New Year Makeovers & What We Are.

Just like John Thain, I have redecorated.

He spent $1,200,000 on his office; I can report, dear reader,  that on my cubicle I spent less: Approximately $1,199,985 less.

Thain's centrepiece was a stupidly-expensive designer rug, purchased solely to demonstrate his wealth and power  (only a banker could do that, right?)  My centrepiece was some new art postcards from the National Gallery, which I blu-tacked onto the glass partition between myself and my neighbour to allow me to surf the internet undetected improve our mutual privacy.

Thain was sacked. But even so, I guess he won't have to worry about his pension like I do. Oh well.


New Years Resolutions - because We are what we repeatedly do.


This year I have stolen three themes from older, wiser friends, who know better.

Theme - learn moderation, not abstinence

• in drink: to drink with friends and loved ones not with clients or co-workers, to oil a conversation not to wash down a plate of pasta, to accompany a smoked salmon blini, not Trial and Retribution
  
• food: to eat three meals a day not four (or two). To be able to tell whether I am hungry and if I'm not, to stop eating. At all costs to avoid canapés.

Theme - to OCD only the good habits (because it's hard when a habit takes a hold)

• to weigh myself once a week, exercise five times - and blog twice
  
• to have breakfast with my children every Wednesday -  whether they like it or not
• to be nicer to Mrs Botogol
  

Theme - to have more human contact at work

• fewer emails, more phone calls
  
• seek out Kate, whomsever she is
  
• find out the name of the youtube, Ocado and google-news fanatic in the next door cubicle. I mean - why not? after all these years...
  

Meanwhile... at work 

In our secret santa  last month an anonymous co-worker bought me a book of art pictures. It turned out to contain two of the postcards I have on my cubicle wall.

My first thought was "That is an unusual present for a secret santa" 
My second thought was: "Ah, I can see why they bought this: just because I have art postcards on my cubicle wall they think I am some kind of arty-type of person"
My third thought was "But I do have art postcards on my cubicle wall.... perhaps I am some kind of arty-type person"

What we actually are.

We are what we hang on our cubicle walls.

A Dinner Party Surprise

   'Surprise' by O'mages     

In the face of a surprise one imagines oneself unflappable and calm, suave and assured, decisive and charming. Or that's the hope.

At dinner last Thursday on the French Riviera, champagne glasses tinkling around our table, I had the chance to put my hope to the test when the bien chic, bien elegant French woman seated to my right gently touched my arm, flashed a white-toothed smile and breathed softly: "Can I ask you, Alibert? Eez eet OK if my sister and I kiss you zis ev'ning?"

I blinked, and not in a calm, suave way. Very possibly, dear reader, I flapped.

"You see, 'ere in France it eez  zee custom", she continued, in a waft of Givenchy, "at New Year, to kiss, at midnight.... but we know zat you English, you don't like so much to be kissed, and you must not be uncomfortable 'ere in our country".

I think I must have had too much Pomme Dauphinoise and Pouligny Montrachet, for my voice when I spoke quavered unconscionably,  "Well, I think that... I mean... well, obviously..."

I trailed off,  for over her bare, french shoulder I could see her excitable (and suspiciously wired) 'usband, dancing tanned, wild  - and now shirtless - with my daughters.

Beyond him, far below our hosts' beautiful villa shimmered the Mediterranean, redly reflecting the fireworks of St Tropez on the far side of the Gulf.  In the kitchen yet another champagne cork popped and I collected myself.  "Naturellement, Sylvie, bien sur, zat would be  - I mean that would be - perfectly agréable"

But the moment had passed: Sylvie was paying attention to her right-hand neighbour; to my left everyone had switched to a type of incomprehensible French that resembled-not language I learned at O-Level long ago.  Through the Bose sound system Abba asked: Does your Mother Know? and I fell silent and tried not to look as if no one was talking to me.

"What would very agreeable, dear", asked Mrs Botogol, appearing unexpectedly at my elbow.

I sighed, calmly and suavely,  "A 2009", I replied, gravely, "that proves better than 2008 - now that would be very agreeable - don't you think?"

Big Ben, carefully Mp3'd and play-listed earlier in the week, bonged right on time, and the iPod segued smoothly.

Poor old Johnny Ray

Sounded sad upon the radio, 

he moved a million hearts in mono.

"So, shall we dance?"

The Winchelsea Street Game: Blue Team Till I Die.

Another day in East Sussex, another bizarre, centuries-old Christmas ritual.

It was Boxing Day, and the Winchelsea Street Game: a medieval no-rules, no holds-barred contest in which three teams compete to gain possession of a Frenchman's Head

and stuff it in a beer barrel.

