Redundant

It’s not a nice word is it? Redundant. Unnecessary. Superfluous. Disused. Outmoded. Unwanted.

All very cheerful terms, to describe a very cheerful thing.

I’ve been made redundant once before. In 2010, a couple of years after the banks all started imploding and collapsing in on themselves like dying stars, the resultant economic black hole had expanded from its beginnings in the City of London and reached such crucial financial outposts as Bristol.

Actual black holes are reputed to suck in everything around them. Nothing can escape. Even that speediest of speedy things, light, isn’t speedy enough to escape the clutches of the black hole. Its fiscal equivalent feeds on jobs. Thousands and thousands of jobs. By the time my job was “reviewed” and, ultimately, “rationalised”, the job losses at my company alone came to around 20,000.

I didn’t fear redundancy in 2010. I embraced it. Redundancy knocked on my door and I welcomed it in, made it a hot cup of tea and told it I would happily be made redundant. Because I was young. Because I was (in marital terms) single. Because nobody depended on the money I was paid. Because of course I would get another job, how hard could it be?

People who had worked at the company for decades were concerned. Their CVs had last been updated when MS DOS was but a twinkle in the pre-pubescent mind of Bill Gates. Some had probably been written on papyrus.

But I was convinced I’d be fine.

And I was, more or less, correct. I was unemployed for about two months.

Now, in 2013, the job I got after I was made redundant the first time is* making me redundant. Sorry, it’s making my ROLE redundant. A distinction I should imagine will keep my spirits resolutely afloat when I drag my arse into the Job Centre for the first time. At least I only have to go once every fortnight…

I'll have a new one of these soon. Mine won't be courtesy of The Telegraph though, like this photo is.

Anyway, yes, today I was formally entered into the consultation period which it is “more than likely” will lead to my exit from the company in somewhere between three and eight weeks’ time.

How do I feel?

Dunno.

Alright. Then not alright. Confident. Then scared. Sure of my abilities. Doubtful. It changes by the hour, by the minute, by the second. Changes when I look at job websites overflowing with “opportunities” which barely warrant the name. Changes when I think about the array of fixed costs I can do nothing to reduce, which zip from my bank account like electronic ghosts. Changes when I hold my baby boy and wonder whether, soon, he’ll be seeing a lot more of me than he currently does. Changes when I think about that black hole, which still no-one has managed to sow up and stop.

I’m trying to think of it in positive terms: a new beginning, a chance to do something I’ve always wanted (what have I always wanted to do? Nothing, I don’t think).

But it’s not always easy to be positive about something so overwhelmingly negative.

Pretty soon I’ll be jobless, and the best thing about it is going to be keeping my curtains closed all day and tweeting pictures of them to George Osborne.

*Almost certainly, although strictly it isn’t set in stone just yet.

Energy

Would you mind helping me out with something, oh reader?

I'm not sure how I feel about something, and I'd like to canvass some opinion. 

Here's the thing: every month, a direct debit for £89 whooshes silently from my bank account and into the coffers of NPower. In return for my £89, I have sockets which dispense electricity, lights which illuminate my family's home when we flick the switch, and toasty warm radiators when the temperature plummets in the winter months (for the record, it's not on yet, I've only got back into wearing trousers instead of shorts in the last fortnight).

A lot goes into that bill, you can see what proportion is spent on what by looking here.

Eighty-nine pounds. On the face of it, that doesn't seem too expensive for such a crucial product: energy. And it's not. When that bill lands on the mat, I groan, but not because it's really expensive. Just because it's a bill, and the only post I ever get is either telling me how much money is going into my account (not enough) how much is coming out (plenty) or how much is left (less than nothing, generally).

But we all need energy. Heating and lights are not things I would ever want to have to make do without (although there are those who do, and that's another blog post entirely). Energy is an essential. 

A socket, in my house, right now.

The thing I'm unsure of is this: do I think it's okay that the suppliers of our energy are making a shedload of money by selling it to us?

Today, Ed Milliband gave his speech to the Labour Party conference. In it, he said a Labour government would freeze the price of energy until 2017. Almost immediately, the Guardian (yes, sorry, I'm a bit lefty) comments section was full of people saying things like "it's a nice step in the direction of re-nationalisation" and others saying "re-nationalisation is just a return to the outdated politics of the 70s, when Labour fucked the country right up and there were power shortages".

