Cribbage (men only need read this)

I had forgotten what a bad loser I was. As a teenager, tantrums having lost at table tennis to my Dad were a fairly regular occurrence. Both the losing and the tantrums were a regular occurrence, at least until I went to university, where two hours a day with table tennis bat, reversed my fortunes.

I can rationalise this as a determination to improve, an unwillingness to give up, the striving necessary to make it to the next stage, and of course, all these were part of my genetic make-up, for which my Dad is 50% responsible.

My Dad will testify to numerous examples of Junior Hawker throwing things around, on being given out lbw at cricket, at being dealt a bad set of cards at bridge, or even worse, being dealt a fantastic hand of cards, and then not getting the chance to play it.

A number of broken squash rackets, not all of them mine, testified to the poor character of the now “Swiss Based and Totally Rational” Colin Hawker. A missed shot, followed by racket abuse, not on the soft grass of Wimbledon centre court, but the unforgiving concrete of the walls of Walton-on-Thames squash court, and another squash racket bites the dust.

And who would not sulk on being beaten at monopoly 12 times in a row, especially when you have Park Lane and Mayfair and the opposition only has old Kent Road, but manages to skip merrily over every danger, for at least 672 rounds, collecting £200 each time?

But all that is past me now. I am calmness personified. Serenity rules. The assembling of IKEA furniture is allowed as the only exception, as this is not a sport, but a military campaign. The screwdriver-marks in the plaster will testify to this. Apart from that, I can take defeat “like a man”.

Furthermore, I now consider myself sufficiently mature to regard winning and defeat with equal indifference. Indeed, the poem “If” by Rudyard Kipling, is my own personal mantra in this respect.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/If%E2%80%94

But then in May, Cribbage came along……..

Kevin, my son-in-law, has a great deal to answer for. I am sure that it was his idea to play. After all the Cribbage board had been sitting there for months, just asking to be used. “How about a game of Cribbage?” “Oh yes”, I foolishly and innocently replied, not realizing what demons were about to be released.

I thought I knew the rules of Cribbage, and regarded myself as an adequately good player. One hour later, all illusions were shattered. You have to understand that it was not my lack of skill, but that I had really bad cards and everyone else must have been cheating

I was not content with one night of ritual humiliation, Hazel and I continued playing for the following week. How do you cope with managing only 2 points with your own hand and the box, which in bridge terms is the equivalent of being dealt a hand with one Jack and nothing else higher than an 8? And how is it, that I never got 15 in the play (for “2” points). This conspiracy is a throw-back to my table tennis. Nights of humiliation at the Cribbage table continued, until Hazel took pity on me, and let me win.

“Don’t do it”, says my Dad to Hazel. Don’t take any prisoners. It’s good for his character.

No mercy there.

The Red Bicycle

This is a photo of a Red Bicycle. We shall call it “The Red Bicycle”. The Red Bicycle is chained up to a metal fence in a main road, near to the Station in Thalwil, where we live. I say “main road”, but traffic density here can probably be favourably compared with a country lane, I walked down recently in Liphook in Hampshire, as my son will testify.

Back to “The Red Bicycle”. We think that it has been chained there for about three months now. It is 300 yards from the station entrance, and there are other bike stands nearer. There are no other chained bikes nearby. It is not exactly a meeting point for chained up bikes, where chained up bikes can have a quiet chat over a coffee. No – this is a very lonely Red Bicycle, at least when it is chained up here.

This raises a number of important social and philosophical questions.

Firstly, why hasn’t it been stolen? It is a very nice Red Bicycle. It clearly doesn’t belong to anyone. It might be lonely and anyone stealing it, would be doing The Red Bicycle a favour, as well as adding back into the economy a valuable resource, which, at the moment, is lying idle.

Why has no one reported it to the police? There is no notice on it saying “Reported”. Perhaps someone has, but the police have better things to do, and anyway, it is not doing anyone any harm.

Perhaps, it is a work of Art. Some sculptor may have laid out 100 life sized bronze statues over the Austrian mountains; so perhaps, this is one in a series of Red Bicycles, chained to various fences, near to stations in Switzerland. It could be part of the modern art exhibition that is taking place in Basel.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/2010/jul/30/antony-gormley-austrian-mountains-statues

It is always possible that it is a Swiss version of candid camera. Someone has chained it there and now lurks in the nearby undergrowth (not much of that here), and takes films and photos of passers-by, as they look and ponder. All that is missing is for the Red Bike to be able to say “So, wot u ….. looking at then?”

But I think that the real question is whether The Red Bicycle exists when no one is watching it. How do you know it is there? Perhaps it is our act of looking at it that brings it into existence.