I mean, how rough could it be? Everyone is  (as the 'referee' reminded us) subject to the Laws of the Land, and the last fatality was in 1808.

Blue Team were short a player, so I handed Mrs Botogol my sunglasses for safekeeping, stripped off my coat, kissed the children a tearful goodbye, donned a blue neckerchief, and strode purposefully, amidst wild applause from the crowd, into the fray; keeping just half an eye on the dangerously young and strong-looking Green Team who were staring closely at me and nudging each other.

"I'm not a tourist!", I said, bravely, "I have a house here!"  They looked away, but there was something familiar about team Green: I had a strange feeling I had seen a couple of them before, but I wasn't sure where. 

Then the Frenchman's Head was tossed into the melee and all hope of the running, passing game we had planned evaporated as the three teams formed a 25-person collapsed maul on the hard and unforgiving surface of Castle Street.

"Mind the Clematis!", shouted the ref (it's that sort of village) "Mind the Lexus! Mind the man with crutches!"

In the midst of the scrum, the Head suddenly rolled free and I scooped it up and headed for the goal, with just three Greens to beat.

As I lowered my shoulder I suddenly recalled where I had seen then before: the George, Christmas Eve:    "Get the Catholic!",  they cried.

"No, wait!", I shouted, "you're labouring under a perfectly understandable misapprehension! I'm not actually a  ouch! oomph!"

"And do you really live here?" said a voice in my ear, "or is it just a holiday house?"; I tightened my grip on the Frenchman's bonce and fought for dear life.

The result, you ask? Well, cough, ahem, we won! By 4 goals to 3 to 2 and not, I like to think, without a contribution from myself¹

Afterwards we all repaired to the New Inn for roast potatoes and to compare grazes. I had three. Grazes I mean, not potatoes (which is five fewer grazes than I received falling off my bike this morning).

"Actually, Dad, you quite surprised me", said middle-child, reflectively, "you were, well, quite aggressive".

====================================================================
¹ I only went and scored the winning goal :-)

More pictures here and here
(Unaccountably the scenes of the crowd carrying me shoulder high through the streets of Winchelsea, chanting my name - all failed to come out, so you'll have to imagine)

Little Donkey

picture by publicenergy

Mrs Botogol loves a Carol Service at Christmas and because I love Mrs Botogol this year I agreed to go with her.

But which Carol Service to choose? Well, of our houseful of Christmas co-celebrants only one is a regular church-goer and it's the Catholic Church where he worships so, of course - it being Christmas and all - it was to the RC gig which we agreed to accompany him.

And of course -  it being family and all -  he bailed out at the last minute; leaving Mrs B and I quite alone to brave the warm, friendly, and somewhat enveloping welcome at the Church of St Anthony of Padua in Rye.

I determined to be completely inconspicuous, but I had reckoned without the sign of peace, and the constant standing, kneeling and gesturing of the Roman ritual, and suddenly it seemed to be extraordinarily hot in the small, bright church.  Worst of all: the congregation was, shall we say, short of stature, and every time I stood up, bobbing half a tempo behind, I found myself towering a full head above the little old ladies in front of me, and face to face with the startled priest. "May the Lord be With You" he said, looking directly into my eyes.

 .."And Also With You", I replied; just a moment too late. I think I was rumbled.


It was a Family Carol Service and so not the best occasion for the priest, you might have thought, to devote his sermon to a denial of the presence of any donkey or oxen in that holy stable 2000 years ago; but that is, in fact, what he did.

There must have been 200 people crammed in that tiny church on Christmas Eve, and 198 of them comfortable and secure in their harmless - if evidently misguided -  belief in that poor blessed donkey.

It was the kind of clever argument which, delivered enthusiastically at the dinner table, would have earned me a sharp kick on the ankle from Mrs Botogol but with no wife to restrain him the earnest Father Joseph ploughed relentlessly on:  there is no donkey mentioned  in the New Testament, he preached, and no ox neither.  Their placement in the crib is a misapprehension, he explained, begotten of a myth, by way of a prophecy. So there.

It was an inordinately nihilistic message from (the Catholic) God's representative in East Sussex and while the tiny worshippers filed up to Communion I thought of  - and preferred - the optimism and hope of that famous atheist, Thomas Hardy, on the same subject nearly 100 years ago.

 -----------------------------------------

After the service we repaired to the George where we were inordinately chuffed to be recognised as locals . . and rather nonplussed to be offered a regular drinkers loyalty card.

