Lucky to be alive

If I’d been born 200 years ago, I’d be dead by now. Before you say, or think, “Well, der, obviously …”, by “by now” I don’t mean the year 2015, I mean the age I am now, which is 54.

In fact, it was only 100 years ago, in 1915, that 54 was about the average life expectancy at birth for a human male. If we account for the fact that most deaths occur in the first few years of life, if I’d already made it to 20 in 1915 (and I didn’t subsequently get killed in the Great War), I’d probably still have only made it to 60. (Of course, your life expectancy increases the older you get, because it’s only an average. This interactive map for the US will provide you with some more fun facts.)

In my case, however, my undoing might have been as simple as the broken ankle I sustained in my mid-twenties. If I had been born before modern medical health care was available, nearby and affordable — and I’d sustained the same injury I did that night I was dancing with Sid Vicious* — I’d at least have spent the rest of my life walking with a pronounced limp. Depending on the time and place of my birth, and the prevailing cultur, that is If, say, I’d been a member of a hunter-gatherer tribe, I’d probably have been left to die.

What I’m getting around to is the fact that I’m feeling lucky to be alive, and especially so because that’s purely due to an accident of birth. (There, two cliches in one sentence, beat that Will Shakespeare.) Being born at the time I was and into a family with reasonably robust DNA — I had a great grandmother who lived past 100 (although her daughter died in her 50s) — has served me well. As have the facts that I had the proper childhood vaccinations, I’ve not been being killed in an accident and I haven’t had to serve in the military at a time of war.

Not only are we living longer, we are also, in general, much healthier — physically and psychologically. My mother, who is very active in her 80s,  noted that her grandparents “behaved old” when they were in their 50s. Attitude — your own and the way others see you — counts for a lot, too.

As far as work goes, I have plenty more in me. The Australian government expects me to keep going until I’m 67 — although there’s every reason to be believe that by the time I get there, the official retirement age will be even older. I will certainly be up for it, if it’s the kind of work I’m doing now.  From my point of view, I am as good as,  or better than,  I have ever bee; certainly have more skills than I did when I was 20 — because I need, and like, to keep up with new technology –and I have greater experience and knowledge, while retaining the same mental dexterity and passion for what I do. Physically, I won’t be running a four-minute mile, but then I never did.

In many ways, I’m living in the best of times. I have no idea what’s around the corner, but as long as it’s not a speeding bus with my name on it, I don’t really care. Or even if it is, I’ll at least know that things were pretty good, most of the time. As a friend, who just had two unanticipated career changes in a matter of months, has become fond of saying, onwards and upwards!

 

*Not the actual Sid Vicious, but the very talented writer, director and actor David Brown, who was playing Sid in a show of his own creation.

Should I cool it or should I blow?

 

I posted the following on Facebook the other day:

Does anybody else recognise that stage where you fall out of love — not with a person, but with a place or a situation? That thing when things you’ve accepted for years suddenly make you very annoyed? Example: I’m at the supermarket and before I’ve stowed all my groceries in bags and moved away, the cashier starts sending down the next person’s stuff.

Of course, this is not about shopping, as frustrating as that experience may be. It’s about making a Big Life Decision.

I’ve made quite a few of those in my time. Some of them have been beautifully executed, and have reaped wonderful rewards. Some weren’t so good. All of them involved leaving behind something that was familiar, but less than perfect (or even downright aggravating and/or depressing), and plunging into the unknown.

I’m not one for jumping out of planes or walking tightropes, but I do think it’s sometimes a good idea to frighten yourself to see what’s possible.

More on this later.

BTW: The headline is a reference to a song by The Clash.

 

Too good to be true

I just received a phone call from a chap representing my bank, offering me an exceptional deal: instant access to a US$20,000 personal loan with a laughably low interest rate — much, much lower than the rate on my credit card — and payable in 36 easy monthly installments.

“Fabulous,” I say, “where do I sign up?”

Actually, that’s not what I say..

I say: “Well, this certainly is a very generous offer. There’s only one problem, and it’s a matter of terribly bad luck, but I don’t need to buy anything at the moment, so I really have the space in my life for borrowed money that has to be repaid with interest, albeit at a very attractive rate.” Or something like that.

Feeling his disappointment at this rejection, I add: “But it’s certainly handy to know for the future …”

“Oh no, Sir,” says the cold-caller — and I should point out, at this stage, that the time is 4.45pm — “this offer is only available until close of business today. If you wait, you will have to fill out all sorts of documents, and pay a much higher interest rate. This loan is pre-approved.”

“Well,” I say, “that really is great, but I don’t actually want a loan.” At that stage I hang up.