At this point, I think that I have exhausted the limits of absurdity and will quit while I am ahead.

Why am I being ignored?

I have been waiting for the lawyers of the News of the World to contact me. I feel that it is only a matter of time. As an important person, never far from the news (although never actually in it), I must have been a target of phone hacking by the super sleuths from all sections of the English Press. The only question remaining is what level of compensation shall I accept?

But who can blame them? The English public want to know what Grumpy is about to publish in the forthcoming week. Who is he going to attack next? What stimulating insights into day to day life will he reveal? What Grumpiness will he shortly unveil? Who is inviting him to coffee? Are there gossip-worthy goings-on behind the lace curtains of Wannenstrasse. (Actually, nobody has curtains here, so we can all have a jolly good peek at what the neighbours are having for dinner or what they are watching on television.)

It is self-evident that there are no depths to which these hacks will not stoop, in their quest for Grumpy-gossip.

My indignation is running out of steam. There are several objections with this outburst. Not that Grumpy isn’t newsworthy (He just hasn’t been discovered yet), but if he cannot access his own voicemails (with his £2 mobile phone, with its £5 of talk time remaining), how will the sozzled members of Fleet Street be able to do this.

But if my phone is not being hacked, I am seriously worried. Why has no one been listening to my messages? I demand compensation for being ignored. The British Public demand an answer from the valiant defenders of our English Freedoms. If Grumpy is being ignored today, whose turn will it be tomorrow? Madonna; Prince William; Wayne Rooney; Liz Hurley?

The English Press have a duty to pry where no man has pried (or is it “pryed?”) before. It is their duty to provide the British Public with a daily dose of meaningless celebrity drivel. Fashion houses are relying on the Press to report what nail varnish Kate Middleton is wearing (or going to wear, if her voice-mail is to be believed).

Actually, I don’t believe that the English Press have hacked into anyone’s telephone. Why would they need to, when most of it is made up?

How Did You Spend the 27th March?

On Sunday 27th March, as decreed by the authorities across Europe, we all had to put our clocks forward…..or rather we didn’t …. or at least not all of them.

This very confusing state of affairs was demonstrated by my computer, which complied with this directive, of its own accord, by the time I rose to make my first cup of coffee.

My iPod had also decided to march on one hour, so I went on an exploration to see if the microwave and oven had reset themselves. No, in these cases, it was necessary, once again, to reach for the instruction manual and refresh my brain on how to do this manually.

My mobile phone did not know of this change, but what do you expect from a phone that cost 3 Swiss Francs (£2) and only has 9 Swiss Francs of credit on it, at any one time.

The car was more of a problem. The clock moves ahead of its own volition, so after six months, it has just about reached the new correct time. In September, I will need to set it back two hours. Not only does it fail to keep good time, but is barely readable anyway, suffering from old age and general bloody mindedness.

What about the battery operated clock on the lounge bookcase? (I am not sure why we have one here, but we do.) This one too had to be manipulated by one of those little screws at the back. You know the ones, which you have to pull out and then turn, by which time you have forgotten the time, and have to go to the kitchen to check the time on the microwave.

Naturally, microwaves are the proper point of reference on matters to do with time keeping. “What’s the time?” “I am not sure. I’ll just check the microwave”. (Why not check with the battery clock in the lounge?)

I also have two of clocks that are synchronised by satellite. I have no idea how this works. Actually it doesn’t any more, at least not for the one that I brought with me from England 9 years ago. I think that the firm that sold these must have forgotten to pay their satellite fee, because I even have to correct this one myself. The Swiss one still seems to be OK for the time being….or is it the other way around?

As for the DVD player and recorder, this is even more confusing, as we used to keep this on English time, but now keep this on Swiss time, or is it on English time for 6 months of the year, and Swiss time for the other 6 months.

So there we have it. Have I forgotten any time pieces? As you can tell, I spent the whole day hunting down clocks and related user manuals, to restore chronological harmony back into the Hawker Household.

How did you spend your 27th March?

Comments from Grumpy’s Followers

It’s about time that the faithful followers of this blog had a mention. The regular comments of encouragement keep me going. They also provide ideas for future new blogs, as well as additional material that I could and should have included first time around. Here is a sample:

My favourite was received after one of my humour failure periods.