Then, while Mrs Botogol carefully filled in the application form, the Taproom bar slowly filled with our accidental co-religionists, also on their way home from the service, who nodded, waved and smiled to us across glasses of sherry and local cider.  "Look away, dear!", I whispered urgently but, to my alarm, I couldn't restrain Mrs Botogol from waving back and joining in.

A glass and half later and "Yes, I was with you in church", I admitted, helplessly, to a middle aged table of merry donkey-deniers "but really: I am not of you"

I'm not at all  sure I've made quite the right first impression in our second home.

Wicking and other modern miracles

Back in the last century if I wanted to go out on my bike I'd put my anorak on (well, yes, all right, I'd put my Parka on). If I pedalled hard I became hot and sweaty. If I pedalled very hard I became very hot and very sweaty. In those days we didn't have wicking base layers, we took our jumpers off.

In the 21st Century, like everyone else I know, I have a special outfit for cycling and a quick ride on my bike necessitates going upstairs for a complete change of clothes.

I wear Tardis shorts (perfectly cut on the outside to conceal the middle-aged backside, a close inspection of the contents will reveal within an astonishingly sizeable, completely flexible, self-contained and separate padded layer) and I have choice of two tops: the one thin and short-sleeved, and too cold in the winter, the other thick and long-sleeved and too hot anywhere outside the arctic circle.

Until this Christmas that is! A fruitful piece of shopping yielded no presents at all for my loved ones, but for me: a brand-new, windproofed / shower-proof / low cut back / grey and black, zipped-rear-pocket cycling top. And best-of-all, with that sina-qua-non of sporting clothing, the cleverest invention of C21: zippable armpit-ventilation holes.

How we ever did without these miracles of modern clothing design, I don't know. I have made sure to have them in all clothes worn in situations where over-heating is in a remote danger (ski-jacket, walking jacket, cycling top, interview suit, pyjamas).

On Boxing Day my friend and I managed 16.5 wet and muddy miles along the Crane River and Grand Union Canal in 1 hour 31 mins, average speed 11mph. I wore my new top and, much to the envy of my comparatively ill-clad friend, whenever the going became harder or softer I was able to easily regulate my temperature simply by adjusting the armpit holes. We stopped every 200 metres or so.

My top was a dream: showers bothered me not; my lower back was snug and warm, the wind penetrated my jacket solely through the gaping armpit holes, the only moisture that failed to entirely wick away being the cold, smelly moisture of the River Crane sloshing around in my right shoe (following an, admittedly ill-advised, armpit-hole adjustment on the move. They should put something in the instructions about that). At least it wasn't the GUC.

My top cost just £485. The stretch-fitting (to tell the truth, I'm not totally sure about it) wicking base layer: £79.99. It's good job Mrs Botogol never reads my blog.

Family Christmas...

Christmas Day, about 9.30pm

Two programmes are currently being recorded !
To view
-- Greatest Most Embarrassing TV Moments. Channel 4
Choose a recording to cancel:
-- The Vicar of Dibley. BBC1
-- Doc Martin. ITV1

The next sentence is there to wish you a happy christmas, but this sentence isn't

The previous sentence is there to wish you a happy christmas, but this sentence isn't.

• more on the botogol christmas

No more Christmas

In the botogol household we have decided to ban Christmas. We're replacing it with a similar festival called by a different name and with fewer sprouts.

This decision is in no way connected to the blood-stained Christmas tree presently in my garage, clamped in the vice by, er, a vice-like grip, wood shavings and splinters littering the floor all around it, the diameter of its mutilated trunk still incredibly, indisputably, demonstrably, significantly greater than the diameter of the bucket.

No, this isn't a trivial or opportunistic decision. We recognise that abandoning Christmas is a big step and this is about valuing and respecting the diverse cultures within our family - a family which, when you think about it, is kind of like a large corporation to us.

Sadly, our valuing of diversity seems to trigger a lot of cynicism: friends immediately assume it's simply to avoid the threat of a shunning by our politically-correctly-educated children!

Well its not entirely for that reason: we also value diversity because there is a very good business case behind it, a business case basically involving the risk of shunning from all kinds of people.

With diversity comes a whole set of new values that Mrs B and I have adopted: these include:

• tolerance
• respect for each others differences
• the placing of positive values on different cultures, and
• generally banning things.

So this year instead of Christmas the botogol family will be celebrating Apocalypto. a much more modern festival much more suitable for a modern extended family, all under the same roof for two days with little daylight.

Apocalypto is a good festival for our family: It preserves all the best things about Christmas but with more chocolate ginger and fewer sprouts. And a smaller tree. A much smaller tree.