I survived May 2 – aka Judgment Day at Bloomfield Road, though with a heavy heart and a genuine dread of what the future holds for Blackpool Football Club.
I survived May 7 – aka Election Day, otherwise known as “you can lead a voter to the ballot box but you can’t predict which way they are going to vote” day.
But I’m not sure I will get through May 16 in one piece.
Although granted it’s not quite up there with football club misfortunes and the next five years of public school politicians and their “one nation” fiction, it is the day the Only One has decided to help me update my mobile telephone.
In a way it’s my own fault. I’m a self-confessed imbecile when it comes to what I still call “new technology” – and there’s a clue in that I still call whatever I inevitably forget to dismantle from its charger and put in my pocket, a “mobile telephone.”
All I know is that it’s a Samsung something or other and has lots of little icons on its teeny tiny screen which may or may not be apps (it was only recently I stopped calling them abs) and I still daren’t touch too many of them for fear of what they might do. I’ve had it more than two years – since the last time my son sent me packing to update my mobile pay as you go, do as little as possible, brick for something slimmer and more modern.
That time he didn’t come with me and I ended up with this Samsung something which has a mind of its own – particularly when I’m sending texts.
I mean what’s this predictive text thing all about anyway? On a laptop (which I still prefer to call a computer and wish I could trade in for a typewriter) I can write quite quickly. On my Samsung something by the time I’ve tapped it out and checked I’m not sending out offensive gibberish to people, I could have hopped on a bus and delivered the message to them in person.
Anyway, knowing my policy of waste not want not, the Only One reckons I’m paying too much for it and not getting enough out of it in return (“You don’t know enough people to need that many free texts and calls” he caringly pointed out).
This attempt to update me is partly based on the envious looks I give him when I can’t remember where I have seen a particular actor/actress before and in seconds he’s called up their entire CV(complete with photographs) on whatever super-speed little hand held thing he rents.
It’s also based on his foolish promise that if I get one like his (whatever that may be) he will be able to help sort out any problems I may (or will!) have.
Given that it was several months before I realised I could read texts horizontally as well as vertically he may have to give up his day job for a while.
“It’s your next step towards getting an iPad,” I think he predicted just after he helped me to buy an iPad (I think) for his latest birthday.
Still, I’m hoping that gadget will be a better investment than the two year Blackpool FC season ticket “bargain” I bought him in 2014.
But with my desk already cluttered with information on different makes and models (and what for goodness sake – apart from a white fluffy thing usually obscuring the sun - is a “cloud”?) I’m already beginning to worry that by the end of play next Saturday I’ll end up paying twice as much a month for something I understand even less about?
At age of 81, I simply won’t care how obese I am
It came as a bit of a shock to recently read that by 2030 three in every four British men will be obese – and most of the rest of us will be overweight.
Clearly the experts from the World Health Organisation and UK Health Forum haven’t queued up for their fast food fix on Blackpool Promenade on a summer weekend or they would have realised the resort regularly hits that target way before waiting another 15 years.
Those same experts clearly have a cutting sense of humour (or are completely devoid of one) by describing the looming obesity crisis as being of “enormous proportions.”
My first thought was to cut out those lovely buns ‘n’ burgers, fried chicken & chips and mixed kebabs in favour of calorie free lettuce and dust sandwiches (go easy on the bread please).
My second thought was to move to Holland where only eight per cent of men are expected be obese by 2030 (and fewer than half will even be overweight).
My third (and final) thought was that by 2030 I’ll be 81 so won’t actually give a fiddler’s French fry how fat I am.
Never mind, with all the promised cuts ahead we won’t be able to afford to eat – so problem solved.