“You have obviously run out of pep pills or illegal tobacco, as your blog hasn't appeared since the 5th April. I can let you have some aspirins as well as other assorted pills associated with old age. It doesn't mention on the leaflets in each packet that it helps blogs but you never know - maybe we've found something and can be rich and famous like the chaps who founded Google and the computer software company who everyone knows but I can't remember.” From My Dad

“The boy’s a genius. He must have got his talent from his Dad.” - From My Dad

“Many thanks for the blogs. Is it necessary to be completely crazy to enjoy your blogs? Even if not, it certainly helps. Once I thought I was mad and now I know that I am just crazy” – John Appleton, who has known me since I was 9 years old. Yes, it certainly helps you to enjoy my ramblings, if you are just a little bit loopy.

By the way, he was the only person to know that “Boots and Rags” were two dogs that we had when I was a boy. (Remember? New BROOM Methodology – oh well, never mind).

My most vocal supporter (if you can be vocal by email) is David Gray from Bakewell. Privately, he is known as Grumpy’s cousin. A recent contribution may strike some chords: “How about a blog slot on why the Netherlands are so good at cricket, but Kenya still haven't worked out which end of the bat to hold.”

He also added: “Which brings me on to petrol and diesel........ Why are they now selling petrol and diesel through the same coloured pipes? It used to be green for petrol and black for diesel; but now they are increasingly both black! Why? ......... Do they want people to get confused? Have they run out of green pipe in the world? Perhaps they got a good deal on the black pipe. Answers to all major supermarkets please“

Oh yes – he is really getting into the mood.

Bill Hall, previously of the Financial Times, gave much needed encouragement and technical support in the formative stages of this Blog. He has asked for a blog on “What's wrong with Scottish football?” and added the following suggestions

1) The Scottish referees strike. Why could they not import a few strike breakers from South of the Border? Instead they have been looking all over the place for foreign referees, just so long as they are not English.

2) There are only two teams that matter in Scotland - Celtic and Rangers, and at least one of them, if not both, ought to be in the Premiership. Manchester and Liverpool both have two teams in the premiership and they are not much different from Glasgow. Just think what it would do to Glasgow's international reputation if they had a premiership club. They might have to rename themselves as Glasgow Rangers or Glasgow Celtic to get maximum effect.

After all Cardiff City and Swansea are second and third in the Championship and at least one of them could be promoted to the Premier League next season.

One of my old Oxford friends commented on the use of the Harvard Business Review as a cure for insomnia. “But if you want a real cure for insomnia, try Keynes' General Theory. I have proved beyond all doubt that three pages are at least as good as a couple of temazepam tablets. I suspect it is also more obtainable and portable than HBR.” So insomniacs of the world – there’s your answer.

Marilyn Sadler of Shenfield, Essex fame suggested that you could count how many Eddy Stobart lorries you see whilst travelling and keep a log of all of the lorry names which are located on the driver door – apparently each Eddy lorry has a different registered name. Now there’s a thought.

That’s all there’s time for on this blog. Sorry to those of you who have sent me comments, but which are not published. It could be your turn soon.

Please keep the comments coming in.

Important (and serious) notice: No comment or email to me is published without the writer’s permission, so your secrets are safe with me.

Queuing

I like to think that the Swiss admire the English in many regards. Wishful thinking, you might say, but in one respect, we stand head and shoulders above the rest. Queuing. Very drole, you might think, but true. “You’re English. You like queuing.” No. There is a misunderstanding here. We don’t like queuing. We are just good at it.

The Swiss, by contrast, don’t really like queuing at all. I am on very dodgy territory here, handing out potential insults to my hosts, but it is my observation that in a queue, one minute a person is behind you and the next minute, without any fuss or jostling, they are in front of you. Nothing physical, you understand. Just the knack of spotting the moment. A sort of friendly competition.

Queuing at the ski-lift brings out the same sort of qualities. The English glare has no effect here, so it is necessary to remain vigilant, alert, and with elbows pointing outwards.

Ed, my son, as an experienced economist is obsessed about efficiency. He has made some professional observations on this.

Here is a picture of him being obsessive and making professional observations.

He contrasts this with other types of socially competitive activities – sorry, if this is getting a bit technical. He pointed out, as we stuck our poles out sideways, to stop a flanking movement at a ski chair lift, that in these scenarios, one person’s gain is another person’s loss. “DO YOU ACTUALLY TEACH YOUR KIDS TO SNEAK THROUGH LIKE THAT?”

Ed compared it with the behaviour of motorists at road works on motorways. Motorists see the sign that says that the motorway will narrow to one lane in one mile. 90% will immediately move over to the appropriate lane and the other 10% will scream down the outside and sneak in at the end. “WELL, IF YOU HAD BROUGHT THE LITTLE BRAT UP PROPERLY, I WOULDN’T HAVE NEEDED TO PULL HIM BACK BY HIS COLLAR.”

