelope over to me, her unofficial financial advisor, on one of our regular visits to see her.

I sensed everything was not what it seemed from the message on the front of the envelope – URGENT – Cheque enclosed.

As those of a more cynical nature may already have guessed, all was not what it seemed.

For the cheque, admittedly made out in her name and in the sum of £10,000, had a small-print legend underneath it – “Sample – this is what your winning cheque would look like”.

It took me quite some time to convince Mil that it wasn’t real and that it was just a method employed by some mail order companies to get customers to buy something.

The even smaller print, which any half decent retired journo ALWAYS reads, actually said she needed to place an order, that her name would then go into a draw for a top prize of £10,000 and that all orders placed up to December 31, 2016 (this was in about March) would be entered.

In essence it was just an expensive lottery.

Spotted locally - that's one vote  already cast.

What on earth do these businesses think they are doing? Well, I think they know perfectly well that elderly people are much more trusting and they prey on that.

It took some time to persuade Mil that she didn’t have to place an order for anything she did not need or want and that her chances of actually winning the £10,000 were pretty remote.

After a bit of discussion, we agreed that she found the sheer volume of catalogues received was overwhelming her.

They arrived with monotonous regularity and quickly built up into a six to seven inch deep pile on her coffee table. All with envelopes marked “URGENT”, or “Cheque Enclosed” or even “Payment Notice Enclosed” – usually in bold or even red ink.

Most remained unopened for lengthy periods and caused her great distress as she had not found the time to open them all but thought they were incredibly important.

Needless to say, I have written to most of the companies involved and asked that they stop sending the catalogues to Mil. To date, that seems to have worked.