Assuming my bank knows a thing or two about human psychology and isn’t just wasting its employees’ time as well as mine, this tactic must work. There really must be people who say, with 15 minutes of the business day left to go that, yes, despite having no need for one, they will have a pre-approved personal loan for US$20,000 before the offer expires.

What to spend it on? Well, there’s always something …

 

Survival of the cutest

There is great excitement in zoological circles about the birth of twins to a giant panda named Mei Xiang at the National Zoo in Washington DC.

Pandas aren’t usually born in pairs. In fact, it’s amazing that we still have pandas at all. The creatures are fussy eaters — they munch on a specialised type of bamboo which has so few nutrients that they basically have to eat all the time at the expense of other activity — they are lazy, and they are very bad at breeding. So bad, in fact, that it’s really only  IVF treatment that has kept the species going. The treatment has such a low success rate that Mei Xiang was inseminated by sperm from two donor males to increase her chances if becoming pregnant.

The one thing between the giant pandas and oblivion is the simple fact that they are cute. So cute that every zoo in the world wants one — or preferably a breeding pair, if they could actually convince two of them to mate in the normal way, that is. (They either don’t find each other particularly attractive, or they just couldn’t be bothered.)

In any case, China has exploited  demand for pandas by  only lending them to foreign institutions rather than giving them away, as it did in the hey-day of “panda diplomacy”. There  are not a lot of them to go round, and China doesn’t want to lose control of a valuable asset.

However, at the same time, keeping a species safe from extinction just to create zoo exhibits hardly seems to be an efficient use of resources. Surely other  at-risk species could be saved with the money spent on pandas. Maybe it’s about time the lumbering giants starting paying their own way.

This is a subject my colleagues and I were kicking around during some rare down time at work. Perhaps, we decided, the best way to ensure the survival of pandas is to commercialise their existence, in the same way we have done with cattle, sheep and other farm animals. We may still have to use IVF to help them breed, but economies of scale will come into play.

As one colleague noted on Facebook: “If you care about pandas and want to see more of them, there’s a simple solution. Eat pandas.”

A few thoughts

I’ve been browsing through my old debritz.net blog and found a few one-liners* that, I think, are worth revisiting. They date back to 2008,when I was living in Glasgow:

According to a Facebook application, I was Pablo Picasso in a previous life. It’s very flattering, but impossible. I was 12 when Picasso died.

What Australians call a “deposit slip” is called a “paying-in slip”  at my UK bank. For once, I prefer Australian English.

On the subject of tackling climate change … would it be possible to to harness all the energy currently used to delete spam emails to power the internet?

Research shows that the British – and especially the Scottish – are the world’s most sexually active people. As one comment on the Russian-language web forum tut.by says, it’s because the Scots don’t have to waste time taking their trousers off.

When is “free” not free? When it’s a discount airline ticket. My fare from Glasgow to Frankfurt with Ryanair was advertised at 0.00 pounds. But when taxes, baggage fees, insurance and other costs were added, the bill totalled 47.20 pounds. Still cheap, but more than I expected.

I’ve just encountered the worst busker I’ve ever heard, outside Woolworths in Glasgow’s Argyle Street. If I were the manager, I’d give her money to go and sing outside Argos. (Not long after I originally posted that one, Woolworths closed down. The really should have listened to me.)

A grownup – possibly a teacher or assisting parent – was leading some children through the White Tower at the Tower of London today. As we were all descending a narrow staircase, I heard her tell them that Sleeping Beauty was at rest in the tower waiting for her prince to come. “Hold on,” said one of the kids. “Isn’t that just a fairy tale?”
PS: I don’t understand why the woman even attempted to lie, because the truth about this historic site is a great yarn in itself.

Warning on a tin of Marks and Spencer peanuts: “May contain traces of other nuts.”

* May contain more than one line.

Now, wash your hands

Why is basic personal hygiene such a challenge to so many people? Is it because they’ve never seen anybody get sick, really sick, from totally preventable nasties like diarrhoea and respiratory infections?

You only have to use a busy public toilet to realise how many people either don’t wash their hands, or don’t wash them properly. There are quite a few people on my “don’t shake hands” list as a consequence of some simple observation.

What’s worse is that many toilets in offices, hotels and other public places are very poorly designed and maintained.

At one place I frequent — an outpost of a huge international chain — I sprang the cleaner using the same cloth to clean the toilet bowl and the hand basin and taps. Think about that for a moment.