Thing is, I don't remember the 70s, because I hadn't been born. I can well imagine that it was a bit shit, three day working weeks, strikes on all days ending in y, that sort of thing. But is there a reason, intrinsic to nationalisation, that the supply of energy couldn't be publicly owned? I don't know. What do you reckon?

What I see at the moment is a few, very large, companies who can pretty much charge what they want for energy, because what are we going to do about it? Unless we want a return to using candles to light our homes, to using an open fire to heat them, we can't decide we won't give one of the energy suppliers our custom. They can charge what they like, make as much money as they see fit, and we have very little say over it. That doesn't seem fair to me. 

But maybe it is. What do you think?

American

You know that thing people always say if they haven’t seen your baby for a while? “Oh my god, he’s changed soooo much”?

And you think: “really? I hadn’t noticed.” Because you haven’t, because it’s tough trying to keep track of the continual, gradual changes occurring in your offspring. But then, because it’s been pointed out, you do notice, and you spend a little while thinking about how the baby used to be?

Last weekend I spent an evening with a person who I hadn’t seen in eight years. Eight years! That’s more than a quarter of my whole life. Ages. Too long, actually, because the person in question is a great person to spend time with. Interesting, intelligent and amusing. The downside is he lives in America, and I can’t just pop to Seattle to meet him for a pint and a chat.

*shakes fist at the Atlantic*

The one thing an eight year gap does do though is provide a good opportunity to look back over what’s happened during that time. Which, aided by a few alcoholic beverages, was exactly what me, him and a few other people I went to school with but no longer see much of did. Just like the parent who doesn’t see the changes in their child, the evening made me realise that I don’t do a great job of seeing and appreciating the scale of the changes in my own life.
When my friend was last in the UK he spent a few nights at my house. Except it wasn’t. I still lived at home. We spent evenings drinking (far too much, probably) with some mutual friends, including my wife. Only she wasn’t my wife. She wasn’t even officially my girlfriend. I probably complained to him about the job I was made redundant from over two years ago. This time I told him I don’t like the job I have now. I was still too busy acting like a child to give much thought to having one of my own, now I can barely remember what my life was like without Cam.

We talked about him, we talked about me, we talked about the other people at the table and we talked about the many people who couldn’t be there. We talked about what they were doing, where they lived, which of them had kids and how many. We reminisced about the last time he’d been with us, and we reminisced about reminiscing about the time before, a further eight years back.

He has swapped playing in bands, working as a chef and all night drinking for climbing mountains, teaching others to climb mountains and training to be a teacher for children with special needs. I have a wife and child.

No matter how much our lives might change over time, no matter that we might not always be paying a suitable amount of attention to what’s different, we stay the same person. Just like the baby who hasn’t been seen for a few weeks.
Someone even managed a bit of beer fuelled insight toward the end of the evening: “none of us have changed, really. We’ve just grown beards.”
It was great to see you Dan, I hope you’re right that it won’t be another eight years before we see you again.

Citizenship

Lunch breaks are an oasis of calm and time to myself during the working week. Some people don't take lunch breaks, preferring to work through and reach the end of the day a little quicker, but I don't. I need a lunch break (as, incidentally, do most of the people who "work" through theirs. I have often wished I had the sort of temperament which would allow me to shout "look, you festering arsehole, just because you haven't left your desk, doesn't mean you're not having a lunch break. You're not working, you're wiping the juices from your sandwich from your chin while catching up on whatever bilge the Daily Mail website has on offer today. Prick."), and I take one.

Unfortunately, lunch breaks don't always pass by in the calm and recreational manner I prefer. Sometimes they include things which leave me prickling with rage. Today was one such day. The reason? Shopping trolleys.

Shopping trolleys bring out the worst in people. Dutifully, they provide transport for our supermarket purchases, accompanying us down the aisles as we select the various foodstuffs which will sustain us for the coming days. Rarely do they complain; the occasional shake of a wheel in protest at their life of servitude, little more.

Such a loyal piece of equipment, you would think, ought to draw some respect in return? No. The car parks of the land are awash with discarded trolleys, their contents transferred to the boots of Fords, BMWs and Volkswagens and their naked, wiry frames left stranded.

I will say this just the once: if you are the sort of person who leaves a trolley in the middle of the car park and drives off I think you are a total, utter, absolute fuckbean of a wankstain.