Of that 10%, half will feel a little bit guilty, and the other half will think that the rest of us (Did I really include myself in this?) are just dumb. If we all went to the end of the lanes, and then pulled in, we could all be happy. It would also avoid those ridiculous occasions when there is actually no lane closure, the construction company having failed to remove the sign, and we all sit in a queue for 30 minutes, before realising that it is the equivalent of a road repair April Fool’s joke. Ed says that this is to do with Zero Sum Games. “CAREFUL ED, SKIER IN THE RED IS PLAYING THE ZERO SUM GAME AND IS ABOUT TO TAKE THE OUTSIDE SEAT.”

Ed points out that there is a difference between these examples and fighting for a place at lunchtime at the Parsenhutte Self Service Restaurant on the Davos ski slopes. Here, the strategy is to find the places, reserve them with your ski helmets or gloves and then spend 20 minutes queuing for your food, before taking your seats. A quick survey of the tables shows that one third of the places are taken by people eating, one-third by people, who have finished, and are talking, playing cards, reading a book, or just dozing. The other third, (you’ve guessed it) are occupied by Ski-helmets, or gloves, which are neither eating, reading, talking, nor playing cards. They could, just about, be said to be dozing.

Ed says that in economic speak, this is a wasted resource. You know that line. “If all those people waited until they had their food before sitting down, there would be more space for everyone.” Everyone knows it, but everyone has to follow the obvious rule. It’s a mug’s game to be the only person who doesn’t grab the table while it is there. He says that this is the "Prisoner’s Dilemma", which is a technical expression. “OK ED. I’LL WAIT HERE, WHILE YOU GET THE FOOD – AND WATCH OUT FOR THE LADY IN THE PURPLE SKI SUIT.” (The lady in the purple ski suit could have had her own blog entry – suffice to say, she did not like queuing, was in a dilemma and therefore should go to prison).

Stamp or Throw

I am working at Credit Suisse again. There are many benefits in being back, but one unexpected pleasure is being able once again to join the throngs of commuters. This commute takes me, every morning and evening, through the great halls of Bahnhof Enge (Enge Station, to you Brits).

It is not sufficient in Switzerland to simply build a functional station. Any proper station would have a draughty station waiting room, out-of-action toilets, a buffet that is closed at peak periods, and a ticket attendant who, when asked why the ticket machine won’t print out a ticket previously ordered on Trainline, says that “It is nothing to do with us and anyway, British Rail hasn’t existed for years, so you’ll just have to buy another ticket.”

I have been wanting to get this last point into print for years – two years to be precise – and, in case you were wondering, Walton-on Thames Station (or Bahnhof Walton auf der Themse, because the “Thames” is feminine in German) was the offending station.

Anyway, having got that bit of Grumpiness off my chest, I shall proceed to the main plot of the day.

Recently, when walking through the hallowed halls of Bahnhof Enge, there in front of me, was a decaying cigarette stub, laying on the ground. Notice “decaying”. It was still alight and, perfectly formed, as far as I could tell, and no doubt would continue to smoulder for its allotted time of a further 45 seconds.

In my day (whenever that was, but probably about 40 years ago), it was alright, if not mandatory to smoke. When you wished to discard the cigarette, you would stamp on the cigarette stub. This would not be just any old stamp, in order to gently extinguish the dying embers, and to ensure that no one within 10 yards would have to inhale the smoke. No – it was always something much more personal. It was like crushing the life out of a tribal enemy. More than the disdainful sneer at an inferior, it was a real testosterone loaded attack.

If an ashtray was used, then it was essential that the cigarette stub be severely mutilated, severed, twisted, turned or even broken, until any signs of life had been brutally snubbed out. “That’ll teach it.”

Yes – the way that you put out a cigarette, was a way of telling others what sort of man you were (or woman).

Now all this is in danger. Our society is on the brink. The “Case of the Half Alive Bahnhof Enge Cigarette Butt” had to be followed up. After some further sleuthing, in the following 30 seconds, I saw 5 further instances of cigarette butts, 3 of wimpish delicately or casually dropped on the ground variety, and two of the “I’ve been totally crushed by a Real Smoker” sort.

This brief review will require further analysis and more data (as we Six Sigma Types keep saying). For example, do men and women display different stub handling techniques? Is age a differentiating factor in dealing with the final incendiary embers? Is it a seasonal habit, like migrating? I shall prowl the platform Bahnhof Enge watching for factors which will enable me to discern the important social patterns evolving here.

If you hear of a middle aged man being arrested for suspicious and intimidating behaviour at a station near to the centre of Zurich (“Are you going to drop that fag end or not? I haven’t got all night, you know”), then I shall be relying on my readership to supply character references and bail, if necessary.