If you’ve been to a relatively modern airport lately, you’ll notice that world’s best practice in lavatory design dictates that there are few, or no, surfaces for people to touch, especially after they have washed their hands. The soap dispensers and taps start automatically, and there are no door handles on the way out.

The restrooms in an office I’m very familiar with were recently redesigned, totally ignoring those best practices.

On many cruise ships, there are now extra paper towels and waste bins right at the door of the public facilities, so people with clean hands can use the towel to open the door, then dispose of it as they leave. There’s even a notice on the door explaining how and why to do this.

At the hotel with Typhoid Harry the toilet attendant, there is no such mechanism — in fact, they’ve just stopped people from being able to do so by installing a bin that won’t stay open.

I understand low-level ignorance about personal hygiene, but I don’t understand how international corporations like, for example, the Starwood hotel group don’t adopt best practices before somebody gets very sick — and very litigious!

Come fly with me

Those of us who can only afford to fly in economy* class dread every minute we are in the air.

So, it comes as something of a surprise that airlines consider there to be some cachet in providing the world’s longest nonstop flight.

Qantas’s flight from Sydney to Dallas was the title holder until recently, when Emirates came with its offering: Dubai to Panama in somewhere around 17 hours.

Now, Singapore Airlines is working with Airbus to modify one of its planes so it can reclaim the title for its flight from home base to New York, which weighs in at 19 hours.

If you’re in a hurry, I guess that’s good news. But if you’re squished up in cattle class for the best part of a day, a stopover, even a very brief one, sounds pretty good.

* Yes, I have been upgraded many times recently and I am grateful for that.

Just like that

The term “magic” conjures up images of the likes of David Copperfield, Penn and Teller, David Blaine and Dynamo doing there thing in Vegas or on the small screen for the amusement of incredulous crowds. They’re all very clever, charismatic figures who use sleight of hand and word of mouth to make us think we are seeing something that our logical brain knows is impossible.

Because of my love of cruises — more on that elsewhere — I’ve seen more than my share of illusionists in the past few years. No cruise is complete without a magic show, largely because these performances engage people of all ages and they transcend language barriers.

I’ve seen more quick-change artists, ladies sawn in two, levitations, rope tricks and card conundrums to last several lifetimes, and I’m the first to admit that I have absolutely no idea of how it’s all done. Yet, at the same time, the more I see of what I don’t understand, the less it engages me.

The end result is that when I see a magic show now, I’m simultaneously astounded and nonplussed.

I guess what I really want to be is in the audience the night that things don’t quite go to plan. I don’t care if I happen to catch a glimpse of the wires and mirrors, the trap door, the fork lift or whatever it is they use to make the magic, I just want to see something new.

 

 

One size doesn’t fit all

It is no secret that I am a man of size. Call me “fat”, call me “pleasantly plump”, or just try to avoid the elephant in the room, it’s not going to hurt my feelings.

However, while I will always fight to be allowed to be as I am, I acknowledge that my generous proportions are of concern to some people.

For instance, when I see a sign in a elevator declaring what the total load is in terms of people and kilograms, I realise that I count for two in Schindler speak.

And when I get on a plane, I try to ensure that my extra bits spill out into the aisle rather than in the direction of the person next to me. As often as I can, and my finances allow, I try to travel premium economy or business class to ensure that I can travel comfortably and not be a burden on others.

But I get annoyed when I read that certain airlines are preparing to go out of their way to shame their larger clients.

Recently, Uzbekistan Airways announced that it is going to weigh passengers before deciding if they can get on flights. There were assurances that the information would not be shared and that the practice was not discriminatory. It was, they said, all about making flights safer.

Fair enough. If they can make a convincing case that my presence on a plane might cause an life-endangering incident, then I will gladly stay on the ground. But if they are going to discriminate against me on the basis of my size, and it comes to the point where larger passengers must pay extra, then I want some quid pro quo — the airlines must provide a range of seat sizes in all classes to suit everyone on every flight.

To assume we are all the same is not good enough.

I will gladly pay more to fly, but not for the same cramped and narrow seat as everyone else.

Trumps, or a lay down misere?

There’s more than a little irony in reports that the American television network, NBC, sacked Donald Trump from his position on The Apprentice before his recent tilt at the Republican nomination for US president. (If you didn’t know, Trump’s catchphrase on the show was “You’re fired.”)

But fans of alternative histories have cause for concern here. It’s been noted that had Adolf Hitler not been rejected by the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna, and had received a scholarship to pursue his first love, he would not have fallen on hard times, become embittered and spearheaded the Nazi party’s rise to power in Germany. As a result, World War II may never have happened.

Let’s hope NBC decision does not have a similar effect.