This simple action, to me, says so much about who you are: you don't care about anyone but yourself, you are immeasurably lazy, you have no thought for the property of others, you may well have a shady sideline in tearing limbs off kittens for fun.

The trolley park is over there! *points* It is not far! Never more than thirty metres I would guess. How long would it take you to get there and back? Are you so busy and important that you can't afford that time? No. You are not.

What's that? It's raining? Boo-fucking-hoo. You poor, poor bastard. Are you the Wicked Witch of the West? No. You are not. In fact, you're already wet, so just go and put the trolley away.

Today, I saw a man about the same age as me (which is to say: not a member of the unfathomable youth) run a few metres with his trolley to gain speed before letting go of it and watching it speed away across the tarmac. He hadn't even pushed it in the direction of a trolley park. It very nearly made it as far as a parked car. Not that he'd have known, since he was in his car and away by then.

I would have liked to ask him this question: what would be your reaction if, upon returning to your car, a trolley had been pushed away and put a nice, big dent in your driver side door? You would want somebody's blood, I am sure of it.

But this behaviour does not stand alone. It is just one example of a vast array of twattery which occurs daily. Another example: people who use the last teabag in the caddy at work and don't refill it. WHY THE FUCK NOT? There are literally hundreds of these things, seemingly small, which simply serve to make me think that we are moving toward a society where we all just don't give a solitary shit about one another.

I try to live by a simple maxim: don't be a dick.

Sometimes I get it wrong, but it usually means I don't do things like leaving a trolley in a car park, or not replenishing the tea bags.

Life is far nicer if you're nice to other people. Be a citizen. Don't be an über-selfish muppet.

Am I overreacting? What are the tiny bugbears which will you with despair? Should I just stop giving a fuck and join in?

I don't like Red Nose Day

This Friday is Red Nose Day, the biannual fundraising event put on by Comic Relief.

It is huge. Massive. Utterly enormous. A juggernaut of a good cause.

The last Red Nose Day, in 2011, raised a staggering amount of money. £108,436,277. That is a big pile of cash. You know that bit at the start of 80s kids' TV favourite Duck Tales, where Scrooge McDuck goes swimming in his mountain of coins? Well, it's more money than that.

A. Lot. Of. Money.

Which is good, because you NEED a lot of money to have a stab at sorting out some of the world's problems. Lots of money can do lots of good, and I'm reasonably sure that Comic Relief is doing lots of good with the money it raises.

Still, here I am, writing a blog post about why I don't like Red Nose Day (and, by extension, Comic Relief). Erk.

Let me first clarify something: I am not anti-charity. I am not anti-fundraising. I work for a charity. As a fundraiser. I have nothing but admiration for the efforts of people like Team Honk, who are traipsing all over the place and doing all sorts of challenges to raise money for Red Nose Day. Good on them.

But Red Nose Day bothers me for several reasons. Here are a couple of them:

1. Enforced jollity. I know some people have a "fun" switch, which they can turn on and off at will, and even without the assistance of alcohol, but I don't. Get all up in my face dressed as a clown and shaking a bucket and I will be as likely to give you a quick kick in the shin as I am to donate money. The trouble with the concept of doing something funny for money, is that most people are deeply UNfunny. Putting a red plastic prosthetic on your proboscis will not alter that. In fact, it will probably just highlight it.

I love fun. I just like it to be spontaneous and genuine.

2. Celebrity. Predictable of me, I know, but I can't help it. Seeing the Bonos, Geldofs and Henrys of the world earnestly pleading for a donation makes my skin itch. If I could reach into the screen and gaffer tape their mouths closed I would.

If a celebrity wants to convince me to make a donation here's how they should do it: "If you want to donate £1 to Comic Relief, text DONATELENNY to 80077. For every £1 received that way, I will personally donate the same, because I realise that I am rich as fuck and you, most likely, are not."

I appreciate, of course, that many of the celebrities involved are also giving their own cash to the cause. I'd just like to have it confirmed.

But those are nothing really. Personal gripes. Frivolous, self indulgent moans. The main reason I dislike Red Nose Day is this: it promotes uninformed charitable donations.

When you send that text, donating £5, £10, £20, whatever, how much thought have you given to where that money will end up? What causes it will support? What good it will do?