Elsewhere online

If you are enjoying this blog, perhaps you’d like to read some words I’ve written for other publications. Sadly, most of the thousands of news stories and feature articles I’ve written for print publications have not been archived digitally, or are only available to paying subscribers.

Here are a few articles that can be accessed freely, sorted by publication.

The National (Abu Dhabi, UAE)

Travellers stopping in the UAE need to know the rules

Fame is often fleeting but we’ll always have Paris

Screening shows on demand will scuttle pirates 

Can we live without an iPad 3? Well, we’ve managed so far

Would a .rose by any other name smell as sweet?

 

The Courier-Mail / Sunday Mail (Brisbane, Australia)

White sands of Boracay (travel story about the Philippines)

Thriller in Manilla for adventurous travellers

Showbritz blog (still online, not updated since 2007)

 

Audio

An interview with Douglas Kennedy (612 ABC, an edit from my previous blog)

An interview with me by Jeremy Irvine (A coffee with … blog)

 

English as she is written

One of the most common complaints received by newspapers and news websites is that their standards of English are slipping. Often these complaints come from other journalists.

It is true that newspapers and magazines — let alone humble bloggers — can no longer afford to hire vast armies of sub-editors and fact-checkers, and mistakes do slip through. But it’s also the case that some of the “errors” pointed out by readers are not technically errors at all.

The thing is that there is not just one version of English. The differences between British English and American English are well know, but just about every country where English is spoken and written has its own version. Indian English varies from Australian English — both of them incorporate unique words and usages — and the Canadians seem never to be sure whether they want to follow Oxford or Webster.

So, when we are trying to write for an international audience — as the web more or less dictates that we do — we need to be careful not to choose words, phrases and forms that might confuse some readers. I have a friend who is very fond of the word spruik. It, roughly, means to “talk up ” something or promote it vigorously. Sadly, though, it’s little known outside Australia, so it can’t be used in print in the country where my friend now lives. It works the other way around too, some words that are perfectly acceptable in America, for example, are considered quite rude in Australian English. I can think of two examples, but I won’t use them here.

The one constant in every place it is used, is that the English language is evolving. So what what is seen as a mistake by some readers may, in fact, be a reluctant concession by writers and editors that times are moving on. In the early 1980s, when I started in journalism, a colleague had trouble accepting that the word gay now meant homosexual to more people than it meant happy. He tried to resist the change — to the point of putting quotation marks around the word (possibly as a signal of disapproval) — but he had to finally concede the point.

Having said that, I am still holding out against some changes  in English usage. Call me a pedant — go on — but there are some things up with which I shall not put.*  Here are a few:

+ Unique. This is an absolute. Something cannot be a little bit unique, it either is or it isn’t. Why is that distinction important? Because if we don’t accept it, the language is diluted and we no longer have a useful single word to describe something that is one of a kind. Why use four words when you can use one?

+ Refute. To refute something is to prove it to be untrue. It does not mean the same as deny, although an alarmingly high number of writers think it does.

+ Collide. A collision involves impact between two moving objects. A car cannot collide with a tree, but it can hit it.

I know I can’t hold back the tide, but can we please cling on to these three, er, unique words?

One last thing: Muphry’s Law (yes, Muphry, not Murphy) states, more or less, that any article about correct English usage will inevitably include at least one error. I look forward to hearing from you when you discover mine.

* Actually, I’m cool with ending sentences with prepositions.

Where there’s a Will …

It has all the makings of a mystery novel. It involves death, deception and detective work over four centuries.

The mystery is: Who wrote the plays attributed to William Shakespeare?

The most obvious answer, and the one still most widely accepted, is that William Shakespeare, the actor who moved from Stratford-upon-Avon to London and strode the stage in the late Elizabethan age, wrote the plays still performed under his name.

By modern conventions, the man who wrote Hamlet, Richard III, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, The Tempest and so many other great plays ought to have been a celebrity.

Yet we know very little of the so-called Bard of Avon, except tidbits from a few official documents (including a will that leaves his “second-best bed” to his wife) and the fact that the early printed collections of those great plays bear his name.

Over the years, scholars and sleuths have nominated other, better-known figures as the author of Shakespeare’s play, ranging from the renowned playwrights Ben Jonson and Christopher Marlowe (who was killed in a barroom brawl before many of the plays were written) to Sir Francis Bacon and the Earl of Oxford, Edward de Vere.

The Stratfordians – those who support Shakespeare himself (and thus the “Shakespeare industry” in Stratford) – say many of the arguments against their man are based on snobbery. Because Shakespeare was not of the Elizabethan elite, a noble or a court insider, and because he only had a grammar school education, they feel he couldn’t have written the plays. Perhaps, like many a modern writer who sprang from nowhere, he was simply a genius. (Besides, the Stratfordians say, grammar school education in those days was a lot more rigorous than now.)

The debate has become a little more intense in recent times with the emergence of a new candidate for authorship – Sir Henry Neville.

In their book, The Truth Will Out, academics Brenda James and William Rubinstein argue that Neville was everything Shakespeare was not – wealthy, well travelled, well connected and well proportioned (his friends apparently called him Falstaff).

James apparently came up with Neville’s by appplying code-breaking techniques to a Shakespeare dedication – but Rubenstein wisely advised her not to rely on that for her sole evidence. (Codes, like market research, can prove anything.)

Instead, they have compiled a series of facts about Neville’s life that fit the authorship claim – including favourable references to his forebears in the history plays and a document written by him that seems to be an outline for Henry VIII. They have even identified the reason for the change in tone in Shakespeare’s plays from 1601, which is when Neville spent time in prison.

Whatever the truth of the matter, one book will not settle the argument. For many, Shakespeare will always be Shakespeare.

Still, after all this time, does it really matter who wrote the plays? Royalties are not an issue; can’t the words just speak for themselves?

References:

Richard Woods, Focus: Is this an imposter I see before me?, Sunday Times, October 9, 2005. (Site may require registration).

Team Uncovers the Real Shakespeare, The Australian, October 6, 2005. (Link may be expired).

 

(Originally published at debritz.com on October 9, 2005)

My non-sporting life

“You don’t really care much about sport, do you?”

The question, nay statement of fact, came from a friend this past weekend while we were discussing the start of the English Premier League 2015-16 season. Now I know a little about football — certainly enough to stop calling it “soccer”, except when I’m in Australia or the US — and I do often join my friends on licensed premises to watch the game. But I don’t care about it.

I also don’t care much about cricket — it’s hard to when my home team, Australia, is doing so badly. Or rugby, even though the Wallabies have just had a surprise win over the All Blacks in the Bledisloe Cup*. I have, however, been known to become a little aroused about rugby league, especially at State of Origin time, when Queensland takes on (and usually beats) New South Wales. And I have had occasion to yell at slow racehorses when I have money invested in their performance. But, again, I really don’t care.

I didn’t play a lot of sport when I was a child, which probably helps explains both my extra girth and nonchalance about televised events. I did help train a couple of greyhounds when I was a teenager, but I could never really say I was enamoured with that industry. As recent news reports about live baiting and euthanasia levels have underscored, it doesn’t exactly bring out the best in humankind.

What intrigues me about top-level sport, though, is the impact it has on the fans who really do care. The passion among the spectators at the field, and in front of the television, is extraordinary.  Whether it’s football or hockey or horse racing, there’s something magical about the moment when the crowd reacts as one to an achievement on the field of play. If only we could bottle it and put it to good use.

* A rugby enthisast tells me this is not strictly true. But I don’t care.

The Miles Method

I’ve been thinking for a while about relaunching my blog. My previous recent efforts, ManSomwhere and Showbritz, had specific themes — travel and entertainment. This time around, I wanted to give myself licence to write about anything that caught my fancy*. Practically, that means there will probably be a lot of travel (especially talk of cruise ships, which are my current obsession) and showbiz, but also a lot of other things. I’d tell you what they are, but I’m not sure yet — although there’s sure to be the occasional whinge about the way the world doesn’t work the way I want it to, and a little nostalgia, too.

The main thing is that I want to discipline myself to write frequently. I’ve been writing all my life, and I’m still not as good at it as I want to be. My understanding, or at least my hope, is that the more I write (and the more I read), the better a writer I will become.

In this endevour, I’ve taken inspiration from the late British humourist Miles Kington, who found himself without a regular writing job after many years working on the satirical magazine Punch. As The Telegraph’s obituary of Kington notes: “He wrote to Harold Evans, who had recently become editor of The Times, proposing a humorous column. When he received no response, Kington announced that he would send in a piece every day until he got an answer. After two weeks he was hired; his daily column was called Moreover, and kept up a remarkably high standard until he left the paper five years later.” In 1987, Kington joined The Independent, and filed a column every day until his death in 2008.

Now, there is no way I’m going to be as witty as Miles Kington, nor as industrious (I do, after all, have a full-time job and something of a “life” to attend to), but I do want to be diligent and I do want to engage my readers.

If you enjoy my musings, please let me know. If you don’t, let me know anyway, but please be kind.

* I will, however, studiously avoid two subjects: politics and religion.