Not much, I reckon. You donate a bit of money because it's Red Nose Day. Because that's what you do on Red Nose Day. Because the aesthetically pleasing person on the TV screen encouraged you. Because the film of someone suffering affected you.

Sure, the money you donate will more than likely have a positive impact on someone. But you're not choosing those beneficiaries, Comic Relief is.

Here's (roughly) how Comic Relief works:

1. You and thousands of others donate your money to them.
2. They set their priorities for spending the money you donate.
3. They pool all the donations (less cost of raising them) and invite other charities to apply for a Comic Relief grant. Only charities doing work within Comic Relief's stated priorities are eligible to apply.
4. They choose which of the thousands of applications are supported, and the charity which applied does the work.

There are so many charities in the UK doing amazing work. In my opinion, as a potential donor, it is your duty to be diligent in your charitable giving. To research charities as you would research anything else you intend to spend money on. To find the charities which are doing the work which you feel the strongest about, the causes you truly believe in.

Once you've worked out which charities you like, make a donation.

Comic Relief is a shouty charity. It comes onto your telly once each year (they do Sport Relief in the years they don't do Red Nose Day) and makes lots of noise. It is backed by masses of people in the entertainment industry, people who are good at making their voices heard. It has a huge budget available to encourage donations.

Small, local charities will never be able to do the sort of high profile fundraising that Comic Relief does. In fact, even some of the UK's biggest charities couldn't hope to spend what Comic Relief does on raising money.

I'm not saying you shouldn't give your money to Comic Relief. I'm saying I hope you can resist the glitz, the glamour and the ubiquity of Red Nose Day and donate because you truly believe in what they're doing. The information is there, on their website, in their published accounts on the Charity Commission's website.

I don't like Red Nose Day because it lets us take the easy option in our charitable giving. Charitable giving shouldn't just be about supporting the most visible cause.

What do you think? Have I got it all wrong? Do I underestimate how informed the Comic Relief donors really are? Please, let me know.

Veteran

As of today I am no longer the newest parent in my family.

At 2:30 this morning my younger sister gave birth to a new nephew for me, a new cousin for Cam. Another beautiful little life thrown into the world, all potential and squidginess.

Sadly, as much as I’d like it to be, unclernity leave is not currently a thing. Hard to believe I know, but DavCam and co don’t grant me even a single day off work upon the arrival of this new bundle of joy. Damn them. Damn them and every other government who hasn’t implemented unclernity (and aunternity) leave.

Frankly, this is ridiculous. How am I supposed to impart the AWESOME PARENTING WISDOM I have accrued over the past (not quite) four months of being a dad if I have to go to work instead of hopping on the motorway and going to see the new parents? Why, of course, I can put it here.

1. Your time for sleep is when the baby sleeps. The hoovering can wait. The mess does not need to be tidied. Grab the opportunity to sleep with both hands, use superglue to ensure it does not escape your grasp.
2. When the baby cries, it wants a cuddle. Or it doesn’t want a cuddle. Or it has a poo it needs sorting out. Or it is hungry. Or it is just crying. Try not to worry about it too much.
3. Be Excellent to Each Other (#BETEO). You will be tired. You will be stressed. You will have poo under your fingernails and sick in your hair. Your ears will be hearing wails even when there are not actually any coming from the baby. Despite all of this, remember that you love each other very much, and treat each other accordingly.
4. Babies like walking, but they’re not very good at it. So you’ll need to walk for him. Walk around the house. Walk the deserted midnight streets. Walk, walk, walk, walk.
5. When it gets too much for either one of you, take a break. Five minutes of peace can feel like an eternity when there hasn’t been any for several hours.
6. Ask other people for help. That’s what we’re here for.
7. Enjoy it or endure it. When it’s easy, enjoy it. When it’s hard, endure it. He will change so quickly you won’t believe it. Savour every moment, because you only get that moment once.
8. I know I already mentioned sleep, but, seriously, do it whenever you can.
9. If it suits you, ignore ever piece of advice you’re given by anyone. Go with your instinct. Go with your gut. You will know what is right, you will feel it inside you and you will not need a book, a website or a ridiculous brother/uncle to tell you.

Anyway. I’m super pleased and excited that there’s another little person in the family, and I’m super chuffed for my sister and her wife. I know they’ll be amazing parents and that the little guy will grow up with an abundance of love and affection thrown his way.

If anyone would care to add some more top newborn tips please add them in the comments box :-)